I just want to be blown away, all the time.

The new Kings of Leon

I'm listening obsessively to the new Kings of Leon album. It's heartfelt rock'n'roll, the kind that asks for big stadium gigs full of adoring singalong fans. I didn't like Kings of Leon much before, whereas J. had their previous album on repeat mode in his iPhone for a long time. Until I read this raving review in a Sunday supplement and, since I haven't listened to anything other than 80s pop these days, I decided to have a go. Apparently, this album got very mixed reviews, many of them leaning toward the thumbs down road than anything else. Who cares. These days I see music critics as irrelevant as everyone else's opinion about music : they're only purpose is to inform you of artists and their output. Their personal tastes are pointless. Music to me is about instinct: it either rocks your world or it doesn't. It either makes you feel happy, or sad, or sexy, or it doesn't. Stuff like "the track starts on the right note but it doesn't hold to the end" or any scrutinising production bollocks is only interesting for people who work with it. I just care if it makes me dance, if  it makes me cry, or if it makes me forget my own thoughts for a while. 

And I'm not going to feel silly for that.

Having it All

The other day I came across an article in a fashion magazine about that old feminine ideal of having it all. The myth that we, the fragile sex, can have a successful career, a family, a stable relationship and money while still managing to be pretty, sexy, fashionable and intelligent. Note that I say myth, and not concept, because that what it is, and will always be, if you, stressed out folks out there, haven't realised yet: being good at everything is nothing more, nothing less than pure utopia. It is a phony ideal of life. And more to the point, it's utterly unfair to women. Men don't go through this kind of dilemma - or at least, not the ones that I know. Most of the men around me (the non-gay ones) are either focused in 1)Make money, 2) Have sex, 3)Be recognized for whatever they do so they can have numbers 1 and 2, and 4)Have a good time after and while they're working at numbers 1,2 and 3, which includes drinking, drugs, bungee jumping, gambling in Vegas, or whatever takes their fancy. The ones with kids and relationships are either 1)Bored, 2)Too busy fucking around to care, 3)Thinking they're too hot to be having sex with just one bird, so they better get out of it ASAP. Some of them care about their looks or think about clothes, but never more than once a week, and even them it takes a right pickle for them to do anything about it (say, a girl that looks horrified at the sight of their naked beer gut, or a pair of torn jeans that exposes their disproportional god-given male qualities). So I suppose, with few exceptions, men in general don't go about fretting that they can't have it all, simply because they don't want to.

Now, in my case, the have-it-all ideal assumes an entirely new proportion. On top of wanting all of those things that make up the myth, each category is divided into several sub-categories, making the whole thing sound, well, decidedly AMBITIOUS.

I'll give an example (the most obvious of the other obvious ones): career. I don't want to have just ONE career, for many reasons, the strongest of them being that 1) I have way too many interests, 2) Which makes me want to be able to explore at least some of them at lenght and 3) Which also scares the monkeys out of me to be defined by any single one of them.

I'll translate: right at this moment I'd very much like to write a novel and short stories, colaborate with magazines, create an ethical fashion label, learn to knit, sew and draw properly, take street fashion pictures on a weekly basis, and become an assistant of someone with an established career in any of these creative areas. In my little deluded head, I believe I am perfectly able to do all of the above at the same time, so I've written a weekly schedule in which I dedicate a few hours everyday to each task/project, carefully designating special slots for exercising and socialising on a regular basis.

BUT - and there's always a but - on top of everything I also need to find time to run a small (tiny) business in which I buy, style, photograph, edit, update, promote and send vintage clothes to remote corners of the world, and all on my own.

The result: a frustrated, overly disquieted version of me at the end of every single day because OBVIOUSLY I cannot complete 25% of my meticulously drawn daily schedule.

It goes without saying that each and every aspect of my life suffers too. I skip daily runs and yoga sessions because I'm already late to finish whatever I'm working on, I neglect friends and boyfriend because I always think I could be carrying out a project instead of engaging in meaningless chit-chat, and when I am around other people I struggle to pay attention to what they say because my mind is racing with things I ought to be doing.

The relationship part, I don't even want to go there. My other half favourite choice of words is "What did I just say?", because he knows I'm endlessly pretending to listen to him. Not to mention (the shame!) my nightly predilection for books or another episode of Six Feet Under instead of sex.

God. My neck hurts.

So how on earth I'm gonna manage to have children and a house and (oh, I forgot), enough money to support this insane lifestyle, that's what I can't even think about thinking.

And there are still women out there who say we can have it all. I'd kill whoever invented that.

Impressions from an Italian holiday

Last weekend we went for a road trip around the north of Italy and it turned out to be one of the most fantastic trips I've ever been to. This time, we hadn't planned absolutely anything, and I was almost certain things were going to go wrong - last time we went for a road trip (around the UK), we ended up in obscure, cold towns, getting car-sick and bored to our hearts' content.

Amazingly, this time everything rolled smoothly. We simply picked up a car in Milan, looked at the map, and someone pointed a finger randomly at the map, saying "Let's go there." After six hours driving through stunning landscapes we arrived at a tiny touristic town called Levanto near Cinque Terre and the Italian Riviera.  

And our luck did not finish there: after knocking on some people's doors asking for a hotel room, we managed to rent this superb three bedroom flat 2 minutes from the beach. I was in heaven.

We spent 2 days soaking in the sun in Levanto and Buonnasola (another beautiful beach 10 minutes away), had dinner in Vernazze, an even tinier village with one of the most fantastic sunsets on Earth (the other one being my Dad's hometown, Campo Grande, in Brazil), watched shooting stars lying on the rocks (I had never seen one before, until my new friend C. told me to keep looking at the same point in the sky for 10 minutes. I screamed when I realized it was true.), and ended the trip with late drinks in a medieval city called Lucca and the best risotto in a restaurant in Milan with a view to the Duomo.

Now. The fun part: (Before any Italians read this, please note I am totally generalizing).

1- Tanning is SERIOUS BUSINESS for Italians. They surely don't give a rat's ass to that whole nonsense of sunbathing before 11am and after 4pm, or using SPF 30, or things like wrinkles  and, uh, CANCER. Why, if they can turn into a 70% dark chocolate version of themselves? I've never seen anything like that shade of tan. They were all something like this: 

(That's the only picture google came up with when I typed "super tan". And that picture is probably from someone's granny in the 60s - which gives us an idea of how crazy must be these days to go this dark :).

Everywhere there were ladies toasting away midday, with a cigarette in one hand and baby oil spray on the other. And their faces MATCHED their bodies. Damn, I don't think I've come across anyone that, uhm, ruthless since the 80s. 

2- Young men in Lucca ALL have long hair scraped back in a (yes) BUN. I'm not making this up. We went into the town center at night for drinks and we encountered this corner full of boys and young people standing in front of pizzarias and gelaterias (apparently their saturday night hangout of choice). And a whole group of them had their hair UP, loosely tied with the ends sticking out. Something like this:

I've seen men wearing their hair this way occasionally, but I never thought this was a MAJOR trend anywhere since the... what, early 90s? Oh, and all of them also wore knitted jumpers tied around their shoulders in a preppy sort of vibe, even though it was 35ºC outside and there wasn't any remote possibility of temperatures falling.

3- Italians can be quite scary sometimes. Everything seems to be "private" or "exclusive", and you have to pay to have to privilege to be at this places. Every beach has a private area with sun loungers (30 euros a day), and we were kicked out of all of them. You cannot order an espresso at the bar and take it to a table without someone screaming at you that you need to pay a fee to sit down, and don't even try to use their toilets or (the heresy!) throw a can of coke in their rubbish bins if you haven't bought it there. 

4- Italians like their buildings to be grand and embellished, but it seems that around the riviera and Cinque Terre they don't want to spend too much money on sculpted ornaments. Instead, they paint extra windows, balcony columns, adornments and bricks on the walls in 3D style, so from a distance it's like you're looking at carefully built antique architecture. Marvelously kitschy. Something like this: 

That's all I can remember now. But I'll never see Italians in the same light after this trip. They surely are peculiar people.

The Raconteurs advice

Everything's OK
As long as you're inside my blue veins.

Elephant's Memory

Since we moved to the loft/studio/live-n-work unit, things have changed for the better ... and some for the worse. I can't remember if I said that before, but after 6 years living abroad, this is the first time we're on our own. Just me and him and the cats. I don't want to dare say it's anything other than wonderful, because that's all it has been for most of the time. But reality always warms her way into one's lives eventually, and now there are no flatmates to blame for the unfairness and arduousness of it all.

In one sentence: when shit hits the fan, sometimes I just feel like killing him.

Don't get me wrong, though. I am doing nothing more than venting here, because almost 8 years down the road, in terms of relationships I can honestly declare that I am NOT a quitter. Just because in times of trouble, when the clothes rail breaks for the second time and everything is gathering dust on the floor, when the Ikea cupboard is faulty once again and we have to return it, when the washing machine is leaking, the ceiling is leaking, the shower is leaking, the bloody London sky is leaking!, it doesn't mean I don't want to be with him anymore. Being - as in the act of existing - without him is a condition I have no intention of pursuing ever again. This is one of the major changes I've gone through since I started seeing him, because my original nature (if I can put it this way - surely one's nature changes along the way?) is one of a quitter. It's in my genes. For most of my teen and early adulthood years, when there was a remote possibility, a looming idea that things might go wrong, I would simply jump in and out like a frog who jumps inside a boiling pan. That is a classic example of immaturity: someone who just doesn't want to deal with too much pain. It's okay to get slightly injured, hurt and cry for a couple of days, but then life is too short to stir away in a pool of sorrow. Bring fresh blood in, please.

Then, I met him, and when it comes to loved ones, he is not a quitter. He just doesn't switch off his phone and disappear when jealousy and bitterness and anxiety broke all at once. He doesn't run off to someone else's arms, someone else's smell to forget the frustration. He was the first person to smile straight in the middle of a row and say "ok, I'm sorry, lets start all over again".
He says, "Even better, let's just forget everything", because he probably knows quitters like me have elephant's memory and tend to build a wall around themselves against eventual threats.
So gradually, brick by brick, he razed my wall down and taught me that love is about sticking together, specially in times of hardship.

On the other hand, I'm convinced that I was not the only one who learnt important lessons throughout our almost eight years together. I, with my extreme tendencies to over-analyse stuff, have always needed to talk things through, specially when I'm not putting them down as rantings in a journal or blog. Which means that whenever he would hold me by the collar to not run away, I would sit there and say "Okay then, let's NOT start all over again. I wanna talk about it." The quintessencial, old-school "Let's discuss our relationship." I like to believe he is not like the stereotypical man who avoids this kind of situation. Instead, he simply was, years ago, unfamiliar with this habit. It certainly became a habit. And because of these two rules (1. do not avoid problems, and 2. confront and talk them through), established steadily by both, we managed to change our "original natures" - at least, a little.

Today, when life comes crashing in with bills to be paid, cats to feed, cleaning to be done, things to get fixed, projects to be carried out, all accompanied by the ghosts of failure and frustration, we try to stick together.

And talk it through.

Penelope Fitzgerald's writing advice

Today, in the Guardian:

"I think you should write biographies of those you admire and respect, and novels about human beings who you think are sadly mistaken."

In this light, I should have had TONS of inspiration. At least for the novel part.

A Novel's Help

These days, it is not very often that I come across a book that simply sweeps me off my feet, that makes me want to read it slowly and carefully, underling sentences and writing comments on the margins. Recently, I really enjoyed the The Glass Castle, a memoir which I bought at the airport in São Paulo and read the whole thing in Portuguese on the plane to London, from the American journalist Jeannette Walls (in this YouTube clip her idiosyncratic and often irritatingly free-spirited mother appears, while she happily summarises her story to the camera like an E! presenter. I found that annoying.)

But for the past 2 weeks I've been completely engrossed in Siri Hustvedt's novel What I Loved. It is beautifully written in a sort of careful, elaborate narrative that forces you to decelarate and enjoy the language and the comprehensive pondering of the characters' emotional behaviours. Until I finished the novel today and started combing the internet for people's impressions and opinions, I was also amazed at Hustvedt's imaginary capacity to create such a complex plot (the book explores 25 years of two New York 'art' couples), but then I found a couple of articles that mentioned the similarity of several sections of the book to Hustvedt and her husband Paul Auster's lives, and then my awe faded a little. Apparently, both authors are well-known in the literary world for "dressing" facts from their own lives, as a journalist wrote, and incorporate them into their work.

That said, knowing this doesn't affect my infatuation with this book. In this little audio clip, she says that if you look at people sitting around the table of a dinner party, you could bet that every single one has stories about love and loss, and how both have been largely influential on how those people turned out. She says "I'm interested in why people become what they become. When my daughter was 3, I was giving her a bath, and she asked me: 'Mom, when I grow up, will I still be Sophie?' That was a very dramatic question about human life, and this novel is about those ideas, the role of culture in shaping people's character."

I just loved that. In my own troubled relationship with my family and friends, I've often tried to put breaks on my own judgement of them and simply tried to understand what was behind their acts and behaviour. It made things easier, at least for me, and opened space for forgiveness. Reading this novel and hearing that comment clarified a lot what I have - often unconsciously - tried to do, and shone a light into a practice that needs to be exercised by anyone who wants to be some kind of writer/artist.

I'm looking forward to read her other novels.

The Written Word

Talking about not recognising my former self.

Just the other day I've realised that although I'm somewhat more comfortable with who I am at the moment, there's also a shadowy side to this recent moment of enlightenment.

I still think I should be doing more.

6 years ago I saw myself as someone who saw intellectuality, the workings of the mind, as a goal, as a way of life, something to aspire to. My heros always have been writers, people who spent most of their days thinking and translating conclusions, deliberations and observations into words who would be read by others. At the same time, I've always loved fashion, and always thought of it as a way to show the world, albeit in a superficial way, one's own ideas. It was my way to single myself out from the crowd, to challenge conventional patterns of behaviour and beauty, capturing attention of people who would be willing to trade similar ideas with me, and repel conformists.

But for me it has always been far from dignifying to spend one's day thinking about shoes, for instance. Or thinking about how to coordinate outfits. Or thinking about how to find a ridiculous amount of money to spend in a piece of (brilliantly designed, I must say) fabric. It's not how anyone with a brain should choose to spend a life in.

Then the other day I suddenly registered that that is exactly what I've doing most of my days.
Since I left the world of jobs to try and make it on my own, all I think about is shopping, seasons, celebrities, shoes, pouring over endless cuttings from Vogue and i-D and Elle, gradually assimilating 7 decades of fashion (I just reinvented myself as a vintage fashion "dealer"/ stylist). I love it. It gives me a lot of pleasure to stumble upon a gem, and it thrills me to suddenly understand what works for whom, and how to bring the coolest side of someone. But this is all TOO visual.

All my life I've trained myself to use WORDS to express myself. WRITTEN words. I don't sing, or play any instrument, I'm a horrible drawer/painter, and although I have been an above average dancer, I could never make a career out of it - or any sport, for that matter. But the written word is my instrument, is where I feel more at ease, is my hometown, my motherland, my native language. And if I spend too long away from it, with time I start feeling very, very pointless.

I might not be a very good writer, and maybe I'll never make it into fiction like I've always thought I would, someday. But it gives me pleasure to be alone in a silent room with only the tic-tic of the keyboard for soundtrack, to elaborate sentences that are not important for anybody else but me, to create passages of stories that never connect to each other, that never see a beginning or and end (that's my main ability).

To me, this is how you turn a pointless day into a rewarding one. No pair of shoes can give anyone the same joy.

Home from Home

For the past two weeks, all I've been doing is looking for a new place to live, my 7th in London. Looking is an understatement: you've gotta get all geared up and go to war for that, because apparently every Londoner favourite pastime is to scour the city for a suitable dwelling. And boy, these people are ruthless. Properties with simple requirements such as normal-sized windows (so you can have a tiny bit of rare daylight coming in and not spend all your ages in electricity bills) and rooms slightly bigger than shoeboxes (so you can actually move around without tripping on your already sparse furniture) are snapped up faster than Louboutins on sale. In one of the hottest, most thriving property markets in the world there's a a horrible shortage of decent accommodation, and worst of all (and probably because it is what it is), what you will pay for a bedsit in a hot area would probably get you a mansion with sea views anywhere else in the world.
(except in Balneário Camboriú, the city I come from in Brazil, where the property speculation is as ridiculous as in London).

But one zillion phone calls and dozens frustrated viewings later, I've finally managed to find the perfect place to move all the piles of shoes, books, and magazines I've accumulated in almost 5 years of living in London. And this time, unbeliavably for the first time in this city, it's just me, my junk, and him. And my two fur balls, Nick and Quincas.

I can't barely remember the last time it was just us. The two of us. I remember back in Brazil, when we were in the height of passion and barely out of our teens. We were 19, and we had these beautiful and spacious 2 bedroom wonder at the chicest neighbourhood in town, a brand new car, and all our lives in front of us. But I wasn't happy. I was small and spoilt and scared, and I wanted to know what other surprises life had under her sleeve. It didn't matter that I would have to leave all the glitter behind and start from scratch in a dirty, obscure corner of New York City - the unknown seemed so much more exciting.

It was - and it wasn't. There's no amount of warning that can prepare you for life in the big city, even less if this is a foreign city. I remember my first day in NYC, without knowing a single soul, feeling all the despair slowly creeping up inside me after being literally dumped with two enormous suitcases by the taxi driver in a smelly, grubby street of the Spanish Harlem, under a 38ºC sun. The room I misguidedly took for a "vibrant accomodation with views to the Central Park", found via a "findaroomate.com" sort of website, was on the 3rd floor of a disintegrating building with no elevators (and no views to the Park, except maybe from the firescape) and my new roomie, a Chinese-American woman who supposedly had a job at Morgan Stanley in Wall Street, wasn't coming down to help me. It took me 25 minutes and two buckets of my own sweat to negotiate those horrible stairs, and it didn't get any better once I was in my new flat. My room, that cost $500 a month, was no bigger than a broom cupboard and as "vibrant" as only the inside of a pre-heated oven could be. On top of that, the Chinese woman seemed not to have a single cleaning gene in her DNA, for the whole place was covered in dust, and she had a charming habit of hanging her washed granny panties in the middle of the living room. Aparently, they dried faster when in full view of street passer-bys.

I, being the good Brazilian middle-class child of the 90s I was, comfortably wrapped-up most of my life in a cozy blanket of daily cleaners, meals cooked from stratch and airy, bright, spacious apartments, was appalled. Horrified. Shocked, dismayed. So much that when, right after I arrived, I decided to go out to find a payphone to call home (and plead to go back), I ended up walking from the 111th to the 32nd street - 79 blocks in aproximatelly 5 hours, almost non-stop. I don't really know why I did that, but what happened during that walk changed me forever. It wasn't that I was stalked by a black guy for 5 blocks, or that I cried uncontrollably for another five when I couldn't get the calling cards to work, or even that magic moment when I turned on 42nd street and found the bright lights of Times Square for the first time, followed by the amazing Public Library later in the day. It was simply that in my exhausted, overwhelmed mind, I knew I could never go back to my old life, because it would never be the same again.

I lasted exactly 45 days in that fetid Harlem flat, and moved to several other over-priced, decaying, hideous other flats in Boston, Cambridge and then London, most of them populated by normal looking people that almost always revealed themselves to be mischevous, wacky creatures with several unhygienic habits and a penchant for self-deception.

But two countries, eleven homes and countless obscure neighbourhoods later, I look back and I don't recongnize that young girl that dreamt of leading a sitcom life in the big city. She was anxious, worried, and self-conscious in way that I aknowledge, but find it impossible to identify with. I had all the stability in the world and was never comfortable in my own skin. Today, 6 years later, my world is much more vulnerable than it ever was, full of risks and unpredictability, but I never felt more confident, more assured that now I am leading the life I was wanted to lead. Better still, in a place, a possible home, that reflects exactly who I always wanted to be and didn't know.

It's a life not as similar as in those American sitcoms I used to dream about, but the feel-good factor is pretty close.


(more about the new home in the next post).

Things that are still wrong in my life

- I don't write enough about the most important people in my life.

- I don't write enough about the (extra)ordinary stuff that happens in my life.

- I'm still unable to fully demonstrate how much I love some people. Specially my mum.

- I'm still unable to cook a simple meal, other than grilled chicken and steamed veggies. 

- I'm still unable to be myself,  completely, fully and entirely. 

- I don't write enough.

Another Inspiration

"[...] The most subversive thing: to be out in the mainstream and get away with it"

Terry Richardson.

Restless

I get restless.

I always do, when I come here.

I forget who I am, what I like, what I carefully built along the years. My idiosyncrasies, my personality traits, my odd but remarkable history. All irrelevant, like they belong to someone else. Someone I’m not interested in.

I can get no satisfaction.

Instead, I become who I used to be. An insecure, ugly little girl, desperate to please, to be noticed, to be one of them. Obsessed with everything that doesn’t matter, that is not important to anyone but still rules everyone’s lives. Everything that made me run away, until I found a place where I could be myself in peace.

Somewhere I could be proud. Of myself.

Like that saying ,“It’s never too late to become who you really are,” or something along those lines. I travelled far, mastered the languages, the crowds, the overwhelming rhythm. I proved not to anyone, but to myself, that I AM strong and smart and beautiful and endlessly interesting.

But I’m nothing here. In the smallest of universes, I feel like a curious creature, an oddball, no more. Something to be looked at from afar, to be distanced from.

I cheated myself
Like I knew I would
I told you I was trouble
You know that I’m no good.

I was weak, and selfish, and silly. I wake up 6 o’clock in the morning, breathe hard, walk from room to room, read the same paragraphs over and over, check obsessively the same websites. Can’t stop thinking.

This time, I was careful enough not to share the details with anyone. I don’t want anyone but the mirror to see the shameful restlessness in my eyes.

And now,

All I need is a glimpse of reciprocity. A spontaneous evidence of the same. Then maybe, I could go back to sleep.

Living twice

When I look back at my life, I feel that if I really wanted, I could be a good blogger. My world turns upside down in a incredibly speedy rate, enough to entertain the most hardcore of Big Brother fans - but I hesitate. I keep asking myself, "What's the point of telling the world what I'm going through? Why would I give them the freedom to build on judgment and prejudice and whatever negative feelings people feel towards other people, based on what I choose to write about or photograph? Am I an exhibitionist? Am I expecting people's approval? Why do I need it anyway?"

Since I chose to write a blog back in 2001, I walk around carrying those questions on my shoulders like a heavy block of stone. I generally forget the answers, until I find a quote in a book or a website that reminds me why humans in general need to document life. As Isabel Allende, that blessed Chilean writer, said, it is because it helps us remember what happened. Because memories are the thread that keeps the flimsy, stubborn fabric of our souls together, and if we can't remember things it is as if they've never happened. Writing (photographing, painting, creating) helps us remember, and through remembering the events of our life, we are able to live twice.

Also: through writing and art we find a way to arrange the pieces of a giant puzzle in a way that we can understand, that makes sense to us. Life becomes easier.

I'm not saying writing a blog is a form of art, but, just the same, it bears all those qualities attached to nobler forms of writing like novels and memoirs. It helps me build memories, it helps me remember, it helps me make sense and understand. And most of all, it helps me live twice under the watchful eyes of the world.

Just a Reminder

"why tackle a memoir? Because I need to remember. What I don't write it, I forget, and then it is as if it never happened; by writing about my life I can live twice. "

Isabelle Allende, reminding me why I should keep on writing a blog. At least that.

Pills

The doctor, an English blonde woman, gave me two choices: I could take the super new drugs, with virtually no side effects, for 3 months, until I felt stable enough to get on with my life. Or I could try therapy and "reeducate the way I see life and the world." Or, if necessary, I could have both. All free of charge, a gift from the enlightened British government. I said, Can I think about it? She said, Call me in a week's time.

I don't think I'll be going back there anytime soon.

The big D

Right. 

So after all my optimistic little phase, I went to my GP for the first time in five years today, and her diagnosis was "mild depression." Well, well. No shit, Einstein. If anyone read my blogs' archives from back in 2002, all the clues would probably lead to the same conclusion. Mild depression. What does that mean, anyway? Being a little sad for long periods of time? Or feel very down, hit rock bottom, for a couple of weeks? Or maybe have short bouts of paralysing anxiety in crucial moments of your life, followed by months of light but piercing self-deprecation after the anxious episode made you totally screw up? Does it mean feeling powerless when you can't go back in time and changes things? Or feeling worn-out when you look ahead because certain things will never change?

I always thought people with depression would wear pajamas all day, and have dark circles around their eyes, and sleep during the day after long nights crying their eyes out. They would not go to Yoga classes like I do, or eat their vegetables and grilled chicken like I do. They wouldn't call their friends and make jokes about their own stuck-up situation like I do, or put on make-up before leaving the house like I do. They wouldn't make love before falling asleep, or take the cats to the garden in the morning with a mug of hot tea just so they can all catch a tiny bit of sunshine like I do.

I thought depression was something a like a permanent heavy weight on your shoulder, not that quiet desperation that hits you when you're not trying to get busy with anything, so you'll stop thinking. I thought it was something that stopped you from doing anything else, like a barrier that stops an overflowing river, instead of just silently following you like a weightless shadow while you try to get on with your life. 

I thought depression was as clear and easy to identify like a broken mirror, not a set of puzzle pieces scattered over 10 years. That's how long it took for me to realise that maybe something was up. And it took 10 minutes for my GP to say what it was. 

Inspiration

Ex-stripper, now Oscar winner. She's, like, a dream, man. 

Calm, cool and collected.

WARNING: this post contains long doses of self-pity and auto-therapy bollocks. 

---***---

Folks, I've got an announcement.

There's a new phenomenon happening this year, absolutely unfamiliar to me up until this point of my life: the absence of guilt. For reasons unknown (as The Killers would say), every now and then my mind becomes strangely empty during several stages of the day, forcing me to pay attention at whatever is happening around me. 

No, really. I pay attention to strange things, like old ladies crossing the street, or the tracks of the trains outside London Bridge. Hell, I even read the orkut profiles of extremely boring people. Waste of time, right? But I explain: 

I am, or used to be, one of those people that never, EVER, stops ruminating about everything, endlessly wondering, questioning, scrutinising, trying to find a reason for that permanent feeling of inadequacy. In my regular, day-to-day perspective, there is (or was) always something wrong with me: my curly hair, my apple-shaped body, my disproportionate face, the clothes I wear, the subjects I studied, the jobs I've worked in, the places I hang out, the people around me. Why couldn't I be prettier, fitter, smarter, cooler, more successful, stylish, intelligent, desired, all at the same time and preferably NOW? WHY?

Laugh as you will, but the lack of confidence here was that big. And writing about it now, I see that my insecurity had ridiculous proportions. I mean, think about it: what I've always wanted to be was PERFECT. Full-stop, no negotiation, no second-place-should-be-fine. No. 

Now imagine the proportions of my frustration. As you might have noticed, that never happened, or got even close to happen. Or ever will.

I would need several years of therapy to trace precisely the origins of that enormous self-doubt, but I believe it all started at some point in my childhood, when my also very insecure mother would drop me off at my rich cousin P. for play-dates. Only instead of playing with her huge collection of Barbies, she would spend the afternoon showing off her walk-in closet with everything organised by colour, and discussing the benefits of weekly blow-dry appointments at her mom's hair salon. We were 7 years old.

These days, she is married to the richest guy in the state, a brainless good-for-nothing who inherited all his family land and money, and they both lead a very meaningful life swapping Ferraris for Porshes, delegating orders to servants and nannies, attending endless hair/manicure appointments, organising children birthday parties, and shopping, shopping, shopping. I'm not too sure they travel a lot, but I wouldn't expect them to go far off the boundaries of midwest Brazil, where they're known as the one of the most powerful couple of the region. 

Without a single second-thought, I wouldn't swap places with her, not for a minute (seriously, I'm being honest). Maybe bank accounts, but that's about it. I don't want to be her - no, to be precise, her life is the exact definition of hell on earth to me, the absolute opposite of everything I've ever chased. Or at least I thought so. 

Looking back, all I've always wanted was to feel certain, to be assured, convinced, satisfied (and whatever synonyms thesaurus can find). At least for a minute,to not think about what else was out there, and why the choices I made were wrong. 'Cause even If my life was absolutely different, If I was tall, with great hair, a stable family and a stellar career, I'd probably find something wrong with it, and would obsess about it. 

As it is, a classic case of "the neighbour's grass is always greener." Status anxiety.

Well, not anymore. Not for now, anyway. In matter of weeks, it feels like I've managed to grow-up more than I've done in 25 years. Don't know if it is for real, if I'm gonna go back to being a scared little monkey anytime soon, but I'm quite enjoying being this indifferent, calm, cool and collected being.

Okay. Thanks for listening. 

 

  

I'm so over being me.

It's crazy how a single book can change your mindset. Since I read Siddhartha, the holy bible of the hippie generation, during my holidays in Brazil, I have, unbelievably, sort of developed an ability to stop thinking ahead of time. No, really. I sort of entered this state where I just don't try anymore to measure how much time I'm wasting by not doing what I actually should be doing. It seems that I've been living like this for so long (or should I say *not living*, because moaning about the past and freaking out about the future shouldn't be considered as such), that I must have had something like a mental breakdown. Like, "Huh?! Am I developing body rashes because of what doesn't even exist yet? HELLO?"

It was probably just another manifestation of my erratic and bored personality, which makes me throw the towel as soon as I see no point for keep on doing things. If there's a thing I'm good at, no, GREAT at, it's quitting, so I simply quit thinking about everything that is not the moment. Simple as that. And I didn't even need a lifetime of meditation to get to this state. I bet Siddhartha would be jealous. And my dad, the biggest fan of that self-help bestseller, THE POWER OF NOW, will definately be proud.



Of course I didn't reach the nirvana or enlightenment or even started sleeping any better (I can't remember the last time I slept a whole night uninterrupted, but with a hugely deviated septum and a spine that resembles the Thames river, who would?), but I've been enviously calm and lighthearted, taking everything in as it is. No overanalyzing bollocks, no scrutinizing shit, apart from these blog posts, which will be become more regular from now on - I'm not perfect, alright?


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Oh, I also quit my job. Whilst I was at my "quit thinking" momento, I also thought I should stop wasting my precious hours at dead-end jobs because of irrelevant stuff such as "career", or "CVs", or "status", or worse of all, "money", so I arrived from my one-month vacation in Brazil (taken during probation period) and handed in my notice. No offense, I quite liked the people there, but, I mean, only wankers hand over their lives in exchange of the aforementioned stuff, right? Or maybe the only wanker in the story is me, one of those people who only complain and never do anything about it. I couldn't stand my own self.

People, oooobviously, started babbling away like robots the questions "what you're gonna do now?", "what's your plan?", and "how you're gonna pay the bills?". Hell, who cares. I've always been able sort myself out, even if it requires "underground measures" - so nothing to worry about. For the first time ever, I've no studies or job to agonize about. I can do whatever the hell I want.


Never been happier.


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Then, on my first day of freedom, I saw Juno. Gawd. She is like the dream teenager. If I had been as witty, self-assured and coolheaded as her when I went through the same thing, my life would have been SO much easier. The scriptwriter (Diablo Cody, all the rage now. Bitch. Stole my thunder.), obviously never went through an unwanted teenage pregnancy.

Yeah, yeah, there it is. I went through it. Twice. And the biggest irony of all is that they were

 only "unwanted" because of the previously mentioned irrelevant stuff (should I call it "the big CSM"?). I mean, DUH! If I could only have had a glimpse of my future at 25 when I was the teenage version of the little miserable shit I am used to be, I probably would have saved a lot of wretchedness and anxiety over nothing. Or maybe not. I’ve always been a little retarded on the emotional camp – thanks to my lovely parents, who deeply instilled in moi an overwhelming fear of rejection – so I’m totally sure I would have become a melodramatic wreck anyway, had I had, as Juno calls it, "the thing".

Oh, and for those who are wondering, yes, I’m not proud of it. And, hell yeah, I totally, TOTALLY, regret it.

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Ah, the bittersweet taste of maturity.