some sort of beacon

Monday, January 8, 2018

I am struggling, as always, with my own long existential depression. It is a battle that I am not winning, as I lay forever in my trenches and just survive. I’ve not given the order of going up over and venture into no man’s land. It will be “just” venture, I have no doubt in my mind that I cannot triumph. I will be 40 this year and I believe that is a very, very far stretched period of one’s life persisting in utter non-logical unhappiness. And the fact that I cannot explain it to myself makes it linger into irrationality and fuels my eternal fear of simply living. I’m not talking about a simple life, though it is my goal and my wish, I have no deep yearnings for the riches of the world and I do not want (at the moment) for money or things. I am talking about waking up in the morning, getting up and going about my business. No, I wake up and I immediately go into a panic frenzy that keeps throughout the day, pushes into deep night, nourishes my insomnia, which is just a child of fear, and torments all that it is my being. And I do not know why. But 40 years is too long to live not knowing. And all these years I’ve tried many things to put a stop to such nonsense. No luck.

I am weird. Not nice weird, not fashionable weird, but unhealthy and unwanted weird. I’ve hidden it for 40 years and only a handful of people know the truth, and most of them suffer because of me and for me. Coming to this conclusion has been a long ordeal, as I’ve always consider myself normal with normal needs, or better said I’ve always wanted to be like that.

Many years ago, I had a falling-out with my best friend. For about a year didn’t talk to her, write to her or communicate in any way. For all others that knew us together, not seeing us together must have seemed unnatural, and for us, not talking (this is all we most of the times do, and God, we do find topics of discussion like you wouldn’t believe) should have been impossible. My best friend is also unhealthily weird, she also has a secret drive that sets in the moment she wakes, but hers is not fear, is fury.

Our fight had personal reasons, I do not need to bore, but we’ve been close for almost two decades now and yet there’s a chasm that separates us infinitely and that is the fact the she’s out there, out of her trenches, in full fury, fighting it and not winning either. But what enrages her is that I haven’t done it yet. That I lay back and just bitch about it. My dear, with all my heart, I want to be there, but I don’t know how. Correction, I only know one how.

I’m not sure if I’m not also a coward, as there have been moments in my life when I thought I was out there fighting and winning, despite pain and seemingly self-destruction. I mean I did move out of my parents’ house, I did marry a guy I loved, in spite better judgement and a few warnings, I did divorce the guy when love had been killed (by me, of course, also a big weird win) and I did live on my own in sheer poverty, not being able to buy at least one book each month, and also food. But like in defiance of it some of my choices, one of the big ones, started with good reasoning and decent sense and ended in stand-up comedy for God (apparently, He laughs at man’s … what was it, choices, plans … life?)

I will be 40 this year! It is not about the fact that it is a round number or a milestone (one of my friends got an amazing gift for turning 40, a trip to Paris from his parents. That was an incredible gift!). It just seems a lot!!!! And now I have a kid and most of times I have no idea what I’m doing with a kid. I am not a model mum. I do not feed him only bio stuff, I do not enroll him in Montessori education systems (or any, for that matter), I just go with the flow. Somehow, I have this belief that no matter what I’ll do, he’ll have his 40 years of fucking everything up. And yet I feel responsible that I should be responsible.

My best tactic so far in dealing with my panic is hiding, hiding it and myself. Oh, you should see me, I’ve mastered it. And one of the ways is comedy, I like to make people laugh, I feel good about it, and it comes so natural to me. And because I also have a big on-going infectious laugh, people generally believe I’m mostly fine, which drives them to leaving me alone and not questioning. See, hiding, in plain sight! It used to feel really good, I felt good about it, it didn’t seem like lying, nor hiding. I told myself it’s the way I’m dealing with pain and fear. I was ok. In 2014, on August 11^th, comedy ended for me. I’m still doing it, but this time is a big fat lie. Of course, I didn’t know him personally, and he was my favourite actor and stand-up comedian by far, but not until his death did I realize that somehow, I saw myself in him, “I think the saddest people always try their hardest to make people happy because they know what it’s like to feel absolutely worthless and they don’t want anyone else to feel like that.” When he died … my will to put people at ease died too. I saw no point in it anymore, I came to the conclusion, I think the correct one, that all I had been doing until then was trying to liberate people from fear, when I, myself, was caged by it for all eternity; it really didn’t help me, and had no real effect on others. When Robin took his life … well, he was just tired. And I was growing tired too.

Another this time perplexing way of hiding my shortcoming is inflecting pain. And this is where the not-nice unhealthy weird feature kicks in. I can do it immediately after I made you laugh, I can take you to wonderful heights and push you in dark abysm with ease and no conflicting feelings. I do it rarely and I fight it a lot because … well, it frightens me like you wouldn’t believe. I’m pretty sure psysiatrists have a medical term for it, I just call it my dark side. The truth about it is that it’s not a matter of fiction, it’s not a topic to consume when my rare need of writing drives me to wake up at 4 in the morning and turn my laptop on, it’s a living organism like Rowling’s well put obscurial. I think this is my fear. In truth, although I have been writing diaries for a very long time, I don’t write about myself, but just about what happens in my life. Well, there! This is what I needed to come to terms with. This is what all this … not doing much sleep tonight, one little nightmare that made me scream and moan, two or three very new and peculiar dreams, waking up early although I told people not to wake me (‘cause, God, I need at least one night lengthy sleep), very bag lighting and many books waiting to be read (they will have to wait even longer, but I’ll get to that in a new entry, now, that I’m on the roll), gastritis and no dinner or breakfast, missing my kid (left him with grandparents), enraged with myself that whilst my best friend is out in the world, I still hide under my table or blankets, fat and lazy, still lying that I’m fine, all this still doesn’t make me mad enough to change anything. Because I only know one way. I don’t like that way. It scares me.

In 2013, in midst winter, January, one night, as living alone and very poor, I wasn’t sleeping late at night. It was months after my divorce, it wasn’t because of my divorce, but because of the fact that I was able to go through with it and survive it, I felt free, finally free to fury. It came to me that night exactly when my laptop showed midnight, I was listening to some furious music and silent singing and screaming, dancing too. I said to myself that I’d never tried it before and why not? I took the decision very quickly, dauntingly and horrifying naturally. Well, it is horrifying for me now, but then … I felt nothing of the sort. I stepped into the balcony of my bedroom, wearing knickers and some sort of undershirt. It had been snowing so I should have felt the cold and some melting under my feet, but … no. I even opened my arms, like I wanted to jump, or something, upwards, not to my death. Because that was the point, I meant to do some living. I took a very deep breath and I let go of all my thoughts, all of them at once. I believe I wrote about it, a beacon. I remember not feeling, not thinking. All my being was clear, translucent and new.  And that’s when it happened. I felt strength in my dark side because you see, hate is a powerful drive. And as much as I fear and I feared, I also hate and hated. It didn’t feel good that I am bad, it didn’t feel good that I came to the realization that I am bad, or at least also bad, it felt right because I was being honest to myself and saw that I am only bad. Candor lead to truth and truth lead to freedom. Quite theological, you would say, but there was no God in it (not then), it was clear of that, it was me … being simply epistemic. I dissolved everything with only one thought: fear, past, ghosts, lost love, another love, being alone, stupidity and so on. I was open for business, new to build, reborn. I had no doubt in my mind of what I could do, I was going to be the architect of a monster. I knew what I wanted. I was so sick of losing. I wasn’t going to accept. I wasn’t going to succumb to other people’s will. I knew what I needed. I started in uproar and would have gone till the end. I went on a incredibly strict diet and lost a lot of weight (easy, no money, no food, no problem), started reading more than ever, writing as well, kept to working coldly and passionlessly (those who knew me in the past, when I used to enjoy teaching, would probably not believe this), gave nothing for free, walked for hours and hours and complained that Cluj was just too small for how much I needed to walk, slept like a baby and no dreams, no nightmares. I embraced the fact that I was evil and only evil and started walking over anything and anyone on my way. The plan was to go get what I wanted, I sent really nice written resumes and got three positive answers, two in Bahrain and one in Qatar. I chose the one I wanted, the one closest to my plan, I prepared the papers and was ready to send them. I stopped.

You see, I’m not sure if I’m not a coward. That was 2013 and now is 2018, the beginning of it, a new January, no snow, no balcony where I live now and I feel cold all the time. Now … I am not evil, but I am not good either. Is it purgatory? Am I waiting for something? I do not read anymore. I do not write anymore (this is such an exception, even God is surprised by it). But I teach coldly and passionlessly. I do my job very well, but find no pleasure in it anymore. I am dieting again, losing weight, but hate doesn’t drive me. I am just ashamed of what I’ve become. Shame is good too, but doesn’t give me enough momentum to be strict as hate does. I think I’m starting to get old. 40 years spent in trenches, ventured out only once, did an incredible jog, almost winning, but going back into the ground. I told myself it was my conscience and God in me. I told myself that I’m a Christian, though no church wants me, and I had to do the right thing. I had to keep myself in check. I also said to myself that it was love that stopped me. I have some doubts.

So, is this the only way I can win? Hate? Should I go back to that and start again, ‘cause I know how to do it and I do it wonderfully. Look at me, I am so pleased with the bad things I can do, I’m giggling and it’s natural! Is this the only way I can do battle with fear? After 40 years, unfortunately, the answer is yes. I am a nasty woman.

Lenwa

Obisnuiesc sa nu ies din magazinele de birotica fara sa nu-mi cumpar ceva, orice. Am observant ca de cele mai multe ori e fie un caiet, fie vreun pix nou. Eu pierd pixurile foarte des, dar ma indoiesc ca acest fapt depaseste granitele normalitatii in cazul unui profesor. De cand ma stiu maica-mea il aprovizioneaza pe tata (tot profesor) cu sute de pixuri; in mod normal ar trebui sa fie sertare pline prin casa cu ele, in mod normal. In ceea ce priveste obsesia cu caietele, ei asta e o alta poveste, care nu tine de nici o norma sau exceptie. E doar nevoia mea de a scrie. Orice. Nu conteaza. Dar rafturile mele contin caiete si agende goale.

So, acum cateva luni oi fi intrat eu in cine stie ce loc unde am gasit doua caiete Lenwa, unul Triumphal Arch, altul Romantic. Ah, sunt superbe, iar calitatea hartiei este extraordinara. Triumphal Arch imi aminteste de caietele sugative de altadata. Sper din tot sufletul sa fie asa.

Din intamplare si destul de miraculous, sunt insarcinata. Majoritatea cunostintelor mele, in special cele vechi, stiau ca renuntasem acum cativa ani la idee; conditie medicala, varsta, lasitate etc. Incetul cu incetul, de-a lungul a ultimelor saptamani, lumea a inceput sa afle si sa ma sune cu felicitarile de rigoare. Le inteleg dorinta de a-si impartasi bucuria lor pentru mine si, in cele mai multe cazuri, daca nu chiar toate, inteleg ca sunt chiar sinceri. Asa ca depun efortul social necesar de a multumi, de a impartasi optimismul meu si de a da detaliile cerute. Lumea stie ca daca ma intreaba ce mai fac, eu chiar le spun ce mai fac. Lumea stie ca daca ma intreaba cum ma simt, eu chiar le spun cum ma simt, chiar daca le pare rau dupa aceea. Din toate povestile pe care le am, fie telelefonic, fie la un colt de strada, cu oamenii care ma cunosc, la o singura intrebare nu pot raspunde: “Tii jurnal?” Unii ma intreaba caci, se pare, ca exista o moda de a cataloga periodic sentimente, senzatii, experiente si provocari. Este distractiv si viitoarele mamici isi doresc sa impartaseasca toate acestea cu viitorul prunc. Altii, mai intimi, ma intreba deoarece stiu ca scriu. Sau ca scriam. Si in mod normal ar fi trebuit sa fi scris ceva pana acum, au trecut totusi cinci luni! In mod normal.

NU am mai scris nimic, dar absolut nimic de cand am aflat ca sunt insarcinata. Nu am scris nimic pentru mine, si in nici un caz, ceva pentru progenitura. Ma uit la caietele lenwa, sunt predestinate oricarei intentii de consemnare … pagini goale, cu aspect catifelat; categoric ca penita mea ar patina artistic pe ele. 

Azi este o zi ca oricare alta la mine la serviciu. Vin pe 8 in toate zilele, chiar daca am ore sau nu, caci pot sa lucrez linistita la lectiile mele (acasa as fi dormit orele astea!!!). Ma plimb pe un anume coridor in pauze, caci sunt de serviciu in fiecare zi pe acelasi. Exista o exceptie - ziua de vineri, exceptie care mai mult ma enerveaza, decat sa imi ofere vreun sentiment de usurare. Clasa mea, boboci, sunt rezidenti problematici in aceasta parte a scolii si fie ca vreau, fie ca nu, primesc mereu cate un mesaj gen: “diriga, e bai!”. Normal ca si eu ma bag in seama si merg pe la 12 sau pe la 13 sa vad care mi-au fugit de la ultimele ore si imediat sun parintii. Acestia exasperati (poate chiar enervati ca de ce ii implic in educatia copiilor lor) incearca sa-si exercite autoritatea palida sau de cele mai multe ori inexistenta, fiecare in felul lui, iar eu urmaresc zilnic daca rezulatele lor (si implicit ale mele) au termen de valabilitate scurt sau lung. Imi petrec atat de mult timp cu situatiile dureroase, incat uit sa mai stau si sa-i mai ascult si pe ceilalti micuti si draguti, si am niste micuti si asa de draguti!!!
Azi insa s-a decis seful meu sa se joace cu mine. Plictisul e mare, nu-si gaseste un adversar intelectual pe masura si se porneste in cautare de victime. Bine, daca si cad in plasa lui, fara ca el sa se deplaseze, cu atat mai bine – asta este referire clara la mine. Intru in cabinetul directorului adjunct cu niste dosare ce contin declaratii si referate cu investigatii pentru intrunirea urmatoarei comisii de disciplina. Da, la acea comisie vor fi prezenti si copii din clasa mea. Ma intreaba: “Ai ora?”, “Nu”, zic eu. “Atunci stai jos”, zice. Si asa a inceput un monolog luuung, o intreaga poveste despre un fost coleg de-al lui, doctor in matematica, care murise recent. Initial, si spre rusinea mea, prea mult timp, am crezut ca omul are nevoie sa povesteasca cu cineva; parea rapus de ganduri triste, naluci nostalgice. Aflu despre familia omului in discutie, despre nevoile intelectuale osandite la nesatisfactie ce le avusese in timpul regimului comunist, despre curajul si indarjirea aceluiasi geniu spre momentul in care isi sustine lucrarea de doctorat pe functii sprai, (le spune sefu) si incep din tonalitatea vocii, cat si a selectiei de limbaj sa pricep si subtextul: “dar tu si asa nu intelegi despre ce vorbesc eu, si nu ai auzit niciodata de astfel de functii si nu vei fi niciodata capabila sa le intelegi” (parafrazez eu ce-a spus el, aproximativ asa). Ma gandesc cateva secunde daca sa mai stau sau daca sa ma ridic (alta dilema, fie nervoasa, fie demna) dar, prefer sa raman, caci sunt prin definitia profesiei mele o masochista si o sadica in devenire (iar el ma poate invata foarte multe despre asta, caci fiind spre pensionare, are muuulti ani in spate de experienta). Ajunge in sfarsit unde dorea sa ajunga, de aproape un sfert de ora, dupa construirea unui act de-a dreptul dramatic, superb si complex, la o experienta de succes a omul respectiv, cand doctor deja, este invitat in Germania sa predea matematica la nivel universitar, insa nu stia nici germana, nici engleza. Ambitios si mai ales inteligent (un adevarat intelectual, carevasazica) se decide sa studieze ambele limbi, in paralel cu doi instructori (le-as zice profesori, dar ma tem ca as iesi din raza semantica indusa si propusa de seful meu). Se pare ca intreaga stradanie i-a luat sase luni din viata, dar le-a invatat pe ambele. Parafrazez din nou: “caci era un om destept si ca sa inveti o limba straina nu ai nevoie decat de 6 luni, nu de 12 ani cat iti propune ministerul educatiei, sau/si de 4, universitari, ca sa-ti mai iei si licenta in asa ceva”. Așa că stăteam acolo fiind destul de sigura de mesajul transmis și de faptul că el insinua categoric cât de inferioara ii sunt, că dacă vrea să învețe limba engleză și chiar sa predea, el ar avea nevoie de 6 luni pentru perfectionare. Dar a fost atât de subtil, si atat de pozitiv in atitudinea-i, dorind bineinteles să se asigure că isi bate joc de mine, intr-un mod sigur, dar intelectual, si eu sa nu ma prind (ca-s muiere tanara si proasta). L-am lasat sa se simta bine. Nu pentru ca eram socata si ma lasase fara cuvinte, ci pentru ca eu nu am ajuns la nivelul intelectual necesar. Ma gandeam sa-i spun sa ma astepte, dar conform prognozei domnului, eu nu cred ca voi ajunge vreodata acolo. I-am dorit , in final, sa aiba o zi buna, am precizat ca am avut parte de o conversație interesantă (aici am fost un pic ironica, caci numai conversatie nu a fost), m-am ridicat, m-am dus la ușă și am spus ... ah, ar fi trebuit să-mi fi văzut fața mea topita ... am spus “Mulțumesc pentru această discuție edificatoare si angajanta!” S-a uitat lung dupa mine. 
M-am dus la calculator, caci eram sigura ca functiile sprai sunt defapt spray ... și am avut dreptate, dar el poate să învețe engleză, să învețe cu adevarat engleză în șase luni! Fucking bastard! Si ziua voastra cum a fost ...?

ok. eu am serioase dubii ca traiesc o normalitate, sau mai bine spus ca eu sunt o normalitate, whatever that is. hai sa o incadram in that thing we call common sense, adica ceea ce este moral, logic, de bun simt etc. adica eu chiar incep sa cred - fara sa glumesc acum, desi recunosc ca nu folosesc tonul potrivit - ca eu chiar nu functionez conform normelor de producere. acum doua zile ma abordeaza o colega, dorind sa puna o pila (citat exact). are un elev la noi la scoala, o progenitura a unor cunostinte, care a ramas repetent le engleza in trecutul lui obscur si nu stiu la ce alta scoala, si acum este, din nou, corigent la engleza, adica la mine, pe sem I. initial dorise sa ii schimb media. dar nu a indraznit sa-mi spuna in fata (eu asta stiu din alte surse). imi cere insa sfatul: ce trebuie sa faca acest copil sa treaca la engleza in sem II. Si eu ii spun ca lipseste de la ore si ca nu are nici macar un caiet (seriously now, nu stiu cand am inceput sa trec elevi doar pt ca au un caiet, si nici nu mai vad relevanta unui caiet de notite, decat ca dovada ca-mi fac eu treaba, nu ca mijloc de studiu pentru elevi). de asemenea ii spun de fisele de lucru si proiecte de vocabular. da ... in urma privirii contrariate (cred ca nu se astepta efectiv sa-i spun ce trebuie sa faca copilul, ci era de ajuns pachetul de cafea ce mi l-a aruncat in brate, pe agenda, ca sa-i dau cinci) ii spun ca ii voi da eu ei detaliile. astazi, ma prinde pe coridoare, dupa ce am iesit de la o noua luuuuunga comisie de disciplina, sa-mi aminteasca de promisiunea ce i-am facut-o. ii dau numele a doi elevi, colegi cu vlastarul in discutie, de la care poate face rost de caiete ordonate si complete. ma duc in cabinetul meu, unde scot la imprimanta toate fisele ce le-am lucrat pe aceasta clasa, le deosebesc cu markere colorate si post-ituri cu detalii, le pun in folii si apoi intr-un dosar. Ma duc inapoi in cabinetul colegei unde incep sa-i explic ce-i cu acest dosar (cum ca nu ma astept sa-l faca acum in o zi doua, ci chiar din contra e pe tot semestrul ... numai sa invete si sa inteleaga!!). Privirea ei imi amintea de elevi: ochii aia mari, contrariati ca-i pun la munca, ca le dau de lucru, ca eu chiar le dau de lucru, ca de ce le dau, dar chiar trebuie, dar chiar trebuie tot?!?!?! Si-mi spune: Pai, el n-o sa faca! Eu - cateva secunde de "oare am auzit bine?" si apoi tot eu ma calmez: Pai, asta e atunci. Si ies gandidu-ma la ora ce eu am pierdut-o, din timpul meu, pentru acest copil, sa-i fac portofoliu, ma gandesc la faptul ca de trei zile imi tot promit ca ma duc in concediu medical si ma internez pentru gastrita, ca nu ma mai ajuta nexium 40!!! Dar ultimul gand ce persista e ca am avut aceasta experienta cu o profesoara, cu o colega, care a manjit de fata cu mine si de fata cu ea insasi propria ei meserie. si a fost normal. si pentru ea este normal. si pentru mine ... nu. si ma gandesc ca eu nu sunt normala, ca sunt o curiozitate si nu am ce cauta pe aceasta planeta. ca nu ar trebui sa exist. pentru ca eu nu vreau si aleg zilnic sa nu exist in normalitatea ei.

reading time

I’m on the bus reading Feast of Crows on my kindle. Beneath the Marasti road bridge I raise my head and watch out the window; it’s a cold grey morning and all the trees have given up, green and hopes have left us and we seem to be driven by an outsider, a lazy daily force. I feel like waking up and I’m surprised to be on the bus. “How did I get here?” I ask myself stupidly. I know how: my alarm went off, I snoozed, my cat started fidgeting, somehow got into the bathroom, washed and got dressed. Headphones and rucksack, incredibly hysterical music and other people waiting at the bus stop. I’m uncommonly tired, I have been for days and no amount of sleep seems to drive it away. Yesterday I fell asleep, for a few seconds only, but I did, whilst walking!!! No point on thinking about it now. I turn my eyes to the text in my hands and I’m glad for these 30 minutes, my only 30 minutes, of reading a day. I know that by the time I get off work, in six to seven hours, I won’t be able to hold on to it. I’ll fight sleep again and hopefully I’ll win, or I’ll drop down, on the pavement, swept away by a sweet delight or by some horrible modern god. I’ve stopped asking what’s the point, such questions are for early youth, when you think you might come up with a general long expected answer to undying questions. Yes, green, hopes and question marks have left us all. I’m left with the potential affirmative. Its job is to keep me awake for the next hours, while I squeeze myself into a life crushing desire to give it all and nothing left for me. I stopped asking myself what’s the point. I just do it, listening to an inner voiceless command. I’m no longer young, but I’m not old either, not yet, and this period, in time, or in my mind, is too calm for my taste and my nerves.

I’m at work two hours earlier. I stopped asking myself why. I could have slept more. I’ll make some tea, take my shoes off, put my feet on the radiator and read some more. I remember now why I wake up two hours earlier. They’ve stolen my reading time, so I’m stealing it back!

opis

Love is, without a doubt, that wing-giving incredible human experience and when I’m in love no other manifestation can match the strength and security it gives me. But I have come to experience too many times now arduous lessons on selfness, as love is also the one teaching me that I cannot and I should not accredit my own happiness to so many external factors. Unless I start looking into myself for the power I need, base it on the treasure that I am on my own, I believe I am doomed for on-going, time wasting and useless suffering.