The short answer is obstinacy.
To be honest, I’m stubborn as hell, always has been. Usually, when people look at me, they do not presume too much of me. In their eyes, I’m just a girl with a pretty face and a loud voice.
They do not presume that I’m smart.
They do not presume that I can cook.
They do not presume that I know about football.
They do not presume that I can drive.
They do not presume that I can finish a race.
And yet, I do.
I have an IQ of 144, a college degree, I speak 4 languages and read more book a year than others in their whole life.
I can even make pancakes when I’m drunk.
I know more about football than the average boy and could recite all the English football clubs, their nicknames and their pitch before I could write.
I drive a stick shift and can change my tires without any help.
I’ve finished a 6K mud race on a motocross track with my 10yrs old dog basically from the couch, without any further training but with a smile on my face.
So when I say I’m gonna run a half marathon next year, I mean it. And if you doubt me, the better.
Every now and then comes a point in life, when you feel you can’t go on anymore. Everything that could go wrong, it goes wrong, even the things you never thought about. You wake up with a massive pimple on your forehead. You rip your dress and have to rethink your whole outfit. You spill your coffee on your new outfit and have no spare one. You miss the bus. You get scolded by your boss. Your crush is MIA for days now.
Your whole life seems to go down the drain. And no one even glances an eye. Like you’re not even there. Like you do not even exist. So you hide in the bathroom stall, crouched on the cold floor tiles. You want to cry. God, how desperately you want to cry. Blubber out all the hopelessness, the frustration, everything that is sitting on your chest, making breathing almost impossible.
But you can’t. Doesn’t matter how hard you try to force the teardrops out of your beautiful eyes, they stay dry. Your liner is still perfectly winged, your mascara didn’t move an inch from your lashes. Even though you’re breaking inside, from the outside you look perfectly together. A perfect little disaster.
What did I learn from my accident?
That it not always ends how the odds tell you it will.
That when it all comes down to the breaking point we are all alone, regardless of family, friends, lovers.
That the ones who claim to love you will leave you.
That the ones who claim to care about you will hurt you.
That there is no better ally than yourself.
That you only need to survive one day at a time.
That no pain lasts forever. As soon as you get used to it, it diminishes.
That ‘I know how you feel’ is the most utter bullshit thing to say. You don’t have the slightest idea.
What did I learn from my accident?
That I’m stronger than anything that tried to kill me.
That I’m stronger than anybody expected me to be.
That I’m a fighter.
They say changes are good. They say changes are necessary. They say changes make the world go around.
But they don’t tell you that changes are scary too. And they certainly don’t tell you that sometimes they hurt. They hurt so much that you doubt you will get out of alive. And yet, you do. Barely alive, but here you are, breathing.
The question is: was it worth it?
The sleepless nights tossing and turning in bed, going through all the pros and cons for the thousandth time. The choking fear in your throat, the insane thumping in your chest, the haze creeping around your brain. You are way too familiar with all of it.
But sooner or later, you have to decide: stay or change. Play on the safe side or take the risk and go for the new? Will it worth it? All the fuss, all the pain, all the killing obscurity? Will it be relieving or will it deliver the final thrust? Do you have enough to do it all over again, one more time? Enough stamina, enough bravery, enough soul? Or you’re just a ghost of someone you used to be, who will stumble and fall on the very first obstacle?
The question is not that if it worth it? But are you willing to die in it?
Sometimes I just feel that I have wasted all my life. All those years I’ve worked my ass off, just went straight down the sink in one moment. One moment that I thought would change my life. And it did some way. Just not exactly the way I imagined.
They say you mature with all your scars. That you need to suffer if you want to grow. I spent the last two and a half year trying to figure out what to do with my life. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t nearly perfect before, but it didn’t feel so fucked up like now. I had a job that didn’t pay me enough to die but at least I loved it. And damn, I was good at it. I knew that I had no chance to advance there or make a living out of it, and to move on with my life I had to change, but it still hurts. Seeing someone else doing what I did. Seeing someone else loving the job once I loved. It’s still killing me.
Nevermind I have a great job which looks pretty impressive in my resumé and finally I’m making decent money which allows me to finally move into my own place. Well, not really my own, just a rent, but anyway, you got the point. And I met awesome people, some of them even became close friends. But still, I feel miserable.
Around me, everyone seems to get their life together. Moving in with boyfriends, moving into a new country, getting married, having kids. And me? I can’t even write a damn page of my cherished little book. I feel like such a failure. I’m 32 and I literally have nothing. No boyfriend, no dream job, no apartment, no chunky bank account. No dreams to pursuit anymore. I’m not sure if I even exist anymore.
Everyone says to hold on, better days are coming. But honestly? I don’t think there is anything good left in store for me. Maybe I had my chances and I blew it. I’m still grieving the life I had. And this grief makes it impossible to love the life I’m living in. Even if I would like to.
That was the number of months of how old I was when I suffered a burn accident.
That is the degree of burns I got when I accidentally fell into a puddle of spilt boiling soup on the floor. *
*Third-degree burns are the most severe. They cause the most damage, extending through every layer of skin.There is a misconception that third-degree burns are the most painful. However, with this type of burn, the damage is so extensive that there may not be any pain because of nerve damage.
That is the critical percentage of TBSA (total body surface area) in case of a 1 yr old infant. Burns above this number are considered severe injuries.
In 1985, in an Eastern-European hospital behind the iron curtain, this was considered the line between life and death.
This was my number for the TBSA burnt. Do the math.
This will be the number of candles on my birthday cake this Sunday.
It’s 1 week til my birthday. Wohoo! Or rather wohoo not. I used to be really fond of birthdays, always waiting with overflooding excitement. Not because of the presents. Well, not only because of the presents.
The one particular moment I was looking for all year was my mum bringing out the homemade cake from the kitchen, twinkling candles on top. Now you must think i’m a pyro. I can assure you, I’m not.
I was waiting for blowing the candles so I can make a wish. I was holding on to that wish for a year, carefully planning every word of it. And it never came true.
But I did not give up. Year after year, I blew the candles and made the same wish, with eyes shut and fingers crossed behind my back. Year after year, my heart was fulfilled with hope and desperation. And year after year a little more hope disappeared and gave the place to a little more sorrow.
On Sunday, I’m turning 32. And I’m gonna make one last wish.
What was my wish? Simple: please let me be happy.