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

 

Shingles and the three years before that

   Welcome back.

  This might be a longer one. Grab yourself a cuppa and settle in. This is the story of my granny killing disease and the three years before that. I think it might be connected, then again, maybe it isn't. 

  About two weeks ago I had horrible lower back pain, none of the usual hip stretches and back cracking techniques seemed to work. I am a professional at this, as I have scoliosis, back pain is one of the only constants in my life. Pru, my friend, who's hands have healed and touched many, said my back was one of the worst ones she had seen, so much tension I must be in constant pain. She wasn't wrong. I knew this was different though, pinched nerve kind of pain. 

  Soon after, the pain had spread to a large patch across my hip and back, it felt like that time when I got sunstroke in Columbia a day after spending three days in a Christian cult. That time, when I was vomiting my guts out, I remember thinking that this is my body cleansing itself from all the stress, fear, greediness, and essentially, pure evil, purging it out of my system. All of my skin was painful to touch, just like then, but we had had horrible weather for a while so I knew it wasn't that. For some reason though, I thought of shingles, a weird disease that is only curable by old witches and words of God, at least in Latvia. After the rashes started to appear and I was in more pain than ever in my life, I found out that in the UK you get antiviral medicine. I walked out of that A&E armed with prescriptions for both, shingles and my depression. I had run out of antidepressants about three weeks ago and since then, well, I think I experienced mania, a mental shake-up like never before and the lesson of my life. I needed to be medicated again, it was getting too close to the bottom, again. 

  This is also when I realised that all of this started three years ago when my ex moved out of our Camden maisonette.  

  The trigger this time was a storm of so many elements, it's hard to grasp the scope of it. I guess the beginning was in a very good place, I had found out that I will receive a first honours degree for my Bachelor's and the four-day dissertation, I had started writing creatively, drawing, meeting new people, taking care of other people out of the most pure intensions, really putting all of myself into everything I did. I was the happiest I had been in nearly all my life. So, as life would have it, there was a black cat in need of a better home. Only later I realised I had seen a black cat with dark orange eyes in a meditation months ago, then more recently, even drawing a picture of it. She was on her way for a while already. 

  Shit hit the fan, as it does so often and I ended up with a very angry woman trying to manipulate her way through my friends into me giving the cat back to her. If you are confused, I was too, but her reasons for getting the cat back were not out of love or concern for the animal, thats me in the story. She is a complicated person, but she wanted to hurt me by taking away an animal that I clearly loved and wanted so much. Now Olive, the black maniac cat, is happily asleep in her window hammock, just above my head, after a day of eating, spilling water everywhere and showing me her affection. She's a healthy kitten now, the best diet, best toys, constant love and care by everyone in the apartment of a scientist, an aspiring writer, a musician and an artist. Sounds like an anecdote, but we also actually have a sweet little dog with brain damage. It doesn't get better than this.

  During the few hours when the shit was actively hitting the fan, Olive was home, safe and sound, however I was not there. On the verge of tears, in full protective mode, shaking from the fear of her being taken away, I was on a walk, when blue-eyes Habibi asked why I was so affected by this. "Because everyone always leaves", the tone half choked, half angry, eyes wondering across the Thames as we cross the bridge and into Chelsea. My dreamy yellow dress seemed uncomfortable, the peonies in my arms were nice and made me smile, but I was an emotional wreck nevertheless. Blue-eyes ordered me home soon after, I had to be reunited with my precious. On the way home, angry and psychologically complex messages were being thrown at me like daggers, undeserved, in my opinion. Panic growing, I ran towards the door, up in the elevator, to the door, into my room. My flatmate, angel of a person, sitting there with Olive, doing just fine, I throw all my things onto the bed and after a quick moment of silence, I break down, screaming about what the fuck is wrong with people, tears squeezing through, my voice loud and angry. I stop, start explaining the situation, with shaky hands I roll a joint, smoke it, pet the cat, talk more, roll another one. I brace myself, I deal with the whole situation, loose friends on the way and walk out with a large red patch across my ass from the smack that the universe gave me with this one. I'm referring to the shingles, by the way. 

  It is no secret that this disease that can kill your granny is mainly caused by extreme emotional distress. It is safe to assume where that last drop came from. But the danger wasn't the lady, it was my lack of safety, or at least I perceived it so. In my mind, when I received the first messages earlier that day, the lady was in my room taking away my cat, tackling my flatmates along the way, Olive never to be seen again. It was a very unlikely situation, she didn't even have my current address. Additionally, there are multiple secure doors, floors, and people around me that I could deal with most of it by calling the police. What rattled me actually was some repeated trauma involving people taking dear things away from me, from people leaving, from people coming into the middle of my life and setting it on fire, making me lose all the things that I want, love and care for. And also because people sometimes just leave. I struggle with people leaving, that comes from a life full of flakiness, two dads, and other occasional emotionally immature people you tangle paths with. That's what came out on the bridge. 

  The last few years I have spent in relationships with people where I had put all my weight on them, suffocating them, leaving them feeling like the relationship was one-sided, saving my broken ass. They weren't wrong. Recently I had separated from someone that is probably the most incredible love story to date, including all fifty or so "goodbye"'s. I guess that was why losing those who mean a lot to me was so close to the surface, ready to show the face in all its glory, like right now, as it tears my chest apart and makes me want to scream, leaving me breathless. 

  My first ever big adult crisis was half a year after moving to London. That's when my ex moved out of our Camden maisonette. The relationship was doomed for a while, the breakup wasn't the actual issue, I think we are both much happier now, apart, for good. He took, rightfully so, as they were his, all the dishes, the kettle, the toaster, all his stuff apart from a golden world map, now proudly hanging on my wall, and the old wifi box, that's still traveling from apartment to apartment with me, now residing on the top of my kitchen shelves. I was without money, without mum, my usual saving grace but with two coffee mugs. Thankfully, by wanting to escape the relationship, I had embraced the new life in London and had friends who provided emotional support, concerned smiles at my "everything is fine" phrase I used 7x a minute and a helping hand on the trip to IKEA. It was a valuable lessen back then, losing every piece of basic needs and security, having that "shit I'm alone in London and I don't even have cutlery" kind of moment. It took an emotional toll on me, I cried for a while and started writing letters to myself. Half motivating, half explanatory, with the occasional "you'll be fine in a while" thrown for inspiration. As my life took turns beating the shit out of me, I kept writing those letters, once in a while attempting to be inspired. That first adult experience of having to deal with life all on my own made me write. 

  I have had many heartaches, I am very very emotional and sensitive, every person in my life can tell you that. The two and a half years after the IKEA trip were more than saturated with big adult fuckup moments, big adult problems, big adult heartbreaks and life lessons. I felt like "a typewriter being kicked down the stairs" (Dylan Moron, the legend). 

  Tonight I woke up from my nap and realised that my current existence is a waste of space and essentially, life. I have like maybe sixty summers left. A month ago I wrote countless lists filled with ideas that were flooding my brain, pictures, creativity everywhere, appreciation for every moment and situation. So, I sat down, continued drawing a face that fascinates me, moved on to writing and sealing a few post cards and then decided to stop procrastinating. All the happiness that I had a month ago, although sucked out of me at the moment, came to me when I was confronting my fears, and my fear was writing, but writing something uninspired, an old story, something dry and basically a contemporary lie. I decided to be as genuine and pure to myself as I have been towards others, so selflessly. I'm being selfless to myself. My therapist would be proud to read these words. 

I strongly encourage feedback.

With love,

Anna

I am the

・ I am the・

I am the "we had a special night together"

I am the "why aren't you wearing the thing I got you"

I am the "call me daddy one more time"

I am the "but I do think it's a good idea"

I am rarely truly listened to

Without their minds wondering up and down

And up and down again

Undressing me with their eyes

Ignoring my voice as they only hear theirs

I am rarely my mind

Or my pain, tears, smiles, too much emotion, yet

The motions of my body is all that moves them

To go further, faster, longer

The soft pleads to stop are encouraging 

Angel I'm trying to protect you

They get the WRONG idea, don't even want to hear it

"I am not like that" is their line

No need to be defensive if not guilty, right?

Nobody wants to acknowledge the truth

because it's uncomfortable

I know

A Secret Window into my Mind

Hello and Welcome back

   I have been dreading opening this page for a little while. Life got away from me. There are babies, sometimes newborns, sometimes one year olds, sometimes nine one year olds with drums in their hands. Sometimes there are children looking at me like a tall, blonde, pink alien while I walk through the alleys of God's Own Junkyard but most of the time they smile and willingly accept any attention I can spare for them. I am not home a lot. I have found new places to feel at home at, like the tube, with my nose diving into a book, its at my friends house, holding the baby, it's when I sing lullabies to the child that calls me nanny. Another home is in the sun, anywhere where the heat can reach me and warm me up without interruption, or on the other side of the river, where I am in a sober, agitated but happy place, where I am reminded of bare beauty and questioned on the validity of my recent realisations. It's also in messages to close and far friends, invitations to talk over ciders or big parties later that week. I am grateful that I have the ability to see all of this beauty, to appreciate it in the moment, to cherish it and write about it. 

   I have been saying "yes" the last few weeks. Partially because I had to, but also because I wanted to see what will happen. I was free from the shackles of my degree and felt inspired, free and ready to emerge in the unknown. Doing it has been incredible for many reasons. First of all, I am finding myself really tuning into what I want and what is good for me, naturally attracting those things much easier. By approaching everything with an open and loving heart, I am learning that life finds a way to really give back. Sounds nearly biblical, but I wouldn't know. The closest I've gotten in Christianity is a three-day visit to a cult and the never ending guilt that plagues me and is engraved into my structure. Or maybe that is a trait of Judaism, which, interestingly, also was in my family, although everyone claimed we were of pure Christian roots. I think people lie. His name was Solomon Stein. Come on now, right? 

   I am drifting again, across the many connections that my brain makes with every thought, idea, word, name, fact, it all is connected and jumping at me as the most important thought of the moment. And that is how I go about, I try to calm my mind to a functioning speed, and I react. Every day I expect things to happen, like sometimes at 1pm I will look at the clock and think "something will happen by the end of the day", and I am usually right. And as tiring and challenging it can become, it's actually fun. I had forgotten that life can be good for more than one day at the time. And I suddenly also have the energy to carry this sort of lifestyle! As new things happen, it has become so much easier to adapt, by simply accepting the situation and making the best of it. I had wondered about that ability for a very long time, I was looking at busy people in my life, at idols and celebrities, wondering how they do it. I would run one errand and be done for the day for so many years. And now, through all of those dark days, weeks of misery, months of depression and confusion, years of heartbreak, it all has come down to this. I finally accept that nothing stays the same. And therefore, I enjoy it so much more, I am ready to take on challenges, to travel, to say yes to things, and also to say no. When the energy doesn't seem right or I feel like I need a day to take care of myself, that is what I do. I really hope this becomes part of my daily life and many more of you can find this state, its very beautiful and bitter-sweet. Reminds me of sunsets and coffee. 

   Today I took a day for myself. I slightly forced myself downstairs to the green area in front of my house. I spent three hours sunbathing, reading, smoking the occasional cigarette and talking to people, mostly delivery drivers and men telling me that they can not wait to get off of work. I also petter two Chow Chow's, they live across the street and go potty on our lawn, but I don't mind. He picks it up. 

I am reading a book written by someone I know, so it is strange. I recognise the similarities between the book and the real life, I wonder how much of the story is true, because, oddly, I cannot tell. He blurs all the lines so masterfully, I forget that there is any other reality out there. Truly fascinating and also, an odd experience, reading his work. I also don't really want to ask about it too much, it feels pushy and fan-girly. I would rather like to piece the things together slowly, on my own, with the help of an occasional story. 

I also cooked for myself, which is something I hadn't done in a while, as I was ever barely home. After that, I took a nice and long shower, cuddled with a dog, took care of my skin, face, bruises, nails and hair. I look peaceful, at ease, tired but recovering, and shiny. Coconut oil does that. It makes the skin shiny, and slippery, and soft and actually, incredibly beautiful. I massage my hands, my neck, my legs, my face, multiple times throughout the evening, being grateful for the strength that I carry, for the powerful vessel that I had been given in this life. 

   There is only one issue that I currently have, and it is hay fever. Well and maybe my bruising, but that will require a blood test. However, the hay fever thing is much more infuriating! I have never ever in my life been allergic to anything, especially the outside, and I secretly took much pride in that, it started to feel like a superpower, as more and more of my friends were sneezing their eyes out and chugging pills to survive the day. I thought it was a message from God herself, telling me that I am meant to be the chosen one, the one who can survive being outside for a purpose. Well, I guess I got taken off of the VIP list. What started as throat itching and a slight corona panic, became a full blown hay fever, with blocked nose, throat and mind, everything just feeling like it will kill me. After much persuasion, Habibi convinced me to take some vitamins and antihistamines. I'm grateful I did, the pills do wonders. 

   So I'm back to the land of the living, taking care of myself and others around me, being truthfully grateful for the life I've been given, with all the highs and especially the lows. 

Reach out to me, let's connect, talk, I love hearing your comments on my writing! Many many new stories are coming, poems, even, art too. Stay tuned and in love! 

Until then, 

Anna

Auntie Anna, Mission Day One

 

 To Her,

 

You arrived with the first 

thunder of the summer, 

You were our sweet cherry on top, 

the bringer of new chapters,

one of our own. 

The newest member to the 

all-powerful sisterhood, 

so strong, brave and beautiful.

You are the beginning for us, 

the force that carries us. 

You will always have our hearts, 

as you bloom into 

all your wildest dreams. 

-Auntie Anna

   What a day. She's home, she's beautiful, healthy, sleepy and just.. perfect. I just spent the last week on the phone to my strong and incredible friend, awaiting the arrival of Her, getting ready to go, then not, and then I felt so helpless, as my friend was telling me about issues arising, accompanied by pain for days before and after. I am in awe. 

   Today, I arrived there early, unwrapping my new spare keys from duct tape, carrying Prosecco, coffee and just ridiculous amounts of roses. In-between the chatting and directing the house-keeper, I organised clothes, tyres, tools, wires, baby clothes, empty shampoo bottles, getting rid of anything and everything that was left and could potentially cause unnecessary headache. My priority right now is less unnecessary movement and crying.  

   When my beautiful friends arrived in a while cab with Her, I was snapping photos and just being so overwhelmed by what was happening, I don't think I actually realised what had happened. The rest of the day was so hectic, with another 1 year old calling me duck and giving me the best hugs ever, cooking dinner, cleaning, running up and down their staircase and also holding Her. I had never held a newborn before, I was slightly anxious but I think my flatmates dog provided some exercise, the little sweet Yorkie, he is very fragile and depends on me to hold him for his life too. 

   When I held Her, it felt so natural. So calming and wonderful, there is nothing like it. She just made herself comfortable on my chest, completely ignoring the spilt coffee on my shirt and just snoozed away. While she was dreaming of the future, I was confronting my past. Her father and I had a conversation, leading to the question of my relationships. I had to explain that I was on my own now, really weirdly struggling to hold the tears back. It felt like the baby had opened me up to my core and would not let me mask a single thing. So I sat there, tears rolling down my cheeks, realising that the reason I was so upset is because I had never grieved the thought of my own children with this person. We had discussed it, I was so deeply connected to him, the thought of me as a Mother and him as the Father was nearly natural. We both get along great with kids, we both want them, we would be decent parents. But the fault here is thinking about it as if it is the reality. It never happened, it was an illusion that dressed the life we had, the future plan, the string that ties you together even stronger, making it harder to leave, offering another reason why to stay. 

   As the night went on, I got so used to being in that house, with my incredible friends and Her, that neither leaving or staying felt right. When I did get home around midnight, I was so incredibly tired, so overrun by today's events that I didn't know what to do. I made a cuppa (tea for those not here), I changed into my flannel shirt and smoked a joint while watching Mixed-Ish. The end result was supposed to be me falling asleep. And yet I could not settle, even after two episodes. Staying up late isn't unusual for me, but I really wanted to consciously be a good influence on myself. When nothing else works, I put on a meditation video, they have one with every feeling and issue in the title, go find your warrior. So, I decided to Reset: Decompress your Body and Mind, hoping to be able to clear and deal with some of today's events. Instead, I ended up sobbing, loudly, grieving my relationship, the potential family, my miscarriage many years back, at all the could have's and maybe's. I could feel my body reacting to Her so much, like I had been missing that, not actually, but more like my body finally doing what it started. It also made it clear for me that I am better off being the Auntie Anna for a long time for now. I couldn't do this without the right people around. 

   I ended up writing this blog because I had to "imprison my thoughts in words before they escape", as my mentor said. And I have to say, I am feeling so grateful for the new and remaining wonders of life, albeit I carry a bittersweet taste on my tongue, as my world has recently been burnt down and I sort of miss it. A quick pit-stop at the sulky self-pity never hurt nobody, just made the future experiences brighter.

   I also would like to encourage people to reach out to me, genuinely. I'd like to read the work that some of you are doing, or any interesting stories you have, not that I need content, I've got plenty. I just love connecting to people and spend hours revisiting stories and memories, examining them from every angle, webbing a new network of connections and explanations. I also love when people relate to me. Feels like I'm somehow not too alone, especially when the people you admire admit that they are also human.

With love, 

Auntie Anna 

Same Thing, Different Font: My Body

 

My therapist was smiling today. 

 The flow of conversation was so familiar, so intact, so bouncy, back and forth with questions and answers and then explanations and explorations. "And what feeling might that be?" is a common question. Sometimes I struggle with naming them, I never really learned the nitty-gritty of feelings and their names, I just felt them and them either a. exploded, b. suppressed, c. hurt myself. 

So let's explore that, keep the wave going. 

 The hurting was never the movie type, I didn't have 13 reasons why nor was I looking for them. I hurt myself by over-exercising until I smiled from the pain, finding release in the physical activity, as emotionally those feelings were trapped. I did this around the age of 13, I believe. I was pretty ripped, not going to lie. However, the other way of hurting myself has been food. I have weeks when I just cannot eat. The thought of it makes me feel all sorts of uncomfortable. It's like when you are in love and the butterflies are too much to handle but they are bats from the depths of hell. Later in life I gained weight, causing me to reflect on this whole issue from a completely different angle. 

  When I was born, I was tiny, when I was a child, I was tiny, hearing that the wind would blow me away (a few times it's been an actual concern for me), people asking me if I am sick, or, on the contrary, praising me for my fragile body. At that point, I had never even thought of my body in any way, it was me, I was questioning why I am Me, but the body? That was the vessel, not really important. But then, life happened and my body became the only stable thing left. It had proven itself that I was not gaining any weight easily, so my eating habits, physical exercise, sleep as well as drugs/cigarettes/alcohol, were all fluctuating, some from extremely high to low in a day, some keeping high for an extended period of time, really not much of a pattern. Not a problem, apparently. 

  I looked great, felt alright and my head was still functioning, I was a-ok. The modelling happened somewhere along the way and now, for the first time, at the young age of 15 or so, I was getting paid to just put on or take clothes off, stare into the camera and smile. Objectification of my body had started much earlier in my life, but these were the first experiences with literal exchange of money for pictures of my body and face. At the time, I thought I was crushing it, I was driven around in brand new cars, got to travel a bit, felt great, my social media looked fun as hell and I loved the vibe most of the time. It was my escape from the bullies and mean faceless people, I got to go to the studio after school and work on creative projects for hours. I learned about photo editing, lights and setup, about colour correcting, cameras, lenses, weights, angles. I am still continuing to learn about it now, I have a few passionate friends, I really enjoy it. 

  There is another angle to this, however. Dancing was always a huge part of my life, turns out, it kept my body in shape for years, without me really noticing. Until I started collapsing on dance floors and loosing all feeling in my right side of the body on my way home form a 3h training session. The start was less dramatic. Maybe not, you be the judge. When I was about 4/5 years old, I refused to continue traditional Latvian dancing classes (by refusing to enter the room, although I was fully dressed and ready to participate) and wanted to join the hip-hop girls instead. So I did, those girls were my family, I'm so excited to see so many of them to continue dancing, making it into a career. 

  Then, when I was in Germany, I danced for many different groups and coaches, sometimes spending whole week-days in the studio, and mostly every weekend for the better part of the eight years I lived there had something to do with dancing. Oh, that world is full of characters, like coaches who steal money from outfits to probably spend it on drugs, people who completely cut you off as soon as you move and people who actually continue to gas you up as you go on in your life. The good and the bad, it's all there. But that community did not help with the body image issue, most of the time I didn't have enough ass to shake or tits to show. Well, at least I was in the front most of the time, I could give myself credit for that. 

  When I left, I feel like I left my body in Germany. My first night in London was horrible, I didn't even want to be here anymore. I had three heavy suitcases, my whole life neatly packed inside, weighing about my body-weight of 54kg or so. I will forever remember the taste of blood in my mouth after sitting down on the train, surrounded by the suitcases, panting, and sobbing, alone. I was ready to turn around, I hated everything. I hated my boyfriend at the time for not picking me up from the airport, I hated that I was so weak and I hated that I had to start all over again and pretend to be happy about it. 

   Things changed quickly after that, my boyfriend at the time controlled much of my life, getting me hypnotised to stop smoking, I was eating semi-healthy and he commented on my intake of alcohol and forbid drugs. I mean, fair enough, but I was not going to go all clean and perfect for a guy. So I escaped into university, oh first year was busy, fun, tipsy and wild. The alcohol intake, especially after breaking up with the guy, went through the roof. In the spring I started working in a pub, to add to the mix of unhealthiness - I was eating horrible food, I was not exercising or dancing and surprise! The girl who would eat garlic bread and drink coke at 3am to gain weight suddenly didn't fit into any of her clothes. I was up nearly 10kg at my 'heaviest'. While so many people saw me as "finally healthy", for me it was a literal nightmare. 

   My body had been the foundation of myself, it's the one thing that never changed, the one thing that stayed the same, the one thing I could rely on, the one thing that helped me and saved me. I was so depressed and insecure, I still am careful when looking at old pictures. Really have to quiet the critical voice down that is telling me all sorts of unkind things. I sure do have a lot of opinions. One aligned with another and an unhealthy obsession into food, nutrition and body-image was born. I say "unhealthy" because it left a permanent damage on me, I now tend to starve myself for extended periods of time, because I used diets and exercise for the wrong reasons. I made a wrong connection between food, pleasure, happiness and deserving. So that is where I have been stuck for a while now, very skinny, fragile to the eye. However,  I mask well, for myself and others around me too - I love big clothing, I have found a new love for fashion, I am excited to distract myself from my body. 

  Slowly, I think it's time I get this thing under control. Hot girl summer is around the corner, and I have got a book to write.

With Love, 

Anna

Never Feeling like Lewis Hamilton

this one is a wild ride,

strap in.

"lights out and away we go"

Sitting Childhood

  As long as I can remember, my then-father would escape into sports. Darts, all the Olympics, in my memory he nearly qualified himself, pool, Formula 1, ice-hockey, all of it. God I loved it. Still do, especially the sneaky little sport that is a world in itself, the fascinating activity of racing, especially in Formula 1. 

  I loved Michael Schumacher, everyone did, I remember loving LH44, the pretty boy, the controversial boy, the one that was the right answer to some children's magazine quiz. I was an active, loud and interesting child, I would not shut up for hours, until I would be popped down in front of the TV, next to my dad, and that's it. I would sit there, watching the cars go round in circles for 1,5h, ignore my mother telling us to turn the noise down, the engines, names, raised voices, graphics, I had no idea in hell what it meant. But I was gone, I was fascinated, it settled deep, deep inside of me. I was once told that for a daughter I am a really good son.. Well, I have this thrill, a tingling feeling down my spine for speed, closeness, danger, chasing, overtaking, nearly ascending form the world into a different perception of life, time, place, our own being, everything could end in that very moment. No planning ahead is for certain, just pure reaction. That's where I'm most comfortable in, chaos, its what I grew up in, I thrive in that environment. It's damaging and dangerous, but oh so fun, because it's so easy.

  People often describe me or my life as a rollercoaster. It fits like the a glove, that saying, it does. Some even have said it suits me, a backhanded compliment if you look close enough, not that there is any need for that, my lovely cousin said it. I think she was right too. Calm and stable didn't suit me, back then, in her Hannover palace, high above the streets of our area, drinking so much wine, talking for hours on end. I would spend many nights there, one time her neighbour broke into her apartment. Horribly traumatic, I wasn't there though, but that surely was a surprise for all parties involved, you see, he was trying to get home. Poor soul, broke the whole damn door frame off. Fixed it after.

  Although, that might not left as much damage on us as the repetitiveness of chair squeaking, grunts, coffee and, with peace and love*, repetitions of Vitas - 7th Element. Great artist, love his story, alien dudes are always welcome in my world, but I don't think I ever will be the same. This environment was created due to some alignment of personal milestones of my own and my dear cousin's too. She lived down the street from me, I had reached my big girl moment, the big girl final exams, and she was working from home and writing her Master's. During the day we would both write, work, chat, drink coffee, smoke cigarettes, talk about future plans, exchange clothes and laugh, a lot. Evenings were spent playing games, drinking wine and philosophising about the world, revision of the past and telling each other secrets about lost earrings, jealousy about grandmothers and confessions of true appreciation, in our own ways. This might be one of mine. She introduced me to Tokyo Hotel, if anyone wanted to know.

  By the way, I totally failed my history exam. Look, Herr Ludden, I'm doing the thing you told me to do!

My own LH and the Mercedes people

I'll keep this one short, so the anxiety is brief.

  So, the universe played an evil trick on me and I got my own LH, working for the team, getting my passion re-lit at the age of 20. He knows a lot about it, he has a strategical brain, the opposite of mine. One of our biggest compliments towards each other. And biggest flaws. Moving on, I would sit there, watch the race and observe, memorise his words until I understood their meaning. I watched so much Formula 1 content, I think I deserve an acknowledgement of some sort. I learned about the language, and the history, past races, circuits, rivalries, oh the personal relationships are incredible! The whole sport is connected by these threads, pinching and passing through decades, people, names, conflicts, contracts, lies and conspiracies and... love. For the sport, for the personalities, achievements, personal vendettas, titles, points and for each other.

  I met people who work in the sport, shared some fun memories with them, read their palms and attempted, allegedly, for entertainment purposes only, to predict their relationships, financial success (there was some serious potential there) and other deeply intimate things that no one should allow a 22 year old stranger to expose at a dinner party. Anyhow, great people, really showed me why this sport is so amazing and why Mercedes have been winning for such a long time. 

Talking about embarrassing stories. Here's one.

The Uber Driver who I Sold my Underwear to

   Around the same time I was reading hands, I shared with the same group of strangers, mind you, in a very casual way, that I had sold my underwear to an Uber driver a few months back, when I was traveling to meet a dear friend. It was consensual and very liberating for me, but it all originated in what I like to call "Questionable-Actions-In-Recent-Months-Part 1".

    Around the time of my heartbreak (number eternally outstanding), I had gone down a little motivational episode, going on a mission to retrieve forks, become friends with these interesting people that would intervene in these stories in such unique ways, I was also following squirrels and felt like there was a new beginning around the corner. So far the highlights included offers of old dildos, intelligent conversations in pink lighting, cut knees from cutting rose bushes, killed insects, sunbathing in the common area, a lot of long summer nights with friends, love you all. All mildly infuriating but still respectful. It also involved repeated climbing over my green bushes in front of my balcony, living with my friend Louise, moving onto the balcony, the roses eventually blooming, me slowly becoming 22 and homeless and seeing the slow and comical decline of an acquaintance to a passed out status on boat parties. 

  Indeed, this is directly involved with the time when me and my friend, who has the same birthday as me, shout out to my soul-sister, Pru, decided to start a company. Selling our worn underwear in a way I won't disclose, because I still might make that happen. Anyway, we have a concept, very shaky sponsors, interested clientele, design - first drawn on my arm by my ex-flatmate who joined us for a drink, who I also might have matched on Tinder with many moons ago, a name, website, products, ideas and distance, we're about half a world away. Before all that took place, I made some independent sales, sharing the money as a "see-you-soon partner", rather than anything else. 

  I would end up following her to Bulgaria for two or three weeks, I encountered all sorts of things there, some still very dear to me. I refer to blond wise men, international friends, stray dogs and kittens, now probably full grown cuddles of joy. I watched the start of the Istanbul race, just down the coast from me, further than I could reach at the time due to the pandemic, next to an old couple, hesitant to engage, but when I mirrored my excitement for the start, the old man started to utter in all languages, speaking about tyres and strategies and Hamilton, Vettel, Max, haha, it all made it in. We shared his phone screen for the first two laps. I washed it down with some sunshine and a pint of the local beer, in the chairs of Cubo, with my dogs as bodyguards, surrounding me, pacing up and down, causing me to intervene and correct them. The freedom I felt there was different. I was swimming in the night, alone, just me and the stars, on the edge of the world, as far as I was concerned. So much hunger for the unknown. And distant dreams coming true, like dancing on the roof tops, with the whole town surrounding us, Bossa Nova and the waves providing the sound. The drink of choice was wine, I believe.

Never Feeling like Lewis Hamilton in Therapy

  As I have tried to tell you, Formula 1 has been on my mind for a while now. Nearly one year ago, I told my therapist how upset I was that I would never feel like Lewis Hamilton. And by that I mean realistically, theoretically, spiritually, physically, in any possible way, I would not fully understand and feel the way Lewis Hamilton feels when he wins a race, a battle, a world championship. It deeply upsets me, clearly. If I tried to drive the car it would literally snap my neck and kill me. 

  I proposed jumping out of a plane as an equal competitor for the thrill, I have friends who do that, I could probably make that happen. But it still does not cut it, there is no childhood training involved, my parents struggled for different reasons, I was not him, he was not me, it's actually not that deep. 

  But it is, kind of. 

  The quest for my Lewis Hamilton equivalent thrill has begun and I will not rest until I get there. I really would like to speak to him about this, so please, people who know him or know the other people, I kindly ask. No pressure, I just want to have a chat, hang out, write, talk about dogs, connect minds.

  I am so deeply inspired by this man and what he means, that I even wanted to reach out to him and work for his new foundation, my degree in International Relations might fit in. But at the same time I wanted to become M.I.A.'s best friend and close colleague, so I was a bit distracted.  I think I actually wrote a whole assignment based on M.I.A. for university, a project where native artists would collaborate (on their terms) with artists like Childish Gambino and M.I.A. It's incredible what you get away with. Be bold is the lesson here.

Love for Racing

  Boldness is the key in racing too, among a truly ridiculously long list of other important things. The latest example, the strategy switch in Barcelona. How do you feel after pulling that one off? I am asking, please tell me every angle of it. 

  Let me describe to the one's who don't know:

  Lewis Hamilton is the current reigning World Champion, seven times he has done that. Seven. Then there is this new kid, a full analysis on this will follow upon request, but Max Verstappen, a record breaking Dutch dude with a lisp, quick as shit. Well, obviously, drama is about to ensue, and it does a lot of the times over many years, behind the scenes too. Anyway, Barcelona, boring track, everyone knows that, the weekend is kinda weird, loads of stuff happens, as usual, the race starts and basically, Max takes the lead. But a strategy change is exactly what Mercedes needs, guys you are incredible. They pull Hamilton in, "BoxBoxBox", get him on some new sexy tyres and away he rushes, crushing those lap times, gaining on Maxy-boy. The suspense is building, the jets are ready to fly, the jaws are clenched, guts are dropping, the string quartet is thrillingly playing in the background of the subconsciousness until the overtake comes, quick as the wind. And relief. Or pain. Hamilton was absolutely loving life, but Max, he even later said that he knew his tyres were gone when Hamilton pitted twenty laps earlier. Hamilton won. And this is just the two drivers, there are twenty on the grid. Some more exciting, some ice-cold, bwah. 

  How can you n at least acknowledge the magic of it? Everything goes and ticks in a special way, every action has a consequence, it all grows on its own by now. Decisions on survival are made all the time, Drive to Survive is a good title, I'll give them that. Might slow down on the spinning of stories, but overall, I enjoy the content. Goddamn, to be part of that world. 

Could This be Part of my CV, Please?

  My grandmother keeps asking me "what I am". Not my sexual orientation, she only cares that I'm happy, mediating and have kids one day. She promised me a cat for my 25th birthday, a black one, just like my mum had when I was born. Hm. 
  She means my profession. And the best I could give her was an intellectual in the making, a future academia member, a researcher, maybe a journalist. Then the ideas got more abstract. I wanted to be the geopolitical advisor for a law-firm in London. But recently I've been liking this blog, the honest space that I have created, letting me carve paths for my future through the eyes of my past. If anyone wants to talk to me for any reason, please do. I am here to share my experiences, not shield them. 

So, can all this be part of my CV?

With love, 

Anna

LH44

*I'm a foot-soldier. Hila is the creator of life.