Sometimes I wish I could set the world straight…

Since I got so confessional lately, I guess I can keep the honest boat rolling and tell you that sometimes I get really mad. Entirely mad about how I turned out as a “borderline” person, and how this killed everything around me, and how it was not my fault, not the fault of my friends either, but this slowly ate up all the bridges that would tie me to anyone. They often say that this is characteristic of the personality disorder to cut ties intensely, but I have another theory. Why would anyone want to lose relation with a society which is the only place they can be safe? Because this society, out of its own will – I like to believe – is drowning in a cult of moralizing and stereotyping about mental health. For many years I did not want to even talk about that, thinking the world was a solid entity incapable of change.

I’m talking about how people are trying to help their friends with mental health problems and how they fail one by one, wondering why they ever got involved in the first place. This is a very painful process on both sides.

When they just laugh at you

I remember the very first people to whom I told – as a child – that I have strange experiences. (Namely that the world seems to drift off and become a frightening, bizarre dreamlike place where I am so slow that even crossing through the road bears enormous danger). The reaction was a laugh. I don’t know what was so funny about it, and probably never will know. Now I am aware what this experience was and what it was signalling, or what its name is.

When they think you are ‘making this up’

I also had a bizarre habit as a child. I used to believe I had a dead sister, who was buried under a tree not far from our block. I would take flowers there sometimes, and whenever something bad happened, which I wanted to forget I would put it on a piece of paper and bury it at the tree too, thinking my sister will come at night and take the paper and the thing I put on it disappears forever. I guess I made it up. Maybe I did not want to be alone and thought someone who is dead knows more than me and can help me. But this experience was still frightening and I still wanted to get rid of it. But when I told adults about this it suddenly was a lie and that “all in your head” crap commenced. Well of course it’s all in my head, genius! Where else could it be? This is like telling someone with Asthma “It’s all in your lungs”. The person already knows and it does not help them anyway… however, it is a good way to make someone feel alienated and misunderstood.

When you seem to be “making it for attention”

I had thoughts of suicide ever since I can remember. But at the age of 16 or so I could no longer contain it or fight it effectively. These thoughts crept up on me, like snares underwater that would not let go of my limbs, and the more I tried to break away from them the more they kept dragging me down to the bottom of the lake. Not a clear lake either. A stinky, blood steamed lake of tears. I was frightened and chilled to the bone. So I told someone. Did not listen or bombarded me with the stereotypes of cowardice or other. And came the next person and the next and the next, but nobody wished to fight for me. So I fought for me with the methods I had. Already told you, it was the cutting thing. So I told only one person about this at the start, and this person went home, read about it on the internet, and figured out I just want some attention. Question one, why do you figure out what I want when you could just ask me? Question two, how come ‘whys’ matter more than ‘how to make it betters’? This is where I started losing it and friend after friend I lost contact, lost interest. When someone can tell you things and you cannot do the same it suddenly becomes a relationship you are unable to fight for.

When some people are “just acting like they want to help you”

Once I felt very bad about someone. The person who read the stuff on the internet (mentioned above. So this person decided to sit and have a talk about suicide with me. Mostly it was them talking and me listening, which I know should have been the other way around. I learnt that later, that when you are feeling suicidal the last thing you need is a lecture on the devastating nature of suicide. You probably know more about that than they do anyway. No, when you are in distress you need to talk. Talking is like action. You should not be afraid when someone shares a suicidal fantasy with you – it means they want to talk it out because it saves them from acting on it. Anyway we were in a café with this person and I could talk a bit about what I was feeling and while I was in the middle of struggling over to breathe or not to this person sprung to their feet and started talking to the “bartender” asking what song was on the radio. Sitting back “So where were we”. Of course I did not continue….

When “Starving Africans and orphans have it worse and you should be grateful”

If you suffer from a mental health problem you must be awfully familiar with this approach. While it may be true on the physical level not having a toilet or starving is not a mental disorder. It can induce one – which is why starving Africans can also suffer from a mental disorder, what you really need to understand is that mental health problems are “way better than us” in a way that they don’t discriminate. They do not differentiate between rich and poor etc. So when you cannot get out of bed or have delusions it truly does not have to do anything with whether you are grateful or not. Besides when someone you know gets out of their brand new car to tell you that others have it worse than you when they do not know you might not even own a bed is another aspect, but it is not relevant for me now.

“Everyone has their fights”

I could go on for what seems way too much for a blogpost but just one more. This is the latest thing I heard. Again it is a cliché. Of course everyone has their fights. You too. You may be fired, you may be broke, you may be sad, you may be lonely etc. But to tell a mental health patient that everyone has their fights is like telling someone with malaria that everybody gets a fever every now and then. Why is it so hard to understand, that nor malaria nor mental disorder belongs on the scale of “normal life hardships” because they just don’t. You don’t tell someone with diabetes “you don’t need insulin” or “your illness is your fault” or “snap out of it”…. So why tell someone so who is mentally ill?  I just don’t get it.

This is not a judgement. It’s not an aimless whining. I want you to see these! So next time you could help a friend effectively! If your friend is in distress they do not need moral or religious – and preferably any – lectures. They need ears that listen and hands that hold. You may not be able to provide them, but that is what professionals are for and you can sure as hell convince them to seek that help. Do not promise anything you cannot or will not do, because it fills them up with false hopes they will regret later.

I don’t know if I can put up with this world forever. Maybe not for long, who knows. But until that point I sure as hell cannot be silenced about this one hope: that I and people like me do not have to lose anyone. That all the world needs is to be more educated on mental health for us to fit in better and live a relatively better life. If you want to help us, please come down from the chair of judges, believe me we can judge ourselves very efficiently. If we are worth the fight for you, please fight for us. For our rights, for our case. For our lasting friendship.1907610_375095252628514_4887125967851011397_n


Motivational rollercoaster, anyone? Ticket for sale!

Sometimes my mind just keeps glittering and overflowing. I feel the whole universe move in my stomach as the blood rushes in my ears. I am all these colors, which cannot be handled or even kept together, so bright and resonating. It is like having a constant lightbulb over my head. At this moment I am a transparent being, I can get behind everything like a dimension was added for me.  I want to write all night, I want to paint, I want to sing like birds, to just go, build the world up from ashes. I feel invincible, I can do anything, I can fall off a cliff and just rush forward without consequences. I can contain me, but also flow into everyone I meet and be them too. Where is the pain in that, right?

From the outside, I guess I look way too weird. I am jumping around and my mind is just drifting in a haste. Try buying a ticket for my train of thoughts and you’re still gonna miss it. You can, however make the guess that I am so happy and beaming that I probably never will shut it.  Way too happy and seemingly motivated is my way of frustrated.

Because when I try to catch this lightbulb, grab it, absorb it, make it work… to get all the ideas at once on a paper and never let them go, this happens: I realize how there are too many, and how none of them can be achieved because I cannot take my mind off any other one. I cannot sit down and write the novel of my life, I cannot draw from this newfound motivation because it is just too much to handle. I have to move and rush and run and be cracked open to release this tension into the night.

So what happens, when I realize that I am actually not likely to ever profit from my ideas? Oh, it becomes all dark, for sure. It all fades to black, and I become cold again. Cold and carelessly aware of something I cannot truly grasp. An invisible force lurking and staring at me through the window, as I stare back blankly, hollowed out. This is my face of calmness – all black and – I am not listening, I don’t really see anything, I let it all just swim around me as I give up on all the little lightbulbs, which always play with me, and deceive me into believing they are not so far… but drift further if I try to get a feint grip on them.

So I guess I could write a book called: “Middle ground lost”… but you will never hear about it, because when I try to grab this…..

A wolf at the door – What I wish everyone would know about silence.

When I was a child, I had many a dream just like all children do. But I also had nightmares. Not the nightmares of monsters who – for some shady reason – live under my bed or in my closet. No, actually under my bed and in my closet were the two safest places for me in the world. My life started off in a not-so-fun way, with my birth mother and father meeting in a police station after they both served years for robbery. You get the idea of what happened that night.

The next thing I know is my father abused my mother. He beat her,  tried to kill her while pregnant. She fled, she married another man and did the stupidest possible thing in the world, which was to move back to her village. And here comes the last thing I know. My father appeared at night and took me, I was found the next day in a ditch.

This was unfortunate enough but it was nothing. Something that could happen to anyone, and something after which you still can lead a normal life. I was taken to the orphanage. Then I was adopted by a single, elderly woman (yes they could do that in 1989). She was desperate and angry. Her family life as a child consisted of nothing but beating. Her first husband went as he hung himself on a doorknob (I always wondered how) and the second one ended up in a loony bin. Life can write unbelievable stories.

Nobody knows what happened when I was a child. Everyone thinks I had the perfect adoption I should be grateful for. But I was beaten with heavy old keys until I found blood running down the back of my head, my hair was sticky with it, and wooden sandals, and I was hurled a kitchen knife at. I was strangled in my bed, until I could see the darkness I was sinking into, one that I started craving for, but then the hands let go. Sometimes I would find that my adoptive mother locked the door on herself and stayed in her room for days leaving no food for me. Also I could have a bath once a week. (Then she beat me for my stinky clothes!). When my menstruation started she did not buy me pads. She said we were too poor and she cut up old clothes (she’s collects second hand clothes) for me to use. There is no imagining the shame I felt because of this. She also had a garden where I worked quite a lot, but sometimes she would go there, and leave me to come home from school and stay on the street until she would come home late night. I was in a phone booth, and soon I saw a man holding his penis and watching me. As I stared back blankly he hopped on his bike and left. I had a cat, and something went wrong with his little lungs. My adoptive mother did not pay for the doctor to put him to sleep. No she put me out of the door with the cat at night (I was young) and said if I come back and not kill him, he will suffer and I am a terrible satanic monster. I had to taint my hands, and I can never forgive myself. Also I never had a bed. I slept on boxes filled up with clothes. This is the world I lived in.

At the age of 12 I was standing on a windowsill, believing suicide was the only way for me. And I prayed. I told God (yes I believe in God) that I gave him a week. To show me something. So I went to this camp where I learned English (greatest gift in my life) and there I became a believer. I went to church and I felt every bit of a new life in me. I met a woman in church I will never forget. Of whom I secretly kept wishing was my mother. To whom I could never ever tell what it was like for me at home. If it was not for all her love I would not even be here.

As part of the church I participated in a mission towards orphans. It was so bittersweet how everyone around me was telling me how bad it is for them and how I will never come close to understanding what it was like. And inside I was screaming that “I KNOW! I know alright, get off me!” I don’t know why I never actually did it, it could have saved me! It could have saved me if I told people my story. But I could not. My adoptive mother was at the church and she was everyone’s favourite angel… the sweetest kindest lady ever. No one would have believed me. No one knew that she has a Bible full of names she wrote next to passages about God’s wrath.

I screamed in a way though. I was in a constant suicidal struggle and I eased the pain by cutting my arms. Don’t ask me why it was good it just was. Then suddenly I was called demonized but that was all. Nobody ever really cared to dig deeper than that.

At 19 I left. Left the church, left my adoptive mother (with the help of her kicking me out and then wanting me back) and I burned all the bridges.

Now I am 26. I enrolled for the university, I met my dearest Adam  : ) and I struggled and struggled with the strangling compulsive desire to kill myself. We earned/earn money with translations, but the wheel of poverty kept turning us back no matter how many times I went to school in the morning after a night worked through. I told someone this week that I was so pissed because some people called me lazy for still being so poor. Some people thought I am not a useful member of society without knowing my works. It hurt me. Because I knew the truth how I struggled but I also blamed myself, because I used to think that if you make efforts they will bring fruit, and she told me that it is not always true. I know right.

All I ever longed for is a small one room little house at the edge of the town where I can translate in peace and heal among some pets. A house I would fix up with my bear hands and where all my friends would be welcome in times of trouble. And I know it is not likely to ever happen no matter how I work. I know that I need one kick forward and I could reach a lot, but I could not find that kick yet. Does not mean I am giving up or backing down. Not so easily. As I battle the daily pictures of suicide in my head this does not mean anything.

I still believe in God. Many believe I don’t but it is not truth. Just because I am battling a mental disorder it does not mean I left God behind. And it does not mean He left me behind.

I still believe in people.

I just wish they still believed in me. I wish they saw me before they make judgements. I wish they understood I do not contact my “mother” not out of anger, just because I do not want to get more hurt. I wish they knew how much I work and how I think of the world. How I think people are precious, and how I think every child like me deserved to be heard. I wish they saw my efforts. How I wish to reconnect with old church members but cannot pass through all the memories.

I know that my current state left old and still beloved friends from church in sorrow and a longing for the times when they knew nothing just saw me smiling. So I need to come to the light. I forgive everything to everyone, and ask for them to forgive me for any wrongdoings attributed to me. And I ask you all that if you ever see a hint of a child living in an abusive home, do not turn away. Do not avert your eyes. You know better than that! Help is a phone call away. You can all be a hero for someone.

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Why eBooks?

I do not read books anymore. Yes, I have been converted to the cult of e-books. Boo-hoo!letöltés

Now, this means a lot of things. First of all, when I present this fact to my friends I see the resentful looks they exchange. Somehow, if you do not choose to read a paperback it makes you appear less intelligent than those, who read “real books”.

Also nowadays being a 90’s kid is “the thing”, which is why portals like 9gag are full of boasting 90’s kid posts from people born in 1999. (Bet you do not know what it is… ow wow a VHS). So there were no e-books in the 90’s – so what? There are certain lifesaving medical procedures that did not exist so a true 90’s kid refuses to take them too or what?

There is a “real books vs. eBooks” argument – a heated one, so I will just settle down and buy a thrilling novel online and I will enjoy it with my coffee and whipped cream while the heat wears off.

However, before I would do so I want to provide some points in defence of e-books

  1. Ever since I started reading e-books I read a lot more.


– Because I can read books from authors who are not available in print in my country

– Because I can purchase books way cheaper

– I get to read from new writers, helpingthem get forward in their career

– I can take a 100 books with me on a trip

2. No trees were harmed!

I am more or less conscious about the environment. I do not throw my garbage away on the streets, I go selective as much as I can. And I definitely love a walk in the forest. So yes, for me using as little amount of paper as possible is an important thing.

  1. If I have the book I really have it

I used to read paperback too. But then, someone would rush into the room and oops… a glass of water on my pages, which were now stuck and unreadable. It angered me, as books are not that cheap. Now this does not happen to me anymore!

  1. I have the hopes to publish my own books

I am not that much of a great writer. I can never dream to become a Rowling or something. But still, I love to write. To create. And I love for my voice to be heard by a few who will say “Wow! My thoughts exactly.” The truth is: a publisher would never get my novel out there, but as an e-book it can fly! Even if it is just for free.

So consider these points when you hear the argument “real books have curves.”

I could say: “Don’t judge a book by the format”