For God’s sake, pray to God for my mother or help her, she feels increasingly worse and without her I shall remain without health insurance and if they fuck me like they did yesterday and so many times I die if I don’t have psychiatric drugs and only my mother can bring them to me and of course I care for her – and the doctors said that I was removed from the list of patients with free medical insurance and my mother promised me that she will fight for my rights and she will go somewhere for that. For God’s sake, they even put false documents in my house in my drawers, I discovered forgeries in my drawers, IT IS TRUE, they have changed even my personal code in some official papers, it’s true. If I remain uninsured they will kill me … I was good, not evil, and my mother the same, and some people come over me with the thought that they no longer need me, and my mother said she no longer spoke with her cousin who lives in a neighboring locality. He has not even called her brother yet. Mother is less than 69 years old, and I am less than 46. For God’s sake, I don’t even have someone for exchanging two words with him/her on the phone. I have no one and I was pure goodness, HELP ME! They say that my people swore revenge to me though i was pure goodness and calm and that they believe that I was or that I am insane, evil and stupid! IT IS NOT TRUE WHAT THEY SAY. ONLY WHAT i SAY IS THE TRUTH ABOUT ME. FOR GOD’S SAKE, WHY THERE IS NO HUMANITY IN THIS WORLD?? why don’t you understand? IT IS A MONSTROUS ABUSE AND MURDER, PLEASE HELP
Now that you understood the story of my life in brief, i want to add here a few more details about my family.
My mother is in this photo a few years ago, I don’t remember the precise date. Here in the house (where I own 75%) she moved the old furniture from the apartment where she lived with my father (and me) and a few cheap paintings. She bought a cheap carpet and sits on a chair received as a gift from her old workplace, the embassy that closed. These are minor details. A lawyer told me once that I and my mother, being the direct heirs and those who had the bigger share at the same time, we should have get the house as a whole. It was not so. There was another family who had a smaller share, the brother of my godmother and his wife. That aunt tortured me many years about this partition and my mother too complained very much about her. They even went so irritated once that they had a fight (that woman and mother’s neighbor who supported my mother) and got bruises really. Now this blue room has a common wall with a back room that isn’t ours. My mother sleeps in the other room. My aunt, who was friendly towards my mother when they were young, gave that part of the propriety, together with land (the land partition too caused troubles to me) to a young unmarried couple they protected, a couple that has a child and they are still unmarried. They lived among different odds and ends with the child that played with me once.
After many years my mother paid and constructed a transparent fence separating our yard from theirs. My mother never accepted legal separation between the two of us, which would eventually give me financial independence and a good share for her too (considering the other apartment where we have lodgers). Back then my physical health was still good. The real estate market crushed down in my country after my father’s death and all my properties lost their value. This happened after I bought my apartment and thus I was hit the most and left without any cash. The apartments and the rent lost then their value and I lost my money from grandma’s house and garden, because I had to buy at higher price. They did not raise since then.
Anyway, this house where my mother lives has some encumbrances, it is not too valuable and the partition is not advantageous. I think it would have been hard to sell it anyway.
My aunt (not related by blood) took care of my godfather together with my father before he died. I could’t, for different reasons. He even signed a will paper (that is useless of course, for those who don’t know this, only the legal shares count nowadays). Then my father left for a few days and my uncle died in the presence of this aunt, who showed him to me naked, dead, lounged on his belly in his bed when I came back for the funeral from my grandparents village where I was back then. He was completely yellow and rigid, in fact I don’t know how much time did they leave him like that, in the back room that is not ours now. Then the doctor could not embalm him (he had a horrible liver cancer) and his entrails were buried in our garden following the doctor’s advice.
I know this story seems morbid, but it is the truth, that’s life. In fact he was a good man. They bought for him a huge Italian coffin and he did not fit the hole dug for his own grave. Thus, he was buried close to the ground, hastily, and then my father was buried a little deeper in the same place. My father stood one day at the legal medical institute and was perfectly embalmed. He looked alive in the coffin, only a white small spider was on his chest after we entered the graveyard. Then rat holes appeared on their graves for a few years. My mother sold illegally my own legal grave places I inherited from my godparents and said that my place will be over my father and godfather. My godmother’s grave was taken by that aunt of course. Mother says that my aunt did not even care about the weeds there. My mother takes care of the graves from time to time. That aunt moved from the city there in the same suburban place, that was declared a city, where I spent my happy childhood days, Voluntari. But I don’t belong there….I was sad, very sad.
In the next photo you can see my Christmas tree in 2007 and my mother smiling (she used to wear smoky glasses indoors.
My mother, my only guest and my first Christmas tree in my new apartment. In fact I forgot if I had one in 2006, but I can tell you that I brought this one myself home, in spite of snow, although I have only one leg and it was me who decorated all my Christmas trees, climbing on chairs, because back then I was healthier and I could wash my window panes and curtains too. For me Christmas meant so much…even though I did not have a real Christmas or birthday or Easter or New Year’s Eve since 1984. Once I had beautiful Christmases even in the village of my maternal grandparents.
That palm-like plant that you see there is now almost as tall as the bookcase. It was bought for me by my father before the death of my godfather. I have another one I bought myself before the death of my father, a small plant from the croton family. I did not know until recently that croton plants are poisonous, now I care for my plants, but I did not have money in the last three years to change their pots or soil.
My bookcase — it was from the cheapest, one of the few things I could afford from my heritage. My books are some of them read, some unread. The Bible in the middle, I have 3 Bibles plus two New Testaments, plus Bible for kids. I hoped to have a child. I used to buy story books for my future children since I was in high school. I discovered and read “The Neverending Story” by Michael Ende after my father’s death. It is good for adults too. I still like books for children. I have books inside too and in the other cupboard too. The books I kept in my house are some of them received as gifts, others bought by me through the years and some from my father’s library who had even art books. He had not philosophy (or poetry of course), otherwise he had a good home collection. I had a very good memory and in only a few months or less in 1984, I knew by heart each book and its place in father’s collection, that was big enough. The other books my father had are, at least partly now, in my mother’s home but she threatened me she will throw them out because they are old and stink. I think some of them were valuable. My books here are memories for me, I read much more from public libraries.
It is me and only me who arranged every little detail in my apartment, every object in its place, finding what they stole from my belongings. It is me who chose the colors of the paint and all the other window or bathroom or kitchen necessary things and the lamps to be lower to allow me to climb and change the bulbs and the place for each piece of furniture, etc. I had little money, I did what I could, trying to be wise and prudent/far-seeing for the future. I only dreamed of a comfy armchair all my life and now my backbone gives me trouble.
My godparents too had their books collection and they used to read every day in my childhood. Those books are lost. I still have one from them “Romeo and Juliet and Hamlet” by Shakespeare, which of course I read, and in it, on its last pages I found an interesting detail: a paper heart pinned with a pin and having a number on it, that was given as a prize at a kind of dance contest named the “The little hearts waltz”. It happened in 1962. I modified my story on this photo, where I was uncertain, because I finally had the heart to look on my bookshelves. My father’s name was Victor-Ironim (Ironim was my paternal grandfather) and my godfather’s name was Liviu -Stefan. His wife was Maria but she was called on her nickname: Medy. Her mother called her Mady. Her name as Medy with her husband’s name Liviu appear on another book that I took from their heap of books, a book that is called “The Sea Wall”, by Marguerite Duras. The date is 1969, the year of their marriage. I read that book recently and I still have it. My godfather had another wife before, he divorced her, and was very reluctant to talk about her. I was only a child, that’s why I asked about her and why he divorced. They told me that she died in 1977 at that 4th of March earthquake, the last big earthquake in my country, on his birthday. Such a heap of books could also be found in the insalubrious apartment where I was once a lodger, where my father payed me the rent, after opposing my plan to move there. I never looked at those books, I never opened that wall closet again. In fact I was never a curious person, not even as a child. I asked only a few questions from time to time. My godmother was the wife of an Orthodox priest who was imprisoned after the war by the communist regime, then released, and who died in service in a car accident. The other priest in my family was mother’s uncle and he sexually molested me (my mouth and my nipples) when he came once to visit us before 1989, under the eyes of my mother and his wife, who both seemed to be amused. I was told that my middle name, Monica, was given to me because that priest’s wife wanted so, though the rest of my family wanted only the name Cristina for me and my father, who had no word among them, wanted to baptize me Teodora. When I moved in my new apartment after my father’s death, one neighbor (a woman who prayed to God every day and who went to the Orthodox church often) told me that the whole city or many of them knew what that priest, my uncle, used to do to women in his church. Then, after a few years, she died of cancer and her husband (who was a military man and a poet, and who made fun of me countless times), remarried at a short time after her death. Some people, mostly children, in my mother’s village called me Monica, because that’s what they were told when I was little. I always tried to correct them. My grandparents called me only Cristina, but my grand-grandmother who lived in the priest’s house (her son-in-law) each winter, in Bucharest, she called me Monica. Years after my birth, mother’s younger first cousin baptized his only daughter Monica. I did only one mistake about my name when I was at Cluj, in my first year as a Psychology student: I introduced myself as Monica because I hoped to start a “new” life, I will not explain. The tragicomic fact is that after 2010 when I entered the net in order to read and share my poems, many unknown people called me Monica, though I dislike this, though I introduced myself as Cristina, though I explained that Monica is only my middle name.
I said that my godfather was in fact a good man in my previous photo. He was, but maybe most of all he was a good teacher for me in my childhood. He was always calm and patient and taught me beautiful things about stars, trees and plants, drawings, music, poetry, geometry. Those things were good. But he also taught me to be always good and to never lie, to be true to myself and true to others too. He used to say that a teacher’s greatest happiness is when his pupil surpasses him. He used many Latin locutions from time to time, like “Festina lente” or others, hence my love for Latin expressions.
And after years I still don’t agree with what one of my psychiatrists told me: “Cristina, you don’t know how to lie, you have to learn how to lie”. I am not ashamed to be myself, like I was educated, that’s me, I never lied and I never will. I can tell looking back that lies could not help me at all (anyway I could not guess what others were thinking, I never perceived others’ thoughts) and I am grateful to my godfather who taught me to be earnest and honest all my life.
Almost all the books I ever bought in my life, until a few years ago, are signed by me with my name and usually the date when I bought them.
He also used to prepare beautiful Easter eggs and we all sang a religious traditional hymn standing around the Easter lunch table.
here you can see my great aunt Barbara in her youth (she did not have a stain on the neck) and if you compare her with her photos in my previous post, you will see it was certainly her
And here she is in 2007, being born in 1915, April 11th, and dying at 92 years of age
And here is her story that I wrote a few months or a year ago:
The ashtray of my great aunt P was silver-plated alike the old mirror sitting on the shelf under the window; it was an ashtray with a nude fisherwoman hauling a net for stubs and ashes with her strong arms, and, who knows, perhaps a goldfish would have appeared there to fulfill three essential wishes in everyone’s life.
Aunt P gave up smoking a long time ago. She used to smoke the finest Romanian cigarettes available in her youth. But she was a poor woman all her life, as well as the great majority of my relatives. Then she grew old, going through some interesting transformations for a single woman in the city: her large dark brown face warts went discolored, her legs became hairless, her hair became brilliant white with a tint of blue-violet gentian tincture used by many old ladies, her nails got curved and thickened, even though she still used her precious manicure tools, because in fact my aunt did not forget the way of life she adopted in the hair salon where she had worked. In the last ten years of her life, my aunt gradually lost her sight, but she was still able to wash herself under the shower alone, even though she did not quit for 15 years her room strangely built with six walls instead of four.
Times spun around my aunt’s house like a toy globe in a child’s hand, meridian after meridian. In the 60s her third husband died, leaving her to care for the three elder relatives. Her husband had roots among White noble Russians (he was a white émigré), and he found refuge with modest financial means in Romania. Coincidentally, my aunt’s brother was a different kind of adventurer, a former worker in the construction industry and traveler in the Arab countries, who had spent several years in a concentration camp in Russia, because he was a prisoner in the Second World War. Aunt P too had traveled in her youth around the world, as a stage dancer, together with a friend. She had pictures with her in beautiful ballerina white dresses. In addition to the hair salon, she worked as a public servant in a state institution. In the ‘70s the trolley wires circled my aunt’s home, and then they disappeared. In the ‘80s my aunt often walked around the city to visit her sisters and brothers and in the suburbs area too, to take a breath of fresh air and stretch her pretty legs on a lounger in the sunlight. She loved very much herbs of all kinds, to refresh her blood, but she was a perfect hostess for her younger relatives when they congregated around her round and small table for a card game named Ace of Spades, staking on very low value coins. In her later years she began to stitch and make superb needlework and to decorate cushions according to her Hungarian origins traditions, with incredible craftsmanship for the hand of an apprentice.
In the ‘90s, my aunt, aged almost 80, had traveled with some fear on a plane over the ocean in the U.S.A. to attend a wedding of one of her nieces from an elder sister. She was always the same lady with impeccable manners and a small head standing with her curled hair and her pink lipstick on her mouth over her thin and quite tall body, more and more fragile. My aunt’s house was neighboring the government’s building, and on the ground floor they set up kiosks for petty merchandise. Only the framed pictures of my aunt were the same: her husband, brothers and sisters, and relatives from afar.
I visited her from time to time and she joked that she was the doyenne of age in our family. I still have a few old books received from her. In her youth she loved rumors about celebrities, in her old age she listened to the radio sitting on her bedside. When I was young she said about me that I was like Lapusneanu, a Romanian ruler, who said “if you don’t want me, I still want you” and I could not agree to that. I loved my family with all my heart. Before she died, she synthesized the wisdom of life in a few words: “It’s better on the ground floor than in the basement, that’s what I think, and while my Lord still left a living time to me, it should be lived”. This woman was shrouded in a fragrance of mystery, but in reality she was simple like jar pickles. She kept the flavor of times gone by, but she was spiced with herbs and resistant, yet open minded. She has given me a few things before she died, but I only preserved her simple, cheap Romanian coffee cups and saucers. Yes, she had liked coffee and she died on New Year’s Eve, probably as a result of the aggravation of her aorta aneurysm and other age-related illnesses. Because the staircase to her apartment (which she no longer could descend for a long time), was twisted to a maximum, they came down first with the coffin and then with her in a blanket. I thought that’s exactly what her life was: twisted like ivy around some men, twisted, but fragile, rambling on devious paths in mysterious ways, where not all people sleep between four walls. And at the end of her journey my aunt offered once again a proof of her proverbial capacity of adaptation. At the graveyard gate it was snowing, it was a very peaceful and thin snowfall, gracious like her ballerina days…
There are many other stories about aunt P that I regret I did not write in time before forgetting them. There are stories about her adventures with unknown men in cheap motels, whose advances she had surely rejected and the memory of her own youth in photos with Greta Garbo looks.
I will write here some facts about the people who raised me and became my cherished family in my childhood, by copy paste from my facebook page, maybe adding some things. I shall post old family photos too to make things more clear. It will not be exactly in the chronological order, but you will (maybe) understand in the end. You can enlarge the photos if you wish.
First of all, I will start with myself. I had a happy childhood, sometimes I was plump, other times my weight was normal or slightly overweight. It is true that my body fought to maintain its shape, while some of my relatives urged me to eat more and more, and I was only a child. I was raised in a huge garden near Bucharest, encircled by lilac all around so as no one could peep into it and I felt free to play. We had all sorts of trees, flowers, shrubs, vegetables, grapevines, etc. much more than you can imagine, some of them were really very good species that you cannot find on the market. We had all sorts of cherry trees for example (7-8 varieties) and I had my sour cherry tree that I used to climb after one cousin taught me how to do it, and climbing it I created my fantasy home there, with rooms on every branch. Though my grandma gave cherries to children who asked, they still came there to steal, and my godfather (uncle) was always busy to repair the fence. Some people came there and threw in our garden their garbage, but I was too young then to understand how low was my social status that led to their barbarian conduct, just like today. I was since then the poorest or from the poorest among my peers. Our home was old and filled with junk things, we did not have sewerage or phone or bathroom and I had only old toys of uncertain origin to play on and only a few old books, among them a Fibel who belonged to an unknown child, there were no elder children to study from that in my family and the same book was used in schools years after my childhood.
here, when I was 3-4 years old, in my grandma’s garden, holding the flowers of my favorite shrub. Can someone name it for me? I loved it, I never saw it after my godfather sold the garden. I liked that when it was in full bloom I could scatter petals over me like a snowfall. I believed in good fairies.
me as a little child between my two old grandparents — my grandfather paralyzed before my birth and died when I was 4. We wore the same warm felt slippers/shoes. We stood near the entrance porch, that pillar was embraced by a beautiful red rose that lived until I was over 18, and my grandma wore her gray shawl until she died:
when I was 7 in my opinion, up in my favorite sour cherry tree (my grandparents had a small orchard of sour, sweet, white and bitter cherry trees — 7-8 species per total). A cousin taught me how to climb it from a lower branch. There I had my home with living room, bedroom etc. and I could stay and play happily.
my parents, the source and the curse of my life
the prove that my parents both lost weight ( a lot) after my birth, of course I have others, but then my father gained weight again and only after years my mother; I was a quite plump baby, but not too much
my mother still skinny, my father fat again and I between them
me as a baby between the two slim ladies (“witches”) my mother and my godmother, and our tomcat Fletzu that lived a long and happy life. Both my mother and my godmother lost a lot of weight after marriage, in order to regain after years, probably they starved. In my childhood I was sometimes fat sometimes normal, because they gave me too much food, in the next photo you can see my grandma too
here my mother on the right in front of our home in the countryside as a young girl in the sixties…then you see what she became after marriage (loss of innocence and who knows what else), I wonder why my mother has here such big feet, and in other photos from her youth too, were they charity? did her feet shrink? (joking) because after marriage my mom’s feet were smaller. My maternal grandma had large feet and I too. It is true that my mother’s toes are very crooked, as if…who knows? Or those were not her shoes. It is certainly her (not very very sure myself), I have more photos like this, and she told me that in this one she was with a man she wanted to marry but her parents opposed. Who knows? As for the idea about shoes, I don’t know the truth, it is a simple correct observation. My mother told me that this girl was certainly her, but there are some people who enter my mind saying that it is not the same woman. They told me many times (in my thought) that this young woman was killed and replaced by my actual mother, who physically resembles her. They told me this both in Romanian and in English, but I don’t have proves to believe them, I cannot derive any conclusion. Anyway, my other in her youth looked like this and maybe it is the same woman in recent photos too. I have no reasons to believe those thoughts entering my mind about my mother, but I see that she changed. Whatever other conclusion I wrote here on facebook or on my blogs, especially on my Romanian blog about my life, it is the actual truth. I have made maybe less than 10 unintentional errors in my whole story about me and I hope to correct them. For example the small wrist watch from some of my photos was received by me as a gift from my godparents earlier than 9 years old, maybe on my 7th birthday, according to the pictures. It was one of my rare mistakes. Everything else that I wrote is based on carefully studied photos with a magnifying glass and other proves or certain memories.
and here are my father and my grandmother in 1968, before being in the army, he was 26 and that girl in the picture I was told was his supposed-to-be wife. On the left, my grandmother. Both did not change too much. Then he was a recruit in 69 and in 70 he married my mother
Two pictures with my mother in high school. She was fat then, fatter than I was myself in high school, wearing those black girl uniforms from the sixties.
when I was 9 years old, maybe after my uncle’s wedding, in the countryside, with my great-grandmother (the mother of my grandfather) and my mother and my grandma, simple peasants. My mother was once a simple peasant girl, in love with traditions just like me…
my father as a young “sorcerer’s apprentice” or I don’t know what…this is one of my favorite pictures with him when he was young, beginning to lose his hair. My grandma told me that he used different remedies or lotions or potions for his hair and that it was his fault for losing his hair. I cannot say that it was true, this assumption cannot be proved. But you can see a small scale, and different substances in this photo, I could not decipher all, one of them is SULFUR. On the back of the photo is certainly my father’s handwriting that did not change too much since then until his death. You can see that it was obviously the father that raised me by his lips, eyes, chin, etc. and the black wart on his cheek.
me and my great-grandmother Victoria, in two different moments in time. I certainly still remember my doll and those long mats that my mother used on order to preserve the carpet below them. My great-grandmother wears her folklore blouse, specific for the Făgăraș- Sibiu area.
my father and I (this is a continuation of the photo where I ironed his necktie with that small toy iron), he was amused
my mother and I (it seems that I disliked her in many of my early childhood pictures), it is certainly my mother, she still has today that wart on her nose and many other resemblances, but I must admit that she changed a lot since her young age when she was a girl
my mother on the seashore…she always loved the sea, here her hair blows in the wind (she was a nice Gorgon), I love this picture, in reality it looks better, the scan is not so good. I wore myself that blouse when I lost weight in my youth and I think I still have it somewhere in my closets
Me, my father and my grandparents in the countryside ( my mother made this photo) in the 90s, I wear my old green blouse. I almost never tasted alcohol, beer was on the table for the others, you can see my father’s wart…and hair
my paternal paralyzed grandpa before his death, he died when I was 4, i am holding his hand in the second picture, you can see that I wear the same clothes as in other photos, and part of my old tricycle and yes…our privy and our old May cherry tree in the yard
my godfather enticing me with sweets or something else when I was little
my godparents’ wedding in 1969. 4 pictures. I love the first picture. You can see besides them my great aunt Barbara, who was their godmother. In another picture you can see the Orthodox wedding ritual, where the bride and groom wear this kind of golden crowns, named “cununii” in Romanian. My parents had another type of cununii, maybe they differ from church to church, but, believe it or not, someone stole my photos with them wearing those in the church at their own wedding in 1970. My godfather did not have beard yet, it is certainly him I can assure you, and he was fatter. He too lost weight after marriage, like the other 3 ones.
when I was little, wearing a dress created by my paternal grandma, a dress she called Tyrolean, and riding my old tricycle in the garden, I was a very happy child. Here it was a time when I was fatter
yet another one on that old tricycle and the cracks in the pavement, (more visible in another photo) I was fighting with
here I was 5, in the kindergarten, wearing a militia woman costume. To my great surprise, on the back of the photo it is written 5 years, 2 weeks and 10 days. My parents counted the days since my birth when I was 5!
In 1993 with two colleagues from the University, who visited me. That dog was mine, her name was Rita and she was effectively killed by my mother who gave her too much food and sweets and anything you can imagine. She died a few weeks after my father’s death, in 2005.
on my 10th birthday, with my mother, my maternal grandparents, my mother’s first cousins, a friend of my parents (in the upper left corner), my mother’s aunt (sister of my grandpa) and my second cousin Monica. Maybe you can see that mother’s relatives resemble each other. We were so happy then, I too was very happy. The room was crowded with at least 5 more other persons who appear in other photos from that day
vintage photo from the interwar or WWII times, with my paternal grandma in a cantina restaurant or something like this, certainly her according to other photos. Maybe you don’t believe me but she preserved some of her young physical traits until her death; some individuals with white overalls, like medics or cooks, are in the back.
I had many vintage photos, some of them were stolen from me. I used to look at them when I was little together with my grandma, who explained me each of them. But now mystery remains about 2 in fact 3 or 4 blonde boys that appear in photos with my grandma, or alone, or on a tricycle like the one I had, or with my great-grandmother, mother of my grandma. I had photos (I still have some) where my grandma appears together with my great-grandmother, it was them, or it was the same blonde child or the same children. I don’t know what’s that military decoration on the shoulder of one or two boys. It was war time, the most destructive war in history. My grandma told me that she worked in a German kindergarten where she learned German ( not too much). In another photo that I already scanned there is my father as a child ( I doubt that now) playing piano and the photo of the youngest blond child on the wall over the piano. I still have 2 of that kind, exactly the one that was on the piano. My godfather, who was born in 32 (my father was born in 42) told me that I quote “you won’t believe me Cristina, but that blonde child was me”. So the mystery is unsolved for me, because I think it was impossible that he would become an almost creole man with dark black hair. Here in these photos you can see my great-grandmother with children, the last one probably before her death. My great-grandmother had at least 11 births, 9 of her children survived (3 boys and 6 girls, the girls came to Bucharest to find their fortune and two boys stayed in their village), my grandma Julianna told me she was the 5th, she was born in 1911. In the last photo you can see what was supposed to be my godfather.
In the same line of events, here’s my grandma (you can see her traits from the other photo I already shared) with her nephews in WWII times. Mystery remains at least the blond child on the left, the other ones were told to be two of my father’s first cousins, the one on the right, the boy, was the only one to have Gypsy/Arabian like brown skin and I still have photos with him as a mature man and me by his side. Was he that dark skin one with great-grandmother? Maybe. My grandma’s Hungarian maiden name was Szőcs, it was written on many photos that I still have and I was told that it means blond in Hungarian. Maybe it was true…but now I doubt a little because of the coincidence in regard with the mystery about the blond boys from different photos. Another strange fact that happened to me when I was a child is that I found accidentally a Fibel (German primer schoolbook) hidden near grandma’s jam jars and then I learned a little from it. I was just a kid, I remember a few stories from it and it is certain that my first cousin learned German from the same book, although he is almost 10 years younger than me. From whom could have been that book? It was certainly a schoolbook printed in the post-war era! And there was no other older child in my family, but me. I think that if I could have solved this mystery, maybe I would have understood a part of the crimes against me, what they now wrongly define as destiny. I was absolutely innocent and sinless and a valuable individual my whole life, yet they don’t have pity. I always was perfectly normal, yet they call me insane, forcing me to commit suicide.
And here again the mystery of the blond child. One of the portraits of that mystery child in the first photo(I have many others, and together with my grandparents too) and then my father playing piano with the photo of that child hanging on the wall above the piano, I payed attention to details (it can be him, like they told me, but I am not certain; he said to me once that playing piano is easy because it is mechanical, and the child has that cheek wart that my father had). And another photo with another blond child on that tricycle that resembles the one I had (the wheels), I have a few other photos like that.
And here in these 2 photos you can see me (I have another one much better quality as a closeup the same day there) and my mother, grandmother and great-grandmother plus my mother’s first cousin and his child at the annual maize crop processing with that machine (taking corn seeds off the corn ears). I was very fat back then as you can see, but it was me, then I lost weight. My uncle was a good man, he died of a brain tumor a few years ago, still young in my opinion. My cousin (second cousin) had very blond hair although his parents both had black hair. His name was Alexandru (Andi) and he was lucky to emigrate and have a child and a good job (or so they say) in Japan. He could not come at his father’s funeral, I saw a photo with him and to my surprise his hair was now brown.Those days, we children and my great-grandmother helped the others to gain more maize taking off what was left on the corn ears after processing with that machine (we had a special tool with teeth for that).
In this photo you can see Andi’s parents at our place, visiting me in the 90’s at my 25th birthday. Both were kind towards me. There is my mother too and my poor godmother who became fat like that, being poor and ill.
Strolling the streets of Bucharest maybe shortly after WWII in my opinion, my grandma, obviously her in all her photos until her death in 1991 when I was a student in Cluj, a faraway city, she is in front with one of those mystery children (it is obviously her) and in her back you can see from left to right her sisters: Erzsébet, Ilonka (not certain about her) and Hilda, all three of them died of cancer, I met the first two, I can recognize them there although they were young. The child behind is supposed to be my father’s cousin, uncle Mișu, that one with brown skin (his name was Mihai Pitiș, yes he shared Pitiș name with a famous Romanian actor that my father told he met once at Anda Călugăreanu’s birthday party and after years the University teacher Zăgrean Leon who destroyed my youth told me about him a few times, because he said that the actor Pittiș was his friend and that they went for a drink together). In these pictures I don’t know who was the man in front of them escorting them, but I see some people on the street staring at them. There is a soldier there near the corner. In the third photo there is a military man…I don’t know what was his army…i remember that in movies Germans were dressed like this, could have been these photo and the other two from the WWII era, or after? Only an expert can tell, the other military was dressed differently in the other photo. And if it was in war times, then why were so many people on the boulevards?
Uncle Pitiș seemed to be the same person I met in my childhood, I can show you photos. My life was scattered with coincidences, for example Anda Călugăreanu was Armenian and my grandparents had their small businesses near the Armenian church in Bucharest, where I heard the bells tolling on December 22nd, 1989, when I went to the Revolution in Bucharest. After 1989 the actor Florian Pittis that was said to be Jewish, became a singer in a band called Colibri too, I posted a song of his on this blog here :
May they all rest in peace.
some other vintage photos of mine. Once again my grandma photographed at studio Riviera where she made a lot of photos, with her child (she told me that it was my father), here at 6 months as you can see, in the summer of 1942. I made the mistake to take off the photographic dots in one of them. Now I understood that those dots are good, they create depth or contrast, clarity, something .This child was a very plump child in my opinion. I could not find studio Riviera in Bucharest on the net as a historical fact, I think it was there but now I cannot find it anymore.
My paternal grandpa, on his name Ironim, the name of my father too besides Victor, was obviously the same man in the photos I have with him since his youth age (I have more with him) until he paralyzed at my parents’ wedding and then the same (of course no one replaced him). I repeated these things because, as you can guess no one talks with me and they act as if I invented things. It is certainly him in the photos that I have. My grandma did not love him too much, she respected or feared him, but she said that he was too stubborn and that he spent a lot of money on bets in the hippodrome. My grandma was a very kind and patient woman and she taught me these virtues. She painted (not talented), knitted, embroidered, sewed clothes and wrote poems about peace that she read to me, she was a very peaceful woman and everyone called her aunt Lili. Although she had poor sight, she still read books in her old age. Everyone praised her patience and calm and generosity except for her daughter in law. About my grandpa, 12 years older than her, she also said that he liked very much good food and good wine shared with friends, thus spending again too much money. Here you can see my paternal grandpa with some of his relatives or friends and one of the pictures I have with both my grandparents (probably after WWII) and their child on the street. And in the 3rd photo another picture with my younger grandma and a happy baby.
Another photo of mine when I was 14, in 1985, dressed in my mother’s clothes, in front of the church where my parents baptized a baby boy (their only baptized child), the same church where my mother’s uncle was a priest and where according to their stories my parents met each other and then were wed adn then I was baptized. It was very close to the place where I was meditated by that teacher who abused my innocence (it was a kind of sexual harassment but horrible, he talked and promised a lot, and lied a lot, etc.), in the Rosetti Square area, the next trolley station after the Armenian Church. From the standpoint of my bedroom window those days I had view towards a street that continued with Maria Rosetti street. Once again coincidences. For example that teacher told me that he was from a village named Coșbuc (a famous Romanian poet), and my home was neighboring the high school named Coșbuc, and my paternal grandma used to ask me to read tens of times the poem Teotolinda by Coșbuc in my childhood (about an unfortunate princess imprisoned and tortured all her life by her father, though innocent and dying), I had a poem by Coșbuc as a subject for my entrance exam in the high-school, etc. Back then my father worked as an engineer in that area in the North of Romania where that man was born. I was forced to see him (that evil teacher), I tried to quit meditations, but no one supported me. Usually I walked until there, passing by that church named Saints. It was a time when I hated all these lifetime coincidences, then I got used to them, but they are a kind of chains and prison. Here in this photo I am with my godparents Liviu-Ștefan and Maria (called Medy or Mady). I was fatter than in the autumn before (in 1984) where I visited USSR with my parents, because of stress, I gained 10 kilograms, and yes, it was a cold spring day, I shivered, but I could not find better clothes to wear. It was a tricky weather. I can see that this photo too has those tiny dots, I cannot name them, if you enlarge it. it is an old technique. I had very curly hair back then after each wash.
I said my grandma and grandpa were the same through their photos, here again my grandma in her late forties or in her fifties in my opinion. Strange hail with the arm from one woman in her back…it was after WWII
and now my grandma aging in her house, with an old doll with porcelain head (or plaster or something like this), a doll that I found abandoned when I was a child in the same place where I found that Fibel I was talking about. In the other picture she is dressed in a folklore costume, I don’t know from which part of this country, but she was Hungarian.
Here in the photo below you can see an old school in Bucharest in the years 1948-1949 and my father in the first row of benches, he is the only one without a scarf. I was told it was him, but looking closer, maybe because I lived with him longer before he grew beard after 1990, I almost recognize his traits, but of course I cannot be very certain. Once again history repeats itself, like my grandma used to say, because when I was in the first grade, the teacher placed me too in the first row of benches, exactly the place close to the corridor on the window row of benches. I found in a drawer my father’s grades from the Faculty of Constructions (he became a road engineer) and I noticed that the great majority of them were low.
Here is one of the last photos of my relatives, father and godfather, before their death, almost certain in 2002. My godmother was very ill, died in 2002, my godfather died in 2004 after a horrible cancer, at 72 years of age, my father in 2005 all of a sudden, at 63 years of age (cerebral or heart attack on a very hot day, changing the tyre. I copied here what I wrote on flickr on this photo, I shall make corrections later, now I am tired and I hasten to publish my story. I know that some things are repeated and others must be deleted, and I will come back in a couple of days to edit it:
“Here I was not with them, my first cousin was and he appears in photos from that day, and he made this photo or my mother. My father grew beard in his last years. The photo is from their last year together maybe but I will search for the exact data(maybe). [Finally I searched among other photos and it probably is from 2002, because my godmother, very ill, is there the same day, and she died in 2002. My godfather died in 2004 and father in 2005.]
The only story about my family that is missing from my photostream is in the same time the only mysterious one, everything else was and is absolutely true and obviously could or still can be proved. This story is about them too. Some people told me that my godfather was Gypsy-like and that this was a reason for my misery. From very close he was not very Gypsy-like. And they said that my father was Jewish-like, but I know nothing about this. My father told me many times that in life I have to avoid Jews and Gypsies, this was one of his life advice a long time ago.
After my great aunt Barbara died, my cousin Francesca gave me from her photo albums all photos that were with my direct blood-related relatives: my father, my grandmother, my godfather, taken through the years, since they were children, together with their cousins and their parents and grandparents. Then someone stole that bag with old photos from my cupboard, exactly like they take photos from my computer. Then I realized that they took photos too from the collection my father left me before dying, where he placed a part of the collections of photos of my grandmother and my godfather after my godfather died. It is true, and sad, they take my things, and I don’t have now too many photos as proves about what I have to say here. When I was a child I used to look at old albums with my grandma and she explained me everything.
First certainty is that these two brothers (my father and my uncle) did not resemble with each other at all. It can still be proved through many photos and films. Another certain thing is that they did not resemble their parents, as far as I have seen. Another absolutely certain thing that I can prove (at least a few years ago I still had photos) is that my grandparents, their parents, were them through the years, since their youth until their death, they were certainly the same people. Another thing is that my father and my godfather don’t resemble the children they said that they were in the photos with them and their family (who are certainly their family). They changed their appearance at some moment in their childhood. When I was little, my godfather told me, showing me a photo with him as a child: “Cristina, you will never believe this, but that one was me.” Back then the whole family told me and knew that my godfather had very blond hair and white skin when he was little, but his eyes were dark since then. In the photo you see here he had cancer in its later stages and was very pale. Otherwise his skin was darker all his life. He never dyed his hair. Here his hair was not whitened completely. He was 10 years older than my father, he was born on the 4th of March 1932. My father too changed in childhood, his skin became whiter and he became completely different. But the transformation of my uncle was impressive and a mystery to me. So I studied all my family photos and I arrived at some conclusion, but then they took a part of them, and now I cannot tell for sure if it could have been them. because there are only two options as far as I see: either they replaced those two children from my family photos in the family of those elders, or they had some genetic mutations, at least my uncle for certain.
This is the only mystery about my family. All the rest I already told. These men gave me shelter, peace and silence, protected me and gave me good education and taught me only good things, regardless of what they were. And I was perfect as an individual and there was no reason for the society to destroy or torture me, I don’t know why they did what they did. And I was not a mutant, I resembled very much the child that I was, until 2007 when they began to torture me more and my physical illness aggravated. All who knew me told me that I changed very little since youth and it was true.
When I was 18, in the beginning of 1989, my godfather and father talked in front of me a thing that hurt me — father said aloud that I was a genius and because of this a great tragedy will come over and my godfather replied that he knows that, but there is nothing to be done.
The night before my suicide attempt in December 1998, I was on my own in a train compartment with many people and a stranger began to talk with me and told me evil things about Gypsies and other things and he said that he cannot save me because my country is in the grip of two genetic mutants and he can save the life of a single person each year. Those were not dreams or hallucinations, it was the truth, they tried to scare me and I was pickpocketed too. Then when I arrived in a touristic station they did not accept me in any hotel to sleep although I still had money, they put a mad man walking in pajamas on my way to scare me and told me that I have to sleep there where that man was, then they called the policeman and threatened me that my place is in the police arrest, then they accepted me to sit in the restaurant where a group of people made me dance with a young man (I was not insane, I had only a horrible headache and I was very tired) and while a Gypsy band played songs I still remember now, they danced around me and filmed me because they had a camera with them. They were not Gypsies. I called my father who came there with a cab from Bucharest and took me home. I asked him to take me to the psychiatric hospital because my headache was too powerful. He said that it is useless and only Balaceanca is the place for me ( a place for very serious mental illnesses, not like the other one). He went to bed and I tried at first to lay down in my bed and took off a part of my clothes, but the headache was stronger and stronger. I took the decision to kill myself and looked down on the window, fearing that I will escape alive, because there was a kind of covering over a local bank-insurance company, Allianz Tiriac, that was then in our block of apartments. So I forced myself to jump over that and people said that I landed on my feet like this. Someone dragged me near the wall, like a neighbor and my father told me. That one did not call the ambulance. It was the neighbor below who found me and called an old-fashioned ambulance. I met her periodically on the street in past years. Then they woke me up in the ambulance asking for my blood group and I realized I was not dead and I tried to fool them. Then I saw myself in the hospital from above, exactly like it is written about near death experiences everywhere on the net. I did not know back then. Maybe it was a dream. Then I woke up in the reanimation room and took off my intravenous line. Since then I never tried to commit suicide anymore. My mother’s brother said that if I landed on those iron beams I would have died for certain. I did not realize that back then, because the headache was very strong. That headache started a few weeks before, in the University of Medicine Carol Davila where I was a student and I took some medicine in vain, Then it aggravated and that’s why I went there towards the Govora station, hoping to relax and feel better, but against my father’s strong opposition.
It was an altruistic attempt of suicide, because my head ached so horribly that I believed I will lose my mind and I shall become an evil robot like those who destroyed me all my life and for me it was unacceptable to kill or hurt eventually a person for example like I was. This was the real reason. When my godfather saw me without a leg, he began to cry with many tears. He also cried for me a few months before that attempt when I went to him and complained about different things. I think those were real tears and real pain and that he really felt sorry for me.
(Here in this photo my father’s books too are hidden inside the cupboard, only a few can be seen. he had good books, but that is not money. They and I never had money. They only had the habit to buy food for their family gatherings, and to arrange it to look special. Otherwise the food was normal. After the 1989 Revolution food was cheap and came from good companies from abroad, but only for a while, then things changed, then the social stratification became clear and my family bought only the cheapest food from hypermarkets. Before 1989 they all said that most of the food was sold on the black market and those who had not relationships starved. I will tell you now the most intriguing fact that happened to me my whole life. I went once unexpectedly, suddenly, when no one knew to a local food store, when everyone was supposed to starve and get on the streets when they heard that meat or eggs, etc were to be sold somewhere. I too stood at queues for food and I was stepped over or insulted, because people at queues were violent then. That day, to my great surprise, I found that the store was empty, no customers or queue inside, yet plenty of smoked chicken to sell. I don’t remember if I bought, probably I did, and yes, the sellers (women) looked strangely at me and said: “Is she stuck now?”. I cannot explain this, even now. I think that maybe it was mass manipulation for changing the social system and create revolutionary vibes. I was from the poorest and maybe those women were talking about some kind of future sacrifice of mine, saying about me being “stuck”. Even that University teacher who destroyed me became a hero at that Revolution in newspapers, but he had foreign bluejeans, cassette recorders, whiskey and told me that he manages to find food for his family. My family used to discuss politics very much at their gatherings and they all hated and insulted continuously the regime and Ceausescu family, a thing that was boring and disturbing for a child like I was, obliged to listen to their talks. Otherwise, in the back of those food gatherings, they were some of the most decent people possible and never used vulgar words before 1989).
After losing a part of my left leg, people treated me with much more cruelty. And after 2002, since I went to every kind of human rights organizations, churches, charity organizations, institutions, emigration offices (those days Canada and even Spain were trendy, but I went only to Canada), embassies (I asked for the help of foreigners too, imploring them to transmit my plea to any other embassy or organization that can help me), international organizations, etc, anything that you can imagine in my city with my plea for rights and life, they were more and more hideous towards me and they all rejected my requests. It is always the same philosophy: all countries have their psychiatric patients, who, in fact, are considered subhuman, and I only asked for an exception in my case, pleading with arguments all my life, since 1984 in fact, when they started to torture me and when they started to threaten me with psychiatry, although, I repeat, I was intelligent, good, innocent, and no psychological or psychic trouble at all. I became a beggar and also very ill physically in the past few years, but they hardly give 1 RON (leu, our currency) for beggars like me to buy a cheap bread. Some people suggested me that they kill me because I knew their secrets, but I know for certain that it was not this the reason. I was never interested to share useless information or stories that do not interest others. I had no place to go with those so-called secrets. I did nothing wrong, I don’t understand why. It was not because of that smoked chicken story, I was a normal person and anyway no one would have been interested in such things. I always lived a normal life and effectively I asked for help since 1984, being horribly abused by my parents and I told the necessary truth since then until now. Now people on the street call me aloud “smoked grease”. That’s what they’re doing.
For example in the photo that you can see in the comment below it is certainly my father, his adult traits are visible. I had more with my father and his brother as children. In the photo below he is in the first row of benches, the only child without a scarf, like the others wore those days, 1948-1949.
My father told me that he was persecuted by the communist regime because of his small bourgeoisie origin or “unhealthy origins”, the term of those years. My father explained to me when I was little that a part of the small misfortunes that happened to me in school when I was little were due to the fact that I had relatives abroad. My godfather too told me a part of his life story. My father became the only member in the communist party among my relatives.
Now please think about all these facts that are true. The way they raised me, the things they said, made me become disgusted of and repelling politics. When I was little I could hide after large family meals in a huge garden, which thing I almost always did, in order to avoid their political talks. But after 1984, their talks could be heard from my bedroom too and many times I was forced to stay with them by my mother’s requests, who, otherwise would have slapped me. I never had connections with politics all my life, with a few exceptions. My godfather told me once a word about politics that others too used: “politics is the greatest whore”. At the 1989 Revolution I was dragged by the crowd after a sleepless night, I was not foolish, I couldn’t escape and I won’t explain everything in detail. It was not curiosity, but a fire that others ignited and I was not insane. The moment they executed the Ceausescu couple I had the TV set open, maybe because of that fire that burned in every home then, or maybe my mother told me to watch. If I knew that it was all about a nasty execution, I wouldn’t have watched. Those like me dislike executions, whoever is the hero/martyr/criminal/ head of state, etc. In old times it is written that they executed many “witches” or crowned heads, but this was not entertainment for those like me, but for others. I was always a conformer/conformist person if you want to know the whole truth, I always played by the rules, but I could not guess others’ thoughts. When they killed that presidential couple my father screamed aloud “Death!” and exactly that moment I lost my consciousness for a few seconds and I screamed the same. It was one of the 2 moments in my life with a temporary and short lack of self-awareness. After many years I opened by chance the TV set where I was a lodger and they were just transmitting news and images about Saddam Hussein’s execution and I shut it down hastily. I rarely listened to political news my whole life; I know very few things. In my case it was normal, but I admit that for a person it is necessary to be aware in life about political trends or to play the game as if. I also think that people should be aware about things, because if they sleep on their feet, it is always another Hitler or something else around the corner. I was always lucid about my environment too. I renounced television and radio years ago, lacking money. Some people say that I was the perfect idiot, but that was not true. It is them who isolated me by force effectively since 1984, but I stayed normal and I always was. My godfather visited me once in the psychiatric hospital after my suicide attempt and saw a radio in my bed (I listened to Romanian radio stations then) and said to me : ” don’t listen, leave it to the devil”. It is true that I was hurt by listening, because they invented exactly those days a song about a crippled woman without a leg and there were many other things I disliked. Only a period in my life, after those days, I listened to radio BBC and radio Vatican, because of many reasons, because of the others. Before 1989 I used to listen to national Romanian radio stations that broadcasted good music sometimes and had some interesting radio programs sometimes. I even received a musical gift dedicated to me when I was in high school and I wrote stories or poems for a teenagers “club” that they made those days, giving different prompts and asking for creativity. After the 1989 Revolution the national radio stations were no more present in my block of apartments and they could be listened to only in my grandparents’ village and in a tailor’s workshop on my street, where I had to go to shorten my trousers I could buy from time to time. Before 1989, since I was little in school, my godparents and other people that I knew listened to radio Free Europe. My parents too listened to that station, but less often. I listened to it only 2-3 times. I disliked that station because they had a tone of voice that I disliked and because I was educated to dislike politics. When I was a child in school I had to do my homework in dim light in my grandmother’s room, with that station she was listening to in Hungarian. Thanks God I did not know Hungarian, it was just like an unpleasant humming.
Only the days after my suicide attempt food was good in that psychiatric hospital and the rooms were full of patients, otherwise the food I received there was always scarce and unhealthy. I was told by my father that in his last horrible days of suffering, my godfather listened every day to radio stations. Once upon a time (the only thing that I am not certain about) I heard him saying to my father: “I won’t let you hurt Cristina, it is me who won’t let you do to her what you did to mom”. And eventually my father said: “We will do even more evil to her”. Everything I said is the perfect truth, only this dialogue is the only uncertain thing from my memories. I cannot tell for sure that my father wanted to hurt me, in reality I cannot accuse him of nothing for certain and he gave me some good things for sure.
I dislike the social-political system nowadays in my country, but when I was a child I was too young to know what was good or what was wrong. I was maltreated by my parents or state institutions before 1989, but not too much by the state. Being born in 1971, I couldn’t have guessed the communist crimes they are talking about. In the schools where I was a pupil and in high school they always replaced the communist propaganda lessons with maths or physics or something else. Today for me their political system is one of extreme right because poor or handicapped people have no rights or chances at all. For example recently the family doctor told me that the rule is that she cannot give me another official paper to go to the medic for my clogged ear, because she already gave me and I could not go there and I have to wait 3 months until she can give another one. Two months are gone, she will give me another act at the end of August. Like this people with severe illnesses (not about ears) are killed. There are many certain things about the medical system that I don’t write here. I give you one more example about social problems: from time to time water is very dirty at the kitchen and thus, being summer too, old and lonely or poor people die, they are killed. I had to ask again a neighbor for a small loan of one euro yesterday. These things and other like this are not politics, they are about social injustice and real crimes, I knew many like this, I have been through everything”.
As for my grandma’s sisters, the second elder one, aunt Anna married a German man and had a daughter, Elsa. My uncle (godfather) told me that he suspects her husband was an SS officer, because they could escape alive through Europe. I don’t know, the war was over a long time ago. After the war they divorced and the child, aged 9, chose to be with her father and they both strolled through Europe and emigrated in the USA. She was married happily and had five children. After many years she was reunited with her mother, and then I received small presents and worn clothes from the USA. After all I was the poor relative of the family. The youngest sister, aunt Barbara (Borbalya), was married 3 times with no children. Her story was already published by me and if not I will post the link soon. Uncle Mișu’s son, Eugen, emigrated in West Germany in the Ceausescu era and had a daughter. After 1989 he had a horrible car accident and was hardly saved and recovered. His mother, a simple and good woman (aunt Verona) who came to all funerals along with me (godfather, father, aunt Barbara) became severely ill of Alzheimer and was placed into permanent care by her son. Before 1989, my godfather gave me the advice to try to emigrate from my country, also in Germany, but I said to him that I love my people and country. Aunt Anna from the USA died of old age soon after my suicide attempt at the end of 1998, that’s what I was told when I came back from the hospital.
Here is my great aunt Anna, visiting me in my parents’ home in the nineties
here is my great aunt Barbara in the 1990s, with me and my godparents and the hand of my father. My mother was there too, of course, all around that small table (guéridon) where they used to play cards on trifles when they were younger. You can notice my aunt’s special mirror, that she gave to me before her death and my mother sold subsequently.
I lay down in my bed and I could not fall asleep. I felt something was missing from my family history. Now you know everything about the people who raised me. They were good folks and acted kindly and respectfully towards me. They spoke clearly Romanian without Hungarian accent (those who were Hungarian). And I had an insight about what I forgot to write here in order to make everything more clear. My godfather knew well Hungarian, his speech was fluent. But my father did not know Hungarian at all (maybe a few words) and he was not a fake for sure. This did not impeach my mother to call him “stinky Hungarian” when she was angry. I really don’t know what could have been the explanation. My father was born in 1942 and my godfather in 1932. My grandma adopted the Orthodox religion and rituals, but she told me that she prefers the way the Reform church treats Virgin Mary, more like a woman who gave birth and not so saintly like the Orthodox tradition.
And here you can can watch my old inherited things collection, not too many, some were lost along the way, my grandma had many beautiful old objects. When I asked her from where does she have them, she said that she bought them cheap from the impoverished Jewish in the WWII:
wordpress does not allow embedding so I give you the link, just in case you wish to watch:
Finishing for these days my stories about interwar and WWII times, I remembered that by chance Casablanca was my favorite movie…it was a time when I used to cry at the end lines and Ingrid Bergman was my favorite actress. After the 1989 Revolution I set a meeting place with a girl that was on the streets with me back then, but she did not come. In that place they created an ice cream shop named Casablanca, then they replaced it with something else…here’s a small poem:
my melon ice cream
This is how I usually was all my life, almost the most quiet and calm child in every group that I was in. I was born with this trait, I could not change. People and classmates called me a dreamer (I still have a video with their words like this) but I was not at all a dreamer, for the contrary, I was always very conscious about the environment and my own situation, giving prompt answers to teachers’ questions, etc. I learned a lot by myself, I learned to read before school by asking “what letter is this?”, etc. But I was a little shy, blood came to my cheeks in some social situations, because I disliked and I still dislike to be the center of others’ attention. I always preferred to meditate in front of nature’s beauty and to read nature depictions, yet I read many adventure books with almost equal amazement. The greatest irony of life was that I was imprisoned many times between 1992-2007 in the psychiatric hospital, always among agitated patients who were separated from the other patients, though I was always very calm and in those times too.
Today I made a digital painting after a sketch I made in 2010, remembering good old days when I used to be so amazed in front of flowering trees in the garden…
Once again the two pictures with my parents in 1971, I can say that it is almost obvious that my father at least was not my biological father: