THE ENDLESS JOURNEY

I had a very productive chat with my psychotherapist yesterday. I told her a lot of (positive) things that happened to me, we discussed in depth about how the gym and her sessions are helping me massively with my mental health, all in all it has been a very positive and pleasant session, one of the best so far. Of course, I’m not writing this entry to gloat about what a lovely time I had with my therapist, because nobody would be interested anyway. What I want to write about today is something that came out during our chat, a trait that I always had but that I have never been quite conciously aware of, and that has haunted me almost all night yesterday. One of the things that I came away with after my session is my inability, so far, at having some bloody good patience.

See? I can’t even write it without a glimpse of frustration showing, and I can assure you, if you want to drive me up the wall in anger, you only have to tell me “come on, be patient!” (Also, to be honest, I can hear Gary Barlow in my head singing “have a little patieeeeenceeee” and now it’s Take That all day in my head).

My insecurities, mixed with my forever annoingly friend anxiety, meant that my life has been so far an “I’ve done it” box-ticking exercise. I have never enjoyed the journey of anything I have done, from start to the end. To me, all that has ever mattered was to get to the end, as fast as possible, it doesn’t matter what happens or not in between, or what learnings I can gather from the experience: I have to get there, right at the end, say “done!” and move on to the next box to tick, in the hope that the list of ticked boxes would improve my self-esteem and solve all my issues in one go. There is not time to reflect. The end is there and I will get there. If someone says “it will take X amount of time to achieve that”, you can rest assured I won’t be the one thinking “ok, let’s start and see how it goes” but, more likely, the one that thinks “ok how can I achieve it in half of the time? How can I make it faster? How can I finish it sooner?” and work just focussing on that, not in what I am really trying to achieve and what is the overall goal. All my efforts are only to get to the end as soon as possible.

In all this rush, I always thought that seeing “the list of ticks” would have made me a “better person”; I was sure I would have felt more accomplished, better about myself, my self-esteem would have hit the roof, ohh the mega massive beautiful things that will happen to me! Of course, it has never been the case. The only thing that happened is that I didn’t enjoy anything I’ve done. I only accumulated frustration after frustration. I never got the results I really wanted because I never put the effort to do things correctly, since my focus was mainly on reaching the end result at all costs. I didn’t take my time, I didn’t just enjoy what happened on the journey, or focussed on the immediate, it has always been a stupidly fast race.

I see it applied in anything in my life so far: my law degree? I still remember when the prospect was to finish it in six years, it drove me up the wall; of course, I stupidly studied day and night, taking on board all exams I (legally) could do in a year, so that I could wear the “badge of honour” to say that I did it in half of the time, but my end result was a total disappointment because I didn’t care about what I was studying, all that mattered was vomiting enough knowledge to pass my exams quickly. My ex-boyfriend? I didn’t take the time to enjoy what we had, whether big or small, whether we saw each other for just a hot booty call that turned into an hilarious night watching Netflix and laughing our asses off or if there were any foundations for something more, in my head all I had to do was to tick the box of “I have a relationship” as quickly as possible and nothing else mattered. Gym? If by session two I’m not Instagram fitness model, there is no point of me going. Reading a book? No matter how big or small, I’m going to read it all in one go, maybe skipping few bits and pieces of descriptions I don’t care about. I could go on and on and on and on. My physiotherapy sessions? Who cares, as long as I can show that “I’m cured” asap and move on. If someone said to me “it will take ten (TEN) years to see the end of it”, you bet your ass I’d be exploding in total frustration.

I had this exact crisis just a week ago: all felt like “OMG I AM WORKING SO HARD AND NO RESULTS!”. I’m in therapy and I’m still struggling mentally at times. I’m working my ass off at the gym and I’m no fitness model yet. I’m working on my skin etc and my face has (AAAHHH) couple of spots that just don’t want to clear. I’m eating healthy, increasing portions, killing myself with proteins and still I struggle to keep my weight above 50kg. I am dressing differently, wearing makeup, looking nice and still I’m single as fuck. My debts are still all there, I am still living paycheck by paycheck and don’t make me start on saving money for my boob job! My blog has not yet achieved billions of followers. Why my life hasn’t magically transformed from hell to heaven? Why, with all the work that I’ve done?????? Call it if you like “an exercise in killing my self-esteem, undermining myself, shit all over my achievements so far and raise the flag of self-hate once again”.

You know what? this is another massive mental shift that I decided to do, starting from now. Instead of focussing on the goal, I’m forcing myself to focus on the “here and there”. The “now” vs “the end”. The moment vs the future. For once in my life I want to just enjoy the journey, no matter how long it takes. I don’t want anxiety to push me to do things just because I desperately need to put them behind my back. I don’t want to drive a fast car at a foolish speed towards my “goals”: I just want to chill, cocktail on my hand (ok, sparkling water with a slice of lemon, or, better, a protein shake), and if it’s going to take “a long time”… so be it. I will see the results, I know I will, but this time I won’t just “tick a box”, I will get there with a baggage of ups and downs, failures and successes, learnings and experiences, and an overall million times more fulfilling journey. Heck, with an anxiety attack looming just thinking about it, maybe I won’t even see the end of some of these journeys, and it will keep being a revolving process (I’m seriously feeling my heart racing as I write it, and my old self going “YOU WHAT? NO END? YOU CRAZYYYY?”). From today, I want to put an end to that negative chain of thoughts and transform it into a positive one. As Rick Watten said, “Remember how far you’ve come, not just how far you have to go. You are not where you want to be, but neither are you where you used to be”. Isn’t this so beautifully true?

c84c566cfc69748ab686d099cd7fbd38I know that my therapy sessions will keep going for quite some time. How much will that be, I don’t know and I want to just think that it is fine as it is. No “when will I be fixed?” anxiety. My gym body? It is happening, it will happen, it will take time and it’s fine, no “why I am not a model yet” anxiety. Whatever happens with my relationships? I don’t want to care about the future, I just want to focus on enjoying the moments, the laughter, the hugs, the fun, the chats in the middle of the night, that’s all. Whatever will be, will be. I am working hard for a better future for myself, I’m slowing benefitting from all the positive seeds I’ve planted everywhere in my life, but when that future will be? I don’t know, I don’t want to know, because the “now” it’s all that matters, and like Freddie Mercury beautifully sang at the end of “Innuendo”: “yes we’ll keep on smiling and whatever will be, will be, we’ll just keep on trying till the end of time”.

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.

IT’S BRITNEY B#TCH!

Before anyone says anything: yes, I am a metalhead and proud.
Yes, I grew up with Kreator, Megadeth, Slayer, Testament and the whole lot of thrash metal; I got more band merchandise than what a “normal” person is supposed to own; I probably spent way too much money on heavy metal gig tickets than what I should have done and yes, I even got Slayer tattooed on my left leg.

But.

I have an insane love for Britney Spears.
I love her, I worship her, she is the mighty Britney bitch and I’m a devoted, proud fan. Whoever says anything bad about her in front of me ends up at the receiving end of a massive rant so don’t you ever dare do it, ok?
LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE, OK?

siso2Lot of people teased me for being a Britney fan in the past, and some still tried to teas me nowadays. As you can imagine, I care about it just as much as I care about what Kim Kardashian ate for lunch today: a big, fat zero.
People think it is absolutely odd for a metalhead, who is all Slayer and horns up, to listen to such a cheesy popstar. The fact that I (predominantly) listen to Heavy Metal doesn’t mean that I cannot appreciate anything else, I mean, I grew up being Madonna fan, and maybe one day I’ll tell the funny tale of that time I went to see her gig alone lying to my mum, but for some reason people are not that bothered about me being Madge’s fan as about me adoring Britney.
I have never bothered to explain the reasons why I am such a fan to these people, mainly because:
a) I knew the people having fun at me were not really interested in hearing them anyway, they just wanted more stuff to laugh at my expenses (like I give a single fuck about it), and
b) because, fundamentally, I couldn’t have been remotely arsed to waste my time and energy to do it, and since it involves my mental health too, the less thing I shared the better.

I did a post on Facebook once about it, but I have been stupid enough to cancel it because it was very personal, and I didn’t want my ex to see it (yeah, call me Queen Dumb, I deserve it). I’ll try to re-explain it here, and I promise this time I won’t remove it.

I hated Britney Spears.

43159It took me a split second to hate her, as soon as I caught a glimpse of her on tv. She was a fabricated cute little girl vomited out of that Disney club where everyone seemed to be pushed out to make money: Justin Timberlake, Christina Aguilera… you name it.
When she came out with “Baby one more time” I was already a metal head, and she was the personification of everything I hated in a girl: pretty blonde hair, pretty body, dumb acting like a teenager, silly girlie face and behaviour, that horrid baby voice, the hideous clothes, the even more hideous dance moves…
Shivers down my spine.
She was indeed beautiful, a classic case of “all the girls want to be like her and all the boys want to be with her”. Everywhere you went, every time you turned MTv on, she was there, with her stupid bimbo songs about stupid bimbo stuff. Jeez she made me want to pull my hair and rip my ears! She became big like very few pop stars did, she sang with Michael Jackson (think whatever you want about him, but he was the King of Pop ok?), she did a song with Madonna (!!!) and who can’t forget her performance at the MTv VMAs 2001, with a massive snake on her shoulder? Or the one with Madonna and Christina Aguilera? I watched all of them in a sort of shock horror (for the record, “I’m a Slave for You” it is not one of my favourite songs still today).
I kept disliking her for years, who cares about that American, ex-Disney stupid girl anyway right? She is nothing like the Real Queen of Pop Madonna, I don’t care.

However, the picture-perfect image of this lovely cute girl suddenly started to break. She became like a wild beast in a cage, trying to get out of a very gold prison she wasn’t happy to be locked in anymore… and one day she just lost her shit. Royally. Like a supernova explosion, she literally exploded in a massive, full blown mentally insane fit: she shaved her beautiful, gold blonde hair, she beat the shit out of a paparazzi car with an umbrella, she was completely, completely insane. Her eyes when she shaved her head where those of someone who’s not right in their head and that cannot be stopped unless sedated. Everyone who was there with her was either trying to get a picture of her or trying to upset her even more to make her go even crazier. I felt sick in the stomach.

I remember watching the footages (the “perks” of being a celebrity is that all your ups and downs get ruthlessly broadcasted on and on and on….) and I just felt… sorry.
I was so sorry for her.
I wanted to hug her, to hug her like I would have hug my best friend in a similar fit of rage, and just cry with her.

For once, I felt even luckier than her: very few people witnessed me losing my shit, having panic attacks, and ending up in a very horrible meltdown, or not making it on time to get to the toilet during one of my anxiety attacks and… well…  etc. etc. Everything people know about my problems is what I decide to share. It is up to me what I want to make people aware of, I have full control of it. When I cut my long hair very, very short, not too far from Britney’s shaved head, because I hated myself and I wanted to rip off the only thing I liked about me, I didn’t have an army of people outside, taking billions of pictures of me and laughing at my expenses. It was just me and a stupid hair stylist, who should have spent a bit more time talking with me and maybe, just maybe, convince me to gradually shorten my hair, rather than chopping all my locks in one go then grabbing the razor like he had been waiting for that moment all his life. It took me 6 years to set foot in another hair saloon, such traumatic was that experience. Still, no one waited for me outside to laugh at me and my almost bald head. Thankfully. I would have killed myself there and then, and I mean what I’m saying (I was that fragile).

Britney? Not so much. Every single detail fed tabloid for months, and years. Her pictures, the measures that her family had to take in order to keep her alive and (medically) cared for, the custody of her kids gone to that work-shy sleazebag of her ex-husband, everything. It still haunts her today, 11 years later. Everything she does, good or bad, she will always be “the one who went mental” in 2007. All. The. Time. Give it a bloody rest, we got it!!!

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My metal collection and Britney (with her show’s ticket!)

That day, Britney may have lost her marbles, but she gained a fan: me.
I started rooting for her. Every progress she made, I was there cheering for her. When “Blackout” came out, I bought it immediately, and much to my surprise, I loved it to bits. It is still amongst my all-time favourite albums ever, together with Slayer’s “Reign in Blood”, Kreator’s “Endorama” and Megadeth’s “Rest in Peace”. If you wonder, my favourite song from “Blackout” is “Break the Ice”. No discussion about it mates.
When she performed “Gimme More” at the VMAs in 2007, not in her best mental and physical shape, I cried all my tears in front of the tv: everybody bitched and trashed her, saying she was a fat cow unable to move and sing. Yes, she wasn’t exactly in the same shape of when she was dancing with that bloody yellow snake years before, ok. However, what I saw was more than what the tv transmitted: I saw a strong woman, performing in the face of all the shit that happened to her, still trying to do her bit in the best way she could. Yes, it was atrocious, but I dare you do the same when your mind is in a blur: best of times, when I’m in my worst states, I can barely tolerate to function, let alone get on a stage and putting up a show. When it was my turn to go to work even though I was suicidal and out of my right mind, that performance kept playing in my head: “if Britney did it in front of a huge crowd, live on tv where millions of people were watching, so can I” I kept repeating myself. Every single minute of every single day.
Still today, every time I have to face something difficult, I channel that thought in my head and off I go.

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That’s my Britney!

I am so happy that not only she recovered, but that she is still a successful performer, has her life back on track, a smoking hot body, her kids back with her and so many good things. Think what you want, I don’t care, she deserves everything she gets.

Why all this blurb about Britney?

Well, on Friday I went to see her live in London, for the very first time in my life.

Yes, I was still recovering from food poisoning, but I was there.

I wore my hair extensions, some very pink and funky makeup (I had to get ready at the office, in the only Friday where everyone was in, so I had the pleasure of doing a walk of shame out of it) and yeah, as you can imagine, I was so agitated and emotional that I felt almost sick.

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Me on the train back home. DEVASTATED.

The gig was…. Well, the only thing I can say is that I cried all my tears. All my emotions, all my suffering, all my mental problems… I felt like it was the beginning of a new era for me. I sang all songs, I danced like crazy, I laughed and had fun with everyone around me, it was just magical. Magical.
I don’t care if she lip-synced all her performance, or if her moves where not super complicated: the whole show was just exceptional, and I had the night of my life.
Before anyone asks: no, I didn’t take any picture of video of the show. I kept my phone in my pocket and just lived the moment as it was unfolding (and I was too busy trying not to lose my fake eyelashes because I was in a flood of tears).
The next day I felt like I suddenly became a 98 years old woman, since part of my body ached (including my hair: fucking hell, hair extensions are heavy!!!). I regretted not having bought tickets to see her even Saturday and Sunday, but hey, I’m sure it won’t be her last tour and who knows what the future holds for both of us?