Anger issues


I’m being held hostage. In my own home, in my own body by my own heart, my own emotions; my own damn sentimentality. I feel soft as a marshmallow. A soggy, sticky marshmallow melting in hot, sweet chocolate and devoured by unsentimental creatures from an unsentimental world I don’t understand, where the pain and ruin, downfall and tragedy of others, is entertainment and subject off mockery, cynical analyzes and obvious exploitation. Beings from an indefinable world inside my head somewhere I can’t quite set my finger upon. Like shadows in the farthest of my viewing edge which disappears when I turn my head to see who they are, what it is. They are whispering lies and truths and unfinished stories back and forth til my mind is in caos of intangibles. Can I survive if I let my heart die? Can I still remain my humanity if I sell my soul for peace? If I sell my soul for safety?

I close my eyes and soar away. I clothe myself in wings and carry off into the unknown, pitch black universe. Darkness surrounds me with millions of miles to the nearest star. I wonder how I can find my way back home, without stopping, without turning, without looking back over my shoulder. I end up on a strange planet, dimmed enlighted in the absence of colours and warmth; devoid of kindliness and care. I find myself lying on a dirt floor, naked, but not cold. Struck down by gravity, locked in behind walls of faded wood. Kept prisoner by enemies surrounding me without showing their identity. And I say to my self in a calm, lowered voice: “Remember: You are never alone!”. And I answer without a sound: “I’ll remember”.

I open my eyes, grab my phone and log in on facebook. Looking for someone else awake, for a chat, or to call. For every time I miss I feel more alone, betrayed by all, with no friend and no hope. A girlfriend at Vestre Gravlund, a comerade at Ullersmo, another on rehab. I have noone I can call four o’clock in the morning. That sucks! My life sucks! I don’t want to live it any more. There is too much sorrow, too much suffering, too much scuabbling and too many schemes. I start to erase my pals and block my gals on facebook. Throw people out of my life in cyberspace. Realize there’s no point in doing so and decide to deactivate my account instead. I’ve done it before. It silences the hellish noice between my ears. At least a little, at least for a while. I get up, walk into the livingroom and sit down on a hundred year old footstool, embroidered by an old aunty, and cry my eyes out. Let tears and snot run freely. I need someone to talk to. I open my phone again and google the word “crises” and several numbers appears. There are two of them which are operated around the clock. One is church, the other is not. It’s something about religion and insanity I personally think are joint together like popcorn and movies, and I don’t feel like talking to a priest, so I choose the other option. I need someone that can get me grounded, not someone who will shove me off to heaven.

A machine velcomes me, tells me that I have the right to two conversations a day and asks me to please hold the line.

Tuut, tuut! “You are number one in line. Please hold!”. Tuut, tuut, tuut, tuut. “Our counsellors are occupied. Please hold the line, or try again later. If life is at stake, please dial 113.”. Nope! It’s not that bad! My life’s definetly not at stake. I smear myself in patience like I would marinate a steak and let it soak for a day before I let it fry, and hold the line. Tuut, tuut, tuut. “You are number one in line. Please hold!”. What the…?! I’m crying here! Tuut, tuut, tuut. “Our counsellors are occupied. Please hold the line!”. My tears stop, and I get annoyed. Tuut, tuut. The machine tells me they can call me back if I choose not to wait. I will lose my anonymity because I have to give them the number to my cellphone, but not to worry; their counsellors are obligated to confidentiality. I will keep my place in line, and they will call me up between the hours of 08.00 a.m and 13.00 p.m.. I take a deep breath and let it out hard from my flabbering lips. It’s four hours till 08.00 a.m.. Tuut, tuut, tuut. “You are number one in line. Please hold!”. I have forgotten what I wanted to talk about, and hang up.

Fuck! It! All! I google the word “lobotomy” instead. I wonder if it can be done to someone who’s awake, or if I have to beat him unconscious. I know more than one who would be better off without their need of control. People without heart, personalities without souls. Those who believe they have the right to do harm if they don’t get what they want. Men who believe they have the right to force themselves upon women. A small hammer and an icepick, and suddenly the world would be a better place to everybody. Or at least to me.

I go back to bed. Fall asleep the moment my head hit the pillow, but before I close my eyes and sink into the warm forgetfulness under the duvet, I conclude after all that I still trust science more than church…


Hitting rock bottom

A disastrous birthday

This was the day of regret and shame. Regret, not only because I haven’t been able to stay sober for many days at a time, perhaps not more than three or four tops after the first week, but also because I spent the money I was supposed to spend on my japanese course, which I mentioned early on. Now I had to pay for that out of my travel account. My all so hollow travel account. Shame because I did something as ambitious and egocentric as blogging about my pledge to do 365 sober days, and then break my vows before two weeks had passed. Talking about throwing myself to the lions, or the trolls of cyberspace. From social anxity to social pornografi and back on a tray of assorted shots.

Yes, it was a wonderful birthday! Beautiful weather, one dillion greetings on facebook and messenger and so on, and a lovely picnic at the local pond where I fed my self enough food to saturate every worker at an average clothing factory in Bangladesh. Unfortunatly I wasn’t just overfilled. I managed to food poison myself to the extent that I spent the rest of the day in the bathroom where I was amazed by my bodys ability to empty it self out of two outputs at once. At the same time I was very thankful for the size of the room which allowed me to sit steady on the porcelain throne with my head in a not to uncomfortable angle in the sink, before I collapsed on the ice cold floor using the doorstep as a pillow after working out my abs that much I could still feel the burn a week later. And that was probably the only reason I didn’t drink more than one beer that day.

At least I got a rubber chick for my birthday. It wasn’t til the moment when I was standing there in the middle of the night with that thing in my hand, after I had recovered just a little from dizziness and nauseating contractions, and I heard the sound of that, to say the least ugly piece of rubber, that I realized that I had wished for this piece of crap, exactly this, for years. I’m sure I’ve wanted it for as long as I’ve been reading comics. That means as long as I’ve been able to read; 41 years. 5 years less than I’ve been loving cats. I have no idea why, but now you know: the cat was here before the chick.

This must be the most pointless ending I’ve ever written…

Anger issues

In karma we trust

I no longer understand what my psychologist want from me. Off course it was a lot worse when I had a therapist who didn’t understand me, but it’s pretty darn frustrating not to understand your therapist either. That eternal ongoing nagging about getting intouch with my feelings. I don’t get it. I feel like getting up and walk away, that’s what I feel. I think I’ve said that a couple of times already. But it seems like she means something else. To get intouch with my feelings is obviously not what I’m thinking of. What I would like to do, what I imagine. It’s not about what’s hidden in the darkest depths of my inner self.

There has been said and written a lot about forgiving and reconciliation. Meaningless phrases about forgive, but not forget. That you have to forgive to find peace of mind. To be able to move on. That you have to forgive because that’s what you do if you’re a good person. There are many things I can ignore. Out of love. Out of laziness. Of wisdom. Because I can’t have kittens in prison. Because there comes another day tomorrow. Because it’s insignificant. Because it serves me more to let it go. Because there’s no point in running around searching for vengeance towards someone who dies all by them self, or just ruin their lives without my help. Because I don’t kick downwards. Because I simply just have a life to live, but forgive?

It’s when I consider a hammer versus an axe that I run off to the pub. It’s when I catch my self pondering about how I can find out someones where abouts without leaving traces that I’m willing to accept almost any company or interlocutors because almost anything appears innocent and nice and acceptable compared to my own brains ability to figure out methods of torture. And believe me; I’m very inventive! I lifelong studie of creative processes as well as reading forbidden books since my parents hung the key to our house in a string around my neck, has prepared me for almost anything. Before I was ten I knew how to arrange a car accident which would release me from those individuals whos dna I was made of, but hardly could be claimed to be particularly suitable nurturers. I don’t know why I never did tha, but it’s a long time since I stopped imagine different accidents for them to die from. After all, I doubt I would get less pissed by experiencing even more shit. Or traumas, that is.

I believe there is a very thin line between pleasure and pain. I don’t believe the line between fantasize and realize is equally fine, but I do believe that all of those who claims they never even once have fantasized about performing ruthless, violent actions, or that they are incapable of hating someone, are lying. And those who claims they have never felt schadenfreude when somebody they would like to rip the head off, fucks up big time, are lying. This I BELIEVE! What I KNOW is that there’s no satisfaction in fantasizing about revenge, about violence. Imagening twisting a corksrew into the eye of some asshole I despise, even if I see the picture before my eyes a thousand times, wont give me any liberation nore comfort from my inner hell. And anybody who claims they don’t understand what I’m talking about, are lying!

That is what anger issues is all about!

It’s about knitting obsessivly instead of piercing someones testicles with my knitting needles even though it has been called for. It’s about not doing what the instincts of every single cell in my gut urges me to do. It’s about bathing in my own sweat, my own tears, my own blood, my own pain whilst I torment my self with questions with no answers. Why did all this happen to me? What did I do to deserve this? But I didn’t do anything wrong. It wasn’t me. Everything was just coincidences. A hell of a conglomeration of the traps of life. Who we are borned to be, and what life we are borned to live, is all a matter of luck or misfortune. So where do forgiving fit into this? There are no more forgivness than there is free will. I just need to find something else to think about. Something that makes me happy. Something that gives my life meaning, and my days contents until the moment comes when I se an oppurtunity to satisfy my darker side. Like seeing my eks tread on a rusty nail, get blood poisoning and staphylococcus aureus, and be forced to amputate from the neck down. It’s all about seeing why being so bloody furious really is kicking my own butt as well as kicking somebody who are already lying face down like they did when they did what they did. And the sweetest revenge is living well. That’s when I can get in touch with my feelings and tell my psycholigist that I sincerely are breathing with my stumach and my shoulders at ease. Or maybe I’ll just stop feeling…

Anger issues


It is said that the devil loves secrets unspoken. Particularly those which gnaw like demons on a tormented soul. Can this raging demons be defeated without taken them by their horns? Can evil be killed with silence? Can I restrict the demons in my heart by not talking about them, or just forget that they are there if I never mention them again? Can I protect myself and feel safe, if I keep quiet about the abuse, or do I only protect the abuser?

It was a cold and dark february night in the year of 2001. I was visiting my boyfriend at the premises of his club in Oslo. I woke up by the door very carefully being closed. The only light in the room came from the blizzard on the screen of a small portable tv a few feet from the bed where I was lying next to him. The first thing I noticed was that he was lying under the duvet, while I was lying on top of it. I was cold. Or rather; my upper body was cold. I couldn’t feel the lower part of it. I tried to pull out the duvet from underneath me, but I couldn’t move anything but my arms. I was paralyzed from my chest down. I could lift my head a little, and I saw that my knees was bent all the way up and forced down flat to both sides like I was placed like this in some kind of perverted, lying lotus position with my abdomen completely exposed. This was wrong! This was more then just wrong!

I grabbed a hold on the bedside with my left hand so I could twist my upper body in a way that made me able to get a grip with my right hand as well. I pulled myself over on the side and rolled out of the bed. My feet bumped into the floor while I still held on to the bedside. I was standing in a position like a sumo wrestler, ready for fight, but when I let go of the bed to stand up straight, I turned uncontrollably around my own axis, and had to grab on to the bed again so I wouldn’t just fall apart like an empty sack. My hole body was trembling. I couldn’t straighten my legs, nor my upper body, and in the light of the blizzard from the tv I saw the picture of what had been done to me. White glowing rage lit behind my eyes.

I could’ve murdered him at the spot if only my body had functioned properly, which it didn’t. In any way. To the extent I could move at all I buckled around and slammed a foot into his fat belly. There was no strength in the kick, or in my bare foot, but he had been awake all along. “Auch!”. He squeaked like the rodent he is: “If you can’t behave, you can go home!”. He pulled the duvet over his shoulders. I was unable to answer, or move, or do anything, and even less go anywhere. I let my ravaged body drop on the bed and fell asleep immediately.

I rised from the mattress into sitting position as I woke up. Sitting like that, on the bedside, looking down to the floor, my head was empty of thoughts, words, and images. Everything at that moment was an endless, hellish feeling which scattered from my chest to every, singel cell in my entire body. It was leaking out of every pore of my skin like fat, stinky soot, and my heart was filled with an ice cold emptyness.

I stopped smiling. I stopped laughing. I stopped dancing. I ran ill from heartbreak and rage. I started screaming. A furious, irrepressible howl emerged from my aching uterus, through my darkened heart, and my torn soul. I screamed at him. I screamed at his friends. I screamed at my friends and my neighbours. I screamed at the wall. I screamed at the tv. I screamed at the prime minister and the queen and the king. I screamed at the silence surrounding me. I screamed at the past, and I screamed at the future. I screamed with all the power of my lungs. I screamed without a sound. I screamed with all the strength that I had while my life went past and my youth was gone.

For ten years I screamed like that until the rescue finally entered my life. A tiny savior; a furball with four paws, big, blue, playfull eyeballs, sandpaper kisses and a heart of unconditional love. He curled up in my hair, in my armpit, under my chin, and patched together those pieces of my shattered heart with his purrs, and his meows, and slowly, bit by bit, that big chunk of ice in my chest melted and disappeared.

Latskap og andre dyder

52 dager i året! På å røyke?!

Jeg var ganske så tøff i trynet der jeg fortsatt lå under dyna med varmelakenet på hakk 2 og tenkte romantiske tanker om årets første skitur dagen før og la ut i det vide og breie på Facebook om skituren jeg skulle ta senere på formidda’n, men så fort jeg stakk det samme trynet utafor døra utkledd som en svartmalt michelin-mann for å ta en kjapp tur på den lokale dagligvaren og kjente hver eneste av de 15 kuldegradene herje med mine skakkjørte bihuler, så tenkte jeg at det egentlig var helt greit å ta en Gro-dag fra alle nyttårsforsetter om å reise tempelet og alt det der, og heller slite litt på sofaen og drikke te med honning og ingefær. Jeg skyldte på dårlig impulskontroll og et stadig økende, narcissistisk behov for likes på Facebook og ble hjemme med sjefen; Truls lille elskling. Og Netflix.

Jeg kjeder meg. Jeg trodde at det å slutte å drikke daglig skulle oppta meg i mye større grad enn det gjør. At jeg måtte gjøre noe med det annet enn å bare la være å drikke, men jeg må ikke det. Det er faktisk bare å la være å drikke. Det er akkurat som da jeg slutta å røyke. Veldig behagelig. Men i tillegg til de åpenbare fordelene ved å slutte, som bedre helse, mer penger, mindre angst og depresjoner, bedre søvn, mindre drama og intriger osv., så kommer den ikke fullt så åpenbare nyvunne tiden. Da jeg slutta å røyke regnet jeg ut at jeg hadde brukt i snitt 52 dager i året på bare å røyke ca. 20 om dagen.

52 dager i året! På å røyke!?

Jeg har med andre ord brukt nesten 4 år av livet mitt på bare å sitte å suge på en jævla Prince! Det funker jo ikke engang. Jeg har aldri følt meg noe annerledes etter at jeg har røyka tobakk enn jeg har gjort før jeg tente på en røyk og dro tjære og nikotin og 4000 andre giftstoffer ned i lungene. Snakker om bortkasta tid! Det er ikke noe særlig annerledes når man drikker hver dag. Bortsett fra at man bruker enda mer tid på det og får gjort enda mindre fordi alkohol faktisk virker. Ingen tåler alkohol! Vi blir drita fulle alle sammen når vi drikker. Jeg liker ikke den jeg er når jeg drikker hver dag, og de jeg omgås når jeg drikker interesserer meg ikke lenger når jeg ikke drikker, så plutselig står jeg her med enorme mengder tid jeg ikke helt vet hvordan jeg skal bruke, eller hvem jeg skal bruke den sammen med. Jeg har slutta å gå på puben. Hva skal jeg vel der? Briefe med min nyvunne edruelighet? Utfordre min svakhet for gylne bobler på fat? De har jo ikke vørterøl en gang. Ikke det at jeg ser noe mening i å sitte på en pub hver dag og drikke vørterøl heller. Allikevel skal jeg innrømme at hver gang jeg går ut av døra og gjør noe, så kjemper jeg en liten kamp med meg selv om hvorvidt jeg skal stikke innom puben og ta bare én øl. Spesielt etter jobb. Når jeg er sliten og sulten og hjernen istedet for å fortelle meg at jeg skal reise hjem å spise middag og hvile, skriker ØL ØL ØL ØL!!!! Men det er ikke noe som heter “bare én øl”! Alle som har rusa seg mesteparten av livet vet det. Det finnes ingen “bare én gang”! Så jeg snur i døra og drar hjem. Legger meg på sofaen med beina høyt, setter på Netflix og spretter en vørterøl og ser dypt inn i gardinene til jeg har opparbeidet nok initiativ til å gå ut på kjøkkenet og lage middag. Netflix ble min frelser, men helt ærlig så tviler jeg på at jeg kommer til å angre på at jeg har sett for lite på tv den dagen jeg skal dø, så jeg må finne noe annet å fylle tida med. Fortrinnsvis noe jeg kan tjene litt ekstra på.

Jeg har gullsmedutdannelse. Jeg fkk ikke lov til å ta svennebrevet, eller fagbrevet heter det vel nå, da jeg var over 25 år på daværende tidspunkt og hadde derfor ingen rettigheter. Akershus fylkeskommune mente det var billigere/bedre/mer fornuftig for alle parter at jeg heller gikk på attføringspenger, som det het den gang, i 13 år til før jeg ble uføretrygdet av ren utmattelse etter å ha slåss med systemet siden jeg var 21 år, enn å la meg fullføre utdannelsen som gullsmed og være ute i jobb i ’05. En lærlingeplass koster fylkeskommunen ca. 200 000 for 1 år. Jeg hadde litt problemer med å se logikken i det regnestykket. Synd, ikke sant?!


Nei, jeg kan ikke lage sånt som det der hjemme. Jeg kan ikke sitte med gasstank og åpen flamme ved spisebordet i stua, men det finnes selvfølgelig andre ting jeg kan gjøre. Så jeg har funnet frem tegnesaker. Skisseblokk og blyant, maling og pensler og staffeli. Jeg har like mange bilder som jeg har uskrevne historier i hodet, og det er på tide å få dem også ned på papiret. Eller lerretet. Eller hva jeg måtte finne på å bruke av medier. For alle vet jo hva de sier de som har greie på det:

Those who can’t teach, and those who can do!

Anger issues · Love

This fierce and violent infatuation

So I’m lying here, in my bed, sleepless, tasting my own garlic breath, with only a castrated, male cat as my company, wondering where that great love took off. I met him in another town, in another world, in another life, in another millenium. He sat down next to me and said: “What if me and my brothers took you to a room and gang raped you just a little?”. I looked at him with my big, blue eyes and smiled. “Now you made me think of something. I don’t know what it’s called. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”. He paid curiously attention to what I was about to explain. “It’s this little thing that women wore during World War II. A kind of tube, and on the inside of this tube there where knives sharp as razor blades,” He swallowed. Heavily. “and this tube the ladies stuck up in their vagina, because you see: if they couldn’t prevant rape, it should at least not go unpunished.”. I smiled like a cat licking cream of her whiskers while watching his reaction. He thought long and hard whilst his jaw moved back and forth, looking up at the top shelf in the bar. At last he took a deep breath and sighed before he answered. “On the other hand we might as well not.”. He left without a word. He just slipped off the barstool and disappeared into the shadows of their clubhouse.


My thoughts are wandering like ghosts through the night. Sometimes I talk to him like a lonely child talks to an invisible friend, but I’m not a lonely child. I don’t even feel lonely. I feel comfy and varm, wrapped up in a bed with linen of soft flannel. Washed and made late at dawn just yesterday. The bedroom is parfumed with the scent of peach coloured roses. They’re standing on the floor in a cracked crystal vase. Breathtakingly beautiful, soft as velvet, delicat as an angels heart. They remind me of his voice so long ago. A witness of love silently wispering “I see you!” between those lines unspoken.


It’s getting to warm under the duvet and I stick my feet outside it and regulate the heat on the electric sheet. My cat, mon petite ami, is stretching his body in all his length, (which is quite long, his a cat after all), purring and smiling at me with his yellow, oblique eyes. His hind paws are touching my thighs, and I pet his soft ears and silky fur.

It’s nice to have company when you can’t sleep, something that at times happen frequently. I get lots of advice about which pills to pop, but I’ll rather pet my fury petite cherie and weave pretty dreams of love until the tricks of the Sandman makes my eyelids fall. And there, in the dim light of a small bedside lamp, I see the reflection of my own fierce infatuation. My common sense says no, I’m wrong! I’m not inlove with the man. I’m inlove with the idea of being inlove. But my body tells me that my reason is mistaken. It’s very confusing, and yet it isn’t.

Live, adventurous images from times gone wild flickers behind my eyelids in the darkest hours of the winter night. I see his lips against mine, his tounge, his arms around me, hands and fingers across naked skin, his body between my thighs. I enjoy every delightful, impassioned second, and I hate him for this just as often.

May he burn like a fallen angel! May his wing roast as a Kentucky fried chicken! I will cut off his hair while he’s sleeping and weave ginger lingerie that will drape around my breasts and caress me in secret places under my dress where noone can see. I’ll tattoo his toes in psychedelic colours and sacred symbols, and polish his toenails with shimmering glitter before I cut them all off with a poultry scissor, thread them on a string and wear them like a queen as a talisman of horror for my admirers to see. Maybe I shall sacrifice the heads of animals on his doorstep, and make his mistresses disappear? Or maybe not.

‘Cause it’s only a nightflight to an imaginary paradise, a fairyland in my mind tripping. I keep the illusion to close to my heart to hinder the dream from disappearing. I’ll lock it up in a blood filled chamber and let it drown slowly, but forever. And as I release myself of a good morning fart so hot it almost causes my quilt to ignite, I think to myself that it might just be okey that this love kept me wait. For what use do I have of a man who doesn’t even dare to walk up my stairs? I have places to go, things to do, people to get to know, and you know what they say those who know?

Don’t fall into the dicksand, chicas! You know; like quicksand only with dicks!

Anger issues

Dark secrets of repair kits

Where do I find the beginning of heaven? Can I find it where the swinging treetops stop, where the swallovs are dancing their airballet with the last summers litter of chickens? Is it at the highest of mountains, over the rainbow, above the next hilltop, or is it where the grass sprouts in freshly sown soil warmed by the april sun? Are we in that case allready in heaven? Is heaven barely space between planets and stars? Is heaven a physical condition like ecstacy, happiness, or satisfaction? Is heaven peace of mind? Is heaven something that is, like strawberries with cream, a delicious, home-baked piece of pie, a skydive, new driver licence, or straight A’s at the final exam? Or is heaven something that is not, like the absence of sorrow and suffering? Can I find the beginning of heaven at the end of my own personal hell? Or is heaven all of this? If heaven comes after hell; if heaven comes after all of this, what will there be after heaven? More of heaven, or nothing? Just vacuo?

I saw Nirvana in a tube of glue in my fifteenth summer. I was introduced to the dark secrets of the repair kits in the backyard of a local gas station right next door to the stadium where I for many years had jumped both high and far, and ran an endlessly number of rounds on red, brick coloured gravel. At school we had been through more than one period of awarness to the danger of drinking, smoking and heroin addiction, but never had any adult had a serious chat with us about sniffing glue.

We had plowed through books such as Hard Asphalt and We children of Banhof Zoo. I was terrified of heroin. I was terrified by the bare thought of becomming a junky or a drunk. I was scared to death to end up like Ida Halvorsen or Christiane F.. I would never have touched heroin. I still hadn’t got the taste for alcohol, but I let my self convince by the innocence of a substance anyone could buy at a sporting goods store without id or permission from home. No warning from parents nor teachers. Highly recommended by the school’s very misguided slut. We found what we searched for in that tiny tube. Some found excitement. I found Nirvana.

I traveled to the music from the rotor blades on a helicopter I couldn’t see. Somebody gave me a plastic bag with a few drops of glue, I put it against my lips and breathed in and out a couple of times. Then the helicopter arrived and took me away to the most peacefull place.

It was the most delightful of all delightful glades in the mildest of all mild forrests on the most wonderful of all wonderful summer days. The sun was shining through the crowns of birch trees and made the sky shimmer as a ballroom queen, and the leaves of the blossoming aspen was shivering of excitment in it’s summer green. The legs of the birch trees stood proud in their youth; smooth and white as snow, rough and black as charcoal. The ground was covered in soft and warm grass, uncut and disheveled, bright green and sweet. Somewhere between here and there a creek was trickling her melody accompanied by birds arguing over territory. A kitten blinked lovingly at me, and I laid down and let my self be filled with perfected peace.

Then it was over as soon as it had begun, and I was back in the shadows in the filth in that backyard next to my childhoods stadium of glory which was now a part of my past. Forgotten like my innocence was buried in the ground of an hallucination. My mind and soul was screaming for more, and my heart was filled of longing for what I would never experience, never feel again. And God knows I tried. I searched everywhere, or at least at those weird, hidden places were I most likly would find what I was longig for. In an old, abondoned truck. In a playhouse at a neighbours house. In my own bed. At school. In someones caravan. In someone else’s garage. The last place I searched was in the tower of some playground equipment in a small town in southern Germany. There I found something else. A big raven with shiny, black feathers and ancient eyes came flying over my head and landed on my left shoulder. Suddenly my search was over.

One year later I finished secondary school. I celebrated somewhere between completely wasted and comatose.

Klovner og døde menn

Klovner og døde menn

«Hvordan så han ut?», spurte hun. Jeg smilte. «Han hadde langt, vakkert, kobberrødt hår som alderen bleknet så det skinte som messing. Huden hans var lys brun og lå stramt over muskler som vitnet om år med hard trening.”, forklarte jeg. “Han møtte meg alltid med et stort smil. Leppene hans var fyldige med en furten underleppe som tagg om å bli kyssa og bitt. Han hadde uforglemmelig dårlige sjekkereplikker og hender som så ut som de kunne få til hva som helst.». «Men hvorfor er dere ikke sammen?», ville hun vite. “Hva var det som kom i mellom dere?”.

Jeg lever som et villt dyr; jeg hverken røyker eller drikker. Sitter bare i senga og skriver. Små historier, ei bok som får til og med meg selv til å lure på om det er noe galt med meg. Ser på netflix mens musklene svinner hen og hjernen antar samme smak og konsistens som en tyggis man har tygd på i timevis. Har dratt frem min gamle Lateral Thigh Trainer som har stått og samla støv siden jeg fikk prolaps og ble delvis lam i det ene beinet. Det var i 2007. Det gikk over det også, men LTT’en ble stående stille. Den kunne ikke en gang brukes som klesstativ, bare som hybelkanin-produsent, men nå har jeg dratt den ut i stua og tørka støv av den. Tatt noen usikre steg opp og ned. Løfta litt på manualene mine også. Og dratt på meg en strekk i skulderen. Det gjorde jeg mens jeg lå på sofaen og så på The Crown. Jeg skulle bare rette litt på puta og så var det noe i skuldra som gjorde noe den ikke skal. Jeg prøvde meg på noen enkle ballettøvelser fra ungdommens dager. Sånn for ryggens skyld. Det gikk forbausende bra, akkurat da, men det var ikke helt uproblematisk å få på seg buksene dagen etter. Jeg måtte en tur til kiropraktor. Fikk beskjed om at jeg ikke er tjue år lenger. Det var jeg altså ikke helt klar over. Noen måtte faktisk si det til meg, men har jeg skjønt det?

Jeg fikk verdens beste julegave. Av pappa. Ny seng. Regulerbar. Har ikke sovet så godt på det jeg kan huske. Jeg ofra til og med Donald-kavalkaden for å feire juleaften sammen med dem; familien. La Famiglia. Så godt sover jeg. Jeg sover så godt at jeg har valgt å bruke senga som arbeidsplass også. For når jeg våkner og fortsatt har bilder surrende i hodet av en mann som parterer en annen med motorsag mens han forklarer meg hvor forsiktig man må være når man går løs på skallen, for hvis man skal lage kunst av det som om det skulle være et stykke tre, må man være forsiktig så man ikke kapper hele hodet av, så må det jo ned på papiret. Eller i hvert fall pc’en. Jeg kan ikke gå rundt med sånt i tankene hele dagen. Man kan jo bli gal av mindre. Så pc’en står ved siden av senga, klar til kamp.

Jeg liker å ta små turer i mine aners fotspor. Det gjør meg ydmyk å sitte ved Johannes-kapellet i Nidarosdomen og se navnet til Sara Thomasdatter Hammond felt ned i gulvet i messing og marmor. Eller å gråte en skvett ved gravstedene i Kristiansund, se husene de bodde i, svanen fra tante Margits apotek på lokalmuseet. For alt dette er meg. Alt dette er en del av meg. Da jeg sleit meg gjennom åra på skolen til tross for angst og depresjoner og astmaanfall som aldri ga seg og sykehusopphold og idioter som terroriserte meg år ut og år inn; hver gang jeg følte for å bare bli liggende på sofaen og aldri reise meg igjen, da tenkte jeg på mormor. Mormor som var skolens beste elev, men som ikke fikk lov til å fortsette, til å ta en utdannelse, så hun måtte vaske for andre hele livet til kroppen hennes var ødelagt og hun ble minstepensjonist. Om jeg ikke orka å fortsette for meg sjøl, så skulle jeg i hvert fall gjøre det for henne. «Livet er en gamp og på den skal jeg ride!»

Pappa tok en dna-test for ei stund sida. En sånn My Heritage-greie. Det viser seg at alle mine mannlige aner på hans side er fra Irland, iblandet litt blått krigerblod fra Delbhna Tír Dhá Locha. Det var et par ting som falt på plass der. Det er visst noe med at deler av hukommelsen er nedarvet. Hamret inn i dna-profilen vår som spøkelser fra gamle tider. Og kobberrød kjærlighet ruster ikke. Den blir først som gull. Så blond og til slutt hvit. Den gråner ikke som andre.

“Men hvorfor er dere ikke sammen?” spurte hun. “Hva var det som kom i mellom dere?”.
For mange klovner. For mange døde menn.

Hitting rock bottom

Hitting rock bottom

Day 45, august 29. 2017

You might think that falling asleep using your doormat as a pillow because you couldn’t find the keys which slipped through your fingers and landed on the floor two feet from where your head hit the doormat the night before, is what’s called hitting rock bottom, but no! Unless this is something that occur more than once or twice in a lifetime, this is only a sign of a night at the local pub that got slightly out of hand, with friends whos partyfactor is a little over the top. No, I hit rock bottom years before my cheek hit my very uncomfortable doormat.

It’s suprisingly easy to hit rock bottom when you feel abandoned, lost and lonley. Especially if your emotions, and not to mention your ability of judgment is sedated with substances you can buy at the liquor store, the farmacy and those slightly more sleazy parts of the open market.

Take a good look at this picture! This was taken years after my heart, mind and soul was ripped apart at their seams and spread with the winds like the violence of a hurricane within. It was years since I was wandering in the dark searching for something, anything that could give me a clue about who I am. I guess that’s what’s called an utterly, devastating identity crisis. When this picture was taken I was on my way back on track.

I had found the first little piece of my self in an article about Judas Iskariot, of all things, in National Geographic, recovering from a spontaneous pneumothorax, (just google the damn thing!), at the intensiv care at the Akershus University hospital. Yes, I was very high on morphin at the moment. I was also wasted the entire eight weeks when I graduated with three straight A’s at my bachelor-degree, but that’s not the point. I didn’t lose my self to drugs. I lost my self to bullies and psychopaths.

Nevertheless… I had managed to graduate some subjects as math, science, history, english etc. and was at the moment studying at Oslo Met to become a teacher of art and craft when I hit rock bottom. Yes, I’m saying I was on my way up when I fell down, again, and hit rock bottom. I guess that’s how recovery from shit happens; ups and downs and ups again. I hit rock bottom somewhere near Trondheim. This was the point where I asked my self the big question «WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING???». The picture above is a consequense of me hitting rock bottom. Or rather: rock bottom hitting me. Really hard. In my face. It was when I announced my departure, (from the rock bottom), that he hit me. With a howling biip at a decibel equal to a rather big kindergarden ringing in my left ear, I considered burning the house down with the rock bottom inside, but I decided that I wouldn’t spend one more minute of my life on the rock bottom, especially not in jail. As mentioned earlier I can’t have kittens doing time which again would make me very unhappy. This photo has kept the rock bottom at a proper distance of minimum two hundred and seventy miles ever since I published it on facebook, so my worries about a lack of cats in my life was fortunatly proven wrong.

Wether I pour gazoline over a mans head and set him on fire, or not, doesn’t really have anything to do with what he has or has not done. It all depends on my ability to control my self, my urges, to analyze the consequences of my actions and choose my life, and my future over the exquisite satisfaction of his sudden death. I hit the rock bottom because I chose not to listen to my own judgement. Those alarming bells ringing in my ears, and those red lights blinking behind my eyelids. I deliberatly chose to ignore them. Deliberatly in that sence that I had been manipulated my hole life not to believe in my self. I came to some brutal conclusions that summer. Took some unsentimental choices. Burned a lot of bridges. Then I started the hard work it is taking back control of one’s own life.

Stress managment. Coping strategies. Mindfullness. The sound of these words bring me to the edge of hyperventilation. Just a smack on my lips of these expressions, and I feel my muscels tighten all the way from my butt to my eyebrows. Because if I want to learn this, I have to get in touch with my feelings, which each and every singel cell in my body is protesting against. I have to sit down in my all so brave psychologists office and dig up every little shitty feeling I have buried with the rotting corps of my lost soul. Anger and hate. Fear and sorrow. Insecurity, shame, vindictiveness. Jealousy and loneliness. Every little feeling this poor wretch has denied since nursery stage shall be dragged to the surface and analyzed, one by one, and then I have to learn how to cope with them. Makes me feel like a pussy in front of Trump; defenseless and vulnerable. My shrink has spent two years only to make me sit still long enough to finish one such exercise. She’s very patient that lady, but we did it. Not because she didn’t give up, it’s her proffesion after all, but because I didn’t give up. I made the decision to stop oppressing my self. To care for my heart, my mind and my soul. To acknowlege my feelings because my life is shaped by them.

Tomorrow’s my birthday. I’m going to have a beer and don’t give a fuck.

Drømmen om Soria Moria

Drømmen om Soria Moria

“Jeg lo mens jeg ristet de siste redslene ut av håret, feide de av huden, blåste de ut av hjertet og ut av lungene. Døren bak meg lukket seg med et lydløst smell mens bolter, lås og slå atter stengte dragen inne i sitt eldgamle fengsel.”  

Så hva nå? Hva skal jeg gjøre, hvor skal jeg gå? Det er ikke dag, og det er ikke natt. Det er ikke mørkt, og det er ikke lyst. November forsvant uten at jeg merket det, vinteren kom og året er snart omme. Tankene mine er uten farge, uten ende, men jeg skimter en soloppgang i det fjerne. Det er på tide å finne barndomsdrømmen. Det inderlige ønsket som har murret i bakhodet siden jeg var fem år og var på bondeferie i Skåne hos en gammel onkel.

Etter en kveld med god mat og hjemmebrygget øl hos venner, opplevde jeg en herlig, magisk natt. Jeg fikk ikke sove og cirka halv fem om morgenen sto jeg opp for å beundre fullmånen og stjernehimmelen. Det var måneformørkelse, og månen var stor og blodrød med en dyp skygge over pannen. Stjernene var tindrende klare og fulltallige, og blant dem blinket guddommelige Venus, Jupiter og Mars. Jeg sto der og frøys på tærne i flipflops mens månelyset fikk frostrøyken til å glitre i luften for hvert åndedrag. Jeg tenkte på hvor “nær alt” jeg bor. Sykehus, kjøpesenter, Norges beste kollektivtilbud, Lillestrøm og Oslo. Men det er ikke det altet jeg vil bo nær. Det er det altet jeg så rundt meg der jeg vil bo nær.  Hvis du vil vite hvor hjertet mitt er; løft en stein, kapp en grein, så finner du det der.

Jeg skal finne et sted der jeg kan leve og puste fritt, være meg selv og beundre månen og stjernene hver skyfrie kveld.  Ta med meg Truls lille elskling til et sted med blomsterenger, åpne sletter, skog, hav og blånende fjell. Til et sted der jeg kan grave hendene ned i jorda og sette en jordbæråker, plante jordskokk og kanskje holde høner. Et sted langt unna overfladiskhet og meningsløst hat. Et sted jeg kan gå på jakt og dyrke min egen mat. Kanskje jeg skal finne en som vil det samme; en å bli gammel og bitter med. Eller kanskje jeg skal bli gammel og bitter alene. På et sted perfekt for katter, omringet av vill natur bare i selskap av mine egne tanker. Skrive bøker om kjærlighet og bestialske drap og kokebøker med fantastisk mat og male rare bilder sikkert ingen vil ha. Eller kanskje jeg bare skal flytte til Bora Bora. Det spørs om jeg får lov til å føle meg ensom da, og er det lov å ha katt på Bora Bora? Hvis ikke kan det faen meg væra det samma! Katt må jeg ha!

Jeg får begynne å farte litt rundt om kring. For en gangs skyld med mål og mening. Ta toget til Bergen for utsiktens skyld. Skue ned i jettegryter og smaragdgrønne elver, over snøkledde vidder og bunnløse skrenter. Se og erfare mitt elskede lykkeland. Spørre om veien av fremmede mennesker, helt uten skam. De er jævlig hyggelige de bergenserne, skal vite. På Bryggen der fant jeg meningen med livet. I en dessert. Med multer. På Hurtigruta fant jeg bare tyskere. Og et par latviere. Personalet var dog veldig begeistret for å møte en enslig, norsk dame. Selvom jeg så forferdelig ut på håret. For hvem faen bryr seg om det? Jeg er da ikke Samson heller… Jeg er Hulder!