Where I’m At These Days


I’m still anxiously waiting to be given a date for my surgery, but the doctors have now narrowed it down to being sometime in the last week of August. I guess that’s something at least. If I don’t hear anything before 2 o’clock in the afternoon tomorrow, I am going to show up there in person and ask how far they have gotten with the planning. That’s fair enough, right? Showing up in person is a tactic I have learned from Andrew, who takes no shit. I’m beginning to think that that is a necessary attitude if you want to get anywhere in this broken system.

I had a lot of things planned this summer, but ever since I broke my jaw in the beginning of August I have not felt like doing any of it. I feel like this whole thing has pushed me into a downwards spiral, and my plan to stay on top of things and be fully prepared for the upcoming semester has fallen right along with me. I feel stressed and unprepared and uncertain of whether I will even be able to attend the first couple of weeks of classes if I’m having my surgery right before it all begins. I can’t do anything about it if that is the case, but it also means that I will miss a concert that I have looked forward to since March. I’ve told my mother (who is going with me) to bring someone else in case I can’t go, because I can’t bear the thought of those tickets going to waste. I mean, it’s Brian fucking Wilson performing Pet Sounds. If that is not an experience of a lifetime, I don’t know what is.

On the bright side, I have discovered that I really like Greek Yoghurt with chia seeds and cinnamon drizzled on top, which is pretty darn fortunate now that I can’t chew. I have fallen in love with chia seeds and cinnamon and put it in everything (well, not EVERYTHING), including these delicious (and healthy) banana pancakes that I have invented in these times of desperation.

The self-prescribed light morphine is making me drowsy, and I feel like I’m five steps behind everyone else. Sometimes it’s as if I am living in a dream state, where everything around me feels surreal. I will look at Andrew and suddenly feel like it is not me who is interacting with him, but rather somebody else – someone that I can’t see because I am it. It’s like I disassociate from myself, and suddenly the idea of existing is like… way beyond my comprehension. It’s difficult to explain, but it’s like I suddenly see everything from an outside perspective, from the perspective of a non-human, and realize how fucked up it all is and how fucked up we all must look to, say, an alien. Then I begin to focus on that, and I forget my name and that makes me panic because what if I am getting an epileptic seizure and this kind of disorientation is just the first step before my body and brain gives in.

But none of this ever leads to a seizure, I just kind of “come back”, which happens by trying NOT to think about these things.

This stuff has not come with the morphine, I don’t think, because I have recollections of feeling this way on and off for the past… ten years, perhaps more. It scares me. It scares me to acknowledge it when I am feeling it, and it scares me to think of it because I don’t know what it will lead to.

I feel like this whole post is just one pile of negativity, but it is hard for me to keep my chin up at the moment. I hope that it will be better once I get some clarity as to what will be happening with my jaw and what the next month holds.

She Alive, DAMNIT

So it’s safe to say that I am experiencing some of the worst pain I have ever felt. This broken jaw thing is no joke. While I wait for the doctors to custom-make some magical metal solution to my problem, I am fantasizing about 1) being put in a coma until operation day (whenever that may be), and 2) walking in front of the nearest train. I’ve never looked forward to a surgery more than I have this coming one.

I still can’t believe that this has happened. I’m struggling a lot with the fairness aspect of it. Life isn’t fair, I know, but does that need to be proven to me over and over again? I got it, years ago. I don’t trust that one moment of peace will continue on into the next moment, and I am grateful for every single second of peace. I’m grateful for every second without pain, every second without massive limitation. Those seconds are far and in-between, but they make my life, they really do.

So now I’m sitting here, sobbing, listening to Beach House, wishing that my soul and body could somehow be transferred into the dreamy, tranquil atmosphere of their words and instruments. I imagine that I would be floating, feeling nothing but warmth and peace. I would feel at peace with everything. Instead, I’m here, counting down the hours until I can take another morphine pill, hoping it will all “fall back into place”. Both figuratively and literally speaking, since, you know… I have a broken jaw.

Anyway, thank god I never marketed this as an inspirational or uplifting blog, because I think I have hit an all new low in terms of woe is me.

But seriously, woe is me.

Words of Wisdom on Feminism

“I wish more people would understand that feminism goes way deeper than that*, as does issues of race, class, etc. as everything intersects. We have to dismantle the patriarchy, get rid of gender roles/norms, provide more support in all areas for women especially WOC, get rid of mental health stigmas, etc. Because when you break away all of the social constructs and barriers, we ARE all equal in terms of worth as people, we’re just not all treated with equal importance.”

*= equal pay

This comment on ONTD sums up feminism anno 2016 perfectly. A+.

The Girl with the Broken Jaw

Isn’t it about time that some Hollywood-person made a sequel to The Girl With the Pearl Earring? What is Scarlett Johansson doing right now? Instead of oil paint, we can use the product of a relatively new technology – the x-ray machine!
This is part of my skull. Beautiful, right? No filters needed. Those things up there are screws from a previous surgery, where they sawed through both my top and bottom jaw to give me a better bite. The screws make sure that my upper jaw is not going anywhere. My lower jaw also used to be held in place by screws, but they fell out, every single one. I would be in Biology Class and suddenly I would taste something metal-y and I would reach in my mouth and find a screw. After all four of them had come out, the doctor decided it would be a good idea to remove the metal plate that held the screws. This was done while I was wide-awake, with barely any anesthetics. Long story short, I thought I was going to die.

But previous horror stories aside, I now have a new one to add to the mix. Monday I broke my jaw while eating a roast pork sandwich. I had no business eating that roast pork sandwich seeing how I am on a diet, but I am now paying the ultimate price, and we are not talking stretch marks. My jaw is broken, and my bite is fucked. The doctors think that it has been a long time coming, which would make sense as it looks like a tiredness fracture that just suddenly snapped – really hard. Here is a zoomed-in picture of the madness, featuring my mother’s beautiful finger pointing to the crime scene, aka the fracture.


I can’t eat, it hurts to talk, and every time I swallow I can feel my bottom jaw move. The only good thing is that I am not capable of yelling at Andrew. I’m sure he appreciates that.

So what are the repercussions of this cluster-fuck of a situation? Well, I will need surgery to fix it, as it is not going to heal on its own. I’m still waiting to receive a time and a date for this event, and neither I (nor they, the doctors) know of a good solution. Will it be another metal plate with screws? I have no idea. It didn’t work too well last time. Will it be another six weeks in a pressure chamber in the hospital basement? I hope not.

On top of that, this happened JUST as I was about to go on a two-week long trip with Andrew, something we had both looked forward to since before the beginning of summer. The first week is gone, but we might still be able to go away for the coming week. It’s not like we are leaving the country, we are just going to a summerhouse. I just have to not talk very much and live off of liquid food, no biggie.

So, anyway, how’s your summer going?

So Far This Summer I Have Learned That…


… That for me to use the phrase “spirit animal” is cultural appropriation, and even though I have “only” used it once (one too many, obviously), I feel disgusting, and it will never happen again. Denmark is a little behind on this stuff. But more on that in another post.

… That my sugar addiction is real, and that it is not my friend. But more on that in another post.

… That a mini-greenhouse from IKEA is the solution to all of my problems when it comes to cats and plants. For the first time in nearly three years, I am now able to have plants without them either getting eaten by/poisoning my cats. A new hobby has been added to my (very small) list of hobbies: nursing my succulents. Next up: Making my own terrarium. But more on that in another post.

… That hard work pays off. I don’t think we need an elaborative post on that – it’s common sense to most people.

… That my years of studying history has not been in vain, and that I have notes filled with pure GOLD that made my exam papers infinitely stronger than they would otherwise have been.

… That I have too.much.stuff, and it’s driving me nuts. Right now I have a dresser that I don’t know what to do with but that has sentimental value and that I’m not ready to let go of. But that means that I have a dresser in my livingroom, and it looks really stupid. More on my strong emotional connection to things in another post.

… That I am so not over my nail polish addiction (it wasn’t over, it still isn’t over *makes out with cuticle oil*) In fact, doing my nails has been one of my main sources of joy so far this summer, and I’m venturing out of my comfort zone with various amateurish attempts at nail art, the key word here being ‘amateurish’. More on my (most) beloved pastime in another post.

… That I don’t take nearly enough pictures. Taking pictures has never been easier, and yet it doesn’t feel natural to me at all to whip out my phone for such a purpose. I also feel silly “curating” photos to make them seem more pinsta-worthy. Some of the magic of the moment disappears when it takes you ten minutes of prep-time to make it look pretty.

But superficial and privileged bullshit aside, I have learned that the world is an ugly place, and that the only redeeming quality about it is the way that most people rally behind those who have been injured by its ugliness. Words fail me, and the whole thing makes me ill. I can’t speak about it eloquently because it’s just so fucked. It’s fucked.

About a Week

Sofie on Solstice

I had all the intentions of blogging every other day (I even wrote it in my bullet journal as a goal), but I’ve been working on one of those typical Sofie-posts that has ended up taking way longer than expected and now I hate it. I’m sick of looking at it. I could probably finish it today and I think I will, but since it is a response to somebody else’s blog post, I feel an additional responsibility to make it intelligible and eloquent, and that kind of makes it impossible (at least for me) to stick to the “one hour per post” rule goal that I had set for myself. Ah, the struggle is real. Anyway, it might not be up for a couple of days (assuming I finish it) – or at least until I no longer hate it.

This past week has been a little different. Andrew returned on Monday after spending 4 weeks in New York (4 FUCKING WEEKS), which of course was a joyous day of joy. Last Saturday, I had an eye-opening experience when I was introduced to rice paper rolls. I was a little taken aback by the condom-like texture initially, but when I took that first bite, I knew that this was would be the beginning of a long and passionate relationship. For me to enjoy vegetables, it has to be wrapped in something. I’m not a salad person (unfortunately) unless it holds either meat or some kind of grain or pasta, but this is perfect for me. I can definitely recommend them!

The weather for most of the week has been pretty bad, or, phrased alternatively, it has lived up to the expectations one has of the concept ‘Danish summer’. Light rain, heavy rain, cloudbursts, thunder, lightning, etc. It switches between that and bright sunshine, which gave me a sunburn last week right on my nose. For the record, that is not a very attractive place to get sunburn – also, I did wear sunscreen, so what the hell?

It is no secret that I don’t deal well with the sun. I mean, I love when the sun is shining, but I would never sit and bake in the sun like some people do. The last thing I need is to develop skin cancer, and also it’s just too damn hot. Unless I’m cold, I will always prefer the shade. Also, sitting in the burning sun makes me irritated, and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I know sunburn is inevitable, or maybe it’s dehydration. Either way, you can find me in the shade (probably throwing shade).

So, this was a little bit of everything. I hope you have a great weekend!

Little Voice

For the past six years, I have made an effort to do despite the little voice in my head telling me that it is dangerous and a threat to my wellbeing. While I have tremendous respect for that little voice and all little voices, really, I realized a long time ago that mine sometimes gets confused by certain situations and mistakenly labels them wrong, putting them in the wrong boxes. Things that are good for me and would make me happy are sometimes mislabeled as threatening because they are new or unpredictable. These things usually have to do with other people, like going somewhere, meeting someone – normal, everyday things. Going to the grocery store, going to university, using the telephone, etc.

My little voice is not stupid, and she (it’s a she, definitely) always has my best interest at heart. She wants to protect me from a world that she ultimately believes is out to hurt me, and believes that we have collected plenty of evidence over the years to confirm this thesis. She’s not all wrong.

My little voice is traumatized. While she wants to protect me, she keeps repeating the things we (it has affected her, too) have been told over the years in the belief that if she does this, she will protect me from further hurt and disappointment; that the force of the blow then won’t be quite as devastating to my soul. If I just accept these statements to be true, then it won’t hurt as much when people state them, right?

Well, I will be the first to tell you that that is WRONG. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Things will always break through your walls, no matter how solid you believe them to be.

When strangers in the street – children and adults alike – have called you ugly on a daily basis for most of childhood and young life, until you had surgery at the age of 21, which also had the benefit of “fixing” your natural face, how do you continue to believe that people are inheritably good? How do I tell my voice, who still acts and thinks like the child that was once so mentally burned that she hid in her room for years and years, that the world is a safe place?

Have I had enough positive experiences now to disconfirm her – our— thesis?

That’s a lot of questions, and I’m not sure I have the answers to any of them.

“The Day That Didn’t Happen” aka a story about a wedding

On November 23rd, 2015, I married my American boyfriend of eleven years. We had been told by the Danish Immigration Service that marriage would be necessary to even be considered eligible for family reunification, giving Andrew the right to be here for more than 90 days. The only way to avoid marriage would be if we had previously lived together on the same address for at least 18 months, something that had not been possible due to the restrictions of the 90 days tourist visa.

So. We gathered our closest family (read: my) and went down to the Copenhagen City Hall for the “appointment” that had been given to us only four days before. Our month old application to get married had fallen through the cracks and because we were eventually in such a rush due to the 90-day tourist visa limit, we were desperate and ready to take anything they offered us. They offered us November 23rd, at 11:45am.

We dressed up, and so did our guests. My father brought his video camera, as requested by me, and took photos of us from every possible angle. There were no rings, and my bridal bouquet was a revamped version of the bouquet Andrew had bought me at a gas station two days prior to congratulate me on my first (volunteer) job. I had asked my grandmother if she could make it smaller and somehow more wedding-like, and she worked her magic. I love my grandmother. So does Andrew. She and my grandfather were our witnesses, which felt like the most natural thing in the world. Ignorant to the process, we didn’t know that we were supposed to have witnesses, which now seems incredibly stupid. It was the one thing we hadn’t thought of, or talked about. The one thing we had not tried to prepare ourselves for mentally.

On the video my father took of the ceremony, if you can call it that, you will hear me correct Andrew when he is asked to state his full name and forgets to mention his middle. I will forever be ashamed of that. My worst fear is that that is who I am. Someone who corrects her boyfriend – her nervous-as-hell boyfriend, who doesn’t have a single family-member there to support him, whose entire family is on the other side of the planet, still asleep at 5:45am – when he forgets to mention his middle name. I hate myself for that.

Andrew was embarrassed to kiss me in front of my family, as it would be the first kiss they had ever witnessed between us. Neither of us is comfortable with PDA, unless we are among strangers. I guess we are a little immature like that – easily embarrassed. But with all of my 5 feet and a half I got on my tippy toes and practically blackmailed him into giving me a quick peck, because how can you reject a bride on her tippy toes? And isn’t this what you do? On the video, you will see that it took me about three seconds to muster up the courage to do it. It felt like an eternity to me. You can also hear the man who wed us ask, “Did you get the kiss? Sometimes they don’t get the kiss.”

Afterwards more pictures were taken, and more deep breaths were drawn. We took pictures with all of my family members – my siblings, my parents, my grandparents – on the balcony overlooking this gorgeous hall that usually houses bigger things, like important people with important things to say.

While we were having our pictures taken on the balcony, I could hear my grandfather in the distance, making a video for Andrew’s family wherein he explains the history of the different wall decorations and city hall in general. They loved it. I loved it. I love my grandfather.

As soon as I could, I took off my high heels and put on my bright pink Nike Free-sneakers. My high-heels were killing me. Bought at a flea-market six years prior, they were my first (and only) fancy shoes. Silver and sparkly. One of the straps was broken, and I was constantly afraid of falling. I threw them out when I cleaned out my closet a couple of months ago, because I told myself that I deserve better. But do I?

Afterwards we invited our guests to our favorite coffee shop. Everybody got what he or she wanted, and I got my chai latte ice blend – my trusted comfort in times of chaos. Extra whipped cream and sprinkles, please. More pictures were taken.

When a couple of hours had passed, my grandparents drove us home. It took a while before Andrew and I had a real conversation. He took off his suit, hung it in his closet, and put on a t-shirt, and I took off my dress, hung it on my closet, and put on a t-shirt. Then I got on the couch and swept myself in a blanket.

When he was just about to go into his office, I said “Hey, can we talk?”. He didn’t say anything, but came over and sat on the couch with me.

“How are you feeling? What did you think about everything?”, I asked.

“I don’t know”, he said. “It was very surreal what just happened. It’s hard for me to think about.” To which I responded that I felt the same way. “But Andrew, nothing has changed. It’s just a piece of paper. We didn’t want it to happen this way, but it was a necessity. That’s what they want.”

“I know.”

“We don’t have to think about this day ever again, if we don’t want to. We can pretend it never happened. This will be known as the day that didn’t happen. We can just pretend that we are still boyfriend and girlfriend, engaged to be married boyfriend and girlfriend, saving up for our dream wedding. That’s how it is, right?”


So we agreed to pretend it never happened. We held hands for a little bit, and talked about other things. Work-things, school-things – safe topics that seemed so uncomplicated then. Then he went into his office and shut the door and I made a cup of tea and turned the television on, and we each spent the afternoon with our respective distractions. I ate an omelet, he ate ice cream, and I can’t remember if we wound up watching a movie in the evening. It is a little blurry for me.

It is hard to explain why this day was traumatic, but I suppose I can try. First, there was the fact that Andrew was missing his family; that his mother, with whom he is so close, wasn’t there. We both missed her. Second, while it didn’t happen against our will –no one held a gun to our heads – it was an intimate thing that became the matter of something or somebody else. We have always known that we wanted to get married, and it’s something we have talked about and dreamt about many times. We both take it very seriously, not for religious reasons seeing as neither of us is religious, but because it is a commitment. And we are a little uptight about those. We both come from broken homes, and have seen marriages turn to shit. It’s weird to stand there and declare your love (in a very non-romantic way) just to get a piece of paper for an application.

One day we will be able to do it how we want it, which means a big summer wedding (we really don’t know that many people, but big sounds good) and flying in Andrew’s family. It means cake, decorations, speeches, and oldies playing in the background. It means (happy) tears, laughter, and a proper kiss.

But anyway, yeah, I got married.

How to disable the automatic “read-more” function for Bootstrap’s Personalblog 1.0 theme

Oh my god, did I spend a ridiculous amount of time on this!

Let it be stated that I am in no way a programmer, and that this is probably a very primitive answer to this problem. I’m sure that there is a much smarter, technical solution to this, but this is what I came up with after hours and hours of googling (to no avail) and playing around with the different files in the WordPress Theme Editor.

So. For all my peeps who don’t mind a primitive solution, go into your WordPress Theme Editor and find the content.php file. Find the piece of code that says

and change the_excerpt(); to the_content();. That should fix the issue.

Man, this stuff was driving me nuts.

Okay, who here ate my blog?

So, something or someone ate my blog.

Let’s all take a minute to mourn such great works of art as the poem I wrote about the smell in my freezer, and the obligatory pre-birthday posts filled with angst and despair. They will be sorely missed.

While I was sad to see that something I once cherished had turned into a big white blob of nothing, I decided after a few hours of attempting to fix it that perhaps it was not meant to be fixed. Maybe a fresh start is all for the better. Because I have OCD and will tear out pages of my uni notebook if they do not follow the same format, I figure this will give me a chance to reinvent my blog and what I will use it for. Obviously the old formula wasn’t working for me, seeing how I haven’t blogged since October, and I think perhaps the answer to regular blogging for me will be to put less pressure on myself to make every post an essay. I like writing and I like taking pictures, but with all the writing I do for university, I don’t always have it in me to write something long and coherent here. I guess that is why bullet journaling is working really well for me at the moment; it´s more like a structured brain dump (is that an oxymoron?).

I feel like I have a lot of things to share; I just have to give myself permission to not have it always be perfect. Not that it was ever perfect before, far from it, but I never posted anything unless I felt somewhat satisfied and like it was acceptable to put out there. I’m not saying that that is a bad way to think about things, it’s just that for me it became a very high wall to climb, often resulting in me opting out of posting anything.

Blogging can be many things, I guess. I need to redefine it for myself and allow myself to use this place for whatever I want. It’s 100% about me and the pressure I put on myself to give it my all every time I login to WordPress, and this fear of disappointing someone is something that has followed me all through my school career and grown-up life in general (I’m working on that, but old habits die hard).

I like to write, but I’m not a naturally fantastic writer. English is my second language, and while I believe myself to have a decently large vocabulary, it still takes me a little bit to figure out exactly how to say what I want to say in a way that makes as much sense in English as it does in Danish. Writing a blog-post is therefore not a process wherein the words just come pouring out of me; it requires quite a bit more than that. Even the short ones can take hours and hours because I want to not just master the language but to master it to a degree that is impressive. But that takes hard work and dedication, and having to rewrite sentences over and over again to make them the absolute best they can be makes me feel like a failure. A failure for not being able to get it right the first time. I think it would be the same if I wrote in Danish, but perhaps I would be more likely to just say “fuck it” than I am in this case, because here I have more to prove. To myself, anyway.

So, let’s try again – this time with a different formula and less pressure. I might try my way with a rule about only spending an hour per post, because then I might be able to write more freely and with less rewrites. I’m not sure, we’ll see. But I’m working on it all.

Have a lovely weekend!