Letter to 24-year-old Georgiana (yes, that little brat was a wise cool b***)

Man, has this been the weirdest summer or not?

I have recently discovered/rediscovered my old blog, bits of my past self, old vices, sugar, cigarettes, sleepless nights, how much a simple glass of wine can alleviate a troubled mind, my sexuality, my all-time favourite book (Wuthering Heights), make-up, connecting to new people, connecting to old people, sunsets, sunrises (yes, sleeping is overrated, and apparently so is breakfast), driving over the limit, pretty dresses and self-love (or is it self-hate? 34 years on this planet and I'm still having trouble differencing between love and hate, especially when it comes to myself).

The last time I lost my cool and I went bats*** crazy was in the summer of 2015, and I felt the urge to write a letter to Georgiana living in the summer of 2025, because apparently that crazy smart little brat b*** was also a psychic and could foretell the future. Apparently, at 24 years old, I knew exactly that in the summer of 2025 I would take the highway to hell again.

But right now, I don't feel much like a psychic, and I cannot write a letter to another future version of myself (but I do hope that when I settle again, this time will last longer than 10 years). This time, there are a few things I would like to tell 24-year-old Georgiana (and other youngsters out there).

1. There are absolutely worse things than a boy leaving you

10 years later, and the Great Break-up / Fuck-up of 2015 still haunts me. 10 years have passed, and I can admit that it affected me more than I would have thought, and no, the fact that he has, in the meantime, lost his hair and is currently a homeless person living on social aid in Germany does not help. Man, that boy left me with so many issues: fear of abandonment & anxiety + avoidance issues. I have become a perfect cocktail of fuck-up.

But, 24-year-old Georgiana, do you know what's worse than a Bulgarian f***** with whom you have spent every single second of your life for 3 months vanishing into thin air, without a word?

Try MS. Don't try it; it will come to you soon enough, unfortunately. You actually have it, pretty girl, but it doesn't get worse enough to require a diagnosis until 2022. In my personal opinion, you had it since you were a teenager and used to get restless legs so bad that you couldn't sleep for weeks. So, yes. Nothing breaks life a heart, indeed, but not being able to use one hand or being blind for a few weeks comes pretty close to a pothead leaving you, doesn't it?

2. Older does not mean wiser, slimmer does not mean happier, and mental health issues can surprise you at any age

Picture this: 24-year-old Georgiana was 80 kilos+ and sexy as f***. 34-year-old Georgiana is 68 kilos and fat as f***. Spoiler alert: they are both 1.75 cm tall. 

When problems started unraveling, I somehow managed to make myself believe that if I stopped eating & I started losing all the weight, all my problems would disappear. What is the logic behind that? I have no idea whatsoever, maybe I am hoping to become so small that my problems will have trouble finding me. So, all my life I have been fat and I have accepted myself. Now I am finally slim-ish, and I hate my body. Wow. Now that's a plot twist, isn't?

3.  Coincidences do not exist

Was it really a coincidence that 10 years ago, while I was going through a crisis, I wrote a letter to a future version of myself that is also going through a crisis?

Was it a coincidence that I completely forgot about this blog for more than 6 years, and it just popped into my mind a week ago?

Was it a coincidence that I met you? Was it a coincidence that you met me? 

I used to be a firm believer in the chaos theory/nihilism: nothing happens for a reason, everything is chaotic, everything is unpredictable, and, generally, nothing really matters in the end, and nothing exists after this life. But at 34, I feel the need to believe in something bigger. I need to find my God. Maybe writing has been my God all this time, who knows? Truth is - it simply has to be more to this bittersweet symphony life than being a slave to money, than you die. 

I need more. 9 to 5 or, in my case, 7 to 4 simply doesn't cut it anymore. I need sunrises, sunsets, cigarettes after sex, conversation about the stars and the moon, breakfast in the woods, I need to walk on the beach until the f******* beach ends, I need to sink in the water until my feet can't reach the ground, I need to simply drive into the sunset and disappear. I simply need to believe in something bigger. Shit needs to start having some meaning. 

4. Do what heals the soul and soothes the mind

And for me, that's writing. I put so much soul and emotion into this little text. I have overcome the fear of being judged/abandoned and so many other fears. Writing is cathartic. I am now drained, my legs are shaky, I am cold, and I feel a bit dizzy. But my mind feels more relieved than it has in months.

For those of you reading it, for those of you who love me in one way or another (because who else would read this silly text?) - please do not ask me about it, do not talk to me about it, just imagine I've already said everything I've wanted to say. A simple I read your text goes a long way and is sufficient to show that you care :) And next time you see me anxious or sad, simply tell me: Go write something, Georgiana.