Bad apples

I met a previous friend of mine today. Actually it wasn't a meeting as much as it was an ambush. I was unprepared to meet him and talking to him made me instantly uncomfortable. Our roads had parted in a strange manner and we had never really properly talked about it after the breach.

After some strange small talk he asked me if I hated him. Actually, he asked me that a few times. I don't remember what my answer was but I do recall that the question itself baffled me. It made me wonder about hate.

Have I hated this year? Oh, I have. I have hated, loathed and detested things and people so much during the past 365 days that the next natural step for me would be wearing a bomb-belt. But for some reason I feel surprisingly light. No timer is ticking under my coat; my finger is not reaching for the detonator. I can't even smell the gunpowder.

I've been humiliated, demeaned, underrated, ridiculed, demoted and dumped this year. I've been treated badly by people that I truly trusted and who were supposed to support me. Thus, I have hated them. Oh, that lovely, alluring and utterly consuming feeling has become very familiar to me, indeed.

Hatred is an ugly fruit of a letdown, and while it rots it becomes even more bitter and distasteful. It covers under all other good feelings with its strong, intoxicating taste. Yet I decided to keep eating it, like it was the only thing that would keep me alive. I became addicted to it and failed to see that the only one that truly suffered from it was myself. Oh, I should have known better. I have eaten a basket full of those little bastards this year.

How to let go of it then? I always found it very hard. It wasn't effortless, not at all. It was most of all a decision – a very prompt decision. No hesitation allowed.

It took some soul searching to figure out when I had wallowed enough and reached the limit. In my case the best pointer was the moment when I realized that my hatred towards one thing or person slowly started spreading towards all other things and people as well. It had to stop. Not for their sake, but for my own.

First it annoyed me. I missed that bitter taste. It was so close all the time, right there in my reach constantly. All I needed to do was grab it. But then I understood that I had become sick of that horrible taste and it made me feel ill. So, I left it alone, not matter how much it tempted me.

Making that decision every day is certainly not easy nor simple. But after a while it pays off, it really does. The craving for that venomous fruit becomes lesser and lesser, until one day it's finally gone. And then, slowly you start seeing and tasting other things again. Nice things, positive things. And I know that I've kicked that bad habit for now, and smashed those ugly fruits under my feet.

I must admit though that seeing this past friend of mine reminded me of that taste again. For a second I wanted nothing but to hate him again – like I had never hated before. But the sensation didn't come to me. Slight discomfort was the only clear feeling I was able to recognize. And strangely enough, I felt glad that I didn't feel it anymore. It was gone, finally. Perhaps I hadn't forgiven him yet but at least seeing him didn't make me want to stab him in the eye anymore. I didn't hate him anymore.

* * *

In the end – I believe this will be the last blogging I'll be doing this year. And for year 2012: I'm sure it holds lots of surprises within. I merely wish that I won't hate, despise or be provoked so much. Next year I want to learn and to know the good things about life. Resolution made – thank you for reading and have a wonderful New Year 2012 everyone!

My way is the sly way

After moving to Portugal 2,5 years ago I thought I would somehow release myself of all the unspoken norms and values of the modern society that I felt to be forced and restrictive. This indeed happened, for most parts at least. Now I don't have to listen how complete strangers judge – more or less obviously – my life and the decisions I've made so far. Not that I haven't made choices in life that shouldn't be reviewed, but I think that in these cases the only person who is allowed to criticize anything is the person who made the decisions in the first place; he or she is in any case the person who finally profits or suffers from the choices that were made. In this case this person is of course me.

However, I am not fully free even here. Perhaps the pressure from the community has eased, but it managed to leave its mark in my subconscious nevertheless. I don't need an outer authority to judge my own life and lifestyle – some hysterical, conservative part of my very own brain makes me question my life constantly. When I see people of my own age (or even younger, God forbid) and assess their lives and accomplishments so far, I instantly feel worried and at times even ashamed of my own life. Because according to the criteria of a modern Western society, what have I really reached? That list would be very, very short, I'm afraid. I don't have a high education nor a profitable job; I don't have an apartment, house or a car – I don't even have a driver's license; I don't have a husband and I don't have kids; I don't even have a dog. So, if the modern society would define me, I wouldn't be much of anything. (At least I have a job though, otherwise I would probably be that famous scum of the Earth.)

But for some reason, every time I start blaming myself of all the decisions I've made, I have to also think about the following: are the reasons that I punish myself for actually reasons that I see are important, or are they rather just some forced, built-in patterns that only exist to make us some sort of model citizens? In other words, producing, spending, tax-paying little ants.

I don't underrate other people's choices and conclusions in life. I'm pretty sure that for the majority of us it's important and fulfilling to follow that clear ready-made path, and I think it really makes most of us happy. Get an education, get a spouse, get a good job, get a house, get some kids, raise the kids, be a decent parent, retire, and then guide your own kids to follow this same, obvious road. Yes, it sounds quite ordinary. Sounds like something to strive for, even, and sounds like something that's possible to achieve.



But life doesn't always go as we hope and expect, no matter how sincere and heartfelt our wishes might be. Anything can happen to any one of us, sometimes even to those strong ones who seem to get everything they want in life. Not to mention those who didn't have so much begin with.

And then there are those who for one reason or another don't affiliate with these previously mentioned values and goals. I must say that to want to achieve some or most of those things you will have to have a little loving for money, and for me money has never meant anything else than something that clinks in my wallet. Money itself doesn't have an absolute value to me; it is not my goal in life, and trying to scrape it together frantically has never brought me any happiness. Actually, for whatever reason, I have almost always been the happiest when I've had very little money to use.



Not that being penniless would make you happy, either. Of course I like to buy things too, to spend money on myself or the people I care about. You must have money if you just simply want to eat – so, there's no life without money anymore, it seems. This wicked thing seems to be one of the biggest things to cause unhappiness and pressure in the world (especially now), and even though I truly feel for the people who are actually in need, I can't help but simply pity the people who just gather money like hamsters, just for the sake of it, like it was some magical, glorifying substance that makes your life fulfilled, and ultimately makes you a better person also.

But if you don't follow the norms of a modern civilized society, then what guidelines do you have in life? What leads me ahead in life, what do I want to fight for? Surely, there are some things that even I find alluring and desirable, like having that special person in my life, or at some point starting my own family even. But the rest of those things I don't wish to control me. Nowadays it seems more challenging to question the ready-made little boxes that we are all born into, and trying to find that one path that truly makes you feel happy. Why would I spend my life trying to please some faceless, formless, shapeless concept of ”society?” I simply want to find my own way, and to dispute the already existing unspoken norms. Perhaps if more people would bravely look inside themselves and dare to think what is it that really makes them happy, we wouldn't have so many miserable, wretched souls on this planet.



That is merely speculative, though. I can only judge this world from my own point of view; I'm sure there are a lot of people who would fiercely disagree with me. In the meanwhile I will keep looking for that path, maybe for a little while I will even step on this ready-made trail, and then I will be back in the bushes, doing my very best at being true to my heart. It will remain a mystery though whether I will succeed or not, and in the end who wins – if anyone.

They get what they deserve

I lost it. I admit it; for a minute there, I lost the whole thing. I felt like that unlucky little spider that sneaks up on you while you're having a shower, and the one thing you always do of course, is to flush it down (accompanied with dreadful shrieks). Well, I shall feel a bit more forgiving towards those cunning little eight-legged friends of ours from now on. Because I do believe that I myself swirled down on that drain, with absolutely no control over anything. It simply swallowed me and took me where I belonged – down there with all that shit, filth and darkness.

Oh, but this little spidey was smarter than that. Yeah, I spent some stinky, gloomy hours in that hole of a sewer. But did I let it get me down? In the end, I didn't. It was close though, and I think I lost one of my eyes... But more of that later.

They say life gives you what you deserve. Well – I will have to disagree with that one. First of all, ”life gives?” What the hell has life to give to you in the first place?! Man, it gave you its very self. It's called life. Check it up on Wikipedia or Bible or whatever you believe in, in case you're unfamiliar with the concept. Second of all, that small, all-knowing, cheeky phrase ”what you deserve.” Do I even have to begin with that one? No. I don't want to go there. It would just end up in a pile of swearwords and unimaginable profanities.

Everybody hits their down, at some point. It might seem that some people are just smooth-sailing through life, but I have never believed that to be true. Nobody can smooth-sail this perfect storm they call ”life.” (Or, if anyone has a compass through this, just let me know. Send me an e-mail or something. A text. Even smoke signals will do.) I'm slowly starting to realize that these downfalls and mishaps, even failures, that you occasionally confront in life, are there just to... Be there. Maybe there is no bigger meaning. Sometimes things just happen without you doing anything wrong.

And I am starting to believe, even more strongly, that if we believe there is a bigger meaning behind those failures, there is always a chance for something better. Surely no one wants to live their life believing that everything is a coincidence (which is why I believe religions still exist, but perhaps more on that later). No, it can't be a coincidence. Simply, it can't. And if you believe it can't, then it won't. Then every wrong road you have taken in life, all the foul decisions you have made, seem to make some sense after all.

I have learned something. I didn't let it get me. I found new things. I restored my faith in people. Whatever it might be, to whoever might be reading this – the only thing I wish to say is, don't you stop believing. And it's true: sometimes it takes a lot of tears and a lot of strength, and a lot of weakness and a lot of guts to make yourself believe that there is some meaning, some greater lesson to be learned, but I want to believe that it's worth it. Life is what you make of it, after all.

Ps. Who the hell are these ”they” people?! Because, seriously, I'm getting quite sick of them. They are always late, doing things wrong, or not doing anything. And they always seem to know everything. I'll say: forget get about them. Believe in yourself instead.

Mind over mind

Do you know the feeling when something has been bothering you for a long time – something itching underneath, that you can't quite put your mind into? Something that constantly baffles you and questions you with its very being, although you don't even know what this thing might be? It's just there, nagging at you in the back of your brain, trying to shout out loud to you but all you hear is a vague whisper; and even that whisper is so muffled you can't understand what was actually said.

Occasionally you think you found it. It's like waking up after having a revealing dream. For two seconds it's all clear. But then it starts fading away. Like someone shuts big iron doors in front of your mind and won't allow you to peak in anymore.

But it's just your own hidden thoughts. And they're there all the time, lurking in the dark places of your consciousness, always ready to make you doubt yourself over and over again. I swear to God, sometimes I even hear these thoughts silently giggling at me, mocking me, ”you can't find us! You can't find us! Stupid!”

Some weeks ago I had the most horrible nightmare I have ever had in my life. The dream itself would not be so scary if I told it here, but the sensation after I woke up was dreadful. I have never felt such fear in my entire life – it nearly stopped my blood flowing in my veins, and the only two things I could think of doing were to either paralyze or to run as fast as I can.

For some reason I feel the same way now, even though I've had no nightmares lately. I'm fully awake but I feel like running, just stepping out on the rainy streets and keep running until I collapse somewhere. I think I hope that running away would put these thoughts in my head to silence. But you can't run away from your own mind, can you? It will follow. Or if it's smart enough, it will be one step ahead, just to show you that it can never be forgotten.

Tonight I can perhaps trick my mind, take a different corner, venture to streets I haven't been to yet. And then I will catch it, that stupid, ignorant mind of mine that giggles at me in the dark, and give it a proper punch in the face and say: ”get back to work you slacker!”

But then, it can always promise to be nice at me, and the next day it doesn't even show up – just stays there in the corner, silently despising me, and calls off sick just when I need it the most.

Something to believe in

My all-time most hated feeling in this world must be disappointment. Hatred, fear and grief can be considered as negative feelings also, but somehow handling these emotions is a lot more easier. To me, these feelings are somehow more pure and more simple to comprehend. You're allowed to act like you feel – you can fume and rage, stomp your feet on the ground, bash your head on the wall. You can be sad and cry, be miserable, listen to sad songs and dwell in the melancholy. But disappointment is the unwanted child of expectations. And I sure have a lot of those. Thus, they are occasionally getting really horny and breeding with no control whatsoever.

When I'm disappointed I suddenly don't know how to handle it. In my case, disappointment often merges with frustration, thus creating this unbearable mix of all emotions at once, and I quite sincerely seem to have no idea how to handle either one of these sensations in a very constructive way. Disillusionment is a consuming state of mind, especially if you seem to hit a series of disappointing events in your life. I myself am beginning to be so used to feeling unsatisfied that it takes a while for me to remember how it used to be when I wasn't absolutely scared to death of everything I was looking forward to.



Being disappointed is like shaking a soda bottle really hard, without ever actually opening it. All the murky, gloomy thoughts are sizzling inside frantically but there's no way they can get out. Until, of course, you shake a little too much. And then that cork just pops out, and the goddamn soda is all over the walls, it just showers away in every direction, smears your clothes and gets stuck in the furniture. And it takes a long time to clean that shit up.

What is enough then? How can you tell? I sure can't. I'm a bit of a yo-yo myself. I can reach my limit, and then miraculously pull myself back together again and keep wishing something good will happen, no matter what. I don't know if it ever will, but I'm not known to be a quitter either. To me, faith is the most beautiful thing life has to offer. And I don't mean faith in the religious sense: rather, I appreciate faith at its most beautiful, when you just refuse to believe that tomorrow would be any worse than today. If I'm still able to believe in things, I know I'm still alive. It doesn't really matter how tiny the actual chance of having your dreams come true is – as long as you belive you're worth it, this life is worth living.

Reveal your secrets

I heard that Sigmund Freud thought that the things people hate most fiercely are in fact the things that they long for, but they feel like they shouldn't achieve. (Feel free to correct if I'm wrong.)

I'm not a huge fan of Freud, for starters. Whenever I think of him I remember this book of interpreting dreams that my parents had when I was a kid. Half of the explanations given were Freudian, thus making nearly all objects on this planet somehow sexual. Just fallos after fallos after fallos.

But there's something curious about that allegation. First, of course, I started thinking: Ha! If that would be true, it would prove my point about radical homophobics – that they are in fact having some desires towards the same sex themselves.

Then it occurred to me that if this allegation really was true, it would work on me too. So, whatever things or ideas I loathe, I actually long for in secret. My goodness! Quite an upsetting thought. I quickly tried to erase this inner conversation from my head. But it refused to stop. My darling brain kept on thinking, while the other part of me was yelling, ”don't do it!”

The thing that came to my mind was racism. It has been the favourite topic of all discussion forums I have looked into lately. Surely, I also have a very strong opinion about racism and tolerance; to put it simply, I fiercely dislike any form of racism and people who to me seem racist. Well... I'm sure a lot of people think alike. Racism is a bad thing and nobody in their right mind would ever admit openly that they're racists. I am certainly not one!

Or could I be? Could I be a little bit racist, secretly? Could I have denied these thoughts that I have, blissfully tossing them aside and make-believe that I am totally tolerant?! Yes, I could. And I have been.

I can easily distinguish half a dozen quite strong prejudices that I have about people with certain ethnic or religious background. In an open conversation with other people I defend these people; but in the inner conversation that I'm having with myself I reluctantly admit that I am biased and covered with preconceptions. I also react to these prejudices in real life, by taking certain actions – change the side of the road, refuse to speak to a certain person because ”I know what they're like and what they think of me.” Just for an example. And as much as I try to deny it, I can't escape the fact that I have some truly racist thoughts.

I still don't consider myself as a racist, however. Hypocrisy, you say? Yes, maybe. But I like to keep this more idealistic view about myself, and thus call myself an ”acknowledged paranoid” instead. The reason for this is that to me a racist doesn't even have this inner conversation; doesn't have the shame or the guilt that these thoughts bring up. There's no controversy, no arguments – it's just one black-and-white (pun intended) thought.

I also think that as long as the majority of people don't admit the facts of who they really are and what they really are to themselves, there's no remedy for today's multinational societies. And so will the political and societal conversation remain crippled. Before getting some help, one must always admit that there even is a problem. I can openly admit it.

Tolerance as a word to me seems to be a huge one; it consists of so many things, and it beholds certain paradigms that sometimes seem almost inhuman and god-like. Well I'm no god, nor I wish to be one. I can recognize these less pleasant thoughts that I have, and then I can only do my best to practice what I preach: treat each person as an individual, rather than gluing them into a certain frame of reference.

My mission of becoming a good person continues, although I fear this goal will never be achieved.

Oh, joy

When was the last time you were happy? Do you remember the moment, did you recognize the emotion?

I started thinking about happiness last weekend – what it consists of, and how can you actually tell you're happy. I've had several truly unfeigned moments of happiness over the past few months. The actual moments were just fleeting instants, but they managed to linger for days.

I guess that my definition of happiness is pretty much feeling content. It's not a continuous exhilarating nirvana, like the movies want us to believe. Rather, it's a smooth, steady emotion, when yesterday has no weight, tomorrow is nothing to be concerned about, and today is all you need. But is this feeling even recognizeable unless you have something to compare it with: slight sadness, anger, fear, even misery to balance it out with?

No, I'm pretty sure that one does not exist without the other. The irritating thing is of course, that you can usually easily recall all of those dark unhappy moments rather than the good and joyous ones. Maybe it's some form of evolution. Mistakes, mishaps, failures and errors in general ultimately make us learn. They are the true tests of character: can I handle this or will it break me? If not, will it change me, and if so, into what?

I gather that both states of mind are equally important. The challenging feeling of discontent, that forces you to change your life or yourself in some way. And then, the moments of bliss and delight that seem to exist only for us to unabashedly enjoy them. And most importantly – these moments of delight make us hungry for more, thus making this life worth living. Sadly, there are of course no shortcuts, magic tricks or de-tours to achieve happy moments. Sometimes they just come around the corner and surprise you. And sometimes they just run away screaming to the opposite direction.

Some people think it's impossible to be happy if you really want to be happy; that it only comes to you if you sit still and wait it out. I don't think so. I think occasionally all you have to do is hunt those moments down, make an effort, and open your eyes to the minor delights life has to offer. Maybe in a while then – if you're patient – true happiness will come to you like a tamed wild animal. Or perhaps you just have to keep hunting. I have sharpened my arrows, now I just have to lure it in close enough so I can catch it. I can only hope my timing is right.

And in case you wondered, I would never shoot happiness with a plain arrow. I always use the sedated ones. That way it can always get back up on its feet and run away so I can catch it again. Or maybe one day, it sees that I truly mean no harm to it, and it will get closer and closer to me, and stay with me forever.

Tell me a story...

Writing is my little mistress. It's the thing I always return to after something has upset me. I believe that the more dissonances I have in my life, the more and the better I manage to write. So: in order for me to keep up my writing skills, I should be a little bit stressed all the time.



Every now and then words become my world. When nothing else seems to work, words always work for me. I can twist and turn them, toss them and turn them, let them come out just as they please, play with them. Unlike numbers that I've always fiercely hated, letters, words and sentences have always intrigued me. The fact that you have to use each word like a delicate, subtle tool to work your way through to other people's minds. How easily one word can save the world or ruin it.It's a great power that words, languages and writing hold within them.

My relation with writing started at an early age. When I was a kid I used to write an unofficial newspaper for my school. Consequently I made up all the stories (I thought it would be more exciting that way). Obviously I didn't care too much about journalist's ethics at that time. But ever since then my big dream was to become a reporter. As years passed it became clearer that I'd specifically want to become an investigative journalist. I took creative writing lessons in high school; had a course about screen writing; even tried to study journalism in an open university in Finland. But like many of the dreams I've had, this one was forgotten before long also. I noticed that no matter how much I loved to write, I completely lacked the motivation to study anything specific related to it.



Later on I've thought a lot about those decisions to quit and wondered whether those were good choices after all. Oh, to win a Pulitzer... Or to write an amazing screen play that people will praise! Now wouldn't that have been something? But in reality I think that rather than winning prizes or people over, I would be either writing obituaries for some small local newspaper, or screen plays for kids after-school theatre lessons.

Now I think that rather than an ambition, writing is more like a companion to me. I might forget about it for a while – days, weeks, sometimes even months – but when I discover it again, it's like nothing ever happened between us. Writing is my therapist. A free one, but also a cruel one: it never really tells me if I'm starting to do better or not. It just comes and goes as it wishes, giving me these brief moments of comfort.



And the real reason I never became any kind of writer is the sheer fear of mediocrity. Is there really anything scarier than being average at something you feel so passionately about? So to avoid this disappointment I've chosen the coward's way. Blogs, diary, just writing for my own pleasure, when there's no fear of actual judgment. Meanwhile I of course dream about writing a beautiful article, or a genius screen play, or perhaps a collection of short stories... Maybe one day.

My word is my sword, but I don't have a shield to protect me from it.

Alien Nation

This year I have pretty much failed in everything I have attempted to do. Work issues, relationships, everything in between – one at a time, they all fell apart. So lately I have spent a lot of time thinking what do I expect from the future. What do I want to try now? What do I even dare to try?

The days at work go by slowly, there's really not that much to do. I try to spend my time by reading all possible newspapers I can come up with, and just browsing through random Finnish websites. At the same time I'm trying to figure out what to do next. Do I stay here? Should I try some other country even, or perhaps a new job and apartment? A change of scenery would be great. How about Finland then, why shouldn't I return now, when everything is slowly crumbling down? At least I'd have some prospects there. And my culture.

I suppose it's because Finland, as a country, was one of the biggest reasons for me to move out in the first place. I can't say I moved here because I wanted to live in Portugal: shit, the only thing I knew about this country 2,5 years ago was that it's located next to Spain. I think that for my whole life I've been trying to figure out the Finnish culture – what does an average Finn dream of, how do they think, what are their ambitions? My research down here from Portugal is quite strictly tied to internet nowadays. Blogs, newspapers, discussion forums. And every time I browse through these sites I feel extremely distant. Sure, there is a distance between me and Finland, quite specifically 3366 kilometers. But the distance I feel is much more mental than physical. Sometimes, while reading an article or column, I get this primitive reaction. A bit like you place your hand on a hot stove – you automatically pull your hand back.

It takes a little while for me to understand what I'm really feeling every time. I simply feel like I'm a complete outsider. I don't belong there, I never did. The feeling of alienation is strong, and it was strong while I still lived in Finland. I always felt like the total oddball, the uncool, neurotic hill-billy. In Portugal I'm an alien too, but in a different sense, and because I want it. In a way it's a huge relief to realize that I will never be or become Portuguese, just starting with my hair and skin color... I can't quite decide where or when I started to lose touch with my own country. My best friends are Finnish, and of course my family, and my cultural background, in which I do still relate to at times. But for me it's comfortable to live in this mentally no-mans land. All cultural expectations and pressure from the society have finally subsided. They seem so far away I can hardly remember what they are – safe for when I get lost on the wrong website or discussion board.

Surely I'm not free here either. I'm bound to some strict prejudices, and I have to accept the fact that I have to diminish them each time I meet a new person. It always starts from zero. My pure new life is not quite so stainless anymore, Lisbon is no more unconquered and pristine. I have already smudged it with my bad experiences and mistakes. The novelty is gone, the exoticism has faded. But the most important feeling of all has remained: that here I can be exactly who I truly am. And as long as I have this feeling, I don't see myself moving anywhere. With my Finnish sisu, I will survive here, even when all odds are against me. What the hell – the best way of beating odds is to become one of them, and that I believe I have achieved here.