Sisterly Revelation

Oh. Lord.

I am turning into my ever complaining, incomprehensible sister (who I suspect is having a psychotic breakdown – again), whose super power is to suck energy out of everyone by always nagging about… well, everything and everyone.

Yesterday I ended up complaining about my life to someone. Afterwards, I realised that’s all I ever do. Complain. As if I need everyone to know how bad I think my life is. Like my sister does, who fails to see the good in her own life and envies all other living things instead (this is not the sister with the kids; I have anther one).

So, I must become more positive. That can’t be too hard, right? I mean, I’ve never tried it before so I’m not sure. But if having to choose between becoming more upbeat about myself and my life and feeling happier, or turning into someone I share genes with but who hasn’t spoken to anyone from our family for over five months because she feels we did something very, very terrible to her and this is the right way to punish us, then I think the choice is clear (none of us know what we supposedly did wrong, by the way. We only assume she made up something in her head to be the reason she’s ignoring us completely – it’s happened before).

Well, if I don’t succeed, I can always become a sad little grumpy old spinster later. At least I already know how to knit.



Pronunciation: /ahy-ruh-nee/

Irony describes something that is unexpected or stupidly coincidental. It could also be something that simply makes you roll your eyes and sigh: ‘That’s so typical.” For instance, I find it quite ironic that in my opinion, “Ironic” by Alanis Morissette is the best song to audition with for TV singing contests or talent shows, yet nobody has ever used it for that purpose (as far as I know).

Many things I do or that happen to me are ironic. Or just dumb (sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. Other times it’s just easier to opt for irony than to call yourself stupid).
An example is the fact that I hate, hate, HATE bad story lines, but even so I almost died from an overdose of laughter when watching Sharknado (and Sharknado 2). As far as bad story lines come, these movies are perfect examples of what should never have hit the big screen. Although I assume it never did and went straight to DVD. But still.

A better example of irony is my phobia of vomiting.
When you’re done laughing, I’d like to point out that emetophobia, as it’s officially named, is a very prevalent fear. In fact, on the list of most common phobias worldwide it’s listed as number seven (on my personal list of phobias, it’s number two. Right under worms/maggots/etc. and my fears of commitment and trusting people -I can’t decide which is worse so it’s a shared number one).
The reason why my vomit phobia is ironic, is because if I hadn’t been so afraid of throwing up I’d probably have ended up with anorexia in my teenage years. Or something similar, like bulimia.
I am convinced of this, since I was so into hurting myself when I was depressed, I know I would have developed any serious eating disorder to punish myself for… what, really? Not being like everyone else. Hating myself.
The irony lies in the fact that something that scares me a lot kept me from doing something very unhealthy and stupid. My fear saved my life.

Or at least my teeth, because excessive vomiting can damage your teeth tremendously (among the obvious other hazards).

Anyway, my personal irony continues: I hate meeting new people, yet I took a job where I actually have to go out and do this on a weekly basis. I hate my supervisor, because she keeps coming up with the worst work schedules for me, but then I call her myself to move four addresses, spread over two days, onto one day so I can have a Tuesday off.

I just realized that maybe I’m not being ironic but just really hypocritical and stupid.

No, irony still sounds better. And this way I have something else to blame for the mess and chaos that is my life.
Darn, I know I should have chosen sarcasm as a topic to write about, that’s practically my middle name! Oh well, too late now.

Maybe the biggest form of irony that’s hit me lately, is Implanon. Implanon is a small matchstick-sized ingot the gynaecologist shot up my arm five months ago and was supposed to keep me from having my period. Supposed to, because, ironically, since the thing was implemented I’ve been having nothing but my period. Gruesome to read about, true, but imagine what I must feel like after five months of it. Pure desperation, total agony, anger and even a few moments of strong urges to kill.

Good thing I’m not a psychopath.

I’m now twenty-eight and everywhere I apply for a job I’m turned down because I am too old (they never say that, but for the price of hiring me they could hire at least two eighteen-year-olds instead). But because I am well under forty, the risks of me having a serious health condition involving my uterus are too slim to test me for anything. If that’s not ironic, I don’t know what is.

PS: I’m getting the Implanon removed December 2nd, which is why I moved my Tuesday-clients to Monday. And if my new gynaecologist also refuses to help me beyond hormone-regulated medicine, I think I might actually turn out to be a psychopath after all.


Just One Of Those Days…

It’s just one of those days again, where I wish I’d never been born.



Pronunciation: /self ri-spekt/

self respect_opt“Self-respect knows no considerations” – Mahatma Ghandi

It took me 27 years to be able to look into a mirror and not note all the things I dislike about myself. I used to do that every single time I faced a mirror, so much it became automatism. But one day I had enough of being overly critical about myself, while always looking for the beauty in others, so I decided I was beautiful and just be done with it.
Even though I still have bad days sometimes, and I still notice little things I dislike about my face, or my legs or my belly or my arms or neck (basically my entire body, haha), I accept the way I look and more than ever I realize I am not half as ugly as what others, and me, always told me I was (bastard bullies! They can totally ruin someone’s self-esteem and life).

Anyway, I thought I was cured and that I was finally done being pathetic about myself. So how come I am still stuck in my way of negative thinking? About myself, my life, my friends, my future?

It hit me when I was updating my résumé the other day, adding what my job coach helped me find out are my key skills and values. Number one is Respect For Others. No matter what someone looks like, talks like, what cultural background they have, I respect them and their situations and try to understand the differences between us. Part of me finds it fascinating to understand others and part of me just likes to think that even though we’re all different, we’re all human too, so why be cruel to one another?

Respect is something I value very much. When thinking about this, though, I came to realise I don’t respect myself. To be honest, I haven’t made it easy to do so, either. I am 28 and still living with my parents. I’d love to move out, but even though I graduated from college (with honours, too!), there doesn’t seem to be anyone out there interested in hiring me for a job that’s challenging and well-paid, so instead I took on a job that’s terrible pay-wise. And even though I’m an adult, most of the time I feel as if I’m still 16 and clueless (a phenomenon many of my friends know all too well, too).
Plus, it doesn’t help that I am still single and stuck with severe commitment issues that are making it excruciatingly hard for me to find love. It’s even making it difficult for me to make friends, so imagine the brain freeze I experience when someone likes to be more than that.

But this right here is my problem! It’s not that I still live at home or that my job is not what I want it to be or that I am handicapped love-wise. It’s that I am so used to approach everything in my life with pure negativity, I don’t see the value of myself or my life. I need to learn that my life can’t be measured by how others perceive me and that the only thing I need to change is the way I look at it.

Quite a revelation for a sunny Sunday afternoon. Also, quite a cliché (and annoyingly one that’s very true).

Everything a person wants to change, or needs to more like, starts with accepting the current situation and naming the problem. I’ve done that. And I overcame myself twice already by battling a depression and accepting my looks, two things I never thought I’d ever be able to do. Yet I did.

So self-respect, here I come! I just hope it won’t take up another 28 years to get there. But even if it will, that’s fine. At least I found a road to follow, there’s no rush in getting to the finish line.



It’s eerie how an unexpected midnight knocking on your front door can cause so much paranoia in such a little time… And how fast it can make you recall a night over four years ago in which your mother’s car was randomly set on fire.

Needless to say I was too chickened out to open the door and see who it was. But thank goodness my mum’s new car is still without a scratch AND I managed to get some sleep after my heart stopped beating ridiculously fast.

I should really buy myself a guard dog when I move out. Or some violent geese. Or just grow a spine.