Written on 22.12.2021

It smells different.

My home. Past tense.  

It is changed now.

Somehow it smells old. Feels old.

Sweet, bitter, nutty, sweaty, with-out-my-cat-ty.

It smells like soil.

Chairs in places convenient to reach.

Glasses changed to shapes easy to grab.

Carpets, tables and Christmas baubles of my and their parents’ home.

Everything looks different now.

A place I thought only grandparents could inhabit.

The smell of comfort, stale air.

The smell of exhaustion, and regret.

Like the place I once thought could never change, they have changed too.

A virus has kept me away for too long.

A tumour has made them change for good.

Clothes have changed their shape. They wear it different now.

At once more youthful, and more dated. Both, simultaneously.

Their faces, hands and bodies have become softer.
Where once freckles adorned their hard-working self-sacrificing hands, blue veins are now creeping to the front, deeper growing lines demarcating their skin.

Their faces begin to droop just like the house, becoming less precise and more comfortable, more forgiving with itself.

Now, I cannot smell them anymore.

I cannot communicate, I stutter.

What do I say to a person whose face I have ingrained in my very core, but the image has ceased to be there beyond myself.

Whose rough hands through all the cleaning, the working, the caring, I have touched a thousand times.

Whose red cheeks from all the laughter, worrying and internalized anger I have witnessed as long as I can remember.

I do not know these people. They seem to not know me anymore either.

I cannot speak. I can only stutter.

Search for familiarities. But I fail to see them.

All I have are those memories in my blood stream, my muscles, my lungs, my nose.

Who are these people? What is this place?

What a loss?

Or maybe. Not.

You see, we are all nomads.

Finding joy in discovering new people, new places, new smells.

Within this moment of halt, I prefer to rebuild a home.

written 06.07.2021

There is this place.

It exists, but you can never visit it.

It is a space that only I have access to.

But not even I can go there at will.

It is a place that exists inside me.

Located at the deepest darkest corner of myself.

An attic, a cellar, wings, roots, all of it.

Before I’ve discovered this space, I always wondered where my mind drew its strength from.

But now, I know.

This place is my heart, like a muscle it pumps strength into me, supports me, alivens me, unconditionally.

I am deeply engrained in that place.

But I never knew that it existed. I could not know it was there.

No, I only found out about this space when I was least prepared.

His hands, digging into me, I hated it.

His breath, sweat, ugliness right in my face, in my womb, it hurt.

Knives cutting me with every thrust.

How mundane, how gross, how small this violation was.

A criminal act, but nothing changed, at least not on the surface.

I still breathed the same, even moaned, only for him to stop quicker.

And then the pain grew, blossomed.

I thought this is it. This is how I die. Not my body, no, those scars would heal.

But inside, I thought I would die.

Any second now.

Breathing.

Hurting.

His face, right there.

Watching me.

Any second now.

And then…

I didn’t die.

Nevertheless,

Something happened.

I started to float…Internally.

I knew my body was still there, but oh my, I was flying.

Was leaving his face behind, leaving my pain.

Watching the crime scene from above for a second.

And then…

Silence.

Warmth flooded me.

Everything became light.

Silence.

Suddenly, there was this space.

It was so beautiful, so absolutely stunning, breath-takingly painful.

Like a nest. A shelter from the cold.

Filled with everything I liked. My wishes, desires, skills, loves. Carefully curated just for me.

There was my cat, I adored so very dearly.

There was a piano which I instantly had to play. Just me improvising and loudly singing gibberish, nothing special.  

But in that moment, it was everything.

There was a mirror.

I could see my naked body.

I spotted my cellulite running down my legs.

I know damn well that they want me to hate them, but I adore my wrinkles. They only belong to me, only I can love them.

My body made these!

Like the ocean painting lines into the beach. Drawing with its ebbs and flows.

Yes, in this space, these lines where my favourite part about myself. Fiercely marking that something inside me grew. The ebbs and flows of my skin.

Indicating that everything will come and go.

The floor was full of painted bricks. They were so colourful, painted yellow.

Nothing could come here. Blocked.

I was barefoot.

And the bright light coming from above, created a marvellous contrast between my porcelain skinned feet and the rusty yellow floor.

How these bricks empowered me.

I started running, truly running.

Grounded and supported by the sturdy floor.

How good it felt to make my body sweat. To run and run and run and feel nothing but excitement.

I stopped.

Silence.

Then,

I started to laugh.

And not the small smiles that you give a man, a boy, who just wants your laughter to drown the noise of his own insecurities.

No, I started to laugh, from within me. Loudly.

Snot was running down my nose.

What a joyous sticky feeling.

OH, HOW I LOVED BEING IN THAT SPACE. MY SPACE.

And then I instinctively knew that I couldn’t stay.

Something inside me told me it was time.

I quickly ran towards the piano, one last minute.

Then I stood up and looked at my cat.

I picked her up and held her for another minute. Oh, how tight I held her. Feeling that tiny heart- beating, and listening to her purr, I will never forget that sound, her voice, soothing me. Never.  

And then I knew it was over.

I had to let go.

Panic.

I was not ready to face what I had to.

To go back and pretend that I don’t like my cellulite.

Pretend that he brought me joy when all he brought was sorrow.

Pretend that I could heal myself from his crime.

Smile again.

But despite the space leaving me behind, forcing me out of its comfort, I knew it would never leave me. I knew, it would always be there. An instinctive knowing. I just felt it.

Feeling the space’s light, its warmth, I mustered all the strength that I could.

I let myself fall.

Fall back.

Through the ceiling, through his body, through mine.

Grounded.

Stuck. Again.

Open your eyes!

His sweat is dripping into them.

So brutally dehumanising.

But I was still alive.

‘Did you come, babe?’

written 23.02.2021

I woke up at 9 am.

Slowly made my way over to the kitchen.

Wearing my pyjamas- lifelong routine.

Filled up the kettle with water.

Waited for it to boil.

Filled up the teapot with hot water.

Unwrapped a tea bag- put it in.

Silence.

And then my mind travelled.

Vast distances to places where my feet could never touch the ground.

Forgot my corporality, now I am in my purest form.

Within a second, I was there.  

I hear something rushing.

Soft, calm.

Can you hear it too?

I smell something.

Crisp and clear.

The freshest air to ever enter my lungs.

I see something blue.

A blue of kings. Deep and dark.

Royal. Pulsing.

Tell me, can you see it??

But wait- there is something else.

 It catches my attention.

Traps it. Startles me.

A small plastic bag.

White Trash.

Swiftly flowing with the ever-growing waves, the eternal rhythm of the world

– undisturbed?

Performing a dance routine, like an undying swan.

Folding into itself without ever falling apart,

Withering without decay.

Silent destruction.

Without a cause.

Cursed to exist for men’s eternity.

It was suffering.

I could sense it.

Lonely.

Out of place.

Forgotten.

And then there was a fish.

Even smaller than the plastic bag.

Approaching. It was its living room.

Swimming against the undying tide.

In search to sustain itself for one more day.

I can hear its hunger.

Watch closely what happens next!

With its tiny mouth it rips into the plastic.

One small piece now separated from the body-bag only to merge with another.

The fish inducing its own death by wanting to avert it.

The plastic now fragmented for ever. 

Innocent and quick.

Heart-breaking.

Can you hear it?

I am starting to lose it

The fish and plastic are now on their own.

The waves are left behind.

The air gone.

The tea is ready.

My trip is over, and my body is again.

I take a sip of the waves inside my cup. Life affirming. Life sustaining. Too hot.

Then I throw away the tea bag.

Into the bin.

Neat. Tidy.

Done.

But still, can you sense it?

Happening right now, somewhere else?

The plastic still floating.

On its own and inside two fish now.

It grows daily.

My tea bag is inside a tuna fish.

It will be my dinner in three months.

Ironic temporality. Ironic corporeality. 

Second nature, second nurture.

Fish-Plastic-Me,

for Eternity.  

Written 07.02.2021

April.

Day 1

I am 15. It is time, that is what my mother says.

My doctor too looks at me and she decides that it is DEFINITELY time.

And so, I got some candy. 1 everyday, at the same time.

Then once every few weeks, 7 days no candy. Easy.

15 years old. Child.

May.

Day 45. (Month 2)

I am almost 16 now.

Things are changing. My body is changing. Boobs growing bigger. Nice.

That is what they desire anyway.

They unfortunately do not feel like my boobs anymore. Are too stiff.

But that does not concern me too much most of the time.

June.

Day 76 (Month 3)

I am 16 now.

My boobs hurt a little more each day.

But there is something worse.

I cannot feel anything. Nothing makes me laugh and nothing makes me cry.

Nothing matters- anyway.

I think I need to return to the candy store.

September.

Day 168 (Month 6)

I am 16.

The doctor thought it would be better to give me different sweets.

Instead of purple, the packaging is pink now. And the candy is pink too. Fun.

I start again. 1 Everyday, for 3 months in a row now. Then 7 days no candy.

November.

Day 229 (Month 8)

I am still 16.

Taking the candy is easier. My boobs do not hurt as much.

They still seem to grow. It hurts a little.

Sometimes I feel sad, but it might not even be the candy.

Boys enter my life and fall out of it. Easy. Sometimes not so easy.

Life becomes faster, less precise afterwards.

Winter,

Autumn,

Summer,

Spring.

Day 275-1370 (Years 2-4)

I am 17-20.

The candy is normal now. I do not think much about it. But I cry a lot.

Eating becomes more important. I often feel hungry. Quite a lot actually.  

But it is not a big problem.

My mother says my boyfriend should pay for my candy. At least half of it.

I talk to him. He feels okay about it.

Day 1371- 2100 (Years 5-6)

I am 21-22. 

I have eaten a lot. Grown in places that do not fit in neatly anymore.

My grandmother tells me so. I am not a thin girl anymore.

I cry more now. Although I also feel numb most of the time.

My boyfriend wants to touch me but most of the time I cannot care for it.

December.

Day 2438-2454. ().

I am still 22.  

I begin to see the candy for what it is.

Poison. A façade. Toxic.

I don’t experience my body anymore. I have been performing for so long.

Pretending to be the pinnacle of womanhood for so many years even though I was a child.

Pretending that this candy does not kill you over time. Either your body or your mind. It kills.

Reduces you to something that only benefits others. Emptied from the inside out. 

December.

Day 2455.

Stop- Full stop. Done.

I decide to stop taking the poison pills.

January.

Day 1 (Month 1)

I continue to be 22.

My body is changing again.

My mind changes too. Freed.

The hunger is disappearing.

The craving for more slowly fades away.

The appreciation of the present senses and tenses blurs into view.  

Peace is settling in.

June.

Day 167 (Month 6)

I am 23 at last.

Life is intense.

A pandemic is here too.

But I am so grateful. Excited.

My body returning to something long forgotten.

My boobs and my stomach become a bit smaller.

Something has left my body. I am not occupied anymore.

The undoing of their ideas of womanhood.

The paradox of precaution. Impregnated with their poison to avoid unwanted pregnancy.

The sheer possibility of breaking out. Endless. Growing.  

February.

Day 397 (Year 1, Month 2)

I am in my 24^th year of experiencing.

The bleeding every month hurts.

But I am overjoyed. It is my bleeding. Ungendered bleeding.

Caused by my body, my self.

No responsibility anymore. I only answer to my forces now.

Reclamation of what has been taken from me.

Returning to a place I never knew and loved before.

February.

Day 416 (Year 1, Month 2)

Still fractured and blue but the sadness now goes away.

I can feel again. The highs and lows. I simply am thrilled by the normality of it.

This is what I was owed all along.

Now I have found something profound.

My journey took 2465 days. Struggle and Discovery.

After that, heading home. Recovery.

Content.

My Self.

Written 02.02.2021

“To conclude, in this article I have arged (Scholar, 21^st century: page number).”

There it is. Beautiful. Miniscule.

Prowess of unsurmountable knowledge demonstrated in such an eloquent and succinct way.

Nevertheless,

There it is.

Unacademic.

H[u]mane [sick.].

“I have arged” (Scholar qtd. in Loss, 2021: 5), but with whom? What do [u] quarrel with? What is there to defend?

“In this article, I have arged” (ibid.)

Translation into hmanity:

I have fought with the page, with myself. I have been betrayed- by my keyboard, my pen, my editor, my eyes, my brain, myself.

Breathing; Mstake.

Unacademic knowledge transmitted and revealed through a single missing letter. The most important information transferred through absence. The pulsing flesh behind these pages on a screen- exposed.

Mischievous weed, sneaking through the cracks of concrete, bureaucracy, the discipline.

Allowing itself.

Hiding in plain sight. For everyone to see, but only for a few to nderstand.

Growing; Mstake.

M[u]aking space.

Pl[us]acing Mistake.