Romanticizing Writing

Hello, guys. :) 

This is my first personal essay, which I’ve decided to share here.

It’s about a lot of things, but primarily about my beautiful friend, who had to leave Ukraine when the war began, and her brand new baby. My friend is a healer and a wonderful mother of five; without her, I would have never made it through 2022, so it’s my small tribute to her.

Hope you will enjoy it.

<3 

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Name: The heartbeat of two worlds 

Trigger warnings: War in Ukraine, mental health issues

Truth be told, I’m wondering who precisely needed this the most. Her, Him, or the Island itself. 

He was born at night, with no one around but his phenomenal mother, who welcomed him in sacred silence. No hospital beds and painful white lighting. No smell of medications and no rustling of the shoe covers. There were just the three of them - Her, Him, and Arranmore. Uniting on the 35Xth day of the war. In a house that wasn’t theirs, on land that gave them refuge. Finding and finally holding each other after the inconceivable journey. A remarkable mother and Her brand-new son. 

I’ve been following Her for a long time. Like a ghost stalking Her in the realm of social media. Sinking in Her healing words, missing a breath or two admiring Her photography skills, and desperately waiting for at least one story on Instagram to show up and finally tell me how to live my life and not betray myself too much. How to respect me, acknowledge my feelings and my mental state. No matter how ugly, childish, or unreasonable. 

I fell in love with Her because there is no such thing in Her reality. Whatever you feel is valid. 

«What is building up inside you is asking for attention and respect. Nothing should be dismissed. Not a single uneven breath or a pinch in the middle of your chest.» She would say.

Nobody teaches you such things when you grow up in a post soviet country. There is no space for feeling too much or being too emotional. You are born, you learn how to function so you are comfortable for your family’s ecosystem, don’t show off your feelings, and don’t bother anybody. Then you grow up, do well in school, and graduate. After that, you go to the University, work your core off to make your parents proud, and that’s it. No time to think about what could make you proud of yourself. You just go. While being quiet, pleasing to the eye, and disturbingly polite. Become a functioning societal wheel and look for the place you can respectfully claim. 

Time never gets wasted on dealing with feelings. You don’t question them. You make them go away. 

At first, when I read Her stories about respecting every single thing you feel, I chuckled to myself. It just didn’t make sense. Come on, do I really have to make a place for thoughts like - I’m unhappy but for no apparent reason.

Boo-hoo, poor, privileged thing.

How on earth do you respect that? Delusional, ungrateful, right. That’s just being spoiled.

… Right? 

And yet, she was telling me to pay attention to this. To pamper me, to be tender with impulses that arise deep inside, which I got used to shoving back down with sugar, nicotine, and way too much reality TV. 

Regardless of my habits, I kept waiting for Her to post something. Religiously. Every day I expected to see these healing white letters She wrote on beautiful photographs. Feeling almost like a voyeur, hoping for another portion of my guilty pleasure of self-acceptance. I desired to read another healing line, which would tell me I was okay. That I’m aloud. She constantly gave this precious gift of allowance not to be perfect. At the very least, when I’m one-on-one with my reflection in the mirror, overworked, lost, «ungrateful,» and sad. 

Back then, I knew She offered personal sessions. I couldn’t understand how they worked. She wasn’t a shrink. What was She doing there with her «clients»? Just sit and talk? About what? I couldn’t grasp the concept. It seemed too tender. No diagnosis or pill prescription in the end.

It took me three years of gently stalking Her before I hit my limit. Three years before the war came and I broke. So I’ve decided to ask.

«So, what do we do during the session exactly?»

«I listen to you. You tell me your story. We pay attention and dig into it with respect, love, and care. And unwrap what needs to be unwrapped.»

My story? I don’t have one, do I? 

«Can it be any story?»

«Anything you want to share. We create space for you to tell me, and I guide you. It’s just you and me and whatever you have to say.»

But I don’t have anything to say. I was always meant to be quiet and comfortable. 

It took me a while to understand what my story was. Exploring it under layers of quick fixes, deliberate ignorance, and the «It’s okay» mentality.

She didn’t simply create space. She assembled magic I was lucky enough to become a part of. Shrinks had nothing on Her. Nobody did. She worked with the body, mind, and visuals I’d created in my head. Visuals appeared so naturally as if I had done this a million times. She led me through, holding my hand in Her mind, sharing a candle with me, and effortlessly helping me travel in time and fix myself with my presence. And Her gentle voice in my earbuds. 

Our first session was my first release after the beginning of the war. She asked me:

«Where did your fear begin? When did you freeze and take in your last full breath? 

«At night on February 24th», I told her. «When I stood in front of the TV, watching this disgusting talking head, listening to his revolting, sickening reasoning, why it was all of a sudden okay to make me choke on fear and wonder if my family would die today. And constantly carry this question in my mind since that night.»

I didn’t realize how much I got stuck back in this moment in front of the TV, until I told Her my story. I just never took time to think about it, because why would I. It’s a luxury in given circumstances. And who am I to have this right anyway, when the whole nation, millions of people, are going through the same thing and don’t «just stop to think»? But She made me. She gently asked me to go back to this day and observe myself in the past. 

«What are you doing back then, on February 24th? What do you see?»

«I see myself pressing the remote to my chest, crying, and then calling my family to wake them up and tell them it started. I was the first to know. They were asleep.»

«All right. And now tell me, is there anything you want to do now when you watch yourself back on that day?» 

«I want to turn the TV off. I want to stop listening to him. Just make him go away.»

«Then do it. And hug yourself. Tell her she will make it because you made it. You’ve survived that night. You came out of it alive. This fear didn’t kill you.» 

I did as told. I hugged the past version of myself, wiped her tears away, kissed her wet cheeks, and promised it would be okay. I couldn’t tell her when. Or how. But if we made it for six months, we would make it further. 

Then my beautiful healer led me on, acquainted me with another version of me, who was wise, old, and smiled so cunningly that I knew right away - we would win this war. She gave me a present I later managed to manifest in reality, and then we traveled to the place of my strength. Which appeared to be a swing hanging from the black night sky, right under the full moon, watching over the Azov see. And I was there, swinging and screaming from the depth of my essence. Erasing from my country’s land every unwanted guest, with a wave of golden light, my scream turned into. 

She gave me visions and helped me create my own. She guided me through them and allowed me to be whoever I wanted. It was true magic. I was magic.

If there is anything I could thank this war for - it’s for finally getting closer to Her. For the privilege of becoming Her friend after a year and a half of hell that destroyed everything. 

Hell, that showed that amidst fire, a flower still can bloom. There can be life. There can be love, friendship, and respect amidst death.

Because She carried this life inside of Her, when She fled Ukraine with Her husband and four children. A life that was meant to become a soul of a traveler, a nomad led by spirits and Her intuition. A soul of guidance we all needed so much. It led Her family and us to the Irish Island called Arranmore. 

That’s where Her fifth child, a baby of a Ukrainian healing witch and a post-apocalyptic Jason Momoa, was born. The first child appearing on this Island in thirty-six years. 

Marvin, the almighty, ever-present life that fled from suffering and blaze. 

This made me think about stories again. Stories I’ve disrespected and disregarded my whole life. See, one could say, they are just a family of refugees who landed on this Island by mistake and happened to give birth there. The end. But is it, though? 

Or is it a marvelous, extravagant soul-led journey, a prophecy for the Arranmore Island, and a good omen for every person living there? 

Because how come it took a crazy dictator, a free-spirited country, a Ukrainian healer, and endless amounts of driving, taking busses, trains, and planes to escape to gift this Island a first child born there in almost four decades. A life that was sheltered and saved from the worst, a life that journeyed beyond limitations. A vitality that is proof - there will always be dawn.  

Why did you choose this place, Marv?

Oh, boy, I wish I could ask him this one day in an Irish pub, treating him with a Guinness or two. 

Why did you choose to be raised there, to make your birth a sensation, a piece of news, which made it to the local announcement board? (It is a big deal, I promise.) 

Who’s land will this soul choose eventually? Who will he become? A free-spirited Irish sailor swearing in Ukrainian, or a druid ambassador in a free and prospering Kyiv? 

When She moved to Ireland, it dawned on me how similar Irish history is to ours in Ukraine. They’ve gone through the same oppression, and were accused of the same things. Being called nazis for not being willing to give up their freedom, their land, and their right to decide how to live. Do they still fight inside themselves, these people? Do they still want justice? Or is it a healed wound now that hurts only every now and then, becoming their very own genetic «winter back pain»? 

Marv, did you choose them to help restore justice? Is this the reason? Will someday a brave Irish man of breathtaking Ukrainian origin win the stolen lands of Ireland back because you came for the truth, to protect those you feel for? Because your mother lived it? Because you once fled from it, being exquisitely oblivious inside of her?

Oh, these weather pains. We have them, too. I know I do. When someone tells me that not all of them are like that. 

I know, but it still hurts. 

Or that propaganda is a very addictive drug, and they just can’t help themselves. 

I know, but it still feels like my loins might fall out if you keep talking so much it hurts. 

Ask Irish, if you don’t believe me, if one can create weather with words. Because they created a whole climate when they told Her, that She was welcome and safe. When they let Her in their places of power and strength, gave access to nurturing cliffs, the ocean, and charity shops, where She found old yarn and then knitted little round doilies. She then would send them around the world to support other women, who fled. Or simply needed Her doily to keep their crystals on it. Or jewelry. Or to add a few drops of essential oils onto the wool and keep it on their nightstands, like I did. 

We, Irish and Ukrainians, seem so far away from each other. Geography agrees. But who knew their mentality and our tragedy combined could create a gentle saga where She finds Her strength? With local charity shops and wool to knit, friendly strangers telling Her it’s okay to ask the mountain how it is doing today, or lovely grandmothers kissing her brand-new baby’s cheeks just because He is welcome and so kissable. 

And they care about their neighbors in a most straightforward and therapeutic way. In a way that can save one’s life and sanity if you just fled from a place where “neighbors” have no boundaries. So be it mowing a loan next door, bringing some chocolate for children because there was plenty left from Easter, or simply asking, «When is your birth month?» instead of pinning down a specific date on you. Taking away the burden of being a perfect mother who would perform right on that day and deliver a healthy, happy baby. 

Is it why, Marv? That’s why you’ve chosen them?

So many questions. 

But one thing I know for sure. Marvin will not be one of those, shoving his feelings deep inside. He won’t hide them under sugar or nicotine or feel ashamed of his impulses. He will stand his ground and know his truth. He will not be quiet or choose to betray himself to make his parents blissfully unbothered but very proud. This little boy is on a mission, and I’m dying to know what it is. Why did it take a crazy dictator, an unbreakable Ukrainian spirit, a magical healer and a thousand of miles for him to show up? 

And how come Arranmore chose him to start a new cycle of vital conversion and let life in? 

We will find out. But for now, I raise my Guinness to Marv, healing white letters of his mother, the remarkable stamina and dedication of his father, and the endless, unbreakable love of his siblings. 

Thank you, @nilorenn, for tagging me! I’m very excited :)

It was so hard to choose something to share this way, as I have a few WIPs, and none of them feel good enough just yet, but who cares. :D

These are seven lines from a WIP, which is a collection of love letters for different people that I never sent, and never will.

Slowly but surely, though, this collection grows, so I might publish all of them someday in a book of emotional damage. :)

These seven lines are ripped out from somewhere in between the letter, so I'm sorry that the context is missing.

I tag @sweet-as-writing and @the-adventures-of-random to participate <3

WIP - Love letter

… They look at me and think I have my shit together, can you imagine?

I got so good at hiding my essence, you’d be proud of me.

I wonder if you were the only one who knew the whole truth, as it was, no sugar coating. Why did it never feel scary to share with you, not once?

And even after all this time, I swear on my life, you still keep my nightmares, darkest thoughts, and my most naïve gazes to yourself.

Looking for the inspiration everywhere.

… Feels like a secret garden, hidden behind some Victorian mansion… or maybe an old historic graveyard, where family history is hidden? Or maybe it is a labyrinth?

30 day writing challenge found @creativepromptsforwriting

Challenge: Write a scene without any dialogue

18+: No

Emma was lying on the bedroom floor on her favorite scarlet rug. She wondered how many of “her” wished to talk right now. How many of her past expressions forever kept inside needed help, and who wanted to teach her life instead because they would know better.

She always thought that therapy was about words until it wasn’t. Was it even therapy, what this beautiful woman, a magical witch she occasionally met, taught her? She couldn’t find a name for it. None was needed. All she had to do was to keep this feeling and her knowing that she wasn’t just a woman who existed here and now. She wasn’t her current problems, failures, expectations, or broken hopes. She was everything she ever used to be. It was her treasure that no one could take away. It was just hers.

So, who was watching car headlights traveling up her wall? Was it her thirty-year-old self lying on the carpet or an eleven-year-old girl who needed a friend and felt lonely? Was it her at nineteen, who moved to another country and was terrified yet hopeful? Or was it her “wise”-self from the future who knew there was no need to rush because she had all the time in the world now to watch these headlights?

This lovely witch had shown Emma how to revisit versions of herself that needed attention, support, or maybe just a hug. Today she wanted to be with a nineteen-year-old inside herself who needed nothing but to know that she would be fine. That she will manage and that she is doing well.

Emma closed her eyes and imagined herself at nineteen. An image of her standing at a bus stop alone, late at night, just appeared in front of her. She worked two jobs to get through school at that time, as she was abroad alone. Her nineteen-year-old self mesmerized Emma. How strong, beautiful, and rigid she was. She wasn’t concerned about being alone at night on this empty street. She worried about other things. How strange that felt, that things her younger self was so nervous about didn’t matter anymore, but at thirty, Emma genuinely feared empty bus stops at night? 

Nineteen-year-old was afraid not to get through school. She worried that she would oversleep tomorrow, fail her exams in two years, and all this would be a waste of time. Her hope for a better life will crash, and she will be nothing but a disappointment in every conversation.

Emma smiled at that. Of course, she will get through school. And that’s all this sweet teen needed to know. So, she came closer to her past expression and hugged her tight. She felt the scent of the perfume she always wore at nineteen and the dampness on this night. The white buzzing light of a bus stop was slightly hurting her eyes. But who cares if she now knew how to make everything better. How to support and heal herself in the past.

Emma opened her eyes and looked at headlights slowly gliding on the wall’s surface again.

Nineteen-year-old inside felt better now. She knew she was loved and supported. She will make it. She. Was not. A problem.

Emma took a deep breath, feeling her wounds close, and slowly got up.

It felt like a superpower, though it was so easy.

Remember your own self, repeat each day that whatever you’ve been through didn’t kill you. And revisit your past expressions to let them know you will make it.

You simply will. Because you are still alive.