Sometimes nothing is better than your own language

Per la prima volta in questo blog scrivo in italiano, solo per un paio di motivi: il primo è che mi dispiace continuare a scrivere di quanto sono stanca della convivenza forzata in Bevendean Crescent, non importa quanto le ragazze siano gentili e simpatiche, ne ho semplicemente piene le scatole, di svegliarmi la mattina e aver paura a scendere in cucina per il probabile casino nel lavandino, di sentire la polacca lamentarsi delle finestre sporche quando il casino che lascia sul fornello dopo una delle sue colazioni leggere (funghi e uova, o insalata di tonno...) rimane a farci compagnia per giorni finchè esasperata mi metto a pulire, e potrei continuare per ore, ma meglio fermarsi qui. Insomma, non è bello scrivere qui in inglese quanto non ne possa più, soprattutto dato che la polacca lo legge, il mio blog...

La seconda ragione, naturalmente, è che ci sono argomenti che preferisco affrontare in italiano per evitare che il mio adorato omino li venga a sapere. Non credo che legga il mio blog, ma non si può mai sapere. E dato che penso solo e soltanto a lui, è dura non scrivere di lui, prima o poi...
Insomma, sto pensando, sempre e comunque, se andarmene, se cercare fortuna in patria, se lasciare questa ventosa insopportabile Brighton e una casa ad affitto stratosferico che devo dividere con tre persone, e tornare nella fredda bellissima valle, trovarmi il mio monolocale TUTTO MIO, nel quale tornare alla fine di una giornata infernale passata a insegnare, e semplicemente starmene per conto mio, finalmente in silenzio, come dico sempre, la cosa più difficile. Da un lato siamo tutti soli; dall'altro, non lo siamo mai veramente.

Penso al master, che vorrei davvero fare, anche se solo per togliermi il capriccio, da una vita voglio fare un master in film studies, penso a quanto lo voglio fare, e a quanto è inutile. Poi penso che se potessi trasferirmi in una città più decente, lo farei, perchè detesto Brighton; infine penso che sono qui solo e unicamente per lui. Damn. Penso a quello che ci siamo detti e a quello che mi ha detto lui, così confuso, dopotutto, un mix tra "non ti voglio" e "ti voglio, ma adesso è troppo presto per me", tra "aspettami" e "va per la tua strada". Ci penso e ci ripenso. Non passa giorno, non passa un'ora che il pensiero non mi sfiori, senza pensare a lui.
Avremmo dovuto parlare meglio, quando ci siamo lasciati a novembre, ma era così sconvolto che non ho voluto infierire con domande e quant'altro. E so che ho fatto bene. Tuttavia, anche adesso che vedo il suo comportamento, le lacrime agli occhi quando gli ho dato il "buono abbraccio" la settimana scorsa, il caffè che mi ha regalato l'altra sera, il fatto che si sia seduto vicino a me al bar sabato, invece che di fronte (sembra una scemata ma conoscendolo so cosa significa)...insomma, a volte mi illudo, spero che siano nuovi segnali positivi, poi combatto per tornare con i piedi per terra e convincermi che sono semplicemente suoi modi di essere, dolce e gentile, affettuoso, premuroso. Poi parlo con qualcuno, o ricevo una mail che cerca di fare breccia in questa debole convinzione, che cerca di farmi capire che non devo mollare, perchè chiaramente lui mi ama ed è confuso, e forse da un lato sto facendo bene ad aspettare, dall'altro invece dovrei prendere il coraggio a quattro mani e dirglielo bene, in faccia, che deve decidere, perchè se non mi vuole io me ne vado, e non mi rivedrà più, torno in Italia, adios. Eppure so che se gli dicessi una cosa del genere lui mi risponderebbe che devo fare quello che credo sia giusto per me. Quindi tanto vale.

Per il momento sto solo ferma, e aspetto, e se la profe riesce ad organizzare tutte quelle cose di cui abbiamo parlato a dicembre, e arriva il momento VERO di prendere una decisione, credo che solo allora parlerò, e gli chiederò, o forse no. Forse, semplicemente, gli dirò che lui è la sola ragione per cui sono qui, e che sarei disposta a rinunciare a tutto per lui.
Solo per lui.

Sunday, thinking

An appropriate description of the day that is now slowly ending.
Being January, the SDS is hitting, and I am wondering if I should fight it (therefore trying to be sociable and cheerful rather than locking myself in my room and avoiding contact with other human beings) or just live it, like I do every year.

Spent most of the day also fighting with a bad back for no reason, and reading/studying the Bible: I am still uncomfortable, at times, but I will have a go next Sunday. Picked a church I will go and see (read: find) this week, and in the meantime I will continue to "prepare". Of course, my current anti-social attitude doesn't help...so maybe I should really fight it.

Watched a horrible movie, "Happy feet": all those beautiful animated dancing penguins wasted in a corny moral tale which all of a sudden, like a bad joke, turned political, oh how awful!

Back at the gym, feeling pretty good; on the other side, not eating much, because of the usual: cramps, depressive thoughts, lack of hunger, and when hunger strikes, there is nothing in the fridge. How to lose weight after Christmas.

Thinking a lot about possibilities, and decisions to take. Tough. To stay or to go? "Think hard before making any decision to go bk to Italy, ok?". I will, piccolino. But I am afraid, and I cannot talk to you about it. Sometimes, when I am in my room, and I hear the noise downstairs (cupboards shut, clattering plates, the radio or the tv) and I think of the mess, or as I am walking back after a day of work, gym, and noise everywhere, and cars and people and NOISE, and all I want is silence and a sofa for me and my book, boy, that is when I seriously think that I should go. I feel old and boring when I write these things, but then I excuse myself by thinking that I have been sharing a house for more than 10 years and I am sick and tired of it, and it is not only independence from your family, but also the possibility (read: need) to be alone, whenever you want, and you are never alone, even if you spend a day in your room.
In Swansea I used to walk back home at the end of the day and hide in my room, so often that Welsh housemate and English housemate had to come and knock to see if I was still alive. Bringing tea and a smile. I miss Swansea, the beach, the sun on the sea, the streets in the centre, the walk to the station, even the shops. I miss the talk, that lovely Welsh sound; as always, I look back and miss so many things.

And also, since I am ranting, let's talk of the awful wind that makes my walk to school the most unpleasant experience; and I get so irritable...So people, stop asking me how I am, because if outside it's windy, you can be sure that no, Peggy is NOT fine. She's irrited and irritable, and the more irritable she becomes...uh, sounds familiar...I must fight these bad feelings back. I don't know. Clearly I am very unhappy, but I don't think that moving, going back, staying, will make me feel better.

"I just want you to be able to see light and hope for the future".
I want it too. Maybe this is the reason I have turned to the great complication of opening my spiritual me, hoping that it will help me see some light in this dark lonely bubble, where I can't breathe.

Funnily enough, I was thinking that of all I have done in my life, or at least in the past ten years, I cannot regret anything, because everything has led to a new friend, even a short-term friend, or a new experience, a new book, a new language, whatever. I don't even regret coming to Brighton, although for the wrong reasons. I suppose I am just tired, and confused, and messed up inside, with no clear goal to achieve except to arrive at the end of the month, leaving the big questions aside.

And finally, it's time to go back to my books: drown in words, as usual, and trust that God will show the way.

Facts of the day (including evening update)

1. I am too good at crochet! Albeit quite slow, and prone to read the signs too quickly, so I end up having to unmake something I have worked on for an hour. But still, not too bad, and 7 rounds out of 36 are done.

2. How old can you feel when you are working at a new crochet project on the sofa in your cosy little living room, with dim light on (not good for your eyes!) and Classic Fm on? ....Very old....but for some reason it feels comfortable, if you see what I mean.

3. I am one who does not spend much. I used to like shopping, even by myself if I was in the right mood, and now I don't feel like going shopping anymore, although my love for boots drives me towards any shoe-shop window regardless of the season, the country, the economical situation of my bank account...This is just to say that in spite of all this, I had to start a little in-out book to check how my money can slip away so fast, when all I do is go to work, go to the gym, buy some food, and occasionally treat myself to a gingerbread latte (no more now...the first of many "treats" I have decided to cut off).

4. I am too shy and scared when it comes to do things in a language that is not my own; plus, I feel so ignorant when it comes to a certain subject, that I am instantly put off, whatever good project and will I have. Crumbs.

5. How good is this song?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SziKyAuK7-o
Definetely voted song of the month for Peggy and her melancholic attitude.

(Later in the evening)
Just watched "Finding Nemo" with Spanish housemate while working on my crochet project (a masterpiece so far); good chances that next week I will be working for morning classes and my afternoon 1-to-1, which means decent money coming in.

Feel very guilty for not going to the Meeting last night, and feeling even worse for not going because of the wrong reasons. Even more guilty because I had to tell Ian about it, and I know he would have been happy if I had gone. It feels as if whatever I do, somebody is going to be disappointed.

I am so sad.

New Year's Resolutions? Not really...

Back in Brighton, people.
Of course, after an emotional time such as three whole weeks of Italian life, and counting Christmas, New Year's Eve, and whatever comes with it, I can only say that I feel on the verge of another nervous breakdown.
I have decided not to write about what I did during the Italian weeks, mostly because I am sure that the memories of how I felt then will be with me forever, no matter how much I will try to forget. Then again, there is no point in trying to forget, but only in trying to accept and take everything in. Move on, as usual, live and work and all that jazz.

Some news, though: Teacher friend proved to be once more the one. I mean, the one who can keep calm and provide advice, and practical solutions, in spite of her claiming to be living in another dimension, and not being practical at all. So, I may be changing my plans again, and maybe sooner than expected or planned.
Which brings me to the question I have been asking myself for months now: do I want to stay? And why?
On the way to Brighton, on Friday, because I cannot read on the bus and because my earphones went on strike, I could only alternate sleep and thoughts. Painful, confused thoughts.

It was nice to be back in Bevendean, because of the cosy little house with the friendly housemates, because of my room and because I was frankly really tired of being at home, and I could notice that I was going to my snappy behaviour, and the more I noticed it the more irritable and snappy I would become, and the snappier I was the guiltier I felt, and the guiltier I felt, the more irritable I would become, and so on.
So, decision number one with Teacher friend is that whatever happens, I am going to live by myself from now on. Meaning that I love my family, but it's about time I got on with my life, and please let's try to feel less guilty, although it obviously breaks me to think and see mum getting older and weaker, her strong self getting tired more easily, hearing her talk of getting somebody to help her with the chores and all that, but that's life I guess? I can be there as often as possible, but there are some things you can only accept.

Which brings me to yet another painful train of thoughts, which I am not going to discuss here, because I have been writing somewhere else, almost all morning, shedding tears for hours, the familiar need to scream getting stronger and stronger in me, and frankly I am also sick of that. Yes, I am fighting to accept it. And I am trying not to break too often, this year. Meaning that all these tears must end soon or late, right? All this thinking back, all this regretting, which is so extremely wrong and unhealthy, all this waste of time hoping for impossible things to happen, and even my daydreaming is not convincing.

A big, tired (tired, still at the same time it is the part of me that makes me run for hours, and get lost in books, and obsessively think of moving, moving, moving, as if all this moving and running could make me vanish into some other dimension), a screaming part of me is simply pushing and fighting to pack, go back home, and lock in my room, and cry and cry and cry, scream until my lungs ache, until my throat burns, until I have no voice.
Shrink and disappear.
And what kills me is that whatever I do, it will not matter. Nothing will change.

I simply cannot think of a future, now. I am, again, living day by day, thinking of easy things like what to make for dinner, like how much I want to run, or what book to read next, and of yet another website with Bible readings to help me through, but I don't find any pleasure in anything. It's awful, because these are things I have been writing for months, maybe for years, and in spite of some little progress, an occasional feeling of well-being, nothing (NOTHING!) has changed. And I find myself older, more tired, and a lot sadder than I was. I have really lost that light, people, and the more I try to find it the farther from it I am.

I write even though it makes me cry, because somehow I feel better, after that. Even though the evening is so dark and cold, and I have no idea of what to do, and my life is shattered, and I don't know who I am and what I want.

Who am I?