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16.02.2021

Last night I killed my still born:

The business idea I came up with 3 years ago. I believed it was a good one, with great potential to have legs and run.

But instead its little body was still rotting about my place, in pieces and stored in tidy card board boxes in various sizes.

Smelling a bit.

And I got used to it.

Like a psycho mother

“I’ll be back”, I’d whisper softly to the boxes, less and less though.

But I could still see it through the cardboard.

Looking at me reproachfully.

Tired.

The more time passed, the more I could not imagine it anymore alive.

Its body was decomposing.

But I still had hope.

Somehow.

Less and less.

But I couldn’t let go.

So yesterday I got 2 black plastic bin bags and put everything connected to the business idea in there.

Every single bit of it.

It didn’t feel hot.

But I am on a roll now and it was done.

I felt hollow.

Slightly sick.

Looking at all the parts of its body.

It hurt less than I thought.

I feel I need to message a friend of mine, she an her husband lost their first born and are still suffering massively.

Trying to keep his memory alive.

With stuff.

A crazy elaborate shrine.

She needs to let him go.

Poor little body.

I’m wrapping up my life in Amsterdam.

For now.

It doesn’t feel completely right because I have no idea where I’m going but there are several options that are presenting themselves to me. Either one is fine, potential fun but I have absolutely no idea how any one them are going to work out.

Even better.

Adventure plus fun.

Plus plus

I messaged my friend T yesterday if he was up for dinner but he didn’t reply. I wonder if he feels I’m leaving soon.

Isn’t it so curious that as women (I know because I was born one but I can imagine it to be similar with men) we are so scared to perform. Timid in the (business) world, thinking that we cannot do things. Not strong enough, not clever enough, in comparison. To men.

Hey listen, ladies, … all you past, present and future Milfs, you have or will be experiencing the most unimaginable pains during childbirth … and you think you can’t do shit?

What the F88k is wrong with your head?

If you can do this AND get on with life straight after, taking care of a child which is one of the most demanding jobs on earth, while your body is totally messed up, you can do anything you want.

People always talk to traumatic injuries for men during war.

But what about fucking child birth?

Mothers should get a medal plus a veteran’s pension.

But they get shit.

Even less than that. They don’t get any money while looking after the Future of Mankind. And even if they manage, they are not supported to get back to fulfilling their destiny. No, they are sold online courses about stuff which will make them even more obsolete. (see yesterday)

The irony.

The key with childbirth is that you cannot imagine it! You can read tons of books, go to yoga breathing classes, talk to all your girlfriends and your mothers and cousins and sisters but they cannot really help you imagine.

Because it is unimaginable.

A cleverly unique and highly personal experience.

And because you cannot imagine it, you can bear it.

You have to.

There is no other way.

You cannot turn back or you die.

The unimaginable is being sprung on you.

You have no choice but to endure it.

And Dear God, it is endurance.

If women could imagine upfront what they would have to go through during childbirth, there would be no children.

Death to man kind.

(OMG, is that what women are forever searching for? A kind man?)

Women choose life instead of death.

So they are made not to imagine, and also not to remember. Because otherwise there would be no more children either.

And they would be brutally honest with each other.

And their partners.

They would go literally go:

“Whaaaat? This is how it feels to squeeze out a child? Through there? Naaaa, F88k that. … “

or even better

“Oh, you want sex? And not use a condom because it doesn’t feel right? Go F88k yourself! Oh, and somewhere else, mate …”

Imagine what the world would look like.

Actually, don’t imagine.

It’s horrible.

And we women betray each other in that way. We never tell each other the truth. We tell each other that Santa really does exist.

That once you hold that little ‘bundle of joy’ in your arms, everything will be beautiful and fall naturally into place.

What a lot of bullshit!

One thing for sure does not naturally fall back into place and that is your f88cking vagina.

And I had the easiest birth I could’ve imagined, however, I’m glad I couldn’t. Otherwise my wonderful gem of a child would’ve not made it here.

I am not proud but the really bad bad pain only lasted for 15 minutes with me, three major hard pushes and she was there.

And quiet.

For a terrifying second I thought she was not alive because in hospital scenes on the telly babies always cry.

She didn’t.

So everything was ok.

I had a totally chilled midwife who actually missed her own daughters school concert to help me out.

Total legend. Grace, I salute you.

And to be honest, I wasn’t exactly happy right after the birth but kinda gobsmacked at what just happened and now there is this living entity there. And the responsibility. And you better be happy because that’s what you always though you wanted, right?

This thing.

Thing 4?

It’s not quite a person but luckily nature made (most) babies kinda cute and they have these impossibly tiny fingers and toes as to be the complete opposite of scary.

I believe the fingers and toes thing actually does it!

That’s the single most powerful adoption trigger.

Imagine giving birth to something resembling a teenager, parents would be totally freaked out.

Well, that comes later.

FOOD

( I just remember discussing the benefits of coffee with my landlord last night and he proudly informed me that the daily recommended allowance is 5–6cups daily. What the F88k. Since f88king when?)

Honestly, the great thing about all this confusing and contradictory and preposterous information out there about what is supposed to be healthy, is actually the greatest blessing!

It simply means that none of it is true and none of the rules apply.

We don’t have to believe anything we don’t want to. (Oh, and that’s in general too). And this means that we literally (if we believe so whole heartedly) can eat anything we like, drink what we like and smoke what we like if we feel it is beneficial.

For us.

At that moment.

Have you ever wondered how it is possible that there are people smoking and drinking and not giving a shit going all the way to a ripe old age while others, total health freaks, die early? I always wondered about that.

The key is not giving a shit and not believing what we are made to believe. About food.

None of it is true, except the marketing.

I know of children being forced to eat breakfast because it is supposed to be good for you, however, they are being tortured because they feel wholeheartedly (instinctively) that they don’t need any food in the morning.

Obesity only exists because people are forbidden to eat the way they feel like it. So they have a food lack idea ingrained in them and, combined with the very powerful shame feeling as rocket fuel, pile on the weight (hiding/guarding), just to feel even more ashamed, therefore craving the only thing that made them feel good in the first place: GLORIOUS FOOD

What the F88k!

There are people who mourn the decline of Western religion, while in the meantime food had advanced to our new religion.

A globally adopted one.

No need for war.

Only tug-of-war.

An entertaining false prophets’ tug-of-war which we all are in the middle of. We are the f88king rope.

“Ladiiiiiiiiies and Gentlemen, are you readyyyyy to rumble?”

On one side we have the awesome team of TV chefs pulling hard shouting EAT THIS! and in the other corner the team of Diet Gurus (supported by the Exercise Gurus) giving their absolute all, shouting DON’T EAT THIS!

Who do you think is winning at the moment?

Certainly not us, we are getting f88ked up in the middle.

Unhappy and not healthy.

Mentally confused and unhealthy.

With a completely warped body perspective.

Seriously.

It’s actually funny.

It creates loads of jobs.

Which we work.

And get paid (that’s important) in order to buy food we crave for comfort because we are unfulfilled (still hungry) in our jobs. So we are sold food while being made to feel guilty and then sold diet stuff to supposedly make it go away.

(At least they are now openly admitting that diets don’t work)

We are sold an (expensive) belief and then sold the products to go with that belief. And the same people sell us the products to get rid of the guilt.

Big time.

It’s actually quite clever.

Taking one thing (a belief), sell it once as a concept, then package it not only once but twice as the opposite so it looks like two and sell both back to the owner of the belief.

Million Dollar Bills, y’all.

F88king genius.

Getting paid 3 times on the same product (which is only a belief).

God, I wish I’d thought of that.

I wouldn’t be renting a room from my diabetic landlord that’s for sure.

You know that feeling at a funeral which is sort of hollow and automatic and grey and you don’t feel much. Even if you briefly manage a smile it feels not part of you but belonging to someone else?

I felt like that last night.

At the funeral of my child.

My brilliant business idea.

The feeling is a funny mixture of grief and relief. Both.

And I am glad.

I am purging.

Big time.

Getting rid of all my stuff.

Clearing my room.

Ready to jump.

A wormhole.

Ladies, I shall come back to that important talk we need to have … you know about Santa … I won’t forget.

I promise.

I just can’t be bothered now.

Anyhow, Happy Birth Day!

OMG, this is what it should be.

Not F88king Women’s Day!!!

Birth Day should not celebrate the child but the mother!!!

Always!!!

Hahaha, I love it!

And then have International Woman’s day on top.

It’s 2.56am … why am I awake?

I wonder what time it is in Costa Rica …

19.56am

So I am ahead of my time.

Literally.

Hehe.

In the future.

Let’s have a coffee … don’t they have real good coffee in Costa Rica?

I just realised …

What kind of person like me has only deep regrets with animals but never with people, no matter how hurt they are? Probably because people always have a choice. To hurt.

Maybe meat should be out of my question …

B is in Surinam at the moment.

Too far out of the way

For what?

Maybe it’s cool there.

Always wanted to visit

R was from there

I could message him if he’s going.

I know he had to cancel his trip last year

I wanna go to Costa Rica

I deserve it!!

And Surinam after?

All descendents of African slaves anyway.

Same. But different.

Maybe that’s my job.

Fun

Oooooohhh, am I trying to hang on to an old habit? Jumping for a guy?

Ha, sneaky buggar, I almost didn’t notice.

I shall go wherever I want to go.

Male company is a bonus but I don’t need it.

It’s fun though.

HABITS

Make a habit of making mental notes of the moments when you’re really happy. Briefly stop, appreciate them and say “this is how I want to feel all the time”. And if that happiness comes from a moment of simplicity, then you’re winning.

BE SMART

You have no money.

You want money.

You work hard to get money.

You spend the little money you get.

Again you have no money.

Simply stop spending.

And have money.

I know I know, the fun of money

Is in the spending.

It’s playing.

But that’s not entirely true.

There is as much, if not more fun in

Having money.

Just try it.

See what happens.

Rich people definitely have more fun than poor people.

But that’s not entirely true either.

(But that’s another story)

I need to work on my posts.

The message fonts are not clear.

Funnily enough I mentioned that with L the in her artwork the other day.

I should ask her how to do it.

She will know.

Otherwise I’ll ask The other EL

LoL

Funny and interesting

Everyone is a part of everyone

If you recognise it.

Children who are read to frequently of great real characters (same with fiction and fantasy?) have a bigger stack of wood to light and a bigger fire once lit.

That’s the key. (see yesterday’s entry)

That’s why successful people read. To add to their imagination of what/ who else to become next.

They are like actors reading scripts of movies they want to play in.

And acting in the biggest blockbuster of all times: their life

And they make sure it’s a box office smash.

I am my version of George Sand

I am my version of the inspired ErykahBadoula .

Thank you, girl, from the bottom of my heart. You truly helped me to help others give birth to healthy ideas and advise on how to nurture them into healthy thriving happy individuals.

To be a Doula for Ideas.

You rock!

TINDER TREATMENT

I was inspired to give some advice for one of my favourite Tinder dates ever. We never went as far as the kiss but we were laughing so much. I literally almost fell off my chair.

His profile was genius back then but he changed it only half arsed. I wonder if something is up. If he feels his age …

I hope he understands my advise and implements it. It would make me happy. And he will buy me dinner.

Win win.

Always ask if someone wants advise first. Then advise for free. And always add: “If it works for you too, then you can buy me dinner”

But only if you would love to have dinner dates for the rest of your life.

I would love it, I think it would be fun.

People feel uncomfortable having been given something valuable without being able to return anything of their own because the other one doesn’t want it.

(Is that the case with children desperately trying to give back to their parents?)

It creates an imbalance.

For me giving advise when inspired is super easy. Being bought dinner is too.

Easy Easy

Easy balance

Weightless

That’s what I want to be.

People are often crippled by their own weight, I don’t want to add to that but lift a little of it off.

Because I can and it is fun.

To see their relief.

Because I am not another one trying to carry it for them.

Freedom 24 got my money. But I cannot access the shares I want to buy through them so the next penny ipo stock with no investment threshold on offer, I’ll buy.

F88k it.

See what happens.

Rachel is already keeping an eye on the market for me and will let me know.

This is fun.

I want everyone to laugh with me.

Together.

About the irony of it all.

That’s fun.

It’s never about “what it means”

You can search any meaning you want on Google.

But these are meanings others mean.

The key is to find out what it means to YOU.

Always in a broader sense.

Like me talking about the birth of an idea in the same way I would talk about the birth of a child.

Because I realised that ideas can be like children.

So it totally works.

If you see (realise) the connection of things, then you can find out the larger meaning, and therefore you are given the choice to find out your own meaning within that.

There is never only one meaning.

I don’t want to be a real doola ….

It’s messy and ugly.

In a physical sense.

But I know it’s necessary.

The broken water and the afterbirth.

(Yes, I will still be talking about that)

I’d rather be messy in a metaphysical sense.

I’m not so good with blood.

Thanks.

What is worse?

Having no perceived intellect or having perceived intellectual and not using it?

Good question.

Coffee and a puff.

I realised that maybe …

(I love a maybe.)

I noticed that tobacco grounds me somehow.

Tobacco is nature.

A plant.

I wonder if people in cities smoke more than people in nature.

Because people in nature are already connected to nature.

And also, I get inspiration (advice) when I smoke.

Especially when I’m in the company of others.

Is that why people love to smoke together in their lunch break?

To chat and casually give advice to each other simply by listening?

I never felt I wanted to impose my advice to my daughter.

What do I know about shit really ..

Definitely not enough to give her my advice.

But when I just feel inspired and we chat casually, then we have a spark.

No pressure for me to be a mother and no pressure on her to be a listening daughter.

What I am writing here is good advice I believe. For me.

And if I am honest:

If she was the only one who benefits from this the way I do, that would be enough for me.

That’s all I care about.

So, should I send him the link to this platform?

No.

She has to find it.

If she needs it it will be there.

I’m always there.

For her.

And will give it when she feels she needs it.

That’s how it works the best.

With us.

Because I noticed that she recoils when she smells advice.

And she is very bullshit perceptive, that little one.

That’s what I appreciate in her.

Clever thing.

THE SANTA MYTH

Here we go..

I remember when she was small.

It was coming up for Christmas and me and her dad got all excited about introducing Santa to her.

The idea that there is a magic man bringing presents.

Everyone does it.

It’s Christmas.

The time for magic.

So we talked about Santa bringing things she wished for.

I adore Christmas, so I decorated the house and everything looked so beautiful.

I prided myself in doing the best most magical Christmas .. running up all the way through December.

Consistently.

In the evening of the 24th (UK) I thought it would be the cherry on top to put out some cookies and a glass of port and a carrot by the fireplace for Santa and the reindeer ..

Inconsistency no. 1

How could it be possible for 5 reindeer to share one carrot?

A Jesus Carrot?

Inconsistency no. 2

How could a big fat man loaded with presents like a bike and a Bratz Ski Lodge be able to come down our chimney, let alone anyone else’s?

Anyway, it’s magic, right?

OMG, F88CK THAT!

I remember deep down feeling uncomfortable with telling her the Santa Myth.

I realised that it is THE FIRST LIE we are telling our children and they consciously experience it.

And finding out that your parents lied to you is deeply traumatic.

I remember her dad once telling me the unbearable disappointment he felt when he woke up at night and realised that Santa was actually his father sneaking into his room with a fake hat and beard, filling up the stocking by the bed.

OMG, this is so wrong.

Fuck fuck fuck!!!

By us lying to our children we are leaving them wide open for abuse.

They WANT to believe in magic.

However, what is packaged as Magic is basically the message that a father figure can come into the house at night, undetected, and into your room.

Pretending to bring presents.

HORRENDOUS

Potentially leaving children as well as child-like adults open to abuse by a father figure.

Father

Uncle

What was that guy called again?

Harvey Weinstein?

Fuck. By telling our children that particularly this magic is possible, by what we think is caring, we are creating a

#metoo infested society.

And it’s not the fault of men.

But of parents.

All over the world.

The primal moment of Betrayal of Trust.

That’s why we are doing so well..?

OMG F88KING GOD.

And everyone is participating in this lie.

Generation after generation of parents.

To their children.

And them to their own children.

So on and so forth

And for what?

COMMERCE

That’s the irony.

Parents are conspiring together AGAINST the mental welfare of their children.

That’s parenting for you.

I am truly sorry, my darling, for having actively having taken part in this wicked conspiracy.

For leaving you vulnerable.

To commerce.

Santa was sold to me too.

And I never really liked Christmas as a child.

Too much pressure.

Pressure to comply.

To be happy.

Spreading my legs.

Being abused.

Not recognising that something was wrong when an adult came into my room.

For sexual favours.

Taking presents instead of bringing them.

Me being left empty handed.

Empty.

And then trying to fill it up. With what?

I wonder.

And the terrible thing was …

Aaaaah, f88k, now this gets interesting …

I felt pleasure.

As a child I did not know what it was.

But it kinda felt nice for a while.

So this meant that I felt pleasure when Santa came into my room to give me no presents.

Was that the Santa Magic I was hoping for?

However, my instincts deep down somewhere rebelled.

I felt disgusted.

But since Santa was all good and shiny and magical, where did the disgust come from?

Oh, it must’ve been me then …

Is that why my whole life I have been hunting for the approval of men? Pleasing them, being a good compliant girl, because that’s what Santa appreciates, rewards

Constantly on the hunt for Santa’s approval?

Looking for the Real Santa (father/brother figure), assuring me that it was ok to feel pleasure because it was natural but that the action of being taken advantage of was wrong. And that he would kick the other Santa’s ass and that from now on I would be protected.

I simply wanted to hear that I was ok.

Because if someone is inspired and able to do such a thing with you with the CONSENT of your parents, and therefore leaving you without protection, then you must somehow deserve it.

So basically, I thought my whole life I wasn’t worth much.

Always overcompensating in my actions.

Always giving more.

Trying to be more caring.

More loving.

More talented.

More empathic.

Never complaining.

Always putting it on myself.

For the approval of men.

Father/Brother figures.

Seeking both approval and protection from them.

And therefore setting ridiculously high standards for my own daughter.

Fuck!

Fuck!

Fuck!

Fuck!

Fuck!

Oh God, I feel sick now.

I need a breather …

Or some food.

Please, dear God, let her not have experienced physical sexual abuse because of me.

Please please please

How would I know?

I cannot possibly ask her.

I myself never ever ever told my mum.

That I was abused by an older father figure as well as a brother figure.

What could she have said?

Would she have acknowledged it?

Maybe.

Probably not.

Because it would’ve made her an accessory to abuse.

Not an easy thing having to admit.

I know how it feels.

Here, right now.

But even if my daughter has had the perfectly protected wonderful upbringing I always told myself she had, she is still suffering abuse.

Sexual abuse by the Santa Myth.

That presents make happiness.

That happiness comes at a price.

You have to pay.

Clothes can be happiness.

Food can be happiness.

Holidays can be happiness.

A good job can be happiness.

A loving partner can be happiness.

All the things you want.

To make you happy.

Are expensive.

Because, as I explained yesterday …

First you are sold the belief (in Magic)

Then you pay for it with your innocence/carefree happiness.

Dearly.

And then products and services are labelled HAPPINESS and they are sold back to you at mark up.

But they are empty you realise very quickly.

So they only fill you up with happiness briefly.

Keeping you going back for more.

Worst quality Happiness Crack Cocaine.

And someone else controls the price.

Genius business model.

I wish I could’ve thought of that.

But in a different context.

I might still think of that.

But no, I remember I can’t

I promised not to charge.

Damn right, it’s better than yours.

But I need to eat.

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AMSTERDAM DIARIES 2020+ Daily Philosopher Notes — Alchemy of Words. Creative Direction & Life Concept Creator

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Freya von Bulow

Freya von Bulow

AMSTERDAM DIARIES 2020+ Daily Philosopher Notes — Alchemy of Words. Creative Direction & Life Concept Creator

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