NEW SELF 1 – 0 OLD SELF

Oh my, it was quite a while since I wrote something on here. I’ve been very busy and so, so tired, so much that my brain was just not coping, and my level of forgetfulness increased drastically over the last days (someone won the lucky chance to hear about my latest forgetfulness experience on a very embarrassing Instagram confession… by the way my dear friend, I managed to retrieve my stuff in the end!!). Oh well, it is what it is, I have no shame in admitting that I’m a bit bonkers at time!

This week has been very demanding, but incredible at the same time. I feel that the universe, or some energy out there, you name it (I don’t believe in God since I’m a Buddhist sympathiser, but I guess that if you do, you can say it’s him?) it’s making me experience stuff to show me how much I’ve grown and changed so far. Or, if you like a more rational experience, I’m experiencing things as I go, I immediately reflect on what the old self would have done instead and notice the striking difference. I prefer the universe option, I like to keep my spiritual side up and running, but each to their own right?

With my closest friend and partner in crime Marge, organisation for our office Christmas party has kicked in big time. No more talking and thinking, now we are venue searching, negotiating, planning, scheduling, placeholding, the whole nine yards of event organisation top to bottom. We have asked a bit of help to an event planner who kindly sent us a list of venues that would suit our company best. Since Marge received the list, I didn’t know what to expect. We arranged to meet near Soho, since all venues at the top of the list where there: when I gave the list a glance, and when I saw the first venue mentioned on that spreadsheet, my heart sank.

St Martins Lane Hotel.

Now, unless you are a designer / architecture student, professional or just passionate, this hotel won’t mean a single thing: it’s “just” a very fancy, quirky, expensive, high-end hotel. If you do belong to the categories I mentioned, you know that I’m talking about one of Philippe Starck’s jewels.
Well, it happens that I almost have a degree in Architecture. I abandoned my studies as soon as I found a job, because I knew quite early in the process that didn’t have what it takes to get that degree and, ultimately, to make it in that world. I wasn’t smart enough for that subject, and I’m not saying to put myself down: it was honestly not my thing. Not everyone is made to do everything, this is just one of those things I am not made for. I would have been an amazing critic, or an architecture journalist, but anything else was a NO. Now I know I have other talents and this is just a learning experience on who I am not, but at that time, I felt that I was a total, dumb, stupid low-QI failure. All my peers seemed to be so smart, so intelligent, so getting what the professors were talking about, and I was just sitting there like if people were talking to me in Aramaic. They were probably naturally more inclined to the subject, way more interested and therefore putting more efforts in their studies than me, but me being me, I used this as a chance to torture myself and marinade in my self-hate and negativity.
Very few things interested me about architecture, and I remember being fascinated by quirky, interior design. That was good fun because it resonated with who I am. A friend and I enrolled in an interior designer class to complement our studies. We got both mesmerised when our professor made us study Philippe Starck and, in particular, this fascinating hotel. Aside from one exam that still haunts me to this day (San Siro council estate houses…. Gives me nightmares to this day and I’m sure my friend Giada thinks the same), I’ve never studies so hard like for that one. I remember my friend and I knew that hotel inside-out like if we’d have been part of Starck’s project entourage. His genius work inspired every single idea we had. We dreamed of having Kartell’s furniture in our house and to be hired by him. When we came to London on a three-day trip, we walked outside the hotel, daydreaming about being able to walk inside. If someone told to young, self-hating, low self-esteemed Silvia that her future self not only would have walked in, but also talked business with the hotel’s management, she would have told that someone to fuck off. Yet, there I was few days ago, staring at the entrance like years ago, only this time I had Marge telling me to get my ass in and get ready for the ride.
I put a brave face, but believe me, I was dying inside. I wanted to cry. My legs felt wobbly and not just because I was on my heels. So many emotions. I looked around in total awe and devotion. I felt like I was inside a very sacred place. The feeling of being there, walking around, seeing such an amazing work of design and pure genius in front of my eyes rather than just in my student books and dreams… I was blown away. Cherry on the cake was dining at Asia de Cuba restaurant: the food was just superb, and I was feeling like a kid at Disneyland, with all the things that I so loved studying surrounding me. It was just wow.
I spent all evening thinking about it and, as you can see, I’m still thinking about it now. I told everyone who could bear to listen to me ranting about it what an incredible feeling it was. I sat on my bed, still digesting that turmoil of emotions, thinking “my gosh Silvia, if you needed a sign that your journey is making you head towards a better place, I think you got it today loud and clear”.

I spent so much time telling myself that I would never accomplish anything in life; that I was just barely average; that I was ugly, stupid, useless; that I would be better off six feet under, no, actually, not even that, I’d be wasting good ol’ soil space; all the things that happened during these years, all the suffering, the pain, the failures, the anger, the dramas, the illnesses…
What I never noticed is that, even though all of this was reality in my head, something inside me never surrendered. Something, some subconscious force inside me, I don’t know, managed to channel them into something positive, into a growing experience; the universe gave me a very loud, final message to bloody get a grip and change, and when I listened and put the work in, I ended up on my two high-heeled feet, stronger than I could have ever imagined of being, in a “I could only dream of it” location, looking at my old-self thinking “well well, you insecure bitch, looks like you were so, so wrong all this time”.
And you know what? whatever is coming my way, bring it on, because if I managed to prove that I can do it when my mental health is at the lowest of the low, imagine what I can accomplish now that I’m working hard and building my confidence!

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FORGET ME NOT (MAYBE)

This is quite an interesting thing that I’ve only recently realised, mainly because people are making me notice it and therefore I start thinking about it to see if it’s true or just a wrong impression that I give. Last Monday it was World Suicide Prevention Day (I did an entry about it too) and in the evening, like every Monday, I went to have a lovely chat with my psychotherapist. Of course, we discussed about my suicidal years, and we talked about a lot of other things too, but the interesting thing that came out of it was that I seem to have lost all the memories of those three years of terrible pain.

Like a selective amnesia, I have only few pictures in my head about what happened. If I dig, something more comes up, but it feels like my brain is telling me “don’t dig. Let the bygones be bygones. Move forward not backwards please”. Not only that, I can’t even relate to the old me. Of course, I know what happened, I still fear the possibility to re-live that horror again, but it feels so distant from the current me. When I talk about me during that time, is like I’m talking about a distant relative. Yes, it is me, and I wouldn’t be this me if I weren’t that me as well, but…. I don’t know. It seems that my brain is coping with the trauma in the same way as some people lose their memories after a very traumatic accident, and they just wake up in the hospital completely clueless of what happened, why they are in an hospital bed etc.

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Forget-me-not flowers. By I may forget about them in a second.

Funnily enough, it seems that my “memory loss” is not just related to those years, but that is something that keeps happening on day to day basis since those years have gone by. I was chatting with a dear colleague of mine over lunch, and I don’t remember (how surprisingly) what we were talking about, but whatever I said to her, she answered back saying “of course you said this, we all know you have a very selective memory, you remember only what is useful or important, the rest… nothing!”. She is right, and she is not the first one who points it out at me. My ex told me on few occasion how I was amazing at remembering fundamental stuff, but if, somehow, I label a piece of information useless, uninteresting, not important etc… bye bye from my brain.

I have been kind of aware of this, especially in the last few years. You can ask every single babysitter or au pair I had, and they will tell you how much I always stress the fact that if they notice that something is missing or finished in the house, or if something is needed, or if I need to do anything at all, to please text me even millions of times if necessary, or else I will never remember it. NEVER. One of the most incredible and beloved au pairs I had, she used to force me to send her a picture of me at the supermarket holding the things she asked me to buy, because she knew it was the only way to ensure I did it. She didn’t trust my “yeah yeah done it” because she knew full well it wasn’t exactly true (it was not a lie, but I could have been at the supermarket about to grab a loaf of bread, then I’d be distracted to text her back saying “yeah yeah” and…. bread stays in the shelf). Or, she’d make a video call to check I was doing what I was required to do. It feels so weird writing it, but believe me, at times it is that bad, and if I’m stressed, it is even worse.

I think that, traumas asides, what I’m really experiencing is being mentally tired. I’m drained. I’m seriously, seriously tired as fuck. I’m tired of having to think about everything and anything, to always be the only one who must take care of stuff that matters, who can only count on herself. At work, at home, there is never a true break for me, and this is the way my brain chose to cope with this stressful situation: by being in a sort of battery-saving mode. For the record, I’m not even attempting to snap out of it because I’m too tired and if this is the only way I can ensure to not have a total mental breakdown, so be it.

I’m being kinder with myself. I used to be obsessed with the need to prove to the world that I’m the big shit who has total control over everything, who can do anything always above and beyond the call of duty, who is always there for everyone no matter what time of the day or night. Now I simply don’t care anymore, because I care more about me than proving anything at all. There is nothing I have to prove, and if anything, I have to prove it only to myself. It is what it is, and my fuck-to-give bucket is tremendously empty as we speak. I’ve noticed that if I just push myself a bit too much, and I’m tired a bit too much, I become a very horrible, angry, shouty and hysterical woman. I get scared of my own anger. There are very few things so important that I’m willing to put myself in a position where I’d punch the wall till my hands bleed, so tired and angry I am. A bit like when I think “is this meeting / dinner / gathering etc worth this number of hours that I will have to pay to my babysitter?”, I now think “is this thing worth me being tired as fuck?”.

I feel guilty at times, because the old me would love for me to be back in business and drain the hell out of me, so that I can go back at being miserable, (potentially) depressed and a total moaner. It is a very tough mental process to break, similar as to detoxing myself from the “high” that “being needed” brings. Who needs myself more though? Other people or myself? I think the answer is pretty easy to guess.

So yeah, if I forget the things you said, the things I was supposed to do etc, be kind with me. Simply give me a gentle nudge. I’ll do my best to not forget it again, but if I do…. Oh well, remind me again!

 

YOU WANT A HOT BODY? YOU BETTER WORK B!TCH!

I have never thought I’d be admitting the stuff I’m about to write, but yes: hitting the gym is having a dramatic, positive effect on my mental health, and my improved and positive mental health is dramatically improving my performances at the gym. This, coming from a world-famous couch potato, is quite remarkable. Being in a positive circle of awesomeness is something very new to me, and I’m enjoying it to the fullest as we speak.

Bit of a background to the statement above: yesterday I had my usual session with my personal trainer. I asked her to hit me with some new stuff, to push me more, to bring the game to the next level. Of course, she did comply with my request, and she created on her feet “the brutal program from hell”. We tailored it here and there during the session, increasing weights and difficulty whenever I was not feeling it, and once the session was over, she complimented me saying “it is nice to train you, because I can really push you and you just take it on board and do it. I can see you want it badly and you are on the road to get it”. Of course, I was very flattered and happy, but most importantly, I was extremely satisfied with myself and this incredible determination that I have found in this journey.

See, I used to be the one who leaves when the game gets tough. At the first difficulty, the first criticism, the first sore muscle, you name it, in any aspect of my life, I’d be either leaving or sulking in a corner thinking “I’m so dumb / stupid / weak / ugly etc… I can’t face / do this”. I never wanted things “so badly” that I was ready to put up with anything in order to get them, aside from getting out of my mental hell. In anything that I got into, sooner or later I reached the point where I would have raised my hands, surrendered and come up with an excuse to leave without looking too stupid. I blame my low self-esteem on this, but also this horrible attitude that people around me had, who thought that by putting me down with stuff like “see? You’ll surrender anyway” I would have done anything to prove them wrong: actually, if anything, I used their remarks to feed my negative narrative. That was exactly what pitiful, weak, self-hating me wanted to hear.

One of the big mental shift I decided to make is the “not surrendering” one. Of course, that doesn’t mean I’d be stupidly keep going doing stuff that’s pretty pointless and leading to nowhere, but once I rationally assess the situation, the potential output and the journey to get to the final goal, there is no backing down unless it proves to be truly impossible (and still, there may be room to lower the bar and keep going anyway).

My gym body is something I decided I WILL have, no matter what.

When I hired my Personal Trainer, I regretted it the moment she fired a calendar invite in my diary. When she asked me to make it a recurrent appointment, I felt trapped like an animal about to be locked in a cage for the rest of his days.
I struggled to believe in me.
To believe that I could have done it.
Then I got fired up in a “I do this as a revenge” against my ex-boyfriend.
Few psychotherapy sessions under my belt, and my mind shifted from all of this to “I want it. I do it. This is for MYSELF”.
Guess what? My training session went from “an hour of moaning and tortures” to “let’s see how hard you can push me this time”. And guess what? Results went from “tiny bit” to “do I really have ALL these muscles?”.

Yes, yes, yes, this may well be endorphins fired up in my body who are making my brain drunk on happiness, and mind you, more than one people told me (including my ex, who was shocked to the core at the changes that I’ve made) that I seem to be on a constant high so happy and positive I look.

Thanks to my personal trainer I have learned to “feel” what I do in the correct muscles, and I don’t just “do” things to get them done. My sessions are now a mix of physical and mental work: I get “in the zone” and I focus exactly on pushing what I have. If I don’t feel it, or I feel it in the wrong areas, I’m either doing it wrongly, with too much weights or with not enough weights. Incidentally, all this work is improving also my (so, so dreaded) physiotherapy sessions, because when my tortur… ehm… physiotherapist makes me move in a certain way, or tells me what I should or shouldn’t feel, I really know what she means (and so far my shoulder is in a happy place).

I am so determined to make it with my training that I even decided to stick to a proper, muscle-feeding diet. Yes sir, for the first time ever in my entire life I am actually sticking to a healthy diet. Me. The one who barely eats if she has to cook for herself (and resorts to starve or eat stuff like cookies, crisps etc. because I cannot be arsed to cook). The one who decides last minute what she wants to eat for dinner (lunches I generally skipped because I cannot be arsed), that goes grocery shopping to then cook what she was craving then gets home and… yes, cookies etc. I was still on this not-exactly-appropriate regime when I started working out. However, I had a massive scare moment when, after a month and a half of quite hard training, nothing was happening in my body: no energy, no muscles, I always felt like about to drop dead, nothing. My trainer made me jump on a scale and we both got horrified to discover that I lost 9kg. She looked at me and said “ARE YOU EATING?”.
The answer was yes, but not “exactly” as I should have been eating: that is, to fuel the exercises I was doing. I was honest with her and I asked for help. It seems a very stupid question to ask, and probably it is, but new Silvia doesn’t care: if she needs help, she’ll make sure she’ll get it. Yes, I knew that muscles need protein to grow, I’m not that dumb, however I didn’t know that it takes 2.2 grams of proteins per kg of your weight to build muscles. I barely ate proteins! No wonder nothing was happening! She helped me learning how to use protein powder, she suggested websites and resources to improve my diet and she made me swear to stick with it. It took a bit to get my mind into the new regime, because ultimately my laziness to the core took over my best intentions, but when I indeed put the effort in it, I got blown away by the gains. I now plan my weekly lunches and dinners every single weekend; I write down exactly what I’m going to cook and eat, and then I will shop only those things required in my planned meals. No more things like “maybe I’ll get this in case…”. No. As a rule, I will reserve higher protein meals for the days I know I will train, and I’d be fairly relaxed (but healthy) the other days. No shitty, unhealthy stuff (I do enjoy a can of Coca Cola here and there and over my dead body you’ll take my red can of heaven from me).

So yes, I feel great, I look great, I sleep like a baby (ok, more like I hug my pillow begging for mercy since I’m sore from head to toes), I’m loving it and it’s all positivity and happiness. Oh, you know what is the best feeling ever? Moonwalking (yes!) out of the gym after the most brutal session, knowing full well that a month and a half ago I would have been collapsed on the floor. This is pure satisfaction (but now let me crawl in bed because the pain is unreal!!)

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WORLD SUICIDE PREVENTION DAY – MY THOUGHTS

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Today is World Suicide Prevention Day and as you can imagine, being an ex-suicidal person myself, I have a very special connection with the whole thing.

I cannot believe that, couple of years ago, I seriously contemplated to kill myself.
For three good years I thought every day, every single minute of my day “I want to end my life, I can’t go on like this”. It was just… just hell. My mental health was spiralling out of control, I had panic attacks every few minutes, my body ached, I couldn’t eat, sleep, breathe; I was living in a constant paranoia of having an anaphylactic shock, of ending up unconscious in the streets, or at home, leaving my baby alone to fend for himself. I was scared to have to endure another day, but at the same time, I was scared to go to sleep and have one of my nightmares where I’d be suffocating (and yes, I couldn’t breathe for real) in my sleep.
I couldn’t see a way out. My ex-husband, if anything, he made things even worse; doctors brushed me off or threatened me with social services; my family was too far, I had no friends I could talk to, it felt like the whole world was telling me “just fucking end it”. I saw no point in going on. What if I never snap back of this hell? What if it is only going to get worse? No matter how much I try to ask for help, I get treated like a lunatic, an exaggerating first time mum who should care for her son instead of thinking shit, nobody is willing to talk to me and see what the heck is wrong with me, what is the point of living through the next hours, let alone days, if this is what my life will be for the foreseeable future?

Oh, yes, I planned my end millions of times. In my head, I wrote millions of letters to my son to ask him to forgive me for being a bad mum, a weak mum, for not being there to see him becoming a wonderful boy, to not be with him for his milestones etc. But then…. Then his tiny little hand would grab my finger, his lovely, big, brown eyes would look at me full of love and… and I would put my plans on hold, and tell myself “I just can’t…. I can’t leave him”. I’d find the strength in me to endure another panic attack, another paranoid episode, another drop of my blood pressure because I couldn’t eat (or I’d trigger another panic attack)… and then back to square one.

Crawling out of that hell has been brutal. Brutal. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. I still bear massive scars that I’m working on with my therapist. I’m still frightened that I might slip back into it. Every now and then, when my hormones go a bit crazy, and maybe I’m tired, or just not in a good day and I feel my head going a bit wild, I have an immediate anxiety attack and I can feel the red alarm in my brain shouting “oh my gosh I’m going mental again”. It takes me a bit to calm down, to reassure me that’s not the case, that it’s just a bad moment and that things will be ok.

It’s funny how people think that it is so easy to spot a person who’s suicidal or dealing with some issues. It couldn’t be further from the truth. Yes, you can hear a lot of people saying, “oh my god I so want to die right now” (I do it all the time when my Personal Trainer decides that I’m in for a treat), maybe some people think about it when they are sad and dealing with a painful, embarrassing situation. However, I can assure you, the majority of people really serious about it will do their best at hiding it. It is a very dark, morbid, and disturbing thought, not something you feel like chatting with your friends about it. You become the best at pretending all is ok, even when inside you everything feels dead. It only takes one silly comment to make suicidal people freak out and feel “I shall never speak about it”. In addition, when your mind is blurred by your mental illness, you can’t think straight anyway: even if you have help around you, you cannot see it. You cannot reach it. You don’t want to reach it, because the monster in your head fills your brain with negative thoughts, like “they will make a fool of you if you say it”, “they’ll think it’s just a phase that you’ll grow out of it soon”, “they’ll brush it off making you feel dumb as shit”, “you are worth zero and so are your problems, so nobody would be interested anyway” etc.

You know, in those days, what I was truly desperate for? A simple hug. A genuine, heartfelt human interaction. A small act of kindness. Someone sitting next to me telling me “it is ok, I’m with you”. Someone holding my hand. Few words straight from the heart. Hope. I wanted hope. I wanted to know I was not alone, even if my mind was in this deep, negative fog that I couldn’t see it for myself. I didn’t want to “call a hotline”; I didn’t want to ask for help, I had no strength, willpower, mental energy to do it, and most importantly, I didn’t see the point of doing everything by myself only to be told stuff like “the waiting list is three months (yes, story of my life)”, all the fucking bloody time.

When I opened this blog, I sworn I’d be candid and honest about my issues. I am not famous or, you know, I don’t have any illusion to help saving people from their misery because they read my shit and think “there is hope out there”, but I felt it was important to just say it out loud “this is who I was, these are the scars I bear, I am not ashamed of them, I am not embarrassed, certainly I’m not happy about having them, but still, it is what it is and there is nothing wrong with saying it”. Maybe, just maybe, someone will indeed read this, and maybe, just maybe, he/she will feel less alone, and maybe who knows, maybe he/she will reach out to me, to someone, and say the most difficult, hard as an anvil word to say: “help”.

Believe me, even though there are certainly people more predisposed to suffer from mental health issues, it is nothing more than a Russian roulette: today you are sitting on your sofa, in your beautiful house, surrounded by your beautiful kids and family, and the next day shit happens and you find yourself in a very dark tunnel, with no apparent way out but to kill yourself. Don’t think you are better than this, that it will never happen to you, that you are living the life and you are too happy to care: you really can’t predict what life will throw at you. Maybe you are right, maybe you are not.

Be kind to people around you. Invest a tiny bit of your time to check on your friends. Talk to them. Make them feel like they can talk to you, and I mean TALK, to you, not just vomiting random words to fill the time. Do not assume that those who look strong and ok are truly strong, and most importantly ok. Sometimes a coffee and a chat can do wonders, or even just a smile. Maybe it won’t save anyone, but surely, even if it was the tiniest thing ever, you managed to drop a tiny positive thing in their darkness…. And sometimes, sometimes that tiny drop is all that someone needs to feel the strength to fight another day.

If you are reading this, and a dark cloud is currently creating havoc in your head, please, I beg you, listen to me. I know how you feel. I know how desperate your sitatuion may feel to you. I know you are probably feeling lonely, useless, better off six feet under. You may fell this way because life served you a series of shitty stuff to deal with, or because you screwed it up yourself and you know what? it doesn’t matter. Believe me, it doesn’t. Oh, and don’t feed on that crap that you see everywhere around you. No one’s life is perfect, not even those of the celebrities that tabloids and instagram tries to force down your throat. It is so easy to fake it on social media. Forget about everything: the whys, the whos, the whats. focus just on you. You, yes, YOU.
You are special. I know you don’t believe it, I know you are thinking “da fuck are you blurbing about bitch?”, but you are here, alive, right now. This is a miracle in itself. My grandad, who’s had a (not so) lovely “vacation” (as he used to tell us) in a Nazi camp, used to tell me “there is only one thing that there is no remedy yet: death. Everything else? there is a way to fix it if you want to”. There is a way to fix what is happening in you. It may not be easy, it may not be readily available, it may require a bit of work, but I promise you, it is there. Don’t surrender to the monster in your head: he knows shit nothing. Please, please reach out to someone. PLEASE. Please don’t think nobody will listen to you, please don’t think there is no hope. I promise you, there is, there fucking is. I know you don’t see it, I know. Believe in it. Whatever happened, even if you royally screwed it up big time, it doesn’t have to end like this. It doesn’t. Whatever you are going through, you are not alone, and you are not the only one. There is people out there like me, like you, who suffered or are still suffering and that will be more than welcome to listen to you should you wish to open up. Don’t give up on your future because of what happened in the past.

Please, please, I’m begging y ou, reach out.

if you are a UK resident, Samaritans will be there to help you: https://www.samaritans.org/

My heart is with you.

F (ORGIVE) YOU (RSELF)

I was talking to my close friend Marge recently about everything that has happened, all the progresses I made, all the road that is still ahead, the things that I want to accomplish now and the aim for the both of us to be healthy and fit for a special photoshoot in 2019 (yes, bitch, you and I are so fucking doing this). Anyway, the conversation at some point focussed on a very interesting point that left me meditating about it for quite a bit (and, as you can see, I’m still thinking about it):

Why it is so easy to forget everyone else in the whole world, including those who hurt us, but not ourselves?

Why we are so hard, harsh, strict, and cruel with us, but we are more than happy to come up with any justification whatsoever for anyone else to lightener up whatever they did (to us, to themselves)? Why it is so, so easy to point the finger straight at us, and keep those “it’s absolutely my fucking fault” feelings held close to our hearts, but we struggle to say “no, actually, it is also your fucking fault mate”? Why we cannot rationally assess what happened, mourn what has to be mourned, come to terms with the feelings that are left and then let go of them, a bit like flushing the toilet and there you go, all the bad stuff is now down the drains?

I was the master of always blaming only myself. Even with my latest relationship: it was my fault I loved him too much; it was my fault I was too generous; it was my fault I invited him to live with me in the hope he’d love me more and more; it was my fault I desperately wanted to believe in something that was not there, and maybe if I listened to my friends, maybe, I would have opened my eyes sooner and spared myself a massive chunk of pain; it was my fault I held on to him like he was the most precious thing in the world; oh, I could go on and on and on for hours. Same for everything else: it was my fault I had post-natal depression, I should have known from my previous mental history that it was a serious threat and not just “something you read on those scary books for first-time mums”; it was my fault I ended up being a single mum, because I should have realised quite soon who my ex-husband was and all his problems, instead I not only married him but I also brought a child into this world; it was my fault I had mental problems, it was my fault I ended up at the hospital with a severe allergy reaction to hair dye, it was my fault, my fault, MY FUCKING FAULT.

True, I am partially to blame for the things above, and all the things that happened in my life so far because well, I was alive, conscious, breathing, thinking, deciding, doing. But all of the blame? I don’t think so. Part of the blame sits in other people’s side, or in things that I couldn’t have controlled or predicted, and if I’m more than happy to forgive them like nothing ever happened, I owe the same treatment to myself, right?

Not quite.

blog2Whatever happened, we just hold on those negative feelings; we torture ourselves day in, day out. We let the blame on ourselves fester our lives like a lingering, horrible smell that you cannot get rid of, no matter how much you keep your windows open (ending up freezing to death) or how much air freshener you spray (so much that you created your very own ozone hole). We let the pain infest our wellbeing, and we hold on so tight to this rotting corpse of what happened that we cannot see a way out of our own personally crafted hell. Why? Why we behave like this?

Hear this: you won’t be an asshole of epic proportions, an egoistic maniac, a twat, a horrible person if you are kind to yourself and admit “actually, it is not ONLY my fault here”. You are not excusing yourself from your fair share of responsibility: you are just not being responsible for everyone else’s. Martyrdom won’t make you a saint: you won’t gain more friends, more popularity, more medals, you name it, only because you bear the pain of the world in your heart saying, “IT IS ALL MY FAULT”. It took me ages, ageeeees to see this (and therapy, lots of it).
For fuck sake.

Of course, with my ex I made a lot of mistakes. A LOT. But.
blog1BUT, but he was not in good faith. He used me, abused me, he tricked me into believing he loved me just as much as I did, he used my feelings against myself, he gaslighted me to hide his flaws, his insecurities, his problem, so that I could only be focusing (till the brink of mental unit recovery) into mines and not on his. He took me for granted, he hurt me for his amusement, he took advantage of myself, my belongings, my feelings and when I was not of any use anymore, he dumped me like a bag of garbage in the bin, washed his hands and off he went.
So yeah, I may have been stupid, I may have been whatever I have been, but my heart was pure, my feelings were true, I was kind, I was real, and honest, and there is just so much you can do when someone so manipulative and with hidden agendas step in your life ready to cause havoc for their own benefit. So yeah, fuck you, twat, here is your fucking (massive) share of blame, now rot in hell away from me thank you very fucking much. I forgive myself. I don’t forgive him, no, I just won’t give a shit about him, because as Nelson Mandela said, “Resentment is like drinking poison and then hoping it will kill your enemies”. I got no time for this.

Of course, it was partly my fault for everything that happened to me so far. But always, 100%, all my fault? No. Would that make me an asshole for thinking this way? So be it. I rather be a happy asshole than an unhappy, tortured, and depressed saint. Thinking “ooooh, it was all my fault, I brought this to myself, I will never be able to forgive myself for what happened” will only leave you where you are, hurting. I know because I’ve always been that person. Life went on and I was still there, sat in a corner, crying and shouting “WHY I AM LIKE THIS ALL THE TIME”. Well, the answer was “because I decided to be like this, to not let the fucking go of all these feelings, of all this pain, instead of embracing better things”.
It is a massive shift in mindset. It requires being honest with ourselves, I mean REALLY honest, not just “I feel like I have to feel like this or else people would think bad of me” honest.
Mind you, I’m not saying we should just wash our hands of our responsibilities, of our faults, because that would be absolutely wrong (and you’d be a total asshole). Just see what happened for what it was, forgive and forget.

Yes, sometimes there are things that are solely only our own fault, like when Thursday I ended up overeating till oblivion at the Indian restaurant and then praying for a quick death whilst suffering the most horrendous aftermath, or in general not being up and running with my accountancy degree because I haven’t been arsed to open a book so far, or having my face covered in spots because I was too lazy to take my makeup off and fuck you Silvia, what a moron! And you know what? We can’t be perfect and super diligent all the time. Sometimes we do stupid things. Everyone does. No point in banging our heads on the wall (not too much anyway): these are things that we did, for good or worse, and if we analyse them, we would be able to find positive lessons for the future (hopefully, though I know that, provided with another amazing Indian buffet, fuck you, I’d be swimming in curry with not a single regret WHATSOFUCKINGEVER).
What I am saying is, it would be good to rationally assess what happened, not just rush to grab all the blame that exists and then torture ourselves, marinating in the negative past forever: it is not a race, there are no prizes to be won, the only outcome is inflicting ourselves with more pain than what we should inflict. Once you assess the true share of blame, learn the lessons to be learned and then let it go for good. Forgive yourself, promise to do better, DO better and move on.

An example that is just happening as I am writing. Today, a lovely (ok, it is grey and raining here, so not lovely at all) Saturday morning, instead being a lazy mess, instead of spending it buried under 60 kg of blankets and duvets, sipping my espresso and watching Netflix, I had to wake up at 7am, and I’m sitting on my sofa, writing this (which makes what I’m about to say a little bit nicer), whilst an amazing British Gas Engineer is installing my brand new, 3k in 10 years of my life instalments, super cool boiler. The old (ok, ancient) one, died this summer once, fed up with its tremendous noise, I turned it off. Least I knew, at that time, that I turned it off for fucking good.
Yes, it is, for the vast majority of it, my fault: I never bothered servicing it.
Fuck it, I knew when I bought the house that my boiler was as old as to be in a museum, but I decided against taking the hit then. I then never bothered enquiring about a new one, and maybe changing it last year, or the year before. I just didn’t want to care.
And guess what, my care-free behaviour came back to bite my arse. So here I am, freezing my ass, longing for a hot bath and a Caribbean climate in my house.

Is it truly all my fault though? No. Fuck me, no. I had other expenses in these three years and half I’ve been living here that were more pressing and urgent. I took my chances, I decided to bet on the boiler to keep me going for as long as possible, and boy, my good old friend did a magnificent job. In addition, I had a useless ex-husband who was too busy doing his very best to leave us on the breadline, creditors at my door thanks to him, and I had to choose on whether to prioritise food on the table or which bill in scary long arrears try to clear first; on top of this, I had childcare to organise, my mental health to deal with, a lot of shit to take care of, and the boiler was the least of my thoughts. I took one last roll of dices this summer, but my boiler told me to fuck off. Fair enough. I’m not blameless, but I won’t torture myself. It happened, I’m dealing with it now, I have my punishment in the form of ten years instalment repayments, fuck it. I had a good moan, but I will also have a very long, extra luxurious bath.

Another example? It is all my fault I don’t have the gym body of my dreams? Not all, but 95% yes. I have been too lazy, too silly, too careless, too focussed on hating myself, on telling me “you cannot do it”, “you are not good at all”, “your body is shit anyway”, etc. than to actually do something about it, like, well, going to the gym and exercise, follow a proper, healthy diet, listen to a personal trainer’s instructions etc. Now, I can choose to keep blaming myself forever, especially when I see my results now and I think “why the fuck didn’t I do this sooner”, or I could just forgive myself and use the energy to squat some more, instead of blaming me some more. Guess which my choice is: JLo, I’m coming to get you.

Hey, in the category of “stuff I like to blame myself”, let’s not forget: sometimes shit happens, and it is a fact of life. You can try and make plans, you can give it a go and predict it, but hey, sometimes there is nothing you can do about it. You can either face it, deal with what happened and put it behind your back, or you can cry in a corner with your problems getting bigger and bigger. And bigger. It just happens! Don’t beat the shit out of you for it, it is what it is, as painful and annoying as it is.

blog3Besides, let’s think about it for a second: why others should get a free blame pass anyway? Why can’t we just dump their shit in their garden, rather than cluttering ours? We are not less important. Our feelings, ourselves, are just as in need of recognition and care as theirs. You are not doing yourself a favour by being harsh and not forgiving yourself, and you are not doing THEM a favour either. You cannot control other people, you cannot make them do things, or feel the feelings you want them to feel, but you can decide to not lift their fair share of weight in the shit that happened, if that is the case. You can happily let their blame go, because holding a grudge is just more pain for you, and you can also let your blame go as well, because you can tell someone to fuck off for good, but you don’t have the same luxury with your very own self.

I’m not saying it is easy, it is actually hard as fuck, but believe me, all this pain is just not worth it. It won’t serve you, it won’t teach you, it won’t make you a better person: it will just hurt you. As hard as it may sound, you are worth more than living in a constant hell. If you like to visualise stuff, imagine yourself writing down the list of things you want to forgive yourself about, imagine setting fire to that list, watch it burn and then let it go. Forever. Done, FINITO. You can also physically burn a real list (provided you go in a safe place, because you don’t want firefighters storming in your house) if you want to make the experience more realistic. It is up to you to find your way, so long as you start practicing kindness to yourself a bit more.

The only way to heal is by forgiving; sometimes, we have to forgive others and let them go. Sometimes, we have to forgive ourselves, and until we do so, we will never truly heal.

TOMBOY MUMMY

The other night I was snuggled in bed with my (not so little anymore) bundle of joy (aka my son). We were watching cartoons after dinner, and out of nowhere he looked at me and asked “mummy, why babies are in mummies’ tummies? Was I in your tummy? What did I do when I was there?”

First thought: “hooooly shit. Fuck, I’m so screwed!”

Second thought: “please come up with a very nice answer that won’t lead to the school calling you because your son said some weird stuff, like the time you told him his gastroenteritis was caused by bugs like little spiders and then he made a very creepy picture the following week, and you had to have an hour long call with the school about it…..”

I managed (hopefully) to dodge this massive bullet with a very easy and clear explanation that he accepted without moaning too much. Then he hugged me, told me he loved me and that was it. I held is little body in my arms and I thought “damn, my boy is so growing up”.

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me and my little boy a year or so ago

I did so many things I am not quite happy about in my life so far; I don’t necessarily regret them, since they brought me to the place, mentally and physically, where I am now, but put it this way: if I could go back in time, I may not necessarily repeat them the same way I did them the first time. However, there is one thing I never, ever, ever regretted, not even in my darkest times, not even when the world crumbled and collapsed straight on my sole shoulders: becoming a mum.

I never had the “mother instinct” or dreamt about having children. It was just one of those things I didn’t care too much about, but that “if it happens it will be ok”. I never felt “that pressure”. Yes, people around me nagged about the fact that I should have put “one in the oven” once I got married, but still, me giving a shit about it was not something truly happening. I was absolutely clueless about anything related to babies; I never had any young relatives around me when I was younger, I never played with dolls, I just never ever. EVER.

From the moment I held this tiny life in my arms, I felt my heart bursting with love. I couldn’t believe that my body, my horrible, hated body, made such a wonderful, living and breathing (and fucking hell, crying and pooing and vomiting) creature. I spent ages just cuddling him, keeping him with me, on me, kissing him and making sure he was fine. In my case, the saying “when a child is born, a mother is born” is so, so true.

I’m a single mum as we speak, though it is fair to say I’ve always been that way. At times, I must admit, it is a curse: I wish I could get a free pass now and then without having to beg babysitters or my parents to fly their asses from Italy to help me; oh, I would love a proper night out without worrying about coming home when the sun is rising. However, aside from these things, I know I love it just the way it is: me and him, doing our own things the way we want it. I always tell my son “you and I, we are a team” and every time he gives me the biggest smiles.

I’m not a perfect mother and I’ve never been one since the beginning of my life as a mum. I don’t look “like a mum”, I don’t behave “like a mum”; at best, I’m a tomboy mum: more than once, at the school gates, I’ve been asked whether I was my son’s older sister, au pair, baby sitter, nanny…. Just because I go and pick him up in my leather jacket and heavy metal t-shirt. Few mums gave me “the looks” more than once, like “how dare she”: I kept staring at them, dead in the eyes, waiting for them to utter any word against me. Like I care. To me, all that matters is my son and his education; anything else, including mums with too much time in their hands who bitches against me, I don’t have a single fuck to give. We live in a rather “posh” town, though my neighbourhood is quite “normal”. When we moved here 3 and a half years ago, it was march, the weather was quite cold still, so I was always clothed like the Michelin man from head to toes. When the warmer days came round, I stopped wearing 4 layers of extremely thick tights and just put a pair of shorts or shirt…. And all my neighbours, who were used to have a rather “average” woman strolling around, pushing her lovely toddler comfortably sitting on the pushchair, suddenly discovered yours truly was no average at all. More than one of them where left quite perplexed at my tattoos, my metal shirts, my leather jacket and me being… well… me.

It is weird in a way that my appearance makes people think that my son is a wild, feral creature. Fucking hell, few tattoos and a slayer t-shirt, and people are quickly to assume you are a mom from hell. It couldn’t be further from the truth: I am strict with discipline, make no mistakes about it. My son behaves like a little soldier and I wouldn’t have it any other way; I do hate spoiled brats and misbehaving kids so hell would freeze before my son becomes one of them. It is kind of funny: once I got into the idea of having a child, I desperately wanted a boy because well, a girlie-girl, princesses-loving daughter would have had a very bad time with me at the time, so when I discovered I was expecting a boy… it felt like winning the lottery of life.
Well, my son is definitely a boisterous, loud, crazy boy, don’t get me wrong, but is also quirky in his own way, a very gentle soul, way more into fashion than me, he loves my makeup, knows all the shades of colour better than me (“muuuuum – eyes rolling – this is not just BLUE, this is turquoise”) and yes, when we need to go out, he takes ages before he decides what t-shirt goes with which trousers AND the shoes. He cracks me up sometimes when he goes into fashionista mode and tells me stuff like “muuuuuum you can’t wear your working shoes to go shopping!!” or “mum that lipstick you are wearing is so cool!”.

He is 100% involved in my life. Of course, I shield him and protect him from all the horrible stuff, including whatever his idiot of a dad (my ex-husband) did who almost got him arrested, but on a normal, day to day basis, my son and I have no secrets. Whether is “mummy will come late tonight ‘cause she is going to see Kreator” to “mummy is not ok because her heart is a little bit broken”, my son and I are on the same page. He knows he can tell me whatever he feels or thinks, and that we can work together through any issue: he always says, “we are a team” and yes, we are. Sometimes I feel like it is us against the world.

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Chelsea fan @ Stamford Bridge

Whenever I can, I try to make him experience the things that are part of my life: when he was two, I took him to see Megadeth & Lamb of God with me, and he ended up eating chocolate with Randy Blythe (Lamb of God’s singer); when Randy asked him “hey, do you want to sing with me on stage?”, my (usually extremely shy) shy son grabbed his hand and said “yeah, let’s go”. He even had a “party” with Megadeth, and Dave Mustaine (the frontman) taught him how to do the horn sign. I took him to Stamford Bridge more than once to see Chelsea FC playing, and believe him, it is like having a pundit sitting next to you: if he is not singing, he is talking ALL THE TIME. He is a regular at my office, where he knows everyone, from the big boss to all my colleagues. He even attended more than one (real) meeting just because he was loving the attention: he managed to sit on a forty-five minutes call pretending to take notes like he was a real employee!

I must admit, I’m scared if I think at the future, because the more he grows, the more there will be just so much I can do to protect him; he will have to fend for himself more and more, and “a huggie and a kissy” won’t make up for whatever will happen to him. One thing is for sure: till I can, whoever will try and break his heart, or bully him, or whatever, will have to face ME.
Believe me, I’ll be more than happy to storm around with a cricket bat to teach people a lesson or two.

OH, YOU ARE MY BEST FRIEND

I have been thinking about writing the following entry for a while, but I have never found the words, or moment, to do it. I kind of avoided talking about my best friend so far because she is the most precious person I have in my life after my son, and even though it is not the first time I shout to the world what an incredible person she is and how much I love her, I kind of kept her away from my blog because… because she deserves so much, and when this thing started I was not in the right mental place to honour her.

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This is one of the craziest pictures of me and my best friend, my sister from another mother, my soul mate, my partner in crime, my beautiful friend Sara. Yes, I was dressed as a unicorn, for the record. Yes, it is not the best picture ever, we probably had one drink too many to care anyway when we took it.

We know each other since the dawn of time, but we became very close friends few years ago: my life was shit (I had recently told my ex husband that he was, well, an ex) and she wasn’t doing great either. We started talking, and then sharing our stories, and before we knew it, we were spending every second we were awake texting each other.

People dream about finding “the love of their lives” and make no mistake, I still long to be loved romantically, but what I have found in my friend goes beyond that: she has been there on my side through whatever storm I had to face, whether big or small; she listened to anything I had to say, without passing any judgement, with her arms open to accept whoever I was in that moment (including an inconsolable, depressed mess); she gave me comfort, strength, love, care; I never, ever once felt embarrassed of being truly myself with her, because she is too special, she has always loved me way more than what I loved myself and she never failed to remind me of that, even when I was too depressed to appreciate it. She has always been the only light in my dark, horrible tunnel, and  I know that whatever life will bring, she will be just one text away from holding my hand and helping me facing my next war.

She is more than my heart, more than my soul. She is an angel. When nobody remembered I existed, she was the only one who made sure I had the most amazing birthday present waiting for me at home. When I spent two weeks crying solid because my ex boyfriend dumped me, she knitted the softest, most precious scarf so that I could have wrapped myself in it and feel her hug. When I screamed at the world how ugly I felt, she painted the most beautiful portrait of me to remind me that whoever I see in the mirror is not what she sees. Honestly, I am the luckiest person in the world to be able to receive the honour of her friendship, and I always feel like I don’t do enough to celebrate her and to tell her what a gem she is.

Hey, it is not all tears and sadness though: when we are together and the mood is right, we barely breathe so much we are laughing. We are like two peas in a pod. We could spend endless days in pyjama on the sofa without even getting up to go to the toilet. I remember the first time she came to stay for a week at my place: before she arrived, we planned billions of activities. Oh we were supposed to do everything and anything, partying hard, drinking even harder, crazy life. Well, we barely left the house, and when we did it was because we had no other choice (like when we ran out of toilet rolls…).

We can talk very deep and serious things, and three sentences later go bonkers and tell each other the most hilarious jokes ever heard. We curse like sailors, we drink prosecco like it is sparkling water and we could potentially live on a diet based on Aperol Spritz and lasagna.

There is nothing I wouldn’t do for her.

My love for Sara is immense, and I’m grateful, honoured and blessed to have her in my life.

I love her so much, and to preserve our beautiful friendship, I recently felt the need to “push her away”, because I was becoming a horrible person and she didn’t deserve such an awful person like me on her side. I was in a very dark place, my head was full of disturbing thoughts. I was scared, I was badly scared I was slowly going back to my dark hell. She was living a truly magic moment and I was just not in the right mind: I got dumped by what I thought it was the love of my life (more like the leech of my life, but it took a while to see it), I was humiliated, used and abused; he managed to crush every single bit of me and I felt lost, helpless, useless, stupid…. at the same time, she was beginning a new relationship, and living exactly the opposite. I just wanted to die, because even though rationally I was absolutely thrilled for her (and I still am!), at that point in time, everything she was experiencing was exactly everything that it got ripped off from me. I had to take a break, I had to be alone this time, truly alone, to face my demons by myself, because letting her enjoy her moment was paramount and she didn’t need a negative, depressed and damaged person on her side. Also, I knew I could have hurt her down the line (not voluntarily, of course) because I was simply not remotely capable of thinking straight, and believe me, I would have rather killed myself than do anything to make her sad. Coming back to her when the dust settled and the dark, negative fog left my mind felt truly special. To quote Harry Potter (that she really loves), it was like when Ron came back to Harry and Hermione after he left, due to having his mind clouded by holding the horcrux for such a long time: he not only came back to save the lives of his friends, but also managed to destroy the horcrux with the sword of Godric Gryffindor. Ok, I didn’t save her life, but fuck yeah I destroyed my fucking horcrux for good (and boy, it felt so good being able to put “the end” once and for all to that chapter of my life).

So yes, my beautiful, gorgeous, incredible friend: I absolutely love you with every single atom of me. I damn the distance that keeps us so far from each other, but as the saying goes “true friends are never apart, maybe in distance but never in heart”. Never forget my special gift (the mighty lemon) is waiting for you, and it will be my absolute pleasure seeing it on you. You deserve everything and some more, and I will always be your friend forever.

Ooh you’re the best friend that I ever had
I’ve been with you such a long time
You’re my sunshine and I want you to know
That my feelings are true
I really love you
Oh you’re my best friend”