Today I thought of the most stupidest idea to boost my little blog on the shadowy side of the internet: stop blogging in my native language, start blogging in English. Readers numbers fell back, as I watched my blog being deleted from some well visited website, probably because I stated that autistic women can be to snobby about their diagnose (they can be). My English is fair, since I fell in love with a white South African model in my high school years, and lest not forget my great English teacher; who’s English was great because she fell in love with a proper Englishman. She disappeared before our graduation due to an extreme burn-out. I would have never guessed I would once know what that feels like. In the goodbye letter she wrote us (she was also our tutor) she told us the burn-out was so severe she was unable to speak for a while. Years after that, I would experience the same in a harsh trimester at the Art Academy. I sometimes wonder if this means she could have had autism as well. Silly question probably.
Writing this thing here in English will mean a lot of grammatical mistakes. I should have someone test reading it (I can make pen drawings as a counter deal). It also means I can tell my story again in the context of this fresh new language. And that matters. Every language has it’s own hum to it, and I remember the lingual freshness when I entered an entirely English speaking Art Academy. It felt so exciting to express myself in this wide spoken language. The same feeling as when I started talking English to my first love and her mother, when invited at their home, where they spoke a mixture of English and Dutch. And although I am, and never have been, good at loving someone I instantly fell in love with, my time with them consist of many doors to the Worlds opening, putting me right there in between artists, party’s, drugs and drinks, people of international stature, different from anything I ever knew.
Although my twenties together with her and her world where exciting I couldn’t have been further away from it now: Sitting out my time on my mother’s couch (for the 4th time in my life; I had 3 major burn-outs) waiting for a house to come, and the house of my youth to disappear into strange people’s hands, as my parents have decided to sell it. I feel sensible about this, though trying my hardest to let it be noticed.
Where has time brought me, now I’m well in my 30s?
Well as the proud oldest of 4 I am also the greatest failure, living my pity little life from welfare and broken dreams I sometimes tent to mend, calling it Bipolar II according to last sessions. I have one thing going for me though: My girl is the best. I would have never figured I’d find such a pretty thing that would en could actually love me back. Yeah, it gets better. Believe it if your one shy little kid finding it’s way to the LGBTQI+ community: It gets better. Love outran me when I was left with nothing but fear en dread. She is so beautiful I could never believe she’d love me. But when acne cleared out and my fear of abandonment grew smaller, that’s what she did.
She’s used to our kind of life. I wasn’t at first. I saw myself falling back in welfare not being able to hold one job after the other. Looking at big houses wondering if we would live there one time. Dreams crimpled as worn out balloons in the corner of some party. All the career promises I made myself, and her, have fallen back in vain until only we are left. Wondering how the day will go with her severe Irritable Bowel Syndrome. God knows she suffers. Every day being a new day with numerous sorts of belly pains. She gave them all a name. It seems there is not much I can do but to wait with her. Drive her some place nice if we find the time and energy. At least I have got my driver license and a little car I bargained for a good price from a friend.
Fear of driving
I figured I’d drive away swiftly after getting my drivers license. I never took in consideration I would become a person that’s afraid of driving highways far out of the little town I live in. Yet another disappointment. Two years ago I drove on some anxiety meds; totally illegal and irresponsible. Now I cannot do that anymore as I take about the highest doses of antipsychotics possible. It made my death wishes disappear into a vague mist of overall boredom. We went to IKEA last week and it was a hell ride. My girlfriend scouted me over the roads telling me left from right. The sweet little interiors in the IKEA store soothed me, but going back without taking anxiety meds was impossible. Good thing the roads where clear from to much cars.
So that’s al the complaining that you’ll get out of me today. Maybe I will write something positive sometimes. About something beautiful that I found. Mostly stories. I have an excessive love for the story of Brokeback Mountain. Must have watched the movie about 20 times now. Read the story again and again. Always the same tragedy, of two completely different characters, dealing in two completely different ways with their irreversible situation. I love that. Annie Proulx has them come out so well. Ang Lee too.
Well goodnight. May your life be long, and your dead be swift (The Last of us Part II)
Burn journal 