I’ve decided to pause or end…

…this blog for a while. For how long, I don’t know because I am after all a very opinionated human being.
A day, a week or two, a year, for always? We’ll see.

I need to write. Almost daily. But maybe I need to write more important stuff. And maybe this blog steals my time from writing that “terribly important stuff”.
(Yes, that was sarcasm. And for you who never understood the difference between the two words ‘bitter’ and ‘cynical’, please let me clarify: ‘Cynical sarcasm’.
If you still don’t get it there’s absolutely excellent dictionaries online these days.)

The future is not ours to see. So let’s take a cup of kindness, pick some more daisies and stay in the stream until dinner time as the English version, of the song below, says or simply as Lasse Kronér would say: “Vi ses XX om ni vill, vågar och kan!”

For those of you who know me enough to know how much the past means to me (perhaps too much?) and how often I’m unfortunately “out walking the dead” you’ll understand this choice of song.

My life’s motto is:

Evigt ägs blott det vi mist.

(Eternally owned is but what’s lost.)

It’s from Ibsen’s “Brand” and may sound harsh and in the play it actually is cruel because the gist is that to gain something you have to lose all.
At fourteen I didn’t know that the entire line actually is [after a baby has died]:

“Losing all was winning’s cost!
Eternally owned is but what’s lost!”

And honestly I don’t care what Ibsen was trying to tell us. Ever since I’ve heard those short words (in, of all places, a Danish sitcom about two elderly ladies at a care home – which I don’t think any sane Dane in this world remembers anymore – “Evigt ejes kun det tabte.”) they’ve been my comfort.
If I’ve lost something once I can never lose it again. It’s mine forever.

(Sung by Dougie MacLean in Scottish on the album “Tribute”.
The famous “national poet of Scotland” Robert Burns who wrote the poem in 1788 claimed himself, in a letter to the “Scots Musical Museum” that he, “took it down from an old man” and that it indeed was/has been an old folk song in Scotland for centuries.)

I’ve slept most of the day…

…on my sofa. I guess my mental capacity is overloaded and simply needed stillness.
Needle biopsy done and now, once again, another new wait.

I suck at waiting!
I’ve always needed answers and actions. Quick ones. I don’t know why. I do know, however, that I’ve lost out on things because I’ve proceeded forward too hastily.
So “Don’t rush your fences!” doesn’t work that well on me.

Because of this I think even a bad biopsy result [God forbid!] will lower my anxiety and Ménières levels. Odd but [probably] true.

I actually handle stress quite well in action and stressful situations.
Fifty more tickets sold than available seats? Talk to the fire authorities, find extra chairs and ask for forgiveness a thousand times over. Not enough; offer tickets for a different performance night. (And tomorrow we’ll hang someone in the box office. No I won’t, because I’m a wuss!)
No more money in the budget and you want a wind machine? Fuhgeddaboudit! I’ll get you a table fan.
Our actor with lots of dark hair curls that makes the role of Heathcliff is sick. The only available understudy, is bald. No wig fits his enormous head. So, screw the director and let the audience call us innovative tonight.
Mostly because in these situations my M.O is:
“What the hell does this mean in a hundred years! Let’s just fix it!”
Which doesn’t really work at the moment. Not with this. Not in this situation.
(And people! Please! I mean, remember, I’ll never had a job where I ruled over that mysterious and mythical red button that’s said to control the missiles in the world’s nuclear weapons depots soooo…)

If I, in any way, can act [even if overly and unnecessarily forceful; there are times I should have waited] = Good.
Put me in limbo land and ask me to just abide to the circumstances and not act or do anything = Not so good.

Maybe it all has to do with my authority problems? “Who the hell are you to tell me to do something?” Or with my childhood?

Or not. I don’t know. Who cares?

Tired of the blog too, BTW. I guess it all works together one way or the other.

Cancer or no cancer…

…I’m sicker than I want to admit.
My Ménières has gone berserk and I have a touch of agoraphobia because of it but mostly because of the anxiety. But to fight is the only way.

Therefore, today I’ll go with my parents to a shopping center (strengthened by 10mg of Valium, a diuretic and a car sickness tablet) and once there I will look for things that not only are “fabricated” in my mind – simply to have an aim because I haven’t got the strength to aimlessly wander around – but also things I actually can’t afford at the moment.

I will also go with them to visit one of my aunts who have “entered the fog”.
This will be hard because it’s a very solid sign of the very strong foundation that, at the moment, is falling apart under me.
The foundation I’ve lived by all my life; the trust, the love, the uncondiationally help.

So now shower, fix my hair and put makeup on; because of course if I met you in that shopping mall then hell would have to freeze before I let you see my shortcomings.

[BTW, I will put my amethyst ring on. Let’s go hocus pocus for real!]

I have always collected…

…the most outlandish things. When I was a child and teenager, I collected ‘credits’ for years. You know, the names of everybody in the crew of a movie or TV-show that rolls when the film is over.
I can tell you in those days that meant weeks, if not months, of methodical work. First, you scribbled down as many names and job titles you had time to, after every weekly episode, on a paper and then you transcribed this neatly into a book.
When the VCR reached Sweden [read; our family] somewhere around 1990 it became, of course, a little bit easier. Thank God for the STOP button.

Thankfully my BFF shared this interest so we could divide the different shows between us. Like if she took “L.A. Law” then I could go with “The Macahans”. If I watched a Nils Poppe movie (one of my favorites) perhaps she had seen “How Green Was My Valley” and we could swop.

I was also so into articles and pictures from whatever and anything that was about the TV-show “Dallas” to make my beloved Grandma end her subscription of her weekly magazine “Svensk Damtidning” because she was so tired of me cutting it into shreds.
Normally she did EVERYTHING for me UNCONDITIONALLY but she could never see the charm in my [maaaany] Dallas binders.

I’ve also always been so into stones, rocks, precious and semi precious stones to the extent that my great grandmother bequeathed her amethyst ring to me. A ring which still today is one of the few items I would save in case of a fire. I love geology and gemology.
(But I don’t believe in all that hocus pocus around stones. Even though I have been known to use my amethyst ring frequently these last weeks because amethysts are said to give you good health. I usually only wear it for special occasions but I had it on when I went to the Breast Clinic last week. Like, better safe than sorry.)

Today I collect movie lines that are amazingly well written and I collect them under my ‘Likes’ on Twitter. (Don’t get me started on why Twitter renamed it from ‘Favorites’. My disdain is beyond all control for this ass licking behaviour to resemble Facebook and Instagram.)

Yesterday I watched “Mistress America” and the final line was:

“- Metal had made rich fat women less fat and rich stupid kids less stupid and lame rich men less lame. And she wanted so badly to be on the other side; to be fat, stupid and lame and rich. But what she couldn’t see most of all, more than she couldn’t see that she she was never going to get the restaurant was that those people were nothing compared to her. They were matches to her bonfire.
She was the last cowboy. All romance and failure. The world was changing and her kind didn’t have anywhere to go.
Being the beacon of hope for lesser people is a lonely business.”

It probably spoke to me because I felt very connected to the character Brooke throughout the film. (Which is a step up the ladder from Saga Norén in “The Bridge”.)
To still have all those goals and dreams and to endlessly keep striving for them even though the society around you says you’re too old for them or that they’ve always been out of your reach anyhow.
This almost maniacal transition between your positive hopefulness and the disappointment when nothing happened, which you work very hard to evade anyone from seeing.
Well, Brooke relocates to LA in the end of the film, after “another failure”, and I say “All my best wishes to you!” and just fuck the rest.

BTW I also collect one “normal” thing; these specific Arthur Pe candlesticks from his studio in Kolbäck, Sweden. Soooo muuuuch easier!
All you do is go to Ebay and buy one! :)
(Even though I must say the prices have gone up over summer (!) so not that easy anymore.)


PS Watched “Set Fire to the Stars”, by Celyn Jones and Andy Goddard, the other night and got as stressed out as when I was 15 because the lines and the movie is simply ingeniously good. I, almost, had to watch it all over again because I scribbled/tweeted so many lines.

And whether you like “Downton Abbey” or not, Julian Fellowes is the emperor of one-liners.

My mind…

…(not to be compared with the ‘brain’) has now reached five to nine percent on a 100 percent scale to believe that the breast lump is harmless. Might sound like a low number, but it’s something. (Percent numbers depending on mood swings.)
The result much thanks to the visualisation exercise that M sent me. Have also asked to be put on a cancellation list for a quicker appointment for the needle biopsy.
(Yes, yes, I know I’m not coherent neither in my thoughts or my blog posts. But read my blog presentation, goddamnit: “Scattered as I am.”)

Unfortunately both my brain and body still haven’t been able to believe in positive thinking which means I still, more or less, spin on a daily basis.
I, thankfully, don’t always get vertigo attacks that move “fast enough” to make me puke, which is a blessing and because of this I should probably send a thought of gratitude to the companies who produce Valium and car sickness-pills.

The drop attack on Monday scared me more than I want to admit. My forehead is still sore but fortunately the swelling and the bump are almost gone. Which is good because that sweet, nice and kind unicorn look didn’t suit my personality at all!
(BTW: Do cruel and bad unicorns exist? #Asking4AFriend)

But looks and personality aside, I every day remind myself (which I indeed have to admit is a straight out lie because out of sight [read; ear] out of mind) that I was free of vertigo between June 15th 2014 until this lump thing-y appeared.
To be literally half deaf, have balance problems, 24/7 tinnitus and the tiny attacks because of the freakin’ ear tube in January somehow doesn’t count.

So what have I learned from this?
Small amounts of stress hormones – like the ones when I worried about Mom over summer – I can handle. If I can go for my runs three times a week. Huge amounts of stress hormones driven by super strong anxiety bring Monsieur Ménières out of the shadows. Especially with a fracture in the foot which made running impossible.
Work related stress, weight problems, terrible weather, money problems, to be without a car, have a bad friend doesn’t seem to have a big effect in my case.
Somehow it seems there has to be inserted a very critical component and approach to it all? A life or death-question or as in 2014 perhaps the extreme stress I felt over my unemployment?

In a way I guess this is good knowledge but these situations will appear over and over again so I need new and different methods to use as weapons in combat. Because of this it’s important to continue my work with it and (as I wrote before):


(Pic of course found online.)

One minute after…

…I posted the last blog post I got the referral for the biopsy.

On Friday, the way I experienced it – because of what they said at the Breast Clinic – it was “urgent” to do the biopsy. This in the way it is always considered important to examine all new breast lumps. Now I got an appointment on 2 December (!).

I’ll have to call them tomorrow. By December either my anxiety or my vertigo attacks will have killed me.

Do I sound desperate? Well, I am.

The people who have read…

…this blog [in a careful way and with an attentive assiduity; I write with a certain disdain] know I hate positive affirmations and CBT-therapy.
(Well sure, pet a rat if it will prevent you from screaming next time you see one. At least your neighbours will think it was money well spent.)

I will however try (if I get a referral) psychodynamic psychotherapy in the future because there are a lot of things, new and old, that I need to deal with.
Still, and beside any psychotherapy, what I’ve always believed in are daydreams. Pretending has gotten me further in life than anyone knows.
And because I have decided to reclaim this blog to be my private diary again I will now reveal the daydream I live by right now:

“The shit in my breast is nothing, so health-wise but also somehow, through a financial miracle, I will spend January and February in London.”

“The shit in my breast is nothing, so health-wise but also somehow, through a financial miracle, I will spend January and February in London.”

“The shit in my breast is nothing, so health-wise but also somehow, through a financial miracle, I will spend January and February in London.”

There also may be a little twist to this daydream; but if so, I keep that to myself.

My daydreams don’t always work. At times they suddenly just bores me consumedly or don’t fit my reality anymore so I simply leave them behind me.
Sometimes they get sidetracked. Not always to a worse place but still.
And even though I might sound cheery in this blogpost this is how I really feel:


The amazing illustration above by the always super talented @rubyetc

Footnote to this blog post:

Some may say a ‘daydream’ and a ‘positive affirmation’ is the same thing but I don’t think so.
Both CBT-therapy and positive affirmations start with something that is considered a wrong thing/behaviour; you’re too fat, you’re not climbing the corporate ladder fast enough, your house is situated in the wrong neighborhood or you can’t commit to a new relationship because your last three boyfriends were assholes or you were molested as a child.

In the daydream/your imagination you can start from scratch, you don’t have to achieve a goal unless you want to. No reason to proclaim the goals you are “supposed” achieve to the world or to your therapist. No need to blast the trumpets!

It’s just your dream. Do whatever you like with it. Keep it in your head, tell your cousin about it or simply drop it when it doesn’t thrill you anymore. You don’t have to promise yourself anything.
And perhaps more importantly you don’t need to feel sad when the battle to make those jeans fit you, which has hung in your closet the last five years, was lost.
But even more important! Your refrigerator will be clutter free from all those Post-it notes with cheerful reminders and upbeat quotes and no app will send you a notification about listening to the latest words of wisdom within the field you had chosen to conquer.

I have once already written about all this in this blog post:



Another day…

…and still no referral for biopsy.

Ah, well just our Swedish [so called perfect] health care in a nutshell.

Holy shit, how Swedes live in an illusion. So did I.
I never listened to friends and family who worked within the NHS or the Social Security Systems and told me about their working conditions.

An article in the newspaper about maltreatment in a hospital or about someone who had been kicked out of the Swedish Social Security System and got caught between two systems? Wasn’t interested so skipped over those pages!
Probably something more interesting about Obama, Ukraine or “Foo Fighters” Dave Grohl’s beard on the next page.

The only article I know that I read carefully and thoroughly was the one about the elderly lady whom while the people from social services, while they drank coffee in her kitchen, stated that she was not sick enough, not old enough (she was 84 with a sickly husband), not lonely enough to be guaranteed accommodation in a care facility for the elderly or other municipal assistance.
Hence during the meeting (or maybe I should call it, as Swedes so often love to do, cosily but just as often forcedly, a ‘fika”) she left the table, went into the adjoining room and threw herself to her immediate death from her own balcony.

So, so sorry, for not having paid more attention! All I can say, to my defence, is that I’m not deaf anymore and I’m also working hard in my mind and heart not to become cynical about it all either.