Even though it may not seem so, the fact that I haven’t posted something in a while is very therapeutic and healing for me. Why? Because it teaches me how to say no. To myself, to my ego, to my pride, to my stubbornness, to my perfectionism, to my schedule loving self and to my mind.

I started this blog because I love writing and because it helps me. As soon as my friends had send some kind, appreciative words after reading my posts, my ego activated itself. What if I become famous? What if I can make a living out of this? What if this is my true meaning? What if I get noticed? What if they love me?

So, even though I made a promise that I wasn’t going to force myself to write when I don’t feel like it, the ego part of me kept saying that “consistency is key” and blamed me for not being consistently inspired. It was and still to this day is the story of my life: not being able to say no.

What triggered this realization, you might ask? I saw a snippet of an interview with Gabor Maté where he said that people with autoimmune diseases and malignities have in common the fact that they cannot say no, so their bodies say it for them. Even though I had read his book When the body says no and I had related to many of his stories, something about hearing him say that phrase out loud triggered me. I started crying because it was true.

Do you like that? Yes. Do you want to do that? Yes. Can you help me? Yes. Can you de that sooner? Yes. Do you like me? Yes. Do you want to become a doctor? Yes. Can you do one more? Yes. Can you push yourself just a bit more? Yes. Do you wanna go with me? Yes. Do you want to stay with me? Yes. Did you do your homework? Yes. Are you happy? Yes. Are you consistent? Yes.

Never saying no, never pausing, never implementing boundaries, never being myself, never stating my ground, never being late, never not learning or being at the top of my class, never not showing up and never saying fuck it. That’s until my body started saying it for me.

Thank you, body, for the rough way of showing me what needs to change. Thank you for teaching me that saying no doesn’t make me unlovable, it just makes me human. Thank you for forcing me to say no just so I can see that what happens after is that life just goes on. We are too small of a grain of sand in the beach so that one no could change it indefinitely or destroy it.

So that’s why sometimes it takes me longer to post. The in between is the therapy. The post is just the realization. The in between is the battle. The post is the victory. The in between is the work. The post is the inspiration. The in between is life. The post is the celebration.

For the past eight years I’ve been trying to figure out and understand why I am sick.

My initial feelings were pretty much absent to the naked eye. I am not one to show my emotions off to the world, I’m quite the introvert and the masks that I used to wear in front of everybody could easily be summarized under the title “I’m fine” (insert the Ross squeaky voice if you want to amuse yourself). I never ever said no, I never ever truly complained, I never ran away from home, I never told the boy who broke my heart to fuck off, I never told one of my teenage closest friends that she’s a cunt, I never rebelled. I was the quiet kid, the smart girl, the obedient adolescent, the almost Magna cum Laude student and the introvert woman.

So, as you can imagine, at twenty one, when I heard of my illness, I cried for about a day and then I moved on. Everything was fine… but as Gabor Maté and basically all therapists would tell you, when your body says no, you should investigate. For the first few months after the diagnosis, nothing really triggered me to change or to examine the depths of the situation. I had heard of therapy and of how useful it was, but it didn’t really make sense to me. I had a perfect childhood, an ideal upbringing, all the gifts in the world, no physical aggression, no traumatic events. So, why do it?

Then, I got triggered. One of the nurses responsible with my treatment said some harmless words about my medication that made me have a small panic attack. So I started going to therapy and, for the first couple of sessions nothing really enticed me. I had no bad stories to tell, so why did I get sick? After eight years, I’m starting to figure it out.

Years ago I started talking to my illness. I called her Roza and I asked her to be friends and make peace. Because of obvious reasons, right? A friend would never harm you, while an enemy could easily do that. She was nice and calm and she left me alone for seven years. Last year, when things got a little bit rough, I started hating her and blaming her for every wrong decision and every awful thing that had ever happened to me. That’s not a friendly thing to do, right? I broke my promise and I betrayed our friendship.

Here comes the reason behind this post: it’s an apology towards Roza mixed with a love letter. So, my dear Roza, I’m sorry for hiding you from the world, I’m sorry for never talking about you and please forgive me for betraying you.

They say one can heal only when he stops benefiting from his illness. At first, I didn’t understand that and I felt it cannot apply to me. What benefits could I ever get from a debilitating disease? Well, Roza, you taught me how strong, brave and resilient I am. You made me feel vulnerable and show that off to the world. You made me learn to ask for help and accept it. You helped me get out of things I didn’t want to do when I didn’t have the courage to just say NO. You gave me a reason for being moody, depressed, angry or a bitch. You gave me permission to be a priority for others. You gave me a story to tell. You gave me a good enough motive to cancel plans. You showed me how much my family and friends love me. You showed me how much I hated myself. You showed me my shadows and my dark side, only to push me to see my gifts and my bright side. But, most of all, you made me feel special.

And, by God, that felt nice. I was and maybe still am intoxicated with that feeling. The special, brave girl that lives her life as normal. The one who overcame it all. The sick one who smiles. The debilitated one who doesn’t want special treatment. Like Harry Potter, I felt like the chosen one.

Well, my dear Roza, I say this with all my heart: let’s be friends again and please, if you have more lessons to teach me, do it gentler. I don’t need an illness to feel special, because I am. We all are. And why do we need to feel special? To be more worthy of love. Why do we need outside love? Because we suck at loving ourselves. We are so busy trying every method possible to be viewed as special, that we forget to consider ourselves special. I resorted to an illness. That’s my rose and the thorn stung me hard. That’s my addiction, my drug. What’s yours?

So the blues hit me again. Can you tell I’m a melancholic one? ‘Cause I sure can tell. My main thought for the past couple of weeks has been death. Not in the “I want to die” kind of department, but it seemed that everything I read or saw or heard of reminded me of the fragility of life.

In the music department, I’ve been obsessed with the lyrics of a couple of songs reminiscing of death. The Smiths have There Is a Light That Never Goes Out that so beautifully says:

And if a double-decker bus
Crashes into us
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die
And if a ten ton truck
Kills the both of us
To die by your side
Well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine.

And then there’s Death Cab for Cutie’s superbe lyrics that go:

If Heaven and Hell decide that they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no’s on their vacancy signs
If there’s no one beside you when your soul embarks
Then I’ll follow you into the dark.

What a miracle music is, right? It can make even death sound good. These songs, I must admit, have a Romeo and Juliet vibe to it because of the idea of couples dying together. But that’s not quite doable, only if you live in The Notebook or in Amour. Even though I’m approaching my thirtieth birthday, something about meeting a person you’d die with still fascinates me. To love someone so much, that life without them is just pointless.

In the movie department, we need to talk about 1883. A prequel to the captivating Yellowstone series, this one season show depicts the journey of a family from Tennessee to Montana, in the 1880’s. It made me finally understand why the Wild West was called so. I always believed it was because of the flora and fauna, because of the deserts and mountains and rivers and snakes and coyotes and everything in between. But no, it was because of the people. Damn, they were wild and free. No guarantees of food or shelter or even the next day. Exhilarating and free this Wild Wild West! The main character, Elsa, had a life I kinda of envy. She lived a short one, but she managed to fill it with love, passion, freedom and courage. She faced death as we all should, smiling and at peace. We all strive for freedom but if we were to get it, many of us wouldn’t have the faintest idea what to do with it. Elsa Dutton knew.

Yesterday I watched A Man Called Otto, a movie with Tom Hanks that is the American remake of the Swedish A Man Called Ove, adapted after the book with the same title by Fredrik Backman. Otto or Ove is a furious man, grieving the loss of his wife by bickering, yelling and insulting his neighbors. As his attempts to kill himself fail one after another, his protective walls fall as he lets his neighbors in and becomes friendlier and more vulnerable. A heart warming story about love, mourning, life and death.

In the book department, I just finished Genki Kawamura’s If Cats Disappeared From The World, the story of a young man facing death and the devil himself. For every thing he is willing to make disappear from the world, the devil grants him another day. A modern day Faust, you might say or a gentler and kinder The Devil’s Advocate. Nonetheless, a great read. As I felt reading Faust or The Master and Margarita, meeting the devil, even if it’s just in the pages of some books, is not an easy business. This character always has something sly and mysterious about him, even if he’s dressed in a suit or in a Hawaiian shirt.

An honorable mention has to be Meet Joe Black. Even though I haven’t seen it in a while, Brad Pitt as death itself is a match made in Heaven (pun intended). His charm, his looks, his mimic, his gestures, everything about Brad Pitt in this movie makes him the perfect death. He is so attractive and so intriguing, it is hard to say no. And Anthony Hopkins’ character has the perfect approach to dying as one might wish. Furious at first, nostalgic in the middle and at peace in the end.

After all these encounters with death, I realized that we are more afraid of pain and illness than of death itself. The death of our close ones will surely hurt us more than our own and, lastly, people are not afraid of dying, they are just afraid of not living.

About three weeks ago, it started to snow in Brașov. Not that three flakes kinda tease that we used to have for the last couple of years, but a full on snow that took me back to the good old days.

Safe to say, I was scared. Still needing Mr. Cane to walk about outside the house and with my history of always managing to slip and fall, I was hesitant to even take out the trash. As the snow was starting to pack up, so were my emotions. All the possible scenarios were running in my mind. Me slipping, me falling, me breaking something, me not being able to get up, me having to wait on the ground for someone to help me get up, me being hit by a car.

Unfortunately (on the short term) and fortunately (on the long term) I had to go to work and so I had to get out the protective cocoon my house was. It was, let’s say, interesting. The snow was fresh, so it was quite slippery. The people weren’t expecting the snow, so they were quite agitated. I was testing this for the first time, so I was quite scared. I managed to get to work, but it was tough. Dreading the moment I had to go back home, I was praying for a miracle: the snow stopping, the sun melting all of the snow already set, spring coming at the end of January or something like that.

The moment came and I ventured outside yet again. It was amazing. The snow layer was thicker and walking on it was easier. I even managed to enjoy the view and the way the city started to transform itself thanks to the white, clean layer of snow.

From that day on, I went to the park every day for a stroll. The fresh, crisp air was amazing and the cleanliness of the surroundings was great to look at. But what was even more amazing was the feeling of overcoming my fear.

I mean, look at that! I know it’s not much, just a random park in a random city on a random morning, but for me it’s more than that. It’s the proof that I can enjoy winter, that I can face my fears and that I am capable. For me, it’s freedom. Freedom from my thoughts, freedom from my fears, freedom from the cage I thought I was in, freedom from my so called disabilities.

The secret was that I asked myself what would seven year old Maria would do. Because kids are fearless, a good kind of fearless. Kids don’t have scenarios in their heads, they don’t fear the worst and they just want to have fun.

I know this post is a very random one, but it means a lot to me. Now that all the snow has melted, I can see the improvements when going outside. So, yes, face every challenge like a kid would, because the rewards won’t take long to appear. Fear is only in our mind, our soul is just a fearless child wanting to explore.

For the past couple of weeks I’ve been contemplating the idea of success and making it in life. (of course, that week between Christmas and New Year is omitted from this contemplation because, let’s face it, we don’t know what day it is, who has energy for an existential crisis?)

As I soon celebrate a year of moving back to my home town to start adulting, I can’t help but wonder (insert Carrie Bradshaw’s voice) if I’m on the right path. Questioning all my decisions and constantly feeling a combo of “it’s not enough” and “is this all it’s ever going to be”, I decided to dig deeper and try to understand where it’s all coming from.

The first thought that crossed my mind was what impact society, and by society I mean movies, has on me. Even though I love a good bildungsroman, it really fucks up your expectations and your perceptions of success. Let’s take Erin Brockovich, for example. What can be more empowering than the idea that a woman who came from nothing, no higher education, no wealthy parents, no supportive partner, just her brains and her courage, just her kids and the neighbor who babysit them from time to time, just her balls and her realness, a woman like this could end up saving the world. It made me associate struggle with worth. It made me think that if you don’t suffer enough to obtain something, you are not worthy to have it. Personal or professional, emotional or pragmatic, people wise or property wise, you have to fight for it.

Many movies have this in common. Even The Devil Wears Prada has this underlying idea. We have to appreciate Andrea’s effort to lose weight, to walk on heels, to accessorize, to understand the fashion industry and to stand up to Miranda Priestly. One word: bildungsroman. She made it happen, she beat the odds, she struggled and she succeeded.

Think of Good Will Hunting. What can be more bildungsromanesque than the struggle of a young janitor at M.I.T. who happens to be a brilliant mathematician. Maybe Matt Damon and Ben Affleck’s stories. Even though, in the end, he chooses the girl over the job, he struggles to prove his worth. Do you see it, yet again? Struggle and worth, the fatal combo.

Let’s not forget that books, movies and shows are made to impress, attract and, ultimately, bring in the big bucks. Who would want to sit two hours in a cinema watching someone effortlessly make it through life? It has no cinematic value, so it has no cash value.

If we go further back with this analysis and try to escape the story told by the movies, we see that, in fact, the story told by society is pretty much the same.

Van Gogh was poor and ill and died, ear cut off and all that, at a young age. Manet was born upper-class and had all the privileges. Even though the latter may be one of the founding fathers of Impressionism, we empathize with van Gogh more. Look at the talent and look at the struggle, what an amazing, worthy artist. For God’s sake, he cut off his ear, his struggle must be worth it!

Sure, Balzac and Tolstoy are both prominent literary figures, but imagine this. A French poor artist being paid by word, living from paycheck to paycheck, eating and drinking off his friends, sleeping in brothels and falling ill most of the times versus a wealthy Russian author, son of a count, living well, having the comfort of Yasnaya Polyana to write his masterpieces. Who do you find more worthy? Who do you appreciate more? Who do you feel is more deserving of your empathy and appreciation?

After analyzing these aspects, something hit me. When the stories are told, nobody tells you what you should feel. The story is just told, objectively or subjectively, it is just told. The feelings, well, they come from you. So, all that pressure to be worthy, all that pressure to struggle and overcome obstacles, that comes from you. Society may show us these stories, but we are the ones who let them affect us and propagate the wrong mentality.

It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me. Well, yes, Taylor, you are again right. We are the only ones responsible for our well-being. Why is it easier to feed the bad, the tragic, the self-deprecating, the blame, the tragic? Is it an inheritance from the Greek to dwell on tragedy or is it an inherently easier way to cope with life?

Whatever the answer, we all deserve to feel worthy. I’m worthy because last week I walked more steps than the previous one. I’m worthy because six months ago taking a shower was challenge and now it has returned to being a pleasure. I’m worthy because I’m calmer and more flexible. I’m worthy because I didn’t give up. I could sit here and type away a thousand reasons for which I’m worthy. But you know what? I’m worthy just because… just because I am.

Trying to figure out what I should write about next, digging through my feelings, turning my ideas around and trying to wrap my head around what defines me, I realized I wanted to talk about nostalgia, ‘cause I’m a nostalgic girl.

Kinda obvious, you could say. It’s in the title…Sure, when I chose the title I was thinking that I’m an old-school girl, I love black and white movies, I like reading books, not kindles or audiobooks, I like vinyls and the fact that I have a pick-up, I like landlines and phones without a screen, I like traveling by train and I simply adore the fashion and the care for details of the 20’s, 30’s, 40’s and 50’s.

Then it hit me. I also like the changes that the 60’s brought to the history table, I am fascinated by the freedom of the 70’s, the 80’s seem like an amazing, whirlpool of a ride and the 90’s…well, the 90’s have my heart forever. So I’m not only nostalgic for events and trends that were cool one hundred years ago, I’m nostalgic for anything that isn’t now. Again, that’s the definition of nostalgia, Maria. Pardon my repetition, it’s just the way my train of thought. So, yes, I’m not just old fashioned, I’m a true nostalgic.

I can divide my nostalgia in two main categories: nostalgia for my own life events and nostalgia for places or events outside my life line.

I miss coming back from school with my best friend by my side, my grandma greeting us with love and food. Then we would just sit in my room laughing, talking or watching a movie. I miss making earrings with her after school, I miss the freedom that the first three years of high school had to offer, I miss getting ready for prom, going out after hours, going to parties or summer camp at the seaside.

Besides events, most of all I miss feelings. The security I felt when I saw my father picking me up from piano lessons, the walks we took in the city center, the summer afternoons when we played whatever I wanted and felt so spoiled. I miss the feeling of adventure I felt when first going abroad with my mom, visiting Vienna and Paris, going to Disneyland at eight years old and imagining I landed somewhere in heaven.

I miss those parties or night outs when everything seemed possible, when we laughed so hard our bellies ached, when we drank so much the room started spinning, when we danced like we didn’t give a fuck. I miss prom and all that anticipation, the pure happiness I felt and the sense that everything was going to turn out fine.

I miss listening to songs for the first time, seeing movies for the first time or meeting people for the first time. I miss the endless possibilities of a late summer evening of the great anticipation of a sunrise after a night of partying. I miss discovering France with Erasmus, I miss the city breaks I did with my friends, I miss the first bite of that perfect cannoli I had in Catania, I miss the trip to Milan where we ate the best pizza and found an amazing restaurant with complimentary limoncello and focaccia.

I miss the shivers I felt on my spine when I first listened to Stole the Show, I miss the first time I realized Reality Bites is my favorite movie, I miss that almost-made-me-throw-up-but-in-a-good-way-anticipation of my first kiss, I miss the sunsets I saw from my dorm, I miss winters full of snow and I miss the joy of Christmas presents.

I miss my grandma and her unconditional love, I miss the smell of her house and the summer weeks I spent there, I miss her cooking and the way she spoiled me, I miss her voice and her soft hands. I miss the young version of my parents and the child version of myself. When I look at childhood photos I have a longing in my heart that I cannot describe. It’s a combination of love and ache and wishing I was there and thankfulness and joy and sadness that it has passed.

But the funniest kind of nostalgia I feel is towards places or moments I haven’t been to or haven’t lived through. I felt it while watching Legends of the Fall and finding myself longing for those places and those times. I felt it while watching Midnight in Paris and realizing I’m not the only one. Most of all I feel it when I see photos of movies from the late 80’s and early 90’s. When I see those scenes from When Harry Met Sally I am fascinated by that maybe emptier and simpler New York, by that easier life style and by those more authentic people. I cannot explain why, but seeing a landline or mom jeans or anything from that period gives me a warm, good feeling. Maybe because it reminds me of my childhood, maybe because it reminds me of the version of my parents I found invincible or because life was really easier and more wholesome. Who knows?

All I know is that it’s a good sign to be nostalgic for so many thing, moments, places or people. It’s maybe a sign you’ve lived a happy, good life. Maybe it’s a sign that even if it seems like you haven’t accomplished much, you have. Maybe it’s a sign to be thankful… for yourself and for those around you.

For the past two weeks I’ve been feeling kinda blue. Nothing made me feel right. I’ve postponed writing a new post because I felt like I had nothing good or meaningful to say. Then I realized that maybe just talking about these feelings is meaningful enough and that it will surely help me and, with some luck, someone reading this.

It’s fine to feel like shit, it’s fine to not be happy all the time, it’s fine to question your existence, it’s fine to want to improve, it’s fine to crave sweets, it’s fine to want to stay indoors, it’s fine to be blue. It’s fine to just be.

Not gonna lie, it’s been a rough year for me. I’ve moved back home, I’ve changed jobs, I’ve changed houses, I’ve changed the environment and I’ve questioned all my choices. Not to mention some challenges with my health. From frequently falling down to wanting to just lay in my bed, from not being able to properly move my legs to being in a wheelchair for two days before a steroid treatment, from crying alone in my house because I can’t pick something up from the floor to hating myself for every decision that I’ve ever made, from hiding my struggles from all my loved ones to again hating myself for all the pain I’ve put them through, let’s just say it has been a challenging year.

I wanted to figure out who’s to blame. So I blamed my parents for my childhood trauma, I’ve blamed my job, I’ve blamed the boy who broke my heart in high school, I’ve blamed the doctors, I’ve blamed society, I’ve blamed the Universe, God in all his forms or religions, I’ve blamed the food, the water, the microorganisms surrounding me or living in my body, I’ve blamed pretty much everything there is to blame. Few beings managed to escape my hate: my friends, my grandmother and my cat.

Funnily enough, it didn’t work. All that hate and all that blame and all the rage and fury and loath and frustration and criticism that I threw onto them didn’t help me heal or feel better. On the contrary, it got worse. I was like a ticking bomb, ready to explode and take all those responsible for my pain with me.

Then it hit me. And it hit me hard. So hard that I cried for about an hour, laying on the floor, partially because I couldn’t get up, partially because I felt that I belonged there. All the feelings that I was so eager to throw at those around me where feelings I had for myself. I was, and sometimes still am, my own worst critic. Nobody has ever spoken to me as badly as I’ve spoken to myself. To nobody have I ever said words as mean and as hurtful as I’ve said to myself. Towards nobody did I ever feel the hatred that I felt towards myself. I was and have been destroying myself for as long as I could remember. Trust me, nothing is as powerful, as sly and as scheming as auto-destruction. Powerful because it’s constant. Sly because it’s hard to notice. Scheming because, even when you notice it and start to fix it, it has a way of coming back.

With this realization came another one. No external event could make or break you. It’s all about how you feel. You can be depressed in heaven and you can be happy in hell. It’s all related to how you feel about yourself. No amount of chocolate, pasta, good weather, friends, sex, money, travelling or success could cure you. Sure, it’s a good distraction and it helps to experience all of the above, but it’s temporary.

The important part is to acknowledge your thoughts, to embrace your feelings and to not let either of them control you. Talking helps. Writing helps. Singing helps. Drawing helps. Yelling definitely helps.

So that’s what I’ve been up to for the past weeks. Embracing my frustrations, trying to stop blaming others for my feelings and realizing that everything is temporary, even sadness.

Be your biggest cheerleader. Be your best friend. Be your fearless supporter. Be proud of your progress, even if you feel like shit. Nothing is forever and life is too short to blame yourself for the past.

And I told you to be patient…

And I told you to be fine…

And I told you to be balanced…

And I told you to be kind…