How to take care of me?

English: New road at Hawthornden Only when I g...

Road to happiness 🙂 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I am a very worn out. The funeral was yesterday, and that puts an end to things. But I have not been treating myself as good as I should lately. Lack of sleep and rest, food always in a hurry, family stuff, no cycling, no meditating and all those work things I just have to finish before going away.

A good recipe for a bad result. I feel like I could sleep for a week, that feeling… But I can’t, and wont. When awake I feel like there’s cotton inside my head and my brain is wrapped in it! Everything wise is stuck inside cotton, and won’t come out.

I am going on a great vacation dammit, so now is the time to start being happy, relaxed, laugh a lot, go on lovely cycling trips, visit small medieval cities and drink coffee on the warm sunny town square. So here is the recipe for that:

  1. Get back into meditation routines, however, a bit difficult as we are together 24/7. But I’ll find the moments.
  2. Sleep routines. Not lack of it. Follow my attack plan on sleep meds.
  3. Live here and now. Enjoy what happens. Take ALL the good photos.
  4. Plan what and where we eat, I feel so much better without bread and fast carbs.
  5. Get on the bike for at least 30 k a day, that’s just one hour (well, when it is flat)!
  6. Don’t hurry (except downhill on the bike)
  7. Stretch my neck four times a day. Breathe…

That’s seven vital points for better days. Shouldn’t be too hard. Just right now it kind of seems like mission impossible! (Think I’ll make it??)

I always find it very difficult to get back from holidays, getting back into everyday work and other routines always messes with my head. And it is such a bad bad thing thinking about that now, before we have even gone… I’ll just have to leave that worry at home too. But it’s like when you start to worry, you just don’t stop… there’s always something more to worry about.

Tonight I have invited some old colleagues home for a reunion party. We will have loads of fun, and old memories to laugh about. No more worries as of now. Hereby decided! 🙂

I am going on a summer holiday, doing things :)

colour

colour (Photo credit: Linda Cronin)

I love walking barefoot on the beach, close to the waves, maybe feel the water between my toes. I’d hold my sandals in one hand, while the other holds the warm hand of my husband. We walk and talk. About beauty, mostly. I think about how lucky I am, I can feel my eyes smiling. Breathing in the fresh sea air, gazing over the vast ocean. Having the horizon as the only border I see.

I count days now, six left. On Thursday we are off, and I hope that summer feeling will erase this weeks trouble. Planning funerals are not what I like to do most! So I look forward to four weeks of adventure and peace. Speaking Italian and French again:)
This probably mean a little less effort put in on the blog, but I promise you to let some colour get through to your day from time to time, and some thoughts.

Coloured Toys

When I bring to you coloured toys, my child,
I understand why there is such a play of colours on clouds, on water,
and why flowers are painted in tints
-when I give coloured toys to you, my child.

When I sing to make you dance
I truly now why there is music in leaves,
and why waves send their chorus of voices to the heart of the listening earth
-when I sing to make you dance.

When I bring sweet things to your greedy hands
I know why there is honey in the cup of the flowers
and why fruits are secretly filled with sweet juice
-when I bring sweet things to your greedy hands.

When I kiss your face to make you smile, my darling,
I surely understand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light,
and what delight that is that is which the summer breeze brings to my body
-when I kiss you to make you smile.

Another death in the family

She was old, my aunt, she was  94. Born in the last year of WW1. Second oldest of seven, four girls and three boys. Every one of them went away to study, engineering, chemistry, this one, she studied to be a teacher. Later on she got to be a special eds teacher, one of few. She worked at the same school for more than 40 years.

She never married, and she lived in the house next door. She looked after her old parents, they lived there too.

Yesterday she died, she had been in and out since the weekend, and there was no drama.

I am not sure when I saw her last. For the last ten years, she’s been demented, talking about the war… Mixing our names together, and been ill, so many times.

I don’t really feel anything.

Its not like I am suppressing any feelings, and there is no shock. No loss, no sorrow. A bit relieved, she was tired. I remember her talking about dying, I guess tomorrow, when we get together to plan the funeral, we will find that she probably made plans. Twenty years ago…

I don’t look forward to the funeral, the family (again) and all the stuff we have to do. It is me and my brother and sister who has to do it all. We just did this… four years ago. There has been so many deaths in my family, we are used to it. That sounds terrible. I know.

Some colour to brighten up your day?

Can you remember opening a brand new box of crayons? I can. I would just look at them, see how the different shades of red shifted into pink or orange, and then to yellow. My brother would just throw them all in a big cake tin we had. Mix the old ones together with the new ones. I could never do that. I would keep them in the exact same place in the original box, and open and close carefully, so that it wouldn’t get torn.

If it was a big box, I would perhaps make a small dot, marking the specific spot for each of the crayons. So that they would get back where they belong.

Amazing how colours can affect your mood. Black is for sorrow, white means clean, orange (my favourite) is energy, red is both love and affection, blue… well blue.

Don’t know why yellow got such a bad rumour, at least in my country, it means cowards, and green is new. Sometimes in a negative context.

I had to think about colours today… Feeling a bit down, as one of my aunts are very poorly. There are only two of my father’s siblings left, living here in my town. This is not the one who attended the summer party, though considering the amount of wine an 89 year old women can pour down, she probably felt rather… blue… the day after. This is about the oldest one, and the way it looks now, she won’t see much of the summer coming up. They told me she might die anytime. But they have said that before… So I don’t know. She is 94. We haven’t spoken for years, I have some problems dealing with his family, and so I just don’t. This is where I should probably investigate my feelings on forgiveness. Someone did know, maybe not to what extent wrong things happened in the old house with the large garden, but I can’t help thinking that someone could have done something. She was the next door neighbour.

My youngest daughter told me that when they were kids, I had a really large box with crayons, watercolours, felt tip pens and colour pencils. She remembered it as a lovely childhood memory. She might be a bit like me, that one!

Update:
Just as I was publishing this, my old aunt died. How strange is that?

It goes in the family…

Thousands of candles can be lighted from a single candle, and the life of the candle will not be shortened. Happiness never decreases by being shared. Buddha

English: Chicken wings being cooked slowly ove...

Burnt emotions? (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Today is a bit difficult for me. I have invited the whole family on a summer party. My oldest girl is 25, her oldest son is four. My family, that’s my brother and his family, my sister couldn’t make it, but her family is coming, one old aunt, and my girls and their boyfriends and families. All in all, about 20…

We are having a barbeque, I think. Maybe the weather will be good too? I will probably have some wine. My brother will definitely get drunk, and so will many of the others too.

Don’t have a problem with that.

My brother and sister had a hard time growing up too. And we never talk about it. At some very late night parties, my brother has asked me stuff, but we don’t talk. I told my sister what had happened, or, I indicated that my childhood was not just cuddly bears and cute pink things. That was last October, on a trip to New York. Of course I had had a glass too much to drink, so had she. Since then, we have not talked. I met her at Christmas, we live in the same town.

Thinking all these hard feelings we have had, has been passed on to the next generation. Eight now grown up kids, some carrying loads of luggage, three small children in the generation after that. None of us ever learned to be parents. We all have scars.

And the old aunt, soon to be 90. She must know, or remember. Or maybe have her own story.

It’s a good thing we are used to keep our feelings to ourselves. Imaging stirring in this?

I think my motto for the day is to share my good things and happiness (I’ll try) and leave all the other items.

Maybe I am a coward. But I can’t deal with everybody else’s trouble as well as my own. I love them all though!

Me and all the others

child abuse

Child abuse (Photo credit: Southworth Sailor)

I am different. Aren’t we all… I thought about that today, that feeling. Nobody can understand me, because I am different from them, the others.
It was something I read about helping young people with addictions, that got the thinking going.
We seem to think that we are unique. And I am, but there are not six billions different personality types. Something must be similar other then the fact that all humans have a mind.
When I was a child, I defined my whole being, on the “different” part. I saw people being happy, but had problems relating it to my existence. Of course I had moments of happiness, breaks, Christmas, my secret places. But I saw families and other children with lives so different from my own.
I guess that was what made the distance so enormous. When others tried to get near me, I’d back off. I was so different that the idea of being like them was a concept impossible to understand. The idea that someone could help, wasn’t there at all. For me as a  child. Guess I am growing up now.
Following this was the understanding that nothing could change. I was stuck (as the only one in the world) in my situation, with negligence and abuse, and a life outside of the ordinary.
I was way out. When I sort of cleaned up, and got my life together, I used patterns and behaviour I had watched and learned. I did what people expected me to. I hid away the abused child, and what had been me. Put it in a huge locked box and threw away the key. And for some years, I was probably nobody… Well, I know that’s not possible.
I guess over the years I have found me again, and started working out how my experience has shaped me, and my life.
Sometimes I am very strong, feel like I know what I am doing, and love my life. Sometimes I feel very scared about what has been, scared of those feelings that sort of can take over my whole being.
Sometimes I am just scared. But I’m not all that different anymore.

Related:
The end of childhood as a Horror movie 

How are things at home

I am sure I don’t miss him

He died, I was 25, had just had my second child, and had this strange feeling all evening. It was a Thursday night. I checked on the baby all the time, just waiting for something to happen to her. Then, at 11PM my brother called. My father had had a heart attack at an airport in London. I was thinking; Oh, the reason for my anxiousness! My worry for the baby totally disappeared. I felt absolutely calm.

The only scary feeling I had was realizing that my generation is the oldest. We are the next to die. Most people are not faced with that until they are grown up. Or old, even.

He married again when I turned 18, though he moved in with his future wife when I was 16. My brother and I lived alone in the old house with the large garden.

I was always trying to impress him. To be good enough. However none of my future plans were acknowledged. I was never encouraged to go for any of my ideas, and even when I suggested following his career, I was told I could never do it. I really never wanted to. I just wanted some encouragement. And I never understood why I never got it.

I started remembering things after he died. I think (no, I know) I got depressed. I stopped sleeping. And again there was no story, no timeline to follow. Fragments, flashbacks, bits and pieces, that I couldn’t get to fit together with the life I had created after finishing my chaos at 16. I met a man I married, at 18. I had the first of three lovely daughters at 23, the second at 25. I had a job, a life. It was ok, sort of.

Until I started to remember.

I don’t miss him at all. Remembering has almost destroyed me.