helena

The haunting

The magnitude of some of my fuckups is impressive. Yes, we’re human and we make mistakes, but what happens when you make an irreversible one, when it generates a regret that will not quiet down as long as you live?

You were on the opposite spectrum of that. The regrets you possibly had were that you’d been braver, done more for and with your family, reacted differently when someone disagreed with you, apologized when you crossed a line, or at least changed the tone and direction of your monologues instead of walking away. Mine are all that, and then some – taking action, but such that comes from desperation, not reason.

You never knew how to read the room, and you always walked away rather than faced a disagreement. Nobody understood you except me, and all that was left was to accept you as you were. Dealing with you as you were, though, meant that others had to adapt and choose how to respond and behave around you in order not to insult you. You were incredibly easy to offend. I chose to give you my love, softness, and patience. Loving you was difficult, softness easiest, and I ran out of patience eventually. Guess what? You noticed only the last. I know because I felt it, you brought it up with Mom, and you wrote about it in your diary. Brother and Mom found your diaries and read them. I still haven’t.

We established and maintained a line of communication. It was controlled, almost clinical, but soft. It was easy to be soft at a distance, when I wasn’t there. Rarely did we reach out to each other out of a real need to know what was going on. It felt more like a duty — something we did because it was the right thing to do, especially after too much time had passed. When you’d write to me, it would be on a Saturday or Sunday. You never failed to tell me about the weather and you’d tell me you were fine most of the time, or that you had a cold, threw your back, or your sinuses were acting up. You’d send me funny videos of animals, or songs that brought you to tears occasionally. You’d ask how I was doing. Sometimes I’d write a longer paragraph about things I was struggling with at work, hoping you’d tell me what to do. Your reply was always gentle, caring, and consoling, but didn’t really help, because you had no real life experience. I still I cherished it and took away something. So, I’d mostly tell you I was fine too and what the weather was like here. We’d end every interaction with a version of: ‘Sending love and take care.’ I don’t know if I ever said: ‘I love you.’ outright and cleanly. I think I always went about it sideways, saying things like: ‘Your daughter loves you.’

You see, I can’t check anymore. We exchanged messages on Nov 8th, 2025. I knew something would happen. My intuition had never been sharper. It’s as if I knew the day I’d get a call from Mom.

When I visited last summer, I saw you walking home from the shop. You were walking too slowly, and breathing too heavily, and I rushed toward you to get the bags from your hands, even though you said you were fine. Not long after, you revealed to Mom that you had a health concern. You were never the type to go to a doctor, so that admission carried weight. From that moment, Mom went into action, making appointments for you to see this doctor and that doctor. Every day after that, I dreaded the worst. And then it came, at the worst possible moment. You were gone on Nov 10th.

But I don’t have all our messages anymore. The last one I still have is from May 18th, 2024, after I told you Ante had passed. You see, I fucked up majestically. I lost my phone on Jan 31st, 2026 when I was in Lisbon.

…

Words that hold life together

Ante was the only guy I ever brought home. The only guy I wanted you to meet. The only guy who was worth it all. Worthy of meeting my Dad – that was the ultimate endeavour. I wasn’t scared or nervous. I felt like I was blessed to have crossed paths with a human like him. I was excited to show you what I saw, to show you how utterly beautiful people can be. I felt lucky too, because he chose to be my rock too. We were inseparable. To me, that was what life is supposed to look like. He was someone I loved unconditionally and who loved me back. Until something changed, but that had zero effect on anything. I still loved him and I’ll love him forever.

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Forever

This word “forever”… It never sat right with me. As a writer – someone who loves words, respects their meaning and their weight, I’m not satisfied until I understand what they mean in practice, and until I make sense of them. Until then, those words are empty and deceitful. Call it what you want, but I require proof that they mean what they say and say what they mean – no sugar coating, no alternative interpretations, no clinging to hope that they’re true and real. No abstraction. “Forever” was hard to get a grip on. That’s too long. It’s not realistic. Forever is something we cannot have. It doesn’t exist in terms of time. There’s an end to absolutely everything.

Hope

“Hope” is the second on the list. The trickster. It’s too unstable, too fragile, invisible, betralay-prone. It refuses to offer any gurantee whatsoever. It’s bold in assuming it works, and mean for playing with your mind. We have invented the word for times we have no direction, times we can’t see what’s in front of us, let alone what’s years ahead. It’s purpose is to comfort. All it brings me is anxiety. Promise, I can understand.

Blessed

Counting down to: “Blessed”. How do I know I’m blessed? In what moments does the acknowledgement come? Compared to what? Fucked? In truth, I’m not at such odds with this word. I have come to understand it a long time ago. The gist of it goes something like this: You will fall down on your knees, and hard, more times than you could ever dodge or anticipate. Some cuts and bruises will never heal. Managing to go through pain until you unreadily order yourself to pick yourself up, get yourself together, get up and start walking into the unknown again – those are the moments you know you are blessed. I just wish there were more blessings, because if you stop seing the point in getting up, you’re fucked. The opposite of blessed. That one I understand.

Luck

And it’s always your choice. Or is it? Here comes the word that is cute, but sometimes I want to punch all her teeth out. “Luck”. I am not sure why it’s a “she”. It sounds like a she. However, in honour of the 21st century, human evolution, collective spiritual growth and elevation, I’ll refer to words as “it” from now on. Hey Luck! Where are you when we need you? Why are you holding out? Why are you picking and choosing? What are you? Something we have to deserve? What does it take? Luck, I think we still have unresolved issues.

So… When you talk to me, you better know I’m paying attention.

I will love you forever.

And I hope that one of these days, someone will make a promise and follow through.

How blessed am I to be living and feeling, while the two of you… Where are you now?

…

We were just constantly sad

I am not just angry. How about confused, numb, desperate, panicked, stuck?

There’s a hole in me and my heart is bouncing around that hole, punching me in the chest, as it’s trying to gather all the shattered pieces. It takes everything out of me to still it and find myself again. Possibly, but doubtfully put the pieces back together too, over the course of next minute, hour, day, week, month, year(s)?

And not just because of you. Because I need you to tell me again. Give me that advice again, but this time walk me through how to do it, because this time it’s changing my life. I’m happy to report, though, there’s some consolation somewhere in this inside mess of emotions. Maybe every heartbreak changes my life. Maybe I had the same thoughts every time. Questions, fear that the pain will never go away, unwillingness to find happiness again even,… But I always came out the other side. I’ve been smoking my life away, you know that. Do you know why? There are so many things I want to forget, and herbs and substances help. Most of the time I successfully compartmentalize the good and the bad memories. Any other time, it’s all a blur.

There were times when I allowed myself to be vulnerable with you. When I was love sick and not knowing which direction to take, so much so that I could turn to you for help, because I could never hide the devastation my love for someone could bring me. I didn’t have to give you the details. You saw and felt my pain, and could relate. Out of everything you’ve ever said to me, there’s that one advice I will never forget.

“Don’t ever be someone’s reserve.”

You were speaking from a man’s perspective, but also because you’ve been in that position too. You told me a story once about a woman you were in love when you were young. You teared up and your chin started to quiver as the decades-long memory started to resurface.

I’m sorry, tata! I’m so, so sorry, but that’s about all I can remember about that story. Because of so much noise, I don’t remember everything.

None of this means there was coldness between us. On the contrary. If anything, you were a good man. Moreover, an innocent, shy, scared little boy, your entire life. You couldn’t brave life. You couldn’t brave the world.

And I’m my father’s daughter, after all.

…

Love on standby

I have written about many things, published them, unpublished them, then deleted them forever. Even though I can write about anything, the strongest urge to write always came when it concerned matters of the heart.

I’ve been attempting to understand it all: self-pitty, self-worth, healing, the actions of the other party, my actions, whys and why nots, etc… After all that analysis, I am certain I know what love is supposed to feel like, and that no further analysis can make it happen to me, at least not until it’s time, or not at all, if it’s not a part of my destiny.

And so it is not what I will be yapping about this time. Techically, I will. It will be about a different kind of love. In fact, the kind that shaped my repeating patterns and created regrets, that I activelly have to keep at bay.

I don’t know when you left. It could have been at night on Nov 9th or in the morning of Nov 10th. How differently would I feel if I knew that?
I wasn’t there. Mom wasn’t there. Your son wasn’t there. Only Zara was there, by your side, as she had been for years, especially since Luna left too.

I know you want to talk, but it’s finally my turn. This is the Hello and Goodbye I never got a chance to say. Just listen. Please, for once. For a change.

You don’t know me. Why didn’t you want to know me?

And yet, you knew me better than anyone when it truly mattered, while I knew you better than anyone at any point in time. Growing up with you was traumatic and toxic. Paired with Mom, life was a sequence of fear, lies, avoidance, rebellion, then courage to walk away. I knew I had to, from a very early age. Maybe it was because I have always been different, but maybe it was because of you. I realized that if I wanted something to change, it was on me to make it happen.

I could not rely on you to provide for your family. I knew you wouldn’t help financially, because you have been sitting in your room for about 30 years. The most ironic thing you said a few times was: “If I had the money, I’d give it all to you.” No shit?! Is that how it goes? The part you chose to stay blind to was that making money takes some sort of action, and we both knew you’d never act.

If I had to describe you with one word, it would be: words. You talked the talk, never willing to walk the walk. And boy, talked you did. Mom and Brother kept saying how smart you are, how knowledgeable about so many topics. My response has always been, that’s worthless, if your only ambition is having someone to talk at. Not to and not with. At. Embarassingly so. I still suffer the consequences of not knowing how to walk away from the grip you so skilfully tightened around unsuspecting victims.

In those moments, I learned so much about human nature. It is extremely hard to interrupt someone, because we are wired to be polite. But you… Oh man, you had the capacity to talk at someone for hours. At first, I would nod, because there was nothing else I could have done. There was no pause for me to take advantage of and give you my opinion, because that was never the purpose of your interactions. You never wanted a dialogue. Your biggest and only wish was to be heard. Nodded at sufficed. I would tear my cuticles under the table, because your favourite subject was politics. You were a rightist and, in case I haven’t made it clear enough, you didn’t give a shit about what I thought. If you wanted a reaction at all, you wanted me to agree with you. If not politics, you mocked and berated everyone.

I still fuck with my cuticles. As a grown woman. How fucking embarassing is that I cannot stop? When you’d notice, you’d mockingly ask: “Is it tasty?” You never had the capacity to understand the reasons why, or perhaps you didn’t want to open that Pandora’s box. Even if you did, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t tell you the truth, because I knew it wouldn’t make one bit of a difference, and I was afraid of the same box. Nothing would change. Nothing ever did. I would just stop until you were out of sight and restart.

Was it all bad? I’ll delve as deep as I can and let you know that no, it wasn’t, but it was bad enough that when you left, I knew it’s what you waited for.

…