Roses are not red

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I’m at the Spui market, roaming around. Tracing old books with my fingers. I’ve always enjoyed the smell of books. Pictures of people I don’t know, are for sale, three euros. A photographer setting up with his camera, is chatting meanwhile with a girl next to him. His lens cap falls and I flinch. Big laminated posters of parts of the world, or the world itself in big boxes stored up, ready to be sold.

I quickly walk on and dive into a bookshop. I smoothly take the stairs up to the photography section. I talk to myself and I am amazed by the beauty of the images in books. The sketches of a famous fashion designer is for sale and I’m amazed again, that it’s so expensive. My sketches are worth nothing but I must admit he is a better drawer.
I browse through some books and walk out of the shop again. I continue my walk of fresh air by mindlessly passing people I don’t know.

I am the theater, looking at the performance of Wynn Heliczer. I need to giggle at the start. I haven’t been to a theater for a long time. I don’t really know what to expect. Is it true that all artist pour their soul and being into their work to make it a succes? Cause it’s more than just a passion. I should know. She talks and sings about her father. The artist that was present in the world of art but missing in her life. I recognize a lot of aspects and her humor got me crying of laughter. It touches deep parts but all I can think about is what a beautiful woman she is and I’d be privileged to photograph her. Unfortunately that’s probably a clouded dream.


I’m waiting in front of my favorite soup store for Marissa. A couple is looking through the winter eating their soup in silence. I didn’t look long enough to see what they are doing but I feel them stare at this strange girl in black waiting and checking her phone (me). And I feel strange.
I can see Marissa from far in her long dress and her cute coat with a matte neon-yellow scarf. I hug her and we enter the soup-store. The soup doesn’t fall good this time and we walk for small distance to the Bagels&Beans. We try to talk because talking with her feels nice but we’re annoyed by the overpowering presence in the cafe. We eat until our tummies are entirely fool. We overate and decide to talk a walk through the city. We roam around trying to avoid the mass.

We find a playground with swings and we will swing. We talk and swing and I swing high until my legs feel sore. I’m with my head and foot high in the sky and my thoughts wander off. I love how I can be with Marissa. My thoughts can wander off without apologizing. She knows me and it feels good to be able to myself around some one. My thoughts are relaxed when I’m with her.  I’m proud of the woman she became. She’s the only one left in my life that I probably can’t live without. So much she knows about me. The flaws I see in myself, and she sees through them. High school feels like ages away. The friends I had at school were never all so permanent. She remained like a soul entwined with mine and yet individually rocking awesomely through life. I don’t like to use the word ‘being one with some one’ cause you can’t be half of yourself. She’s is yet her own person and an extension of my existence. But I’m digressing.

I hide my face in my hair. The room is dark and I’m leaning against the heater with my back. Some spotify music is on and I curl up as a ball. I let my head fall backwards and take a deep breath before I return to earth.
The only lights that are present are those from outside, the civil twilight zone, where the sun is already down but still casting some light on this planet, slowly fading away until the streetlights take over. I lit a few candles. The light from my laptop is shining on my face when I’m writing.

I’m writing about my psychologist, I mean not about him but about me seeing him. For most of my life I’ve heard about anxiety but never felt addressed to the meaning of the word. Of course I was scared of a lot of things and had panic attacks (which I didn’t even call panic attacks at the time). I thought everybody had fears and panic to the same extent as I did (maybe not all the same but similar). I couldn’t be much different than the rest, or was I? Only that I have come to this age that I am confronted with all these anxiety, like I didn’t have enough endure. Or did I always manage to find a way to mislead the mirror of confrontation. I didn’t want to come out earlier with this because for a long time I didn’t want to see that anxiety was a part of me. Till this day I still find it hard to embrace that part of me that is so scared of things I can’t explain.
I haven’t had many sessions. But I’m sure that it will help me on a longer therm.

I remember the second session where I walked out of the building and I just had to cry all the way home. I was so incredibly scared of the path that I was going to walk during those sessions, to be completely and more vulnerable that I have ever felt. You go there, open some veins and you let some one analyze you. For years I refused to ever meet a stranger and tell him every thing I am convinced I know about myself. But am I not doing that with others? Although the start is hard to bite through, seeing some one was one of the best decisions I’ve made. Really. Yes, being analyzed when you are vulnerable, is scary but honestly if you look at it, he or she’s just repeating what you refuse to hear, but what you deep down already know. Or it can make you more aware of possibilities that you didn’t see before.

I’m aware that there’s a certain stigma about seeing some one. Seeing some one means you must be really crazy, right? I can’t tell if this is really true or really narrow-minded. I’m convinced that sometimes you have to be patient with yourself, give it the treatment it deserves. Going to a psychologist maybe doesn’t gain at all but what doesn’t gain, can’t hurt.
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