Writer’s block?


I know, I know! It’s Saturday, early afternoon no less and the first time in nearly two years that I haven’t uploaded an article early morning for you to start your weekend with a smile on your face. (Or maybe some tears. Or some frowns. Or annoyed eye rolling. Or heartfelt laughter …) How could I? I don’t know! I really don’t! I just don’t seem to find time for anything anymore. Not for myself, not for my writing. Most of the time I’m just too plain exhausted, trying to take care of my responsibilities, always on the edge, never really relaxing …

Well, it’s not as if I didn’t have a few articles prepared and in store. But … letting you read about Rangey’s life story or SPAM or the ice cube incident or … just didn’t seem right. Not the time, not the place. So here I am. In front of my MacBook, at a shopping center retro diner, surrounded by the chatter and noise I usually love so much, makes me happy and which inspires me to start writing – just to finish my brilliant articles back at home. As it is, I don’t have a single idea that would justify a publication today. Being in a very weird and bad mood despite having spent a few hundred bucks at my favourite stores, enjoying a nice burger and spending some time away with one of my best friends. And even he can’t get me out of it! Inconsolable. And I don’t know when and if I will write and publish again.


Why I cut my hair and coloured it dark

Yes, I have to admit it! I’m not a natural dark haired girl. I’m a natural blonde. Shocking, isn’t it? Light blonde as a kid, darker as I grew older. And like everyone else I tried various other hair colours. Bleaching my hair to honey blonde and blonder, and in my “X-Files” fan-days various shades of red like Gillian Anderson. Never tried black, though, the darkest was brown-black. The last style, more business style after my student days, was brightening my dull dark blonde long hair with blonde strands in two different shades. Which suited me quite well. So, as everyone knows, a woman usually changes her hairstyle in an extreme way after a breakup or a tragic occurrence in her life. Changing her hairstyle is like a fresh start. Picking oneself up and going on with one’s life. A visit to the hairstylist is a soothing experience, making you feel pretty and good again, having done something for yourself.

My reason for cutting my hair to a bob and having it coloured dark brown had nothing to do with all that! It is way crazier! I simply did it to complete my 20s style for a Murder Mystery Weekend in a beautiful old hotel in Harrogate which was supposed to play in the 1920s. And to me … a blonde bob just doesn’t go with the 20s. It needs to be dark. Everything else just wouldn’t have looked right. Of course, my hair was only the tip of the iceberg when it came to my preparations for the Murder Mystery Weekend. Weeks, months before I started to hunt for 20s outfits to take with me, since the whole event and evening entertainment was supposed to play in the 20s. My most favourite era. I bought three dresses – two sequined, knee long and one dark blue flapper one – one pair of black 20s style Mary Janes, a sequined clutch and some fake jewellery including a 20s-style hairband completing my look. And that was only for the evening events. The whole trip was planned through and through in terms of outfits. I also had special outfits chosen for tea time at the hotel lounge in front of the fireplace (black straight pants and black turtleneck) and tea time at Betty’s (a 50s-style tweed dress). Imagining myself in other eras, enjoying the flair of this old beautiful town and hotel.

I loved it, the preparations, the research. Even looking up tutorials for the perfect 20s make-up. Discovering that nails were painted differently in that time and age than today. Leaving the half-moons of the nails unpainted. (Just for your information and I bet this tid-bit is of huge interest to you!)

Well, yeah, I know, I strayed a little from the topic at hand – once again – and I guess once upon a time I will write about the Murder Mystery weekend itself. But for now … I’m just staying a dark-haired girl with a love for the 20s.

Only two weeks

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Writing this I’m still not sure whether I should post this article or not. It might hurt someone, might not understand. I don’t know. Writing about it, my most inner thoughts, fears, pain, anger, the panic attacks I’ve been suffering from, the tears … I can’t help it. The feeling of loss of not being allowed to have this experience, the excitement, the togetherness for the first time with someone until everything turns into a matter of habit after some time, is so great that I suffered from depressive episodes again and I had to start taking my happy pills again to help me deal with it. Or at least make me numb enough to not feel too much anymore.

Two weeks is all we had. Two weeks to enjoy something I never had and never will have again. An experience I missed out on all my life and now, that it’s here, I can’t have it. He had it, they will have it, and once again I’m missing out on something that’s incredibly important to me and won’t come again. We had two weeks. Just two weeks. After our big move and hardworking days to unpack tons of boxes and furnish the apartment, getting used to living together, we had two weeks to ourselves – in which we were back in our working lives and still busy getting the apartment into a state of liveable place – until we were not alone anymore. Which will be for a long time, at least it seems to me like a very long time. Endless months. Of barely any privacy, no private place for me to retreat to apart from the bedroom, not being surrounded by all my family pictures, childhood memories accompanying me all my life – merely a tiny part of it … maybe it’s difficult to understand for some people, especially those who still have a “home” they can always return to. Or those who totally live in the here and now, not caring about the past. I’m just different. I’m an old soul, I always knew that. Interested in history, the past, my family history, treasuring the happy memories with the people I loved and are gone now. Smilingly thinking of the stories, they told me, the talks we had, the adventures … I need it. I need being surrounded by my most precious treasures. Pictures. It makes me happy looking at the little wood inlaid box my Dad inherited from Aunt Do. Or the paintings and pictures I inherited from my parents, grandparents and Aunt Do. Like the pencil drawing from the blast furnace. Or the little toy cars from my father’s childhood, which HE treasured so much – and how proud and careful I was whenever he allowed me to take them out to play. Or my Trixie Belden books – remembering the excitement when I was allowed to choose one at the end of the school year if my grades were good. And which I still read occasionally. My first real doll, my first plush toy (a green terry cloth dog), the soft cuddly teddy I bought for my father to keep him company at the hospital … things one can’t just display in the living room for everyone to see. Too private, too personal, too important, mine.

Since space will be a lot more limited now – apart from having to store lots of personal things and shoes somewhere else far away until I too will have a room to just be myself again – I already parted with many, many things. But there are other things I will never part from – and I don’t want to. The past is part of me, made me what I am.

I don’t know yet how I will cope, being less resilient than I used to be. Right now, I only do with the help of my medication. I tried to push everything away, not think about it, and there are moments I’m more positive about it, looking forward to face this challenge, but the closer the date comes, the more often everything is popping up again, waking me up in the middle of the night, unable to get my thoughts and worries and sadness under control. Is it wrong of me to feel that way? Am I being selfish? I don’t know either! The thing is, I do understand. Very well. And I emphasize. But I’m still me … someone who not only needs space, air to breathe and silence but also yearns for some normalcy after all these lonely years, being allowed to make the same experiences most people experienced several times already much, much earlier. And it’s just being taken away from me …


Buy now and get one prayer free

Once again, I’m stuck at home, having caught a cold – thanks dear colleagues for coming to work sick – and am glued to the couch in the living room. Staying in bed is not an option, since there isn’t a TV in the bedroom … and since reading is too exhausting, the living room with TV it is. Even though holding the remote control and pushing the arrow button to switch channels is draining me already.

And guess where I have landed again and can’t turn away? Right, one of those preacher channels. Fascinated, disgusted and amused at the same time. Am I crazy to always get back to this “crap” whenever I’m sick? Must be my foggish head and runny nose influencing my common sense!

There is this one guy talking about End of Time prophecies, another guy wants to sell his book and in between one is advised to call a number and join the prayer. Forking over the one or other “donation”. (Hey, praying doesn’t come cheap!)

I know, I know, some of you will gasp about my “blasphemic” views but I just can’t help it. My logical thinking brain tells me so. And as I listen to the nonsense they’re talking about – well-spoken, I have to admit – I imagine God as the white bearded old and wise guy (as we like to picture him), sitting on his cloud, shaking his head in amusement or even laughing. I bet he’s counting the times his fanatical fans are using the words “God”, “holy”, “faith”, “Lord” and “Jesus”, having a drinking game (unfortunately he can’t get drunk, otherwise he would be in ten minutes flat) and enjoying this tremendously with his angels and vice-Gods. (A God can’t do everything on his own, can he?)

And he’s wondering what in the hell – yes, Gods swear too and he is well acquainted with his arch nemesis in hell – his kids are doing down there. What’s the point in all this praying when there are way better things to do? Haven’t their beliefs led to uncountable wars and bloodsheds? Who cares whether he’s Protestant, Catholic, Anglican, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist or Jewish? God is God! He’s the same for everyone!

It must bug GOD that his people are imposing views and opinions on him! “God wants us to do this, God wants us to do that, God has a plan for your life! Discover God’s plan, buy this book for only 24,95$!”

How do they know God’s plans? How do they know what God wants? Have they met him? I’m sure HE doesn’t care one bit which religion or sexual orientation we belong to. All HE wants is us to be halfway decent people, caring for each other, living in peace and harmony!