Sisters

There are two doors between us and those loud angry voices. They are a flimsy promise of protection, in a world that has very little shelter. I could have sworn the room was warm just before, but I’m cold. We huddle together to wait out the storm. I’m scared, but so are you, so I pretend I’m not. It’s all quiet for a second and we hold our breath, before they start again, and we know it’s not over. A door slams and we jump in unison. It’s an eternity in a heartbeat as the quiet settles, but we’re not moving. Not until we’re sure. I think we were playing before, but I don’t really remember. I don’t feel like playing any longer. I feel like crying. And I know you do to. There are tears waiting to fall in the corners of those brown eyes I know so well. I am only 4 years older than your 5, but I know in my heart that if I do not look out for you, nobody else will. We hug each other tight, and say nothing because we have yet to learn the words we need. I wish you could read my thoughts so you would know: I love you more than anyone, and the fire in my heart that can’t seem to light for my own sake lights for yours, and if the voices ever come for you, you can be sure they’ll have to get through me first.

Comedy?

There’s nothing you can’t make fun of. When something reach a status as not allowed to be laughed at, it is raised to being something scary, monstrous, unperceivable. Comedy brings things down to earth.

Comedy is the taboos worst enemy, and so is a part of keeping a balance. It’s not about freedom of speech, it’s not about offending - it’s about honesty, and the ability to touch something in stead of hiding it away. 

Today, the various medias still claim they uphold the freedom of speech, that they are a pillar in democracy - but they have turned from their purpose: to give us information on happenings, so that we can make informed opinions. In stead they feed us opinions, create debates when they should only be the foundation for debates to rest on. In such a world where the media has abandoned it's true responsibility, we need comedy more than ever.

It challenges us to rethink our own opinions, sometimes form opinions we didn't bother with before, because we live in a world where we're constantly being guided in what and how to think. Comedy keeps things within reach, humanising them instead of alienating them.

So please don't tell comedians they are offensive and crossing the lines. We all lose something if they don’t. Comedy is serious business. (sorry).

a prayer

I’m pretty sure I was happy as a small child. I mean, there were bad times even then, but I was too little to understand it, and to think much about it – just living in the present, as kids do. I was mostly happy. So when did that change? I guess some of it came with school. Beginning to feel like I didn’t fit in, like I wasn’t the same as everybody else. And it just got worse from there. Cause the older I got, the more I understood things, and the sadder I became. I began to understand that nobody cared enough to help, so I had to just survive. But how do you do that?

Wasn’t so hard, actually. Hard part came after that. Being depressed and staring into a wall, not hard. Not giving a fuck and acting it, not so hard. Smoking weed, lying, living life in a survival kinda way, doable. Fighting to get better, Forcing myself to stop being held back my by past, now that was hard. Learning to accept, and ask for help – basically undoing every single bad program that’s been hardwired into my brain by other people and myself –torture. But then, you expect the torture to stop – you think once you get there, once you fix yourself, the bad memories won’t matter, none of what you’ve been through matters, it’s a new start.

And that’s when you begin to understand that the road to recovery is longer than you thought it would be. And it’s like a slap in the face with something solid. You almost go into shock. Your brain can’t accept it, that everything you just did was for nothing. Everything you fought for, every hope you had that going through it, fixing yourself, would be for your own happiness sake, for a better life, are just shot dead.

And that day, when you’ve fought the hardest, gone the highest, know you can do no more – and discover yourself to be still not there, wherever there is, realize you might as well not have fought to get there in the first place, because now you have only your own foolish hopefulness to thank for the long ass fall you just took – that’s the day you truly go crazy. That’s when you learn the true meaning of insanity, and in a way, freedom. That’s your actual ticket, not to the place you thought you wanted to go, but to the place where you will, in a way, be happy – because you are truly free. No longer do you have to fit into normalcy, no longer do you have to keep up a hope you can have what the people who do not have your past has. You know you can’t, and that’s that, and you’ve had to finally accept who you are. That day will change everything.

I hope I see that day soon. Because as it is, I am on the verge. I’m just moving towards the edge, trying to fathom that I really have to go over it. It’s not that I’m at all happy or safe where I’m standing, but I don’t wanna fall – again. Man, falling hurts. But what if this time, I fall, and I don’t have to get up? My whole life it seems I’ve been good at falling down. It’s pure stupidity that keeps me climbing back up. So maybe, this time, when I fall, because I will fall, we all know it, maybe I when I land, I should keep digging.

Cause down seems to be my favorite direction, and maybe my solace, my true happiness, lies in accepting it. Maybe it’s time to admit that I feel safest when I’m neck deep in shit and tough situations, because that’s my arena. That’s where I’ve learnt to live my life, and I know the rules: survive, by any means you have available. I don’t know the rules in the world I so badly wanted to be a part of. Never did. At this point it would take me a lifetime to understand them, and I just aint got that kinda patience.

It’s here, at the bottom of the world, ready to face whatever shitstorm anyone could cook up, screaming a challenge to the devil, the universe, whoever might listen, to just fucking try me, that I realize they already are. That there is no way to substitute my current trial, my challenge of jumping ship on normalcy and claiming my insanity, with some other easier one. No matter what other challenges I could be put to, this is the monumentally important one, can’t be skipped, and can’t be avoided – and I will truly be in hell for the rest of my days here on earth if I do not jump.

And it makes me fucking angry. It makes me wanna throw things. It makes me wanna scream. It’s pushing me to edges I’ve been trying to avoid going near for years. And now I’m right there. I’m there because “normal” isn’t a thing. Because “happy” didn’t work out. And the more I stare at the edge, the more I am convinced it’s because I was looking in the wrong places. 

And that just maybe, if I jump one more time, accept, truly accept, who I am and what I do, let go of my ideas of others expectations; maybe I can finally start meeting my own.

Maybe, over that edge, is not a fall, but paradise. It’s just that from here, it looks like a fall. And what if it’s as shit on the other side as here? It doesn’t matter. I HAVE to see if it is or not, cause all I know is, its shit on this side. I aint happy. And I won’t be, trying to be someone I’m not. Trying to have goals I don’t have. Being lonely because I socialize with people I have nothing in common with.

But I can’t make my feet move. I’m still standing here in the illusion of safety, where I have an apartment, an income, a family, all the things that should be enough, that should make me happy, but doesn’t. I know I won’t find my life here. I build best among ruins, where there is a blank slate to create from. But my feet won’t move. It’s almost as though I need a push.

And so I am praying, I am begging my demons, to push me as hard as they can.  I wish someone would walk up to me and tell me I was worthless so I could rise in the face of it. I wish my mom would scream at me instead of being understanding, so I could stand up for myself. I need something to happen, something to convince me, or force me, to take that last step.

I know that maybe it’s my step to take, I know that maybe I have to do it on my own, with nothing and no one making me, but if there is a god, if he does have mercy, if he can hear me: push me, push me over the edge and into insanity, where I am sane, into chaos, where I am safe, into darkness where I tend to find my light – because my feet just won’t move.

velkommen til mit sted!

Jeg har Borderline og har altid skrevet meget - dagbog, digte og noveller - for at komme af med det kaos jeg har indeni. Nu var det på tide med en blog at lægge dem op på. Nedenstående er skrevet for omkring et halvt år siden.

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Jeg går ned af strøget, nylig løsladt fra endnu en times terapi. Jeg prøver desperat at distancere mig fra følelser jeg lige har kæmpet for at grave frem. Der er så mange mennesker her, man kan miste sig selv i vrimlen. I al hemmelighed hader jeg dem allesammen for det perfekte liv jeg tror de har. Min ipod spiller techno i et forsøg på at jage alle tanker ud med hård bass - og fordi jeg brækker mig hvis jeg hører én ligegyldig popsang til.

Som alle andre her kommer jeg fra et sted, målrettet på vej mod et andet. Jeg sejler ud og ind imellem folk, midlertidigt overbevist om at alt bliver godt når jeg når mit mål. Jeg er ét sekund fra at have mast alle følelserne ind bagerst i skabet, hvor de bor - men her er der hjemløse. synet af dem trykker på en usynlig skyld-knap i mig. Jeg bor ikke på gaden. Jeg har tøj og mad, selvom jeg oftest ikke spiser. Jeg husker på terapien og skubber skyldfølelsen ud over en klippe. Jeg har det dårligt indeni, og det kan man ikke forholde sig til. En mand der er "normal", men mangler tøj og mad og hjem, har vi ondt af. Men en kvinde med hjem og mad og tøj og smerterne indeni, hvad er det for noget?

Ikke engang min egen familie og venner kan forholde sig til det. Og jeg forstår dem godt. Der er gladere ting at kigge på. Jeg tager mig selv i at ønske at jeg så i det mindste var rigtig syg. skitsofreni, adhd, autisme, stress, depression, det er ting folk kan forholde sig til. Men Borderline? Ondt i følelserne? Alle har ondt i følelserne. Alle har traumer. Du håndterer bare dine dårligere end alle andre. Du er svag. De usynlige fremmede i mit hoved er hårde og fordømmende.

Os på grænsen, ikke syge, ikke raske. Ikke anerkendt af andre end psykologer og en samfundsrøst der proklamerer, at vi burde være det. Jeg ville ønske jeg kunne give alle jeg kender en uge i mit liv. Ville i stadig tage let på det? Ville i have klaret 23 år hvis jeres følelser og tanker udøvede vold mod jeres hjerte hver eneste dag? Jeg finder aldrig ud af det, men jeg er her stadig. Jeg er her for det spinkle, flakkende lys for enden af tunellen, håbet om et liv der er værd at leve.

Min destination skyder op foran mig - en café, hvor de har set mig før. kaffen er lige så dyr som andre steder, designet lige så gennemført. De samme gæster, de samme samtaler. Men her må der ryges. Her er mit københavn, og jeg kan ånde lettet op og søge tilflugt ved vinduet. Livet er for mig, og har alle dage været, pænere på afstand.