Books? Great medicine!
All joking aside, I cannot even begin to count the number of books I have read since childhood or how many I handled while working in a library. Books become part of life, a friend I will remember forever, a gateway or hiding place where distraction reigns. Just holding them, turning page after page, waiting to be explored, conquered, talked about and put on a shelf waiting to be taken out again. And so the cycle begins again.
Silence! (or how to break me using sounds)
"So yes, we all have a bit of that sh*t-life-syndrome every so often. Sadly, we cannot unlearn our illness or symptoms like we can unlearn unwanted behaviours. What a drastic symptom like this does teach us, though, is how we can best create a workaround that should lessen its impact on us."
Older, and dafter too!
Another year older today, and another year dafter too. Kookier. Most definitely away with the faeries. Never one to take myself too seriously unless needed, I am taking my new number in my stride. Having family and friends I love and who in return, seem to like me enough to give me a place in their own busy lives, is all I need to know. Asked how I ended up in Dublin, celebrating my birthday in Ireland for a 13th consecutive year, is a recurring question. The answer? The bonkers idea since age 15ish, that life in Ireland was ‘it’, a dream so titanic in size I was afraid it might never work out.
I’m an ex and I’m lovin’ it!
"I used to be a lot of things. Busy. Book addict. Ireland lover. Passionate. College student… and perhaps a tad crazy also. But then friends started saying that I was “slowly turning into a blonde”. Physical discrimination on the basis of hair colour aside, I felt they had a point. Concentration skills went from hero to zero. Walking from the couch to the fridge a massive undertaking. In tears in front of the staircase after work because I had to sleep for an hour before being able to scale its height."
25% OCD
When I was growing up, I used to hear stories about my grandfather’s need of having things sorted in an often peculiar way. He would line up items on the fireplace mantel with the edge of the mantel and if items were placed too far back, he would raise his eyebrows in jest at my grandmother. Other examples exist, and if the term ‘OCD’ existed in his time, he might have been a possible candidate to earn that title. My granddad’s legacy? I inherited some of his peculiar ways. He was the king of his fireplace mantel. I am the queen of my kitchen cupboards. When I see that things have moved in my absence, I go on the lookout for explanations.
I’m a writer!
When can you call yourself a writer? With that debate still unsolved, I continue to wonder if I can call myself so. After all, I am now a former Incident Coordinator, a former library assistant and therefore a former ‘employed being’ altogether. And that sounds rather bad for one’s ego when pondered upon too long. Asked by people what on earth I now fill my days with when I’m forced to dedicate most of my days to rest and sleep, I simply tell them “I write.” Instantly eyebrows raise higher than one’s crown chakra and a slight shaking of the head indicates the dismay – envy perhaps? – and inner thoughts that spell “this girl has lost it for good.”
Writing, a quiet observation
There is something about words, something fluid, warm, recognisable and true. Just a short while ago I was again reminded of my love for anything written, and how it more than likely, came to be. Early on in life, I was already a dedicated library-lover. Living above one eased the path towards it, and it definitely turned me into a bibliophile. Countless hours and days were spent walking around in it, searching and nurturing books. When my Dutch language teacher put me on the spot when I was 14 years old, he made me admit blame for a silly grammatical mistake in front of the whole class, asking me if I had any dictionaries at home, and if so, why they weren’t on my desk when I wrote that particular essay. While…
