I blame the society.
I was reading this powerful story, written by a soldier who for the first time could tell it without hiding his name and face (thank God DADT ended, good job, America), and comparing it to what happened to me just this weekend. And I’ve come to a conclusion that it’s a terrible society we live in.
Society that forces us to live in fear and shame even though our parents always taught us to be proud of ourselves and be strong, and be who we are. Me and the mentioned soldier have that it common: we’ve had this awesome role model in our life, someone to measure up to. And everything that person ever did was love us no matter what. My mom is my best friend, my biggest support, my lifeline. She’s the best person I met. All my life my main fear was to fail her – not because she would punish me or something. It was ME who didn’t want to cause her any pain, any worry.
And we both were for some reason afraid to tell that person who we were. Why? All my mom ever did was love me. Unconditionally. I screwed up more than once, and she was always forgiving and understanding. And I was still afraid to tell her. I knew in my heart she wouldn’t do anything dramatic, like you hear some people do to their children confessing they’re not straight, like throw out of the house or tell them they have a disease or something. But I was afraid. Why?
I blame the society. This society that shapes us all, and tells me I am wrong to be different, even though I can’t help it and I didn’t choose this. This society that only views the world in black and white and refuses the existence of anything that is gray, or colorful. This society that only ever sets the limits and punishes those who breach the frontier. This society that lives in extrema, and condemns everything that is in between, or God forbids outside of the scale. This society that calls me sick, abnormal, a sinner, an abomination, because I dare to love differently. This society that makes me fear the reaction of the closest person I have when I admit the truth about myself. This society that forces their opinion on me so much that I start to assign it to everyone else, even those I love and who I know love me. This society that makes me presume everyone will be against me, even those who have been there for me my entire life. Who have never let me down. Who have been my greatest support throughout all the crap I’ve experienced.
I blame the society for the pressure. And I never want my close ones – my children, perhaps, in the future? – to feel that pressure. I blame the society and I’m going to do something about this. I’m not going to stand and watch the world go by. I am going to act and I am going to change the world. One person a time, if needs be.
There’s nothing but clothes in my closet. Except for occasionally a cat.
This past few weeks have been really crazy for me. Starting with Christmas that hasn’t been as bad as I thought it might be, all the way through New Year’s party we had in the mountains, in my friend’s parents’ house, and “Saltimbanco”, the Cirque Du Soleil show we attended in Gdansk, northern Poland, to an exam that I blew and had to retake. There have been meetings with friends, emotions, much tv shows watching, learning, revising, nervousness, drinking, sheesha smoking, working, translating… Stuff happening. You know, living.
But nothing compares to what happened this weekend. You know, I bought a dress – first one since my prom, and that was some four years ago – and went to church, just to please my mom. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I talked to my mom and came out of the closet.
Recently I’ve been involved in creating a group of volunteers, a group that strives to work for the good of the lgbt community. This is happening quickly, we’re in the middle of creating a foundation, because we need to be legally registered to be able to try out for grants from the state, the EU and some NGOs. And I am to be a member of the board of said foundation. This means my name will be officially displayed in the court legal register. I am also to be the treasurer of the foundation. So I could really use my mom’s expertise when it comes to taxes, bookkeeping and stuff, since my mom is an accountant.
The problem was that she didn’t know I am bisexual. She does now.
We went to a shopping centre yesterday, me and my mom. I needed new jeans (I ended up buying a jeans, a top end a dress). I knew I needed to tell my mom, but I didn’t want my dad to be around for this. If I ever get a girlfriend and want to present her to my family, that’s when my dad and my brother will know. I don’t feel the same internal urge to be absolutely honest with them as I do with my mom. They were never really interested in my social life anyway.
So I told my mom I needed to talk to her alone. We went to a coffee shop, got a tea (I know, taking tea in a coffee shop must be some kind of a blasphemy) and talked.
It was one of the hardest things in my life, to just start speaking about this. If not the hardest. I love my mom so much, she’s been my major and sometimes only support throughout all the crap I’ve been through. I would never want to hurt her. And even though I knew my mom is tolerant, I also knew she’s Catholic. It made me unsure of how she might react. I was afraid she wouldn’t take me seriously, she would say it’s just a phase, that I couldn’t possibly know what I want in life. I was partly right.
I don’t remember what words exactly I used. I know I started with the foundation and that I really wanted her to know this. I said I was identifying myself as a bisexual, that is, that I like both boys and girls. And that I might create a relationship with a boy, someday, but it might happen that it will be a girl. I told her I used to be in love with a boy and with a girl, and that if she thought carefully, she’d know with whom. I said that it wasn’t long since I’ve admitted that to myself. She didn’t say a word, and when I stopped talking, she remained silent. She haven’t said anything for so long that the stress almost ate me up from the inside. But I felt like I had to give her time to process this. “Say something, please”, I said at last, when I couldn’t take it anymore. I’ve never been so tense in my life. Finally she started talking; her words were slow and careful, I saw her struggle to shape them just right. She didn’t want to hurt me. I was dropping a bomb on her, and she didn’t want to hurt me. I feel like crying when I think about that.
But she said she felt like I didn’t know what I was saying. How could I know what I liked if I had no experience? (She was spot on, I don’t have any; does it make me lame?) I asked how straight kids know they’re straight? They don’t need to experiment to be sure. And I was in love in someone of the opposite sex, but I was in live with a person of the same sex as well. I know who I am. She said she just didn’t want me to close any doors for myself. Our world is so not prepared for this. It would take years before people could accept this. But I insisted this is the time to act. Now. It’s a historic moment, and I don’t like learning history, I want to make it. That is why I am getting involved, I believe we can change the world. It starts small. It starts now.
And then something incredible happened. She said she didn’t care. She just wants me to be happy, no matter with whom. I could barely contain myself, I told her how much I loved her and hugged her closely. She said she still didn’t believe I am inclined towards both girls and boys (she avoided the word “bisexual”), but she thought I just wanted to stay open. I agreed. The important thing is that if I ever do come home with a girlfriend, she won’t mind. She told me she would prefer me being with a man, but whatever makes me happy. Also she wants grandchildren. I reminded her I’m sick, so there’s a possibility I won’t be ever able to have children of my own, or that I will have to use In Vitro. But adoption seems like the most probable solution. If ever. But I would want to have children one day; adopted or mine, that’s secondary.
So now my mom knows. She knows I think of myself as a bisexual, even if she doesn’t exactly believe that it’s true. She knows I’m in that lgbt group, and that we’re getting involved, and that we’re creating a foundation. She knows, and I feel three times lighter. Like I’ve been liberated. It felt similar when I told my friends.
I also feel like I don’t deserve all this. All this… acceptance. People liking me the way I am. I never believed it could be possible, not for me. I was such a lonely, sad child. I missed out on a lot, but it’s only now that I realize that in order to get others to accept you, you have to first accept yourself. For me, the process of being freed has been long – started in high school already, but it picked up speed only when I moved to Kraków and started my studies. I have now three sets of friends I love insanely, and they like me and support me even though I am far from flawless. But who is? Before I talked to my mom, I knew I would have to do it, and I was nervous, and though my decision was already taken, I needed an emotional support. And I got it. I got it from Ola and her boyfriend when I went to visit them, I got it from my Sabbath when they came over, I got it from my friends from far away through Twitter. It calmed me and made me stronger. And I am infinitely grateful for this.
And I want to be a support to them too. To other people. I want to give back the good I’ve received.
I am so blessed.
Christmas is coming.
I’m in a very bad place right now and it seems to me that it’s gonna be the saddest Christmas since the one we spent in total silence, because my father chose to give us the silent treatment. For a year. That was when I was in primary school.
My kitty is very, very sick. We don’t know if she’s gonna make it. And I know that you think, it’s just a cat, but she’s so much more to us. She’s been with us for almost ten years and she is a member of the family. I almost lost her once, when she got lost when we were in the mountains, in our friends’ house. But this is so much worse. To see her slowly passing, getting weaker and weaker and having all those lashes of hope that arise only to be shut down by bigger uncertainties… She’s not doing well. I don’t want to loose a friend, and my kitty is just as much a friend and a part of the family as any human would be. I don’t want to loose her and she’s not doing well.
My mom was taken into the ER yesterday. She has pancreatic problems, she has had an operation some time ago and she’s better now than before, but still there are times when it attacks and yesterday was one of those days. She told me only today. She doesn’t want to worry me, but it only makes things worse. I love her beyond reason, more than anything or anyone else, we have the connection that not many mothers and daughters have. We have our differences and I can’t exactly tell her everything – not yet, anyway, but someday I will – but she’s been always my biggest support in life and my best friend. We have never had an argument. We disagree sometimes, we don’t have the same priorities, we upset each other sometimes, but we have never ever had a real fight, even when I was a teenager. Teenage girls are supposed to have fight with their mothers. I didn’t have even one.
Of course I worry. She does all the time too. It’s probably genetic, my grandma is a worrying-too-much type too. And yet with all the worrying my mom never banned me from doing what I wanted, to reasonable extent, of course. She always had faith in me and my sense of responsibility. Sometimes I didn’t deserve that.
My uncle lost a suit against his old co-worker who cheated on him for millions of zlotys. Apparently she bribed every judge on her way. My unlce is gonna be forced to sell his beautiful house and his awesome car and he already has alimony to pay for his two previous wives and three kids from those marriages. He has his third wife, who is a PE teacher in high school (or maybe it’s a middle school? Anyway, her salary is minuscule) and two children, boys of 7 and 9 years, from that third marriage, to provide for. So we made a general consensus that there will be no presents this year, except for the boys. Kids deserve to have some kind of normal Christmas, they don’t need to understand how bad things are.
And we won’t have presents either. I couldn’t care less. We payed around 600 zlotys for my kitty’s treatment and we’re gonna pay more if it’s necessary. I just want my kitty to be okay.
But all in all, it’s gonna be a very sad Christmas. And right now I’m in such mindset that I can’t look past that. I know I’m set for awesome New Year’s party and then to go to Gdańsk to see Cirque du Soleil’s Saltimbanco, and to go to Glee Live in London in June, and to get a traineeship in European Parliament for July and August, if I can. But it all seems so distant now. Like how can I ever be happy again if my kitty’s not gonna be here? I still hope she’ll get better, but it’s starting to be very difficult to stay positive. And I know it doesn’t work like that, grief is not perpetual. But I know this with my mind, my heart says otherwise. And I just can’t get over what my heart is saying right now, no matter how I try.
I’m sad.
I’m lost.
My mother and I are best friends. But we do have our issues too. I am writing this on my phone, to publish it as soon as I get back home. Right now I am on the train (it’s already half an hour late and we haven’t moved from the station in Katowice yet, welcome to National Railways of Poland)(*EDIT after getting home: It was an hour late when we departed…). I left home with a nail stuck in my heart, because I know my mom is mad at me and worried. We had a talk about my not going to church anymore.
I told her I didn’t like the Church anymore as an institution. I am not saying I don’t believe in God, because I do. I just can’t pretend like I am a good Catholic if I disagree with the Church on some very important – at least to me – issues. And if I don’t trust it anymore. I used to think that all those years of history made the Church somehow more right. Now I know they don’t mean anything. On the contrary, what happened in the past only proves they were wrong before. What makes them think they aren’t now?
How can the Church assume moral superiority over anyone and anything if they were the ones making so munch evil in the world? I’m not just talking about the most obvious Crusades and Inquisition, but also keeping the science development back for ages. How can they claim there is no doubt as to the righteousness of their teachings if they themselves changed it over the course of the years? How can they justify that they came from basing their dogmas on St. Augustin to basing then on St. Thomas? How would they explain the celibacy? It was introduced as a canonic law in XI century. 1000 years, there was no priest celibacy in Catholic Church! How can they expect me to believe that the pope is infallible if the history tells the story of their promiscuity, cruelty, luxury and sins all over? How am I supposed to have faith if I witness the Church, led by the pope, covering up their priests’ pedophilia?
And most of all, how am I supposed to be a good Catholic and not be a hypocrite if I disagree with the Church on things like contraception and in vitro and homosexuality? I can’t tell that to my mom just yet, but I am bisexual (or more like pansexual, if we really want all those etiquettes), so how can I adhere to the religion that says I’m against nature and I shouldn’t love my way and that my love is wrong, that it’s a sin and I am ‘called’ to a life of chastity. God created me like that. And now He doesn’t want me to act on it? He doesn’t want me to love and be loved? I just can’t agree with that. I just can’t accept that. And I never will.
But the truth is, I am scared. I am scared because I was brought up to believe that going to the Mass on Sunday is important. Because it’s a direct link with God. Because it’s a sacrament and it should be observed. And I really want to belong. I have this longing in me, longing for a community of people. Putting the institutional side of the Church aside, it’s also a community of people who believe. And I want to be a part of that community. But I can’t. Because I don’t want to be a hypocrite.
I am not saying here that the Church it’s necessarily wrong. Maybe it’s not. But I doubt, and that doubt is what keeps me from saying “I am a Catholic”. I am not. With religion you have to go va banque. All or nothing. And I can’t just decide “from now on I believe in everything the Church says”. It doesn’t work that way. I can’t just chose to change my opinions, my views. They have to convince me. And they’re not doing a great job at that right now…
I’m lost. But I won’t lie or pretend like I am someone I’m not. Even for my mom, whom I love dearly. She will just have to accept that. I don’t like worrying her, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m sorry, mom. I love you. But I can’t just get unlost with a flick of a wand. I wish I could. But I can’t.
I’m lost.
Music is poetry too.
It’s Thursday, so it’s my day to showcase a little of poetry. Today it’s gonna be a song. Not even from the genre that in Poland is called “sang poetry”, just so beautiful that I can’t stop listening to it.
This is a song performed by a Polish group called Bajm, with Beata Kozidrak as a lead singer. The song is probably the most beautiful thing about motherhood that I have ever heard.
Bajm
“Dwa serca, dwa smutki” / “Two hearts, two sorrows”
Rośniesz jak młody buk na moich ramionach /You’re growing like a young beech* on my arms
Jak drzewo, którego nikt, nikt nie pokona / Like a tree that no one, no one can defeat
Dałam ci wolę istnienia / I gave you the will of existence
Dałam ci siłę tworzenia / I gave you the power of creation
Nowy nieznany szlak nad twoją głową / The new, unknown path over your head
Może jest tylko snem, a może koroną / Maybe it’s just a dream or maybe a crown
Zostań więc Bogiem i drzewem / So become God and a tree
Między mną, ziemią, a niebem / Between me, the Earth and the Heavens**
Ref.: / Chorus:
Więc teraz serca mam dwa, smutki dwa / So now I have two hearts, two sorrows
I miłość po kres, i radość do łez / And love to the end, and joy to the tears
Wieczory długie i złe / Evenings long and bad
Krótkie dnie, więc całuj mnie częściej, / Short days, so kiss me more often
Bo nie wiem jak będzie / Because I don’t know what is going to be
Ojciec Twój pędzi-wiatr, uwieść mnie zdołał / Your father, road runner, has managed to seduce me
Tulił jak cenny skarb w swoich ramionach / He held me in his arms like a treasured gold
Dałam mu wolę istnienia / I gave him the will of existence
Dałam mu siłę tworzenia / I gave him the power of creation
Ref.: / Chorus: x3
*In Polish “buk” and “bóg” are pronounced the same way; “buk” is beech and “bóg” means god.
** In Polish “ziemia” can mean either the floor or the Earth, as well as “niebo” can mean the sky or the Heaven.
I feel weird.
I was born 22 years ago today, at around 6 AM, in a hospital in Chorzów, where I lived until I moved to Kraków for studies. I was supposed to be a birthday gift for my mum. She turned 34 on April 25th. But I guess I couldn’t wait to see the outside world. I was also bent back in a weird way, so my mum had to have a C-section. She has scars to this day. I feel a little guilty for that.
It’s weird. When I was little, I though 22 is old. Then I though it was merely adult. Now when I reached that age myself, I don’t feel adult at all. I still feel like I’m a child, vulnerable and helpless. And crazy, but that’s a good thing. I hope I’ll never lose this childish craziness, this joy of life and interest in the world. But still… I wonder whether I will still feel like that – vulnerable and all – when I’m independent. Right now it’s my parents who provide for me, but I am hoping to find a job after I finish the studies (5 years in Poland, so 2 more years for me) and become financially independent.
(By the way, recently I got a great opportunity; I sent my applications to some translation bureaus and I got a response! I have a job interview on Tuesday and if I succeed, I’ll have an internship! That’s a great start on the way to career. I mean, you need a lot of experience to get a good job after studies, and getting an internship is hard. So I am really happy, though also nervous. What if I mess up the interview?!)
Anyway, I feel weird.
The black Volga.
Have you heard a story about the black Volga? It is said to roam around cities and kidnap little children, especially those who wander alone. My grandma used to scare me by telling me this story when I was a kid. I didn’t know what Volga was, but I assumed it was a car. And of course, it was a luxurious limousine popular during communist times.
The story about black Volga has been around since the early ’60s, I think. My mom told me her mom used to scare her with it too, and my mom was born in ’55. When I was a child, in early to mid ’90s, Volgas became very rare, because suddenly the market has been opened and Western cars started to be imported in great numbers. I’ve never seen a Volga – or I didn’t notice anyway. And I would notice if I saw one, at least in the last five years, ’cause while I don’t exactly love cars, I like them enough to be interested what make or model is this or that car.
My grandma was the one who told me the black Volga story, because she didn’t want me to wander the streets alone (I was always very keen of it), she wanted me to stay with my family or friends when I played outside. But, while I didn’t know back then nothing about Volgas, I knew enough about Mercedes and BMWs.
Because the story returned at full speed in ’90s. Only it was no longer the black Volga, but the black Mercedes or black BMW. They either kidnapped children or young and pretty girls. It’s been also said that it was the Satan himself who drove the car and he asked people about the hour and they would die at that exact hour he asked about… and many more frightening stories.
The funny thing being, my father owned a black BMW. Well, it wasn’t exactly black – the color was called, if I recall, “dark dolphin”, but don’t ask me why. It was very, very dark, almost black, but there was a metallic edge to it. But it could easily pass for black. It was rare to have the car that good back then – even if my father bought it used – and all the children on my yard were envious and scared of it. Even more so, because my dad always wore a black suit and had a beard… also because when he was angry, he yelled a lot. All this made them very anxious of him. My not-quite-cousin-but-almost told me once that he was always scared of my dad. Huh. Who wasn’t? I certainly was!
Anyway, I don’t know why this story came to me today. I thought I’d share. Do you have similar urban legends where you live? Were you ever really scared because of something your parents or other people told you? Share it with me :)
I feel blessed.
I watched the movie “Karol” today, both parts. Of course, I’ve seen it, like, ten times already. And every single time I’m starting to cry three minutes after the beginning and not stopping until five minutes after the end. The combined emotional charge of watching the life of our great Pope and the history in the background – especially in the first part – just overwhelms me.
This Man was always present in my life, since my birth; I even remember a recurring dream I had as a child, in which the Pope was coming to me, to my home, and giving me a little, metal box containing something very precious. I do not remember what this something was, but I do remember the feeling that accompanied it – the overwhelming joy, mixed with embarrassment and shyness. I remember wondering: why me? I never found out – every time I wanted to ask that question, the dream would end and I’d wake up.
I always regretted not having the possibility to attend one of His pilgrimages to Poland. I was too little to go by myself and my parents weren’t religious enough to take me. But I always knew He was there – a soothing presence, a bright spot. I was very religious child, back then.
I remember the day He died. I was praying for Him to get better. I knew the world without Him wouldn’t be the same. I was doing something on the computer when I found out – I read it somewhere on the Internet. I stared blankly at the screen for couple of minutes. I couldn’t believe it. God wouldn’t take this great man… would He? Then I started crying. The whole week was kind of blurry. Hidden behind the fog of tears. I remember national grieving and mourning. I remember going to school wearing a little white ribbon. It’s customary to wear the black one – but it was special. He was “the man in white”. He was a symbol of hope. And so we wore white ribbons.
For his funeral, I went to Kraków. I was living with my parents in Chorzów back then, and such a trip on my own was rather big for me. Kraków was a special city. It’s where He lived and taught, and served. Many people came to Kraków that day. There is a large field, called Błonia, where all major events that require big space for big crowds are held. That day the big screens were put there, and the altar for the mass. More than eight thousand people gathered there to watch the funeral held in Rome on the screens and celebrate the mass. There was this one moment that I won’t ever forget; eight thousand people kneeling on the ground, inclining their heads, hands folded, saying nothing… I heard nothing but the light breathing. The silence was almost absolute; it was an amazing moment.
This was almost six years ago. I didn’t even notice where all this time disappeared. I was fifteen, almost sixteen back then. Now I am almost twenty-two. I’ve grown a lot. I am no longer this religious, blind little girl. There are things I consider bad in the Church. It disappoints me a lot. I resolved that I disagree on many issues with the views of Vatican. I think the Pope was wrong in some things. (Let alone this new guy, whom I wished luck at the beginning, knowing he would never be “the Pope”, just “a pope”. I really gave him a chance, though; I even was there when he came to Poland, on this same field in Kraków. But he disappointed me too many times now.) But He was right most of the times. He brought so much good to this world! And so I was joyful when I heard about His imminent beatification on May 1st. I respect Him for what He’s done and love Him for how He was. I feel blessed that I could be a part of all this – that He was and still is a part of my life.
But the movie doesn’t show only a great man. It shows also a reality, His reality. History. My history. And I feel blessed because I live in a free country. I don’t have to live in fear. Fear of war… fear of oppression… fear of hunger… fear of poverty… I get to make my own decisions, I get to do with my life whatever I want. I get to cherish my life with my family and my friends. I don’t have to sacrifice anything. I can, but I don’t have to.
My grandmother was seven when Germans assailed Poland in 1939. She was 13 when the War ended. I don’t know what she’s been through. She never speaks of it. But then she had to endure the Communism and her own unhappy marriage. It was usual, patriarchal, poor family. My grandfather worked at the mine. He spent most of his salary on games – he was a gambler – and alcohol. My grandmother stayed home, taking care of her two children, my mom and my uncle. “Home” was an apartment in one of the famous Silesian “familoki”. It had one room and a kitchen. The toilet was outside, in the corridor, shared with another family. There was no bathroom. The only room was divided in two smaller ones; there was no wall added, just a big wardrobe. They didn’t have central heating, they had a steel stove. They had to bring coal all the way up (the apartment is on the fifth floor). They used a big washtub – no bathroom, remember? In the hardest times, they ate from one bowl; this is why my mom still eats everything so fast. If you weren’t fast, someone else was and you couldn’t eat enough. My grandfather abused his family. I don’t know if he ever touched them – it’s not exactly something you can ask – but I know he abused them mentally. Sometimes words hurt harder than worst bruises.
I was blessed, because I never knew poverty. Hunger. War. Oppression. My little problems now seem just that – little problems. Nothing I can’t get through. If my grandma could get through all this, why shouldn’t I get through whatever life has prepared for me? I have my family and friends. I have money – not much, maybe, but enough to live with dignity. I have education – something my grandmother didn’t have. And most of all, I have freedom. Freedom that I haven’t worked for; freedom gained with tears and blood of those who came before me. And for that, I feel, I have the moral responsibility to carry on that freedom to others. To perfect it in every way possible. To make it universal. To make other people feel as blessed as I do.
The greatest pillar of my life.
I resemble my mother physically. We both have blond hair (though mine is darker) and bright eyes (though my mom’s are light blue, while mine are indefinite grey with a hint of blue and green). My features match hers, too, though, of course, not exactly; our voices are so similar that very often when I answer the phone, the person on the other end thinks she or he is talking to my mother. I am much taller than she is and when she was my age, she was rather skinny, with long, thick hair – very beautiful indeed, no wonder that my dad has fallen in love with her. Now we are both rather round, though her figure was always more like an hour-glass than mine.
My mom, me and my dad in Egypt this last September.
Mentally, I’m more like my father. I don’t scream as much as he does, but when I get angry, then I really get angry. Which doesn’t happen very often. I’m more a “hurt” person than “anger” person. But anyway, like my dad I go to sleep very late and hate getting up early. We both are rather tech savvy, we both like good, heated discussion about politics, we both hate shopping. We love books (and it’s a trait that we share with my mom and my brother as well) and we both have a flair in writing. I’m worried that my handwriting will eventually become just as intelligible as my dad’s. We both do everything at the last possible minute and work best under pressure (this little characteristic is what irritates my mom a lot). We both are ambitious. We both consider other things than cleaning or making dinner our priorities (which irritates my mom as well; though we are far better than my brother who doesn’t do a thing in our house, despite the fact that he actually lives there, with my parents; me, on the other hand, I live on my own and I still come home and help cleaning every other Saturday).
My dad doesn’t like children and I think this is why I never had a good relationship with him until I was old enough to start understanding things that interested him, like politics, technology and other grown up stuff. My dad is a… I lack a word in English now. In Polish I’d say “kumpel”. My buddy. My pal.
But my mom is my real, true friend.
She has always been there for me. And she continues to be. She’s the greatest pillar of my life; whenever I’ve got a problem, I go to her for advice. I generally try not to rant to her too much, because she’s got a lot on her plate, working all day long, worrying about our future, keeping a house… I don’t want to put my problems on her backs too. But the truth is, she’s the only person in the whole universe that I can count on no matter what.
I’ve been through hell as a child and a teenager. My private, little hell, that brought me near suicide (though my mom never found out about that part. It would be too much for her). And you know what stopped me from taking those pills that day, some six years ago? The thought of my mother. Because I was sure she’d cry after me. I wasn’t sure about anything anymore, I was so deep in my self-pity that I thought no one liked me, that I was all alone… except for my mother. And I would never, ever consciously do anything to sadden her. Too often I do that unintentionally. In the end, she’s the only person that I want to be strong for.
We talk about almost anything. She always supports me in my decisions. She wanted me to be an economist, like herself and my dad, but I wanted to study philology; she never tried to push me the other way. I wanted to study in Kraków, despite the fact that there is perfectly nice university closer to home; it costs a lot of money, because while there is no tuition for public university, my parents rent an apartment for me and give me money for food and other things. And here I am, studying philology at Jagiellonian University in Kraków. (And let me tell you, Kraków is twice as expensive to live in as my hometown in Upper Silesia.) She told me once – and I was still in high school then – that if I was to have a child right now, it would be okay. She’d help me. (Of course it was before I found out I was unable to have my own children.)
I never argue with my mom. We disagree sometimes, but we never, ever fight with each other. She gets upset when I do something wrong and it’s far worse than yelling. I immediately feel guilty and it bothers me a lot more than my father’s screaming. You know that tough phase of being a teenager when you defy your parents, especially your mom? I’ve never had one. I was always obedient. This doesn’t mean I didn’t do crazy things, bad things that I shouldn’t do. But once my mom said “don’t do this, please”, I obeyed. And she was always cool with letting me do things like going on my own to my cousin who lived a block away when I was six or so, or like going on my own to Kraków for the mass on the day the Pope was buried (and I was 15 back then); she believed in me and trusted me. I wasn’t always very responsable, but she never doubted me. Even after some nasty things I’ve done to avoid school. My mom worries about me and my dad and my brother and my grandma all the time. I’ve been living on my own for 2,5 years now, but when she knows that I leave for the night, she asks me to text her when I’m back at my apartment, just for her to be sure that I’m okay. Some of my friends don’t understand this, they say that they’d go crazy if their mothers kept tabs on them like that. I don’t mind. I realized long ago that the way she worries about me, I worry about her. I’m okay with that. Also, my friends sometimes can’t understand why I would call my mom every single day. “I never call my mom”, one of them told me once. “She calls me every now and then. Once a week, sometimes not even that often.” “I like to talk with my mom”, I answered. “I don’t mind her wanting to hear from me. I think it’s fabulous we have the relationship like that.” My friend shrugged and changed the subject.
It’s a two hours ride by train from Kraków to Katowice and another half hour by tramway to get to my hometown, Chorzów. Usually I go home once every two weeks, for the weekend. I haven’t been able to do that lately, because of the exam session. And I call my mom every day, but it doesn’t change the fact that I miss her like crazy right now. It’s been almost three weeks that I haven’t seen her and I won’t be able to go home for another two weeks. I miss her a lot. This is why I’m writing this post.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my dad too, despite all his… downsides (this is the topic for another long post). I have a rather difficult relationship with my brother, but I guess I love him too. And I’ve been blessed with the gift of the best friends in the world; my Morpions and my Sabbath are perfect for me and I know I can count on them at any time. But my mom is the number one, always has been and always will be. I love her very much.
Stylish Blogger Award, thus: meme.
I thought meme is a thing only characteristic to livejournalers, but apparently, I was wrong. Yesterday I was awarded with “Stylish Blogger Award” by Polish Mama on the Prairie. I felt really flattered, because I’m just starting to blog and I feel that I don’t do such a great job. (I blame my language skills.) Thank you, @PolPrairieMama! (If you were wondering if this is a subtle hint to follow her on Twitter then you were right. Though I don’t know about that subtlety.)
I have a problem with the meme, though. I am so “new” to this world that every person I’d like to award has either already been tagged by someone else, or is so well-known, famous and great that they intimidate me to the point that I will not even try to tag them. Or both. I’m lame that way, I know.
So, I’m gonna leave it open; I’ll just do the first part.
- Thank and link back to the person who awarded you this award.
- Share 7 things about yourself.
- Award 10 recently discovered great bloggers.
- Contact these bloggers and tell them about the award!
So, 7 random things about me:
- I don’t want to get old. I plan to live my life as well as I can, at full speed, and not look back. Thus, I will probably die young. And guess what? It doesn’t bother me a bit.
- I have a very sarcastic and abstract sense of humour. I also use irony at the daily basis. This is why some people don’t understand me and think that I’m a freak. (Well, I am, but not because of the irony.)
- My mother is one of my best friends. I tell her almost everything and call her every single day. And I miss her like crazy when I can’t visit her at least once every two weeks. (Like right now, for example.)
- I’m politically aware and I try to be active, but I lack the candidates that would satisfy my beliefs. I’d need to combine the economic right with social left and merge them into one party and that seems to be impossible. (Bare in mind that I’m talking about Polish politics; when I think America, I think Democrat.)
- I suffer from two separate, chronic, incurable diseases. None of them is in itself life-threatening, just really annoying. And I also wear glasses. My health issues seem to be all interconnected and have some very irritating symptoms.
- I used to have English classes at high school, but when I left school (and thus – the classes ended) I was only at B2 level at best. Then I started to watch American tv shows with Polish subtitles. But I wanted to watch also “The West Wing” and there were only English subtitles; so I watched with them. It helped me a lot and now I don’t need any subtitles anymore to watch anything (except House, but that’s because of the medical vocabulary that’s mostly unfamiliar to me even in Polish). I’m quite proud of that fact.
- I love everything medieval. This period fascinates me and excites my imagination a lot.
I am sorry I cannot tag anyone else. I truly am. Maybe sometime in the future, if I settle down more as a blogger, I will be able to get back to this post and award someone who hasn’t been tagged yet. (And who doesn’t intimidate me so much. Because, seriously, I love Loralee or Erin, but I’m too much a chicken to tag them. And PolPrairieMama, Ewa and Ruth have all been already tagged.)
