My life, at the moment, is looking up.
For once, winter seems to be far less anxiety-ridden than the summer, and I'm in a happy, stable relationship.
I've managed to go to the same school for more that 5 months without getting kicked out, and I've lived in the same apartment for 10 months now. I've even hung up posters here, which those of you who know me in person know is a big deal for me.
I like it here. For the first time in a long while, I live in a town where I could imagine settling down. And I don't feel panicky about it. Usually by this time, I'd have my stuff packed, ready to flee from my anxieties and start over in yet another town. But I don't want to leave this place, I've got people here and places I like to be. Places where I just stop in my tracks and fall into a blissful trance for a while.
I like to ride my bike over to the park and just sit at the bench where I can stare at the lake, listen to the crickets, and see a good portion of the night sky. Stars have always calmed me down. I excelled at reading at a young age because I kept reading astronomy-books. when I see them, I feel connected to the outside universe, and life doesn't feel as lonely and isolated anymore. I just feel peace, like there's millions of other entities feeling the same as me, wanting to share the moment with someone, anyone.
I have real people to share moments with now, and for the first time in what seems like 4-5 years now, I have the energy and social network to interact more with people form outside my own head than inside. I finally feel like I'm becoming able to connect with "outside people" again, and people keep telling me I look healthier. Although, that may also be because I've become better at makeup.
I like my own face. I like seeing it in the mirror, and I finally feel like I'm coming to terms with how I look. Wouldn't mind losing a few kilos though. Hello, who wouldn't?
'Ey, just noticed I've kicked another obsessive-compulsive thought; I used to have to say the word 'hello' out loud if I typed it. Dunno why, just did.
I'm not insane anymore! Kidding, I've never been mentally insane. But I feel more confident now that I won't end up a "crazy cat-lady" than I used to, hahaha.
My life all-in-all feels good. I still have some way to go, but I'm more confident now that I'll get there. And I've got good people by my side.
I know most of my posts seem melancholic and pessimistic, especially if you follow the other blog, the one about lists, but I can now assure you, my mental state is... Happier.
Not that I've ever been severely unhappy many times, but I have felt what can best be described as a crippling hopelessness mixed with the fear of being left and forgotten by everyone I love.
I don't have that anymore, thanks to medicines, therapy, and a stronger social network.
... The fact that I am in a relationship which has lasted for more than a month without one of us fretting has also helped a lot, I won't lie to you. It feels good, and I'm happy. I want it to last, I want this person to be in my life one way or another for as long as humanely possible, and it has been forever since I last managed to connect that way with someone. It feels so... Freeing, good, harmonic. I'm not glorifying the whole thing, and that's another thing I wanted to mention since this post is about what I feel good about in my life at the moment. See, I am for once not blinded by those pink-heart-shaped sunglasses people usually put on when in love. I won't lie I am absolutely smitten and utterly in love at the moment, but I'm mature enough now to still stay rational, and to not lie to myself about how things are and stuff.
I'm happy, people. My mind is lighter, the people in there are hibernating, and my days are never the same. I like my life, especially when I see it on the bright side.
What do you guys like about your life? Tell me!
Friday, 2 November 2012
Wednesday, 10 October 2012
I'm homesick.
(there's pictures on the bottom)
People say I talk about Norway a lot. I suppose I do. Especially now, in the fall, I miss the country I've spent a good 16-ish years in. I'm sorry if I bitch about my country alot. People remind me every day how I'm different, how I'm "not really Danish", I can't get over it if I'm reminded all the time.
Leaves are turning red and yellow, the mornings are cold and dark, I can see more and more stars at night.
When I gaze up at the sky, I find myself missing being at home, up on the mountain where no streetlights can obscure my view of the stars. I miss the northern lights dancing with me up there, I miss the way the road sparkles after the night frost, I miss the snow and the cozy fireplaces and my cats and my mother's homeknit socks and all those little things you take for granted while you have them.
I'm not moving back there, Norway is not the country for me, but I can't help but get the blues during fall when I'm serisouly reminded how different and yet similar the two countries are. I find myself, during autumn/fall, often feeling lonely. Nobody else here is from Norway, nobody understands what it's like up there, how strange it is to talk to your mother on the phone, hearing her tell you about how the night frost has set in, while you've still got 19+ out.
I miss the fjords, the mountains, the smell of the moss in august when it reddens, the sound of reindeer and sheep walking around, the cool seabreeze, the sleepless light summer nights where you just run around with your friends up on the mountains until a new day starts. I miss all the good things.
I can't help but feel homesick, I grew up there. I formed my norms and standards there, I've been culturally imprinted and influenced by that place whether I like it or not.
I've been trying all my life to escape Norway, feeling out of place there. I do feel more at home here in Denmark, but I can't help sometimes wish it didn't cost so much and take so long to get home and see the people and places I'm used to seeing every day.
I would never live or settle down there, but for vacations, I wish I could spend more of them in Norway.
I'm sick right now, and I miss my mom. I miss her making me tea, I miss lying on the couch with one or more cats while my mother knits in her corner, and I miss the food she makes.
So, if you see me going quiet or stopping in my tracks and just gazing upwards at the sky, or staring sadly at my feet as we're walking, just remember...
I'm homesick. Give me some slack and a hug, or go away.
People say I talk about Norway a lot. I suppose I do. Especially now, in the fall, I miss the country I've spent a good 16-ish years in. I'm sorry if I bitch about my country alot. People remind me every day how I'm different, how I'm "not really Danish", I can't get over it if I'm reminded all the time.
Leaves are turning red and yellow, the mornings are cold and dark, I can see more and more stars at night.
When I gaze up at the sky, I find myself missing being at home, up on the mountain where no streetlights can obscure my view of the stars. I miss the northern lights dancing with me up there, I miss the way the road sparkles after the night frost, I miss the snow and the cozy fireplaces and my cats and my mother's homeknit socks and all those little things you take for granted while you have them.
I'm not moving back there, Norway is not the country for me, but I can't help but get the blues during fall when I'm serisouly reminded how different and yet similar the two countries are. I find myself, during autumn/fall, often feeling lonely. Nobody else here is from Norway, nobody understands what it's like up there, how strange it is to talk to your mother on the phone, hearing her tell you about how the night frost has set in, while you've still got 19+ out.
I miss the fjords, the mountains, the smell of the moss in august when it reddens, the sound of reindeer and sheep walking around, the cool seabreeze, the sleepless light summer nights where you just run around with your friends up on the mountains until a new day starts. I miss all the good things.
I can't help but feel homesick, I grew up there. I formed my norms and standards there, I've been culturally imprinted and influenced by that place whether I like it or not.
I've been trying all my life to escape Norway, feeling out of place there. I do feel more at home here in Denmark, but I can't help sometimes wish it didn't cost so much and take so long to get home and see the people and places I'm used to seeing every day.
I would never live or settle down there, but for vacations, I wish I could spend more of them in Norway.
I'm sick right now, and I miss my mom. I miss her making me tea, I miss lying on the couch with one or more cats while my mother knits in her corner, and I miss the food she makes.
So, if you see me going quiet or stopping in my tracks and just gazing upwards at the sky, or staring sadly at my feet as we're walking, just remember...
I'm homesick. Give me some slack and a hug, or go away.
Also, here are some pictures I took a couple of years ago in Norway around this time:
The watermarks you can see are from my profile at Deviantart, http://antidaephobia.deviantart.com/
go check it out and comment or something!
go check it out and comment or something!
Sunday, 23 September 2012
Ulvehunger
'Ulvehunger' er en betegnelse for en næsten bundløs sult man føler, selv efter man har spist sig mæt. Du kan mærke at din mave er fuld, men der er stadig den følelse i halsen der siger "så giv mig dog noget mad, for fanden". På grund af en sygdom jeg har, får jeg ulvehunger i perioder. Mediciner jeg får for et andet problem har dog udslettet den ulvehunger, og også den mentale ulvehunger jeg plejede at få.
Og det er mental ulvehunger jeg vil tale lidt om.
Min mentale ulvehunger gik ud på at det føltes som om der var et sort hul inde i mig, hvor andre havde grundlaget for sine følelser.
Den bedste måde at beskrive det på er at få dig til at forestille dig at du svømmer i en bundløs swimmingpool med højt op til kanten. Du har flydevest på, så du drukner aldri, men den platform andre har der, som de kan stå på for at nå op til den meget lange stige, mangler.
Mens andre ikke rigtig følte noget når de ikke var i et bestemt humør, altså trist eller glad, eller et af de mange andre humør, så følte jeg at jeg følte alt for lidt. Selv i situationer der vækkede stærkere følelser, følte jeg at den platform der lagde bunnen, grundlaget, begyndelsen, var erstattet af et hul. Jeg baskede rundt og prøvede så godt jeg kunne at nå den satans stige, og nogen gange fik jeg lige fat i det nederste trin, for så at falde ned hvis jeg prøvede at hejse mig op.
Mine 'mediciner' har givet mig en platform nu, et grundlag at stå på, og det har fjernet hajerne der cirklede rundt længere nede i vandet.
Fordi jeg er blevet så vandt til at kave rundt uden noget at gribe fat i, er det meget uvandt for mig at kunne stå på benene igen, og jeg skal lige lære at finde balansen, og at klatre igen.
Det er en underlig følelse, det at ikke længere føle at jeg føler for meget af ingenting, og jeg er overrasket over hvor meget nemmere jeg kan nå stigen nu hvor jeg står op.
I rigtig lang tid var jeg imod alt der hed antidepressiva. Jeg troede at det kun var en midlertidig løsning til et permanent problem, og kognitiv adfærdsendring er også en væsentlig del af det at blive 'frisk', men jeg ved nu at nogen gange skal man bare have en tilførsel af de kemikalier ens egen hjerne mangler lidt af, før man kan begynde at skabe de ændringer.
Jeg føler det som om, jeg er nødt til at lære mig selv at kende om igen. I så lang tid troede jeg, at noget var galt med mig, fordi mit hoved ikke fungerede på samme måde som andres, og nu hvor det er kemisk mere normalt end før, kan jeg se at dele af den person jeg troede jeg var, ikke var der alligevel.
Hvem fanden er jeg, hvor søren kommer jeg fra, og hvor fuck skal jeg hen?
Det ved jeg ikke, og det har min hjerne holdt mig fra at finde ud af. Nu hvor jeg endelig har chancen, vil jeg gøre mit bedste for at finde ud af netop det.
Nogen ting kan man bare ikke klare selv, og jo hurtigere man indrømmer at man ikke er supermand, jo hurtigere kan man komme videre. Hvis det at tage en pille eller to hver dag er det der skal til, for at jeg ikke er fængslet i min egen mentale svømmepøl, opslugt af en umættelig sult efter at føle noget, hvad som helst, så er det mere end okay med mig.
Ulven sover, hajerne tog afsted, og Anna klatrer.
Det ved jeg ikke, og det har min hjerne holdt mig fra at finde ud af. Nu hvor jeg endelig har chancen, vil jeg gøre mit bedste for at finde ud af netop det.
Nogen ting kan man bare ikke klare selv, og jo hurtigere man indrømmer at man ikke er supermand, jo hurtigere kan man komme videre. Hvis det at tage en pille eller to hver dag er det der skal til, for at jeg ikke er fængslet i min egen mentale svømmepøl, opslugt af en umættelig sult efter at føle noget, hvad som helst, så er det mere end okay med mig.
Ulven sover, hajerne tog afsted, og Anna klatrer.
Thursday, 23 August 2012
What scares me the most
When people find out I have anxiety, the first question they ask is usually "but what are you so afraid of?".
Anxiety is not about fear, it's about a growing anxiousness. Nonetheless, I have taken the liberty of writing down what I am afraid of.
I love making lists, so I'mma do it as a list. Above all else, there are three things that frighten me. I'd like to start the list with one, end it with the other, and put the third one in a random spot. Just for fun.
Here we go, things I'm afraid of:
- Suicide. One of the things that scare me the most, in fact, it scares me shitless and numb, is the fear that my friends will kill themselves. I have very few suicidal friends, but I have many with depression and/or who has/have had a tendency to hurt themselves. I live every day in fear that one day, one of them will kill themselves out of loneliness, and that if I had worked harder to make sure he/she knew how much he/she meant to me, they wouldn't have done it. I know it sounds silly, but it scares me to the point where I have to struggle not to cry when I see scars on their arms or depressed Facebook-statuses. I know that if one person can make a suicidal person know they care, they might not do it, and if someone dies on my watch... It's obviously my fault for being bad at showing people I care.
- Lightning. I am afraid of being truck by lightning to the point where I have nightmares about it. And that says a lot, considering I almost never have what I would call nightmares.
- Muppets. I shit you not, I am afraid of muppets and handpuppets and ventriloquist-dolls and other kinds of dolls with flappy mouths. I hate them, they freak me the fuck out. Those badly timed mouths, the staring, lifeless eyes *shutters*. The only muppet/puppet I was never truely afraid of was the cookie monster. Unlike the other muppets, he always had clear intentions: he wants cookies. Do not tell me how freaking funny the muppet show is, Kermit and Piggy are the worst. Even as a kid I was convinced those two, or at least the latter, were of evil intents.
- The death of a loved one. I know it kind of goes with number one here, but I am seriously very afraid that somehow, someone I love will die without knowing how much I care. And just thinking about maybe someday having to live my life without my siblings, parents, grandparents or bff's is enough to make me cry. I knooow, I'm such a girl :(
- I am afraid that the Buddhists were wrong, and that this life IS the only life we get. I can't stand the crippling pressure that would put on me to make every second count as much as possible, and it does NOT help this next point:
- I am afraid to end this life without having anything positive or worthwhile to show for it. To exit my life and be remembered as 'she who never really made anything of herself"...
- Heights. Don't make me go up in a tall building and expect me to look out the window! I cannot do it!
- Much like the fear of losing a loved one to death, I'm afraid of losing a loved one to stupidity. More correctly, MY stupidity. Most people who know me, knows that while I mean well, I have a tendency to offend people without realizing it. Now, certain people in my life (we're talking just a handful, but still) have a Queen of Hearts sort of view on life. Y'know, "someone has wronged me! Off with their HEEEAAAADS!!!" I am terrified of doing or saying something that puts these queen of hearts over the edge and makes them shut me out of their lives for good like I've seen them to do others who didn't stroke their egoes the right way. I love them, the entire handfull, but it's these people I talk to the least, due to my fear of saying something that will trigger something and anger them.
- Confrontation. I am the shaky leaver of half-angry notes, and I would rather flee the continent than stand up for myself if if can be avoided. In fact, speaking up in class if I'm not voicing a popular opinion causes my body to react in the same way as it would if I was hypoglycemic. (grey, vlammy skin, shivering, freezing, extreme thirst, dizziness, light-headedness), but I am being treated for this.
- Ghosts. Or more correctly, angering them.
I do believe in spirits, and I DO believe it is possible to contact them. However, as a buddhist, I also believe that spirits are best left alone. If you contact spirits via ouiji-boards or other means, and you are not a medium with several years of experience, there is a grave risk that you might not actually get the spirit you meant to invite. And once they're here, many spirits will not let you revoke that invitation, to put it that way. I do NOT want to anger the dead, and as I have nothing to offer them in means of help, I choose to leave them alone.
- And last, but not least... Well, this fear actually consists of two parts. Part one: I am afraid that the people who say that we only have one soul-mate are right, and that I've already squandered this chance being too young or dumb or blind to realize what I had...
Which leads us to part two: I am afraid of having to live the rest of my life without anyone to share it with.
I'm not talking, like, a life-partner or whatever, but without any close friends who actually live the same place as me. Well, I'm not gonna lie, I am a little afraid that I'll never find "true love". In fact, I'm so afraid of it that I've been clinging onto a wrongful conviction of mine (guess which one lololol winnerdoesn't get a cookie) for years because the alternative would mean even less of a chance for me to ever find someone to love and be loved by, and the thought that I might have to spend the rest of my life alone sometimes literally cripples me.
I'm not desperate to be in a relationship (in fact, 'standard' relationships kind of annoy me), and I'm not in a hurry to find a fling or a lover or whatever, but if I haven't at least gotten halfway there by the time I'm 30... I'm just going to give up, buy a big house, and fill it with cats and ferrets and other fluffy creatures. Maybe adopt some starving african kids or orphaned asians. Steal babies from the local hospital, kidnap a homeless person... The possibilities are endless!
Joke aside, I am seriously afraid that I will never meet someone who loves me for ME, not who they think I am or need me to be. Someone who sees past the crazy and the facade I usually put up, and knows how to handle me. Or at least accepts that that's just the way I am, and knows that despite what it might look like, I really am trying. (I'm not always that good at being affectionate =/ )
(- Oh, and I'm also afraid of contracting a fatal disease without knowing it, and not realizing until it's progressed too far for anyone to be able to do anything about it.)
This post didn't turn out as great or profound as I had hoped, but then again... I never said I was great or profound, did I?
Go suck a duck. Or, y'know, tell me what YOU'RE afraid of.
Anxiety is not about fear, it's about a growing anxiousness. Nonetheless, I have taken the liberty of writing down what I am afraid of.
I love making lists, so I'mma do it as a list. Above all else, there are three things that frighten me. I'd like to start the list with one, end it with the other, and put the third one in a random spot. Just for fun.
Here we go, things I'm afraid of:
- Suicide. One of the things that scare me the most, in fact, it scares me shitless and numb, is the fear that my friends will kill themselves. I have very few suicidal friends, but I have many with depression and/or who has/have had a tendency to hurt themselves. I live every day in fear that one day, one of them will kill themselves out of loneliness, and that if I had worked harder to make sure he/she knew how much he/she meant to me, they wouldn't have done it. I know it sounds silly, but it scares me to the point where I have to struggle not to cry when I see scars on their arms or depressed Facebook-statuses. I know that if one person can make a suicidal person know they care, they might not do it, and if someone dies on my watch... It's obviously my fault for being bad at showing people I care.
- Lightning. I am afraid of being truck by lightning to the point where I have nightmares about it. And that says a lot, considering I almost never have what I would call nightmares.
- Muppets. I shit you not, I am afraid of muppets and handpuppets and ventriloquist-dolls and other kinds of dolls with flappy mouths. I hate them, they freak me the fuck out. Those badly timed mouths, the staring, lifeless eyes *shutters*. The only muppet/puppet I was never truely afraid of was the cookie monster. Unlike the other muppets, he always had clear intentions: he wants cookies. Do not tell me how freaking funny the muppet show is, Kermit and Piggy are the worst. Even as a kid I was convinced those two, or at least the latter, were of evil intents.
- The death of a loved one. I know it kind of goes with number one here, but I am seriously very afraid that somehow, someone I love will die without knowing how much I care. And just thinking about maybe someday having to live my life without my siblings, parents, grandparents or bff's is enough to make me cry. I knooow, I'm such a girl :(
- I am afraid that the Buddhists were wrong, and that this life IS the only life we get. I can't stand the crippling pressure that would put on me to make every second count as much as possible, and it does NOT help this next point:
- I am afraid to end this life without having anything positive or worthwhile to show for it. To exit my life and be remembered as 'she who never really made anything of herself"...
- Heights. Don't make me go up in a tall building and expect me to look out the window! I cannot do it!
- Much like the fear of losing a loved one to death, I'm afraid of losing a loved one to stupidity. More correctly, MY stupidity. Most people who know me, knows that while I mean well, I have a tendency to offend people without realizing it. Now, certain people in my life (we're talking just a handful, but still) have a Queen of Hearts sort of view on life. Y'know, "someone has wronged me! Off with their HEEEAAAADS!!!" I am terrified of doing or saying something that puts these queen of hearts over the edge and makes them shut me out of their lives for good like I've seen them to do others who didn't stroke their egoes the right way. I love them, the entire handfull, but it's these people I talk to the least, due to my fear of saying something that will trigger something and anger them.
- Confrontation. I am the shaky leaver of half-angry notes, and I would rather flee the continent than stand up for myself if if can be avoided. In fact, speaking up in class if I'm not voicing a popular opinion causes my body to react in the same way as it would if I was hypoglycemic. (grey, vlammy skin, shivering, freezing, extreme thirst, dizziness, light-headedness), but I am being treated for this.
- Ghosts. Or more correctly, angering them.
I do believe in spirits, and I DO believe it is possible to contact them. However, as a buddhist, I also believe that spirits are best left alone. If you contact spirits via ouiji-boards or other means, and you are not a medium with several years of experience, there is a grave risk that you might not actually get the spirit you meant to invite. And once they're here, many spirits will not let you revoke that invitation, to put it that way. I do NOT want to anger the dead, and as I have nothing to offer them in means of help, I choose to leave them alone.
- And last, but not least... Well, this fear actually consists of two parts. Part one: I am afraid that the people who say that we only have one soul-mate are right, and that I've already squandered this chance being too young or dumb or blind to realize what I had...
Which leads us to part two: I am afraid of having to live the rest of my life without anyone to share it with.
I'm not talking, like, a life-partner or whatever, but without any close friends who actually live the same place as me. Well, I'm not gonna lie, I am a little afraid that I'll never find "true love". In fact, I'm so afraid of it that I've been clinging onto a wrongful conviction of mine (guess which one lololol winner
I'm not desperate to be in a relationship (in fact, 'standard' relationships kind of annoy me), and I'm not in a hurry to find a fling or a lover or whatever, but if I haven't at least gotten halfway there by the time I'm 30... I'm just going to give up, buy a big house, and fill it with cats and ferrets and other fluffy creatures. Maybe adopt some starving african kids or orphaned asians. Steal babies from the local hospital, kidnap a homeless person... The possibilities are endless!
Joke aside, I am seriously afraid that I will never meet someone who loves me for ME, not who they think I am or need me to be. Someone who sees past the crazy and the facade I usually put up, and knows how to handle me. Or at least accepts that that's just the way I am, and knows that despite what it might look like, I really am trying. (I'm not always that good at being affectionate =/ )
(- Oh, and I'm also afraid of contracting a fatal disease without knowing it, and not realizing until it's progressed too far for anyone to be able to do anything about it.)
This post didn't turn out as great or profound as I had hoped, but then again... I never said I was great or profound, did I?
Go suck a duck. Or, y'know, tell me what YOU'RE afraid of.
Monday, 2 July 2012
Parenting. (and how mine were good at it)
I've been thinking alot about parenting lately. See, I'm usually one of those annoying people who refuse to see anything in black or white, but I can't help but pull an either/or on the subject of parenting. Master Yoda (or someone) once said "Do or do not, there is no try". You're either being a good parent or you aren't.
And the thing is, as I've gotten older and gotten to observe parenting on multiple levels, (I've babysat, worked in a daycare, I'm good at observing people in public settings, I've had friends with parents and friends who've become parents - I've seen it all.) I can't help but notice how incredibly lucky I was to end up with two capable, loving parents who on an overall scale did incredibly good.
The more things I learn about good parenting, the more I've gotten to think about what parenting styles I agree or disagree with, my parents seemed to know what they were doing.
It seems like everyone around me has bad parents. The girls feel their mother is too emotionally distant, and their dads don't understand them, and the guys feel like their mothers are babying them, and their dads are emotionally distant. Maybe this observation has some relation to the town I grew up in, though.
See, I was surrounded by people whose parents had them when they were too young and still thought it was cool to spoil and doll up their kids, and then got divorced and bored with the babies. Some got smacked, some had mothers who had many boyfriends, many got caught in divorce-arguements... It's a jungle out there.
My parents got divorced when I was 9, and I am very glad they did it when I was that young. Sure, it made me sad, but my parents got divorced because they had really, really tried, and decided to call it quits while they could still like each other enough to be friends instead of doing what most of the other parents seemed to do; either tough it out and fake it to the kids until one of you snaps and leaves, or have loud, violent arguements for years, scaring the crap out of your children.
Mine stayed friends. They co-operated, they supported each other and pretty much still put up a united front until I was in my teens.
Sure, I had some hormonal years where I went through the afforementioned mandatory stage for teenage girls, "I'm scared that my mother doesn't love me, and my dad tries but doesn't get me", but I snapped out of it, and I have a very good relationship with my parents now. I know that my mother loves me, and I love her so much for never giving up on me like I've seen happening to too many of my friends. And my dad... Well, he tries, but still doesn't get me. But that's okay, that's what dads do, and I know that he loves me and doesn't think I'm a complete retard.
I used to get beat up a lot at school when I was a kid. I was skinny and pale by nature, and I was an outsider with a very rhymey name, it was bound to happen.
I don't remember hating any of my bullies. I felt hurt that they took their frustrations out on the weak kid, but I knew their parents... I mean, it was a very, VERY small town, and everyone was related in one too many ways. I saw how the bullies parents were and acted, and I remember often feeling sorry for them. You know, a sort of "they have so much bad inside because their parents aren't as patient/loving as mine" kind of way. (and they said I learned nothing at bible camp?)
I had friends who were bullied when I was younger. Some of the parents didn't support them. They blamed their own kids, or didn't take it seriously. Mine believed me, they supported me in every way they knew how, and I feel incredibly lucky I wound up with them when I look back on that.
People say a lot of things about my parents, and about how they let me become the person my reputation makes people think I am. It makes me sad that even as a teenager, most of my friend's parents disliked me because of something they'd heard from other parents. How can adult people be that mistrusting?
People say good things about me too, but let's start with the bad. Growing up in a small society, word travelled fast. Anywhere within hours of driving, someone has heard your name and knows something about you. And these people are not the best storytellers either, to put it that way.
They make me out to be this evil, unhygienic, sad person who turns people's daughters gay warps their minds with my left-wing propaganda, and I also think people think I'm kind of a slot even though I'm very picky.
The bad things are rumours vindictive ex-friends or exes have made up, as well as stories people have twisted and blown way out of proportion, by the way.
I can't help but feel bad for my parents whose work is so discredited. Sure, I've been emotional sometimes and done some dumb shit, but not more than others have done.
I've been cautious about sex, never tried hard drugs, I didn't start smoking at 12 like some of the others, I didn't start drinking at, well, 12 like many of the others, I've never done burglary or shoplifted or beat up a weak kid, or avoided being helpful to random people who happen to cross my path.
Oh, and rumour has it I'm a great daycare-nanny.
That's gotta be worth something, right?
When I got through the emotional, bakwards, overly hormonally drugged rollercoaster-ride that is the teenage years, I managed to peek out on the other side as a somewhat stable, friendly, intelligent person who chooses to believe the good in people. Sure, there are some anxiety now and then, but that comes from years of feeling like I've been damned in the closed society I was confined to for years, not my parents.
WHIIIIIICH leads me to my point. Finally.
Being a good parent is a choice. There are good parents, people who love their kids and really try, and there are bad parents, who feels annoyed or ashamed or scared by the kid and choose to not care much about what kind of a person's mind they were molding, or how they did it. It never ceases to amaze me what kind of dumb behavioural and look-wise example people choose to set for their kids.
Slutty moms, angry soccer dads, Drug-addicts, teenage moms who decided to not have the abortion because "I already had one and besides, babies are cute" only to get tired of them and keep acting like a teenager for a good ten more years, tired moms who look like men and have the "yeah yeah yeah whatever it takes to keep you quiet just do whatever"-kind of parenting style, and dads who treats others like they're garbage to him.
My parents read to me. They practiced writing with me, they rejoyced over all the crappy art I made, they took my words seriously, and most of all, they never exposed me to bad behaviour. They made a point out of being friendly and polite, they were honest with me, and they answered all my dumb questions. I have ADHD, so... There were A LOT of question. (Thank you for the incredible patience on that one, mom and dad! <3 )
They didn't mock me for crying or yell at me, they didn't use me to get back at each other or take out their hate for each other on me, they didn't go out and get drunk and leave me all alone, and they made a point of out driving nicely. Well, my mother did. My dad's driving taught me how to swear; But you get the point.
What makes a good parent is the will to try anything in your power, and to admit that you have more to learn and take all the opportunities you can get to improve your parenting-skills. You're also a good parent when you love your child and let them know that you do so, and when you decide to never tell kids not to do something you wouldn't do yourself.
You're a BAD parent when you treat your kids like they are dumb, when you refuse to remember that it is not logical to get angry at kids for not knowing something there were no way they could know, and when you treat your children as belongings, possesions, intead of a tiny, real person.
You are also a bad parent when you give up on raising your kids, or take the easy way out and let them have and do whatever they want, or get annoyed with them for being kids, and most important of all... When you give up trying to make them a decent, polite human being because you don't give a shit and have the money to not do so anyways.
I don't have children yet, but when I do... I know what kind of parent I want to be. I know what styles, techniques and behavioural patterns I want to use on my children, and which ones I don't. I've always felt that in order to make an informed deciscion, one needs to gather up as much information as one can, and the more I learn... The more I feel myself becoming my parents. That's right. I catch myself saying things or voicing opinions like my parents do, and getting annoyed at the same things I remember hearing my parents get bugged by. And then I think to myself. "Well. It seems like my parents were right."
That's, right, I said it. I'm 22, my brain is almost fully grown, I admit it now. My parents were right.
So, whoever you are, what ever you've heard about my parents, know this. My parents did their best to make me as intelligent and nice as possible, and they wanted me to be that way because they were too. They supported me, and put up with all my crap, even when I said hurtful things I wish I could take back a million times or acted up. They fought for me, they supported me, and they always make sure I know just how much they love me. They fed me healthy food (well, sans the massive loads of pasta), they helped me with my homework, they kept me fed and clean and clothed, and they did their very best. They set a positive rolemodel for me and treated others withe politeness and kindness, and they were honest with me. Always.
It seems like everyone but me has a broken family. When I count up all the things my parents did right, I see how incredibly low the odds are for getting parents with all the qualities needed to be good parents, and I feel lucky.
Whether you feel your parents are good parents or bad parents, there will always be something they did right, some good thing they taught you, and you need to hang onto that. No matter how they act, or how you turned out (hey, it's their fault!), they love you.
Mine do.
Mine did great.
And the thing is, as I've gotten older and gotten to observe parenting on multiple levels, (I've babysat, worked in a daycare, I'm good at observing people in public settings, I've had friends with parents and friends who've become parents - I've seen it all.) I can't help but notice how incredibly lucky I was to end up with two capable, loving parents who on an overall scale did incredibly good.
The more things I learn about good parenting, the more I've gotten to think about what parenting styles I agree or disagree with, my parents seemed to know what they were doing.
It seems like everyone around me has bad parents. The girls feel their mother is too emotionally distant, and their dads don't understand them, and the guys feel like their mothers are babying them, and their dads are emotionally distant. Maybe this observation has some relation to the town I grew up in, though.
See, I was surrounded by people whose parents had them when they were too young and still thought it was cool to spoil and doll up their kids, and then got divorced and bored with the babies. Some got smacked, some had mothers who had many boyfriends, many got caught in divorce-arguements... It's a jungle out there.
My parents got divorced when I was 9, and I am very glad they did it when I was that young. Sure, it made me sad, but my parents got divorced because they had really, really tried, and decided to call it quits while they could still like each other enough to be friends instead of doing what most of the other parents seemed to do; either tough it out and fake it to the kids until one of you snaps and leaves, or have loud, violent arguements for years, scaring the crap out of your children.
Mine stayed friends. They co-operated, they supported each other and pretty much still put up a united front until I was in my teens.
Sure, I had some hormonal years where I went through the afforementioned mandatory stage for teenage girls, "I'm scared that my mother doesn't love me, and my dad tries but doesn't get me", but I snapped out of it, and I have a very good relationship with my parents now. I know that my mother loves me, and I love her so much for never giving up on me like I've seen happening to too many of my friends. And my dad... Well, he tries, but still doesn't get me. But that's okay, that's what dads do, and I know that he loves me and doesn't think I'm a complete retard.
I used to get beat up a lot at school when I was a kid. I was skinny and pale by nature, and I was an outsider with a very rhymey name, it was bound to happen.
I don't remember hating any of my bullies. I felt hurt that they took their frustrations out on the weak kid, but I knew their parents... I mean, it was a very, VERY small town, and everyone was related in one too many ways. I saw how the bullies parents were and acted, and I remember often feeling sorry for them. You know, a sort of "they have so much bad inside because their parents aren't as patient/loving as mine" kind of way. (and they said I learned nothing at bible camp?)
I had friends who were bullied when I was younger. Some of the parents didn't support them. They blamed their own kids, or didn't take it seriously. Mine believed me, they supported me in every way they knew how, and I feel incredibly lucky I wound up with them when I look back on that.
People say a lot of things about my parents, and about how they let me become the person my reputation makes people think I am. It makes me sad that even as a teenager, most of my friend's parents disliked me because of something they'd heard from other parents. How can adult people be that mistrusting?
People say good things about me too, but let's start with the bad. Growing up in a small society, word travelled fast. Anywhere within hours of driving, someone has heard your name and knows something about you. And these people are not the best storytellers either, to put it that way.
They make me out to be this evil, unhygienic, sad person who turns people's daughters gay warps their minds with my left-wing propaganda, and I also think people think I'm kind of a slot even though I'm very picky.
The bad things are rumours vindictive ex-friends or exes have made up, as well as stories people have twisted and blown way out of proportion, by the way.
I can't help but feel bad for my parents whose work is so discredited. Sure, I've been emotional sometimes and done some dumb shit, but not more than others have done.
I've been cautious about sex, never tried hard drugs, I didn't start smoking at 12 like some of the others, I didn't start drinking at, well, 12 like many of the others, I've never done burglary or shoplifted or beat up a weak kid, or avoided being helpful to random people who happen to cross my path.
Oh, and rumour has it I'm a great daycare-nanny.
That's gotta be worth something, right?
When I got through the emotional, bakwards, overly hormonally drugged rollercoaster-ride that is the teenage years, I managed to peek out on the other side as a somewhat stable, friendly, intelligent person who chooses to believe the good in people. Sure, there are some anxiety now and then, but that comes from years of feeling like I've been damned in the closed society I was confined to for years, not my parents.
WHIIIIIICH leads me to my point. Finally.
Being a good parent is a choice. There are good parents, people who love their kids and really try, and there are bad parents, who feels annoyed or ashamed or scared by the kid and choose to not care much about what kind of a person's mind they were molding, or how they did it. It never ceases to amaze me what kind of dumb behavioural and look-wise example people choose to set for their kids.
Slutty moms, angry soccer dads, Drug-addicts, teenage moms who decided to not have the abortion because "I already had one and besides, babies are cute" only to get tired of them and keep acting like a teenager for a good ten more years, tired moms who look like men and have the "yeah yeah yeah whatever it takes to keep you quiet just do whatever"-kind of parenting style, and dads who treats others like they're garbage to him.
My parents read to me. They practiced writing with me, they rejoyced over all the crappy art I made, they took my words seriously, and most of all, they never exposed me to bad behaviour. They made a point out of being friendly and polite, they were honest with me, and they answered all my dumb questions. I have ADHD, so... There were A LOT of question. (Thank you for the incredible patience on that one, mom and dad! <3 )
They didn't mock me for crying or yell at me, they didn't use me to get back at each other or take out their hate for each other on me, they didn't go out and get drunk and leave me all alone, and they made a point of out driving nicely. Well, my mother did. My dad's driving taught me how to swear; But you get the point.
What makes a good parent is the will to try anything in your power, and to admit that you have more to learn and take all the opportunities you can get to improve your parenting-skills. You're also a good parent when you love your child and let them know that you do so, and when you decide to never tell kids not to do something you wouldn't do yourself.
You're a BAD parent when you treat your kids like they are dumb, when you refuse to remember that it is not logical to get angry at kids for not knowing something there were no way they could know, and when you treat your children as belongings, possesions, intead of a tiny, real person.
You are also a bad parent when you give up on raising your kids, or take the easy way out and let them have and do whatever they want, or get annoyed with them for being kids, and most important of all... When you give up trying to make them a decent, polite human being because you don't give a shit and have the money to not do so anyways.
I don't have children yet, but when I do... I know what kind of parent I want to be. I know what styles, techniques and behavioural patterns I want to use on my children, and which ones I don't. I've always felt that in order to make an informed deciscion, one needs to gather up as much information as one can, and the more I learn... The more I feel myself becoming my parents. That's right. I catch myself saying things or voicing opinions like my parents do, and getting annoyed at the same things I remember hearing my parents get bugged by. And then I think to myself. "Well. It seems like my parents were right."
That's, right, I said it. I'm 22, my brain is almost fully grown, I admit it now. My parents were right.
So, whoever you are, what ever you've heard about my parents, know this. My parents did their best to make me as intelligent and nice as possible, and they wanted me to be that way because they were too. They supported me, and put up with all my crap, even when I said hurtful things I wish I could take back a million times or acted up. They fought for me, they supported me, and they always make sure I know just how much they love me. They fed me healthy food (well, sans the massive loads of pasta), they helped me with my homework, they kept me fed and clean and clothed, and they did their very best. They set a positive rolemodel for me and treated others withe politeness and kindness, and they were honest with me. Always.
It seems like everyone but me has a broken family. When I count up all the things my parents did right, I see how incredibly low the odds are for getting parents with all the qualities needed to be good parents, and I feel lucky.
Whether you feel your parents are good parents or bad parents, there will always be something they did right, some good thing they taught you, and you need to hang onto that. No matter how they act, or how you turned out (hey, it's their fault!), they love you.
Mine do.
Mine did great.
Saturday, 12 May 2012
I want to matter.
I've finally realised what I want from my life. Or, I do want many things, but I've realised what one of my dreams are.
In danish, there's a saying roughly translating "to burn for". If you burn for something, you just somehow know that this, this is what you love/are good at/are meant to do. You know what your goal is, and you feel some inner fire fuelling you to get there.
I've never had that. I have things I would love to do, but can't, and my talents... I don't have any astonishing talents. I don't have some inexplicable talent that can somehow be documented or filmed or recorded or something. I don't have people calling me up, saying "Hey, I need some help, and you're the only one I know of who can do this job well enough."
I have things I'm good at, things I do well, but nothing, not a thing to show for it.
Somehow, I've always managed to flail around in life, just drifting through with no real purpose. Nothing is permanent to me, nothing is constant, and nothing is given. But, for those same reasons, nothing has really seemed to matter. Don't get me wrong, I have plenty of stuff to live for, and I am a somewhat happy person, but... There's never been a lingering sense of direction. Until now.
I want to matter. I know that I do matter to some people, but that's not what I mean. I want to have such an impact on a person's life that they immortalise me. That I have somehow been such an important element of somebody's life that they feel like they have to talk about it, or write songs about the feelings, or a poem, or paint pictures, something.
I want, when I die a longlonglong time from now, all grey and wrinkly, to know that this life hasn't been in vain. That I have, by existing, wronged a right in the world. Helped someone, heard someone, mattered to someone, CHANGED SOMEONE'S TRAJECTORY, left such deep and lovely feelings in someone that they can't help but share it with the world.
I want someone to look at whatever these inspired people made, and think "I know who inspired that song/poem/painting/storybook/invention", and smile.
In other words, my dream is to be the start of a positive chain-reaction.
I realise I might come off a bit selfish writing this, but that was not my intention. I don't feed off of the attention of others, and I don't try desperately to matter to everyone, but I must admit that it is a fear of mine, leaving the world without leaving a footprint.
I need to leave a dent. If the world was a giant car, and every important changes to it, no matter how small, were dents, I want to somehow be part of what inspired someone to leave one. I need to know I wasn't just another drop in the ocean.
Until that happens, I will keep listening to beautiful lovesongs, wishing they were about me, and drawing my crappy drawings hoping I'll someday have some life-changing epiphany somehow inspiring me to make truely original or beautiful art.The fire just needs to be lit.
Also, I think that maybe this ambition of mine is my reason for still being alive. Not that I've ever wanted to commit suicide or anything, but life just somehow seems so arbitrary. The things we do everyday to keep ourselves alive, whether for the short or the long run they sometimes seem so pointless, it overwhelms me; it sometimes keep me from remembering that I too am a piece in the giant puzzle that makes "the whole picture". I can't see the whole picture, because it is so incredibly large, but I know that I am a teeny tiny part of it. The only thing I can't figure out is how my piece fits in with the big picture, and where.
In danish, there's a saying roughly translating "to burn for". If you burn for something, you just somehow know that this, this is what you love/are good at/are meant to do. You know what your goal is, and you feel some inner fire fuelling you to get there.
I've never had that. I have things I would love to do, but can't, and my talents... I don't have any astonishing talents. I don't have some inexplicable talent that can somehow be documented or filmed or recorded or something. I don't have people calling me up, saying "Hey, I need some help, and you're the only one I know of who can do this job well enough."
I have things I'm good at, things I do well, but nothing, not a thing to show for it.
Somehow, I've always managed to flail around in life, just drifting through with no real purpose. Nothing is permanent to me, nothing is constant, and nothing is given. But, for those same reasons, nothing has really seemed to matter. Don't get me wrong, I have plenty of stuff to live for, and I am a somewhat happy person, but... There's never been a lingering sense of direction. Until now.
I want to matter. I know that I do matter to some people, but that's not what I mean. I want to have such an impact on a person's life that they immortalise me. That I have somehow been such an important element of somebody's life that they feel like they have to talk about it, or write songs about the feelings, or a poem, or paint pictures, something.
I want, when I die a longlonglong time from now, all grey and wrinkly, to know that this life hasn't been in vain. That I have, by existing, wronged a right in the world. Helped someone, heard someone, mattered to someone, CHANGED SOMEONE'S TRAJECTORY, left such deep and lovely feelings in someone that they can't help but share it with the world.
I want someone to look at whatever these inspired people made, and think "I know who inspired that song/poem/painting/storybook/invention", and smile.
In other words, my dream is to be the start of a positive chain-reaction.
I realise I might come off a bit selfish writing this, but that was not my intention. I don't feed off of the attention of others, and I don't try desperately to matter to everyone, but I must admit that it is a fear of mine, leaving the world without leaving a footprint.
I need to leave a dent. If the world was a giant car, and every important changes to it, no matter how small, were dents, I want to somehow be part of what inspired someone to leave one. I need to know I wasn't just another drop in the ocean.
Until that happens, I will keep listening to beautiful lovesongs, wishing they were about me, and drawing my crappy drawings hoping I'll someday have some life-changing epiphany somehow inspiring me to make truely original or beautiful art.The fire just needs to be lit.
Also, I think that maybe this ambition of mine is my reason for still being alive. Not that I've ever wanted to commit suicide or anything, but life just somehow seems so arbitrary. The things we do everyday to keep ourselves alive, whether for the short or the long run they sometimes seem so pointless, it overwhelms me; it sometimes keep me from remembering that I too am a piece in the giant puzzle that makes "the whole picture". I can't see the whole picture, because it is so incredibly large, but I know that I am a teeny tiny part of it. The only thing I can't figure out is how my piece fits in with the big picture, and where.
Friday, 9 March 2012
"No animals were harmed during the production of these meals"
It has been 10 days now since I decided to stop eating meat, at least as much as possible, and I have to say it is going well. I ate some chicken and some pizza with meat on it last weekend, as I went to my sister's house, and I had some pizza with salami on it once or twice as well, but other than that... No meat :) Or, well... My noodles are chicken-flavoured, so I suppose they technically count, but bear with me. I'm learning, and I'm poor, haha.
I'm also still having trouble letting go of fish, but I actually have an excuse for still eating seafood: doctor's orders!
Anyways, I went shopping for some cheap, long-lasting non-murderous meals, and if I pool it together with what I already had in my fridge and stuff, this is what I've got:
If you subtract the pasta, cheese and hummus, this whole deal cost me approximately 100kr. We're talking 1kg rice, 1,5kg vegetables, 3 boxes of tomatoes, 2 bags of bread, vegetable-butter, and so on. Believe it or not, but this will (dinner-wise) be enough to feed me for almost 2 weeks.
Apart from what you see here, I have about 6 bags of noodles, a jar of raspberry jam, and a buttload of eggs.
Some might say that eggs and dairy are also torturing animals, but I don't want to discuss it. My main reason for not wanting to eat meat is that the thought of having paid for someone else to get killed makes me sick to my stomach. Who the fuck am I to decide who dies? That's not my job, and is it fair that I can do it just because I have money? Hell to the no!
You know what? I actually wrote a poem about it! Poems are a fun-tastic way of relieving all sorts of frustrations and emotions, and I write them alot when dealing with things.
Soooo... Here is my poem about the emotions that caused me to not want to eat meat!
(and also, forgive me for writing an overly pretentious and seemingly guilt-tripping post, lol)
Bodies on the table
I stare at them, and they stare at me
as different as we could possibly be
Me sitting here, them lying there
despite the world that we used to share
I raise my hand up to my lips
it starts to tremble, its contents slips
I try it again, and again, and again
but I just cannot do this to my furry friend
my throat starts to close, and my stomach churns
I'm closing my eyes, but the feeling still burns
All of the lies I have previously told
suddenly seem to be so very old
My cash took their lives, though they weren't mine to take
I realise now my gigantic mistake
we use them for food, for clothes and for show
if they will forgive us, we might never know.
I'm also still having trouble letting go of fish, but I actually have an excuse for still eating seafood: doctor's orders!
Anyways, I went shopping for some cheap, long-lasting non-murderous meals, and if I pool it together with what I already had in my fridge and stuff, this is what I've got:
Apart from what you see here, I have about 6 bags of noodles, a jar of raspberry jam, and a buttload of eggs.
Some might say that eggs and dairy are also torturing animals, but I don't want to discuss it. My main reason for not wanting to eat meat is that the thought of having paid for someone else to get killed makes me sick to my stomach. Who the fuck am I to decide who dies? That's not my job, and is it fair that I can do it just because I have money? Hell to the no!
You know what? I actually wrote a poem about it! Poems are a fun-tastic way of relieving all sorts of frustrations and emotions, and I write them alot when dealing with things.
Soooo... Here is my poem about the emotions that caused me to not want to eat meat!
(and also, forgive me for writing an overly pretentious and seemingly guilt-tripping post, lol)
Bodies on the table
I stare at them, and they stare at me
as different as we could possibly be
Me sitting here, them lying there
despite the world that we used to share
I raise my hand up to my lips
it starts to tremble, its contents slips
I try it again, and again, and again
but I just cannot do this to my furry friend
my throat starts to close, and my stomach churns
I'm closing my eyes, but the feeling still burns
All of the lies I have previously told
suddenly seem to be so very old
My cash took their lives, though they weren't mine to take
I realise now my gigantic mistake
we use them for food, for clothes and for show
if they will forgive us, we might never know.
Thursday, 1 March 2012
Trilinguality
Others often comment that I tend to post things on facebook in three different languages; Danish, Norwegian and English. I do, and I honestly don't see why that is a problem, as I consider myself a fluent speaker of all three.
See, in order to fluently speak a language, you need to be able to express your innermost thoughts and emotions as precisely as possible, and in order to do that, you need to be able to THINK in that langauge.
When you think in a language, at least, this is how I do it, it is as if you hear someone speak to you in that language. When I write, I don't sit and think about the words. It is almost as if there is a person who speaks that language standing behind me, and I am just writing down what they say; y'know?
So, as this is a trilingual blog, I will make posts in all three languages. Deal with it.
See, in order to fluently speak a language, you need to be able to express your innermost thoughts and emotions as precisely as possible, and in order to do that, you need to be able to THINK in that langauge.
When you think in a language, at least, this is how I do it, it is as if you hear someone speak to you in that language. When I write, I don't sit and think about the words. It is almost as if there is a person who speaks that language standing behind me, and I am just writing down what they say; y'know?
So, as this is a trilingual blog, I will make posts in all three languages. Deal with it.
Wednesday, 29 February 2012
Om døde dyr på brødet og følelsen af kollektiv skam.
Der stod jeg så, midt i Føtex's mad-afdeling, pludtselig overvældet af følelser. Jeg prøvede at vandre lidt rundt, men jeg da jeg ikke kiggede efter noget bestemt, følte jeg mig bare som en zombie på spasertur.
Det er den sidste hverdag i måneden, og jeg har fået SU. Jeg skulle i føtex for at handle mad ind, da jeg snart er ved at løbe tør for pålæg, og det var i frysedisken, det hele startede.
Jeg havde stået og tænkt på, om jeg skulle købe noget frossent kylling, da jeg pludtselig fik en følelse af skam. Skam og forargelse. "Hvorfor", tænkte jeg til mig selv, "køber jeg egentlig døde dyrs lig og spiser dem? Fordi det er billigt?" Ja, hvorfor, egentlig. Det ER jo ikke billigere end grøntsager.
Jeg indsåg egentlig dette for nogle dage siden, men følelserne efter alvorlige ting kommer altid lidt sent for mig. Først er jeg nummen, og så bryder det ud, som at blive slået i fjæset og ikke føle at det svier, før en halv dag efter.
Nu havde jeg jo tænkt, at mit første indlæg i den nye blog skulle være et eller andet røre om hvorfor jeg skriver på tre sprog, men fuck det lort. Vi tager det senere.
Nå, men der gik jeg så, blandt spegepølse, salami og kyllingepølser, og tænkte for mig selv hvor utroligt egoistisk jeg egentlig er. Pludtselig holdt alle de undskyldninger, jeg tidligere har brugt, op med at være relevante, og jeg kunne ikke finde nogen grund til at spise kød i det hele taget; ingenting der kunne retfærdiggøre, at jeg bidrager til, at andre mennesker får betalt for at slå noget levende ihjæl.
Jeg gik hen til køddisken med de friske varer i, i håb om at finde noget der frister, men ak, nej. Det duftede så dejligt, det gjorde det, og jeg VED jo godt at dyret allerede er dødt og derfor ikke tænker over, hvad der bliver gjort af dets fysiske krop, men jeg kunne ikke røre ved noget som helst af kød uden at tænke "dette dyr er slået ihjæl fordi jeg insisterer på at spise det".
Jeg fik kvalme, simpelthen, og begyndte igen at vandre, nej, svimle rundt, for ikke at gå helt omkuld.
Måske kom kvalmen af tanke på alle de regninger jeg har denne måned, for det første jeg tænkte i kyllingedisken var nemlig "måske burde jeg købe denne pose med kylling, jeg har nemlig kun 300 til mad hver uge, og dette er billigt", efterfulgt af overnævnte tanker om dyrelig. Måske kom kvalmen af, at jeg havde pist mere mælkeprodugter, end min laktoseintolerans kan holde til, men jeg tror det kom af noget andet.
Jeg tror simpelthen det kom af, at tanken slog mig om hvor utroligt kvalmende egoistisk og dobbeltmoralsk jeg (såvel som så mange andre mennesker på planeter) er, og hvor røv-sygt det er at jeg har retfærdiggjort det så længe som jeg har. Jeg mener, hvordan kan nogen som helst unskyldning retfediggøre, at jeg spiser andre dyr? Jeg ved da godt at man "æder hinanden og sådan er det", og menneskers fordøjelseskanal jo i den grad er tilpasset en kødholdig kost, men alligevel. Hvordan kan jeg være gråden nær over at komme til at træde på en edderkop, for så at vende mig om, og spise min skinkemad? Når jeg nu tilhører en race, der har sprog og kundskab nok til at vide hvad de laver, og tage nogenlunde fornuftige valg, hvordan kan jeg så bestemme hvem der lever eller dør? Det skal jeg da for fanden ikke bestemme! Men når jeg tager valg, hvor udslaget er, at døde dyr bliver slagtet og spist, så er det jo lige det, jeg har gjort! Nu tror jeg ikke på Gud, og jeg ved ikke hvem der bestemmer hvem der lever eller dør, men det kan da for fanden ikke være mig!?
Jeg kan ikke (eller kunne ikke der og da) fatte at andre mennesker gider at være venner, med sådan en dobbeltmoralsk egoist som mig. Hvis jeg havde et valget, ville jeg ikke en gang selv gidet det.
Nå, men jeg har så brug for pålæg, og der ER ikke meget jeg både kan tåle, er sundt, OG der smager godt på rugbrødet, så jeg svimlede lidt rundt for at finde noget pålæg, der ikke kom fra døde dyr. Døde dyr på brødet virkede næmlig pludtselig ikke som noget, jeg kunne tænke mig at spise. Lige meget hvor jeg kiggede så var der kød. Måske var det fordi jeg pludtselig var bevidst på det, men der er egentlig pænt lidt pålæg, en vegetar kan spise! Min mave rumlede, og ikke på den gode måde. Skinke, salami, pølse, kødboller, pepperoni-fucking-pizza, alt jeg kunne se var mad til de mord-medvirkere, jeg indtil for nogle minutter siden selv havde været en del af.
Så kan man jo også skændes om biprodugter som æg, mælk og honning er noget man godt må spise, men det gider jeg ærlig talt ikke at diskutere med flere. JEG synes at jeg skal have lov til at spise det, og da det ikke gør, at jeg har betalt for at få et dyr slået ihjel, er jeg fornøjet.
ANYWAYS. Brød er noget jeg spiser hver dag, og med tanke på det lille jeg har tilbage til mad når jeg har betalt de obligatoriske regninger og sendt de obligatoriske fødselsdagsgaver til familiemedlemmer, kan jeg ikke ligefrem købe mad i skolekantinen, så min jagt på pålæg fortsatte.
Jeg lagde mærke til, at de have udsalg på økologisk mug-ost, og lagde et par stykker ned i min handlekurv. Mugost er dog ikke noget, der er særlig sjovt for andre at jeg har med på brødet, da det lugter af bræk til trods for den dejlige smag, og det kan hurtigt også blive trættende i længden, så jeg gik på udkig efter mere. Nul putte.
Efter at have købt ostene og diverse andre madvarer (mineralvand + lidt trøsteis), gik jeg ned af gaden, hvileløst og uden nogen særlig mål og mening. Jeg følte mig nedtrykket, overvældet, og helt omtåget af alle de tanker, og den skyld jeg følte, for at have medvirket til mord så længe som jeg har gjort.
Til sidst tog jeg hen til den lokale grønt-butik, der alligevel lå i den gade, jeg skulle ned af. Jeg tror danskerne kalder det en "perkerbutik", men det hedder altså et Tyrkisk Marked, det var ihvertfald det, skiltet sagde.
Med eet fik jeg øje på kikærterne, og en tanke slog mig. Jeg HAVDE jo smagt vegetarpålæg før, og det var, såvidt jeg kan huske, lavet af kikærter! "Det kan da ikke være så svært at lave", tænkte jeg for mig selv, og det bekræftede den venlige mand (der i øvrigt talte meget godt Dansk!) bagved kassen, og han gav mig en hurtig lektion i at lave hummusplålæg.
Du koger kikærter, moser dem, blander lidt olivenolie og saft fra noget presset hvidløg i, og tilsætter noget tahin. Tahin er forresten et lækkert pålæg lavet af sesamfrø, og det ligner egentlig jordnøddesmør forbløffende meget både i smag og udseende. Jeg tænkte "Yes man, hjemmelavet hummus, coming up!", da den venlige mand plutselig sgde, at de faktisk havde færdiglavet hummus! De havde lige et par dåser tilbage, og jeg fik dem for "hele" 15kr tilsammen.
Da jeg gik derfra var jeg 6 pakker rejenudler, to dåser hummus og en nøglering rigere, og 45 kroner fattigere. Money well spent!
Jeg ved ikke, om det var følelsen af at have spared penge, eller af at have købt pålæg der ikke myrdede nogen, eller om skyerne bare var lættet, men jeg kunne sværge på, at solen skindte mere da jeg kom ud af butikken, end da jeg gik derind.
Jeg ved heller ikke hvor længe denne efter-effekt af kollektiv skyld blive ved med at virke på mig, og jeg kan ikke love at jeg skal være konsistent, men lige pt. er min plan at købe alle mine grøntsager der (da de var både større, friskere og blligere end i Føtex), og lade de døde dyr blive spist af nogle andre.
Måske får jeg tilbagefald, måske vågner jeg i morgen og har ikke længre en grund til ikke at spise bacon, men lige nu, lige idag er sødyr de eneste dyr, jeg har samvittighed til at spise. (Og det er så kun fordi jeg virkelig, VIRKELIG har brug for de proteiner og ting de indeholder. Nej, jeg vil ikke diskutere det, hold kæft.)
Der hersker stadig tvivl indeni, om hvad der bed mig, og hvad det var, der pludtselig satte mig på andre tanker, men jeg tror simpelthen ikke, at det er noget, jeg nogensinde finder ud af; og kender jeg mig selv, så skifter jeg nok mening snart, eller går tilbage til at hade mig selv i stilhed mens jeg gnaver på et kyllingeben, efterfulgt af en time med kvalme og selvberbrejdelser.
Nu mistede jeg helt tråden, men det har de fleste læsere, if any, nok gjort for længst alligevel.
Over og ud -
Anna, wannabe-altruist, kronisk selvhader, og midlertidig semi-vegetar.
Det er den sidste hverdag i måneden, og jeg har fået SU. Jeg skulle i føtex for at handle mad ind, da jeg snart er ved at løbe tør for pålæg, og det var i frysedisken, det hele startede.
Jeg havde stået og tænkt på, om jeg skulle købe noget frossent kylling, da jeg pludtselig fik en følelse af skam. Skam og forargelse. "Hvorfor", tænkte jeg til mig selv, "køber jeg egentlig døde dyrs lig og spiser dem? Fordi det er billigt?" Ja, hvorfor, egentlig. Det ER jo ikke billigere end grøntsager.
Jeg indsåg egentlig dette for nogle dage siden, men følelserne efter alvorlige ting kommer altid lidt sent for mig. Først er jeg nummen, og så bryder det ud, som at blive slået i fjæset og ikke føle at det svier, før en halv dag efter.
Nu havde jeg jo tænkt, at mit første indlæg i den nye blog skulle være et eller andet røre om hvorfor jeg skriver på tre sprog, men fuck det lort. Vi tager det senere.
Nå, men der gik jeg så, blandt spegepølse, salami og kyllingepølser, og tænkte for mig selv hvor utroligt egoistisk jeg egentlig er. Pludtselig holdt alle de undskyldninger, jeg tidligere har brugt, op med at være relevante, og jeg kunne ikke finde nogen grund til at spise kød i det hele taget; ingenting der kunne retfærdiggøre, at jeg bidrager til, at andre mennesker får betalt for at slå noget levende ihjæl.
Jeg gik hen til køddisken med de friske varer i, i håb om at finde noget der frister, men ak, nej. Det duftede så dejligt, det gjorde det, og jeg VED jo godt at dyret allerede er dødt og derfor ikke tænker over, hvad der bliver gjort af dets fysiske krop, men jeg kunne ikke røre ved noget som helst af kød uden at tænke "dette dyr er slået ihjæl fordi jeg insisterer på at spise det".
Jeg fik kvalme, simpelthen, og begyndte igen at vandre, nej, svimle rundt, for ikke at gå helt omkuld.
Måske kom kvalmen af tanke på alle de regninger jeg har denne måned, for det første jeg tænkte i kyllingedisken var nemlig "måske burde jeg købe denne pose med kylling, jeg har nemlig kun 300 til mad hver uge, og dette er billigt", efterfulgt af overnævnte tanker om dyrelig. Måske kom kvalmen af, at jeg havde pist mere mælkeprodugter, end min laktoseintolerans kan holde til, men jeg tror det kom af noget andet.
Jeg tror simpelthen det kom af, at tanken slog mig om hvor utroligt kvalmende egoistisk og dobbeltmoralsk jeg (såvel som så mange andre mennesker på planeter) er, og hvor røv-sygt det er at jeg har retfærdiggjort det så længe som jeg har. Jeg mener, hvordan kan nogen som helst unskyldning retfediggøre, at jeg spiser andre dyr? Jeg ved da godt at man "æder hinanden og sådan er det", og menneskers fordøjelseskanal jo i den grad er tilpasset en kødholdig kost, men alligevel. Hvordan kan jeg være gråden nær over at komme til at træde på en edderkop, for så at vende mig om, og spise min skinkemad? Når jeg nu tilhører en race, der har sprog og kundskab nok til at vide hvad de laver, og tage nogenlunde fornuftige valg, hvordan kan jeg så bestemme hvem der lever eller dør? Det skal jeg da for fanden ikke bestemme! Men når jeg tager valg, hvor udslaget er, at døde dyr bliver slagtet og spist, så er det jo lige det, jeg har gjort! Nu tror jeg ikke på Gud, og jeg ved ikke hvem der bestemmer hvem der lever eller dør, men det kan da for fanden ikke være mig!?
Jeg kan ikke (eller kunne ikke der og da) fatte at andre mennesker gider at være venner, med sådan en dobbeltmoralsk egoist som mig. Hvis jeg havde et valget, ville jeg ikke en gang selv gidet det.
Nå, men jeg har så brug for pålæg, og der ER ikke meget jeg både kan tåle, er sundt, OG der smager godt på rugbrødet, så jeg svimlede lidt rundt for at finde noget pålæg, der ikke kom fra døde dyr. Døde dyr på brødet virkede næmlig pludtselig ikke som noget, jeg kunne tænke mig at spise. Lige meget hvor jeg kiggede så var der kød. Måske var det fordi jeg pludtselig var bevidst på det, men der er egentlig pænt lidt pålæg, en vegetar kan spise! Min mave rumlede, og ikke på den gode måde. Skinke, salami, pølse, kødboller, pepperoni-fucking-pizza, alt jeg kunne se var mad til de mord-medvirkere, jeg indtil for nogle minutter siden selv havde været en del af.
Så kan man jo også skændes om biprodugter som æg, mælk og honning er noget man godt må spise, men det gider jeg ærlig talt ikke at diskutere med flere. JEG synes at jeg skal have lov til at spise det, og da det ikke gør, at jeg har betalt for at få et dyr slået ihjel, er jeg fornøjet.
ANYWAYS. Brød er noget jeg spiser hver dag, og med tanke på det lille jeg har tilbage til mad når jeg har betalt de obligatoriske regninger og sendt de obligatoriske fødselsdagsgaver til familiemedlemmer, kan jeg ikke ligefrem købe mad i skolekantinen, så min jagt på pålæg fortsatte.
Jeg lagde mærke til, at de have udsalg på økologisk mug-ost, og lagde et par stykker ned i min handlekurv. Mugost er dog ikke noget, der er særlig sjovt for andre at jeg har med på brødet, da det lugter af bræk til trods for den dejlige smag, og det kan hurtigt også blive trættende i længden, så jeg gik på udkig efter mere. Nul putte.
Efter at have købt ostene og diverse andre madvarer (mineralvand + lidt trøsteis), gik jeg ned af gaden, hvileløst og uden nogen særlig mål og mening. Jeg følte mig nedtrykket, overvældet, og helt omtåget af alle de tanker, og den skyld jeg følte, for at have medvirket til mord så længe som jeg har gjort.
Til sidst tog jeg hen til den lokale grønt-butik, der alligevel lå i den gade, jeg skulle ned af. Jeg tror danskerne kalder det en "perkerbutik", men det hedder altså et Tyrkisk Marked, det var ihvertfald det, skiltet sagde.
Med eet fik jeg øje på kikærterne, og en tanke slog mig. Jeg HAVDE jo smagt vegetarpålæg før, og det var, såvidt jeg kan huske, lavet af kikærter! "Det kan da ikke være så svært at lave", tænkte jeg for mig selv, og det bekræftede den venlige mand (der i øvrigt talte meget godt Dansk!) bagved kassen, og han gav mig en hurtig lektion i at lave hummusplålæg.
Du koger kikærter, moser dem, blander lidt olivenolie og saft fra noget presset hvidløg i, og tilsætter noget tahin. Tahin er forresten et lækkert pålæg lavet af sesamfrø, og det ligner egentlig jordnøddesmør forbløffende meget både i smag og udseende. Jeg tænkte "Yes man, hjemmelavet hummus, coming up!", da den venlige mand plutselig sgde, at de faktisk havde færdiglavet hummus! De havde lige et par dåser tilbage, og jeg fik dem for "hele" 15kr tilsammen.
Da jeg gik derfra var jeg 6 pakker rejenudler, to dåser hummus og en nøglering rigere, og 45 kroner fattigere. Money well spent!
Jeg ved ikke, om det var følelsen af at have spared penge, eller af at have købt pålæg der ikke myrdede nogen, eller om skyerne bare var lættet, men jeg kunne sværge på, at solen skindte mere da jeg kom ud af butikken, end da jeg gik derind.
Jeg ved heller ikke hvor længe denne efter-effekt af kollektiv skyld blive ved med at virke på mig, og jeg kan ikke love at jeg skal være konsistent, men lige pt. er min plan at købe alle mine grøntsager der (da de var både større, friskere og blligere end i Føtex), og lade de døde dyr blive spist af nogle andre.
Måske får jeg tilbagefald, måske vågner jeg i morgen og har ikke længre en grund til ikke at spise bacon, men lige nu, lige idag er sødyr de eneste dyr, jeg har samvittighed til at spise. (Og det er så kun fordi jeg virkelig, VIRKELIG har brug for de proteiner og ting de indeholder. Nej, jeg vil ikke diskutere det, hold kæft.)
Der hersker stadig tvivl indeni, om hvad der bed mig, og hvad det var, der pludtselig satte mig på andre tanker, men jeg tror simpelthen ikke, at det er noget, jeg nogensinde finder ud af; og kender jeg mig selv, så skifter jeg nok mening snart, eller går tilbage til at hade mig selv i stilhed mens jeg gnaver på et kyllingeben, efterfulgt af en time med kvalme og selvberbrejdelser.
Nu mistede jeg helt tråden, men det har de fleste læsere, if any, nok gjort for længst alligevel.
Over og ud -
Anna, wannabe-altruist, kronisk selvhader, og midlertidig semi-vegetar.
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