Not all butterflies and rainbows.

Last week, I was out walking with my mother. It had been raining heavily, and we came across this beautiful heart-shaped puddle of muddy water. As cheesy as it might sound, I considered it a sign that love is all around us, everywhere, if we just keep our eyes open and choose to see it.

While walking, my mom asked how I felt about my decision to share the fact that I'm sick, with acquaintances as well as strangers. I told her that I couldn't really see that I had an option. Ever since I started blogging, and then, later, writing columns about my life for newspapers and magazines, I've been almost awkwardly open about many of those things others would consider "private". I'm so used to sharing my innermost thoughts with anyone who cares to read about them - how could I possibly stop now? No, I told my mom, I'm definitely sure I did the right thing by telling.

Being diagnosed with cancer is obviously nothing to be ashamed of, and if even just one woman reads about what's happened to me and thinks "maybe I should schedule an appointment for a pap smear screening", it's all worth it.

If I had decided to keep my disease quiet, not only would I have been deprived of the amazing emotional outlet this blog provides, but also of the massive amount of love and support I have received from all of you. And one ought not to underestimate the power of healing, caring thoughts being sent one's way.

But, as with most big decisions, it's not all rainbows and butterflies to sharing something as sensitive as a cancer diagnosis. I'm terribly fragile in many ways, and consequently I react strongly to things which never would have bothered me before. This means that some comments and e-mail, though clearly 100% well-meaning and meant to cheer me up, sometimes manage to acquire the opposite. The content of these comments and letters can be devided into three different categories, and since I'm apparently all about sharing, I will also share these with you. Many of you who read this blog will have left me comments or e-mailed me saying things similar to what I'm about to write, and I will say right now: I do appareciate your care and support, so much. I really, really do. It's nothing personal against you whatsoever, and I would probably have done the exact same thing. I couldn't have guessed, myself, how I would feel about this. Everyone reacts differently.

What I'm having trouble with (while feeling particularly down):

1. The recommendations of alternative treatment methods as opposed to traditional medicine.

I simply feel that telling a person who suffers from cancer not to accept scientific medical treatment is dangerous. Of course there are many opinions about how to treat diseases, and everyone is entitled to their own, but I personally do not believe that healing, changing my diet or any other non-traditional method is going to work better than what my doctors can do for me. After being told twenty times absolutely not to trust my doctors, I've started feeling a bit uneasy. I need to trust my doctors. You know? I need to fully believe, to have complete faith, that they have the ability to save my life. In other words, I wish everyone else would have faith in my doctors as well, and not tell me they shouldn't be trusted.


2. The "mind over body" idea. 

I do think that having a positive outlook is of immense help to a sick person. I do believe that a doctor telling you she's given you medicine for your pain can make it hurt less, thanks to the placebo effect. But I do not believe looking at the bright side of life (insert whistle here) can cure cancer.

People encouraging me to try and stay positive, to focus on the good thoughts as intently as possible, I truly appreciate that. Unfortunately I'm not very successful at it, constantly drifting off to those horrifying "what ifs", but in theory I fully support the idea that a positive attitude will help you through hard times. The problem arises whenever I'm told that if I really want it, I'm going to make it. That it's all in the attitude. That if I only have faith, I will live.

It's not all in the attitude. It's not about who wants it the most. Trust me, I know. If it were true, my best friend Fanny would be at my bedside right now, holding my hand, helping me through this just as I tried with all my might to help her.

Fanny was the strongest, most determined person I've ever met. She was clear right from the start: she was not giving up. She was not, not, not going to die. She would fight, and she would win. She had faith, she had hope, she had such unbelievable strength. She believed in miracles. When the doctors told her there was nothing more they could do, that they wanted to stop her treatments to make her more comfortable, she told them, without the slightest bit of hesitation, to keep going. When they told her there was nothing more to try, she told them to keep looking.

She bought new, warm boots in September, because she knew we were going to take long walks together that winter, and who wants cold feet?

We laughed for hours, every time we were together. We talked about everything, the normal things, things that might not matter to someone who's about to die, but that are of great importance to someone with a long, happy life ahead of her.

She did everything right. And she didn't make it. On September 21st, last year, she died. She was so incredibly brave, so wondrously loved, and in the end, it didn't make a difference.

So please, please, don't tell me I will make it if I want it enough. The loved ones we lose don't leave us because they're not thinking the right thoughts.

But - you're right, a positive attitude is important. Maybe even essential. Because I am sure that the will to live can keep someone alive longer than she otherwise would have, and with every passing day, there are new discoveries in the medical research. Tomorrow, there could be a cure. All anyone can do is their very best to live through the night. And then the next.

Just remember that if the people you love don't live to see that cure, it's not because they didn't want to.


3. The "I've been there" from those who haven't. 

When you go to a gynaecologist and have a pap test ("cellprov" in Swedish) - which you should do regularly: it takes five minutes, is painless and it can save your life - you might get a letter sent home telling you that they have found pre-cancerous changes ("cellförändringar" in Swedish). They will then ask you to come back for a second test, a colposcopy, to decide if anything else needs to be done. Many of these pre-cancerous changes simply disappear by themselves, other need to be removed by a simple surgery, a conization.

All of this is very, very scary. No doubt about that. But it does not mean that you have cancer. In Sweden, 30 000 women every year are told that they have these pre-cancerous changes. Actually, it's so common that you will probably get them, too, at some point in your life. (That's why you need to make sure to do these pap smear screenings!) Out of these 30 000 Swedish women, around 400 get diagnosed with cervical cancer. In other words: less than 1,5%. (Not of all women, of those with these pre-cancerous changes.) If it turns out you do have them, with 98,5% certainty, you are still perfectly fine, and you have every reason to be grateful that they were found before they had the chance of turning into something else.

And still, you're scared. Because there is a 1,5% risk you might have cancer. Then you find out that you don't, but that you should be careful and never miss a pap smear, since they could come back.

Or maybe, maybe you turn out to be in the not-so-lucky group. Maybe you're told that you do have a tumour, that you won't be able to have kids, that you will go through extremely challenging treatments, that you might die. Five years after they've been diagnosed with cervical cancer, one out of three is dead from her disease. The more advanced the tumour is, the less uplifting these number become.

I'm obviously new to all this. But I've received lots of support from women who have already been through it all, and made it out on the other side. They might still be afraid of what the next test will show, but they are alive. Hearing from these women means so much to me, I can't even begin to describe it.

I also hear from a huge amount of girls and women who have been told that they have these pre-cancerous changes, and who are very upset about what's happened to me. I try to tell them that for them, it will most likely - 98,5%, remember? - turn out to be nothing, and that it's great that these changes has been found and can be removed or closely watched.

But. Then there are the women who have, or have had, these pre-cancerous changes. Who tell me that they know exactly how I feel right now, that sure, it was scary and hard for them as well, but they're fine today, and I will be, too. This brings out a part of myself that I'm not at all proud of. A voice inside my head starts screaming: "no, no, no, you don't! You don't know how I feel, because it's not the same!". I know this is childish, I know they all mean so well, but I can't help it. Because it isn't the same. Not even a little bit. Which is good - I'm glad these women don't have to feel the way I do. I'm glad noone has told them that they have cancer, that their lives will change forever.

The truth is, we can never know exactly how someone else feels. And that's okay. We just shouldn't claim to, either.


I sincerely hope noone feels offended by this post. That was never my intention. This is simply how I feel, and since this blog is supposed to be an outlet to my feelings, I had to write it.

And everyone who comments and sends me e-mail: THANK YOU. From the bottom of my heart, thank you, thank you, thank you. I might not think positive energy makes the final difference between life and death, but it sure makes my chest swell with pride and joy, and the days a lot easier to get through. You are all wonderful.







A quick update: Please don't read this post and try to figure out if maybe I'm referring to your specfic comments! I feel oh so guilty when you do! This honestly isn't anything personal against any one person or even any particular message. You should absolutely not apologize. Showing support and compassion to someone who needs it is always a beautiful thing. But, a lot of people have told me that they don't know what to say to me about this whole situation, and since I believe that's a very common problem - one that I, myself, have trouble with when it comes to others - perhaps it could be interesting for us to reflect on. And I would rather share my opinion now, than maybe fail to appreciate your amazing support in the future, wishing I should have spoke my mind earlier. I love you and I cherish each comment dearly.

Keeping my Eyes on the Prize.

Dear friends and strangers,

I'm back from three days at the hospital.

The cancer ward looked exactly as I remembered it. It was quite the peculiar experience - I even recognized a couple of the nurses. You see, I spent a lot of time at this particular hospital, this particular ward, last year. The wonderful people there did everything they could for my best friend, just like they're going to do everything they can for me. And even though they weren't able to save my darling girl, that doesn't mean I'm not going to make it. That's what I keep reminding myself. Over and over.

I've been tested, examined, run through every kind of x-ray machine. The results will be analyzed by the end of next week. Hopefully we will get some answers then. Good or bad - at least we will know. Know what it is we're dealing with, what the next step will be. 

But, until then, I will celebrate my boyfriend's birthday, keep reading Harry Potter, enjoy the company of my family, and try really, really hard to keep my eyes on the prize: that moment when my brilliant doctor tells me I'm cured, healed, cancer-free. There's a long way to go, I know, but I'm prepared to walk, run, crawl, squirm, get dragged if I have to. I will get there.

I'll do everything. Anything.

Because what else is there?

♥

Fighting the Forbidden Thoughts.

First of all: I am completely overwhelmed by your support. It is simply unbelievable, and it means the world to me. It truly does. THANK YOU.

Today, eight days has passed since I found out that... that I'm sick. And I still know absolutely nothing about what's going to happen. My mom called the hospital this afternoon and was told that there will be at least another week, probably more, before the tests will start.

In other words, I'm waiting. And waiting.

I go for walks every day. I read Harry Potter. I eat, I sleep, I floss, I take my vitamins and pay my bills. I do everything I can to keep my head above the surface.

Waiting.

Trying to get through each day. Trying to keep it together. Trying not to give in to those dark, appalling, paralyzing thoughts. Trying, but not always succeeding.

I feel like the sky is falling and the ground is crumbling beneath my feet and I'm trying so, so hard to keep my balance, but I can't help thinking: why fight to keep steady if the world is coming to an end?

But I'm not allowed to think like that. Those are the Forbidden Thoughts. Because I need to stay positive, I need to be determined, confident that I can beat this.

And there they are again, those thoughts: When was I last positive, determined, confident? Am I supposed to suddenly start feeling more positive, determined, confident now that I've found out I have cancer? How?

Forbidden, Forbidden, Forbidden.


Bad thoughts, bad thoughts, go away.
Good thoughts, good thoughts, here to stay.

Thank you for believing in me. For being so unbelievably caring, supportive, understanding, loving. Thank you.
I really, really need it.

Sun-drenched memories.

Sure, I might complain a lot about the summer heat, but seeing these photos, I'm ready to take it all back. I can't even being to explain how much I miss it! I miss the long days, the sensationally beautiful light, my summer wardrobe; I miss the green, the flowers, the bare legs. Hell, I even miss the bugs! (Nope, that was a lie.)

It's no wonder I can't take any pretty outfit photos anymore - I never get dressed in anything but sweatpants except when I go somewhere for the day, and when I come back, it's already pitch black outside. Not to mention that winter is starting to creep up on us, and the heavy coats and layers of thick woollen tights don't seem to translate that well onto photos. It's hard to imagine that I actually posted new outfits every day for months!

And also... I can't help thinking that I was happier back then. I know, intellectually, that things weren't better. But I don't think I was this sad, this low. Maybe I'm just fooling myself, I can't tell. All I know is that I would love to close my eyes, mutter a spell under my breath and be back in one of those sun-drenched photographs. Mosquito bites and all.

“Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple.”

Trying to get the cats to come over and be adorable in front of the camera. Didn't work.

Knitted cardigan, Indiska. Grey and white knitted hat, Nelly. Mustard t-shirt, Monki. Dark blue jeans, Dr. Denim. Black biker boots, Scorett.

(Photos by me.)

Yesterday I needed to take a new byline photo for a magazine, so I dragged myself outside and got it over with. I figured that since I was out anyway, I could just as well snap some shot of this "outfit". I'm not sure it deserves to be called that - to me, an outfit indicates a certain process of thought. This is more like the clothes I put on, probably beacuse they were at the top of one of the many, many piles of clothing spread out around the house. Consciously or not, I felt pretty cute and cozy in all that knit.

Now I'm off to see my psychologist for the last time. I decided the kind of psychotherapy she practices isn't for me, at least not right now, and next week I'm going back to CBT instead. I'm really nervous that she'll be upset with me for quitting after only two months, or feel insulted that I don't think our sessions are helping me... But I realize I can't keep doing it just to keep her happy. Christ, I'm not that messed up!

Instagram and to wear or not to wear make up.

Last week, I received a comment where a girl named Malin asked if I use the app Instagram. Well, I didn't, but now I do! I downloaded it on Saturday, and these are the photos I posted so far. Kitties, food, friends, my car getting snow suited up in winter tires, birthday, my mom and I in the waiting room at the hospital yesterday, before my surgery. More kitties. If you use Instagram and want to follow me, I'm called accordingtoannika.

Other comments, on this post, brought up the questions of "real" photos on this blog. Someone asked why I don't post photos without make up on, and I must say, I was surprised. My first thought was "but I never wear make up!". Then I realized that, hmm, in the outfit photos I do. And if that makes it seem like I'm in any way self-conscious about the way I look without it, then that's terrible. I like make up, as a part of dressing up, of putting together a "look" - but I don't care about it. When I take the outfit photos, I usually put make up on, do the shoot, then wash my face. I wear make up to parties or fancier restaurant dinners, because to me, that's part of the fun of dressing up and going out. In the photos above, I'm not wearing any make up, because there was no point putting any on.

I really don't believe that any one of us need to cover up our faces in order to be beautiful, but I also don't think there's any harm in applying simple, pain-free products to experiment with our looks. I'm aware that this is considered hypocritical by some people. In high school, I was told by a group of girls in my class that I wasn't allowed to call myself a feminist since I sometimes wore make up to school. And while I personally find that a big load of crap, I can still see their point. Trust me, I am not oblivious to the fact that women are much more severely judged and defined by their looks than men; I do see a huge problem with the way lots of people - men and women, girls and boys - feel like they can't live up to the ideals of beauty that is set by our society. And I completely understand the girls and women who object to these norms by rejecting the fashion and beauty industries entirely. That's just not the way I've chose to live my life.

Writing columns for a fashion magazine for three years, while not being a fan of women's magazines myself, I've had hundreds - thousands? - of people (mostly women) asking me how I can contribute to such a publication and still sleep at night. And well, I don't always sleep at night, but I can assure you that my sleep deprivation has nothing to do with where my columns are being published. To me, it's very simple:
1) I do not think that the problem is that magazines for girls and women exist. What I don't agree with is (some of - sometimes a lot of) their content. And I absolutely cannot see anything wrong with contributing to these magazines with the kind of content I wish they would publish more of, since I am then doing what's in my power to make a change.
2) My target audience, my readers, are without any argument girls and women. The subjects I write about are intended for them - especially for the kind of girls and women who read fashion and women's magazines. I write about being a young woman struggling with many of the same issues my readers do. Then why on Earth wouldn't I write for a publication that these women read?

Back to make up. I don't believe that girls and women who like wearing make up or pretty clothes should stop doing it. I don't think that there's anything wrong with wanting to look beautiful. As long as it's just as okay not to. As long as we don't feel like we have to. As long as we realize that there's more. As long as we all know that what we look like on the outside is part of who we are, but it's a pretty darn small part. Fashion is fun, but the moment it becomes harmful, we should take a moment and ask ourselves why. Why am I putting on lipstick or heels, why do I want yet another pair of shoes, why do I want the people around me to think I look good? Is it because I think it's a pleasurable way of expressing myself, or is it because I feel like shit without it? Am I a fashion user or a fashion abuser?

There have been times when I've washed my face at night and not wanted to look at myself in the mirror. When I've longed for the morning when I get to put my cosmetic face back on. Whenever this has happened, I've stopped wearing make up completely for a few weeks. Because it's not okay. I don't want to feel like my made up self is the "real" me, and that my natural face is something that needs to be hidden. I won't let that happen. That makes my outside a too important part of the way I feel about myself, and I need to remember that I am not my looks. I am a daughter, a sister, a friend and a girlfriend, a writer, a person who loves cats and babies and books, who gets addicted to tv series and loves to watch the same movies over and over because I like to know how they end, who enjoy photography and sketching and playing the piano, who cares about people way too much but have a hard time trusting, who likes to wear clothes and shoes that I find pretty or interesting, who cries at least ten times a day and hates that I don't have a good singing voice, who has nightmares every night and doesn't like the taste of alcohol. And so on. And so on.

I am not my looks. Neither are you. As long as we all remember this, I'm pretty sure it's okay to wear lipstick now and then.

Not that I would change a thing, I just want to do it all again.

My darling friends,

I'm so tired. I'm sick and I'm lonely and I'm exhausted. I can't post any outfits because I'm too worn down to get dressed. When I feel like this, I can't even imagine that I'll keep blogging; I can't see how it will be possible for me to write about myself, my every day life, how I'll ever put on nice clothes again and go outside and take photos and post them. It all seems unbearably hard, almost impossible - and what's worse, I can't see the point in any of it. Not right now.

The reason I started this blog was not that I thought people would admire me, tell me I'm pretty or that my clothes are cute, that I'm a good writer or that my opinions are interesting. It definitely wasn't because I have any illusions that I'll start earning money from it or become a so called "blogger celebrity". No, the reason was very simple: I felt all alone, and I desperately wanted to communicate with people, someone, anyone. And it worked! You wonderful people, who comment on this blog or e-mail me, have become the group of friends I simply don't have "in real life". But just like I have serious trouble staying in touch with friends outside of the internet, I don't see how I will be able to keep all of you in my life. And the reason is exactly the same: I don't feel like I've got anything to give. I'm nothing but this sad, lonely girl who lies on her couch and watches Grey's Anatomy until she falls asleep at 5 am because she's scared to go to bed alone, who won't talk about anything but her cats, who bites her fingernails down to the flesh, who wants to eat but can't find the energy to even make a sandwhich. Who can't take care of herself, so how could she ever be of any use to anyone else?

That's how I feel tonight.

Yes, I truly am Little Miss Sunshine.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I've had the most painful period cramps all day, throwing up and feeling ridiculously sorry for myself. Or maybe that they found premalignant changes during a pap smear back in August, that I've been worried out of my mind ever since and am having surgery in ten days and I'm just not good with surgeries, I'm not good with being sick, I'm not good with hospitals and pain and needles and maybe I shouldn't watch so much Grey's Anatomy because people constantly die on that show from the most routine procedures.

Or maybe it's because my boyfriend is making a film in another town and he's never home and even though I'm happy for him and proud of him and even though I've gotten better at it since the cats came into our lives, I'm still not exactly comfortable with being by myself. My head starts producing the bad kind of thoughts and noone is here to tell me they aren't true (and that even if they are, they won't kill me).

Or maybe, just maybe, this all is somehow connected to the fact that my best friend in the world, the only best friend I've ever had, the only person who's ever really, really known me through and through, was buried a year ago today.

I wrote her a song, it's bad, of course, since I'm not a particularly musical person, not like she was. But I still think she'd be proud of me, she might even like it. It starts like this:

Once or twice or a thousand times, I have wished to live my life all over

Not that I would change a thing; I just want to do it all again

Break the same rules, play the same games

Feel that way you made me feel

I'd make the same mistakes, make them twice as bad

If that's what it takes.

Corny, yes. I'm a corny person.

Fanny, I am so so so so so sorry we had to bury you, but I hope you were there to see it, because it was beautiful. And it wasn't one of those funerals where people are calm and collected with eyes that are just a little red, no, we cried, we cried so much that we couldn't breathe; you had been dead for a month and still we all cried so hard that now and again it drowned out the voice of the priest, because that's how broken our hearts were, that's how impossible the thought that you were really gone. And the huge church was filled with family and friends who all love you, crammed, people were standing in the back. You touched the hearts of so many. You changed my life. And I am so grateful. I'm so sorry we had to bury you. I'm so sorry that it's been a year and I still haven't figured out a way to bring you back. But I think about you every second of every minute of every day and there is no way you will ever be forgotten. Ever. If I'm lucky enough to have children, I will tell them all about you and they will feel safe knowing that their godmother is an angel who's watching over their every step.

So: That's how I feel tonight. It's embarrassing and agonizingly pathetic, but that's life. I'll get through this night, I'll get through the next one, and I'll keep gettin through them until the sun rises again and I'll wake up without feeling like I've been stabbed in the heart. And on it goes. The good with the bad and the bad with the good.

Maybe I shouldn't have told you all this, but I have noone else to tell. And you are my friends. However sad that might sound.

Driving straight into that brick wall.

The song that has meant the most to me. It literally saved my life when I was 18. And it made me realize what I wanted out of life: no lies, just love.

I can't remember how much I've told you about what's put me in this place where I'm at today, health-wise. If you're interested, here's a "short" summary:

I have suffered from depression and panic attacks for the past fifteen years of my life. I've also been very self destructive, my eating disorder being one of many examples of that, though I'm fairly certain my persistant depression has been the root of all evil. Everything else has simply been my way of coping, of distracting myself from getting to the bottom of my problems and actually dealing with them.

When I graduated from university as a journalist, in 2008, I really wanted to get my life together. More than that, I wanted to be someone. A success. I wanted to be that person people talk about and say "that girl, wow, she's really one to watch!". And you know what? It turned out I was really good at my job. Plus, there was a slot - right there! - just waiting to be filled by someone like me: A young woman, a talented writer (yes, I just called myself talented) who was extremely passionate about issues concerning young people, and who wasn't afraid to share her own experiences with anyone who'd listen. One great offer led to another, and then another, and then suddenly I was doing all of those things I had been dreaming about. All at once. Because who the hell was I to say no? To turn down offers others would do anything for? Na-ah. No was not a part of my vocabulary.


In the summer of 2009, I worked day and night. Quite literally. I worked for 20 hours a day and it still wasn't enough. I couldn't keep up. And so, I started getting sick. Severe pneumonia, gastritis, strange allergic reactions, migraines that just wouldn't go away. My body was shouting at the top of its inflamed lungs, begging me to slow down, and what did I do? I told it to shut the f**k up. I was on my way to reaching all of my goals, faster than I could ever have imagined! I was going to be someone! People said on the radio that I was the one to watch, that they expected great things of me!


Then it was Saturday morning, one of the last days of August 2009, and it had all come to an end. I woke up in a hospital bed and it was over. The day before, my body and brain had both decided to shut down, to steer the speeding train that was my life straight into a brick wall (okay, figuratively).


During the months that followed, I could not write one sentence without throwing up violently from the pain in my head. Quite a few times, I was certain my skull was actually splitting open. Still, I kept the two continuous writing assignments that meant the most to me: my columns in Sofis mode and my columns in Aftonbladet. More than once, I wrote these columns in the bathroom, throwing up every few minutes. I took me nearly six months of intense therapy to realize this situation wasn't working. I gave up the columns that were by far the hardest on me - those in Aftonbladet, Scandinavia's largest newspaper - and I left Stockholm for a completely different life, way out in the countryside. This was where I was supposed to change my perspectives on things. To find myself. To heal.

One month before Ronnie and I move into our new house. My best friend in the world, the one person I've been closer to than anyone or anything in my entire life, find out she's dying from cancer.

That happened.

She has been dead for one year and twenty-two days and I guess you could say my healing process was sort of thrown off track. I have no idea what my life would have been like right now if she had not gotten sick. Maybe I would still be struggling with recovering from my violent crash into that imaginary brick wall, maybe I would be the epitome of harmony and health.

We'll never find out. Because she's gone and the loss of her has changed me. I could write for hours about why her death is so impossible for me to handle, but there's a time for that and that time is not now. I will simply say that half of my heart belonged to her and I still haven't been able to figure out how to keep on living with only half a heart. And I'm a pretty freakin' long way away from harmony and health. But I'm trying. I'm trying with all my might and even though I feel like I keep taking two babysteps forward and giant leap back, I know I'm not. Every day is a day closer to the life I want to be living. And as long as I manage to stay alive, I know I will get there.

Because I have changed my perspective on things. I no longer wish to be somebody. I truly don't. All I wish is to be me, whoever that person might be, no matter if she's the one to watch or the girl in the corner noone pays any attention to. I have been that girl in the corner, and if I could go back in time and talk to her, I would tell her this:

"It's not all going to be fine. You know life is hard and fifteen years from now, it's still not going to be a walk in the park. But you are strong, you will survive, and more than that: you will be loved. You will find a girl who is the most fascinating, inspiring, beautiful, colorful person you could ever imagine, the kind of person who is lit up from the inside with a glow that chases away any darkness, and she will pick you to be her love, her best friend, her sister. Out of everyone in the world, she will pick you. You will choose eachother. No doubts, no holding back.

And then you will meet a man who's so talented, passionate and creative it blows your mind, a man who makes you feel like anything is possible - I know it sounds cheesy, but the first time you look into his eyes, you will see the future. His and yours. And you know what? He will also pick you. You will choose eachother.

From these two people, you will get more love than you ever thought possible. You will get to experience the kind of love that makes a person believe in God. You will love them with all of your heart, all of your soul, with everything that you are. And they will love because you are you and noone else. Because of everything you've been through that made you who you are. None of this, what you are forced to experience right now and what you will have to deal with in the future, is in vain.

Oh, and one more thing: Just remember that the love you share will never be lost. Even if you lose the person that is closest to you, the love you have for eachother will always be with you. Always. Love conquers death. Don't you ever forget that."

Yes. This is a short summary, believe it or not. It's a fraction, a fragment, a tiny glimpse of what has brought me where I am today.

Some of you have been asking how it's going with the university course in creative writing that I was supposed to take this fall. The answer is: I dropped out. Partly because it was a lot more basic than I had expected, and I just didn't see myself benefitting from it at all; partly because it turned out to require a lot more time and energy than I possess at this time in my life. I need to focus on what's important. On taking care of myself, on my baby steps towards the life I want. A couple of years ago, I would probably have finished the course anyway, since I couldn't stand thinking of myself as a quitter. Today, I couldn't care less. Health Comes First. It really is as simple as that.

A Room of One's Own.

On July 1st, I got the keys to my new office. In six weeks, it had gone from this...

...to this:

I thought we'd check out what it looks like today!

The furniture is a mis-matched mixture of stuff I brought over from our house and things from Ronnie's last office and his old apartment - all I bought new was the cheapest desk they had at IKEA. I still haven't gotten around to hang the mirror, the giant picture of Manhattan and all of my posters up on the walls, and you can't exactly accuse it of being too cozy, but I love it. Every time I sit down at that desk, I get things done. Without anxiety, without pressure, without sweaty palms or a racing heart.

The rent is too expensive, considering what I earn at the moment, but I've chosen to deal with that. It's an investment in myself: in my future career as well as in my mental and physical health. It's a reason to leave the house, and it gives me a much needed taste of what my life can - and will - be like the day that I'm strong enough to have normal work days, a pace more suited to the rest of the world. It makes me hope and strive for a time when I won't lay awake all night gasping for air, when headaches will be the exception instead of the norm, when I won't be paralyzed by grief, depression and despair. When I won't constantly be so tired that it feels like I'm sleepwalking through life. A time when I'll be well.

I can't wait to get there.

So I've made peace with the falling leaves.

Whenever I wake up with my heart beating too fast, feeling stressed out even in my sleep about all the things I need to get done in the days or weeks to come, I've learnt that the best way to relax is to... well, relax. Because all of this stress is only in my mind. It's nothing but a leftover from back when I was constantly on the verge of breaking down from all the pressure I put on myself, from double and triple and quadruple booking every minute until there was no chance in hell I could get everything done in time.

But that's all over. It's not my life anymore; my body took care of that for me. It forced me to hit the breaks, the only way it knew how, and more than two years later I'm still slowing down. There are things I need to get done in the next couple of days and weeks, sure, but we're talking a very reasonable amount. It just feels like it's too much, because my mind has come to associate the very thought of work with a feeling that screams "I can't do it I can't do it I just can't seriously I can't breathe help help help I'm going to die!". Noone can change this pattern but me. And since I'm lucky enough to be the boss of my own time, I also have to accept responsibility the way a boss would.

This morning, the responsible thing to do was take a few hours off. A few hours to think through my tasks for the following week, to slowly realize that it's all under control. And if I later find that it's not, then I'll skip things. I know now that nothing work-related, and I mean nothing, is worth risking my health or sanity for.

After a lazy breakfast, followed by soaking in a steaming hot bath, I feel more than ready to take on this day. But you know what I'm going to do first? I'm going to take a walk, listen to my favorite songs and enjoy the sun against my skin. Because I'm the only one who can make myself see the beauty that truly is all around.

"It's not a movie
No private screening
This method acting, well
I call that living"

                                      Conor Oberst, my hero