Rusteloos, ik gaf het eerder vandaag al te zijn met een foto en een plaatje of wat. Ik nam de hond al mee naar buiten en heb een uur gelopen, de zon in mijn pas geverfde haren en ik wist dat het mooi was. Het hielp, voor een paar uurtjes. Mijn gedachten gaan alle kanten uit en ik val van blij in boos in tevreden in ongerust in twijfels in irritatie in apathie in zekerheid. Ik probeer een excuus te verzinnen; hormonen, zenuwen, de ene minuut wil ik zo graag sorry zeggen voor alles wat ik denk en voel en wel zou willen schreeuwen, het andere moment liever helemaal niets meer zeggen. Overmorgen een toets, weer presteren, soms voelt het nutteloos, ik kan het toch niet. De dag daarna weer vliegen, weer een koffer, weer in de trein, weer uren wachten, mensen kijken, door de offlicence winkels, vrouwen van de make up die me aankijken, ja ik weet dat ik er niets te zoeken heb, niet met mijn bankrekening in ieder geval. Ik hoop dat de zon schijnt als ik in de lucht ben, en dat ik bij een raampje kan zitten, en naar de wolken kan kijken. Cadeau van de natuur, een aardige attentie, om me gerust te stellen dat ook al weet ik mensen niet in de lucht horen, het wel goed komt. Laatst dacht ik nog aan mijn Sinterklaas surprise van twee jaar geleden; een huisje op voetjes. De gedachte stak een beetje in mijn maag. Het zou in ieder geval een oplossing zijn voor al dat gesjouw, maar een huisje op voetjes? Op dit moment zou ik niet weten onder welk huisje ik voetjes zou doen.
'Het is zo'n leuke meid, waarom kan ze niet iemand dichterbij vinden?' Tsja, waarom niet? Dat is het punt niet, het kan wel, de vraag is waarom de lichtelijk onmogelijke dingen altijd zo ontzettend aantrekkelijk zijn. Het voelt pas echt als het ook pijn doet. De mensen vragen zich meer dan eens af hoe ik het vol hou, iedere keer weer, ook dat is de vraag niet. De vraag is waarom ik het wil, waarom moet er steeds wat moois kapot gemaakt worden en plaats maken voor iets wat opnieuw pijn doet. Want ja, dat doet het, en ik geef het niet toe, zeker niet de komende tijd. Het gaat allemaal makkelijk, de anderen begrijpen gewoon niet wat echt liefhebben is, wat het is om echt voor iemand te gaan, iemand te hebben die het waard is. Maar stiekem, in the back of my mind, weet ik eigenlijk niet zeker wie nou wie niet begrijpt. Waarom kunnen anderen tevreden zijn, waarom moet ik mezelf toch bewijzen dat ik dit wél kan? En op avonden als deze, dan doet het pijn, pijn, pijn, en ik wil het zo graag ontkennen en negeren, ik weet absoluut niet wat ik met mezelf aan moet. Wat dat betreft ben ik afschuwelijk stom. 21 jaar en ik bak er nog steeds helemaal niets van. Het gaat wel vooruit, maar ik laat de mensen achter die weten hoe het was, hoe ik was, waar ik vandaan kom en wat ik geleerd heb. De anderen die er ook waren, weten het simpelweg niet. Op een compliment hoef ik niet te rekenen. En het wordt zo aantrekkelijk om weer terug te vallen in het oude patroon, de enige reden waarom ik praat is omdat ik wil dat het werkt. Ik wil gewoon dat het werkt, het aan mezelf en aan de rest van de wereld bewijzen, I can make this work ook al doet het soms stiekem pijn.

RESTLESS

Nighttime

Wuthering Heights

Give me hope in silence
It's easier; It's kinder
Tell me not of heartbreak
It plagues my soul, plagues my soul
We will meet back on this road
Nothing gaining, truth be told

I have this weak spot for Jane Austen & Emily Brontë novels. Especially rainy foggy moors, pretty dresses with mudstains on it and inseperable romance and agony.

I have seen a lot of pictures like this come across different websites lately.

I get the point. I get the point that people think it is wrong that the media and fashion industry tells us what is considered a beautiful person and what is not. But apart from that, I think this is very hypocrite and it truly pisses me off.

For some reason it is now rude to call a curvy woman chubby or fat but it is perfectly normal to call a skinny woman an anorexic skeleton. They are 'victims of fashion and modelling industry' and 'look ugly naked'. It is unhealthy, wrong and unnatural.

'When did this become hotter than this?;' Well my question is: Since when is it considered rude to comment on curvy women's body shape but is it acceptable to call skinny woman unattractive?

I was very skinny when I was about fourteen years old. An age where you are definitely insecure about your appearance. Take my word on it that classmates called me 'way too skinny', 'anorexic', 'unhealthy' or even 'freaky'. I did not suffered from an eating disorder or other medical condition, it was just how I looked. But no way I could say anything about more curvy girls because that was rude and unfair. People always told me not to complain about my body shape because 'everyone wanted to be skinny', even though people were telling me I had an unattractive body shape.

I am not saying this because I want to inform people about my high school issues. I just think that this whole campaign on the internet about how hot Marilyn Monroe is and how unattractive Keira Knightly is, is just as wrong as it would have been the other way round. The general point that should have been made is that every body shape & size should be valued, whether this is confirmed by media and fashion or not. Nothing is more attractive than a woman who is confident about the way she looks and feels at ease with who she is and what she looks like. 

Don't let anybody ever tell you that the way you look is wrong. A part of your beauty might come from the inside and your lovely personality, but damn girl, you like fine just the way you are.

A New Home

I have been doing okay lately. Two exams coming up next week, in developmental psychopathology and clinical neuropsychology. I look forward to see my boyfriend who's visiting me next week. It has 'only' been about three weeks since we have seen eachother. 'Only' three weeks haha, standards chance when you live a thousand kilometres apart. When he leaves I will fly to Edinburgh where I'll be visiting one of my best friends for a couple of days.

So, good things coming up. Utrecht is starting to feel like home, which is good. I still don't have a job and I am slowly getting used to a sober lifestyle, but it is still quite tricky sometimes. It's also good for creativity, to fulfil my urge for nice food and new clothes I have to come up with other solutions then just buy a shitload of stuff. Last year I earned about 400 euros a month without having to spend that on rent or food. At the moment, after paying my rent, I have a 180 euros to live on, this includes money for groceries. It's quite a chance, but hey! Challenge accepted! I'll manage. I still have two job applications sort of running so fingers crossed for those.

And after this not-so-interesting update I'm going to spend the rest of my day on braindamage. Lovely! (and yes, I mean that)

2 November 2011

 There is something fascinating about your own scribblings from the past.

I cannot sleep. My  mind gives me no chance to sleep. I have been watching the ceiling for more than an hour now. The darkness behind the bathroom door which is not closed. The door of the closet isn’t closed either. I don’t like open door when I try to sleep.

                Have been watching the dim light shining through the curtains. The old, vague, tartan curtains. Almost as ugly as the dusty lamp on the dark ceiling. I have been watching this room more than once. The nights when I wasn’t able to sleep as well. These nights are different than the nights back home. It is not the panic, the suffocating realization of things I don’t want to think about but can’t control. These are not the nights when my heart starts pounding, my muscles freeze when I try so hard to avoid letting my mind take control. Think. Of. Something. Different. Please. Stop.

                No. This is different. I used to fall asleep after gaining control again, when the panic faded away. But now there is no point in trying. I gave up. ‘Going to have a glass of water.’ There’s no point in lying actually. He will understand. Maybe it is just lying to myself. Refusing to admit I am not able to control my mind, again. Yes, it is probably like that. But that’s all right. He would understand the lie as well. I guess.

                I’m snuggling in the big leather chair under a blanket. Waiting for my body to get cold, my eyes to get sore and my mind to get tired. Watching around the living room and the kitchen. My coffee cup with some cold coffee in it. I didn’t finish it. Loose paper where he scribbled some things on. I can’t read them from here. I’m not going to try to read it either. It is none of my business. Actually, he is none of my business. Should be none of my business at least.

Doggystyle.

 

Gotta love it.

5 days to Dublin

"The trick is, can you still do these things that are not considered 'classy' and still be classy?"

- Dita von Teese

Grocery shopping

Actually, the distance is a bit too large to walk. But since I don't have bike yet, and it is not that far away that I would bother to take a bus, I grab my backpack and walk to the store.

The shopping centre in my new neighbourhood is pretty big and they have loads of useful stores, like supermarkets, drugstores, clothing shops and much more. This is the first time I am spending time around my new room in Utrecht when there is some sunshine, so I do not mind the walk at all.

One of the first people I pass by is an unhealthy looking man who gives me an unpleasant grin when he passes. He leaves traces of an unidentifiable odour in the air. He is followed by another man, somewhat younger, but who gives me the same grin and carries the same heavy-looking bag. Looking at the trace of empty cans of cheap beer they left on the pavement, I am pretty sure what those bags contain. Thanks for the warm welcome, I say to myself.

The supermarket is huge. Enormous. It feels like I am on a holiday in France and enter one of those hypermarchees for the first time. The only thing that's missing is the freezers full of whole fish and lobsters. I have already crossed the vegetable section three times and still have not found the onions and garlic I was looking for. I did found bananas for baking, vegetables who look like hairy branches and grapes. To protect myself from eating the whole package of cookies when I am home, I go for the grapes.

After paying at the cashdesk, all the things I have forgotten pop up in my mind. I'll buy the salt and pepper tomorrow. And the sugar, and the coffee. 

On my way home I notice a group of young men is walking towards me, blocking the road. As I come closer, I look the guy in front of me right in the eyes (well, sunglasses), because that 'go the fuck out of my way' trick usually works. It does not now. And since I am not really looking forward to getting into an argument with a group of six guys wearing trashbags with Nickelson written on their back, I decide to jump on the cycling path just before I hit his shoulder. I see the same arrogant grin on his face and feel like slamming his face with my bottle of olive oil.

Yes, a nice neighbourhood that sometimes reminds me a little of Limerick. But this is more the Dutch version. And still better than Limerick, to be fair.

But anyway. I'm going to prepare my first meal here in a couple of minutues (coucous! yay) and my friend asked to go out with her tonight. I agreed, what means I will be wearing her party-clothes (who will look a little tight on me) and that she will have to bring me home on a bike (we are so Dutch!) but it's going to be fun fun fun. I'll just leave my olive-oil-bottle-weapon at home and have a good time.