Chapter 1
“I fell by the wayside like everyone else I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, but I was just kidding myself. Our every moment, I start to replace ’Cause now that they’re gone All I hear are the words that I needed to say... So before you go Was there something I could’ve said to make your heart beat better? If only I’d have known you had a storm to weather So before you go Was there something I could’ve said to make it all stop hurting? It kills me how your mind can make you feel so worthless So, before you go...” Lewis Capaldi
I was a girl. I was the one who had to make sense of senseless – the one who had to endure the unendurable. This isn’t the story about how you live after your mother’s suicide. This is a story about how you survive when someone takes away your chance to say “I love you” one last time. About how you build walls, then tear them down, only to rebuild them again – but this time, with your own hands. This is a story about pain. This is a story about friendship. This is a story about family. This is a story about why you should never give up on yourself – why you must keep going. These are just small fragments of my life – and there are many more.
She had the most beautiful, radiant smile in the world. Genuine. Simple. Some would say, “What a beautiful women she is”. But it wasn’t just that. She had short brown hair, always curled – she liked it that way – always styled at the hairdresser’s. Her stunning green eyes were my little piece of heaven. Oh God, how I could see myself in those eyes…eyes filled with sorrow. She was gentle. And yet, under the weight of the chains life had placed upon her, she would sometimes say things that hurt me then…and still hurt today. But she didn’t know any better – because no one ever shown her how to be different.
She was combative, she didn’t give up, she was brave, honest. For me then in some moments the best mom in the world. How happy I would be to see her in kindergarten, so tired of life. It was my world, imperfect, but mine. I loved her cakes, she had such a talent for making them and I can still smell them to this day. It was known that she made cakes every week. Life didn’t spoil her one bit. The man she married (my father), he wasn’t devoted to family, to the children – to us. He drank, he spent the nights in the taverns, he left his money there. She tried, he was not interested in “I have for myself” his motto to any proposal. She wanted her own roof over her head, her house, “he has it and he doesn’t need it”, and I, later my sister we will get married and leave the house. I remember some walks in the parks with him, carrying me on his shoulders when I was tired of walking... She wanted to, and she didn’t know how, and so did he, but no one taught him. Unfortunately, I understood some of their fights even back then. I would run to the corner and cover my ears, sometimes when it was no longer a verbal confrontation but grew into a physical one, I would get up and stand between some of them:
" How dare you hit her, that’s my mom!“.
I couldn’t understand everything at that time, not who was to blame, or why, or for what, but I promised myself one thing:
“I will never be to my children as my parents were to me.”
I grew up in their fights, beautiful moments were a real rarity to have. He knew to just disappear for a while, and then come back. Once he stole all her savings and ran away to his mother, he was there while he had for the tavern, music and everything that goes with it. After that, he returned. I don’t hate him, I feel sorry for him for everything he could have done and didn’t, for everything he should have done and didn’t, because of us and he didn’t. Mom used to say a rude word or a few of them sometimes, they hurt, but now I know that she didn’t know any other way to remove that chain of burden she had. Sometimes, when she would put me to sleep, she would tell me stories about a princess in a distant land, and those stories still echo in my ears and tear my heart. It doesn’t all go away with time. I remember that she always told me to be kind, to say “Hello” on the street, to say “Thank you”, to ask, to help those who needed help. She told me to be brave and to fight for myself, to never depend on anyone, to always have my job, my salary and my own piece of bread. To create a home of my own – somewhere I could always return to. She knew how to be the most wonderful mother when the shackles of life would loosen a little. After many years, she was able to provide a roof over her head, and for me and my sister, she was very proud of it, and the two of us finally had our own room. I thought maybe now we will be a family that we were not before. I thought and hoped. The arguments continued, only she could be very harsh with her words when she scolded us, because then I was no longer small, I knew exactly what each word meant and how much weight those words had. Why? I don’t know. I don’t know the answer even now after all these years. Maybe it’s because she didn’t know better, maybe because no one taught her otherwise, no one showed her otherwise. One day, when I was waiting for her to come home from work, I saw that she hadn’t been gone for 4 hours, which was not something she would have done. It was always clear when she left for work and when she come back. I’ve called her so many times. Maybe she lost her phone or it was stolen. He comes home in the evening, with a smile, but his eyes full of sadness. I just hugged her and asked:
“Well, why don’t call mom, we were scared.”
She didn’t answer me anything. How did I not see? How did I not notice? How I didn’t do anything to stop her from doing anything in any thought that we didn’t need her anymore, because we needed her then more than ever. Time passed. He decided it was best to get out of the house. I can’t say that I was sorry, I hoped that my mother would finally start living, that the three of us would have what I always wanted, peace, love, understanding. We’re going to be a family together, always together. I’ve heard that he has another wife. I told him to stop everything and that everything he was doing would not work out well. Sometimes I think he was just a little better to her, and if he understood her just a little better, we would have lived like in a fairy tale. Like the princess from Mama’s bedtime story. Sometimes I think that my grandfather, my mother’s father, was better to her, that he had always given her support, love, that maybe she would have decided to stay with us for a long time. After my father left, I approached her crying, hugged her and said:
“Mom, now there are three of us. We finally have peace, we will manage the rest. You’re not alone, you have us”,
but it seems that we weren’t enough for her. She looked at me crying and said:
“Do you remember when you called me and I didn’t answer”
“Yes, I remember” I replied,
“You know that I was on the bank of the Danube back then and I wanted to jump, because I can’t live like this anymore”.
In my early twenties, I tried to talk to her – to explain that we could make it, that everything would be ok. At the beginning of her last year of life, we had a fight – early that morning. And, I said to her:
“Why did you even give birth to me, if all you were ever going to do was blame me for everything in your life?”
The year was 2008, April- nearing the end of its spring fervor. A month where everything is born. A month filled with the scent of beauty, where the greenery begins, where starts to spread, where your “will to live’ awakens”. Mom smiles, while she’s at work, I’m tidying up the house, making lunch, and waiting for her criticism. She didn’t complain, she laughed. I can see myself in those green eyes again. I’m going to my cousin’s place to spend the night.
" Hi Mom, see you tomorrow morning”
“Bye And see you”.
April 24 Friday. I’ve been waking up all night. I have nightmares. Some cramps in my stomach. I doze off, then nightmare again, doze off – it’s a vicious cycle. At 9 a.m., I jump out of bed and say:
“I have to go home immediately”.
My cousin wakes up and looks at me puzzled:
“Just lie down, sleep a little more” she says.
But I’m persistent , because a voice inside me keeps saying:
“You have to go home”.
I start getting dressed when my phone rings. I look at the phone - it’s my younger sister.
“Hey, kiddo…”
I don’t even finish the sentence before she says, through tears;
“She killed herself”.
The call drops.
I’m trying to pull myself together – or fall apart- trying to process what she just said;
“She killed herself”’.
I get out and get on the bus. I’ve called her on her phone, but it’s turned off. Fear overwhelms me. No, she didn’t do that. She’s still alive, and they helped her. The bus didn’t come. Seconds turn into eternity. It’s all eternity now. Finally. I turn into the street and from distance, I see police cars in front of the house. No. This isn’t real. I start running, trying to find my sister. I enter in the house, into the room – it’s empty. On the bed, a plastic bag, with a loaf of bred, a bottle of Coke, some loose change… just tossed there. I turn to live – and in the hallway, just behind the front door, I see a pool of blood. I slowly lift my gaze…and I see feet. I look closer – it’s my mother. Two police officers come in and lead me out of the house. I’m sitting on the neighbor’s steps. I ask:
“Where is my sister?”
“She left with her best friend- took her home”, he replies.
I sit there, trying to process what just happened. Is this real? Or just the next layer of a nightmare? Did I really see what I think I saw…or am I imagining it? I hear voices around me, but I can’t make out the words – everything sounds distant, unfamiliar. I light a cigarette. I stare at the front door of our house. No. This isn’t real.
“Want me to make you a strong cup of coffee?” the neighbor asks.
“Yes” I say.
“And…if you could give me a glass of water too”.
So this is it. This is real. This really happened – it’s not a nightmare. What now? Where do I go? How do I even begin? I never told you I loved you… I remember talking to the inspector. He was kind, understanding – his words were full of compassion. He didn’t know me, but who knows how many cases like this he’s seen before. I’m angry. He asks me about her life. Did she have any problems? Was something troubling her?
“Yes” I say.
“Life. And him” – I point toward my father.
“Maybe even the two of us…me and my sister”.
“Don’t do that” he replies
“Don’t blame anyone for this. You couldn’t have stopped it if she had made up her mind”.
All that crosses my mind is the phrase “I’ll see you tomorrow” and her smile. Why didn’t I do something? It’s just something. Why? The days go buy – slowly, heavily, through a fog. I gather the strength to call people and tell them what happened. Only to closest ones.
“Mama took her own life”.
That’s how every call begins. My best friend came an hour later. A long hug. Silence. Then quietly :
’’I’m here for you”.
“Where’s your sister?” he asked
“Two streets away, at her friend’s house. Let her stay there today – away from all this. I’ll handle everything”.
I don’t even remember the rest of the day. Mostly, I spoke with inspector… the neighbors.
We all wondered why? Before leaving, the inspector gave me his business card and said:
“If you ever need help, give me a call”.
They took her. She’s gone. Forever. The neighbors ask if they can go inside and clean the bold. I look at them:
“No, it’s okay. I’ll do it”
“But how? Let us”.
“No…let me. If I feel unwell, I’ll come out and call you”.
I walked into the house. Prepared a bucket with water, a cloth, detergent…I started walking through the house. On the table – her phone, with SIM card removed. Her jewelry she used to wear. Money, with a not for my younger sister:
“Here, take this – just in case”.
I cry. I walk over to the balcony door and see a bloodstain on the handle. I touch it. It’s hers. And she’s no longer here. I go to the bedroom. There are drops of blood on the floor, bloody fingerprints on the closet… I walk into the bathroom. Blood on the tiles. I glance at the stairs. More drops. I climb them slowly and sit on the last step. I cry. I hear the front door open, I cough, wipe away my tears and go down the stairs. A neighbor came to help me. I start cleaning from the hallway – from that largest pool of blood. I see blood on the shoes nearby.
“I’ll take care of that later, when all this is over”.
I wipe in silence, while one word echoes in my head:
“Why?”
That day, I lost a part of my emotions. A part of my empathy. A part of carefree future. A piece of an already broken heart. A pieces of the world. A pieces of myself…
I didn’t see my sister that day. Evening is falling.
“Where are you going to sleep tonight?”
“How, where, here in the house”,
“You can’t be here tonight”,
“I have to, this is mine”.
I’m lying in bed, my friend asks me if I need anything:
“No, nothing”,
“Would you like a drink to calm me down?”
“No, I won’t, I’m fine,” she hugs me.
I close my eyes and hear her voice in the hallway, the lights are on, there’s no one, she’s gone, I don’t have my mom, but mom, I can hear your voice clearly. I close my eyes:
“It will be better tomorrow”.
I wake up in the morning feeling like I’ve been in a chaotic amusement park, everything is spinning, everything is unclear to me. I’m drinking coffee. A funeral should be arranged. I don’t know how to do that. I never thought I’d have to, because I thought she would live forever. And she will live. Friends, neighbors are here to help. A burial plot needs to be arranged. A funeral service needs to be found. Her measurements need to be given. A coffin needs to be chosen…
“Just do what you think is right”, I said.
“I need to call the rest of the family and her friends”.
We buried her on April 28th. It was a warm and sunny day. A friend asked me if I wanted something to calm myself.
“No, I’m fine. I’m okay”, I replied.
Many of her colleagues came. Friends. Relatives. Even some of her patients from the ward where she used to work. I looked at her for the last time- in that coffin. Laying there with her eyes closed, a peaceful expression on her face, as if she were just sleeping.
“I will never again see myself in those green eyes… but I will see them every time I look in the mirror…”
I stroked her hair, her cheeks. I kissed her forehead. I kissed her cheek. I smiled at her – so she could see me with a smile one last time. Then I leaned in, and whispered into her ear, so no one else could hear:
“I’ll see you in a better place, Mama. A more beautiful world for us, Mama. Just to know that I love you. And I always will”.
The moment they lowered the coffin into the grave, I closed my eyes… and I knew – she was leaving forever. And with her, a part of me went too. I never really understood some of our traditions, but I made an effort to honor them and do everything properly. After funeral, we all come back to the house for a meal in her memory (that’s the custom in my country). I sat in the room with my friend. We talked. We even laughed. And oh.. how beautiful it was to hear laughter again after so many days of silence. How much I needed to hear it. I looked at my younger sister – just a girl back then. She was the one who was with our mom that morning. She spent those final moments with her. But no. I couldn’t. I’ve never asked her anything about that day. That morning. And I don’t even know if I ever will. He (my father) was there, formally… He cried, asked why…But it all felt formally. Maybe he loved her, in some way only he understood – I don’t know. What I do know is that he wasn’t there for me or my sister. That in that moment he didn’t care all that much. A week passed, wrapped in silence and muted light, with the occasional soft smile. The true friends were there. The week, and the ones that followed – even now. Some disappeared, choosing the easier way out. I don’t blame them . I’m grateful. We shared good moments. And when things stopped being “good”, they left. Forty days passed. I stopped wearing black. I didn’t care what anyone would say, or how they’d look at me. Because mourning isn’t in the clothes – it’s in the heart. And it’s the heart that grieves, not the outfit. I stopped notifying people about the dates. It was just the two of us – my sister and me. A couple of friends, some neighbors, a handful of relatives. Enough. I decided to clean the whole house. Repaint the walls. Rearrange things. Throw some things out, bring a few new ones in. Six months passed… And we kept on living – the best way we know how. I stepped into a new role. I wasn’t just a sister anymore. I had to raise that little girl. Guide her. Shape her. Put her on the right path. I wasn’t always easy. So much defiance. So much stubbornness. She refused to accept anything unless it was matched her truth. Anger. Sadness. All of it, swirling between us. It was up to me to raise a broken little girl, while I myself was like a shattered plate at a Greek wedding – held together with tape. I cried when no one was around, because it was easier that way. I would climb those stairs in the hallway, sit on the last step, and search for answers – talking , crying, wanting to scream from sadness and helplessness. Time passed, and with time , your circle of friends shrinks. Eventually, you’re left with just few, Not to many… but enough. A year passed. I never dyed Easter eggs again, nor did I attach any significance to Easter. My father was often not home – he would show up from time to time, as if he were staying at a hotel. I’d be laying if I said that I didn’t , maybe just a little (knowing him all too well), hope he might change. That he’d understand . That he’d start over. That he’d do something for the two of us, because now we had no one but him. Unfortunately, I know him too well – and he didn’t care all that much. He had always been the most important person to himself. One time, during an argument ( he’d been drinking – not to much, but enough), he said to us- to me and my sister:
“My mother is in the village. Where is yours?”
Sometimes it’s not just the words themselves – it’s who says them. He would sometimes come home clearly drunk and starts fights with my sister. He could be cruel with his words. Once, he told her:
“It’s your fault she killed herself. Yours and no one else’s.”
Those words pierced through my ears, echoing and tearing me apart.
“How dear you? YOU have no right to even say her name. YOU have no right to look for blame. YOU have no right to anything about her.”
I slapped him. I grabbed my sister by the hand and took her to our room. It was a long night – full of tears and holding on to each other. In the morning, he remembered some of it – vaguely, like trough fog. We didn’t speak for a while .The firs birthday without Mom and her cakes. I went to the cemetery. When I come back, a thick envelope from the autopsy report was waiting for me. I went into my room and started reading. I cried. I read everything – what I understood and what I didn’t, what I knew and what I didn’t. We entered the New Year, and the last one – I hade welcomed it with Mom. I just hoped this one would hurt little less then the previous. But it didn’t. It hurt even more. So much more. I needed her for a thousand things she never got the chance to teach me. For countless words we never got to say… I just needed to see her. Her smile. I dreamed of her. I was hiding in some bushes in the yard of a grand castle, and she was standing a few meters away from me in a ball gown. Her long curly hair was tide up in a bun. There was a calmness on her face that I had never seen before. And me? I was just gazing at her, mesmerized by her beauty. I didn’t call out to her – just looked at her. That was enough for me. What a beautiful dream I had. I didn’t dream of her often – rarely, to be honest. And every day, I asked myself what would have happened if I had only… I started some work, put my studies on hold, and grew my small family of friends by adding two new ones. My sister went to school. Almost everything was as it used to be – except when you come home and realize Mom is not there. Except when you want to call her to ask something. Except when you get sick and Mom isn’t around, and she hasn’t left any instructions on what to do next. The second year passed. The pain is still here. I miss her every single day. Every day I think that I’m… also to blame. I didn’t see it. I didn’t notice. I don’t dream about here, but I want to hold her – at least in a dream. It was my first time with psychotherapist. The first time I opened my soul. Will help me? Will he at least be able to give me some answers? I told him a little about my family, nothing too deep. I talked about Mom. He asked me about her. About her life. What did she love? What did she do? How did she spend her time outside of work? Actually, we talked a lot about Mom – I had never talked to anyone about her so much. He listened. I was smiling. H e told me it was depression. That no one was to blame, that no matter what we had done, she would have kept trying. She had to want to live – herself. My sister also started going to therapy. I didn’t ask her to much: she didn’t open up to much either, and I was afraid of poking at that wound, of bringing back memories of that morning. But she matured. She become more aware. She had plans. She grew up. On every one Mom’s birthdays, I would go to the cemetery with a coffee for her and me. With every new piece of news- happy or sad – I would go to tell her. Sometimes I’d just go to sit in silence, staring at the plaque with her picture. Sometimes I’d go with friends. Her pictures still hangs on the living room wall. Her smile. Oh, how I miss her if she only knew…It’s been 3 years without her. Yes, I counted. Yes, I still wondered.The new friends who entered in my life meant so much – just like old ones. They taught me a lot. We learned from each other. Together, they all became my little real family. There were drunken nights when I cried, because I no longer had to be brave. I could shatter like a plate, and in the morning, I’d pick up the pieces, glue myself back together, and move on. There were heavy nights when I gathered every fragment of myself back together, and move on. There were broken hearts… unrequited loves… Nights that carried a particular scent… Nights that carried a particular melody.. Nights when everything made sense, and nights when nothing did. That year, I met someone special. Someone who offered love without asking questions. Someone who embrace healed more then words ever could. He gave me support, trust, and quite comfort I didn’t even know I needed. That someone is now my husband. And life? It slowly began to shift again. I started to love again. To breathe again. To hold, to laugh, to believe again. Does it still hurt? Yes. Every day. But you learn to live with the wound. Do others understand? I’m not sure. Do they feel sorrow for what happened? Maybe. But I’ve stopped expecting answers. Some things just are. And we carry them – some days lighter, some days heavier – but always forward. People struggle to approach you, to ask, to understand both what happened and how you keep going. And I get that. What I don’t understand are turning of backs in such moment , and the lack of understanding when it matters most.
Am I ashamed to talk about this?
Absolutely not.
Do I feel like people won’t understand?
Absolutely yes.
I remember once, at the very beginning, sitting with a small group of acquaintances, and one of them didn’t speak to me the entire evening. In the end, she said she didn’t know how to behave around me.
Did I understand her?
Of course I did.
. The years passed, one by one. We have grown up. We had sorrows and joys and smiles and tears and singing and crying and arguments and discussions... But we survived together. And my wound? My wound is within me. Years passed, one after another. We grow up. We had our share of sorrow and joy, of laughter and tears, of singing and crying, of arguments and long talks… But we made it trough – together. And my wound/ My wound is still inside me. Somewhere, I once read:
“ Losing someone you love is like being hit by shrapnel. A piece of metal that’s lodged deep inside you – and the surgeons decide it’s too dangerous to remove. So they leave it there. At first, it hurts. It hurts so much you wonder how you’ll ever live with it. But over time, it fuses with the flesh. One day, it doesn’t hurt the same way anymore. Not like it used to. Still, every now and then – when you least expect it – you feel a sudden sting. And that’s when you remember… it’s still there. That shrapnel. That immovable, solid point inside you. A part of you. Forever.”
I understood. I truly did. But I never forgave. I understood how painful her life was. I understood how heavy her days had been. I understood how much sorrow lived in her heart. I understood every tear that ran down her face. I realized no one hade ever shown her – taught her – another way. No one helped her find herself first, so she could then break the chain of burdens that kept tightening around her soul. She never asked for help. If she only knew how much I miss her. I become a wife. A mother. An aunt. Then a grandmother. And again, an aunt. But always – a sister. A best friend. Has anything changed? So much. There were moments I wanted to crawl out of my own skin. There were moments when the ache of missing her almost broke me. There were days she should have been there- for me, for my sister – but she had long decided otherwise. It’s been seventeen years since she left. And still, I miss her just as much as I did that April morning in 2008. Do I dream of here? No. But I wish I did. Do I ever look up at the sky and tell her something? Yes. Or ask her something? Yes. I’ve felt the weight of life too. I’ve felt the trap – the endless loop I couldn’t escape. I’ve lived trough some of the darkest moments of my life. Have I ever thought of doing the same? Yes, I have. Life sometimes drags you into places where there’s no such thing as :
”Oh, I’ll get through this easily.”
It starts as tiny snowflakes – barely noticeable. Then they gather , form a snowball, and that snowball stars to roll. It gets bigger and heavier. And then… it stops. It just sits there. Until one day – it breaks. It becomes an avalanche. And you’re not ready for it. You don’t know how to react. You don’t know which way to run – because in that moment, every direction feels like the wrong one.
Life doesn’t come with instructions for use (maybe it should). Becoming a mother, I broke the chain of trauma that once bound us – choking, silencing, and clipping our wing every time we dare to fly. It dragged us down, whispering that we would never be enough, that we shouldn’t even dare to dream. But I did dare. And I gave my children the wind at their backs for every brave attempt. I held their hands and walked beside them. I talked them that it’s okay to fall, as long as their hearts remain honest. I taught them never to walk down the street without saying hello. You see, children have that rare gift – a sharp, pure honestly. A clarity we’ve long forgotten. They can argue one moment, say “I’m not playing with you anymore”, and walk away. Only to wake up next morning and start all over again like nothing happened. I thing we, as adult, miss that. They don’t care about the thing we obsess over – the noise, the doubts, the overthinking. All they care about is to playing all together. We’re the ones who break that. We teach them fear, shame, silence. And I – I broke that chain. The one that my mother carried. The one she unknowingly passed down to me. If only I had broken it sooner… maybe I could saved her. I’m a woman now. A grown one. And now…I truly understand. Could thing have been different? Yes – they could have. But she had to be one to choose. All the love I carried – all the love I poured – wouldn’t have been enough without her will to live. There were moment when the thought crossed my mind, the one where you imagine ending it all with a single gesture – just to silence the pain, just to breathe for second without the weight. But then… I remembered her. That girl in her early twenties. And her little sister. That lost child. That heartbreak. That memory – the memory of what it felt like to be left behind – was one of the reasons I stayed. Because I knew what I’d be leaving behind. Because I knew exactly how much pain stays behind – how it clings to you for life. Because I knew I would become that “shrapnel”. There was no space for me in that story. There was my sister, who would once again have to survive a barely-healed wound. There was my children, who would grow up believing their live wasn’t enough. My wonderful husband who would start doubting himself. My friends, who would thing they had failed me. What kind of goodbye is it if you don’t let someone hold you tight and tell you they love you? No, I still haven’t come to terms with the fact that she chose to leave that way. She never gave me the chance to tell her that I love her more then anything in this world, and that she is my mother. Yes, it still hurts, even after all these years. Sometimes more, sometimes it dulls… and sometimes it tears right through me. I no longer search for the reason why she left. Maybe she’ll tell me one day. I partially understand, but life is hard. Sometimes it places you in situations you can’t make sense of – no answers, no reasons, no clarity. Life is meant to be lived, not survived. But when all you get are tasks and tests, at some point… it all becomes too much. A few years ago, we had an accident. The children were seriously injured. My younger son was critically ill. That day, a doctor came up to me and said:
’We’re 95% sure he won’t survive this week. You need to prepare yourself.”
I looked at her, fully aware of what she had just said, and I replied :
“ I understand you. But I feel… I know he’s going to be okay.”
That night, I would’ve traded my life for his if I could. He survived the week. The month. The year. He survived. Can I now offer advice or a magic solution for survival? No. I can’t. Each of us is a story of our own. We all have different personalities, different values, different ways of seeing the world, different wounds and traumas… BUT one thing I can say with certainty is this:
The life is worth living with lungs full of air and a heart wide open.
Remember your first time getting drunk with your friends.
Remember the feeling after your first kiss.
Remember your first heartbreak.
Remember the laughter and tears with your best friend.
Remember the silly things too.
Remember the first time you held someone hand.
Remember your first fall.
Remember the nerves before your first driving test.
Remember applying to university.
Remember your first serious relationship.
Remember the first time your heart was shattered.
What a wild mix of emotions, right?
Now imagine… That you had never felt any of it..
Look up at the sky full of stars and the moon – have you ever seen anything shine more beautifully in the darkness? Even that cold summer rain on your skin is a feeling. Look at the people around you. Each of them has an untold story, some darkness – you are not alone in this world. Look at your friends and their love for you. Look at your children, those small future love great people, how they admire you – give them a good reason for that. Their whole world is in you. Look at the rainbow after the rain. Feel the scent of the see. Feel that first morning coffee. During that glass of wine at noon. Curse. Get angry at the God. Get angry at the universe. Break a glass. Get out for a run – a walk. Read a book. Start therapy. Learn a new language or at least try. Travel somewhere, if you can or visit a place in your city you’ve always passed by.
Allow yourself to feel hurt.
Allow yourself to be sad.
Allow yourself to be happy.
Allow yourself to cry.
Allow yourself to be worthy.
Allow yourself to rejoice.
Allow yourself to feel.
Just allow yourself to live.
We all carry burdens, some trivial to others but huge to us. We all have “our problems” that may seems small to some but enormous to us. We all have wounds. We all have scars. We all have shrapnel. We all have chains of trauma that bind us. Break them. Alone or with someone. Just never decide to leave forever. Just never deny someone the chance to tell you they love you and hold you tight. Just don’t do that. Because what you leave behind is not just a pain that time will heal. It’s not just a momentary suffering. It’s not just “it will pass”. What you leave behind by leaving is survival. What you leave behind is that very shrapnel embedded in the flesh of those who love you and whom you love. You don’t have to “be the best version of yourself” because you already are the best version of yourself. You are alive. You feel. You do what you know how to do. You keep pushing forward. Don’t let yourself be pulled into quick fix – your disappearance. That’s not a solution.
There is a small project dedicated to all of us who have had experiences like these. It’s called the Semicolon Project. It’s a small tattoo, but carries a huge meaning. It’s a tiny symbol – a semicolon ; - that holds great power.
“When a writer could have ended the sentence but chose to continue. You are the writer, and your story is your life.”
When you see someone with this tattoo, approach them. Maybe you will help each other more then you realize. Maybe you will understand how many people have been in the same or similar situation as you and have decided that life is worth it – with all its flaws and virtues. You are the writer. Your life is story.
Write it.
Tell it.
Maybe you’ll help someone.
Maybe you’ll save someone
Maybe someone will be grateful to you.
“ Sadness is like an old women selling carnations in smoky taverns – you just have to be stubbornly pretend not to notice her. Sooner or later, she’ll turn around and leave, even though at first it seems she’ll weep by your table forever.
But be carful…
Give her even a crumb of attentions, and she won’t stop until she sells you the whole basket.
And then – you’re done.
Because sadness never forgets the faces of generous customers.
And she will never pass you by again.” Djordje B.
