My Essence of It

An introduction to my self-realization project

The Vivi
The Vivi
Dec 25, 2018 · 6 min read
Wisdom, by the Author

“It” being “all”. And when I say “all”, I assume everything I perceive, all my mind can assimilate, the great everything. My entire human existence is what my mind can create as a shell, as a stage, as a construct for something that I call my Life. And that is because I was born, fed, raised, instructed and talked into it all.

At 6 I started writing.

The realization that my experiences, my loves, my endeavors, my writing have invariably been just a tale I have been telling myself with someone else’s voice was the first major disappointment. How could I trust my brilliance and creative power once I comprehended that my art was staged, acted, organized, controlled by the “virus” I caught the day I got born?

I write because it is jumpy, elegant and exhilarating…

At 6, I started writing. From poetry about snowfalls and historical heroes to sheltered alternative realities where I could have been anyone and anything, I have written it all.

I write because it is jumpy, elegant and exhilarating; an increasing pleasure while I start to feel the completion coming close. There is no dissatisfaction in writing. Years after composing a piece, I reread what I wrote and butterflies flutter from the pages right into my stomach. The journal entries or articles are chronicles of my transformation.

My writing has always flowed naturally. Do I need validation? I do. That is why I have decided to publish my works. Another reason I write is the fact that I feel I have matured enough to help other human beings.

Giving advice sucks.

In 2013 I started focusing on my spiritual path again. Between 27 and 39 it was almost impossible for me to practice self-love. Giving advice sucks. We don’t take it. We need to experience stuff to believe change for the better (whatever that means) may happen to us, too. I have dismissed a lot of texts and wisdom just because the people give advice and tell you what it is all about with such certainty that they can terrify you.

I am speaking in the first person here, to be more honest. Honest not in terms of not misleading, cause we all lie and live a lie. By being honest I mean keeping a balance between what I experience first hand and what I am being fed.

Life is the journey from the maternity to the cemetery (or urn).

Once I got grayer, I understood that my knowledge was veiled and entangled in stories and myths. I respected and followed them at a certain age. My paternal Granny, my good Granny, my Grandad, with all his being a tough educator, my role models (although I could never respect them), companions, teachers, all these people shaped my thinking. I have been living someone else’s life while agreeing or disagreeing, comparing or accepting, but always, always choosing an attitude, a thought, an action, a feeling that had already been ingrained in me like a silver line to a cloud of choiceless happenings.

Life is the journey from the maternity to the cemetery (or urn). Although a large part of our existence (the first months, for sure) is a period of incertitude, as we are not aware of what things “mean”, we are entities equal to any other entity that had experienced birth before us. Self-awareness appears way later when we receive values either from parents, relatives, society (You are so adorable, that is not something good girls do, please behave or else.)

None of our thoughts is original

We adapt to the world. None of our thoughts is original. All we know has been expressed before and has been passed to us. The interesting cases are the rebel kids. Note that the children who are less loved and protected are more independent and prone to thoughtless acts. They have great potential, as they understand what fear is and become less afraid of others. I am one of these kids. All the beating, screaming, emotional manipulation and terror taught me, from a very young age, that all those events happening to me were bearable, and I became violent in return. Later, the trauma materialized in bipolar behavior, low self-esteem, broken relationships, drinking, smoking, compulsive listening to music, and bingeing on movies. As you can notice, sex was never a problem; I never binged on that. I was abused repeatedly. I did not require my partners to offer me pleasure. I was always there to please, not to be pleased. Pleasing men made me happy. Twofold happiness coming from a genuine feeling of content, and a strange superiority complex, examining men losing it while I was lucidly manipulating their bodies and minds. A game that I did not play on purpose, I just oscillated between being used and using men.

reading books and listening to Depeche Mode in my room for 5 years

The thing I crave most in my life is someone to get me. Someone to appear and say: you need a break, let me take you on a trip. I guess I always appreciated the qualities I was extending. Unfortunately, most of the time, solely the twisted psychological material I was displaying was present; my ex-lovers were either very effeminate (with bipolar behavior) or very sexual (something that I may have denied myself because of skipping normal development as an adolescent.) Reading books and listening to Depeche Mode in my room for 5 years while sometimes playing card games and drinking with my mother and her lover was hardly teenaging. I was happy to be left alone. The encounters with my wild mother that occurred after parent-teacher meetings (when she was informed about a few skipped classes or low grades) always ended with her punching me severely. Although at 13 I started hitting back my grandmother (my mom’s mother, the woman with whom I lived between the age of 5 and 14), I never hit my mom. I never loved her. She never loved me. We never spent time together. She took me to Thailand and the US when I was 18 because the airline she worked for granted them complimentary tickets for family members once a year.

The essence of me, if I try to highlight it, is the time before the age of 4. I remember the great dread of losing my Nanny. She was asleep in a large bed in my bedroom; I was in my cot. What I know for sure is that I was younger than 4, as she left our home when I was sent to my mom’s mom, at 5. My Nanny was snoring. And although I did not know what death or loss was, I started throwing my toys at her to wake her. And I can still relive that fear. I had an NDE, more specifically clinical death at 4. I remember vividly watching my mother’s back as she was leaning over my bed (I was floating in the air), the happiness, the red light and later nothing.

My imbalances were unknown to me before the age of 42.

Oh, the fear of the china dolls on a shelf in our bedroom and the leaves drifting in the wind outside my window. I recall the pit in my stomach when my granny or my mom were supposed to come back home from parent-teacher meetings. I was a brilliant student, but wild. Eager to impress, play, love and hate, beat the shit out of everyone I loved while defending them in front of others to death. My imbalances were unknown to me before the age of 42. I lived without practicing self-analysis, blaming and shaming myself 90 percent of the time for things I may have not gone through at all if they had encouraged me to be a social, open human.

The “it” or “all” is a disturbed me.

My writing is a journey among memories, someone else’s thoughts, emotion, regrets, craving to figure out what is mainly unattainable to humans, a race with others and myself, at all levels, in all areas, a medicine for a wounded heart, a healing technique for a leaky gut and a lost soul. I am trying. Trying something I cannot explain or understand.

The “it” or “all” is a disturbed me. Disturbed in Freudian terms, curious and determined in my own terms. The “it” is me, the “all” is me, depends who is looking. At a young age, I tried to experience a lot of things. The rebellious ones put themselves in challenging human situations, hence the countless beatings and attacks I have suffered. My body and mind physically requested beating for such a long time. Punishment was my survival technique. Without suffering, I wasn’t worthy. After the crucial 2013, I have changed my view of the world and myself.

The Vivi

Written by

The Vivi

Teacher, photographer, writer, caregiver.


No excuse needed.

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