Nostalgia Maria

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…

As my high school reunion was approaching I was trying to figure out what to say about the past ten years.

You may be familiar with the concept of bragging in front of your colleagues and teachers about your greatest achievements. Your successful husband, your attractive wife, your well behaved kids, the prestigious university you attended, the plethora of diplomas on your walls, the well oiled machine of a business that you own, the electric car that you drive and the exotic countries that you visited. Any one of these fulfilled goals could boost you in top five most accomplished people in your classroom.

As I went over the list and realized how far away from the ideal lifestyle I am, this realization hit me: does it really matter? Does having a seemingly perfect spouse make you happier? Does having walls full of diplomas make you more successful? Does driving an expensive car make you a better human being? Do you really want to be defined by the things you have instead of the person you are? The answer is, in short, no.

After realizing this, the next logical question was what matters? I know, a bit too philosophical and deep of a question for a high school reunion, but I was feeling contemplative, so bear with me. So, when do I feel most alive? When do I laugh so hard my stomach hurts? When do I feel most myself? When do all my problems disappear? When does the world really seem like a better place? When do I feel understood?

To all these questions there is only one answer: when I’m with my friends. And, thank God, I’m lucky enough to be surrounded by some great human beings, truly amazing, supportive, funny and loving people. The kind of people that make my eyes water with tears of joy just thinking how lucky I am to call them my friends. The kind of people that make me wonder what I did right to deserve such company.

When I tell others about how I met my best friend in secondary school and we are still best friends, how I keep in touch with about half my class from high school, how university helped me meet amazing and caring people who have a special place in my heart and how the three years of post-university studies brought even more amazing souls in my life, they are amazed.

The amazing part is that, as years go by, I feel our friendships growing even stronger. We are maturing together, we are more vulnerable and honest with one another, we can talk about deep meaningful subjects and just moments after we laugh so hard we can’t breathe. It’s amazing to see your childhood or high school friends growing up. It’s a blessing to say that you’ve known someone for seventeen years and they are still your best friend.

When I most needed help, they helped me. When I most needed to talk, they listened. When I most needed to laugh, they made a joke. When I most wanted to drink, they poured me a drink. When I most wanted to eat, they made some food. When I most wanted to stay silent, they stood silent with me. When I was vulnerable and defeat, they had my back. When I needed support, they held my hand.

That’s why my biggest accomplishment so far is my friendships. They make everything better. They make me a better person. And for that only, they have all my love and gratitude. Thank you! Love you with all my heart!

On the 23rd was Iusti’s 56th birthday.

“I remember being woken up by my parents and then my father taking me in his arms to the living room. The sofa was full of presents, a puzzle, crayons and sparkly stuff that a soon to be seven year old could only adore. I was surprised, Santa wasn’t supposed to come for another few days. Then I saw him and I was utterly fascinated. Not the Santa you would imagine: tall, dark haired, young, smiling and very charming. My parents told me who he was, that he had been close to us before moving to Canada and that he was always around for the first three years of my life. Although I don’t think I remembered any of the things they told me, I felt safe around him and I liked him very much. Only a few days ago did I remember that on that evening I stayed in his arms for a long time. I liked him, he made me feel special, he made me laugh, he made me feel like a princess. This is my first memory of Iusti, the charming Santa who surprised my parents and I the first time he came home from Canada, after his departure four years earlier. I have a vague recollection of how happy my parents were and how joyful everything seemed. It felt like home. This is how I will remember him: charming, tall, joyful, bringing the best out of the ones surrounding him, protective, generous, kind and funny, in one word: HOME.”

This is the message I wrote for his funeral two months ago. I was in Greece with my mother and we received from his family the link for the live stream of the service. I knew how important Iusti was for my parents and I wanted to honor somehow his memory and their thirty year old friendship. So I wrote the message and sent it to his wife, asking her if it could be read by someone during the service. And there was also the desire for people to know how dear he was to me.

For as long as I can remember, Iusti was there. My father met him at university and they soon became good friends. Both very smart, both much in love with reading and talking about books, both making jokes and both living in the university dorms, it was easy for them to bond. For a couple of years after uni they took their separate ways, only to meet again in Brașov in their late twenties. It was the 90’s so no cellphones or social media was available. You just bumped into your friends on the streets or you called them at home. Iusti became a regular at my parents’ house, they played cards, drank wine made by my grandpa, chatted and laughed a lot. Then I came along. Iusti called me “iubita” and I replied with “ubutu”.

My mom told me how sad she was when he told them he was moving to Canada. She cried and begged him not to go. I was almost three then so I don’t remember this part of the story too well.

Before my seventh birthday he surprised us all, just a few days before Christmas. That’s the story I wrote for the service. From then on, I remember. I remember his kindness, his generosity, his funny way of telling every story, his loud voice, his laugh, his interest towards me, his presence.

I think I will always remember that Tuesday my dad called to tell me what happened. How it was an accident. How he was tubing on some river in Canada. How he could not be saved. I could feel the hurt in his voice. We had seen Iusti just a month earlier and so it felt unreal. He was there, laughing and eating and telling stories and just enjoying life. And now he was gone. I cried and I cried and I cried. The following day I was sitting on the balcony, just thinking of him. Outside, some kids were playing and started to shout out each other’s names. “Iustiiiin! Iustiiin!” I heard one of them calling another. What were the chances? Maybe Iusti knew I was thinking of him and wanted to give me a sign that’s he’s also thinking of me.

As kids, we never think of our parents or friends or protectors as mortal. Especially when they make you feel so safe, when they live life to the fullest, when you see them enjoying every bite of food and sip of wine, when they laugh so loud the room seems to shake, especially then, they seem immortal.

Thank you, Iusti, for showing me how to enjoy life and how to be carefree. Thank you for surprising me on my birthday. Thank you for being my parents’ friend. Thank you for caring. In my mind, you are alive. In my stories, you are present. In my heart, you are loved.

I’m just a girl, standing in front of a keyboard, asking it to heal me…

I decided to start a blog because I’ve been putting this off for too long, finding all sorts of excuses: nobody reads blogs anymore, you’re not talented enough, you have nothing new or interesting to say, what good would it do and so on. Suddenly, I realized that there was just one reason to do it, a reason good enough to start this: I want to do it and it helps me. Even if nobody reads it, that doesn’t bother me. Because it’s something I’ve been dreaming about since forever, so here it goes.

I have no idea how often I’ll write, what topics I’ll want to talk about or how long my posts will be. I’ve been planning my whole life and this time I just want to let it be. My dream is to write about movies, books, songs, feelings, memories, events and my life. My dream is to just write and have a good time.