Stubbornness Is Not Freedom — When Mental Illness Steals the Chance to Live

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As Christmas approaches, many of us begin reflecting on family, loss, and the meaning of life. This year, I found myself thinking not about clinical diseases—the ones we can see in blood tests or scans—but about a different kind of illness. One that hides behind emotions, beliefs, spiritual confusion, and fear.

I’m talking about mental illness.
About the invisible forces that distort reality, alter priorities, and sabotage life-saving decisions.

This year, I learned this lesson in the hardest, most heartbreaking way.

2025: The Year I Couldn’t Save Someone I Loved

Someone very dear to me was diagnosed with cancer.
A disease that, with the right doctors and treatment plan, is often survivable.

They had access to good medical care.
They had the right medications, a supportive oncology team, and a healthcare system ready to help.

But none of it mattered.

Because what we don’t talk about enough is this:

Cancer is treatable.
Delusion is not.

When a person’s mind is clouded by paranoia, fantasies, fears, spiritual confusion, or emotional turmoil, even the clearest medical facts become impossible to accept.

And I watched this unfold in real time.

When Delusions Become “Freedom”

We live in a culture that glorifies absolute personal freedom — even when it becomes self-destructive.

But stubbornness rooted in mental instability is not freedom.
It is a pathological form of freedom that comes from a mind detached from reality.

True freedom requires:

  • mental competency
  • rational thinking
  • the ability to understand consequences
  • the capacity to make informed decisions

Without these, “freedom” becomes a form of illness.

And sadly, someone always takes advantage of those who are mentally fragile.

Always.

This is not God’s will.
This is human manipulation, fear, and exploitation.

The People Who Encouraged Her Delusions

What hurt even more was seeing certain people around her encourage the delusions — sometimes out of denial, sometimes for selfish reasons.

They supported ideas that were not grounded in reality.
They minimized medical facts.
They fed the fantasy because it served them.

This isn’t love.
This isn’t support.
This is neglect wearing a mask of compassion.

Their influence didn’t heal her.
It killed her.

In Another Society, She Might Have Lived

I can’t stop thinking about this:

Would she still be alive if she lived in a society that protected vulnerable people better?

A society:

  • without corruption
  • without manipulative family dynamics
  • without predators hiding behind religion or business
  • without the stigma around mental illness

In a healthier environment, she might have accepted treatment.
She might have fought.
She might still be alive.

But instead, toxicity consumed her — and she died believing she was making a “free choice.”

A Light in the Darkness: Spain’s Healthcare System

Despite everything, I want to acknowledge something important:

Spain has one of the best healthcare systems I’ve ever encountered.

The medical teams were:

  • highly professional
  • coordinated
  • compassionate
  • equipped with excellent resources
  • dedicated to saving lives

They were ready to help her.
But you can’t treat someone who refuses treatment — even when their refusal is shaped by mental illness.

The law protects autonomy, even when that autonomy is distorted by delusion.

The Painful Truth

You can fight cancer.

You cannot fight a mind lost in delusion.

You cannot force someone to choose life when their illness convinces them otherwise.

And you cannot save someone who interprets dying as freedom.

Stubbornness Is Not Freedom

I know what freedom is.
I know what it isn’t.

Freedom is:

  • making informed decisions
  • understanding reality
  • choosing life when life can be saved
  • protecting your future

Anything else is not freedom — it’s suffering disguised as independence.

And it can cost a life.

Dear December: I’m Done With Everyone’s Bullshit, Thanks

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Starring: Me, a civilian with zero tolerance to twists and a PhD in detecting bullshit.

There are places where you bloom like a fancy houseplant…
And places where you shrivel like lettuce forgotten in the low rack of the fridge.
And apparently, if you don’t behave exactly like “The Local People” expect, they want you to fade, disappear and out of them eyes, to let them feel better.

🎄 Hello December 1st, the month where even calendars look tired.

Let me repeat this very slowly for the audience:
🥇 I. Do. Not. Tolerate. Bullshit.
Not socialist bullshit.
Not communist bullshit.
Not nationalist, supremacist, extremist, conspiracy-flavored, gluten-free organic bullshit either.
None.
Zero.
Nada.

I lived under certain regimes.
I know how the sausage is made, and trust me — you don’t want to see that kitchen.

But the absolute KING of all bullshit?
👑 INTEL BULLSHIT.
The “we secretly used you but also… we forgot to tell you” kind.
The “welcome to a spy movie you never auditioned for” kind.

At first, I thought:
“Nooo, stop it, you’re overreacting. It’s just your imagination. You need sleep.”
But the SECOND TIME?
Oh lovely you, that was deluxe, handcrafted, artisanal BS with a velvet bow.

And when people try GAMES with me?
I’m done.

🛑 MY RULES (somehow the universe used them as napkins):

Rule #1:

I don’t work near spies.
I don’t drink where spies drink.
I don’t eat where spies eat.
I don’t breathe where spies breathe.
CIA safehouse?
KGB safehouse?
Mossad safehouse?
PCC safehouse?
I don’t care if it’s a safehouse, doghouse, treehouse or Barbie’s Dreamhouse.
NO.

You broke my Rule #1

Rule #2:

I don’t want to be anywhere NEAR criminal hotspots disguised as:

  • hotels,
  • bars,
  • casinos,
  • NGOs,
  • taco trucks,
  • horse farms,
  • yoga studios,
  • hospitals
  • or International family businesses

You Broke that too.
You broke my Rule #2

And please — PLEASE — stop sending “mysterious people” to be my friends, lovers, supporters, saviors, emotional comfort llamas…
NO THANK YOU.
I am perfectly fine alone, like a majestic wolf who also hates meetings.

I do tasks, not emotions.
You bring me chaos?
DELETE.
You bring me vibes?
BLOCKED.
You bring me feelings?
404 NOT FOUND.

🗣️ The Drama Moment:

And THEN — like a cosmic joke —
you tried to use me AGAIN in your international spy soap opera.

Without my permission.
Without my knowledge.
Without even a coffee offering.

And guess what?
SHE. SAID. YOUR. NAME.
So GO fix that mess, Agent Disaster.

I hereby withdraw from all conspiracies involving me.
Find a new “asset”.
Raise them.
Feed them.
Walk them.
Vaccinate them.

NOT. ME.

🇺🇸 PS:

I still hate socialism and communism.
And I still hope the US stays wild, chaotic, loud, free, stubborn and allergic to tyranny.
Because if FREEDOM dies — guess what replaces it?
Yep.
The same crap I already escaped.

🎤 FINAL ANNOUNCEMENT:

For the last time, universe, agencies, random people, cosmic forces:

❌ I AM NOT AN ASSET.

❌ I DO NOT WANT TO BE AN ASSET.

❌ I WILL NEVER BE AN ASSET.

✔️ I AM OUT OF MESSING WITH ME.

Vetting impossible – A Ghost to my all jobs

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When TWO of my job managers said, proudly, “The State Department called and asked us to give information about you — and we REFUSED to do it,” I thought I was about to be celebrated like HERO.

Elliot puffed out his chest like he’d single-handedly saved the world.
Mara slapped the table like she’d foiled an international heist.

“We protect our people,” they said.
I smiled nervously. “Cool… I guess?”

Little did I know, that heroic refusal would turn me into a ghost, haunting every company I ever worked for, every country I had lived in, and eventually, Patrick and his entire network of crazy professional detectives.

Chapter 1 — The Ghost Emerges

See, I come from a country where the government’s idea of record-keeping is:

  1. Scribble it down somewhere
  2. Forget where
  3. Hope someone remembers

So when the U.S. State Department asked for my background, they got:

  • a fax machine that didn’t work
  • a coffee stain
  • and a note that said, “Try again next year”

Two days after my managers “intelligent” refused to cooperate, my badge at work stopped working.
The badge is unrecognizable.
It looked like it was silently messing around:

“VETTING FAILED. PLEASE REBOOT EMPLOYEE.”

And just like that, I was out of my dream job.
No scandal. No accusations.
Just… ghosted by the system.

Chapter 2 — Enter Patrick and the Network of Whisperers

I landed at “Whoknows”, a company that hires people the world forgot existed.
And that’s where I met Patrick — a coworker with a flair for drama, a love for conspiracy, and a network of colleagues who treated him like a human rumor mill.

Patrick’s network included:

  • Trish, who sees secrets behind every stapler
  • Gavin, who Googles until he convinces himself he’s in a spy movie
  • Lily, who nods like everything is a classified plot twist

When Patrick heard about my “mysterious exit” from my previous job, he declared me off the grid.
Not a spy. Not a villain.
Just… a walking, talking, unverified file.

Patrick leaned in, eyes wide:
“Were you… agent-adjacent?”
“No,” I said. “I’m potato-adjacent.”
Trish gasped.
Gavin wrote notes.
Lily gave a slow, approving nod.

And that was the moment I realized: paranoia is contagious.

Chapter 3 — The Impossible Vetting

The truth? Vetting me was impossible.

Why? Because my jobs and countries of origin are all spectacularly unhelpful when it comes to bureaucracy:

  • Some governments treat archives like piñatas: destroy one, confuse the next.
  • Some countries collapse periodically (politically, economically, morally).
  • Some still run on Windows 95 and have servers that die if you blink at them wrong.
  • Some literally cannot send you a criminal background check without someone finding a chicken on the server.

Good people don’t deserve suspicion, but the system punishes them anyway.
Missing information = assumed danger.
No records = conspiracy.
Uncooperative governments = personal fault.

Meanwhile, Patrick’s network treated my paperwork absence like a blockbuster plot twist.

Chapter 4 — Patrick’s Network at Work

Patrick and crew dissected me like a Netflix mystery series, including tape recordings

  • My coffee-sipping habits? “Secret code.”
  • My accent? “International espionage confirmed.”
  • My laptop? “Could be a portal for classified files.”

Every silence, every shrug, every blink was catalogued, cross-referenced, and theorized about.
I was a ghost.
A human question mark.
And Patrick? He was the lead detective in the trial that never existed.

Chapter 5 — The Comedy of Ethics

Here’s the line:

Immigration systems demand perfection from a world that is chaotic, messy, absurd, and prone to coffee-stained paperwork.

Good people like me get haunted not for what we did, but because governments .
Patrick and his network? They only magnified the absurdity.
And the system? It doesn’t even realize it’s punishing “the horror” people that doesn’t exist.

Refusal to share information isn’t loyalty.
It’s turning people into ghosts.
And ghosts are hard to explain to networks of crazy detectives.

Chapter 6 — Moral of the Comedy

So now I walk the fine line between laughter and despair:

  • I am a ghost in all my countries
  • Ghost in my former jobs
  • Ghost in Patrick’s network’s imagination

And every day, I remind myself:

Vetting is impossible.
Good people are not guilty.
Missing information is not a crime.
And bureaucracy… will always be funnier than reality.

Someday, maybe the system will change.
Someday, Patrick will discover I’m not a spy.
Someday, my badge will be a happy living instead of surviving .

Until then, I remain:
A ghost to all my countries and jobs,
haunting the halls of bureaucracy,
dodging conspiracy,
and sipping my coffee like a perfectly mundane human being.

The Hidden Lives

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CIA Assets and the Two-Sided Story

(a completely fictional man named Amir) by Grok & a me who I insisted on telling this story STRAIGHT

Part 1 – The Ones You’ll Never Know

You have already walked past them. They sit two rows behind you on the bus, they bag your groceries, they wait with you at the red light. Nothing about them looks special.

They are just people trying to get through another ordinary day.

Amir is one of them now.

From the CIA’s side he is a closed file: successfully exfiltrated, resettled, support terminated per plan.

From Amir’s side he is a man who once passed secrets heavy enough to kill him and who now keep silence even heavier.

Two truths. Same person.

Part 2 – Life on the Edge: The First Step

The CIA saw in Amir a biologist with good access who started passing accurate reports on his own.

Forty-three reports in fourteen months, each one checked and confirmed. They called it ideological motivation and opened a recruitment file. And recruited him.

Amir remembers the night he took the first photograph with a borrowed phone. His hands shook so hard the image was blurred, but he sent it anyway.

When the reply came back in under six minutes (“Wednesday, 22:40, the church”), something inside him hurt and he knew it would never be a way back.

And after Amir was exfiltrated, resettled and supported. Agency started with Vetting.

Part 3 – Inside the Vetting Machine

The Agency ran seven polygraphs, many psych evaluations, a full financial going back twelve years, and quiet interviews with people who never knew they were being interviewed. At the end they wrote APPROVED.

Amir remembers weeks of waiting and the same questions asked in slightly different order.

They wanted to know if he had ever hated America, if he had debts, if he is alone. He stopped sleeping. When they finally said “You passed,” he only felt tired.

Part 4 – The Night They Took Him Out

The Agency recorded a textbook extraction, by law: vehicles, a border crossed at 02:14, commercial cover. New identity issued within forty-eight hours. Success.

Amir remembers instead the hood for the last forty minutes of the drive and the way the plane’s engines sounded like crying. The whole flight image was his family. To save them!

Part 5 – Year Zero in a New Country

And the US! The Agency provided an apartment, a Social Security number, language classes, and a bank account with regular deposits. All boxes green.

Amir walked into the apartment and smelled fresh paint and emptiness. The first time he went to the supermarket he stood in the cereal aisle for twenty minutes because nothing looked familiar.

That night he called the emergency number they had given him just to hear another human voice.

It rang until it stopped.

Part 6 – The Slow Drift

The Agency reduced welfare checks from quarterly to annual. Employment verified: night janitor at a community college. No hostile contact. Support level downgraded to monitoring only.

File note: stable.

Amir watched the monthly deposit shrink every six months until one day it simply didn’t come.

The case officer who once called him “brother” now answered emails with single sentences, then not at all.

He started checking the door locks four times, then six, then ten. Some nights he sat on the street looking at the Moon. The only one the same as home!

Part 7 – The Place That Was Never an Option

The Agency’s file contains one annex the resettlement board barely glanced at.

Page 47, written by the psychologist who spent ninety hours with Amir:

“Optimal environment: low population density, rural or mountain setting, maritime climate, daily physical work outdoors, minimal law-enforcement presence. Subject repeatedly mentions wind, sheep, and wide horizons as calming factors.”

The form had only one pre-printed destination box. Someone checked it and moved on.

Amir lasted eighteen months in the quiet Ohio suburb before the walls felt too close and every police cruiser sounded like the old regime.

Nothing dramatic happened; he simply faded, the way a plant pale when it is kept in soil it was never meant to grow in.

If they had listened to the psychologist, Amir would be living on a small farm in Patagonia right now.

Eleven hundred dollars a month buys a house with a tin roof, twenty sheep, and a view of mountains that don’t remind him of anything except themselves.

The nearest police station is two hours away. When the nightmares come, the wind carries the sound away.

Instead, the country that saved his life became the place that slowly took the rest of it.

A quiet suggestion for anyone who still has the power to change the CIA’s resettlement forms

Let the CIA psychologists decide the country, not the lawyers or the budget officers.

If the profile says mountains and silence, send the person to Patagonia or New Zealand or rural Portugal. If the profile genuinely says “America is where I want to be,” then bring them here.

But never again sentence someone to a place, his own mind already warned would break him, just because it is the only box printed on the page.

The two truths still sit side by side. Maybe one day someone will listen . And no one life will be destroyed!

Café Con Leche: A Stand Against Corruption

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If there is one good thing I learned under my “dirty intelligence,” it is how to write a resume and compartmentalize my thoughts. But one bad thing I realized after being around them is this: when money is touched by dirty souls and minds looking for power, it can destroy not only genuine people and lives, but entire countries and humanity itself.

So based on that—surrounded by crazy people taking advantage of vulnerable people and their misery, in a society where old people beg for money on street corners under the rain, where a new generation is taught to obey and not to think, and where corruption sits at the very top—I walk again to find a café con leche. This time, my perfumes and songs are not enough.

And I think: WHY DID YOU CHOOSE to build a dirty, fake society that increases immigration just to destroy hundreds and thousands of genuine immigrants who arrived here?

Why? For dirty politics? For population statistics and artificial wealth on paper?
You destroyed people. You screwed them up and screwed up a whole country. You built a fake reality.

Do you feel well now? Do you feel the enjoyment of being comfortable while destroying others?
Stupid politics with stupid entitled people.

At one corner, a senior begs for spare cents. On another corner, another senior enjoys his laundered money. Far ahead—more mess. Why? Because more money means more destruction? Because of bad rules and an attitude of “I don’t care.”

Early in the morning, a stupid communist woman doctor from across the ocean “put me in my place” when I told her clearly that without a proper chemotherapy strategy and clear administration rules, malpractice can happen at any time. Her ego exploded because she never knew the correct order of chemo administration. That is unprofessionalism—covered up by socialism and communism. And people die from it. They are poorly treated, and if you stand up for professionalism you are pushed down. Because egos and criminal games matter more than people’s lives. And where do you go, when “it is God’s will” matters more than expertise?

Yes, I am a whistleblower to a society that is shitty and corrupted to the core. Sure, you don’t want me, because I speak up. You are dirty, corrupted, and totally unprofessional.

And if your sister were my patient, you would be happy I am the way I am. But not for others.
It is the worst filth and double standards.
Why do people have double standards? Because of crazy minds? Or dirty souls?

I walk an hour and a half for my coffee, knowing that behind me, the shitty crazy ones will again break into my house and steal—because THEY THINK THEY DESERVE to shop in my home.

Your society is very dirty. And building a hospital won’t make it clean. It is dirty to the core.

And if intelligence taught me another lesson, it is this: to hate money, because I saw how beautiful genuine intellect can be used to make dirty money and dirty power.

And I hate it. I hate money, and I hate power—especially when it is dirty.

My Spanish restaurant is run by non-Spanish people. And my café con leche is actually a latte.

I laugh. This is the country of the fake.
This is the intelligence—the fake.
A country without genuine, normal intelligence protecting its people and their lives—how do you think it will survive? Fake, dirty, and corrupted, obsessed with money and power. It will destroy its own freedom with its own fake games.

I explained to her, “How dare you sell ‘café con leche’ when you don’t even know what it is or how it tastes?”

But fake is fake, and fake is the best “professionalism” this country needs.

And I miss my café con leche with azúcar moreno so badly.

Poverty in a fake, corrupted socialist country is worse than any other poverty—because there is no freedom left. Only dirty control, stupidity, and corruption on every level.

I want to sell café con leche with azúcar moreno—the original one—for 1.40 EUR = 2 USD on every corner of this country, and take out of business all the fake coffee makers with hidden agendas.

I think I know what business to start, lol. But how?
Just me, my espresso machine, my coffee, good milk, and good water—because even the water here is bad quality, lol. Azúcar morena optional.

These people must have their freedom. My 2-dollar coffee.
Café con leche.

Dirty Patrick – My Story as a Nurse

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How Crazy Does This Sound?

For me, it feels like harassment—pure and simple.

I am a Registered Nurse living in a socialist country. Despite my U.S. RN credentials, I have always felt like I’m “not enough” here. My life is limited in means and surrounded by situations that feel unsafe and beyond my control.

More Than Organized Crime: The Threat of Intrusion

My story isn’t about crime in the usual sense—it’s about interference, surveillance, and violations of privacy that feel personal and systematic.

Yesterday, I had a scheduled video interview for an RN position in NY on Microsoft Teams. Everything appeared normal: the time and date were correct, and the Administrator and Director of Nursing participated. I was even told I would receive an offer.

The Incident That Shook Me

Shortly afterward, a former coworker Patrick posted a video online that mimicked the Director of Nursing from my interview.
I could not tell if my meeting was manipulated or real.
Patrick impersonated the black American DON ?
The team’s meeting on my cell was hacked by Patrick?
Patrick video is on YT. Teams meeting is on my cell!



It’s terrifying to wonder whether private communications are safe or whether digital manipulation is affecting my life and career.

Why Speaking Up Matters

Being told not to talk about these experiences is not acceptable.

I refuse to become like the people who intimidate, manipulate, or harass.

I refuse to accept corruption as “normal.”

Even when facing it all alone, I will continue to speak my truth and fight for freedom.

Conclusion

Yesterday was hard—a day of digital manipulation, lost opportunities, and intrusion into private life.
Yet I remain here, resilient and committed to sharing my story.

My experience highlights the importance of privacy, personal freedom, and standing up for oneself even ALONE.

Dejé mi alma en otro lugar — Y volveré

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En los primeros días después de volver, mi alma se negaba a dormir.
Era como si mi cuerpo estuviera aquí, pero mi corazón quisiera quedarse allí, en aquella otra vida que tanto amaba — pero no aquí.

En la segunda semana, caminaba por la calle y la gente chocaba conmigo.
Mi ritmo y el suyo eran diferentes.
Ellos eran fríos, duros, agresivos en su prisa…
y yo iba cálida, lenta, feliz — despacito.
Ellos allá me enseñaron su “despacito”; aquí no es el que yo quería.

En aquellos primeros días aquí, no podía comer ni beber.
Mi alma rechazaba esta comida. Me puse enferma, muy muy muy enferma.
Enferma de volver.
No era mi café con leche, no era mi jamón.
Nada tenía sabor durante casi un mes — nada de nada.

Vivía y caminaba, pero mi alma no estaba aquí conmigo.
Una semana entera dormí sin parar, enferma y queriendo olvidar.

Dejé mi alma con los pingüinos, con un castillo de arena…
La dejé en un lugar donde mis piernas grandes y mis muslos fuertes nunca fueron una vergüenza para su cultura,
aunque aquí sí lo son.
Con ellos, yo era normal.
Aquí me siento anormal. Aquí soy anormal para esta cultura.

Viví una guerra de fuegos artificiales — fuertes, brillantes, explotando como su manera de decir Bienvenida.
Una bienvenida tan potente y alegre que parecía que mi alma se quedaría allí para siempre.
Como si me susurrara:
“Vas a volver.”

Y volveré.
Pero primero, tengo que aprender a construir el negocio que sé construir,
para volver más fuerte — la mejor de las mejores,
la más suave de las suaves,
la más cálida de las cálidas.

Igual que ellos me recibieron —
hablándome incluso cuando apenas entendía su idioma.
Hablándome… y me gustó tanto que el idioma se volvió parte de mí.

Con ellos, yo era YO.
La yo de antes.
La yo feliz.
La yo abierta.
La yo que protegía, que disfrutaba de la gente, que ayudaba a la gente.
La yo que no tenía miedo de caminar sola de noche por las calles y la playa,
en un país donde casi no conocía el idioma.

Con ellos estaba segura.
Con ellos estaba en casa.

Aquí, no me siento en casa.

Allí, ni una sola persona me habló sin amabilidad.
Ni una sola me negó ayuda.
Ni un solo momento sin risas, sin baile, sin conexión.
Ellos me ayudaron, y yo ayudé a todas las personas para las que estaba allí.
A cada una.

Y deseé tanto hablar su idioma bien,
solo para decirles lo agradecida que estaba por todo.

Gracias por las iglesias tan preciosas donde recé y sentí que Dios me escuchaba de verdad.
Gracias por cada café — tan fuerte que no podía dormir, pero tan adictivo que lo adoraba.
Gracias por cada perfume del que me enamoré,
cada risa, cada beso lanzado por gente que entendió que el alma habla incluso sin palabras.

Gracias al gobierno que nos ayudó,
y a cada trabajador que estuvo a nuestro lado cada día.
Gracias a la arena suave, al mar cálido y al sol que me aceptaron como si fuera de allí.
Gracias a las pastelerías y a las mujeres que fueron mi “cuartel general”, el lugar al que siempre volvía.
Gracias a los ladrones — Don Quijote, mantén las manos fuera de los bolsillos ajenos.
A las prostitutas — Roxanne, sé elegante, eres preciosa.
A la policía en cada esquina — sois increíblemente guapos.
A las fruterías, cafés, terrazas, al bacalao, a la música y a cada desconocido que se ofreció a pagar para que pudiera lavar mi ropa — jajaja,
gracias.

Volveré.
Os lo prometo.

Abriré un negocio para ayudar a la gente, contrataré gente, pagaré bien,
y compraré una casa para pingüinos con un patio enorme donde celebraremos cada fin de semana.

Esta es mi promesa.
Que Dios me ayude.

Valle

2 Seconds Too Much: How I Reclaimed My Authentic Self

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Do you know your triggers?
I’ve learned mine the hard way — fake people.

Yes, fake people. The ones who reach sixty and still haven’t found themselves. The ones who never learned to be real, who live behind masks of perfection — pretending to be smart, beautiful, superior, or even god-like.

But here’s my truth: I don’t like fake people.
I don’t like roles, characters, or actors. I don’t like people with a thousand faces and personalities — even if they could fool the world’s top intelligence agencies.

Because no matter how perfect they look, they’re not real.
And I can’t connect with something that isn’t authentic.

What I Learned About Being Human

In this life, I’ve learned what normal really means.
It’s not about being flawless. It’s about being human — raw, emotional, vulnerable, imperfect.

It’s the small things that make us real:
A sigh that’s a little too deep.
A hug that lingers a second too long.
A heart that skips a beat.
A cheap pair of pants and a simple blouse.

That’s what makes us authentic.
That’s what makes us alive.

You Are a Craft — I Am Real

You might speak ten languages, have powerful friends, or hold every advantage in the world. But if you’re just a crafted personality — a product of manipulation, not soul — then you’re not real.

I’ve met enough of those. And I’ve had enough.

Because I’ve seen what it means to be authentic — beautifully imperfect and perfectly human.

I Choose Me — The Imperfect, Real Me

Maybe people love crafted characters. I don’t.
I love authentic people, even when they’re messy.
Even when I don’t like them, I know how to feel about them — because they’re real.

That’s why I choose to be myself.
The imperfect me. The real me.

A “fat, old, stupid American nurse,” as some might say — living in a foreign country, hated for refusing to obey corrupt rules or bow to broken systems. But I am me.

And that’s enough.

People love what’s real — not the perfect illusion, not the crafted role.

So take your puppets and your masks and leave.
Because I’ve fallen in love with myself — the authentic, honest, imperfect woman I am.

And I won’t trade that for anyone’s act.

À bientôt.

Vaseline and Survey: A Fever Dream About Humanity (and Maybe Reptilians) 🧴

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🌡️ Fever, Jetlag & Delirium — The Holy Trinity of Confusion

My brain is still cooking at 41°C, shivering, dizzy, and trying to remember which planet I’m on. Walking one block feels like climbing Mount Everest, and every bone in my body screams like a heavy metal concert.

And to whoever said Tylenol doesn’t work — you, my friend, have never been this close to seeing angels. Tylenol is freaking amazing!

Between the jetlag, fever, and existential confusion, I woke up today 100% convinced I was in a hotel. Nope. Just my trusty 50-year-old couch.

Oh God, how You love to mess with our straight paths and whisper, “Don’t worry, it’s all part of the plan.”
Really, God? THIS was the plan? 😂

🐍 The Vaseline-Reptilian Hypothesis

My poor nose is as red as Rudolph’s, thanks to the mountain of tissues I’ve used. I swear if I keep this up, I’ll transform into a reptilian.

And then what?
Do reptilians even have noses? Or lips?
Would I need to apply Vaseline all day long just to stay moisturized?

Okay, okay… clearly the fever is winning this round. 😵‍💫

🧠 Fever Productivity: Project Complete!

Delirious but determined, I started working on my project at 4 AM.
And guess what? I finished it. I even tested it — a short survey with a small, diverse group of people.

If this were Heaven, I’d imagine a whole plaza buzzing with laughter, everyone chatting, overlapping voices, answering my two simple questions:

“Which one do you like more, and why?”

But here? People act like I’m asking for their social security number or a confession about their ancestors. 😅

👼 Vox Populi, Vox Dei: The People Have Spoken

Out of 10 people, from different ages, cultures, and social backgrounds — 9 chose my handmade project over a professional one.

Why?
Because it was human. ❤️

We look for humanity in humans.
That’s why that moment felt like Heaven on Earth to me.

🌴 The Dream: Tylenol, Vaseline & a Beachside Heaven

So here I am — with Vaseline on my reptilian nose, Tylenol for my divine dizziness, and a smile of human triumph.

Tomorrow is a new day.
I’ll get stronger, I’ll speak fluent Spanish, joke with everyone freely, and one day… I’ll buy that small house with a big garden by the beach.

There, I’ll open a little business — surrounded by laughter, kindness, and humanity.

Because for me, that’s Heaven. 🌺✨

Now excuse me… I need to rest, hydrate, and reapply Vaseline. 😅

Operation: Leaving the Socialist Hell ✈️🌴☀️

/ StoriesofStories / Leave a comment


After living in heaven, I woke up in socialist hell — corruption, chaos, and stalkers included. A personal story about finding home, freedom, and the courage to leave.

✍️ Writing Stories Became Hard…

Writing stories became hard after living in heaven and realizing that, for so long, I was surviving in hell — a place where I forgot what it means to be normal, to be human.

Now I’m lying in bed, fever 42°C, sweating, dizzy, and one thought keeps looping in my head:
👉 I want out of this socialist hell.

🚨 Day One in Hell

On my first day here, my stalker followed me twice — once in the morning, once at night.
The “socialist police,” of course, did absolutely nothing. They’re too busy holding hands with organized crime families.

Corruption isn’t just high — it’s practically a national sport. 🏆
And people’s lives? Constantly in danger.

🌆 Back There… in Heaven

But there… oh, there I felt safe.
I could walk at 10 p.m., even midnight, through quiet streets, and never feel afraid.
It was like the city knew me — and I knew the city.

The warmth of the air, the kindness of people, the way hearts connected instantly — that made all the difference. ❤️

Talking, hugging, laughing with people was natural.
Normal.
Home.

From Don Quixote to Roxanne, from bad boys to good boys, from police to everyday people — everyone felt human.

So normal. So at home.

😶 Not My Culture, Not My Fit

But here?
This culture. This system. This madness.
It doesn’t fit me.

As hard as I try to adapt, I never will — because this is not me.
IS. NOT. ME. HERE! 😤

Maybe immigration loves people who blend in perfectly, who say “I love the system!” with a smile.
But I can’t fake that.
And you shouldn’t either.

💭 Be Honest With Yourself

Be honest with yourself — or you’ll live a life of misery pretending to fit where your soul doesn’t belong.

Ask yourself:
✨ Who are you?
✨ Where do you feel at home?

Go there. Stay there. Even if it’s hard.
Because when you connect soul-to-soul with people and culture — that’s home.

☕ What I Miss

I miss my people.
My coffees.
My churches.
My food.
My Arabian perfumes.
My music.
My sunshine.
My warmth.
My beaches.

But most of all — I miss me there.
Feeling… home.
Feeling in heaven. ☀️

🚀 Let’s Begin

Let’s start the mission.
Let’s make it official:

🔥 Operation: Leaving the Socialist Hell! 🔥