DA BOIS A STRGL EDT

DABOISASTRGLEDT  – by Ivaniel “Ivo” Georgiev

DABOIS, Mr. Struggling himself, turns 25 today.

Is there a better day to drop this particular blog? Doubt it. (And for the record, I didn’t plan it. Sometimes it really feels like fate knows what it’s doing.)

But today’s post isn’t a birthday cake – it’s a saga. Messy, layered, and tangled… like my 23andMe results.

Family is the most precious institution we don’t get to choose – at least not at first. There are a few kinds of families and the point is, they’re all family.

Inherited or created, they’re irreplaceable. Those are:

• the one you’re born into
• the one you choose
• and the one you build.

What I’ve been blessed with is… colourful.

There isn’t a single person in it who isn’t, in some way, a reflection of me. Or maybe I’m the reflection of them? Or maybe we all are reflection if each other?

Not in the cliché sense. I mean in every sense. Which is equally a good thing as it is bad.

Family is like that; it cuts, it holds, it haunts.

• Grandmothers who toiled.
• Grandfathers who hid.
• Mom’s fragile fire.
• Dad’s silent pride.
• Strange sibling-to-sibling relationship.

They’re all in me – I’m free, yet I’m bound.

This isn’t a complaint. I’ve got decent people around me – even if they’re not the kind to really try seeing another’s point of view.

I think I know them – but how can you really know someone?

Still, there’s the fact that when you live with someone long enough, you start to see the loops – patterns that repeat like echoes in an empty room start to appear.

Everyone hides what they don’t want to be seen as, but only talks about what they want.

This blog is going to be tough. Not because I have nothing to say, but because I have enough.

There’s a lot I need to unpack before you can really grasp where I’m coming from – and why I’m heading where I’m heading.

That’s what I’m hoping to do today.

If last week’s post felt long, this one might double it. I’ll try to cram as much as I can into as little as I must. But still, no promises.

It will be dense. And heavy. And liberating.

Let me introduce you to my family – and more recently, the folks who’ve contributed, because what they passed down wasn’t only a gene.

Two grandmothers. Two grandfathers. All still alive – bless them.

My parents? A classic heterosexual pair from the time before rainbow families went mainstream. (For which I’m also grateful; I’m already struggling to stay straight… can’t imagine handling even more confusion.)

I’ve got one sister, thankfully younger – parents test their sharpest edges on firstborns, then soften.

Each of my parents has one sister. Neither’s ever played a standout role in my life. As for their husbands and children – my cousins – the branches of the family tree are there, but we haven’t had a reunion in forever (at least one I attended).

Being “in touch” with some of them might be an overstatement. Is that sad? Or just… natural?

Now, here’s the spicy bit.

According to 23andMe, I’m 74% European:

• 70.9% Southern European (mostly Bulgarian and Greek, though I’m missing a second citizenship).
• 2.8% Eastern European, somewhere near the Carpathians – most probably Romania.

16.3% comes from northwest Asia:

• 13.4% Iranian, Caucasian, and Mesopotamian roots – mostly from eastern Turkey and its ex-Ottoman neighbours
• The rest: a touch of northwest Asia and a sliver of northern Africa

7.4% comes from the Indian subcontinent:

• 2.1% from Northern India and Pakistan
• 1% from Southern India and Sri Lanka
• 0.4% from Bangladesh and Northeast India
• 3.9% from Central/South Asia

Finally, 2% unallocated. (Alien semen… I guess.)

So yeah. Diverse bloodlines. And yet… we’re a pretty ordinary bunch. No politicians. No actors. No dynasties. And even though I declared I would follow an academic life, I dropped out of college – into a second one at this very moment.

So, mostly, we’re a lineage of lovable slackers.

We care about three things:

• That the family’s okay.
• That there’s food on the table.
• That work is steady.

And honestly? That says a lot.

But grab your popcorn – the real story’s just beginning. I know you’ve got a family, too. And I’d bet good money that what’s coming next might sound a little familiar. (Different names. Different faces. Same emotions.)

It’s a stew just like others, except it’s not. The recipe is the usual chaos, warmth, guilt, and love, combined with God knows what else – all served in uneven spoonfuls.

Before we jump in, welcome to another week of DABOISASTRGLEDT.

Thank you for taking the time to sit with me in this messy struggle of a life. My hope is that this space becomes one of effort, forgiveness, and understanding.

So BOIS and GALS, don’t stress. You’re not the only ones feeling like this. We’re all in it. Together.

Missed any of the last posts? Is your curiosity often unsatisfied? Check the archives. In the meantime, here’s a link to the last one: I Could… And I Do… But I Could Never…

If you like the type of content I’m sharing here, you can definitely check out my daily newsletter for some more interesting twists about different aspects of life (and some free goodies) – Subscribe to My Newsletter.

Europe tour checkpoint: The journey came to an end. The last countries we checked before coming home were Hungary and Romania. Budapest was cool, but I don’t seem like the “Budapest was amazing” kind of guy. Romania felt much like Bulgaria. I can’t understand what people are talking about, the same way I can’t at home. But anyway, life is good, people – very good indeed. Especially on the road. Seeing so much of so different. It makes you feel so small and grounds you. We all go to shit, sometimes a couple of times per day. It’s so meaningless. You live to poop, just better with time.

Enough jokes! Back to the topic.

Life Before Me

Let’s start at the beginning – not the beginning of the world, but my beginning.

Before I popped up at the very end of the twentieth century – with less than three months to go – there was life. Not just any life, but a far more unsettled and uncertain one than what we now call “normal.” People wiped their b-holes with what was a hand away – there was a bigger chance to have a piece of gold a hand away than toilet paper.

Anyway, I come from strange lands. Lands shaped by empires, betrayals, migrations, and more trauma than history books dare to admit. Our ancestors – according to historical studies – have been around these parts for thousands of years. Because of that, some folks around here dare to act like we’re the first people to ever exist. And not only that, but the greatest. Like the world should thank us for being alive. What a joke. Even if it were true, there are far more important things that have to be done now, and instead, we are practising meaningless King Kong-type chest of a beating.

Thracians, Byzantines, Romans, Bulgarians, Caucasians, Greeks, Ottomans, Persians… this place has always been a passage between East and West. People came through whether they wanted or not.

With that, bloodlines blurred. Identities collided. Consent wasn’t always part of the equation – we haven’t seen anything compared to them.

Fast forward to the mid-20th century – my grandparents’ time. Their own parents? I’ll not include them because I don’t remember enough about them to do them justice.

My family – both maternal and paternal – comes from southeastern Bulgaria. Where exactly? From which line? It’s fuzzy. Like those ancestry test results I presented to you.

And what about the “Pure Bulgarian origins”? That phrase has more fingerprints than a crime scene. I don’t buy into patriotism for the sake of it.

Self-awareness, though… that’s a different story.

• What does it really mean to define yourself by the land you were born in?

• Wouldn’t it be wiser to understand where you come from rather than defend a flag?

• To ask what you represent, rather than what you’re entitled to feel proud of?

Do I love my family? Of course. But to measure love… that’s a tricky game. If we’re going by actions alone, the scale might lean closer to zero. At least that’s how it looks when I compare “what I do” to “what I believe love should look like.”

If you asked them they’d probably tell you a different story – equally good and bad (or more bad) in their own twist.

So let’s begin with my parents’ parents because, as much as we pretend not to, we inherit more than we know – patterns, wounds, beliefs, very big chunk of it.

I see the way their dynamics echo through my parents’. And as much as everyone tries to deny it, I see it – clear as day.

Coincidence? I doubt it.

◈  The Grandmothers

Both of my grandmothers started doing not the things they wanted, but the ones they were ought to.

One was mainly spending her productive years within the factory life – breathing in chemicals for decades. The other one had chosen different path, in the livestock sector – working in brutal conditions and getting seriously hurt not once, but twice.

They were shaped by rural life. One stayed in her home village, and the other became a “town woman,” but the village part never really left her.

One is loud, blunt, and funny – saying whatever crosses her mind… even if it’s unkind – and sometimes treats others with disrespect. The other? She never stopped working – speaking of this moment too. As if work is the only thread tying her to this world. Viewing it from a poetical standpoint, that is somehow sad and beautiful at the same time.

But both their hearts are wired to family.

They built families. They passed on a lot. They also failed to pass on a lot. (And that mixed shaped the next generation.)

I respect them. Deeply. But I can’t say I understand them. Not fully.

I can grasp why they did what they did, but I still wonder: why not something else?

They don’t speak my language. Not literally, but it feels that way.

When I try to talk to them, they look at me like I’m crazy. Maybe I am. Or maybe it’s the gap between generations, values, and time.

They were women of their era. Their job was to hold the house together and raise the family. That’s what they knew. That’s what they accepted. And that’s what they taught – as to their abilities.

I carry their blood, but I strive for self-awareness, and they never cared for the following. At the same time, I resonate with them in ways that make me proud of what came before – and curious about what comes next.

◈  The Grandfathers

One of my grandfathers worked in the hospitality field. He’s nearly 80 now and still finds ways to stay busy. The other one worked construction (paint, quick lime, etc.) If age hadn’t caught up to him, he’d still be on the scaffold.

I don’t remember ever asking whether they finished high school. But they both understand – know things in their own way.

One of them talks. A lot is what I mean. He’s obsessed with history. He’s mostly always in a mood – at least when I see him. The other? I feel much closer to him. Maybe it’s because I’m named after him – that’s what I’ve been told all my life. I gave him a nickname years ago: The Star. And somehow, it stuck. He is a caricature, both comically and destructively. A dreamer. A decent man. Someone who wants peace at all costs.

They’re both are hilarious in their own ways. One’s got a taste for crude rhymes and inappropriate jokes – I probably got that from him. The other? He’s so naturally funny. He may not know jokes, but he could make you cry from laughter just by being himself – like a mime who doesn’t know what mime is.

But behind the laughs, I see fear. A deep unwillingness to open up. To share. To admit. To take actions. And I recognise that fear. Because I used to carry it too – and to a degree, still do. I don’t know how one can live his whole life and never leave the stage.

Their generation suffered more than ours, no doubt in that. But they don’t talk about it. They never learned how. To speak was weakness. Vulnerability was a shameful thing. Masculinity meant silence – not sure what the second was.

Is it a generational thing? A Balkan-regiod thing? Ancestry DNA? Maybe all.

They didn’t have time for self-reflection. Life didn’t give them that luxury. Words like “therapy” or “self-help” were either foreign or punishable. Seriously.

And yet, what baffles me most is this: they cared deeply about all the things they couldn’t change.

They didn’t express love. They didn’t share emotions. They didn’t talk about what matters. They were taught to endure, not to evolve.

These are destructive models. They look like foundations, but they’re made of dust. When they collapse, no lessons follow. only silence on top of a silent stack of notes.

From them, I learned what not to do. But to learn something means to repeat in your own twist.

This is no excuse. I don’t do it because I shouldn’t, but because I’m doing more to avoid situations where excuses are even needed. (Not saying I’m perfect; old habits are good at sneaking in.)

BOIS and GALS, What About You?

What do your grandparents represent? Do you see yourself in them? What grit did your elders pass down?

Next up, we break down “The Specials.” Not because they’re special – well, maybe a little – but because they made the “special one”.

They’re the reason I’m here – in this exact shape and form. So, they deserve some of the credit… or the blame. (If I end up a mass serial killer…or a trans.)

All jokes aside, where I come from, ladies go first, so let’s begin with my mother.

◈  The Mother

I have one mother – a one-of-a-kind presence in my life. I’m not here to badmouth her; I just want to share honest thoughts. These aren’t so much criticisms as they are observations – of a person, of pain, and of inherited complexity.

My mother has always struck me as delicate and fragile – emotionally reactive, yet profoundly repressed.

In many ways, she is a mirror of myself, only reflected in feminine form.

Remember that first-versus-second-child dynamic I mentioned earlier? In her case, she was the younger sibling, yet her childhood was harsher. (It complicates my theory because we could see that being harder on the first child and soften after that isn’t always the case.)

She’s spent much of her life trying to make sure I never felt deprived – perhaps because she grew up with so little. For a long time, I saw this as her correcting the errors of her own parents. But with time, I’ve learned that simply “fixing” the past – without questioning whether it serves our present – can create new, unexpected voids. (One’s demons are another’s gold… and likewise.)

She carries something unspoken within her and has never quite found the strength to face it. As a child, I mistook her silence for shyness, maybe even humility – which are part of the whole – but now I recognise something deeper. I’ve seen her shift from rage to despair in a single breath. She seldom shows love openly – maybe to spare others from its overwhelming intensity – even though it burns within her like the inside of a furnace. She shoulders immense guilt for things she never deserved and lives beneath expectations no one should ever be asked to meet.

The conversations she never had with her own parents shaped her deeply. Though she was loved, the kind of love she received wasn’t something a child could interpret – and there’s plenty of the opposite. That absence – the gap between need and delivery – was passed down to me too, like an heirloom no one wanted.

Which shows that even though she tried not to fall in the same trap, sometimes you become what you’re running from; therefore, don’t run.

She was never taught to be kind to herself. And when you don’t learn that, it’s hard to be gentle with others. She calls herself a “masculine woman,” but all I see is a good heart – one that’s suffered too long. Still, she worked relentlessly, stayed in jobs she hated just to support her family, and rarely asked for anything – and if she did, she desrved it.

Her smile, I now understand, was often a shield forged to get her through the pain. I’ve become who I am, both because of her inability to express herself and because of the fact that she always showed up. Even when we disagreed, she stood by me. No questions asked – well, she had her questions, but you get the idea.

Of course, she’s human. She’s made mistakes. But what defines her is her relentless kindness. She gives and gives, prioritising others long before herself. There have been moments when she hurt me – unknowingly or not – but they’re eclipsed by the care she’s poured into this family. Still, sometimes her kindness, untethered by boundaries, edges into naïveté. Certain challenges could’ve been avoided had she simply chosen change.

I’ve noticed how she avoids decisions. There’s always a reason why the moment isn’t right, always an explanation. It’s something I’ve inherited – a form of quiet resistance masked as caution. She forgets things until there’s no choice but to remember them – a form of coping mechanism carved from survival.

But some things never change, unless… we decide to change them.

It’s a miracle that she’s still here. When my parents were in their early twenties, they survived a horrific car accident. She suffered a hematoma—one that grows with time—punctured lung, broken ribs, a state of coma, several months spent in the hospital, and another year of painful recovery at home.

Doctors told her not to get pregnant for at least two years. She got pregnant with me less than one year later.

That risk nearly killed her. Yet here I am.

Despite the scars – some visible, others quietly stitched beneath her skin – she birthed two children who seem perfectly normal – though maybe we’re not or at least not entirely. (I don’t blame you, Mom.)

I’ve inherited so much from her. Some of it, I’ve spent my life trying to unlearn. But the gifts she’s given me – strength, compassion, sacrifice – outweigh everything else. I’ve come to frame it like this: I must treasure the blessings and battle the demons I both inherited and created.

Whether you’re reading this or not, Mom – I love you. Very, very, very… very much.

DABOIS, what’s your mom’s flame, and what’s it lit in you?

◈  The Father

Now – the man, the myth, the legend.

He is the most silent yet vociferous presence I’ve ever known – a man whose predictability hides in his rebellion, whose distance feels like a wall, and whose pride is both monument and minefield.

If you follow the blog, you’ve likely seen his image the most. He’s always offering advice, commentary – something I genuinly appreciate. (Nothing in life should be forced, that’s a must.)

There’s something deeply singular about him. Not because he presents himself as exceptional, but because he genuinely is a profoundly complex man. I’ve often wondered what it would feel like to walk in his shoes, to see the world through his eyes. But even now, that remains a mystery. For years, I craved his recognition, longed to understand him, even hoped to change him. But desires like those flow down the drain fast – you just have to press the faucet (and I hesitated for years).

He is, without exaggeration, one of the most pedantic people I’ve met – brilliant, precise, visionary, especially in his work and when he creates art. But that brilliance feels paradoxical. For a man capable of immense growth in his craft, his personal development seems curiously stunted – at least the way I see it.

He follows in his father’s footsteps, surpassing him in many ways, yet he lacks the courage to carve his own path. There’s a quiet fear of failure and a distaste for excess that cages him – and I, too, carry that cage alongside me.

He’s the person who’s hurt me most, second only to myself.

Parents are superheroes, until one day you realise they’re just people in capes they didn’t choose.

And fathers… fathers are a story all their own.

This isn’t a criticism of mothers – whose love might be the strongest of all. But a father’s love often hides behind duty, ego, and the silent burden of provision.

I’ve learned more from him than I ever expected – even if it took years for those lessons to be separated from the pain they were wrapped in.

He teaches in his own raw, unfiltered language – a language only he speaks. That kind of love will be misread, especially by a child. Sometimes it’s violence. Sometimes, silence. And sometimes, just absence. His pride leads him rather to have nothing than betray his principles, no matter how flawed they may be.

He sees the world in black and white. But most things aren’t. He was the architect of my self-awareness – but he built it with rules, with commands, with ultimatums. I rebelled against it for years, angry that the love I wanted came in the shape of instruction.

I later saw the irony: he criticised in me the very traits he lived by – just cloaked in rationalisations only he could believe.

He grew up too fast. His own father, “The Star,” was a man of absence – no advice, no affection. So my dad had to become a man without a guide. And when it came time to be a father himself, he tried to fill that role the only way he knew: by doing the opposite.

But the opposite still lives in the same shadow. We talk – sometimes too much – about things he never spoke to his dad about. That alone is progress, and for such conversations, I credit both him and my mother. (Better late than never.)

He was physical sometimes. Another lesson I’ve had to replay, rewire. He worked hard – always more out of duty than joy. I don’t think he liked his job, but he did what he had to do.

Fun was frivolous. Emotion was dangerous. Complaining was a weakness.

His idea of love was provision. And yet, he was never satisfied.

Me? I just wanted a conversation while avoiding it. It’s very possible that what happened happened at the right time, so I carry no burdens there. However, even nowadays, I still get answers to my questions in the form of riddles.

He tries, but he’s fed up with life. I get this. And it’s good to let off the pedal. The problem is that if you ride that wave long enough, it gets harder and harder to get back on your feet.

He made an effort, though it was built on shaky ground. He was there beside me on my basketball journey, we played games on the PS and so on. He also became more emotional with age – but the steel at his core remains.

I understand no one gave him the tools and no one helped him build differently – but at some point, a man must own his blueprint.

I still carry his voice in my head. Sometimes it tells me I’m not doing enough. Other times, it tells me to push harder. And occasionally, it whispers that I might end up just like him. That used to scare me. Now, I see the value in hearing it – even if I choose a different path.

I left. I came back. And I chose to stay. I’m still searching for my path. But it takes a tough nut to recognise another.

And so I remain. Fueled by my tireless hope. I refuse to give up.

I’ll end this by saying: he’s awesome.

In his own way. Even if sometimes it feels like that “love” is a vice-grip around your neck. I’m the only one in our family who’s found a defence against it – and it’s not armour. It’s forgiveness. The real kind.

I doubt he’ll read this – he finds my writing too strange anyway… but still:

I love you, Dad. I always will – even when I can’t find the right ways to express it...

BOIS and GALS, what’s your dad’s pride – and what has it planted in you?

◈ The Summary

This is the life that came before me – a mosaic of individuals doing what they could with the scraps they had.

Most of them barely knew how to love themselves, let alone anyone else. They lived at the mercy of poverty, propaganda, and relentless pressure. Some clung to faith, others to their labour. Many believed in nothing more than the quiet, daily struggle to survive.

And then – I arrived.

Born into a country still grappling with its identity. Born into a family that never quite managed to be one. Burdened with awareness. Cursed – and blessed – with an insatiable hunger for connection.

I stepped into a world full of unasked questions. Too many, really. At some point, I had no choice but to start asking. And with that, I began searching for what truly matters.

These words, this story, this truth… they are mine.

I try to use every lesson I’ve inherited, every insight I’ve uncovered, to forge something better. Whether I do that as often or as fully as I wish – that’s another matter.

But what about the darker threads? The envy. The hypocrisy. The dishonesty. The secrets. The spite.

These forces cling to the edges of almost every life I’ve encountered. I try to steer clear of them – but they’re always there.

Watching. Waiting. Whispers in the background of even the most well-intentioned moments.

It’s funny because even the worst among us hide unspoken virtues. Every soul carries something of value, if only we learn to look deeper. If we dare to ask why people act the way they do, whether out of raw emotion, sharp logic, or the wild unpredictability of human nature.

I want to end this first section with a simple truth: Good and evil are both necessary. (This world spins in delicate balance.)

The important thing is to know what we want – and what we’re willing to sacrifice to get there. That clarity matters. Because without it, the goals we chase may never be ours – or worse, they may not be worth reaching.

There are other versions of reality, too. Just as valid.

No matter where you fall on the spectrum – I’m not here to push you. I’m here to remind you that you get to choose. The power, for better or worse, lies within you.

How’s that for a start, my fellows?

There are so many questions left to ask – so many worth sitting with before we go any further.

So pause, if you must. But don’t ever shut off your curiosity.

It’s the only compass we’ve got.

Now, if you’re ready, let’s get to that very famous day when another Virgo was born under the stars.

Life With Me

Ivaniel burst forth on that now distant twenty-first day of the ninth month of the two-thousandth year.

That day marked the arrival of a boy who would bring with him joy – and chaos. Ivaniel, named after his grandfather Ivan, with an “-iel” stitched on like a shiny logo on an already luxurious bag.

Those who follow the blog already know me – know this voice, this strange cocktail of charm, thinking, chaos, and the struggles, creating a perfect mixture.

Today, I’m going further back. Let’s rewind to the beginning – to the parts I usually keep under the hood. You gotta hook the new readers somehow – and maybe surprise the ones who think they’ve seen it all.

Since I was a kid, I’ve been making things up. Constantly.

My earliest memories go back to kindergarten, where I’d convince other kids to do things I was too cautious to try myself – then stand by while the teachers scolded them. I did worse, of course, but always found someone else to blame. Even in card games, I’d find the perfect moment to tip the odds in my favour. And for some reason, I thought people were so stupid that they don’t see things.

I remember stealing Yu-Gi-Oh cards, hiding them in places I eventually forgot – just in case I needed to lie later. All sorts of stuff. Once, I took an MP3 player. I returned it – not out of guilt, but because it stopped working. (Perhaps I fucked it up.)

Looking back, I think I just wanted to feel significant. To be the centre of the room. To have eyes on me. The lies piled up fast, and the roles I played blurred with reality. At some point, I wasn’t sure where the real me stopped, and the act began.

For so long, I thought I had “invincible” status – but that was an image in my head that had nothing to do with reality.

By the end of elementary school, a version of me had already been carved out by whispers. And like all public perceptions, it was both true and exaggerated. This isn’t an excuse – it’s a reflection. No one ever knows someone else a 100%.

I started taking money from home. Small amounts at first. I found my way. My grandparents’ savings, too. Eventually, I got caught. But I always had an excuse and was always lectured – it took so much time to see things the way they are.

I was presenting myself as someone else – someone good, someone disciplined, someone “raised right.” Behind that mask was a devil I had either welcomed or let slowly crawl in – which is exactly the same thing.

I had to be a good student, stay off the class-meeting shitlist, eat all my vegetables – even the ones that made me gag. I came home with notebooks full of excellent grades, and yet – I still sucked in my father’s eyes. Why? I don’t know. Maybe there were too many reasons. Or maybe none that made sense.

When I misbehaved, I sat slumped on the armchair – until the punishment evolved: standing still in the corner (sometimes while everyone else ate dinner). I was sentenced to write the same word page after page, until that word was etched into my brain. And the beatings? Let’s just say they came in many forms.

Did I deserve it? I’m not sure. If I have to be honest, probably not. But I wasn’t innocent either. Everyone has their methods. And I wasn’t the easiest kid to raise. So I don’t blame anyone. It is what it is.

My mom, on the other hand, always kept a “sacred hope for me”. Something that is not met even today – I’m not sure if it will ever be. Most often, it is impossible to fit into someone else’s vision of who you are.

I kept growing. And so did my parents. They passed down what little they had in the only way they knew how. Most of it wasn’t helpful – at least not in the way it was delivered. As I said earlier, it took years to decode the past. To understand what and why a certain thing happened.

I saw things I couldn’t name back then:

• Hypocrisy with a more humane label.
• Love that felt more like an obligation.
• Hope built not from bricks, but straws.
• People dependent on money, which always slipped through their fingers.

And there I was: doing the same and asking for more than I needed; asking for what I couldn’t give myself.

I’ve often wondered what life would’ve been like if I’d been raised differently. By people who were actually ready to raise someone. My dad was 30 when I started school. My mom was 28. Now that I’m near that age, I can barely take care of myself – let alone build a whole new person from scratch.

Maybe that’s the realisation: I don’t want to raise something just to punish it for my own incompleteness. It may sound like an excuse, but to me, it’s a belief.

But what does it even mean to be “ready”? Often, I catch myself going against what I said “yesterday”.

That’s some 21st-century talk. Nobody’s born knowing how to swim – you learn once you’re in the water.

What does matter is the will.

The choice. The conscious act of doing something not because it’s “right,” but because you want to.

I always come to the conclusion that whatever you do, you’ll still make more mistakes than you’d think – or maybe I’m wrong…what do you think?

Then, in 2006, my sister came into the world. And things got more complicated.

My parents worked more to provide more. And with more work came more stress. That stress didn’t stay at work. It came home and multiplied. Family tensions rippled through our walls, bouncing off me and eventually landing on her. And let’s be real – girls usually get the short end of the stick.

My mom tells me that I tried to protect my sister when she was just a baby. I barely remember it, but I do recall being fascinated by the little creature.

I also remember, shamefully, that when my mom was pregnant, I once punched her in the stomach. I was five. I don’t remember how hard. But even if it wasn’t so hard, that’s inexcusable. (In The Day I Showed My Ugly Self, I explained how patterns show the arch.)

There’s another moment that stands out: I was holding my sister by her hands, and she was hanging – I think she was six months old (at most). My mother saw us through the glass and immediately panicked. She walked furiously and came in shouting, hitting me a couple of times eventually. And I’m not telling you this for sympathy. I’m telling you because it happened and it’s part of who I am. (And I do know that my mom regretted it later.)

But the truth is, I wasn’t kind to my sister as we grew up. She annoyed me. Challenged me. Because she didn’t do as I wished. And though I never hit her, I pulled her hair, threw her on the bed like we were auditioning for the WWE. She even recorded some of those moments because Mom didn’t believe I was capable of such things. (Now, whether that was somehow orchestrated by her to have me on tape, I can’t remember, and it doesn’t matter because there were times when I did it before… and children do things lots of things they don’t know why; and there’s always a reason behind it.)

It’s complicated. The cycle continued. What I feared in my grandparents and parents became real between us. Like an alcoholic swearing off the bottle – yet still reaching for it.

Nowadays, we understand each other. We may not speak too often, but that’s not a bad thing – as everyone else states the opposite. There is love between us, and there is understanding, but people need to be aware of themselves so that the mentioned can grow.

And as much as I tried to give her some advice, she has her own way of conducting life – and I’ve got to respect that. If she ever wants something, needs help – whatever it may be – I’ll be here.

I don’t know if she’ll read this. But if she does – sis, I love you. (And yeah, I should probably say that more often. In person.)

• What about you guys?
• Anything like that with your siblings?
• How did it shape the way you love – or protect – each other?

In my personal life? Complete chaos.

I lied to friends. Lied to girls. Built illusions I couldn’t sustain. Stories stacked so high I couldn’t keep track.

And weirdly, some people related. Maybe they found comfort in the mess and my stories that were out of this world. Maybe it was just entertainment.

I couldn’t tell. I was too young. And now, I’m too old to pretend I ever understood what they wanted.

As a teenager, things slowly got clearer. At first, people were curious about me. Then they grew. Learned. Pulled away – unless I had something to offer. Something free and useful – then it didn’t matter how harmful I was.

I rejected the girls who liked me – chased the ones who didn’t. I stayed around people with whom I never really shared something meaningful, not all of course.

And for me, that attention meant everything – it meant I was noticed.

I gained some people’s trust, but I always lost it eventually.

I knew I was doing wrong. I just… didn’t care.

I thought life owed me success, no matter what I did.

Like I was destined for greatness.

And what a joke that turned out to be.

Because life doesn’t work that way – unless you’re willing to be greedy and cold and cutthroat enough to destroy people without flinching.

Funny thing is – despite all that – I didn’t touch hard drugs or nicotine until I was 20.

But alcohol and weed? Different story.

My 1st cousin introduced me to “Mary-Jane” in 2016 – that’s 9 years now (on and off).

It was my soft cushion between me and life’s unbearable vagueness. My smoke screen. My lullaby. The last time I smoked was with Roy on NYE.

And then the notorious C₂H₆O.

In Bulgaria, drinking isn’t just normal – it’s expected. The one who doesn’t drink is weak. Natives describe it as some kind of sickness – hell, even the gayest gays here drink like soldiers on the frontline.

I didn’t stand a chance.

My first blackout: fourteen. Lost an entire night.

Since then? I’ve had… what, thirty more? I stopped counting when I realised blacking out wasn’t something to brag about.

The last one? You’ve read it before. Late 2024. I drove. I don’t remember how. Or where. But I was behind the wheel. That’s the only part that isn’t a mystery.

I’ve woken up in places I didn’t recognise. Next to people I didn’t know – thankfully, never a man.

When you’re that drunk, all that matters is that you woke up still breathing – and haven’t killed anyone.

It’s easier to let go of people you don’t even remember meeting.
No names. No stories. No introduction. No goodbye. Just… meaningless life.

Everything else? Who cares? I cured the worst hangovers with more alcohol.

Of course, at some point, I started asking questions – my conscience wasn’t dead after all.

There were mornings I woke up covered in blood. (Miraculously, none of it mine.)

I played detective in my own life, piecing the puzzle together through others.

Never got the full picture – not once.

Then, when I became 20, I tried the heavier stuff: Coke. Amphetamines. MDMA. Acid.

Didn’t get hooked. Didn’t have bad trips – well, there was one. But if anything, drugs gave me clarity. Gave me visions. Profound insights. A new way to look at everything that I’ve been through and a different look at what life really is.

I’m not encouraging anyone to try them – I’m just saying they helped me.

What saved me, maybe, is that I waited. I built a foundation before drugs ever entered my life. So when they came, I had something real to compare them to – a baseline of me.

Then there was the porn. I read somewhere how Billie Eilish explained the damage from that kind of content and how it wired her – I’m here to say “approved”.

Been watching since I was like 10. I’ve got memories – second grade, maybe third – of us boys, jerking off together. (Then a couple more times in summer camps.)

It took years to understand how to act normally. Nowadays, that same cowboy figured out how to aim and when to shoot – but life always brings surprises… so you never really know.

And just as I thought I understood things, it turned out I didn’t.

I thought I was the smartest guy in the room – and maybe sometimes I was, but I didn’t know how to properly use what I had.

My ego floated above the clouds. I was a real-life cartoon – running way past the edge of the cliff (just air and the following inevitable fall).

Another escape hatch was video games.

That was a world full of possibilities where I could matter – if I was good enough.

No lies there. Just skill. And I had some.

But after thousands of hours, I realised: it wasn’t where I belonged.

Then came the smartphones – and the ultra-advanced, ultra-predatory, soul-sucking social media platforms.

I still don’t think the virtual world is for me, but something about it keeps pulling me back.

Right now? I’m losing that tug-of-war.

As for romantic relationships, I’ve never had a real one.

A few flings, sure. But none of them lasted more than a week.

And even those? Emotionally barren. Established on a vague deal.

 Most importantly: Boring, dry… and sexless.

I’ve blamed my parents for everything.

When not them, then my grandparents, who just watched and did nothing but praise their “smart” grandchild and secretly hope for “their” best, sometimes not so secretly.

Because deep down, I know: the things I’ve done – and the things I’ve failed to do– those are on me.

But how’s a guy, raised on excuses, supposed to understand that?

How does someone who always believed the world was against him suddenly accept accountability?

This paragraph’s already longer than it should be.

And I could keep going, but I think this paints the picture.

You can see who I am now. Where I come from. And who made me.

You may not understand my story fully, nor do you have to, but I hope you can see yourself within my truth… and that’s the 2nd of the two goals I set for myself today.

DABOIS, it’s your turn.

Jump in the comments. Tell me your story. Tell me what mine made you feel.

There’s nothing more powerful than saying something real – and hearing someone else say, “Me too.”

Life Now

I owe much of who I am to the people who raised me, but that doesn’t mean I’m running from who I’ve become.

A few blogs back, I talked about DNA, identity, and how much of us is truly self-made – and how much is simply chosen for us.

I never found a clear answer. I still haven’t, but the road is long ahead.

The truth is, I’ve often played the bad character – the so-called villain. Maybe I always have, no matter how hard I try not to. Because even after some good experiences, you can still end up in the wrong role.

I never wanted to be the guy people whisper about, point fingers at, or look sideways when I pass by – but deep down, I know that’s who I am, and I worked very hard for it. It was who I always was. And a part of that was baked into the people who made me. Who raised me. Or failed to.

It’s a team effort – and anyone who refuses to hear that is playing their part in society’s downfall.

I really believe this: the devil is the true face of man – or at least the bigger part.

Over time, we build belief systems, survival tactics, and habits. Then, if we’re lucky, the “good” in us stirs – and the battle begins.

But it’s not a 90-minute football match. Not a 12-round boxing fight. It’s a war that lasts your whole life.

It’s the same with addiction. There’s no such thing as a cured addict.

It’s you versus what destroys you – until your last breath.

The people who raised me don’t understand this. Or maybe they do, but it’s easier to go with the flow. To pretend they’ve rejected the devil while still keeping him close. They chase happiness – and sure, maybe they catch moments of it – but that kind of happiness always seemed cheap to me.

Doing nothing and hoping for the best – that’s the deadliest of all philosophies.

So I grew up. My family changed – but not so much. (Or maybe I’m just too pessimistic when it comes to “change”.)

Honestly, no one changed in any real or positive way. Everyone’s still spiralling – and I say that with regret. I keep waiting for someone to flip the picture and prove me wrong. But I don’t see how that’s going to happen. (I may be wrong.)

And me? What have I done? Did I change for the better?

Not drastically, but I’ve removed a few small things that used to tip the cart over. I took something from each of them – some gave more, others gave almost nothing. Now, I try not to repeat their mistakes. I try to move forward, head high.

I’m rebuilding my brain from the ground up:

• focused work
• deep rest
• quality sleep
• regular movement
• mindfulness
• honesty
• visualization

It takes effort. You have to choose everything in your life. You have to seek a connection. That’s the only way to build new internal models of trust, safety, and love – especially if yours were broken or never built in the first place.

Whether it’s friendship, intimacy, or anything else, relationships are like fire.

They all have an origin. And if left unchecked, they can burn everything down.

How far I’ll go – I don’t know, but time will tell for sure.

But all these years have trained me to spot details. I catch the so-called “red flags” fast. That’s a blessing and a curse. Because while I want to give people a fair shot, I also see where things are heading way too quickly. And I can’t keep wasting my time where I won’t be valued. I know that kind of vigilance isolates me.

However, I believe I’ll find my people, my community, my special person.

• Alright, BOIS and GALS – what about you?
• What’s life like for you right now?
• What problems are you facing daily?
• And which ones have you been putting off?

Family Is a Two-Edged Sword

I’m not my 23andMe results. I’m not just the flaws of my family. But they are an inevitable part of me.

I said it before, I’ll say it again: no matter what you do, you’ll get hurt.

If you love unconditionally, you’ll suffer often.

If you pull away, maybe you won’t suffer as frequently, but you’ll still squeal with regret in quiet moments.

The balance? It’s in learning to stand on the tip of the blade… and not move.

But how long can anyone stay there? That’s what family is.

No matter how good your balance, eventually, you’ll tilt. You’ll fall. You’ll lose.

And when you do, only a few questions remain:

• How quickly can you get back up?
• And more importantly… what comes next?
• How do you keep living among people who don’t understand you – and maybe, people you’ve failed to understand?

I want to borrow a few words from a Linkin Park track I’ve loved for years – “Faint”:

I am a little bit of loneliness, a little bit of disregard
Handful of complaints, but I can’t help the fact that everyone can see these scars
I am what I want you to want, what I want you to feel
But it’s like, no matter what I do, I can’t convince you to just believe this is real
So I let go, watching you turn your back like you always do
Face away and pretend that I’m not
But I’ll be here—’cause you’re all that I got.
I can’t feel the way I did before
Don’t turn your back on me—I won’t be ignored
Time won’t heal this damage anymore
Don’t turn your back on me—I won’t be ignored.

These lyrics hit close. Maybe not for everyone – but they hit me.

Maybe I’m wrong. But that doesn’t make me completely wrong, does it?

Because the hardest battles are the ones fought in silence.

You don’t know when they started. You don’t know when – or if – they’ll end.

There may never be people who care for you the way your family does, but that doesn’t mean you’ll ever get along with them.

It’s all a matter of perspective.

And if one thing’s clear, it’s this: people rarely share the same one.

But here’s a line I stand by:

Blood doesn’t turn into water. (Cliché? Sure. But clichés survive for a reason.)

People know how to hurt each other far more than they know how to love, understand, or respect – truly.

Masks aren’t just for the outside world anymore – they’re mandatory. (Even with those closest to you.)

And if this is what the inner circle looks like… What can we expect from the rest?

Now, as tradition goes, it’s time to close this one out.

I’ve written many poems about family, but I won’t cheat my style.

Here’s an original piece – to bring it all together:

Gift / Curse

A mix of countless atoms — for millennia colliding,
beneath eternal skies — they breathe, they twist, they drift.
What is love — a word, a touch, a kiss… or flame igniting?
Perhaps a sinful joy that turns regret into a gift.

Creature pure, divine — untouched by doubt and shame,
before it learns to walk, to talk, to dream, to feel.
Like those before — alike, but never ever quite the same,
with hearts pierced by sins… innocence unreal.

The ones who always ask — they too must share the blame,
no less than those who choose to shut their ears.
All of us can love, can change — no soul too dark to tame,
yet rot grows in trees, and fruits are fed by fears.

The old proclaim: “We gave our hands… it was all for you!”
They fed the mouths, then claimed the right to preach.
“Respect” — a “Made in China” word: believable, yet poor;
God may be almighty… but the Devil’s twice as rich.

The youth — that storm too wild to predict —
How do you guide what never seeks a guide?
They live in dreams, their “truth” is bound to shift;
Even hope, unchecked, may drown in pride.

Yes, family is sacred — be it love or bitter debt —
The only nest with joy and sorrow… a place to softly fall.
But family can haunt — a silent, deadly silhouette;
Stabs with care… but even small wounds can take it all.

As I said in the beginning, this one would be long – and what a piece it became.

Even though I’ve said a lot, there’s so much left unsaid.

I had some more borrowed phrases prepared, but this blog doesn’t need more references. The messages are there, as always, hidden between the lines.

Maybe you’ll have to read it again.

Not to understand my story – because even with all the details, you probably won’t.

You should because there is a piece of you that struggled and suffered… and probably still does – no matter if it’s more or less (and it’s very important to rewire the connections).

I used to hate more than I loved.

Now, I don’t hate. And I try to love.

It wasn’t easy before. It still isn’t now.

I don’t believe “easy” exists. So I keep going, whether it gets harder or not.

Happy birthday to me.

Wishing myself – and all of you – peace and reason before happiness and all other things.

Growth before glory is important too.

Same thing with maturity over nostalgia.

Let’s take more risks and waste less time – though even wasted time teaches (if you’re paying attention).

And may the best still be yet to come.

Ivo’s truth – unbound, unbent and free to be told, exactly as I felt it.

Break the cycles if they destroy you.

Love the rest – even if it’s a mess.

I’m here. 25. Still swinging. A quarter-century isn’t a little thing – it used to be a full life, not so long ago.

Thanks for joining this therapy session.

Your time is felt and deeply appreciated.

Your boy,
Ivaniel “DA BRDEI BOI WHO’S STRGLNG BUT WON’T TAP OUT” Georgiev