2020: Year of Survival

For the 12th year, I sit down to think about my year and write that down. 12 years is a very long time, and you would think my writing has improved. We grow older, our skills improve, and most years what I came to conclude was how much I had grown. I reflected on my various fortunes and all the things I learned: some years I managed to build a career as a journalist in the Middle East withstanding prosecution, some years I got a couple of Masters Degrees. Most years I could at least look back at my advanced skills. And then... 2020: I survived 2020. I am still here. Yaaaay! When I think back at the biggest moments, the Lady in the water finding peace at Bly Manor and purchasing new yoga pants online come to mind. This year wasn't about progress, this year was about waiting. It was about holding on when it seemed like there was nothing worth fighting for. It was about survival.

Let me tell you something about my year 2020: I started it with a therapist who was going to help me work through the last 31 years of life. Childhood and the years since coming to England, it turns out, have caused something they call trauma. I'm not saying this as a complaint, you guys probably all have your fair share, whether you know it or not. My issue was that I couldn't cry. I hadn't cried since spring 2019 and then only because I had pretty good reason. I came home from a party on NYE 2019, ringing in what we expected to be the Roaring Twenties, and unloaded a gallon of tears. I knew I had so much work to do. I knew emotions would be coming up if I continued this work I had started. Let me tell you, this year I did not struggle to cry. 

I am not a person who usually struggles with mental illness and I am not now, so those who want to read this account of a year with those glasses on are wrong. What we all had to go through has nothing to do with a chemical imbalance in the brain, it has to do with disillusionment about what we thought we were. Most of us were on a path, and we believed things that had proven to be true, like "work hard and you will be rewarded". We lived for the advancement of our dreams, whether that is a job, finding a partner or partying in Ibiza with our friends as long as our livers allow if. And then suddenly, there comes an event, and it's not about dreams anymore. It's not even about what is achievable. It's about pausing, it's about accepting that what you were believing, what you'd been doing, is no longer true. You just have to wait. Just wait. Struggling with accepting that is not depression, it's disappointment. Disappointment is a luxury problem in 2020 but it was a problem... 

At the same time, you look around and everyone is in the same boat. You realize you have to be grateful for the things that haven't been taken away from you. Dreams are the casualty of the spoiled in 2020. I woke up every day since March 16 writing into my gratitude journal how lucky I am to still have a job. But I had never signed up to the job I was doing. It was a job, yes, but it wasn't MY job. I knew that day 2020 would bring me no closer to the skills I wanted to learn the day I accepted the job. Some skills, sure, but not what I was hoping for. Years and years I had spent investing into professional fulfilment, and there I was working 15 hour days on things that had very little to do with what I was hired to do. But I had a job. I had to be grateful. And I was still alive.

My 2020 struggle was forcing me to love things I don't love. I felt obliged to love my job because I had one. The comfort of my room became the best thing in my world although my world involved people, usually. Never in my life was practicing to appreciate the "little things" so vital. I was scared of standing still every day but ran for my life on the Heath in order to avoid cabin fever. What a problem to have, right? But despite my survival, and often prosperity and luck, I was struggling so much. So much. I had to simply accept that I wasn't going to advance professionally or privately. All the plans for my personal development, maintain a successful relationship, spend more time with the people I loved, were on hold, too. It wasn't exactly possible, was it? My most successful week was the one where I learned how to do the Crow pose. I missed so many people, sooo many, but it wasn't acceptable to complain about it because everyone missed their friends. 

Yes, readers, I can hear myself. I sound like a spoiled brat that has everything and sits in a golden cage quarantining. I managed for months to not despair over the color of my cage but I felt trapped, too. My point is not to indulge in my misfortune because, honestly, I had none of it relative to this planet, but I never do. I am the golden cage kinda girl in any year, too lucky for her own good. I created some of my own luck but man, I deserve none of the gold inside my cage. And when you feel bad regardless, shame also kicks in for feeling bad although you have it better than others. But all I was feeling was grief: grief for my old life, the people we had lost and couldn't see. And constant worry: will everyone I care about be ok? I could only make sure I don't get Covid, but what about mom? What about my pregnant sister trapped in Egypt? Will those s I love keep their jobs? I started being jealous of those #Covidiots Twitter was so vocal about because at least they didn't seem to care. I cared too much. 

The absence of hope, I learned, is the beginning of the end of everything. Covid is not the worst thing that has happened to me in life but it has robbed me of doing a bad thing with the help of those I love. Without my roommate, the treasure sitting on our rooftop for hours, days, weeks with me, there would have been days without speaking. Together, we imagined what this year meant for all the years to come. Would we stick with the path we were on that was, as of this summer, on hold, possibly gone for good? All those considerations I had to make without getting to see the people I planned to have in my future. I couldn't see my family, my boyfriend, any of my friends. All I had was hoping for the days to change. Without the hope that one day I could see them again, hopefully in the not too distant future. The dreams of better days is all there is. Maybe that's what makes today so special: turning the page has never been more necessary. 

I can look back on two years, one I just elaborated on: a year of darkness for many, of standing still and surviving until the light returns. This depiction is true for me, and I know for many of you. But I have to be careful not to discard the good which I know is the key to happiness. I am not a fan of telling people to count their blessings in a time they are feeling low, so I decided not to do another of these posts that would depict the "other" year I could look at: a year of learning how to better deal with bullshit, of the sunny days on the rooftop while locked up, a year of teaching myself valuable lessons and "becoming a better person". No, not this time. I decided to look back at an unsuccessful year. A year not to remember. I will not miss it and I will not force myself to appreciate it because I'm alive. It is pressure to love everything you are given. I encourage you to have the courage to admit to yourself that not learning Spanish this year is ok. You were busy surviving. And today a new year starts and I had 10 months to practice hope. And I have never been more hopeful. Bring on the vaccine, I'm ready for my Roaring Twenties alright!

According to Spotify, and my own perception, my most played song 2020... and feeling!

Covid Diaries: How A Virus Destroyed The Word "OK" This Year

Been a while, huh? Expression feeds off feelings, and feelings are dangerous in a year like 2020. I want to say "Congratulations!" to everyone who is still here, reading, without falling apart. Because while I watched the world fall apart this year, I tried hard to hold on to the very fragile thread my own world was hanging on. This said, consider that I have a job, a wonderful home, and most importantly, a body free from Covid-19 and any other detectable disease that has symptoms. The truth that I am one of the "lucky ones" is both devastating and unfulfilling to my own emotional household. And as I pack up my life for the 10th time in my life because keeping this house in Covid-times has proven unprofitable for my landlady, I am reminded that even a good existence is bad this year.

There are two opposing stories I can tell about 2020. The one I choose to identify with is the one where there is a global pandemic, I keep my job, I am safe, I work on great but exhausting projects and I spend a great summer with people I love. The other is the one there is a global pandemic that comes close to destroying the life of the people I love most, I watch people I don't even know lose everything and I can't do anything about it and I try to focus on my own luck by being able to turn away... but I cannot do it. It's not who I am. And I cannot change it. I am not dying myself and have been told that I need to be grateful for being "unaffected", however, it has not been easy for me to watch others do exactly that. 

Of course, my pain doesn't compare to the pain of being the one who lost a loved one. Or a business. Or a job. How I feel about my own pain is comparing a bowl of rotten Skittles to a swimming pool filled with them. My bowl full of shitty Skittles reeks and tastes like crap, sure, but it's a bowl. Of all the things that happened to people this year, my pathetic little bowl is one meal of bullshit and possible completely consumed by 2022. I should stop indulging in the pain the pandemic inflicted on my family and I. We have a very high chance of survival, bigger than most. But living in a world surrounded by pain IS pain. I see it. And it takes away all joy which, granted, is not my breath but a tough thing to lose. The threshold of pain this planet can endure is blown over and over again. 

In the beginning of the year, we celebrated great news: My sister was pregnant. In Egypt where she lives. Fast forward a few months and her partner is actually dead, we cannot get her out of the country because no flights, you know, and we have to worry about her care as Egypt isn't a huge fan of reporting a true picture of their Coronavirus cases. She's alone in Egypt, mourning a death while preparing for new life, and nobody is allowed to help her. This just doesn't happen. It's not an issue we were ever prepared to have. And hence, we were all splendidly overwhelmed. Through this all, my sister continued to teach children online, I work like a maniac but that's not new, neither is the lack of it actually being worth it. And even in these moments that teach you there is really only one thing that matters, and it's not work or (insert bullshit), you realize that even without a positive test you have lost so much this year.

Putting my own pain into perspective of the tsunami of terrible news this year has been challenging. My painfully optimistic outlook on life externally is a big pile of deception. Fake it until you make it, baby: If you can't actually enjoy life, pretend you are. We are going to do this for as long as we can because letting reality in is probably the end. I am mourning this year and everything it took from me. Covid did not take my nephew's father. Covid didn't take my boyfriend out of the country, making it impossible for me to see the only person I need. The emergence of Coronavirus did not make me work my ass off until I almost burned out. But the Coronavirus is taking away our opportunity to heal from these things. But look at me, talking about "healing" in 2020; foolish little girl thinking that healing can start while we are still bleeding.

While you might think I am not in a good place writing this, the truth is I sit here with two arms and two legs, a healthy lung as far as I know and the worst thing that happened to me this week is that a concert I had tickets for does not happen. I am definitely ok. However, my heart hurts knowing that whatever I feel is on the lower end of the spectrum of possible pain felt in 2020. If I am the lucky one, the one who had an easy ride this year, something is insanely wrong. When the life I have lived this year, with an excruciating amount of loss and pain, is branded "the good life", an inflation of meaning is happening to the word "good". When being ok means surviving until the vaccine hits the veins, "ok" has become a dire existence. Even John Mayer knew that waiting for the world to change is not where we should be at, yet here we are, trying to minimize scars rather than preventing damage. The damage is done. Non-negotiable. We just have to wait to see how bad it is.

#BLM: My apology

I originally wrote this last weekend, editing was real!

I'm not going to lie, I've been scared of this post. I started writing it a few times over the years, never finishing because I was too scared. Yes, me, the white girl talking about racism... "scared". What did I have to be scared of? Judgements, being misunderstood, getting in trouble over saying something "wrong" and potentially STILL being too engulfed in my privilege that I am speaking from a place that simply is not good enough. As of this week, I of course realize that the fact I always had a choice whether I want to chime in is the very essence of the problem. Because I don't HAVE a problem. I can, and did, reflect on myself quietly over years, but never talking about it in fear of repercussions. And although this is just a personal account of a white girl's experience, I want to use it as my personal check-in - and mostly, as an apology and vow to be better.

When Camila Cabello or Justin Trudeau got in trouble over the N-word and blackface over the last couple years, I was scared. I knew, even then, already, both of these things are absolutely unacceptable but knew one could find that in my past. As a child, we would dress up at church as the Three Kings for Christmas to raise money for starving children, and whoever "got to be" Melchior was getting painted in the face with soot. To describe Melchior, the N-word was colloquially used, it was a word like all the others. One of the candies we ate was called N***kiss, that was the actual name of the candy. What I'm saying here is that, I believe, I was actually taught to see differences in skin color. And these examples are just from my childhood when you could argue I couldn't have known better. In reality though, I see how it set me up for my later bias. And later in life, I don't have the "excuse" of childhood. I am responsible.

Fast forwarding, in my early 20s I was 100% of the opinion that I am not racist (I never consciously was) because my best friend was a black man from Angola. The fact he was my best friend and we never really talked about race and his experiences as a black man alone shows how badly I did here. My next step was to go teach in Kenia for a summer in college to learn more about racism by being the white person surrounded by black people. I am deeply ashamed of thinking that and would like to apologize for it although I never even told anyone. I was aware of being wealthy and white and thought going to teach in the slums of Africa would be a good experience for ME. I wanted it to be something that helps people, for someone else to benefit from how unfairly advantaged I was in life. Ouch, I cringe even writing it, and although I am reflecting now I feel uncomfortable for ever thinking that way. Talk about white saviours huh, I'm so ashamed of that. I thought I was doing good.

I arrived in Kenia and instantly made the experience so many white people have described as racism: I was suddenly in the "minority" by number, but at no point was I actually the minority. In Swahili, the word for "white person" is literally "rich white person", because the two adjectives "white" and "rich" are intertwined in reality there. My first response was that it was unfair because, of course, I was not "rich" in my experience of the word. In fact, where I was from I was anything but. I soon realized that I was rich. Took just a few minutes really. People were often touching my hair, stroking my face and almost always asking for something. I felt bad about it. I got harassed and coerced out of money a lot while I was in Nakuru, even right in front of the police, and when I asked for help they would say "poor you, what are you going to do?". At no point, and let me repeat it, never, was I actually in danger or felt any feeling but one we can today safely describe by saying "boo-fucking-hoo!". I was 21 and overwhelmed with the situation, nothing more. As the "Muzungu" I was, after the summer I just got onto a plane and it was over. Lucky me! That right there is why I will NEVER understand!

In Germany, and arguable other parts of the world I lived, it isn't even the racism against black people that is something I don't want to accept. And I see what people are saying about their perception that "Black Lives Matter" feels exclusive because if doesn't mention all the "others" but that, in my opinion, is just one of the things that needs to be addressed and rethought: Just because we are checking in on our racism now doesn't mean it's the only thing we have to address. From my little perspective, it is a start in conversation. And these conversations have now started, more so than before at least. I caught myself remembering how I changed the topic often when racism came up in conversation because I could feel that the people I was calling out were getting mad at me. I caught myself remembering how I myself claimed I wasn't racist. Racism doesn't mean one hates black people; it just means you exercised behaviour towards a person of color that differed from the one you would direct towards white people. And I have done that.

Soon, my family will greet its first member of color. One of the most important people in my entire life is going to be a person of African-American descent, and I fucking owe him to work so much harder. I owe him to do everything I can to make sure he has the same chances I had growing up because there is no logical or sensible explanation why it would be any other way. But I am not addressing racism because I have family members of color; I want to address it because it is wrong. It makes no sense. We've all made a collective mistake over the last few centuries believing in something we accepted as status quo that should never have been there, and I hope this time reminds us that racism isn't the only thing that applies to.

I for one want to apologize. I don't want to wait until I am famous and me singing along to 90s rap songs surfaces to which I then show a reaction. I know this stuff exists and I know I have acted in ignorance and perceived superiority. I want to express my regret over how I have treated people of color, people of different religion (damn, this is gonna be a post one day, my ignorance as a teenage church kid is a whole other story but I promise I'll get there) and just overall people who are different from me. I don't want to make excuses, blame problematic structures for my own bias; I should have realized sooner that things I was doing were wrong. It shouldn't take people telling me, it should be an innate questioning of your own behaviour. And I am probably still doing things I haven't even spotted that are unjust. I promise to listen and not get upset when I am getting called out; in fact, I invite a call out. I want to be part of progress, always, and as a white person who can never understand, I vow to at least stand. At least. 

How Quarantine Forced Me To Face My Childhood

Quarantine has imposed a situation on me, unsurprisingly, that I didn't think I'd have to face again: I moved back into my teenage room. Vaalserquartier, a village near Aachen in Germany, is surrounded by hills in three countries: the Dutch border is 20 yards from my childhood home, Belgium three miles maybe, if that. Surrounded by beautiful scenery, it is the perfect place for some hillwalking as your "daily exercise" and a long bike ride through three countries which sounds as amazing as it is. Given the circumstances a house near the countryside is a blessing nobody could have foreseen - but there is also the reality that I spent my teens in this room, this house, this place, promising myself to go away and never come back... whoops!

When you grow up in a world like mine, it's hard to innately acknowledge how fortunate you are. In my world growing up, I was not wealthy which is insane. My mom used to to point at the window right next to me now which was divided into four smaller windows. "If everyone in the world was on this window", she would say, "only one of the four smaller window parts would have rich people on it." She made me guess which part of the window I thought I was on. I guessed wrong of course. I had no idea I was on the "rich" part of the window, or the world, or that my mom was grossly exaggerating that one fourth of the people on the planet would be as lucky as me when it comes to growing up. But I didn't get that then. I was young. I thought what's out there must be better.

Of course I wasn't wrong. I saw the movies, at the time I thought it was the USA that had the better life because that's what the movies taught us in the 90s. I didn't know the places I would go to from here would not have hills, and green parks or even freedom of speech or democracy; blessings I didn't even grasp then. The things that are the most amazing about growing up in this town were things I had no idea were not the same way for everyone. Especially space was not a commodity I ever thought would become expensive, or even unattainable. I would ride my bike to a lake near my house most nights, watch the sunset and read on a pier overlooking the rolling hills surrounding the village. I had no idea that was special, not normal. 

Today, I sat on that pier again. I rode the same bike down there I bought age 14 to make it to my piano lessons not far from there. I had an mp3-player in the early 2000s which was the newest craze. It allowed me to upload 15 songs I could then play anywhere. Kelly Clarkson had written a song that I thought she had written for me: "Breakaway". It was about a small town girl that wanted to "fly away" and do bigger things. She also didn't want to forget where she came from, but she definitely wanted to experience, see more, do better. I obviously thought that was me. Wanting "more". As I sat there today, listening to the song to take me back and reflect, I tried to understand what "more" entailed.

This stupid pop song you have to be 14 to love literally makes me cry. That is 100% how I felt every day of my teenage life. I just did not believe that Vaalserquartier, the view of the village on the other hill, was what was there for me. Kelly names all the things she wants to do, and I have literally done all of them, including flying in a freaking private jet, and who can say that they have? And here I am, still sitting under the same damn tree 15 years later, hating myself for not seeing that perfection was there all along. Maybe it wasn't Vaalserquartier that was enough for me but the thirst for "more" was never quenched for me by breaking away. In fact, what I probably miss most in life is what I had in the very beginning of it. And when I did, I didn't want it.

What still rings true is the that breaking away and making a change takes more courage than I was aware I had. That is another thing I thought was normal. But it fucking isn't. Getting on a plane  to leave your parents at age 16 to go live abroad for a year might be something a lot of people do but I thought it was my destiny, everything I was born to do: leaving. And now that it has actually become a problem, because I leave all the time and can't stay with anyone or anywhere, I see the mistakes I set myself up for. Not appreciating that looking at a countryside sunset every night is not in any way normal, but a blessing and something  that speaks to my heart, is probably the only regret of my life: I missed the chance to love that experience for years. But then again I might only love it that much for exactly that reason: because it's an experience from the very beginning, not the break away.

I don't regret leaving at all. What I regret is believing, in my teenage, spoiled white kid mind, that I could do better. I wasn't wrong in many ways - but I was in others. I upgraded in experiences, also part of a privilege hard to fathom, I traveled to all of the places small town Kelly envisioned and I definitely make more money now. But I don't have a home. At least nothing that comes at all close to the one I was raised in. I made the change, and changed everything, even the good things. And those things are now missing. But today it's harder to change, and getting those things back is now out of my hands. Life is a vicious cycle of desire for things we don't have. But if quarantine taught me one thing it's that the pursuit of things we do not have leads to misery. The only thing that matters even a little bit is what is already there. Happiness comes from loving the things we have at the same time we have them. 

The West In Crisis: Are "Human Rights" Our Right?

What's the worst thing about a global pandemic? No doubt at all for me: the restrictions of freedom. I know what I am talking about, having actually lived in a country that doesn't have freedom. Now we all know. Sure, we still have democracy but democratically elected restrictions on freedom are still enately not democratic and sure as hell do not prevent Jane and John Doe from the countryside thinking would have handled everything way better. I miss the pub as much as the next person does but the pivotal question I've been asking myself has been: are we entitled to freedom? It isn't friggin' happening right now, huh? But since it's us, the Free World, what is our right to DEMAND freedom to come back?

If you don't know what I mean with human rights, this blog will be questionable to you. Of course, there is a formalised document that states what every human being on this planet "has a right to" having: a place to sleep, freedom of speech and food to eat, to name a few. My country's Grundgesetz pretty much outlaws, in theory, the restrictions on our freedom right now, of course, with the right for everyone's safety taking precedence. But we know that's hardly the case for everyone in the world. So, in these times where us spoiled Westeners are losing all the the things we are used to having, and according to the UN are entitled to, how does the meaning of the word "right" change? The reality is that the moment I enforce myself having the rights I am told to have a right to, I am taking others ability to have the same (which, of course, basically is the same as always).

If I now want my freedom, for example to leave my house as I please, with whoever I please, as granted by all the dead people who made the laws of my country, I get fined (and, well, endanger my peers). Without the threat of a deadly disease and a governmental structure that has kept the country wealthy and peaceful for over 70 years now, I'd scratch my head, too. But someone who knows the situation better than me has asked me to, so I do it, the sheep that I am. My people chose Angela and her peers, I know the lady believes in the rule of law and science and that's all I need to know about her advise being better than my neighbors'. That is our system: you elect other people to make the big decision for us. It happens every day and we don't feel our freedom is at stake because yes, we are THAT spoiled. It makes zero sense to doubt this functioning system in the face of this crisis. Now things are unpleasant so it must be the government's fault. So what do we do: COMPLAIN! Yay!  Why now, especially?

Because we are affected, finally. Our rainbows are gone. And we want them back now. Of course, nobody really understands even the basics of molecular biology but we do know we want the pub back.  Fortunately, we have the big World Wide Web to express how much better we understand the Coronavirus than others. Unfortunately, the sheer amount of perceived intelligence in people is stupefying. Everyone has an opinion on the Coronavirus right now when opinions are completely redundant in science. If science is subjective, what's the point of fact then? If people believe they have a right to their human rights, that is a matter of opinion; but whether their subsequent action of carrying on with life, having parties, defying the state orders, is going to lead to the end of people's lives is no longer an opinion that needs believers, it is a basic fact. We cannot maintain our freedom as usual if we want our hands clean of causing other people's suffering (and really, we were already not really able to).

The bottom line is that we perceive human rights as something we have now lost, when most people on Earth never had it. Here we are mourning jobs lost, freedoms taken and even the food sometimes not being on the table when we were incredibly lucky to have had these things in the first place. The West is in a state of mourning while others have accepted. The terminology of the UN, calling these things Human Rights, so something we are entitled to, contributes to people's perception there is a choice of action available to them. As a result, we end up with people interpreting the right to decide as a right to reject a vaccine when, well, that's dangerous. It won't and shouldn't be a choice. There is fact and there is lie. Choose one. Believing vaccines are bad for the planet makes you scientifically proven wrong. What you feel about it is irrelevant. Yet, that's the right people claim. You can see where it will not get us out of this mess if everyone just claims their freedom as their blank check to be stupid (could bring up the people drinking Lysol last week, but let's just... move on).

We have to believe in the system, democracy, which should have a proven track record of attempting to acquire human rights for all, but no entity in the world can promise us human rights, not even Antonio Guterres (actually, especially not Antonio Guterres). I want every person in the world to have the rights outlined by the UN as human rights, yet, it isn't working is it? What's clear already is that the terminology is faulty. "Rights" can be acquired, I currently have no such option. Sure, I am entitled to my freedom, the UN says so, but I don't currently have it, do I? Nice of them to grant it to me but it's not a thing that can be granted. At least not in the world order we live in. Certainly not one that is designed by a virus. We should focus on the endeavour to attain human rights, but we certainly are far from achieving it. Right now, us mourning freedom-lovers, gotta suck it up although it sucks: we aren't as free as last year. Maybe the Coronavirus will make us see, learn, and possibly improve. I choose to believe we can do it. With the lack of existing research on what happens next, at least I still get to have an opinion about it... 

"Together At Home": What Artists On The Internet Taught Me During Lockdown

The Global Citizen concert last night was one of the biggest music collaborations ever, I'd say. Anyone in music who's anyone in music was in it (and Jimmy Fallon, ergh). I am biased because, well, you could say I have a career in both pop culture and internet video so I'm going all "ERMERGOD" at anything both Sir Elton John and Billie Eilish are part of. And while I do love my internet video, I did not watch the whole thing. People, I don't have 400odd minutes on a weekend to watch celebs thank health care workers from their villas, even I am bitter about that kind of behaviour. The music, however, made me ponder something very crucial about the Coronavirus: where does artistry come through at such a scientifically, and potentially politically, challenging time?

I am a hypocrite because my own artistry has failed this year. Maybe I was creatively challenged by the shitshow that is this planet in the last few years, and I don't want to be criticizing all the time anymore. This pandemic has made me busier than ever, with no such thing as a work life balance in the absence of a "life". I do realize I have nothing to complain about without being the most privilege person as all I have lost is the freedom to travel to Hawaii and to go to the pub which most people in the world don't even have in the first place. However, the loss of freedom is a crazy experience for me; one that makes me have feeling I didn't know before. And I, unlike artists, have failed to confront them.

To see Elton John blast "I'm Still Standing" painfully reminds me of my emotional inferiority to this man. Maybe comparing oneself to the greatest musician in the world is not a fair comparison but this man, with his ability that is nothing short of a gift, sings a 40-year-old song which suddenly sounds like it was always meant for this moment. His fingers fly over a piano like he's a machine. But he is not a machine that was created to do this for people, HE created it. Now, a thousand years into his career, there he is, STREAMING on YouTube to have people worried, sad and, frankly, fucking screwed, watch for three minutes and focus on nothing but the beautiful feeling associated to hearing his song. It's art, and only shitshows show us just how essential art really is.

Starts 1 min in, ignore the Beckhams who thank, you guessed it, the health care workers... 

This whole concert showed me a new face of music, arguably one I already knew, but never on this scale: We often speak about how music is personal, even if you haven't written the song, how it's what it means to YOU what matters, but every single song in this eternal celebrity carnival was written WITHOUT a global pandemic in mind. "You can't always have what you want", eh? Decades of truth suddenly in a whole new light. Man, I remember being a teenager thinking "how dumb is the song "Wake me up when September ends"", and now I wake up to that exact thought every morning. How did this happen: I suddenly respect Billy Joe Armstrong for his contribution to my day!

But the artistic exploration of my feelings around lockdown do not end there: I went on to watch The Phantom of the Opera from the Royal Albert Hall which Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber decided to broadcast on YouTube for free for two days. I know what you're thinking: it has to be lived in person, it's just not the same on a screen. I've seen it in person twice and I know this fully well, but that's not really possible right now, is it? But because there is a light in every darkness, this show was available to every kid from Armenia to Zanzibar for free, while even I, privileged white kid with a tech job, never had access to that STUNNING performance. I know nothing about musical theater but I know that The Phantom of the Opera is one of the best things ever written. I know that - and now 11 Million more viewers. This weekend alone.

Despite knowing the Phantom inside out, making Lloyd Webber appear almost superhuman to me, this masterpiece gets me where I didn't know I had hairs to stand up on my body. This superhuman ability I celebrate him for is a skill I, as a wannabe artist that would be lucky to have just an ounce of the emotional spectrum of someone who makes something so beautiful, deeply admire. "Softly" he says "music shall caress you. Hear it, feel it secretly possess you." Is this what's happening to me right now? And as if it wasn't relevant enough yet, the Phantom goes on to literally express what I feel, deep inside, behind my gut in whatever part of my body that beats out these absolutely horrendous quarantine feelings: "Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind, in this darkness which you know you cannot fight!" Whatever I do in life, I will most likely never write a sentence so universally true for people ranging from a phantom in a dungeon and every thirty-something spoiled kid caught in a global pandemic.

I have discovered feelings brought to me the moment an amazing human being succeeds in making their feelings something beautiful. I can't even decide yet what I feel about this whole spiel. Am I sad? I don't know. Am I frustrated? Wouldn't really say that. What is this anxiety they all talk about, do I have it, too? I am finding nothing but disgraceful prose for my own feelings because I lack the ability these amazing artists already nailed: the ABILITY to feel all that. I might find the words once I have decided how I feel. I dread tomorrow when my therapist asks me "how I'm doing", a question I never had an answer for and hence always disliked. But for once I actually feel like I can find the teachers I need: musicians, filmmakers, actors, painters. And then, ultimately, I will have to become them.

Quite literally one of the best moments of my life!

I dare you to listen to it with quarantine in mind. Incredible!

Writer's Block: When Writing Doesn't "Happen"

This blog has existed for eight years, and it even comes up in therapy that it's my number one hobby. This week, after two months of being unable to write a blog, my therapist asked me to write one "for her". I told her it's not writing I struggle with, it's sharing with the public. Yeah, I know, if you've met me, you'll be surprised: like I ever struggled with that. One of the reasons I became a writer is BECAUSE I love sharing, I love conversation and, cornily, telling any sort of story, even my own. And here I was, not really being able to speak about myself for two months. Of course I then asked myself "why?". And after I did the exercise "for her", I did realize what it was: I no longer want my story out there. There is more than one reason for that.

The reason I am in therapy in the first place is that, personally and professionally, I went through two situations last year I can't actually talk about. I could, but it's not a smart idea that would hurt people other than me. The problem is that, if you're me, and it is important to you to share with people what your true experience in life is, the fact  you can't tell "the whole story" is disruptive. It makes me feel like I am not genuine which is important to me. I would really like to tell people sincerely what I was feeling this time last year, but societies are not going to react to that information favorably. People like genuine people, but only for as long as they tell a story they can deal with. My stories would make them feel worse, and why would I want to do that? So I never told it. And you can even see now, I'm still not.

That in itself is another reason: I honestly do not trust most people with my genuine feeling. That is hard to say, but ultimately true. My upbringing and past experiences have had an interesting effect on my ability to trust people, which is why I sought out to see a therapist in the first place a couple of years ago. Casually, not because I felt like I needed help. But I couldn't see a conventional way that would rebuild trust in strangers, or even friends. Last year's events did not really help this cause, either. So while it is easy to share that I am seeking a therapist to fix some issues I identified in interpersonal relationships, it is impossible to talk about what caused them. I do not feel bad about not sharing, but I would really like to. But part of having "trust issues" is believing that the information would be abused. And I am almost sure it would be if I was openly talking about my experiences.

In the end, everyone wants a good story, nobody wants these stories a person they may or may not already dislike is telling them about their self-centered perspective. One of the things that have already given millennials a bad name is their attention-seeking ways, and these days, most times I write a sentence for my blog, share an article on Facebook or post a picture on Instagram I am questioning if I am doing it because I want to share or because I want attention. I never really struggled very much with getting attention, and therefore never identified whether I need it or not. But these days, I feel comfortable with my story, and sharing it only makes me feel like I am showing off. And maybe I am (who ever really does it on purpose... I guess, other than assholes?).

Ironically, it took these last few weeks of bliss to make me realize that I am protective of my happiness by not sharing it, too. I never even wrote a single public paragraph about my more than positive feelings for a new human out of fear it could be perceived as bragging, or worse, make other people feel lonely because they don't have this sort of company in their life. I started being critical of couples sharing their V-Day selfies because it forgot all those who would like to do the same. I questioned, and questioned, and questioned if he should appear in my Insta story, and whether I should even post I was on holiday, or at a cool work event, out of fear it would cloud my credibility by only sharing "the good life" which is unfortunately what most social media is still synonymous for. In the end, when I was the subject of an Instagram V-Day post, the author even apologized to me. But of course, I wasn't even mad; I'm just worried that my happiness will attract negative sentiments.

As a result, the writing has ceased. My perceived pressure that the dark parts of my story were not going to delight people, make them feel uncomfortable, my inability to actually trust people with the information and my fear that my genuine account is filtered by a desire to just portray myself a  certain way made me stop. I couldn't guarantee anymore that I was being genuine because I didn't have a good grasp of what that means. After now three years of omitting some of the biggest pillars of my personal story in the narrative, I feel like I am faking sometimes. I decided I would give it a shot again, though. I am going to try speaking about the good and the bad in a way I feel represents me. It will never include those pillars, and it probably won't ever include a true ode to my Nice guy, but truth always comes in different lights; I only have one flashlight that can shine on mine.