When should i care, and when should i not?

Becoming a woman has been the most exciting and painful experiences of my life – and as a person with a multicultural life and a shattered past (war, refugee camps and everything in between) I mean it when I say that becoming a self-conscious and independent human being is breathtakingly hard. Mostly because I started seeing myself for the person I was and not the person I wanted to be, and also because of the absurd amounts of energy I spent thinking about things that I should not have bothered thinking and caring about. Its an art managing only to care about things that are worth bothering. I envy the wild-hearted teenagers that walk around with a red-orange glow on the end of their cigarettes, dirty youthful hair, cracked knees, ripped shorts that squeeze the kuch a bit too hard but it’s not worth caring about because the luscious thighs are too important to hide. I see why the body is so desirable at that age – they are free from mental toxins, and everyone younger or older would want a taste. But every child grows up  and eventually everyone ends up just as hungry for the younger days.

As I grew out of my teenage crab-shell (I am cancer) and moved to the city with my new, vulnerable and inexperienced baby-armor, I realized that basic everyday-tasks my Albanian mother used to complete weren’t as easy as they seemed. Paying bills, cleaning, filling the fridge and working for survival was just one side of the struggle I lived through as a baby grownup.  As the former wildling teenager that I was, I walked the streets of Copenhagen soulless with a disconnected body and mind. As my body fell in love with a child-grownup, my soul/ my consciousness screamed for me to stay sane and break the bound that I had carefully and with an insane struggle knitted between this moth-tattooed wannabee city boy and me. As you can guess, this relationship ended uncomfortably childish, and my heartbreak felt like something ripped straight out of a Nicholas Sparks story. My toxic relationship had driven me to insanity, and nobody could know how absurdly weak and in pain I was. God forbid if they smelled even a scent of fear in me – they would eat me alive.

What would people think, if they knew what I was going through? Would my friends believe that I was weak? Naïve? Would they see through the cracks on my armor and detect my true self? Would they accept me, even when naked and honest about my very existence? This is where the care-ride started and didn’t stop till know (I’m working on it). Caring about how they see me and giving them the power to judge and mark me as someone they think I am is destroying me, and I’ll bet it’s destroying everyone else. I have spoken with a vast number of individuals who have suffered- or are still suffering from the uncomfortably sounding and annoying disease to please. The well-known and common urge to please others in hopes of them not judging me, leaving me or hating me. In hopes of them accepting me, even if I don’t like them, but everyone else does so why bother being true to myself. There is a fine line of adjustments to be made in a culture where social acceptance requires you to undermine your own time and needs. The people-pleaser culture teaches us that we have some sort of debt towards others, our society, our country. And even if we “pay off” whatever debt we have, we tend to be met with ungratefulness. This has devastated and disrupted my inner peace for too long, and I always find myself searching for new ways to please others instead of adjusting the issues that are within me.

There are only so many hours in a day- I choose to use them on myself knowing the meaning of kindness, compassion, and charity, without expecting others to reciprocate.

I am sitting next to an old man eating homemade soup in a boho-hipster café. There is no phone in sight, no newspaper, no book nothing else but him and his soup. I couldn’t help but staring and seeing an unbothered child in him. The peaceful aura around him contained both a well-hidden old pain and a new carefree acceptance, and I wonder, if he chose to stop caring about the wrong things to care about, or if he grew out of it and back into the careless but hopefully kind and compassionate child he was meant to be – caring only about things that have an actual meaning.

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