The agenda with empty pages

I wish I could say that I’m an activist, but I’m not. I don’t feel like I’d have what this needs. I am only someone with questions. I sit, observe, put things together, and then ask myself questions about this process. The same goes for the outer world. I sit, observe, gather information, and then try and make something coherent out of everything.

Or this is how it used to be, as 2020 came like a hurricane, shattering every single thing I thought it was already figured out. It brought a pandemic and a whole list of questions to be answered. It brought new issues to be addressed, and put some light on older issues, often left for later.

One of those issues to-be-addressed-later is the way we are looking at politics. I used to hear frequently that old line, I am not getting involved with politics, it is none of my business to do so! long before 2020. But then a pandemic came and made us ask ourselves Is this true, or just comfortable?

But let’s look a bit closer to it. When we talk about politics, we talk about agendas. About issues and core values that politicians find worthy of being prioritized. From women’s rights to migration and education, everything is or could be, a point on some political agenda. And I’ve managed to see a lot of issues being publicly addressed by politicians, real and heavy issues of the society. Excepting for one: the mental health state of the population.

Even when the environment is toxic, focused on competition and over-achievement and, constantly fearing that you might not be good enough, no politician or political party has made a statement about the mental health crisis. Because it is a crisis, and the pandemic is only putting it under the spotlights. And there are a lot of arguments as answers to any related questions.

It is a crisis because it does not provide any kind of recommendations on how to stay sane during these times. Our lives are nothing like before, we still have restrictions to face, dear ones that we can’t see, and are told to limit any unnecessary kind of interaction, for as long as it will be needed. We are being told to obey the rules, protect ourselves and the others, but no one tells us how to cope with all the anxiety and frustration that this situation has brought.

People have to deal with anxiety, grief, stress, and uncertainty on their own.

There is no real support system for psychological needs. Access to psychotherapy is a privilege and not a realistic possibility. I’ve heard a lot of I will start going to see a psychotherapist as soon as I will afford it from people perfectly aware of what they are facing.

There is no real support system for the children’s psychological needs either. They are also feeling anxiety, depression, pain, neglect. They are also feeling rejection and heartbreak. They are also needing help with learning to manage their feelings. They also need someone else to be there for them with empathy and objectivity. A bigger person, worthy of their trust and openness.

And I will not talk here about the lack of psychological support for the families having a member with disabilities or chronic conditions. I will not even open the subject.

Yet all these have a common root, even if it doesn’t necessarily look like it: the social stigma associated with the topic. Society doesn’t see mental health as actual health, but more as a trifle. It is optional, not vital. Public policies on mental health can wait, we have bigger things to focus on. Even if this might, to some extent, be true, there is just as true the fact that a bunch of individuals facing mental struggles all by themselves won’t form a thriving group.

The public agenda on mental health policies is empty. No words about deconstructing the social stigma surrounding the mental issues, no words about increasing the awareness about anxiety, depression, eating disorders, and nothing to be said about the tendencies of romanticizing mental struggles. Silence and empty pages waiting to be written. People waiting to be seen, heard, and represented.

Nothing can be changed overnight, but this doesn’t mean that things have to stay the same forever. We need help, and we need it on an institutional level. Of course, the help given by the NGOs that advocate for mental healthcare is like a glass of water in the desert. Deeply needed, and definitely something to be grateful for. But it is not enough.

If we scream and brag about how much we care about people’s health, yet we won’t do a thing for their mental health, then our care for the overall health is just a lie. A lie we keep telling ourselves and others, without understanding that we can’t have a healthy individual with a struggling mind. Even this splitting between mental and physical health is artificial, therefore worrisome.

There is a lot to be built, but the good news is that it’s worth it. Because a society where you can afford seeking medical help when you have a broken bone, but not when you have a depressive episode, that is by no means a society that has any interest in her citizens’ health.

And that’s a society no one wants to live in.


Nu cred că știu, sau am știut vreodată, să meditez. Aud și citesc constant despre cât de benefică e meditația, despre cum e drumul regal spre vindecarea emoțională, dar eu nu-l știu.

Nu știu dacă atunci când pun cafeaua pe foc, atentă doar la asta și bucurându-mă de miros, e o meditație.

Nu știu dacă atunci când culeg cu grijă florile pentru pus în vază, atentă la fiecare în parte, meditez la ceva. Nici dacă atunci când mă salt pe vârfuri să iau un măr din pom, atentă doar la asta, e un act de meditație.

La fel cum nu știu dacă meditez la ceva atunci când mă plimb printre rafturile unei librării sau ale unui magazin cu bijuterii.

Nu știu dacă momentele în care cânt și dansez prin casă cu căștile în urechi sunt o formă de meditație, sau momentul când îmi trag o carte de tarot să văd ce anunță ziua de stă să înceapă.

Nu știu dacă serile în care mă bucur de o cană de ceva cald și de o carte sunt, de fapt, meditații ascunse.

 La fel cum nu știu dacă meditez la ceva atunci când mă uit spre stelele care se văd atât de clar de pe veranda mea, sau când mă bucur de felul în care luna luminează încăperea și pielea mea.

Nu știu dacă e vorba despre meditație nici când mă reapropii de corpul meu într-o cadă cu spumă, sau când mă bucur de atingerile altcuiva.

Nu știu dacă meditez atunci când fac o fotografie, când urc pe deal cu câinele după mine să văd apusul, sau când pur și simplu stau în leagăn și mă bucur de soare și de cerul senin.

La fel cum nu știu dacă e vorba despre meditație în diminețile în care se întâmplă să mă trezesc dimineața devreme, cât să mă bucur de lumina soarelui ce răsare, să mă sperii de frig, și să mă cuibăresc la loc în pat după ce am tras draperia, să las soarele să mă atingă.

Nu știu dacă atunci când îmi dau cu ojă unghiile, concentrându-mă pe fiecare în parte, meditez la ceva.

Dacă atunci când ascult un concert de pian, sau poate sunetul ploii înainte să adorm, meditez.

Nu știu nici dacă atunci când mă opresc în loc lângă vreo clădire frumoasă ca să-i sorb detaliile comit un act de meditație.

La fel cum nu știu dacă, atunci când vin din pădure cu vreo plantă, floare, frunză, măceașă, fulg, cochilie de melc sau piatră de pus la dulapul cu suveniruri din plimbări, meditez la ceva.

Nu știu nici dacă atunci când mă alint cu (și ca) o pisică pot vorbi despre meditație. Sau dacă atunci când gătesc ceva bun, dansând prin bucătărie printre ingrediente, meditez.

La fel cum nu știu dacă e sau nu meditație atunci când îmi aprind, noaptea, o lumânare parfumată, deschid jurnalul, și-mi trec încă ceva pe lista cu lucruri bune care mi s-au întâmplat, sau când pur și simplu termin de scris un poem și-i pun data în caietul lor.

Nu știu. Nu știu multe. E ca o ecuație printre necunoscutele căreia mă tot învârt. Nu știu, și poate e mai bine că nu știu.

Știu doar că sunt fragmente care mă bucură, care fac zilele să nu semene între ele, să aibă lumini, texturi, forme, gusturi, culori și mirosuri diferite.

Și mai știu că, dacă toate astea sunt forme de meditație, atunci nu vreau să aflu. Nu vreau să le înghesui pe toate într-o singură cutie, să le fur din farmec, să le ciuntesc. Singurul lor punct comun e că sunt aducătoare de bucurie, fiecare la rândul ei. Mai mult nu-mi trebuie să știu.

I’m fine

Not that long ago I’ve seen a post on Social Media asking ‘What’s your favorite lie?’ I did not answer at the moment, but I know that my favorite one has always been I’m fine. It is the lie I’m telling most of the time, and even if I know I should not, I keep telling it even when I’m anything but fine. Or especially then.

It is bad, yet a deeply rooted habit, and a costly one in terms of mental health and general well-being. But it is far from being something special. In fact, this is part of the factors leading towards what is known as The Caregiver’s Burnout. This is a common condition amongst the caregivers, manifesting as anxiety, depression, physical and emotional fatigue.

But here’s the catch: there are way more caregivers than we tend to admit. The caregivers are defined as persons caring usually for family members suffering from a disability or a chronic disease and are mostly associated with adults caring for their family’s elders. They are not.

A caregiver is also that friend who is always catching and trying to support and lift the others. That friend taking everyone else’s hand during their mentally challenging times and never talking openly about its own. It is that one person that always seems to have their life together, to know exactly where they’re going and what they have to do.

Because not every suffering is visible. Some of us face mental health challenges, others are facing losses, grieving times, there is a lot going on in every person’s life. And, every here and there, it is at least one person being the safety net of their social group. That one person who got the others coming to them for guidance in their tough times. They are caregivers as well, highly empathetic people that care and feel deeply responsible for those guided by them, even if not witnessed as caregivers by society.

And that leads them into a very dangerous trap. It makes them feel like the time for them to talk about their struggles is never now, always later. Now there are others that need their help and support, loved ones that need to receive their best in order to recover or get through the darkness. And this is how they get used to answering I’m fine when they’re asked about themselves. Because they are not a priority on their own list.

This also comes from a strong belief that places bad times as a thing to be kept private. As if, once admitted that you struggle as well, your ability of supporting others would vanish away, making you as weak as they are. Because the strong ones don’t make their dark times public while happen, but only talk about them later, when there are only the scars without the pain. However, truth is we all can struggle at the same time, but not in the same ways. We can (and we do) struggle in different ways, due to different reasons, and at very different intensities. That’s not what matters. What really matters is the ability to manage struggle, frustration and pressure. Because, as an informal caregiver, there’s a different kind of pressure on your shoulders: the thought that you’ve been trusted. That your close one, your friend, the person who asked you for help, did so because it knew you can deal with the situation without being overwhelmed. That you will lift them up, not that they would drag you down. When it comes to a family member that needs to be taken care of, there is a slightly easier burden to carry: you’ve had no actual choice, other than caring for them.

And just like that, the story of I’m fine begins to unfold: with the desire of not being a disappointment to the people which have seen the best in you, and with the belief that there will come a day when you will be free to talk openly about your struggles and allow yourself to ask for the help you need.

Because at the end of the day, what makes a caregiver fail those who trust them by failing themselves is the mix between empathy and fear. You know how it feels to be let down, so you fear that, by saying that you are struggling, you will let the ones that trusted you down. But you’re not. In fact, you would only be helping them more, as they see that it is fine to talk about your bad times. That you can only grow stronger when you learn to be honest. And, the most important lesson one could learn, that it is an act of self-care and self-respect, proof of generosity, as no one has ever been able to pour into other’s souls from an empty cup.