About Embracing Your Curves.

A new issue of the Swedish fashion magazine Sofis mode came out in stores yesterday. Nothing remarkable about that. Except that inside it, you can find my very last column. Well, my last column in this particular magazine, that is.

Three years have gone by since I wrote my first one in Sofis mode; it looked something like this:

For three years, these columns were such a big part of my life. I have written hundreds, about every subject you can think of. I will admit that it feels a little bit sad - the same kind of sadness that you can feel when graduating from high school, or ending a long relationship that you know you're ready to move away from. You know it's time to move on, forward, onto something new and different; yet you can't deny it hurts to let go.

But I'm so glad that the new columnist is no other than my blogger colleague and dear friend Sandra Beijer of the blog NioTillFem! Back in July, when I had finally decided it was time for me to leave Sofis mode, I was hanging out with Sandra in Brooklyn - and there and then, I just knew she was the perfect replacement. A couple of weeks ago, I found out that my boss agrees with me, and that Sandra is now hired to take over!

In this particular issue, you can also find my feature of one of the most admirable, talented and beautiful young women I have ever had the pleasure of getting to know. There is no doubt in my mind that Rosalind Jana of Clothes, Cameras and Coffee will be a household name in ten years, and I can't wait to see what will become of her. Who knows - maybe the next J.K. Rowling?

Rosalind naturally wished to read a translation of her story before it was shipped off to print, so since I already have an English version of her feature, I figured I'd share it with you!



Rosalind Jana was fifteen years old and certainly had nothing to complain about. Her fashion- and photography blog was both popular and well respected, she was working as a model and dreamed of a career in fashion design.

Only one cloud on an otherwise so bright sky. And it was nothing to worry about, really. The doctor had told her she should live with her disease, and so she did - her long hair and carefully selected clothing were quite effective as camouflage, you could hardly tell anything was even wrong. Right?

But Rosalind Jana's parents couldn't help noticing what she herself refused to see. In October last year, they asked another consultant for a second opinion. With her spine now bent at an eighty degree angle, there was no more talk about "living with it". Rosalind Jana needed surgery for her severe scoliosis, and she needed it now. How did next week sound?

A year later, life is back to normal. Yet so different.

The modelling career and designer dreams have stepped back to give room to a new - or, rather, rediscovered - passion: the art of writing.

- Undergoing surgery turned out to be a catalyst for change, as it made me re-evaluate my aspirations for the future. I started writing extensively for myself about what I had been through, and came to the conclusion that writing was something that I was both passionate about and willing to work at. It reminded me how much I love words!

And the love was far from unrequited. Quite the opposite, actually. Rosalind Jana recently found out she's been selected as the winner of the UK Vogue annual talent contest for writers under 25 - one of the country's most preeminently prestigious writing awards.

- Through this whole experience, I have learnt to be as open as possible to changes, and let go of fixed ideas about outcomes. I couldn’t possibly have predicted how much I would come to love my scoliosis! It has taught me to be grateful for all sorts of tiny achievements, and it's made me feel even more that life is not for wasting. I’m not perfectly straight even now – I still have a twenty-two degree curvature and a slightly skewed shoulder – but hey, I’m doing what the magazines suggest: I'm embracing my curves!


Visit Rosalind's blog here.

...oh, and the Sofifi parka giveaway is now over - the winner is miss Mariel Torres! Congrats, Mariel - I hope you'll love yours as much as I do mine. To the rest of you: New giveaway will be announced tomorrow!

The Sparkly Disco Mushroom.

Cropped striped t-shirt with lace back + pocket, Romwe.com. Black sequined beret, Forever 21. Black blazer, Leifsdottir. Black denim shorts, Urban Outfitters. Black knitted over knee socks, Asos.com. Black mc boots, Scorett. Lipstick by Rival de Loop Berlin.

(Photos by me.)

I'm trying not to notice how annoyingly shiny and new these boots are. Leather boots should not be shiny and new! They should be ragged and battered and look like they've been passed down through generations. Well, not much else I can do but wear them, and wear them, and then wear them some more. Especially in bad weather. By this time next year, they should be perfect!

This sequined beret is just the best thing. Look at it! My head is like a sparkly disco mushroom! I wish I could make sparkly disco mushroom soup for lunch. Or fry them up with cream and butter and eat them on toast. Sparkly disco mushroom toast. Mmmm.

You know, I blush with pride whenever I'm asked to translate more of my magazine columns for you, and you can be sure that I most definitely will. The only problem is that when I read through them, a lot of times they're very... Swedish. Full of references to Swedish song lyrics, books, people, places, stores, television shows, you name it. Though, maybe that doesn't have to be a bad thing? I can try to work around it when possible, and when I can't, it shouldn't have to be any more weird than reading a translated book or watching a foreign film. I hope.

The one you're just about to read was written back in September of 2009, and it's the first one I wrote after deciding to leave the more opinion-based form and instead focus on telling stories from my life. (Mostly because I was at this time writing bi-weekly columns for a newspaper, as well as one every week in Sofis mode - and to be honest, I didn't feel like I had enough opinions to fill six columns a month with them.) It turned out that I loved writing these personal stories, and I kept doing it once a week for the next two years. Until now. A couple of days ago, I submitted my last column to Sofis mode. As much as I will miss it, it's about time I channel my creativity into finally writing a book. And when there's something I just need to tell someone - I have you guys!

So. It's September of 2009, I'm alone in Berlin, my life is turned upside down for a number of reasons... and, well, I'm going just a little bit crazy.

She has a ring in her nose and weirdly pale eyes and she wants my number.

I type it into her Nokia and press "save". Someone has used duct tape to keep the battery from falling out.

"Thanks", she says, "I'm going to call you later and we will party all night!"

Terrific. You do that.

She skips off towards the subway, but before she lets the giant gap in the ground swallow her whole, she turns around and waves.

I'm not stupid. I'm well aware she won't call me. I'm fine with that. It's not like I'm really planning on going to a techno club with a nineteen-year-old I just met at the hairspray aisle at Rossmann's, anyway. It was nice talking to someone, that's all.

Friday afternoon and I've been alone in Berlin less than 48 hours. Which doesn't say a thing. You see, something has happened to time; it's gotten stuck somewhere, moving in slow motion.

I'm honestly not sure what it is I'm doing here. I guess my plan is to become more independent, sort of. Start appreciating my own company. Prove that I can take care of myself, that I'm just fine without him.

On my way home I swing by Lidl to buy milk and frozen pizza with salami and extra cheese. The couple in front of me in the cashier's line keep throwing glances in my direction. They're talking about me. 

Honey, look, it's so sad! And two cartons of milk, aaw. Like we don't get that one of them is going to get old and sour in the fridge while she eats her cereal at a kitchen table set for one. Who does she think she's fooling?

In reality, they're obviously talking about something completely different. For some reason that doesn't cheer me up one bit.

I'm halfway through the front door when my cellphone starts vibrating in my pocket. My first thought is that she's dialed my number by mistake.

"Aneka, one o' clock at Icon! Coolest party, everbody's going. I see you there, yes?"

Her English is broken but enthusiastic and I can't remember how to say no.

My new lipstick is extremely red, it cost me three euros and coincidentally that's exactly how cheap I look wearing it.

Then, a text. It's from him.

"I'm out having a beer", it says, "I miss you. What are you up to?"

"Going to a club with a nineteen-year-old German girl", I reply. I don't write: Can you tell how hip I am, how much fun I'm having without you? Can you tell how freakin' hard I'm trying here?

I'm pretty sure he already knows.

It's half past midnight and I practice walking in front of the mirror, a black sequin dress and high wedges. Trying on my nineteen-year-old smile. It's a bit rusty. 

A new text: "Aneka, are you on your way?"

...

When I open my eyes, the room is flooded with sunlight.

I eat my cornflakes at the kitchen table. German milk tastes different from Swedish. Sweeter.

Then he texts me.

"How was your night with the German club kids?"

"I stayed home", I write back. I'm not nineteen anymore and honestly I don't miss it, you on the other hand, you I miss so much I feel like I'm going to fall to pieces at any moment. Can't you just please hurry up and get here? Independence is so goddamn lonely.

I don't tell him that.

I'm pretty sure he already knows.

All I want is to flee to Hogwarts.

Black velvet leggings and black blazer, Monki. White lace socks, Lindex. Black leather boots, Nilson. Black shirt/dress, Pudel. Belt, Asos.com. Purple/burgundy beret, Åhléns. Brown leather satchel, Vero Moda. My new aaaawesome glasses, "Lucia", Proopticals.com.

(Photos by me.)

The questions is; just how excited can wearing a pair of round eyeglasses make a person? The answer is, apparently, really freakin' excited. I've wanted a pair just like these forever, but when I got new glasses for Christmas last year, I chickened out a chose frames that I thought were a little more average. Then I found these adorable ones at proopticals.com for 20 dollars (!), and, well, now I just have to wait until I can afford putting real lenses in them. (So far, they're nothing but an accessory, since they don't make me any less blind.)

With the exception of the cute round glasses, I'm not especially excited at the moment. Quite the opposite, really. I keep finding myself at crossroads, forced to make decisions I don't feel fit to make, and all I know is that I have to keep moving. Standing still at the same spot is not an option. But how do you make yourself move forward, how do you decide which path to take, when all you want to do is lay in bed with your eyes closed and focus on the sound of your own breathing?

This is all but a new feeling for me. And if there's one thing my past experiences have taught me, it's that baby steps can be a perfectly fine pace. As long as I make the tiniest of decisions, one after the other, everything else eventually becomes a little more clear.

I took one of those baby steps today. I made an appointment with a new therapist, and I will start seeing her next week. I've come to the conclusion that though cognitive behavioral therapy has worked well for me in the past, it's not the right way to go at this point. It has helped me through a lot of emergency breakdowns, taught me ways to live a somewhat decent every day life - but this is not a crisis. I'm not falling to pieces the way I have before, it's less urgent than that. Less urgent, though not any less desperate. I've been depressed for as long as I can remember and I'm not getting better. I can feel a bit better for periods of time, now and then I can distract myself and let other people and situations distract me, but the facts are still facts: I'm sick, I'm unhappy, and I'm terrified that this is the way it's going to be for the rest of my life. That every time I see the light at the end of the tunnel, all that's waiting for me at the end is the entrance of another.

So, I found a psychologist who specializes on psychodynamic psychotherapy, and my goal is to go to the bottom of what's keeping me from experiencing happiness, joy, satisfaction, harmony and balance. Christ, I don't even need to be happy. I just want to wake up in the morning without either feeling like I'm going to die or, worse, wondering if there's any point staying alive. Not just tomorrow and next week but in a year, two, twenty. If that means I'm going back on anti-depressants, so be it. I'm just so tired of being in constant battle with myself. It's exhausting.

With all this talk of being tired - in combination with my new, terrific glasses - I think it's time for another column translation! I wrote this last summer, when I was feeling quite a bit like I am now. If you like my columns, feel free to read it, if not, I won't be offended. Just tell me my glasses are pretty! ;)


I'm so tired.

It's like... like all the air has left my lungs, the way it does a balloon that was forgotten in a dark corner after a five year old's birthday party. Not with a pop nor a bang, but with a slow, inevitable wheeze.

Like I've been awake for months.

That's almost the case. When I get this tired I can't even muster up enough energy to sleep. Last night I thought I'd succeeded - until I woke up at 3:37am from the kind of nightmare that makes going back to sleep impossible.

It's the kind of fatigue that overpowers it all. I lose track of time, feel it slipping through my fingers. This morning I took the communter train into Stockholm, finally on the subway I passed the station I was supposed to get off at - twice in a row. I got on the train, blinked, and several stops had already passed by.

That's how tired I am.

Nothing new about this. The same thing every time I pressure myself a little bit too hard, a little bit too long. Like when you flex a muscle with all your might until the lactic acid kicks in, the muscle starts shivering, shaking, cramping; and when you finally let it relax it feels like you will never, ever in your entire life be able to use it again.

This is what it feels like. Inside my whole body, my soul, all the way through.

I don't want to work, I don't want to eat, clean, get dressed or wash my hair. I do it, because I have to, but I don't want to.

All I want is to flee to Hogwarts.

Only there am I safe.

I have no idea how many times I've read Joanne Kathleen Rowling's books about the young wizard with the lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead. A lot. Enough times to make every sentence feel like home.

When my Ronnie is done making fun of me for reading "children's books", he always asks: but don't you already know exactly what's going to happen?

He can't seem to understand that this is the whole point.

Each time I open the books, I'm sucked straight into the adventures. I'm pulled into the story, drawn by force, losing myself in everything from complicated homework to the battle against evil. I laugh, cry, get nauseous from all the butterflies going nuts in my stomach as I get closer to the life-or-death fights. But whatever turns the story might take, I never have to fear. I know it will all be okay in the end. And right there, in the safety of that insight, I can finally rest.

But the most spectacular thing about the Harry Potter books has to be the amount of pages. No matter how impossible it seems to take on life in this desperatly non-magical world - when I have plowed through all seven books, suddenly enough time has passed that the worst is over. I find myself waking up in the morning, eating breakfast, washing my hair and sitting down at my desk to work. Not because I have to, but because I want to.

It never fails. I have my suspicions there might be magic involved.

Now I have to get back to my book. Harry is just about to battle a fire-breathing Hungarian Horntail.

I know exactly how it's going to end.

The Best Revenge is a Good Life.

Since most of you who read this blog have no possibilty of picking up the latest issue of VeckoRevyn, where I tell the not very pleasant story of my situation in school during my early teens, I thought I'd try translating it for you. Not the finished article - that feels weird, like writing about myself in the third person - but my answers to the interview questions.

This post will be terribly lengthy, and I'm absolutely not asking anyone to read through the whole thing. But even if there's only one person out there who is going through similar issues, and who might find it a relief to read about someone else's experiences with bullying, I don't mind one bit if all the rest of you scroll past it.

What was school like for you?


Right from the moment I started first grade, I had the feeling there must be something wrong with me. Making friends seemed so easy for everyone else, so effortless, but for me... The few times I was included in the schoolyard fun and games, it was like they were all doing me a favor. I would usually stand ten feet away, observing, or hide out reading in the library.

The older I got, the more I felt like an outsider. Though I wouldn't say that I was bullied until I was 13 and started the 7th grade - before that, I was simply not a person who people liked, but at least I wasn't afraid of going to school.


My junior high school years - age 13 to 15 - were nothing but a nightmare. We were a couple of girls who used to hang out, drawn together by the fact that we were at the very bottom of the social hierarchy. At the time, I was certain I was the one out of our little group who was most exposed to the constant harassments, but today I realize that it's possible - likely, even - that we all felt that way.


I honestly don't understand how I made it through those years. Today, I wouldn't be able to stand a week in that environment. Partly because now I would refuse being treated that way - I would say "screw you guys, I'm going home!", walk out the door and never come back. But back then, I didn't think I had an option. What if everything would get even worse if I transferred to a different school? I might have been living in hell, but better the devil you know. (At least that's what I told myself.) I knew what corridors to avoid, I knew when to hide, I knew when to run. I knew who would spit on me and who would just look away.

Plus: as long as I stayed in the same school, I could secretly hold on to the trace of hope that maybe they were the problem, not me. If I did transfer and the new school turned out to be just as bad - or worse - that would be the final evidence that I really did deserve to be treated the way I was, since I simply couldn't stop being so damn ugly, weird, nerdy, disgusting; such an f-ing loser. That all the things I was told every day actually were true. Then, all hope would be lost. And they might say that hope is the last thing to die, but when it does, that's when you're in serious trouble. So I stayed and endured. I woke up every morning, I took the bus to school and I prayed that I would make it back home.

How did you feel during those years?

To be honest, I barely ever dare to think about it. I was constantly scared for my life - literally. I lost track early on of how many times I was told I would soon end up dead, but I do know it was enough times for me to believe it. And I really, really didn't want to die, not even when things were at its worst. I had some sort of idea of a far-off future when everything would be better, when all I'd been through would be nothing but a distant memory, and I desperately wanted to keep on living, to find out if my fantasy would one day come true.

Do you have any idea as to the reasons why you were bullied?

 
Sure, there were tons of superficial incentives that made me an easy target: every piece of clothing I wore was either cheap mailorder items or hand-me-downs from older relatives, I cut my own hair in horrific styles and had no clue whatsoever how to blend in with the other girls. On top of that, I was positively obsessed with receiving the highest grades in every subject and could start crying if missed one single point on a test - oh wow, even I hear how bad this sounds! I turned into quite the vicious cycle - I felt like the only thing that gave me some feeling of self-worth was to be at the top of every class, and making the slightest mistake made the ground beneath my feet crumble. Let me tell you: to flee crying from the classroom for misspelling "connaître" on the French vocabulary quiz does not make a person more popular.

But then again, these are all superficial reasons, and a lot of them probably wouldn't even have been the case if I hadn't been so alone and tormented in the first place. Looking back, I suspect that my situation had a lot to do with the fact that I was way too much. As a girl in my school, the most desirable thing of all was to be adequate, average, just enough: just pretty enough, just quiet enough, just clever enough. Instead, I was the complete opposite. I had the wrong clothes and no idea what that whole makeup thing was all about, talked constantly in class, was annoyingly proud of my excellent grades.

One time, one of the successfully average girls in my class came up to me, lowered her voice and told me, as in confidence: "So, just a piece of advice. When someone asks you what you got on the test, tell them you got a vg minus (b minus), for your own sake. Or better yet, get a vg minus. And also... you should at least tuck your jeans into your socks, that's how we do it now, in case you haven't noticed."

And trust me, I really wanted to be like that. Being popular was so far out of my reach that it never crossed my mind, but I would so have loved to be one of those people who simply blended in. But I couldn't, I honest-to-God could not do it. I had been raised to speak up, to stand up for what I believe in and voice my opinion, to always work hard to be the best at what I was doing. I genuinely had no idea how to conform, to adapt, not to be that person whom everyone despised.

How did you make it through?

All through junior high, I walked around as in a bubble. I was literally counting seconds, focusing on nothing but breathing in, breathing our and then in again. I even had a word for it: "The Dentist Method". I hated going to the dentist, and managed my fear by thinking that "sure, this is painful and horrible now, but soon I will get to spit in that tiny sink and leave the room and it will all be over". Unfortunately, three years are a lot more drawn-out than a visit to the dentist, but I figured the principles were the same. I used to picture the immense relief I would feel walking out through the heavy school doors for the very last time, I held on to that image for dear life.
How I would prevent history from repeating itself in high school, I honestly never gave much thought. One thing at a time. High school would be Future Annika's problem! As long as I was free from the people who made my life a living hell, I'd get a new chance - maybe even succeed at becoming someone completely different. Someone normal.
But the thing that finally saved me was - growing up. Realizing what I want to spend my life doing and finding friends who share my interests and values, who don't think it's pathetic at all to work hard and do your best. Meeting people who love me for me, slowly but surely rebuilding my self-confidence.

Have you had any help dealing with what happened to you?

I've been in and out of therapy for ten years, but it's always been about solving problems here and now, rather than digging up the past. So, I guess the answer is no. I still find it enormously difficult to talk about that time in my life, maybe because I've never into words the things I went through and what it did to me. I don't have that much problem writing about it right now, because all I write is that is was awful and that I'm glad it's over - I don't have to go into any types of details, which means I don't have to force myself to remember. The wounds inside have not healed, but I've learned how to live with them.

How did the years of bullying affect you?

It has shaped me, through and through. For better and for worse. The seven or eight years that followed my junior high school graduation, I was an utter and complete mess. I know the reasons for a person's problems are usually very complex and I'm sure mine were, too, but there is no doubt in my mind that the harassments I had to live with had a lot to do with all of the things that went wrong after that. The moronic decisions I made, my eating disorders, my performance anxiety, my difficulties with getting and keeping friends, my sometimes quite despicable behavior in relationships.

But, on the other hand - I'm eternally grateful for the life I have today, and I know I would never have been exactly here at this very moment if it weren't for everything I've been through. I'm well aware it's a cliché, but that doesn't make it any less true! I'm so glad I didn't manage to adapt and conform, that I kept on being too much, standing up for my beliefs and voicing my opinion. No person I've ever loved or admired has been even close to "average"!

Do you ever wish to get revenge on the people who used to bully you?

My mom always told me, "the best revenge is a good life". And I'm absolutely certain she's right. I've never felt like I should become "successful" to, I don't know, "show them all how wrong they were about me". It didn't take long for me to realize that being in the spotlight would only make the people who used to hate me even more despiteful, and that I couldn't even take that fact into consideration.

The only thing I can do is try to be as happy and content with my life as possible, and not let what's happened to me in the past hold me down. I can honestly say that I don't care one bit about what a bunch of assholes I went to school with half a lifetime ago think of me today.

Really, I don't - but at the same time, the pain is still carved into my heart like the initials of two lovers on the trunk of a tree. Whenever I catch a glimpse of one of my past's worst tormenters - on the bus, in the canned food aisle of a supermarket, on Facebook - I get physically nauseous, dizzy, trouble breathing. Not because I expect them to say anything, but, it's like my body is unable to forget. I become fourteen again and believe I'm going to die. It wouldn't surprise me if that feeling won't ever fully disappear.


But to wrap it up, I do feel like I've gotten my revenge. I work with what I love - writing - and I have the opportunity to use my experiences to help people who are in the same situation that I once was, by writing columns, blogging, participating in this article. In some way, that makes me feel like there might actually have been a point with the whole thing. Like it wasn't for nothing.

What's your advice to other young people struggling with similar issues?

1) Transfer to a different school. Trust me - this is not your fault, you are not the problem. You do not have to put up with being treated this way, or rather, you shouldn't! Sure, you can never be certain that things well be better someplace else, but you can be sure that you can't go on the way things are. To give yourself a fresh start is an opportunity for a life that isn't only bearable, but one that could be absolutely amazing.

2) Do not be ashamed. Easier said than done, I know. For years and years I was so afraid that my new friends would find out what a fraud I was; that I wasn't at all that sweet girl with pretty shoes but a disgusting, pathetic loser. It took a whole lot of time before I understood, really believed, that I had nothing at all to be ashamed of. That what I had been through didn't define me, and that all it did was making me a stronger and more empathic person. Why would I have to be ashamed of that?

Once again - you have not done anything wrong. It's a question of bad luck. You drew a blank in the social lottery in that particular circumstance, but it has nothing to do with you, not one bit. They don't like the way you act, the way you walk, talk or dress? That's their problem. If chance had put you at a different school, the way you act-walk-talk-dress might have been what was considered totally awesome and popular. And you know what? You will find a place where people think you're fantastic. When you do, please make sure that you don't let someone else feel as left out as you once did. Because there's not one right way to be a person who deserves respect and kindness. There are only different contexts and circumstances, and people who are more or less afraid of doing what's right.


The only ones who should be ashamed are the people who make you feel like you're not good enough. But you will get through this and come out the other side as someone better, someone who knows you can survive anything, while they will have to live with the fact that they're scared, cruel, evil cowards who torture others because they don't know any other way to feel like they're a part of something. I know I would rather be a little bit damaged than to know I am - or, if I'm lucky, used to be - a gutless shit.

3. Talk to someone. It sounds obvious, sure, so how come you haven't already? How come I didn't? Well probably because 1) I didn't think they'd take me seriously, 2) I figured there was nothing anyone could do to change my situation so why bother trying, 3) I didn't even want to admit to myself that I was a victim of bullying, much less to someone else, and 4) - I believed I had brought all of this on myself, by being such a hopeless excuse of a person. But I was wrong. Don't make the same mistake I did. Call a hotline, ask to see the school counselor, talk to other people in the same situation in a web forum, anything. You are not alone, even if that's what it feels like, and you should not have to go through this on your own. There is help available and you deserve to get it.


4. Keep breathing. Those godforsaken teenage years are a struggle for nearly everyone, more or less, but the best thing about them is that they won't last forever. After all the hardship an enitre life awaits you, and the only thing you have to focus on is getting there. Do everything in your power to get through the pain, because I promise you: it will get better. Lighter, brighter, easier. And you will know that everything life has put you through so far has turned you into the person you are, and that the person you are is one fabulous human being.

More posts on this subject:
Everything will be okay in the end
You can take your pain and throw it away

And one morning, he did open his eyes. He did see. I just wasn’t the one he saw.

It's 4 pm and I still haven't left our tiny Upper East Side apartment. It doesn't matter if I'm at home, in my office, in Paris, Barbados or New York - Monday means workday. Being a freelance writer sure has it ups and downs: a gigantic "up" is that I can work from anywhere in the world, a pretty big "down" is that there's no such thing as a vacation in my job description. Yeah, "freelance" sure is a sneaky word - I'm free to go wherever I please, but I'm never... free. Though obviously, the ups certainly overrides the downs.

At the moment I'm writing a blogger's travel guide to Amsterdam, a city I've never been to, but after reading all of Sabrina's best tips I so want to go! I always get that feeling while writing these city guides - I also desperately want to go to Dublin, Prague, Vienna and all the other places I've featured in Sofis mode. But I know I shouldn't complain, and I don't - I'm more than excited that I'm finally, finally here in New York City. I'd better get a move on with this article so I can get out of this apartment before I gets dark!

Last week, I wrote a guest blog post for Maria Elyse of First Impressions. I hope all of you will check out her blog - not only is she an adorable and intelligent girl with amazing style, at the moment she's engaged tons of interesting guest bloggers while she's away on camp. Could be a great opportunity to discover your new favorite blogs, right?

Since I want According to Annika to be a place where I gather and showcase my writing, I thought I'd share my guest blogger story with you here as well. I hope you all like it! (And oh, someone asked me if this really happened. I guess when I call it a "story" it might sound like I made it up. Well, I didn't. All of my columns are stories from my life, as true as they can be without me exploiting other people who never asked to be a part of them.)

I was his best friend and he was mine.

Late every night we took turns calling each other, and we never hung up. Literally. All through the night we talked and talked, whispering conversations under the covers, sixteen blocks between us. Our whispers only fell silent when we were both asleep, the plastic receivers still pressed tightly against our cheeks.

Then he would come strolling into the classroom the next morning, tangled hair and slighty puffy eyes, always ten minutes late. A quick glance in my direction, a hint of a smile.

I didn’t mind that he sat down at a desk across the room, even though the seat next to mine was free. Not at all. I still knew: I was the reason he was late. He’s opted out of sleep to listen to my voice, my thoughts, me.

Months passed by and the nightly conversations continued. Autumn became winter and we never ran out of topics. Of course we didn’t – we could talk about everything.

Well. Almost everything.

All except how it felt to sit on his bed, listening to him play his latest composition on the piano, barely able to make out the melody over the sound of my own heartbeats. How I always accepted more bitter instant coffee, only so I could have the chance to swiftly brush my fingertips against his as he handed the cup over.

I never mentioned the dreams.

Instead, I waited. Somehow certain that one morning he would open his eyes and finally see. Then he would take my hands in his and sigh: ”All this time… I can’t believe I never realized - ”

And one morning, he did open his eyes. He did see. I just wasn’t the one he saw.

The girl whose hands he took in his was my best girlfriend, Mia. She was beautiful and he was in love and my heart no longer cared to beat. It simply couldn’t see the point.

I did everything I could. Pretended to fall in love with a friend of his to make him jealous. Bought a new pair of jeans (the skinny kind). Started wearing lipstick.

But junior high ended and he never called me again. I guess he was super busy.

The years passed and I don’t know if the wounds healed, but at least they were replaced by new ones. The pain caused by all that never happened faded, hidden behind new sorrows, new rejections and disappointments.

I had almost forgotten, I truly think I had, when one afternoon we bumped into each other at the dairy aisle of our local grocery store. It was right before Easter, the year before last. He was a decade older and I guess I was too, but he looked the way he always had. Tangled hair, puffy eyes, like he still didn’t get enough sleep.

He said: ”We have to grab a coffee sometime.”

”Sure”, I said. ”I’ll call you.”

But I never did.

I’ve just been super busy.

It takes two.

I almost forgot! I'm guest blogging today for the wonderful Maria Elyse over at First Impressions. Please check it out! It's a story about my very first love, and I'd really, really appreciate it if you'd read it.

It was an obsession. A fixation, an addiction, a burning passion.

With Biiankas unexpected trip to the emergency room on Thursday, I never got around to post the photos from when Johanna and I went horsebackriding on Wednesday! Not that there are that many photos from the event – it wasn’t like we could take the camera with us – but at least you can see how beautiful these horses are.

I’ve never even sat on a horse this well-trained and expensive, and I was so nervous I’d fall off and she would run away and get hurt! But nothing of the sort happened, and it was one of the most peaceful and gorgeous afternoons I’ve had in a very long time. Ridiculously warm but with a breeze, the wide yellow and green fields around us bathing in sunlight, the horse’s repetitive movements underneath me… All I could think was ”I need to start doing this more often. I truly need to.”

As soon as you walk into Johanna's family's hallway, you don't have to be a genious to guess that the people who live in this house think animals are pretty awesome.

A kitty was hanging out in the shade on the front porch. 

Her sister was, too.

Horsies!

This is the gorgeous girl I had the honor of taking for a ride. She was a sweetheart and didn't even mention the fact that I haven't been on a horse for at least three years. No, she was very classy, just went along with it, covering for my mistakes.

Oh... herro there!

One of the main reasons why I started this blog was to practice writing in English, and I had a plan that involved translating many of my columns, stories and articles to share with you. Then I became insanely busy and these past weeks I’m well aware that I’ve mostly written ”busy day today, what to say about these clothes, hmm, I like them”. Now that won’t do! I will definitely put more effort into incorporating my writing into my posts from now on – and since I wrote a column about my love for horses last summer, this seemed to be the time to translate it for you!

Tiny Annika, Big love for horses.

That sound.

Emotions as immediate as they are illogical – excitement, jealousy, longing.

I rush to the window, open it up, widely. Then I wait. Listen. Travel back in time.

Nothing makes me ten years old again like the sound of hoofs against asphalt.

I used to love horses. Truly love. I must have ploughed through every book at the library that mentioned the word ”horse” at least three times, I taught myself the latin names of every muscle (extremely important for a veterinarian to be, I figured), always counting the minutes until next time I’d get on the bus that would take me out to Djurgården’s Horse Center.

I lived for the moments in the stables: the lessons inside the dark manege, the scheduled Tuesday afternoons when I got to take care of Cayenne. For five hours a week, I was allowed to gently brush his golden skin, savor his sweet smell, the warmth of his breath. Pretend like he was all mine.

This was no interest, no hobby, no after-school activity. It was an obsession. A fixation, an addiction, a burning passion. My great love.

I was never much of a talent in the saddle. I had no natural flair for neither jumping nor dressage – I came in last at the riding club competitions, was the one who got left behind when the others in my group were moved up to the more advanced levels. And I didn’t mind. In everything I did, I had to be the best to even bother, I needed to be the star not to lose interest. Everywhere but in the stables.

My love for horses had nothing to do with performance. It was unconditional. Everlasting.

And all the grow-ups would smile, the way grow-ups do, with poorly concealed indulgence: Everlasting, well well! Enjoy it while it lasts - there’s only a matter of time before your precious horses are replaced by boys, oh, you’ll see!

I hated their condescending smiles, I hated that they took the liberty of thinking they knew anything at all about me, that they dared to imagine that they could understand the flaming love in my heart.

And then I hated them because they were right.

We never broke up, the horses and I. I don’t even remember it happening. It was the kind of relationship that slowly fades, slipping through your fingers like the fine grains of sand, and suddenly too much time has passed and it’s all over.

The clattering hoofs are getting closer and yes, there they are. A pinto and a chestnut, glowing with sweat from the heat and the exercise, each with a teenage girl on its back.

I’m standing absolutely still in my window, holding my breath. Longing, wishing. Missing. I’m just not sure of what.

I don’t think I want my own horse, not anymore. I’ve had the chance to get back in the saddle a few times over the years, and it’s been great, even though every limb has been aching like it’s going to fall off for days afterwards. But it hasn’t been the same. Not like it used to.

Maybe I’m simply longing for a time when I always had an obvious answer to the questions: what do you wish for more than anything in the world? Where would you rather be right now? What do you want to do when you grow up?

Maybe I miss being able to give my heart without ever wishing for anything in return. The sweet simplicity of unconditional love.

The sound of hoofs against asphalt is fainter now.

Then, silence.