Authenticity dream

Sometimes, truth hits you in the face with a frying pan. And everything you are and were becomes a lie.

I have no wish to disseminate more lies by writing about myself. I don’t like this self.

Let’s see how long my rebellion against falseness lasts. I’d give it two weeks.

Of course, I’d like it to be more. I’d like a rebirth as a purer and truer version of myself.


Other than that, my rose is blossoming.

My rose is blossoming

Re-watching Lord of the Rings

The Return of the King was on telly, and I chanced to watch the second half of it.

I had been a fan of The Lord of the Rings in my teens. I think I had crushes on most of the characters one after another. My favourite was Aragorn, but I also recall having a crush on Frodo, Faramir, Boromir and Sam. I was really quite a fan of Tolkien’s world. I even taught myself Elvish and dreamt of owning a sword.

I hadn’t seen the films or read the books for at least seven years, so when I saw the film again, my first impulse was to make fun of the fighting scenes. Aragorn’s portrayal as the classic Hollywood macho hero was also a little comical. But it managed to draw me in after a while, so the annoyingly snobbish attitude vanished. I very much liked the hobbits. I liked Sam. If I were to have a crush on any of the characters now, it’d definitely be Sam. Because he’s so sincere and simple and good. I’m glad the teenage me was able to see something in him too.

I felt Frodo’s departure from Middle Earth to be relatable. I know it is my personal interpretation, but it acquired a wider symbolical meaning for me: after having experienced too much and been corrupted by the ring, he could no longer live like Sam and Rosie. He couldn’t have been happy. It made me think of how things like that can happen to anyone, something so terrible, so life-altering that you can no longer have the life you want. You may want that life still, I’m sure Frodo did, but cannot have it or be happy in it. Your melancholy and awareness do not allow you to enjoy mushroom pies and the peacefulness of the Shire like you once did. Or they are just not enough.


I have moods when I feel the same emotions. I want to live like the Sam’s of this world, but I feel I understand too much, think too much to ever live that happily, to be as carefree. I want to, but there is that sense of separation, of being unable to. Cut off. My heart always seems to be somewhere else. Frodo’s choice to leave and give up life in the Shire was therefore quite relatable to me. I wonder about that sometimes myself, my unfitness for life. There are days when it descends on me like a thick fog. I don’t have a magic other world to sail away to, however, so I don’t even know what to do about that feeling. It just is there. The only source of strength I still have is that I’m relatively young. Maybe I’d grow out of it under better circumstances.

Worldliness, or lack thereof

I have been horrid of late. I’ve become steely, hardened, impatient with the incompetence, inefficiency and weakness that surrounds me. My best friend pointed it out too. I was not as soft any more. I had noticed, but I couldn’t afford myself the luxury of doing anything about it.

Why has this happened?

For a very long time, I’ve been operating far out of my comfort zone, crossing my habitual limits daily, doing things I’ve no aptitude for. I have no worldliness about me.  There are moments, when after having put my best effort into things, I no longer care if I get treated a little dishonestly or unjustly. All  I want is for it to be over. No more dealings with worldly stuff, so I can go back to candles, books and my glowing orange ball of affection (that is a metaphor I use to describe how people close to me make me feel – as if being surrounded by a glowing orange ball of affection, all safe and content).

What the world is doing to me, how stressed I am, how disconnected from myself, how considerably worse a human – this is a heavy price to pay for a little bit of financial security and social advancement.

I went to the bus stop after returning from the bank, and some old lady told me to watch it and not sit on that bench because someone had spilled milk on it. She said milk stains are hard to get out. Then she put a tissue paper sheet on the spot, saying that she hopes people will notice it better that way, so they won’t get their clothes dirty.

I understand her world where milk stains are important. I understand the world of pensioners thronging around discounted bread. And I understand the world of families taking their kids for a sled ride on Sunday. Because my grandmother took us too. I feel sympathy with the people on the bus, and the people that live in little ant hill flats. I used to hate that world, but now it gives me a warm feeling of belonging. I wonder what they are like and what they do in life, whether they are happy. The people on the bus who can’t afford a car. I smiled to myself when I overheard two men in their 50s-60s wishing each other happy father’s day and discussing their children and soon-to-arrive-grandchildren. And another pair of men discussing the evil cat of someone’s mother-in-law. I get all that. That world is mine. I grew up in a world where things that some call “small things” were the essence of life.

There is much more purity, serenity and truth in that kind of existence. Perhaps I’m getting Dickensian in romanticizing poverty, but what can I do? I get these people and what makes them tick a million times better than I get an average middle- or upper class person’s aspirations. I am somehow between the two worlds. My education and profession place me in one, my childhood and upbringing into another.

I like to take things slow, but nothing seems slow in the modern world. It drains me and turns me into a bad person, a disagreeable person who has no affection to give and wants to call everyone gits. Or alternatively, sleep all day and not do anything at all.

Too young, too old

I’ve felt younger ever since I remember myself. I had a younger sister and younger best friends in early childhood. Maybe it led to me wanting to identify with them, I don’t know. Youthfulness somehow runs in the family, too.

I’ve looked younger than my age from my teens onwards. Prior to that, I was normal and at one point I must have looked older. I was tall once. That is funny to recall.  One time in my life I was actually tall. Anyhow, looking younger continues to this day. Most of the time, I’m grateful that nature has been so generous. It feels very fitting that if I feel younger at heart, I should also look younger. I’m really most glad.

The only downside is dealing with the adult world. No, it’s not about how I feel inadequate doing adult things. I feel that too, but it is worse. People sometimes don’t take me seriously because I look 18 or something. I meet with raised eyebrows and confusion so very often when I’m trying to handle some formal business. I’m sometimes patronized. I’m often not treated with the same courtesy as more mature-looking people. Add to it my natural shyness, and the result is a disaster. I look like a total ingénue tossed into the real world.  And I do try. I try to dress more formally, but it seems to be of little help. Fortunately, there are people who manage to remain professional, but there is a lot of the opposite too. I don’t actually mind being patronized. BUT I do mind not being taken seriously as a customer when dealing with serious things. If my hairdresser patronizes me and calls me doll-like and sweet, they have my permission to waffle away. But if bank employees and real estate agents do that, it’s annoying.

This leads me to prefer e-mail communication to handle formal affairs. I’m neither shy nor will they see my face. Chances are that everything works out more satisfactory than face-to-face dealings where I regularly fail to appear assertive and competent enough. I’m actually both, if necessary and up to a point. But when I feel cornered and not taken seriously from the very start, I feel that I must prove myself to be an adult and I don’t perform well.

That is one side of the coin. It will most likely pass and by the time I’m supposed to start working as a psychologist I will be old enough in numerical terms so that signs of age will be visible. I actually hope to work with young people more, so that may be an advantage even.

The other side of the coin is that when signs of age do become quite visible, what of the 16-year-old inside? How can I keep her?  The world is so ageist and every behaviour is classified into age-appropriate and not. Oh well. That is to be seen.

Beautiful hearts

I have some sort of interesting thing going on with beautiful souls.

Whenever I come upon one, either in real life or through TV or internet, it makes me want to cry. I’ve wondered about this sort of peculiar reaction a lot. I’m obviously touched that a person like this exists. But it doesn’t quite seem like a sufficient explanation. I rarely do actually cry, but I feel like their beauty pierces my heart somehow. That my own heart leaps up and wants to run to theirs. Or press their hand in sympathy and understanding. To express it somehow how much it means to me that people like this exist.

In addition to that mixture of joy and pain, I also experience an overwhelming desire to protect the said person from the world. Even if they are a grown man twice my age in no need of protection. But there is that feeling. Of a treasure. And a distrust of the world. That destroys its beauty.

But a grown man twice my age surely knows that….

An absurd feeling overall.



Today is one of those days where my strangeness is oppressive and slightly frightening. Normally I embrace it.

I’m intensely aware of how far my ideas have diverged from the mainstream and it frightens me what may await in the future yet. I can almost see myself turning into a solitary weirdo living in the woods somewhere, with cats and sheep. And having maybe one friend. Or it may just be a mental solitude. Inability to talk to anyone of anything beyond the daily stuff. I feel recently that I’ve become disagreeable and struggle more than before to find common ground with new people.

I’d like to become a therapist one day, but the university programme puts me off the idea. I happily study human anatomy or learn techniques of making people open up and improve, but there is not a lot of practical focus like that. I have also stopped seeing the point in all the course work. Exams should be enough to prove I understand, since proof of understanding is required. I’m not a circus monkey who has to demonstrate my skills in three tests, an essay and a presentation in addition. And that in 10 subjects per term. The entire Western education system of forcing students to perform so they get a nose bleed and caffeine overdose is not something I want to participate in. But that is only half of it. The biggest problem is incompatibility of values. My values are not academic or scientific. My values are artistic and spiritual. There is something in most lectures that I find grating. Yesterday it was seeing introversion listed among negative traits, along with aggressiveness.  Also, the only science I respect fully is the one free of ideology. And psychology is mostly not it.

If I ever talk militant or aggressive myself, it’s because I feel so out of place – the world is coming down on me like a ton of bricks.

I just don’t know what to do. Drag myself through the university circus or not? Facts are: a) I want to help people as a therapist b) I have talent for it c) university does not make my eyes shine and feels like a gigantic ordeal, so packed with unpleasantness that the end result is hardly worth it.