i can and i will

It's been 239 days since you pulled me into your arms and kissed me for the very first time. I've been avoiding this stupid parking lot ever since, because how am I supposed to breathe when I still think I see you walking towards me again and again and again?
It's been 239 days since I've heard you saying my full name for the very first time. That's when I stopped introducing myself with my nickname because your mouth forming the name I hate so much sounded better than every Ed Sheeran song there is.
It's been 239 days since you said you loved me for the very first time. I remember how your skin felt on mine. I can still feel your breath performing this wonderful confession onto my neck.

You always said we were invincible when in fact, we ran out of I love you's like the Titanic ran out of life boats. And I was Mr Andrews, knowing that, if the ship sunk, this beautiful cruise would turn into a massacre. And just like Mr Andrews, I didn't do a thing about it.

The thing about false promises is that with every disappoinment, people love you less. It's like a vase that falls onto the ground over and over again, and it's okay to mend it with duct tape the first couple of times but at some point, you have to accept that you've been too careless with a precious thing, that there's nothing left to mend or save and you have to throw it away. Please don't throw me away. I still have duct tape left.

The worst part is the memory. I can still feel your hands on my skin, your lips on mine. Your laugh is my favourite song to be stuck in my head. How you squeeze your eyes shut when you laugh at me for saying something stupid or falling of the couch. How you said "It would be better if it was over".
The worst part is realising that I have to be my own hero now but where's the point in getting out of bed when you're not there to be proud of me anymore?

All I'm left with now is the memory of sharing the most beautiful feeling with the most beautiful person and all the mighty What-If's.
I wish I had tried harder.
I'm sorry.

Being a white girl from Germany, visiting another country often comes with sentences such as "So you're from Germany, what do you think about Hitler?". I used to get really offended by things like that because how could someone, just because of my nationality assume that I'm a racist piece of shit who runs around with their right arm up in the air? But yesterday's World Cup Match (Ghana - Germany) made me think. I've read so many extremely racist tweets, I've heard about so many people screaming pro-nazi songs and Nazi Salutes that I'm honestly not sure whether or not it's somehow logic that people ask me if I'm a proponent of nazism. The entire village I live in is covered in black-red-gold. And people still wonder why I'm ashamed of being a part of this nation. I know that it's not my fault what happened under Hitler's rule and I know that I can't change the fact that my great-grandmother could have been a nazi sympathiser (which she wasn't, props to her), but what I can do is helping to prevent history of repeating itself. But apparently, a lot of people still don't get that.

My favourite joke this year is definitely the Fifa campaign against racism. Several white people showed up at the stadium with their faces painted black and probably the worst thing about this are the people who lined up for a photo with them. I do not understand how Fifa have this massive "Say no to discrimination"-campaign but do not ban people like that from the stadium. Or from the country. Or from this planet. The fact that they didn't even bother to send security guards down to the pitch when this one guy decided to run onto the pitch and spread his nazi-messages during the match shocked me. Muntari, a Ghana midfielder, had to usher him off the field.
After I read on twitter about the guy being a nazi sympathiser I decided to do some research and found absolutely nothing on the subject. Well, at least not on any german websites. The only thing they wrote was something along the lines of "a young man ran half-naked across the pitch but didn't attack anyone, he looked happy and peaceful, praise him, such a great guy! 10/10, would recommend a friend!".

Reading yesterday's tweets, I realised that I must have slept through that one subject in school where they taught us that it's completely okay to make racist jokes because it is just some people's sense of humour. You are also not racist if you tweet the n-word several times as long as it happens in the context of the World Cup. Don't support Ghana? Let's make ALL the jokes about AIDS and poverty, let's borrow ALL the clichés, it's completely okay! You're just not a fan of their football team! Go for it!
And to all the people out there who are obviously not racist: Saying "I'm not racist but..." before saying something racist does not soften what you are going to say and with starting a sentence that way, you lost the right to speak to me.

I do not understand how after all that has happened, people still don't get the importance of this matter. White people do not get to decide when people of colour are allowed to feel discriminated, majorities do not have the right to tell minorities when to feel oppressed. It's really not that hard to understand. Don't be a piece of junk, think before you speak, don't let history repeat itself.

I can feel myself becoming a ghost again. I'm completely transparent except for the dark circles under my eyes. My feelings are transparent too, they kind of float around, I'm aware of their existence but I can't get hold of them. I used to run after them but I lost the energy to keep doing that. I lost the energy to keep doing anything at all to be honest. The mere thought of having to get up and breathe and live scares the living daylight out of me, literally. My inner light is fading again and I really want to cling to it but I can't, I can't mentally and physically.

I am so tired of fighting against my own mind, I am so tired of trying to force myself into a happiness that is more plastic and empty than barbie ever could be. I'm used to being empty, numb, but there's quite the difference between being a plastic doll that's pretending to be human and letting the emptiness consume you.
I can't remember the point where depression started to feel like home. It's like that one person you hate so much that keeps knocking at your door until one day you open up and this person seems more familiar than your own mum. And you let it in and start accepting that it's there and you keep coming back to it. Where at first it felt awful to have it around, you adjust to it and at some point you realise that having this thing you hate with your whole heart around is better than being completely alone.

I am sick of people who don't know a thing about my depression telling me that "it's completely normal to feel sad sometimes" and that I "just have to keep fighting" because no, that's just not the point, that's not how it works. First of all, sadness is one of my smallest problems. I'm not sad. I'm absolutely nothing. I'm Hermione fighting against the dementors: I practially know what to do, I've read about it in books and I've had millions of people telling me how to be brave and how I just have to think happy thoughts but I just can't, after all this time they still manage to paralyse me and suck out my soul and I just can't.

So now tell me, where's the romance in this?
Where is the romance in the hours-long breakdowns that leave me sobbing on the floor?
Where is the romance in my greasy hair because I don't have the energy to take a shower?
Where is the romance in the not eating because why why why should I?
Where is the romance in my parents calling in sick because they're too scared to leave me alone?
Where is the romance in knowing my therapist longer than my best friend?
Where is the romance in the doctor's appointments, the treatment centers, the loneliness?
The truth is: There is no romance. So please, please stop pretending that it's there.

It took me quite some time to realise that I am not a bra and won't let people treat me like one anymore. I tend to give more than I have and if someone asked for it, I would give them my last breath. It is not that I do not like being there for people- I mean that's like 50% of a good friendship, right? But the other 50% should be your friends being there for you, which is not the case in about half my friendships.
I deserve better. I deserve more than just the "Can you come over, I'm sad" calls.

I grew up with the phrase "Treat others like you want to be treated" and I still live after this, but what if I treat others so much better than they treat me? What if they won't ever realise that I am worth more than just the sad days? What if I give others so much that one day there is nothing left of me? What if one day people ask me "Who were your best friends when you were younger, who treated you like you deserve it?" and I won't be able to think of one single name, not even my own, because I was so busy being there for others that I forgot about being there for myself? No matter how much you love someone, you need to ask yourself if they realise how much you are worth. Did they ever say thank you? Did they ever stay up all night for you because you did not want to be alive any longer? Nobody thanks their bra in the evening. Nobody thinks "Wow, you did a great job supporting my boobies today". People throw their bra in the corner because it does not matter, because it is a matter of course, an object. You are much more than a bra. You are your own person and do not let people make you feel otherwise. Don't ever let others drown you by letting them hold on to your head while you are underwater.
By the end of the day, there is only one person you should love with all your heart, only one person you should give all you can; yourself. Remember to take care of yourself and if that means kicking someone out of your life even though you like them a lot then you go for it.

People say there's nothing worse than being lonely, but I'd prefer being lonely over being with people who forget that I need a hug sometimes, too. Sometimes you just gotta touch your own butt.

The Joke

I fucking deserve more.
I deserve it all.
I deserve not being a wildcard, just because you’re feeling wild.
I might tell jokes, but I’m not one
I deserve the mornings and not just the nights
I deserve the lunch and the dinner and I’m not just a midnight snack
I deserve fucking heaven on earth and not this hell you put me through
I deserve nothing of this.

or maybe I do
because I’m so fucking trusting, while you were just thrusting
and I opened up to you, way more than I should have -
maybe I deserve the heartbreak, because I didn’t play by your rules-
you told me your secrets and I thought we had something
but all you had was your hand down my pants
while you were looking in someone elses eyes
and all I had was a used condome, but never your heart.

and the worst part of it all – I believed it.
I thought I saw something, something more.
but you’re just a dick, nothing more.
I don’t think you have a brain and I can’t feel your heart.
the worst part is, that I saw the ghost of us and I wasn’t scared
but you were blind.

I planned this day for two weeks and waited for it for 18 years. I've been dealing with anxiety my entire life, so two hours on a train and two hours in a big city always seemed impossible. Until now. Accompanied by my therapist and two of my closest friends, who would all stay in another compartment, I got on the train and totally touched the butt. I didn't even just touch the butt, I became the butt. The nervousness didn't feel like anxiety at all, it felt more like excitement. Excitement to finally going to be able to do the stuff I want to do, to being able to say yes to things that scare the living daylight out of me and on top of it all, excitement to finally declare war on my anxiety. I'm not saying it was easy- the week before was horrid, I wasn't able to eat, sleep and relax at all, but as soon as I found a vacant seat, it felt like the most normal thing to do. Listening to the Frozen-Soundtrack, smiling the entire time (the people must've thought I am completely crazy), I started thinking. I always thought of myself as Elsa, isolating myself, being a prisoner of my own fears, but lately I've started discovering my inner Anna. And I love it. The pure excitement of going outside, meeting new people and 'dancing through the night' has always been a part of me, I just never found the strength to do it despite the anxious feeling. Maybe there is an Elsa in all of us, but it's our own decision if we let her control us or if we're going to fight her. And I think that, after 18 years of being Elsa, I finally deserve to learn how to be Anna. I forgot how to live and now it's my turn to remind myself of all the beautiful things I would keep missing out on if I don't internalise why so many people are in love with life. It's not going to be easy, it never was, but I'm getting there. 
Dear Anxiety, I hope you're scared of me.
You really should be.