With spring, comes the fear

It’s already begun sneaking up on me. Circulating in the periphery. Slipped away and dwelled in the darkness of winter before it suddenly attacks like a cat that’s hidden under the couch and throws itself after your innocent toes when you least expect it. Because when spring comes, so does the longing for my old house.

Last spring was a battle field between gratitude over having somewhere to live at all, and the anger and sorrow over losing my house and home. In the grey February storms, tucking my coat close to my body, I’m a little bit thankful for not having to put pieces of a roof that was torn out by the winds, and the sense of loss is lessened. But the other changing seasons are harder to handle. Spring comes and it’s time to start putting down seeds, growing plants. And I can’t be bothered to try even.

The contact with nature, that you were brought along the sun’s journey across the sky, how it’s path changed with the turning of the year. The big south facing window to baby pepper and chili plants in. The fact that the everlasting winds ripped the plants to shreds immediately when we put them outside that one time, well, that memory kind of fades away, and what remains is only the sun drenched patio with its mile wide views.

That one time when we had to abort a nice cup of coffee in order to run out and catch our green house before it blew right out over the fields a Saturday in April was something that just came along with the house. It was worth it. I know that the fierce January winds turned that green house into shrapnel before we even sold it but the new-old owner didn’t care. All he wanted was his house back. His house. My house.

The house where I could open the patio door and all that came in through it was sunshine and the sound of trees moving in the calm winds. The little coos of forest pigeons in the distance, the horny hoots of owls in mating season. The silence at night was deafening. When I moved back to my mom’s place I didn’t sleep properly for six weeks, disturbed by the sounds of the city.

Even my friends miss the house. There was something magical about it. Now in retrospect, I’m torn between the gratitude of getting the chance to live there for almost two years, and the sense that maybe I’d been happier now if I hadn’t experienced what it was like to feel that much at home somewhere, that I never had before.

Like clockwork

We live in a frail existence. Suddenly, we’re thrown into new situations that we hadn’t prepared for. Everything is collapsed into chaos and nothing is what it was like before. And then there are those other times. The times where you know exactly how it will play out, and then it does. Like when you know a plumber is on his way over to your place and have announced his arrival at exactly 9.00 am. The time is 8.57 am, and yes, now you have to poo. Like right now.

I mean, there wasn’t any doubt that this would happen. In the laws of the universe it was written that instead of me locking myself in the bathroom, settling nature’s needs, I will be sitting on my couch, clenching my nethers while displaying a forced smile. Because there’s no locking oneself in the bathroom because then you KNOW they’re gonna be on time, for the first time in the history of plumbers, and stand around in the hallway waiting for me to come out?

No way. I’ll wait. Pray that it’s not going to be for long.

Menopause madness

English on top, Swedish down below because I like my original so much.

I think I’ve lost the power of speech. Like my menstruation, it’s been ripped from my hands and been placed somewhere it shouldn’t be. In the menstruations case it’s in my abdomen, where the hell the ability to express myself with words have gone I have no idea.

I have so many useless everyday events that I want to write about but nothing is compiled into anything resembling an entertaining sludge of words but remains still water, slimy and glopping itself over the edge of my brain, hopelessly stuck by the gravelly pebble beach. It remains that slime that people usually just wash off to make room for crystal clear water and perhaps a little fountain and a ceramic frog that’s actually funny in any sort of way.

But, speaking of menstruation!

Last Friday I tidied myself up both in and out, aka took that mandatory shower before I meet anyone at anyone in gynecology because our meetings always, and I do mean always, end up with my stripping my bottom clothes off and getting up on that stretcher-chair-thing and scooting down a little more, a little more, aaand a little more, there!

After having done exactly this, this time too, the doctor fumbled with electronic devices to help me look at my insides and unusually large bottles of “Glide Slime” (as it’s called straight forwardly translated from Swedish) and then gloves complete with the snapping sound when she put them on. I laid back and let my gaze be seduced by a mobile hanging in the ceiling, with cut out birds moving soothingly in the draft from the ventilation. Why doesn’t every single one of the treatment rooms in hospitals have one of these?

The doctor squeezed around down there, shoving her instrument around the edges, looking for cysts or any visible malfunctions she could see. There were none.

I haven’t treated my endometriosis for three years. After the IVF-miscarriage debacle, I was so worn out on hospitals and doctors and pain and stuff that I didn’t even try to get help. I just let it be. Until now.  When the latest months of periods have meant horrific pains, caused by inflammation and organs fused onto each other of the lining of my abdomen, reacting with every little movement of my bowels, I needed to get help.

Hormonal treatment with birth control pills, said the doctor. Sigh, said I. I’m incapable of having kids AND I have gotten my tubes tied so I won’t ever have to sit through a miscarriage again, and I still have to live off of hormones. It’s laughable. With a twist of sourness.

But before that whole thing with the birth control pills take place, I’m gonna sweat along with the menopausey women out there. Six months of estrogen deficiency is on the menu, to starve out the invisible clotting on my insides that shouldn’t be there. Hopefully I won’t bleed at all, so I can enjoy my time without knives tearing through my flesh every four weeks. Sure, fine. We’ll try it. Hot flashes and sweating along with Mrs Oldlady is my future now. Let’s just hope that my mucous membranes doesn’t dry up like leaves in the fall before it’s over.

2017. What kind of year will you be, I wonder.


Jag tror att jag har tappat ordets förmåga. Likt min menstruation har den slitits ur händerna på mig, och förlagts någonstans där den inte borde vara. I menstruationens fall hamnar det om bukhålan, var i helsike skrivförmågan har slunkit iväg någonstans har jag i dagsläget ingen aning om. Jag har så mycket meningslösa vardagsgrejer jag vill skriva om men ingenting sammanfattas till någon slags underhållande sörja utan blir liksom stillastående vatten, slemmigt skvalpande mot kanten av hjärnan, hopplöst fast mot den grusiga strandkanten. Det där slammet alla helst spolar bort för att göra plats för det kristallklara vattnet i form av någon som faktiskt är rolig. Men på tal om menstruation! (Smoooth övergång, eller hur!)

Förra fredagen gjorde jag mig fredagsfin både innan och utan, alltså tog den obligatoriska duschen innan man träffar någon som helst vårdpersonal inom gynekologin för det slutar alltid, och jag menar alltid, med att man får klä av sig och lägga sig på britsen och hasa ner lite längre, lite till, lite till, och liiiite till. Sagt och gjort, så fick jag klä av mig och lägga mig på en brits och hasa ner lite längre, lite till, lite till, och liiiite till. Väl stadd på plats grejade läkaren omkring med orimligt stora flaskor med Glidslem och handskar som ibland ger ifrån sig det där filmiska klatschet, medan jag lät blicken förföras av en mobil hängandes i taket, med tre papperssvalor guppandes i det osynliga draget från ventilationen. Varför har inte exakt alla gynundersökningsrum såna, lyckades jag formulera i tanken under tiden som läkaren klämde och for omkring i mitt ädla inre med sin ultraljudsapparat för att konstatera att några cystor runt tarm eller livmoder hade jag iallafall inte.

Jag har ju inte underhållsbehandlat något mot endometriosen. Efter IVF/missfalls-härvan var jag så krigshärjad att jag inte ens försökte. Orkade inte med vården. Bara lät det bero. Tills nu. När de senaste månadernas mens har betytt fasansfulla kramper, framkallade av ihopväxta hinnor, buffade på av en menssvullen buk och en tarm som vill röra på sig. Så, nästa mens ska helst bli min sista, tyckte läkaren. Jaha, tyckte jag. Hormonpreventivmedel, tyckte läkaren. Suck, tyckte jag. Jag kan inte få barn av naturen och är steriliserad för att verkligen se till att jag inte blir med barn och få missfall igen, och jag måste fortfarande gå på hormonpreventivmedel resten av livet. Det är så man kan skratta. Uppgivet.

Men innan det där debaklet släpps lös i mina hormonkanaler i augusti så ska jag leka tant! Sex månader östrogensvält står på menyn för att avhysa de på ultraljuden osynliga men ack så märkbara ihopväxningarna i min bukhåla och därmed inte heller ha någon menstruation alls, så att jag kan avnjuta månadsskiften utan knivskarpa smärtor så fort magen bestämmer sig för att kanske fisa lite eller bara du vet, motionera tarmen. Visst! Vi kör på det. Kommer det hemska värmevallningar så får jag klappa på ett östrogenplåster likt Tantalura 63 år gammal och hoppas att slemhinnorna inte skrumpar ihop med löven framåt hösten.

2017. Vilket typ av år blir du tro?

The Final Countdown has begun

Yes! The chaos has begun. I proclaimed loud and clear to my roomie that from now on we can’t have anyone over here because the whole apartment will be covered in boxes and stuff while I pack my things and can move out.

My room is slowly peelings the layers of my stuff and kind of makes the whole moving business become just a tad more real. It’s hard to grasp that it’s happening for real when staring at a house plan or just signing a paper in front of a strange woman in an office. It’s when lamps and pictures start disappearing from the walls that it starts FEELING real.

The next phase of reality is when I pick up the keys and can step into my new home for myself. The plan is to fetch the key when they open up at 8 am, get dropped off at the apartment and enter. And then get anxiety. Lots of anxiety.

It happens every time I move. The chrisis.

Like some kind of catharsis, it seems like it’s something I need to go through every time I change my living quarters. I will hate it for two days while getting used to the new smells, sounds, neighbours, and while romanticizing my old home. Then it passes and it starts to feel better, and in the end I’ve ended up loving all my homes. Let’s hope it happens here too!

Shagpad 3.0!

New Year’s Eve 2016 may have been the sorriest excuse for a New Years Eve in my life so far. The endometriosis pains kept me in bed, getting a hug from my roomie and the house guests before and after the midnight stroke.

But! The year is now 2017. Some claim that it’s just another day after the previous day, but that’s not totally true. Now we enter the coldest period of the Swedish winter. Now, when all the celebrations had petered out and the darkness has lowered itself of the country, the unwanted snow starts to fall and the real winter dormancy set in. So what am I trying to say with this crabby post?

I will tell you!

Because the February 1st  I get my OWN LITTLE APARTMENT! You heard me! Shagpad 3.0 is in the future! My stuff that is littered across three separate storage units, one cabin and the entirety of my roomie’s apartment, will gather in my own little dwelling instead. I’ve already made plans for the interior because the apartment is, without pretending anything else, small.

So small that I was number eight in the queue for the apartment and NO ONE said yes before me, so I got it! 28 square meters doesn’t entice everyone, that’s for sure.

But for this little squirrel, 28 square meters feels entirely workable. I will have a glazed balcony, facing east so I won’t cook during the summer months. The small spaces forces me to consider the lovely aspects of compact living, which I am a great fan of. I will have a bath tub, in a bathroom with ugly yellowy plastic walls. I will have a kitchenette, and I will paint and put up wallpapers that I’ve been hoarding for two years. I will get a work space for my computer so I can use it again and live in a little apartment that is mine, all mine.

The separation anxiety isn’t all too easy, I’ve lived here for ten months and it’s been lovely. But that’s okay, I’ll keep the key to here and he’s getting my spare. He’ll get this office back when I move out and we'll see each other anyways!

So. Shagpad 3.0. Countdown begins now, 30 days left.

A readily slow weekend

A little Sunday-soused on the red wine I forced out of a leftover bag-in-box from my birthday party, I pulled out the last tray of Finnish Christmas stars out of the oven and put them on the stove. I looked around the kitchen at the post-baking mess and thanked the technology lords for the entity called “a dishwashing machine”.

Now it’s sloshing happily out there in the kitchen while cleaning up my mess with a gentle hand after my, if I may say so myself, quite successful attempt to get my shit together and do some Christmas baking instead of just lying on the couch watching Bones. I realized that I could watch Bones in the kitchen anyway, I have a laptop!

This weekend I’ve only left the apartment in the name of errands, a nice contrast to the previous five weekends that just somehow sort of ended with the spontaneous social consumption of alcoholic beverages and visits at the local meat market, also called “the bar”.

In an Instagram competition, I recently won a book made for singles, “The handbook for singles on the brink of a nervous breakdown (SE)”. Entertained, I’ve reached page 245 but in direct contrast to the quote on the front page “Recognition is total, buy it!” I can conclude that I can in no way identify with the author of the book. The closest thing I can relate is that we’d passed our 30th birthday before we exclaimed “YOLO!” for the first time. The book tells a story very similar Sex and the City and that kind of single life is drastically different to my everyday grind as a single person in my 30’s.

The nearest I’ve been to lumber down cobbled big city streets in stiletto heels, eating fancy dinners at restaurants with French sounding names then drinking a glass of fancy red at Riche while flirting with gorgeous single men, is when V and I celebrated my birthday last year by getting drunk on bubbly at home with my mom and then going to McDonalds in order to keep the worst of the intoxication at bay. Later on, we realized that the place we’d picked for the evening only contained 18-year olds and I’m not quite ready to be a cougar yet.

Hastily we went to a place that takes an entrance fee and I immediately got chatted up be a 40-year old, kind of hot, math teacher. Ah, better. That was a year ago.

But soon it’s Christmas. The season for doing stupid things. Let’s see what happens this year.

A hungover December Sunday

It’s the second of advent. The Christmas trees (yes, plural) spread their soft glow in the December afternoon and the scent of a freshly baked ham is spreading through the apartment. A soft snowfall has powdered the city in a thin sheet of white during the night. Only the, let’s use the word “expressive”, screams from a man losing a whole lot in some kind of computer game breaks the silence that has lowered itself over the household, a household that during this Sunday has experienced that special sort of suffering silence that only follow a night of a thorough round of alcohol consumption.

Yes! Because yesterday, I had my birthday party!

One after one they dropped in to celebrate with me and before 2 am when I threw the last partyers out, I’d been sung to twice, gotten lovely gifts that I hadn’t expected and gotten myself really off of my face on an excessive amount of white russians. Parties, huh. I love having them, even though being host causes me the kind of neurotic stress that makes me want to throw myself on the couch, dramatically press a cool, moistened towel to my forehead with one hand and softly waving with the other hand at things for my roomie to clean, careful not to spill the drink said hand is holding dearly.

I didn’t get all THAT dramatic even though the cleaning of the apartment to prepare for the party was preceded by the town bloodbath after I, in an attempt to make a potato gratin, stabbed myself in the hand.

I know it’s karma for me laughing hysterically for a few minutes just the weekend before after my brother in law fileted his thumb on his mandolin and photographed a tiny little piece of flesh, complete with finger print pattern, resting between slices of carrot. 

I still laugh. It was worth it.