Sculpture, welcoming conservation

UntitledVery pleased. It’s not finished. But it’s a long way towards where I want to go with this. It was originally a school assignment. But I developed it, and now it’s my own. It has taken me some time and energy; first i dugg up my complete fear of being alone. It’s strong, and I had never looked it in the eye before. Then with time and hard work I have slowly realized I am not alone. I have one that constantly writes to me. One that does what she says she will, that one I can trust. I have one that at the moment treasures my friendship highly. I have one that I think will not fail, and will stay with me a very long time as my friend. On top of this, I will meet people I know a bit around town. That is important too.

So, my sculpture started as a wordless show of my loneliness, and the fact that many things ends this spring. But it ended with the joy of feeling loved. Do I journey hard? I always journey hard.

It ended up in a exhibition on Umeå Fashion week, at Hotel Mimer. Not just me, but all of my class. We are all good at what we do, and really nice people, I will miss them a lot. They have a part in how this sculpture became, since our time together in class are one of the things that ends. One other thing that ends, is my therapy.  I completely forgot to tell my main inspiration about this exhibition! My therapist. If you read this, I wish you would go see it.

They made us white something to fit with our sculptures. I was unused to mix writing with sculpture, but it was very nice and educating. Here it is:


A good conversation

To meet and be open and humble together

To accept who we are, do not try to change

To meet with my horrible, wonderful person. Just by being there. Listen. Or tell.

To not be someone wrong or right, happy or sad, friend or enemy.

To just be what I am just now.

Not to change the other, but grow. Preferably together.


I hope I’m on my way. To make a difference. Just to be someone to talk to, and give maybe a few good words on your road in life. What more could I ask?


A part

Fortsett. Spørr meg igen.
Ingen annan spurte. Nokon gong.
Eg har ønskja det så så lenge.
Eg såg det no.



Medviten og skremmende.
Mine kjensler finnes berre for meg. Som i musikken.
Men no skal eg seie det. Heilt ut.
Ein vegg til faller. Igjen. Og igjen.

Tiden går…

Songar som beskriv nokon. Skrift som beskriv nokon. Eg vil ge. Eg vil lyfta.
Eg veit ikkje kven eg utfordrar mest.
Eg bryr mig.
Då ryggar eg tilbake.
Spelar min rolle.

Men omkring, omslutande, omsorg.
Over heile meg. Ei kjensle av att få vere i fred.
Som om det eg er, ikkje spelar nokon rolle.
Som om det eg ikkje er, ikkje spelar nokon rolle.
Eg vil ikkje vere i fred.
Eg vill vidare.
Som att eg får vara i fred, ihop.

Men eg får ikkje bry meg mer.

Det är över nu.

Det ska bort.


Unexpected lesson in therapy

I’m currently seeing a therapist. It was a long time coming. This time, I actually plan on staying in the same city long enough for therapy to make a difference.

My therapist is a student. It does not bother me. Everyone has to learn at some point, and students are often hard working. But suddenly I red an article about psychology and therapy, and it described every little detail of my therapists behavior. Every word, question and movement was directly from writings. Nothing came from a real person, I had been talking to a book! It was a play! I felt betrayed and manipulated. But my therapist is a student that spent years reading books, and had just started talking to strangers in therapy. Having no experience, books and articles are all there is to fall back on. Not really a surprise. I felt stupid. Yet, why did I feel so betrayed?

I have a soft spot where people move in. People that have something about them, things I look up to and things I find important. This place is special, and I will do very much to make sure these people are well. I will fight for them to the end. This is not a problem. Most times. The thing is, I am not in control. Sometimes people move in that’s not invited. It took me some time to realize that the therapist had moved in. It angered me. People in my soft spot is important to me, and I grieve when they leave and goes on with their lives somewhere else. It hurts a lot. And a therapist will disappear. That is a part of the deal. It is not a friend.

People have always been important to me. I always go all in with everyone I meet.  It has taken me years to learn how to have acquaintances, how to have people I do not really know very well around me. It is the way I am. But others might not be the way I am. Others might take a long time to get to know, and they are annoying or sometimes plain evil. I love people easily and quickly, and being met with anger and evil hurts. With time this got to me, and I have grown very suspicious. Today I expect people to be hurtful and mean. It has left me incredible lonely at times.

Then suddenly I meet a easygoing and kind therapist who just like that moves in. And protecting myself from the coming pain, I shut the therapist out. I speak only of what I find important and necessary. Yet, this therapist person still lingers. Because even if I am suspicious and shut down, no one ever leaves my soft spot. I still care too much. And it will still hurt when my time with therapy is over.

I do not look forward to it.

What I remember of one boy

I feel that I’m looking at #metoo a bit from the outside. I have participated in the discussions, even written my name on lists. But why do I not feel very involved? Because; it’s not news. I have known this a very long time. I lost a job because I am a woman (that is what I tell people that don’t get why #metoo is happening). I lost male friends because they suddenly got the idea that I wanted them for more (that is what I tell people that don’t get how confusing it can be to be a young woman). I was lonely and had few friends as a child, because all my neighbors kids were male (that is what I tell people that needs to think about how they bring up their children).

About that. Some neighboring kids was tree years younger, and friends and classmates with my younger brother. They where to young to care. I played with them a lot. Until they grew up and started using cold behavior to push me away. At the time I was thinking it was because I was so much older. I had already learned that my presence was not wanted, and that was normal. Because, there was also kids at my age around. Particularly one of them.

I was best friends with his sister. I was at their house a lot, and she was at ours. But me being me, I had no problem having more than one friend. I did not, and still not, see any differences. We were all children! Sadly I was the only one thinking like that. I remember a great deal. He was running away from me, playing games that I was bound to miserably fail at, violently throwing hard green plums at my back, made me cry. He was a year older than me. And showed up to destroy things. Particularly the things I created. I learned to hide my creations, or they got destroyed. Clear as day I remember the snowman. It was huge! Me and my best friend had made it! It was made of two pieces, and not yet finished. I knew the moment he showed up, that he would tear it down. He had that odd smile plastered on his face, and just as I thought; he pushed the upper part of my happy snowman down. I learned not to show him that I cared for my creations, I learned he would always destroy. I learned that men always would destroy, specially what I cared for. Imagine the relationships I had as a young adult.

What makes me angry today is not the evil children, or the need to destroy what you love. It was his smile. His odd, weird smile that was completely off. It never fooled me into thinking he was a happy. I got the answer years later; he liked me. He was trying to show love.

Question; who the hell taught him to show love with evil?

And just like #metoo, this is not news. Still today we excuse our young boys into thinking that violence and power is sexy. That a boy pushing a girl means that he likes her. That forcefully kissing her is positive. That she will think good of of him if he climbs the highest tree. Let me tell you; we do not. There is NO way to understand such behavior as good. Pushing feels angry, forcefully kissing feels like violence, and climbing the highest tree is stupid.

If you do not stop, the girls learn that love hurts. And will accept attacks such as #metoo is all about. Because he abuses out of love…

I see #metoo a bit from the outside because I am a bit on the outside. I learned that things I create is worthless to anyone but me. If I involve myself in anything, no one will care, and if they do, they will destroy it.

I hear he is living a happy life now. I sincerely hope he is living a happy life now. And I sincerely feel like destroying it too.

What I remember.

Weekends was always nice. No school in two days. Sleeping as much as I liked. Peace and quiet. Saturdays was always like this: porridge at noon, candy at six, home made pizza at eightish in the evening. Always the same. I loved it. It made me feel safe and guarded. My family was always there, we all loved Saturdays. The only peaceful day, and the only day that was the way I liked it.

As time went by, I grew up. Started my teens. Started wanting more. Friends was never my specialty, but I had some. One at least. It was a puzzle, because I lived in the middle of a neighborhood full of kids. Some was younger, some older. A few my age. As a teenager I started taking walks. Just walking. Specially late Saturday afternoon, before bedtime. I remember opening the door, shoes and coat on, and hear music. Music from the neighborhood. From the nearest house. As a child I spent a lot of time playing instruments, I could hear that it was not a recording. It was someone playing together. Guitars, bass, drums and singing. A band. My neighboring kids had a band. And I was alone.

This happened nearly every Saturday evening, for some time. I will never forget THAT feeling of loss.

But I never questioned my loneliness then. It was a feeling I needed to get used to growing up I supposed. Today I know why. The bass player had laughed at my actions up in my face. The guitarist threw away a drawing I made for him as a child in disgust. I never gave away drawings again. The singer, always destroyed everything I made. There was no need to make snowmen in my neighborhood. He would tear them apart. Every time. With a silly smile. I wonder till this day what I did wrong.

Thinking further; I liked giving away beautiful things as a child. I usually left wild flowers at my aunts when she was out. Never heard anything from her about that. One time I found the first flower of the year, and run to my cousin to show him. He ripped it apart and put it in some mud cake he had going on, laughing. He was good at laughing. One time I asked him if the cock laid eggs. He never answered, just laughed up in my face.

I did not think of my sadness as bad or wrong or a hazard. It had always happened.

Today I can not stand these people. I know they are grown up now, and probably good people. But this is not about logic or intellect. This is childhood pain. And compare to them, I have to live with it. Rest of my life.

Old, angry and in need of a toilet…

Sometimes things happens that turns out to be more important than it seems from the beginning. Like if your new neighbor ends up becoming your best friend. Some of us thinks: “if you did not move in here, I would never met you!”. Others of us does not think about it much. I want to write about one time when I understood more and more. And how good it could be to think about what happens.


Yesterday I cleaned the big store. It’s my job for the summer. It takes three hours of heavy labor, it is stressful. When I came home I sat very tired on the couch and had some time to think about the day. Suddenly I said “Something strange happened at work a few days ago. I got yelled at by an old man”.

Two days prior to this I was cleaning the only toilet in the whole store, very much in need of cleaning. Me and a colleague of mine was in the middle of cleaning and fixing a broken dispenser, when a person turns up at the door. Sometimes this happens, I have never understood why some people tend to look at us work. But we continued to clean, it is our job after all. No one wants to do their businesses on a filthy toilet anyway. When this person walked into the toilet with us (without a word), it became weird. Did this person need glasses? Just then, he started to talk. Loud and pushy he started to yell that he had worked in service for many years, and we should immanently leave the toilet when he came as a costumer, and leave him alone! He said he would tell the store about our behavior! Whatever we said, it did not help. It was a choice; starting a fight or just leave. I choose to leave, I do not get paid to fight with people. And if he wanted a filthy toilet, who am I to argue.

I could continue discussing service, but my point if view is that I did not take on a cleaning job because I like to handle people, but because I like to work alone. I do my job well, but I like to not be there when you enjoy the toilets and stores I clean.

My point is; this situation made a permanent mark. In a way I had not expected.

The man was about 80 years old, big and with grey hair. He thought it was okay to yell at grown up people doing their job for the costumers benefit (him), yell at cleaners, yell at younger women. And he was wrong. It’s not okay. The world has moved on. I got angry thinking about this, but what to do. Forget it. Everyone has bad days at work. That’s life. Move on.

Yesterday I was at work again at the same store. That was nice, I knew everything about the job, nothing I couldn’t do. I did what I was paid to do, and drove off. In my car I realized that while I was cleaning, I had jumped a little. I got off my routine a bit. I wondered why, but I didn’t think much about it. I had more work to do that day.

At home that night, when I sat on my couch and remembered the toilet incident, I realized why I had jumped a little. I had jumped whenever old men with grey hair had passed me. Had the toilet man given me a trauma?

These jumps had made me come of my routine. I got an adrenaline rush. Made me anxious. Made me frighted. Imagine thee hours of expecting old men yell at me. He had very much worsened my job. I had a safe and mentally easy job, but after him I had a unsafe and mentally hard job.

This is easy to ignore. Just a few jumps, what’s that! But if I return to the very same store and the place is making me nervous and fidgety, its not just a few jumps. The job is a lot heavier being anxious all the time.

Now this is something that just happened. It’s not really rocket science. None of this will change humanity’s history.  But think, what if this happens a lot to many people. What if you got yelled at daily? You would not become an astronaut, you would become scared. What if all the frighted people could put their energy in science instead? And above all, how much more happiness would they feel not being scared all the time? That would change the world.

I told someone this story last night. If I had not started to talk about it with someone, I would not realize it’s impact on me. Changing my everyday life. And now I do not feel it anymore. I am not jumpy. I’ve talked about it, and it got better.

The old man’s complaints about us; we never heard anything about it. My guess is that the young female employees in the store reacted as me and my colleague did; young women tend to meet these angry old men more often. We sigh and move on. As good as we can.

Arga, gamla och nödiga.

Vissa saker man upplever visar sig vara viktigare än de verkade från början. Som att man råkar flytta in bredvid en granne som visade sig bli ens bästa vän. Vissa tänker “vilken tur att jag just den flytten hände, annars hade jag aldrig mött dig!”. Andra tänker inte över det alls. Jag vill skriva om en gång jag tänkte mer och mer efterhand. Och hur bra de är att tänka efter vad som egentligen händer.

I går städade jag en stor affär. Det är mitt jobb i sommar. Jobbet tar över tre timmar, det är tungt, det är mycket att göra, så jag satte mig tungt ned i soffan när jag kom hem. Trött fick jag tid att tänka lite. Och jag sa till den andra som satt tungt i soffan efter en lång arbetsdag; “De hände nått konstigt på jobbet här om dan. Jag fick skäll av en gammal man”.

Två dagar innan hade jag och en kollega städat den enda kundtoaletten i hela affären. Den var jättestökig, pappershanddukarna hade trasslat till sig i mekaniken, vi försökte få ordning på den, torka handfat och toalett, nytt toapapper skulle på plats, allt det där man gör när man städar en toalett. I dörren dyker upp en person. Det händer tyvärr ibland, folk kommer och tittar på oss när vi jobbar. Vi jobbar vidare. För vem vill väl gå på en risig toalett? Personen kommer in i rummet med oss, och här blir det udda. Ser han dåligt? Efter ett tag börjar han högt prata om att han minsann har jobbat inom service i många år, så beter man sig inte, och vi borde gått ut så fort han dök upp och låta honom i fred på toaletten! Frågor om han vill vara på en smutsig toa och info om att det inte fanns fungerande papper hjälpte lite. Jag hade valet mellan storbråk och att gå ut och låta han gå på den smutsiga toaletten. När han var klar skulle han klaga på oss till affären vi jobbade i.

En 80 år gammal man som tycker det är okay att skälla på en som gör sitt jobb och försöker göra det bästa för honom som kund, skälla på städare, skälla på yngre kvinnor. Han har ju uppenbarligen fel. Världen har gått vidare. Vad gör man, det är bara att glömma. Alla har dåliga dagar på jobbet ibland. That’s life. Ta tag och gå vidare.

I går skulle jag städa samma affär igen. Skönt, jag hade varit där förut, visste vad jag skulle göra, det är bara att jobba på. Slippa tänka. Det var först i bilen på väg till nästa jobb jag kom på att jag hade ryckt till ibland. Ryckt ur min rutin. Men jag skulle jobba mer, och körde jag vidare.

Väl hemma på kvällen, när jag satt och pratade i soffan, kom jag på varför jag ryckte till. Jag ryckte till när eldre män med grått hår var i närheten. Det var här jag börja tänka, och inte bara ta vardagen för given. Hade denna gamla man två dagar innan gett mig ett trauma?

Rycken jag hade upplevt, gjorde att jag kom av mig en smula. Det gjorde att jag fick ett litet adrenalinrush. Det gjorde mig orolig. Det gjorde mig skrämd. Tänk att i tre timmar gå runt och vänta på att få skäll av äldre män i grått hår! Han hade avsevärt försämrad min arbetsmiljö. Han hade ändrat en trygg arbetsplats och ett mentalt lättsamt arbete till en otrygg arbetsplats och mentalt tungt arbete.

Men det är så lätt att ignorera. Det var ju bara några ryck! Men det är inte det. Inte om man två dagar senare kommer till samma arbetsplats, och det är helt förändrad. Jobbet blir mycket, mycket tyngre med oro i kroppen.

Nu är ju det är en enda händelse som hände mig. Det är inte raketforskning. Det kommer inte förändra mänsklighetens historia. Men tänk om det händer ofta med många. Tänk att få skäll för jämnan. De blir inte astronauter. De blir rädda. Då har man ändrat mänsklighetens historia. Tänk om alla de som är rädda, och lägger massor med energi på det, hellre skulle bli forskare och astronauter? För inte att tala om hur mycket lyckligare och lugnare de skulle bli även om de inte väljer bli astronauter?

Allt detta berättade jag i soffan i går kväll. Om jag inte hade börjat prata om vad som verkade vara en märklig händelse på jobbet, så hade jag heller inte insett hur djupt han påverkade min vardag. Hur illa det egentligen var. Och att det enda sättet att få det hela ur kroppen, var att berätta om det i soffan. För nu är det lugnt. Jag rycker inte mer.

Klagomålet hörde vi ingenting av sen. Jag vill tro personalen i affären reagerade som oss. I kassan satt två andra yngre kvinnor, och de känner också till detta. Vi har ju en tendens att träffa på arga gamla män oftare än andra.