miss me? 'cuz I missed you.

  I have a tendency to quit things. sorry.. I blame my (still) undiagnosed ADHD, but then again, maybe it's just lack of discipline or something. 

click this and listen to the album to set the vibes, if you wanna

  So.. hi! It's been a long while. This feels like awkwardly catching up with an old friend after missing some 'happy birthday's and a few major life events, like, having a baby. This example is deliberate - I am writing as a mum of a 4 month old boy. He's the most precious thing, obviously, but don't worry, this blog is being reactivated so I have some space to find my voice again, not to turn this into a mommy blog reviewing strollers and sleep schedules. Although, hit me up if you wanna chat about babies.

  I had been missing this - the putting down my inner life into black and white, and I had been thinking about writing again for a while. The final push came when I heard one of my favourite writers speak at a book festival at my local park - Elif Shafak. She is a writer, but she's also an incredible speaker, absolute wordsmith - I'll link her TED talk below, I highly suggest you listen to it. But what resonated was her saying that one should not fear judgement for the things one does and to make the inner child happy again by doing the creative things we once enjoyed. So here we are - I am re-entering the world of writing, but more importantly - re-flection.. who the hell have I become and how did I get here? What are the things I love or am afraid of again? I've lost track a little. Like we all do, I have changed so much, overcome things, but I don't think I've actually 'updated' my inner system. I think I still hold on to old insecurities and make them out to still be part of me, when actually, I have changed those relationships, or 're-written my imaginary script' that I have for my life (this is a nod to my therapist, Ruth, you legend). 

  Writing this feels like taking off all my clothes, and also my skin, and just standing there in front of everyone you've ever known, so they can judge you and your insides. Poke them, stare at them, just really get all up in there. It is so deeply personal, sometimes it feels like it's almost invasive. Yes, it is fully up to you how genuine your writing is, because nobody will ever know how honest you've been. It's torturous in a way - the less you lie and hide behind your work, the more liberating it will be.. but also so much more terrifying because now you have cracked yourself wide open, like a gloomy oyster without tabasco to help it go down smoother. 

  Here we go, my estranged family members, old and lost friends, strangers and more terrifyingly, everyone I interact with on my day to day, here is a fresh one for ya.

  I had the realisation that I have lost what makes my soul dance.. but then again I don't know how tightly I had it in my grasp in the first place. I first thought about this laying in bed over a year ago (few months pre-baby), when my algorithm served me some jazz house, a house dancer from Japan and a painter, all within a few swipes. It took me by surprise, I laid there, in the middle of the night, letting the dance videos replay endlessly as I stared at the bright screen with a big grin because I just loved it. This, this, THIS is what I had missed - the moves my body craved, music that felt like exactly what I wanted my background of my life to sound like and art.. so wonderful to look at, exactly how I wish I could paint if I had the skill. So, for the first time in a long time I did something about it - I bought the vinyl (and later some gig tickets, which I went to already preggers and nearly fainted, heh) and I signed up to house classes every Tuesday at pineapple. Admittedly, it had been a good decade since I had done any movements similar to those of house, which are slightly off-beat, leg heavy and smooth-groovy-mesmerising-ish. It felt good though. 

  Most people tend to have hobbies or traditions that they prioritise, I, however, tend to push those kind of things out of my life first, especially when something is slightly more exciting and diverts my attention. I dive in fully, leaving that important self-stuff in a dry-bag on the side, outside the splash zone, not to be picked up again. Most people prioritise the things that make them who they are, I abandon them in order to make space for everyone else and their dry-bags full of life.

  Oh and tell me I'm good at something and that I have potential - congratulations, you have just ruined it forever. It is immediately laced with pressure, I overdose on it in my brain, which is anxious by nature. By the end of the cycle, I have quit it miles away from it becoming anything real, all because I got scared of what it could be three years down the line. I have such a long list of things I have abandoned at the 'idea stage' just because I thought too far ahead and decided that it will fail and hurt me miserably. All those business ideas.. I could be a millionaire. And I do this in arguments too - I will start the fight in my mind, arguing against myself from every angle to the point that I already believe I know how the conversation will end, so I don't even start it. Anyone relate? Just me? Cool, cool, cool.

  I'm so rusty when it comes to writing. To be completely honest, I wrote nearly all of my blogs stoned, but back then I did not spend a lot of time sober. This time round I have healed most of my gaping wounds, have gone through pregnancy and early motherhood, moved house twice, lost and gained cats, experienced true sobriety and now.. I write over many days, lacking the confidence I had gained, at night, when my baby is asleep and I happen to have enough energy to try and muster up any creativity. Honestly, ever since the last post I regularly make up headlines and little abstracts of what I'd like to write about and imagine putting it out there, saying 'you better remember this and actually write it down!!!'. I 'write' in my mind, but that might just be called 'thinking'. 

  You'd be pleased to hear that I have returned to my house classes, the beginners version. I'm taking this hobby back out of the dry-bag and starting from the very basics. I like how my teacher breaks things down, makes you understand how your whole body makes the move happen, not just your feet. It's usually in the hips, by the way. And I really like the sense of progress that I feel. I no longer feel like I'm going to faint by the end of the class, I actually see how my body is re-learning, navigating the movements, getting back into patterns of movement that are faintly etched into my physical memory. I also really like just letting my body do the moves and figure it our without my brain taking over. Last week I finally cracked a move I was struggling to execute just by fully committing to the move, fully letting go. The body took over, it knew what it needed, what it had to do. I could trust it and it did not disappoint. 

  I am currently somewhere in-between feeling very lost and knowing exactly where I am, but then again, I'm pretty sure I never truly have not been lost. I guess this is what this will be about - finding out at what point do I have to take accountability over my flaws and make amends. Asking myself for forgiveness over being broken and scared over things you could not control, and teaching myself to trust in my gut again, because if we're being honest it has never steered me wrong, whenever I have truly listened to it. 

so, for the tally - Anna 2 - 0 Lostness

point breakdown:

1 point - return to dance

1 point - return to blog

love,

Anna

Link to the mentioned:

Elif Shafak: The Politics of Fiction TED talk

P.S.  Please feel free to comment or reach out to me for feedback or just to chat, I always am very happy to engage and appreciate it immensely 

I have also archived most of my posts and will be reviewing one by one over time which to keep up and which will not see the light of day for the foreseeable future :) 

Prosecco for one

  Tonight, I opened the cold bottle of Prosecco that has been sitting in my fridge since my friend gifted it to me for my birthday over a week ago. I opened it for me, my-self, my hard work, the easy work, the smooth talking, the lost jobs, the panic attacks, the antidepressants, the drunken nights, the fun nights, the spontaneous tattoos, the nearly missed deadlines, the friends, the lovers, the enemies, the never ending changes and the nights and days and afternoons when I didn't want to be here anymore. 

  I raise a glass specifically to my bachelors degree, which I somehow managed to graduate with first degree honours. My mentor messaged me on the day of the result release, congratulating me on my achievements and the grade, so I never had the experience of anxiously waiting for my results, opening the page that always loads a little slower when its important, the rapid scrolling and triple reading the sentence to make sure you actually read it correctly. I received an unexpected message telling me that I have gotten a first, in both, my dissertation and therefore, my degree. And that was that, really. No celebrations, no family around, no excited cheers or big acknowledgements. I told the news to my closest people, got a few "congratulations" and "well done" over text and that was exactly as underwhelming as you'd imagine. I am not blaming the people around me, I am mourning the celebrations that never happened, and it hurts more because it's been a reoccurring theme in my life.. or maybe its just about managing your expectations. 

  Then, I also raise a glass for my twenty third birthday. The day started with many beautiful messages, I had a wonderful celebration, we boogied all night long to disco tunes, surrounded by my closest available friends (only real downside to having friends all across the world). But the feeling of missing something hasn't left, maybe its the fact that nobody sang 'Happy Birthday' or that I didn't get to blow out candles on a cake on my actual birthday, or maybe because it was another birthday spent without my mother. Then again, both me and her have chosen a life of solitude, at least from our mothers. Like mother, like daughter, but contrary to her, I don't plan to geographically return to my family, ever. That's a tough one to not feel guilty about. 

  And, finally, I raise a glass for my upcoming masters studies. I applied on Wednesday, got the unconditional offer on Friday, paid the astronomical deposit and suddenly I've got somewhere to be starting 27th September. I put applying off for so long, I missed most of the deadlines, I was "writing" my personal statement all summer, I fought over it with the people close to me, I heard angry "so what the hell is your plan then" more than once. Honestly, I didn't know what my plan was. I just wanted to make it to the next day without feeling like I didn't want to live anymore. There were no celebrations, once I got it, again, many many "well done" and "congratulations" on my phone screen, which didn't feel real. None of my achievements feel real, I don't feel like there is anything to demand credit for, no "real" reason to celebrate, "it is what it is, move on, stop burdening people with your insignificant happenings" is the internal dialogue. 

  That is the truth, ladies and gentlemen. What I hear most from you, readers of my life, is how much you like the raw-ness of my writing, so there is the absolute reality - I am drinking Prosecco alone in my room, to honour my achievements, because nobody else did and it makes me cry sad, self-pitying tears. It leaves me feeling a bit confused too, battling with myself over the validity, asking myself if I am just an entitled little brat or if I am allowed to feel this way, objectively. Because every jab at my current unemployment, my missing clarity for my future, my not perfectly fitting into the muster of how its supposed to be (although I think I'm hardly a rebel in any sense of the word) has made me feel less, close to nothing. Less of a human being because I don't want to end up living a fake life, unhappy and stuck. I hate LinkedIn for that very reason.

  The thought of not wanting to be here anymore is my best friend when I am feeling worthless. Such thoughts have been my trusted imaginary escape from all the situations that were too much to handle, asking too much of my energy and strength to act upon, since I was a child. In those moments I wish I had a me for myself. I wish I would be as unconditionally loving and giving to myself as I have been to nearly anyone who asked for it. I'm left listening, advising, solving everyone else's life, but my own. Sometimes I am so spent, that when my life takes a turn, I fall apart, burdening those closest to me, continuing to feel worse and worse because I can't pull myself out anymore. That isn't right, but how do you say "no" to those who need help? I'm learning, I have to, for the sake of my life, really. 

  In the grand scheme of things, it is peachy, though. I would dream about moving away after finishing school, studying at university, having my own place, getting a cat. I have all that, just different to how I had pictured it would happen, but thats a tale as old as the universe. This is a story of feeling like you aren't enough whatever you achieve or do, a story of sadness and emptiness. So, learn to manage your expectations is all I've got to pass on as advice. And don't let other people's expectations for you drive you to insanity.

  Till next time. 

  Cheers,

  Anna

 

Last Two Chapters

This dissertation has broken me wide open 

the result is a good taste in fashion, 

the need to read and write;

alone, independent, capable. 

My gut is pulling me towards him, 

so strongly, I physically feel it, I miss him,

extraordinarily. 

and yet I am so proud to be so close

to the end, through all of the 

sadness, heart-break, pain, disappointment,

anger, death, and loss of faith in life

still kicking, managing to dance, 

to laugh, to enjoy food and music, 

drugs.

Happiness, through dogs, miracles, 

nature, clouds, colours and emotions. 

My life is torn by love.

Maybe the words will come and

make up stories and collections of

memories, like the first few chapters are

masked as facts - it tells my story,

my mothers, great, gran, grand, 

like the future ahead.

In the name of my ancestors,

Thank You.

11/05/2021

Mana krusttēva lieta (Latvian)

 

 Mūžīgā piemiņā,

Uz mūžu mūsu sirdīs.

 

   Notika neiedomājamais. Es steidzos uz darbu, caur Mayfair dzīslām, pārdomājot, cik ļoti man šis darbs ir vajadzīgs, vai man vajadzētu dabūt kafiju, un, ja jā, es negribēju to iegādāties visiem un īsziņu sūtīšana viņiem būtu par vēlu? Nē, vēl ir agri, varbūt mans boss jau ir tur. Tātad, man vajag kafiju, mamma, pulksten 7:00, man ir karsti, un es ienīstu savu darbu, esmu tik nogurusi, mamma dažreiz ir tik nezinoša, viņa zina, ka esmu ceļā uz darbu, es vakar viņai teicu, kāpēc viņa man zvana? Pēc domas beigām, es esmu stūrī, paver acis, skatoties uz Lucky Fish (Laimīgā Zivs), un dodos uz biroju. Es skenēju savu karti, es patiešām nejūtos kā es pati, bet es domāju, ka man būs labi, tiklīdz es nokļūšu pie sava galda, vai ne? Trešais stāvs, zelts, stikls, marmors, uzvalki, tālruņi, sapulces, pieklājīgi smaidi, galddatori, tumsā, rindās, atsevišķi. Šī vieta bija pati sava pasaule, kurā tik daudz biznesa visus sasēja, tā bija izveidojusies par savu organismu, un es biju spēles jaunākais mikrobs, kas patiešām neiederējās.

   Es tieku pie sava rakstāmgalda, tur ir mans priekšnieks, sveicina mani, iespējams ar joku, es atvainojos un saku, ka man jāzvana savai mātei, viņa nez kāpēc mēģināja mani sasniegt, es droši vien vēlreiz lamājos, lai parādītu, cik dusmīga esmu par to. Viņa kaut ko paņem un murmina par apsēšanos, viss ir kārtībā, mans tēvocis un fakts, ka viņš bija izvēlējies pamest šo zemi.

   Nejutīgums.

  Un tad atbildes, manai mātei atbildu, ka viņai nevajadzētu par mani uztraukties, man viss ir kārtībā, rūpējies par sevi un Omi, es palīdzēšu, kā vien varēšu. Nākamā rinda ir vērsta uz manu priekšnieku, es saku, ka atvainojos, bet es tikko saņēmu briesmīgas ziņas, es viņam detaļas nestāstu, bet diezgan taisni pasaku kas notika. Viņš man liek iet mājās, es neatceros, protestēju vai nē. Es droši vien sūtīju īsziņas cilvēkiem, dodoties uz mājām, savam puisim, kurš jau bija pārdzīvojis elli ar mani, nezinādams, kas tagad sagaida. Es paziņoju savam tēvam, mans tēvocis un viņš bija bijuši seni draugi, tā mani vecāki satikās. Es baidījos no Omes zvana. Man par to nav daudz atmiņu, es pieņemu, ka tās ir dziļi nomāktas.

  "Pirms-svētku Londona ir smieklīga. Rotājumi, kas ir vērtīgāki par automašīnām, visi mēra eglītes kā dzimumlocekļus, kam ir lielāks. Es iesaku viņiem ziedot šo naudu labiem mērķiem, nevis sava drauga naudas atmazgāšanas shēmai." Tas, iespējams, bija tas, ko es domāju šķērsot Londonu, dodoties uz mājām, lai tiktu galā ar jucekli, kas drīz sekos. Man, godīgi sakot, nebija ne jausmas, kā beigsies šis tauriņa efekts. Tik daudziem cilvēkiem, piemēram, viņa dēlam, iepriekšējām draudzenēm, kuras mīlēja viņu par viņa tīro sirdi, draugiem, ģimeni, manu māti, viņa māti, viņa tēvu, brāli, mani.

  Viņš bija dvēsele. Viņš mīlēja paslēpties aiz lieliem muskuļiem un smieklīgām frāzēm, jokojot bez jebkādām robežām, viņš bieži pārcēlās, ballējās, pieņēma briesmīgus lēmumus, attīstīja atkarības, bija veselas un mazāk veselīgas, mīlēja, un es ar to domāju, ka viņam bija vesels dārzs, mīlēja augus un ēdienu un viņam bija alerģija pret noteiktiem dzīvniekiem, bet tomēr uzņēma katru klaiņojošu, katru četrkājaino dvēseli, tā it kā viņi ir savējie. Viņš viņus saprata, viņi viņu saprata, tas, manuprāt, ir arī manis mantojums.
   Man viņš bija mans tēvocis, mans krusttēvs, puisis, kurš nekad īsti neatcerējas manu dzimšanas dienu, parasti to palaida garām par dažām dienām vai nedēļām, bet vienmēr bija sirsnīgs, pēc tam sarkastisks un tad man teica, lai netieku nepatikšanās, bet, ja sanāk, tad viņš visus pazina, par mani kāds parūpēsies. Es daudzu iemeslu dēļ sīkāk nepaskaidrošu, kāpēc es esmu pārliecināta, bet es esmu. Viņš dzīvoja interesantu un traģisku dzīvi, visīstāko. Kad es biju jaunāka, viņš bija blakus, es atceros bildes un retus viņa sejas skatienus kaut kur, bet lielākoties viņš bija stāstos. Tie būtu stāsti par viņu, viņa nepatikšanām un stāsti par trakām ballītēm, bet es neiebildu. Viņš bija vairāk daļa manis nekā mana krustmāte, viņa nekādā veidā nepastāvēja. Viņi nekad nebija kopā; Viņa tika izvēlēta no mana tā-laika-tēva puses, vairāk vai mazāk nejauša persona ģimenē, vismaz man. Es bieži domāju par citām sievietēm, kuras es gribēju lai viņas ir krustmātes, nevis viņa. Ir garš saraksts. Bet es jums par viņām pastāstīšu kādu citu reizi.

    Mūsu attiecības bija diezgan attālinātas, it īpaši pēdējos gados. Lai gan mēs dzīvojām tuvāk nekā jebkad agrāk, viņš Īrijā un es Londonā, mēs bijām ļoti atvienoti. Daudz kas bija noticis, vainas apziņa, nevietā esošas dusmas un pārpratumi bija daudzu mūsu sarunu pamatā. Viņa līksmība un laime bija ietīta biezā narkotiku plīvurā, kas izraisīja pasivitāti, aizkaitināmību un paranoju, kas riņķoja arvien tuvāk viņam. Viņš bija norobežojies no daudziem cilvēkiem, lēnām zaudējot robežu starp realitāti un iztēli. Apkārtējiem cilvēkiem, viņa draugiem un izvēlētajai ģimenei nebija ne jausmas kā rīkoties, daudzi ignorēja darbības, tāpēc daudzi mēģināja viņu glābt, daudzi izvēlējās doties prom, lai glābtu sevi, citi deva viņam vēl vienu iespēju. Man nav dusmu vai naida pret nevienu, un neesmu tā jutusies pret nevienu no viņiem, es esmu neticami pateicīga tiem, kas palīdzēja, jūs man vienmēr būsiet dārgi.

    Viņš no manis atvadīties ap rudens sākumu 2019. gadā. Krodziņā, kurā strādāju Vestminsterā, vietā, kur cilvēkiem patīk norādīt savas asociācijas, ģimenes vēsturi un citus interesantus noteikta dzīvesveida raksturojumus. Es biju draugos ar visiem, pastāvīgajiem, viņu biedriem, viņu ģimenēm, vientuļajiem rīta alkoholiķiem, parasti valsts darbiniekiem, vakara alkoholiķiem, viņi vienmēr grupās, inženieriem, projektu vadītājiem un citām sabiedrības daļām. Es zināju daudzus no viņiem. Krogs nebija pārāk aizņemts, taču tajā piedalījās daži galvenie cilvēki, kas turpināja manu dzērienu plūsmu. Māte mani brīdināja par to, ka mans tēvocis ir dīvains. Es pa pusei ignorēju ziņojumu, joprojām pa pusei sekojot sarunām man apkārt, es sūtīju īsziņu tēvocim, saku, lai viņš zvana. Daži malki vēlāk, viņš piezvana, es jautāju, kas par velnu. Nav daudz vajadzīgs, bet es nirstu bez konteksta, man nav ne mazākās nojausmas, kas notiek. Viņš man saka, ka viņam draud briesmas, viņš nevar gulēt, ēst, izskatās patiešām satraucoši, es sāku jautāt par to, kas ir iesaistīts. Mani biedri uzņem spriedzi, seko man ārā, es viņus baroju ar pusvārdiem un trokšņiem no savas sarunas. Tēvocis man liek turēties ārpus visa un saka ka man jārūpējas par sevi. Apstulbināta, es puslīdz paskaidroju notikušo, mani draugi ir gatavi mobilizēt savus cilvēkus Īrijā, gatavi viņu pārvietot, glabāt Londonā. Tas viss attīstījās 30 minūtēs, lai gan iespaidīgi, iespējams, tie bija daļēji izdomāti meli un patiesībā nemaz nebija nepieciešams. Es pateicos viņiem par atbalstu un turpinu garas debates ar savu Mammu un Omi.

    Neilgi pēc tam viņš tiek izlidots no Īrijas uz Latviju, viņš uzturas manā bērnības istabā, tajā ir rozā un purpursarkana sienas krāsa, kā arī balti mazi paklāji un Snoop Dogg plakāts iekšā vienā no sienas garajām durvīm, baltajā skapī. Uz to skatoties, iespējams, viņš smēķēja zāli. Hello Kitty glezna netālu no durvīm izskatās apsēsta, ir pienācis laiks no tās šķirties, manuprāt, viņš droši vien domāja tāpat.
    Šausmīgā māksla viņu neietekmēja, tēvocim kļuva labāk, viņš sāka strādāt ar savu draugu, viņš strādāja dārzā, mana vecmāmiņa rada daudz skaistu atmiņu, šķiet, ka viņš atveseļojas. Viņi organizē vizīti psihiatriskajā slimnīcā, viņu vajadzētu uzņemt pirmdien. Pirms mana Ome un viņš pamet pirmdienas rītā, viņš aiziet uz darbu, lai paņemtu navigācijas ierīci. Viņš nekad neatgriezās. Tajā ir daudz detaļu, kas mani aizrauj, taču es tās neiekļaušu to grafiskā rakstura un ekstrēmumu dēļ.

    Viņa nāve bija kā melnais caurums. Viņam aizejot, viss bija mainījies, viņš paņēma sev līdzi tik daudz lietu, kā tika ietekmētas visas attiecības, dzīves stāsti, lēmumi, domāšana, realitāte, ikviens, kuram paveicās, ka viņu klāja viņa klātbūtne, tumšais ķermenis un gaiši spalvaini spārni. Atskatoties atpakaļ, šķiet skaidrāk, ka viņš jau kopš mazotnes cieta no depresijas, ka viņš, iespējams, visu mūžu izmantoja savu humoru kā aizsardzības mehānismu. Ir daudz pamatjautājumu, kas ir saistīti ar viņa audzināšanu, vecāku audzināšanu, dzīvi, vidi, sabiedrību, viņa individualitāti, tas viss ir svarīgi šajā jautājumā. Neviena lieta nelika viņa dzīvei beigties ar šādu traģēdiju, tā jau iepriekš bija virzījusies uz priekšu, viņš zināja. Kad man bija apmēram 8 gadi, viņš ieradās ciemos, apgalvojot, ka viņš var pateikt, kad cilvēki mirs. Viņš teica, ka iepriekšējā vakarā viņš bija paredzējis karstas meitenes vecumu ballītē, viņš teica, ka viņš pats nav saņēmis tik daudz laika, bet atteicās man pateikt manu nāves datumu. Ja viņš bija maldīgs, uz narkotikām, svētais, apgaismots un izlīdzināts, vai tas bija sarkanais karogs, kad viņu vajadzēja nomierināt un šokēt viņa smadzenes līdz disfunkcijai, es nezinu. Bet tas man saka, ka viņš par to domāja jau ilgu laiku. Viņa pašnāvība bija visa rezultāts, un viņš galu galā pieņēma lēmumu, vai apzināti vai nē, lai aizsargātu mūs, cilvēkus, kurus viņš mīl, viņa māti, dēlu, draugus. Viņš baidījās, ka viņa rīcība mūs sāpinās, viņš ar viņu pabeidza ciklu, atcēla lāstu, samaksāja parādu, atrada atbrīvošanu, sekoja apsēstībai, piedzīvoja psihisku lūzumu.

   Viņa diagnoze ietvēra mānijas depresijas, psihozes, šizofrēnijas, traumu, PTSS un daudzu citu pieminēšanu. Tas nekad netika pienācīgi ārstēts vai šajā sakarā arī netika diagnosticēts. Viņam pietika, pirms tas viss varēja notikt. Un mūsu ģimene pēkšņi kļuva par tādu, kas uz punktētās līnijas raksta pēc jautājuma par psihiskiem traucējumiem un pašnāvībām ģimenes vēsturē.

    Tas rada vidi jauniem noteikumiem priekš visiem. Es redzu, ka mana ģimene cīnās, lai dzīvotu ar šiem jaunajiem simptomiem, kurus viņi ir izstrādājuši, un nevis tāpēc, ka viņi to izvēlējās, viņa nāve visus ir ietekmējusi atšķirīgi, nav ne pareiza, ne nepareiza ceļa. Es tikai vēlos, lai es varētu pārliecināt cilvēkus, kuri ir atlikuši manā dzīvē, nopietni uztvert viņu garīgo veselību, it īpaši pašnāvības sekas. Es rakstu, runāju par to, esmu terapijā, aktīvi meklēju lielāku skaidrību par sevi un savām emocijām.

     Es vēlos daudzas lietas, es vēlētos, lai es būtu varējusi viņam palīdzēt, es vēlos, lai es ar viņu vairāk runātu, es vēlos, lai man būtu spēks glābt pasauli un mainīt viņa ticību. Viss, ko es varu darīt, ir izstāstīt savus stāstus, būt atklāta, neaizsargāta  un mācīties no katras manas dzīves pieredzes. Es viņam to esmu parādā, viņš rīkojās tāpat.

Es mīlu Tevi,

Klimpa 

Latviešu versija ir izlabots google translate produkts. Oriģinālā valoda ir angļu.

The Case of my Godfather

 

 In loving memory,  

Forever in our hearts. 

 

   The unimaginable happened. I was rushing to work, through the veins of Mayfair, contemplating how much I really needed this job, if I should get coffee, and if so, I didn't want to buy one for everyone and texting them would be too late? No, it's still early, maybe my boss is there already. So, I need coffee, mum, its 7am, ugh its hot and I hate my job, I'm so tired, mum is so ignorant sometimes, she knows I'm on my way to work, I told her yesterday, why is she calling me? By the end of the thought I'm at the corner, roll my eyes looking at the Lucky Fish and head to the office. I scan my card, I am really not feeling like myself but I think I will be fine as soon as I get to my desk, right? Third floor, gold, glass, marble, suits, phones, meetings, polite smiles, desktops, in darkness, in rows, alone. That place was a world of its own, with so much business tying everyone together, it had developed into its own organism and I was the latest microbe to the game, really not fitting in. 

   I get to my desk, my boss is there, greets me, probably with a joke, I apologise and say I have to call my mother, she's been trying to reach me for some reason, I probably curse again to show how angry I am about it. She picks up and mumbles something about sitting down, everything being okay, this morning, my uncle and the fact that he had chosen to leave this earth. 

   Numbness. 

  And then replies, to my mother, that she shouldn't worry about me, I'm fine, take care of yourself and gran, I'll help in any way I can. Next line is directed at my boss, I say that I am sorry, but I just received some horrible news, I spare him the details but pretty much straight up say what happened. He tells me to leave, I don't remember if I protested or not. I probably texted people on my way home, my boyfriend, who had been through hell with me already, not knowing whats in store next. I broke the news to my father, my uncle and him had been old friends, that's how my parents met. I dreaded the call to my grandmother. I don't have much memory of that, I assume its deeply suppressed. 

  "Pre-Christmas London is ridiculous. Decorations worth more than cars, everyone measuring Christmas trees like penises, who's got a bigger one. I suggest they donate that money to good cause, not their friend's money laundering scheme." That's probably what I thought passing through London, on my way home to deal with the mess that is about to follow. I honestly had no idea what would be the end of this butterfly effect. On so many people, like his son, his previous girlfriends who loved him for his pure heart, his friends, his family, my mother, his mother, his father, brother, me. 

  He was the soul. He loved to hide behind big muscles and funny lines, making jokes without any boundaries, he moved a lot, partied, made horrible decisions, developed addictions, healthy and less healthy, loved, and I mean, had a whole garden, loved plants and food and had allergies to certain animals but still would take in every stray, every four-legged soul like they are his own. He understood them, they understood him, it is something that I think I've inherited too. 

   For me, he was my uncle, my godfather, the guy who never really new my birthday, usually missing it by a few days or weeks, but always being sincere, then sarcastic and then telling me not to get in trouble, but if I did, he knew everyone, I'd be taken care of. I mean, for a multitude of reasons I won't explain why I am certain, but I am, he lead an interesting and tragic life, the most pure kind. When I was younger, he was around a bit, I remember pictures and rare glimpses of his face somewhere, but most of the time, he was a story. It would be a story about him, his troubles and tales of crazy parties, but I didn't mind. He was more part of me than my godmother, she didn't exist in any way. They were never together; She was chosen from my then-father's side, more or less a random person within the family, at least to me. I often thought about other women I wanted to be my godmothers instead of her. There is a long list. But I will tell you about them some other time.

    Our relationship was fairly distant, especially in the last few years. Although we lived closer than ever, him in Ireland, and me in London, we were very disconnected. Much had happened, guilt, misplaced anger, and misunderstandings were the basis of much of our conversations. His glee and happiness was wrapped in a thick veil of drug induced passiveness, irritability, and paranoia, all circling closer and closer to him. He had isolated himself from a lot of people, slowly losing the line between reality and imagination. The people around him, his friends and chosen family had no idea how to react, many ignored actions, so many tried to save him, many chose to leave to save themselves, other gave him another chance. I do not hold any anger or blame towards any of them, I never have, I am incredibly thankful to the ones who helped, you will always be dear to me.  

    He called me to say farewell around the beginning of Autumn in 2019. I was having pints with the locals at the pub I worked at in Westminster, a place where people like to indicate their associations, family histories and other interesting characterisations of a certain lifestyle. I was friends with everyone, the regulars, their mates, their families, the single morning alcoholics, usually public servants, the evening alcoholics, always in groups, the engineers, the project managers and other parts of society. I knew a lot of them. It was not too busy, but some key people were in attendance, keeping the flow of my drinks going. My mother warned me about my uncle being weird. I half-ignored the message, still half following conversations around me, I text my uncle, tell him to call. Some sips later, he calls, I ask what the fuck. Not much is needed, but also I'm diving in without context, I have no idea what's happening. He tells me that he's in danger, he can't sleep, eat, he looks really worrisome, I start asking about who is involved. My mates pick up on the tension, follow me outside, I feed them half words and noises from my conversation. My uncle tells me to stay out of everything and that I should take care of myself. Stunned, I half explain what happened, my friends are ready to mobilise their people in Ireland, ready to move him, store him in London. For this to develop in 30 minutes is impressive, but probably partially made up and in reality, not necessary. I thank them for their support and I continue long debates with my mother and gran. 

    Shortly after, he is flown out of Ireland to Latvia, he stays in my childhood room, it has pink and purple wall paint, as well as white little rugs and a Snoop Dogg poster inside one of the doors of the wall-long, white wardrobe. He probably smoked weed looking at that. The Hello Kitty painting near the door looks possessed, it's time to part with it, in my opinion, he probably thought the same. 

    The horrible art apart, my uncle got better, he started working with his friend, he is working in the garden, my gran is making many beautiful memories, he seems to be recovering. They arrange a visit at a psychiatric hospital, he should be admitted on Monday. Before my gran and him leave Monday morning, he goes out to his work to pick up a navigation device. He never returned. There are many details to this that fascinate me, but I won't include them due to their graphic nature and extremeness. 

    His death was a black hole. With him gone, everything had shifted, it's like he took so many things with him, that every relationship, life story, decision, thinking, reality was affected, anyone who was lucky enough to have been brushed by his presence, his dark body and light feathered wings. Looking back, it seems more clear that he was suffering from depression since a young age, that he probably used his humour as a defence mechanism all his life. There are many root issues that have to do with his upbringing, the upbringing of his parents, the life, the environment, the society, his individuality, it's all important in this. No one thing caused his life to end with such a tragedy, it was headed that way even before, he new. When I was around 8 years old, he came to visit, claiming he could tell when people will die. He said he had predicted the age for a hot girl at a party the night before, he said he hasn't got that much time himself, but refused to tell me my death-date. If he was delusional, lying, on drugs, a saint, enlightened and aligned or it was the red flag to sedate him and shock his brain into dysfunction, I don't know. But what it tells me, is that he had been thinking about it for a long time. His suicide was a result of everything and he ultimately made the decision, however consciously or not, in order to protect us, the people he loves, his mother, his son, his friends. He was afraid that his actions would hurt us, he ended the cycle with him, lifted the curse, paid the debt, found release, followed an obsession, had a psychotic break. 

   His diagnosis included mentions of manic depression, psychosis, schizophrenia, trauma, PTSD, and many many more. It was never properly treated or for that matter, diagnosed. He had had enough just before that could happen. And our family suddenly became one that writes on the dotted line following a question about mental disorders and suicides in the family history. 

    It puts things into new terms for everyone. I see my family struggling to live with these new symptoms they have developed, and not that they chose to, everyone has been affected differently by his passing, there is no right or wrong. I just wish I could convince the people I have left in my life to take their mental health seriously, especially the effects of suicide. I write, I speak about it, I am in therapy, actively seeking more clarity about myself and my emotions. 

    There are many things I wish for, I wish I could have helped him, I wish I spoke to him more, I wish I had the power to save the world and change his faith. All I can do is tell my stories, be open, vulnerable, and learn from every experience in my life. I owe it to him, he did the same. 

I love you, 

Klimpa*

(*dumpling in Latvian, he would call me that)

Reflection on a Cycle

Hello, I'm Anna

and I need to tell stories.

      I wrote as a child, about fireplaces and the feelings that spilled over onto paper. I truly and deeply loved reading, writing and expanding my language. I remember my 5th grade teacher encouraging me and really seeing my writing for how pure it was. But then, life changed, and language became my biggest enemy. Ten days before my 12th birthday, we moved to Germany. My family, who had moved there thirty years prior, spoke either Russian or German, Latvian was uttered in attempts to remember leftovers of past knowledge. I felt out of place, commanding Latvian freely, but not having anyone to speak it with. The focus now was on survival. I had to quickly figure out what to do. I embraced our new life the best I could, knowing that this would ease my mothers guilt over ripping me out of all the familiar and planting us into a world that was so different. 

     I started school soon after. Scared, not understanding a word of what is being said, I was quickly walked up the stairs soon after getting there. My mother, shocked and paralysed looking on as I leave into the unknown. I still remember that moment today. My new class was a truly unique place. The area was good, the school was out of control, but our little room was a sanctuary for all of us, misplaced and brave kids. The ages of my classmates raged from 10 to 18, the nationalities were as colourful as it gets, our class making up for half the globe, representing Syria, Bangladesh, Vietnam, Columbia, the Dominican Republic, Iraq, Bulgaria, Georgia, and many others before and after us. My world shifted in a few seconds. I now had to unpack my English knowledge, to mediocre success in this environment, as most kids either didn't speak it and our teacher encouraged us to speak German at all times. Eva, our teacher, in my memory glows like an angel, teaching all of us her special language, making us all understand her. This way, she helped every single kid learn German and find their way in life. She pushed me out of the class after a year under her protection. I was excited, my German was good enough tho follow classes, but in no way enough to follow classes every day. Yet, somehow, I managed to get through, usually staying silent or having a panic attack when teachers called on me to read out loud. While I started to get into the social structures of this school, I quickly found the crowds that would introduce me to cigarettes, weed and truly destructive and stupid behaviour. Looking back I can't believe the seriousness of the issues we were dealing with. Neither of us knew what that could result in. Now, I truly look back with fear. 

     Those are also the years that I do not remember particularly well. I started watching TV shows to escape the reality, as being a teenager was pared with a long list of issues. My language and the way I was perceived remained as the main influences on me. I started with zero German in that school and a few years later I had managed to build a life, speak and use my words freely. But the past haunted me, and every time I got confident, either the voice in my head or an asshole classmate would remind me of how I once pronounced a word wrong. Added to that, I was skinny. The largest of issues to these people, ironically. But as I started to work as a model at the young age of 13, I also gained a voice. I had to defend myself against those boys, other girls, grown men, my family, my sceptical friends and against all those people who wanted to hurt me for selfish reasons. I had to develop a thick skin. Looking back, modelling and all resulting issues from that have impacted me more than I'm even ready to admit, but it triggered the need to fight for myself for once. 

      As I grew more confident, harsher words were thrown at me. Some guidance counsellors told me that I am closer to becoming a stripper than receiving a degree. Her words are stuck with me until today. The day after I submitted my Bachelor's Dissertation. Can you see? How wrong they were? And if I'm honest, how wrong I was? 

      After finishing 10th grade in my first German school, I continued at a school that would give me a shot at applying for university one day. Those years deserve a book on their own. But in regards to my language, weirdly, it got.. to six. Early on in grade 6, I realised that French truly was a cursed language, as every teacher in this field was something spawning from the depths of hell. Apart from one, the lady who tried her best to teach me French, but ended up paying me to teach her daughter English, babysit and cater at her gatherings. I see now that not all French people are bad. I am sorry for carrying this assumption for that long. One of the main reasons for my forgiveness is the development of an understanding of teaching, people and the environment of language. It was just the wrong time. However, the last three years in Germany were language festival. Latvian was spoken at home, however German had started to slip into our daily conversations, making my friends laugh when I would speak to my mother, them only getting the occasional "Haltestelle" (meaning bus stop). I spoke German freely in school, and wrote nearly at the level of other students, but always seemed to stumble across difficulties. I excelled at the advanced English class, as I had always done throughout the years. Spanish was a blast too, as our amazing teacher was more of a strict friend than just someone doing their job. I found Spanish easy to understand and could usually rely on mu gut feeling. I probably could have put more effort in, I'm sorry Miss H. 

      In that time Russian had become a huge part of my life. I understood most conversations, which was due to the fact that I was exposed to a whole Russian community while in a relationship. Russian was spoken all around me, always in anticipation to hear an answer from me too. This is when I truly realised that languages played a huge part in my life. It was core to my existence, as I could not bring myself to try and speak the language that I loved and was surrounded by. This is still something I struggle with today. at least I loudly sing Russian songs and spoke to that one cashier in Bulgaria. OF course the Universe had to acknowledge it, as she commented on my "strong accent but correct sentence structure". Thanks lady. 

    After moving to London nearly three years ago, I lost nearly all of them. I spent over two years speaking English with everyone, apart from a few family members who I spoke broken Latvian to. German usually took a week to get back to conversation level, but even that usually was shaky, as doctors would talk slowly to me, asking if I'd understood, using simple terms to explain arising issues. Russian remained in my life through a few friends and tarot readings, as well as the occasional line below instagram posts. 

     But my life was consumed by English, challenging me on every step of the way. I developed a British accent within the first month, I truly cannot explain it fully, even now. Then, university began. On the first ever seminar I had, I raised my hand, while my insides were shaking, it felt like an earthquake was making everything that was inside me fall out of place, creating chaos, fear and destruction. In reality, I raised my hand and asked my teacher if he thought that democracy was the right type of state system for every country in the world. He diverged the question, never answering it. Somewhere between the question coming up, my hand raising, the internal earthquake and actually speaking I found a loud voice. It was speaking to every cell in my body, like through massive megaphones, that this decision will transform my life and will give me my voice back. It did. 

     I became outspoken, never backing off of a discussion, voicing my usually divergent views, making my teachers entertain themselves by pairing me with other students who were the polar opposite. To be honest, I can see how that might have been fun to see, and actually, it only helped me down the line. It taught me to do my research, to really understand my view in order to defend it, to respect the other side of the argument, as well as the person voicing it and it also taught me that most people do not follow the same processes. If anything, it is concerning to me. Our society is truly disconnected from the importance of growth, education and challenging internal truths. And I would never dare to put all the blame on the individual, I think the issue is much larger. I think that there are systematical obstacles put in our ways to misguide us, disconnect us and to let us use our resources in unproductive ways. 

      I started my degree by having someone always look over my writing, correcting the language, pointing out knotted thoughts, helping me learn the rules. By the middle, I was attending PhD classes, listening to presentations and words I couldn't understand. But I was intrigued, I wanted to understand what they were discussing. So I kept using the opportunities that had presented themselves, taking up reading about psychology to aid me in my own therapy and to understand our society better. My mentor was right by my side, any time we had had an interesting thought, wanting to see where it leads us, we would call each other, often speaking longer than an hour. The love for books, thought, language and education was reborn. I looked at myself deeply, I started to write now and then, reading a lot, participating in large and interesting discussions on politics, literature and philosophy. The other side of me was struggling to keep up, often leading me down questionable paths, but I always managed to get a deep look at myself, learning about myself every time. 

     This has lead my story to now. The scariest part of the reflection. I submitted my dissertation yesterday. I realised that this research was actually the research of myself. I wrote about my motherland, my soil, my roots and the wind of destiny, destruction and transformation that has blown over Latvia, carrying my ancestors across the world, planting a seed that blooms into my own life along the way. This work combined my whole existence into one string of words. It helped me unlock my love of story-telling again. 

      See you back here.