substack, better place, tired, bloated, chloe ting, no trainers

substack

thinking… are we supposed to write for others or for ourselves here? because i need to make a decision, because i don’t like having two options. this, in fact, seems to be a recurring theme in my therapy sessions - not being able to accept that two options can exist together.

no. it’s too many, it’s too much. it’s always been.

so i guess i’m deciding to choose the latter. because apparently, i don’t know how to go through with the first one. i see so many brilliant writers out there, and i’m thinking, slowly realising that i’m not a writer. for fuck’s sake, english isn’t even my first language (but deep down, i know this is a lie. i’m not a good writer in my first language either - or am i just going down an imposter syndrome spiral?)

the latter is good. ‘latter’ is a good word - a fancy way of saying the second. i think i was 12 or 13 when i learnt this word and it was magical.

i’m going with the latter also because all i know about writing is writing about myself. my day. how i feel. i’ve been journalling since i was a little kid, and it has always given me a way to express myself. i recently realised (again, in another therapy session) that i didn’t have any other way to express myself when i was little. no one listened to me because i was the youngest child in the family. no one cared about my opinion. my only role was to sit there and make people smile while everyone else was fighting (our house was complete chaos). i never liked the silence because it meant everyone was bottling things up and that a huge (and physical) fight was coming (i can’t believe i learnt how people bottle up things at such a young age). but there was also no other way to exist - you had to be silent. so i guess that’s how my journey of writing - journalling - started.

better place

i have better ways to break the silence now. T. and i recently visited my parents, who still live in my hometown.

it was kind of a chill morning. we were exhausted from travelling through three different cities in ten days, and i warned my parents not to wake us up in the morning, even though we ended up being the first ones awake anyway.

we sat down at the breakfast table and started talking about the plans for the day. my father wanted us to go to the small house they own in the countryside, where they grow plants, but it’s mostly a space for my father to meet up with his mates and drink their way into the night.

i said yes to that request, as T. was also excited to see it, so we started discussing who else should be invited. obviously, my sisters. but since my sister’s husband’s family was in town, they should be invited too. it’s unbelievable how much effort goes into these discussions. in my head, i’m even wondering why this is called a discussion and not a conversation, and the answer is simple: what’s happening here is called a discussion.

my dad, though, doesn’t seem bothered, and he says, “whoever wants to come is welcome.” and i think the discussion is finally over.

yet, my mum still wants to know exactly who’s coming, so the phone calls begin, back and forth, and the plans start to take shape. in the meantime, my mum is slightly clueless because she can’t hear or understand clearly enough with her hearing aids. so my dad gets frustrated and shouts at her when she keeps asking about the final plans.

i feel something deep, deep inside me being triggered. i’m suddenly a little kid again, who doesn’t know how to react and is terrified by what’s happening. i hear my dad’s loud voice, and i’m done.

i realise T. is with us, and i’m embarrassed, so i tell him jokingly, “welcome to the real family.”

we get into the lift, and i’m still tense, but there’s also this new feeling i can’t quite embrace yet. it wants to settle, and it tells me to just joke about the situation. something i’ve never done before.

i say, “so dad… who’s coming again?” with a serious face that immediately turns into a grin - the same as my dad’s face when he realises i’m mocking him.

so everything finally feels fine. not fine, but a bit better. and my takeaway from this interaction is that mocking my dad could be a better way to break that dreadful silence. so i continue mocking him for the rest of our holiday, and he seems to enjoy it. so much that i almost feel like he’s found a new way to connect with me. his so-long-wanted-but-unfortunately-not-a-son daughter.

tired

can a holiday even be counted as a holiday if it takes 24 hours to get back home?

but tomorrow, i have to go to work, and our flat is covered in fur. Kadife (my cat) must have been shedding a lot during the heatwave while we were away. so with my last drop of energy, i hoover the house and think whether 20-year-old me would have even cared - or am i turning into a cleaning freak?

all in all, it’s an amazing feeling to sleep in your own bed and share it with the ones you love the most.

bloated

either i’ve gained so much weight, or i’m somehow bloated. i can’t even look down in the shower because i know i’ll be disappointed by what i’m about to see.

chloe ting

i did this two-week challenge by a famous australian youtuber called Chloe Ting before we went on holiday so that, you know, i’d look better in the bikinis i got on vinted.

i still can’t believe i bought these amazing, high-quality bikinis for only a tenner. not to brag, but i’m an excellent vinted finder. i can’t call myself a writer, but i can definitely call myself that.

the thing i loved most about doing the challenge was spending time and effort on myself. just myself. having my own space. dedicating time and energy to something that was only for me.

it started as a way to lose weight, but soon i realised i started craving it. although i didn’t want to go back to something that literally hurt my body, something in me did want to go back. maybe i’m now addicted to the endorphin release.

or better - maybe i finally value myself enough not to see spending time on myself as a waste.

no trainers

i’m most certainly changing. i would never, ever have even considered signing up for a gym before. but here i am, after work, the day after we got back from holiday, extremely tired, finding the energy to get off at the station where the gym i might want to join is, walking through the door, and even letting the guy give me a tour.

he keeps throwing words at me that i’ve never heard before, and his strong accent doesn’t help, so i just nod and smile, saying random things like “ah, interesting” or “wow, that’s good,” even though i’m not sure they’re the right responses to what he’s saying.

but i’m not worried because he clearly knows i’m not british and that i’ve never worked out in my life. so we have this unspoken contract - he won’t understand me the first time i say, “i’ve never been to a gym before,” and i won’t understand him for most of the tour.

he tells me about all the good things that come with the membership - you can even have a PT! i’ve never had a personal trainer before, so it feels very premium.

he says he can sign me up for a class happening in a few minutes if i have my “gym kit” with me. i say no, unfortunately, as if i actually own a gym kit but just didn’t bring it today. so i sign up for a free class next monday.

it’s now friday, and i realise i don’t even own trainers.

If this post helped you breathe today, I would always be grateful for a cup of coffee.