Memoir, September 1st

The idea of living abroad has always been on my mind. There were many reasons for that. Firstly, even though I like my home city, Warsaw, I’ve never felt there like home. Because of the suffering I’ve endured for many years at school and home. Because of being treated like shit for a long time. Because of the relationships that I fucked up or I couldn’t build. Because I can’t be close to anyone. And I know that this particular, call it strength or weakness will always be with me. Wherever I go, it can be the damn end of the world, I won’t be capable of holding close relationships with others. I thought that when I get older it would be easier. That I would learn how to be with people. But now I think it’s getting worse. My heart becomes more cold with every passing day. My mind becomes more unpredictable and cruel. My soul becomes more hollow.

But, this idea of being somewhere else, of a better life, of the happy moments is still there. I know it’s an illusion. But if I stop lying to myself that one day I can experience peace and happiness what’s left for me? No more false hope, only emptiness sucking me in. And that doesn’t sound like a good plan for the future.

By the end of last year, the idea grew stronger. I was so tired of my stupid office job with no perspectives. Of every day being the same old shit. Many people are afraid of changes. They prefer their same old shit because they know it. They know how to handle it. And what if something changes and it gets even worse, they think. To me, changes are like a promise. Yes, it could get worse (like, really?!), but there’s always a chance. For the new, exciting things, for something you can’t expect. If it wasn’t for my travels and living in different countries I’d probably be nothing. Sitting in the park with a can of cheap beer. Or in the station with other losers.

The idea was to move to the island. And not because I am a lonely island (shut up, you, ego!), but because I like the heat and the sun (my dark ego is laughing now at me) and the beach and the water. Yes, clear, limpid blue sea where I could swim and float staring at the sky! That’s what I needed. That’s what I wanted from this ungrateful bastard called my life.

I thought about Caribbeans at first, but I’ve decided it was too far for the beginning of my adventure. And just when I was about to focus on my book’s promotion and freelancing jobs, the same old shit fell on my head. The back pain after my accident came back with a double force. I couldn’t move, my head was spinning like a flying saucer, I started popping painkillers like tic tacs and I couldn’t do a damn thing about that. The long months of hospitals, doctor’s appointments, rehabilitation, and helplessness were ahead of me. Yet again.

There was a moment when I gave up. Yet again. I knew that physically I would get better eventually, but my strength was gone. I thought, “Man, I’m 30 and I haven’t done any of those things I wanted to do, so what’s the point of trying? I’m too old for that crap.” In fact, how long can you handle the crazy rollercoaster of your destiny? Finally, you reach the point when you just can’t do that anymore. When you want to hide in your bed, feel sorry for yourself and never get up again.

A few months ago I got better. I don’t know how on earth I convinced myself to keep going. I guess I’m just too stubborn to let this fucking life beat me up.

And after all this time of struggling with getting paid translator’s and writer’s gigs, I made it. I moved to Palma de Mallorca.

I’m finally here. I’m living!

 

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