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Elin R. Evensen
Attended University of Essex
Lives in Oslo
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Elin R. Evensen

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Recovery is a joke. Do you know why? Because it is always followed by relapses. Relapse after relapse knocks you down. It tears away the hope you've managed to summon in your recovery. Time and time again. And every time, your hope diminishes, little by little. It cauterises until there is nothing left; until your life is nothing but a big joke.

I often think about the girl I was 3 years ago. I often compare her to what I have become: antisocial, lethargic, lifeless, fake. I try my best at portraying who I really am when I am around people. I repress the pain. And I always succeed. But whenever I get that quiet moment to myself, I break a little. The contrasts are too big. When I allow myself to feel the pain, it gets a little too much. I'm breaking, more often with time. I cry and wonder if someone could be so kind and end it. No one ever does.

I'm beat.

I'm so very beat. Though all the while knowing that sooner or later, I'll experience another "high" and I'll ride that wave like nothing else exist. And then it will pass and I'll have no choice but to face the pain again.
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Elin R. Evensen

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When you realise you'll never hear her sing again, you sing the songs she used to sing and bring her back to you. Even if it's in your mind, she's sitting beside you, sharing the same half broken stool in front of the piano. She's always been the singer. You've always been the listener. Not this time. Not any more. Time has stolen her voice. So you sing when she can't; you let your voice echo in the room when she can't. However good, however bad the outcome, you realise it doesn't matter. Because you only hear her. And you'll bring her back in song whenever the ache gets too bad; whenever you miss her too much.
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Elin R. Evensen

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NUMBER 10
It's always strange when someone unexpected reaches out and asks you how you are. Loss and grief is a strange thing and everyone react and handle things differently. Up until now, I've only properly spoken to my closest family and my boyfriend. I've cocooned up, though not repressed in any way. I've embraced everything I have felt.

But it's all in a bubble, and you never know what's going to happen when someone from outside that bubble makes it pop. And they will. So on your first day back at work, of course someone pops their head into your office and asks you how you are. However, instead of breaking, which is what you thought you'd do, you realise you've grown. As a result, you talk about the pain - with a lump in your throat and your chest tight. But you talk. And you don't cry. For the first time, you don't cry. And you acknowledge all the wonderful memories and how good it has been for your soul to allow yourself to grieve.

My mother has struggled grieving. She's shed a few tears, but she's overcome with the feeling of everything being a dream; of it not being real. She's appeared so strong, while I've appeared so weak.
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Elin R. Evensen

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NUMBER 9
Rocks and snow and blue skies. This is what it feels like coming home. Only this time it's different. I've come home to say goodbye.

The journey itself was fine. It wasn't till we drove down the road from town to where I grew up that things changed.

I always get hit by nostalgia when I see the street I used to grow up on. I see ghosts of myself everywhere, usually running or cycling. This time, however, sight evaded me. My hearing on the other hand...

As I sat in the backseat of my dad's old Mercedes, I heard my aunt's voice in my head. So clear, as if she was there with me. She was reading out a poem. Or making one on the go.

I wasn't much of a poetic niece in my childhood. As an adult, however, I need poetry like I need air. It pains me how I didn't pay enough attention to her writings. I listened, appreciated and occasionally sang the song lyrics she wrote, but I wasn't mature enough to see and understand her natural flair for creativity and rhyme, or her emotional take which so easily spoke to the reader. She was so very talented.

Unfortunately, I don't remember any words. I do, however, remember the feeling her writing gave me. It always made me happy.

My aunt gave so much of herself when she wrote. Both sadness and happiness. Humour and love. I remember thinking, 'Please, write these down. Please, let them not go to waste.'. Of course I didn't say those things. I was shy and reserved.

So now, as the car rolled up familiar streets, I was taken on a journey by her voice. I couldn't hear full poems. I heard words, a few lines from verses, sometimes just the rhymes. And with poetry came her laugh; the result of having written a funny line or having messed up.

Her laugh is such a dominant and significant memory. Her laugh was always so warm and safe.

Then she became the street, the turns, the houses we passed. I imagined sitting in her old Toyota, singing, as we were heading to her house for a sleepover.

All things considered, life is warm.
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NUMBER 7
Last night in bed I started to panic. I will never be able to look at your face again. Never observe how the light hits your wrinkles and how they stretch and fold. Will I remember how many there were? Did I ever know?

I imagine being there with you when they found you. I'd sit on the chair by your bed and hold your hand, pull my fingers through your blond and grey wavy hair. I'll trace your wrinkles. Kiss your hand. Your forehead. Whisper words too late. 

As panic takes me again, I imagine taking pictures of your face, from every angle. I have to remember your face right. I need to know the number of wrinkles. And your hands. I'll take pictures of your hands too. Long, thin fingers once covered in rings. And your ankles. Your thin ankles. I must remember them.

How do you keep all these memories? How do you prevent them from slipping away?

I want to look at you, even if your heart beats no more. I want the face that made me feel safe, the hand that dragged me along to adventures, the ankles that always pushed forwards.

I wanted to be the one to clean your body one last time. To dress you in your best clothing. To hold your hand as it went cold. To say goodbye.

But distance is a factor.
Distance is always a factor.
But know - always know - that my heart has never left you.
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Jason Caits-Cheverst's profile photobirger monsen's profile photo
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someone who is a part of you will not slip away. not ever. that much i can actually promise you.
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Elin R. Evensen

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NUMBER 5
47 when you suffered from a Transient Ischemic Attack.
65 when you were diagnosed with Alzheimer's.
67 when you took your last breath in your sleep.

Rewind, please.

The numbers are too low.
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The most beautiful and personal obituary I have read.

You make it possible to love a person I have never met.
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Elin R. Evensen

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NUMBER 3
You are in so many things. You were before too, but not like this. Now everything is more vivid.

You are in the Sunsweet prunes you used to have in your cupboard. You are in the small cartons of raisins that you used to give us as snacks when we visited. You're in cut apples and oranges, in half bananas cut with a knife with the peel on. In Charades and air hostesses, in those mini suitcase boxes of sweets you used to buy on the airplane when you came home from holiday. You're Turkey and Bulgaria, in beaches and resorts. You're in every winter holiday. You're in (oat) porridge made in the microwave, in orange pepperoni on melted cheese, in sponge cake with cream and fruit, in rice  puffs covered in chocolate. You're in pancakes and waffles and sandwiches, in long pretzels and the little birds you used to feed breadcrumbs outside your kitchen window. You're in the magpie that took off with the crust. You're in every Border Collies's brown eyes. In light blue eyes and wavy hair. You're in fishballs and white sauce as well as dinner's skipped. In Toyotas, children, flowers and cemeteries.  You're in the flowers we plant on graves and the candles we light in winter. You're in crosswords and gossip magazines. You're there every time the TV is off.

(Did you know I was the same as you? I prefer the TV off.)

You're in card games, especially Solitaire. You're at the kitchen table talking with my mother and I when everyone else are watching TV. You're the knock on the door and the car that gets overtaken. You're the funny voice that asks them why they didn't drive yesterday if they were in such a rush. You're in laughter and tears, often combined. You're songs and folk music, Elvis, Beatles and dance. You're singing about Edvart and his hammer. You're with me during Christmas, singing about baby Jesus and how we have mopped the floor. You're Christmas workshops, visits to the barn, walks up the hill to see Santa Clause's light in the window. Even in Santa Clause's face, hat and coat - you're there. You're in the small flash-lights that look like pens. In presents and gifts.

You're the hands that pinch my shoulders and make me laugh.

You're every leather jacket I have and will ever see. In running shoes and leather boots. You're sailor boots on basement stairs. You're in water beds and pink sheets, baby pink tops, in heated floor in the bathroom, in conditioners and lotions. You're in Vaseline and lip balm. You're in flea markets and funny hoovers I've never seen before. In crafts and decorations made by hand. You're the glasses that rests on the nose when reading, the radio that is playing music in the background. You're the afternoon nap and snores. 

How I miss your snores.

You're the ticking of the clock, and the goodnight at the end of the day. You're the noises from the kitchen in the morning. You're the one telling me to stop sleeping in so much. You're the one who wants to go to bed early and the one who wakes up by the smallest noise. You're in the smell of summer and the green field outside your house. In your strawberry field and plants. You're at the seaside and in shells and stones. You're in round gear sticks and heavy wheels. You're sitting behind the wheel of the car that got scraped up. You're the one dragging me off the sofa, always running around. You're shopping trips on Saturdays and coffee and milk in the evening. You're in caramel, chocolate and strawberry sauce. 

You're in the plastic bag with hair dye, a comb, an old tee shirt and a pink towel. You're in towels wrapped around shoulders and the dye rinsed out in water. In eyelashes with mascara and make-up borrowed as a child. You're in sticky lipstick, candles lit at night, nuts and nut crackers in a bowl, in red leather sofas and recliner chairs, big windows and seaside views. You're in cameras and framed photographs, memories placed proudly on the wall for everyone to see. You're in the chair at my violin recital, in the cake someone bakes me for my birthday. You're in every birthday party, in every July and in the dry clothes I put on after swimming in the sea.

You're in dreams and lazy mornings in a quiet house. You're naps on the sofa while I move around as quietly as I can. You're in children and sour cream sprinkled with sugar. You're a mother's yearning, and a house full of people. You're in rings and necklaces; even in rashes from earrings. You're in pens that twist and red plums. In tears in the shower and in so many songs. You're in Ed Sheeran's "Afire Love".

You're in the chickens we used to visit every summer and in the Shetland ponies that we rode. You're in leather gloves and thin fingers, bakery bought in town and put on a palate in our kitchen. You're in dinners and desserts, and different coloured towels. You're in attics stacked with cardboard boxes and in every costume that I try. You are the bonfire in the woods on St. John's Eve - and the food and drinks that we brought. You're the trips to the beach, the folding tables and chairs, and even the matching tracksuit bottoms and jackets. You're in blond and brown hair; short and long and even in perm. You're in scissors as you ask me to cut your hair and in laughter when I do a bad job.

You are in clothes passed down and second hand toys. You're in small prizes won at raffles, in bottles of freezing cold coke, in bicycles and walks. You're in baby pink nail-polish, hitch-hiking, new people, new places. You're in the warm summer's breeze and in the smell of buttercup flowers. You are the hand that holds mine and drags me along on adventures.

Whatever people tell me, you are still alive. I carry you with me everywhere.
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Elin R. Evensen

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Apparently, the way we communicate on Facebook confuses people...

Colleague: Lovely photo of you and your boyfriend on Facebook.
Elin: My boyfriend?
Colleague: Him eating your liquorice hat?
Elin: That's...not my boyfriend.
Colleague: Isn't your boyfriend's name Jason?
Elin: Err... No. Jason is my best friend.
Colleague: Oh... Awkward.
Elin: It happens. You're not the first one.
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birger monsen's profile photoJason Caits-Cheverst's profile photo
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Can we please talk about the phrase 'liquorice hat'? XD
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Elin R. Evensen

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NUMBER 8
"Hi, my aunt just died on Saturday. I'd really like to see her. Please."

One of the hardest phone calls I've had to make.
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Thinking of you.
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Elin R. Evensen

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NUMBER 6
On the third day, I learned 3 things:

1) That grief can also mean happiness as you are overcome with unmeasurable love that threatens to break your body apart. It is overflowing, and seeps through your eyes, hands and chest. You feel it as you feel the sun: warm, powerful and so full of life. Somehow, in your saddest moment, you experience the greatest happiness of your life.

2) That there is no such thing as good days and bad days. There are just days. There is no recipe for grieving and however you deal with loss is up to you. Jumping from feeling everything to nothing is more common than people think, and questioning whether what is happening is real is not only natural but healthy. You are entitled every feeling, just as every feeling is entitled to exist.

3) That the process of writing works better than any prescribed medicine. As grief takes me, body and soul, and has me crying and hyperventilating on the floor, words from within will pull me up. I write down memories that flash before my eyes and emotions that follow suit. Thoughts are jotted down too. It is as if the pain in my chest manifests and undergoes a metamorphosis. Because with every sentence, the sobs recede and the seconds between each tear prolong.
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Medicating grief would only mask symptoms. I don't think this kind of grief should be masked. It should be embraced.

Anyone who leaves behind this much grief when passing away has meant so much for you in life. And you do the right thing. You make your grief a celebration of these memories. It hurts, but it helps you balance the pain.

The loss... That feeling you may not be able to balance out. Some will always be missed, and thus always live on.
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Elin R. Evensen

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NUMBER 4
3 years ago we were dancing at a wedding

You
swing dancing like a free bird

Me
dancing in the only way I knew how to move
in defence from an attack

I didn't dance long
I was too embarrassed
But you were all smiles
And danced the rest of the evening

It was the last time I ever saw you dance
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Elin R. Evensen

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NUMBER 2
Do you remember how you always used to have ice cream in the freezer? Tubs and cones and those on sticks. (Do you remember how I used to collect the sticks?)

Or how you used to park outside the Creamery even when you weren't supposed to, because it was your favourite place to park?

Or how greasy your pancakes were? I remember my sister complaining about it. I, however, loved it. Thin pancakes dripping of butter, sprinkled with sugar, and folded in half, then in half again. You made the mix when we were out fishing and started flipping the pancakes when we were rowing back to shore. It was the best evening snack ever.

--------

I'm sorry. I was supposed to tell you the whole story. Instead, I find myself walking down memory lane - scattered memories taking me back and forwards in time. I guess this is my way of desperately holding on to all the memories of you. I don't want any of them to fade.

It scares me that one day, I might forget the sound of your voice. Or your laugh. Or the way your eyes narrowed when you smiled. Will I forget the sound of you scooping up breadcrumbs off the table with your hands. The gentle and mellow sound of flesh against wood and the hard clink of metal as your many, many rings scraped the pine?

Will I forget those times you laughed till you cried? How your laugh was like an engine then. Powerful, constant and so full of energy. Or the way you cried when you told me how painful it was losing a baby. Will I ever stop the bitterness of not being able to properly comfort you now that I am older and wiser?

I regret it took me so long to grow up and understand how to connect through pain. I regret I only listened and didn't give advice.  I was far too young to be what you needed me to be. I think, maybe, you could have made me find peace with the fact that some "what if"s will never go away.

In my fear of forgetting, I am remembering so much.

Is this grieving? If so, I hope it never ends.
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I try not to regret what I did not do, and what I did not say. If I think hard, many real examples come to my mind and make me cry. Cherish the good things you said and did. Forget what you regret.
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People
In her circles
1,508 people
Have her in circles
1,371 people
Jivan Kedar's profile photo
Car Rental Oslo Airport's profile photo
Kjersti Antonsen's profile photo
Ngo Van's profile photo
zohaib muneer's profile photo
Christian Brachel's profile photo
Bare Gratis Ting's profile photo
Anton Wahyu's profile photo
John Sandoval's profile photo
Education
  • University of Essex
    BA (Hons) Creative Writing, 2007 - 2010
Basic Information
Gender
Female
Story
Tagline
Quotes by my little brother. Quotes from my favourite books. Personal photography.
Introduction
I believe a person has no limits, and that we can be whatever we want to be. This attitude, however, has earned me a lot of strange looks (especially from recruitment consultants).

I find it hard putting myself into one box, claiming "this is who I am and this is what I do". Why? Because those limits are non-existent. They're made by people for people to supposedly make life easier.

But I don't see it that way.

I've always enjoyed learning and I crave accomplishing something new - something to feel proud of. To do something that I (or anyone else for that matter) thought I could never do.

The way I see it - life is something to enjoy, but it should also challenge you. I happily accept :)
Bragging rights
Half Norwegian. Half Filipino. I'm so proud of my heritage.
Places
Map of the places this user has livedMap of the places this user has livedMap of the places this user has lived
Currently
Oslo
Previously
Cork - Colchester - Tromsø - Finnsnes
I love art. And I love places that embrace art. It's about daring to be different - it's about standing out from the crowd and making something unique. I'm usually not much of a hotel person. But the hotel I stayed at earlier this week, was a hotel I really wouldn't mind visiting again. It's called Comfort Hotel Square and is located in the city centre of Stavanger in Norway. The hotel had a minimalistic urban style. Graffiti everywhere and funky paintings and prints. The lobby was gorgeous and so were the hotel rooms. My room had a very similar style to what I've been looking for in flats for years!Simple, gray concrete walls with marks and holes; dark brown furniture and warm yellow cupboard doors; red, brown and white textiles; heavy brown curtains framing big windows as low as the floor; deep window-sills you can sit in; a big, soft bed; massive artwork above the head of the bed; sliding doors of foggy glass to the bathroom - which has rectangular dark brown and cream tiles, many massive mirrors and a sandy brown rectangular sink! WANT!
• • •
Quality: ExcellentFacilities: ExcellentService: Excellent
Public - 2 years ago
reviewed 2 years ago
Gorgeous pub in Oslo. Has a fantastic feel and atmosphere. Half of the pub is dark and looks like an old factory, while the other half has white bookshelves with books and looks more like a cafe/library combo. ...the wine wasn't too bad either ;) Just lovely <3
Atmosphere: ExcellentDecor: ExcellentService: Excellent
Public - 2 years ago
reviewed 2 years ago
2 reviews
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