Ou mon blogue a failli disparaitre!

On appellera pas ça un retour là. Mais l’envie m’a pris de passer par ici hier soir, pour vous raconter une histoire ou deux. En arrivant, rien. RIEN!! Panique passagère et puis je me suis rendu compte que le serveur sur lequel il se trouvait a été décomissionné. Bon, j’avais un backup, mais pas super à date, alors il y a quelques pertes, mais rien de dramatique.

J’ai tout transféré ailleurs et je vais sans doute gosser ici dans les jours qui viennent, alors je m’excuse d’avance aux abonnés RSS si de vieux billets vous popent dans la face.

Autrement vous autres, ça va?

 

The convergence of random variables

Back… Almost. And it’s not because I’m still over there. I’m somewhere in between, somewhere I’ve been that is pulling me in, still. Wrote for days on end. Nothing that I would put here nor there, but wrote nonetheless, as if to prove. As if to remember the sleepless nights when I could not even help it, could not contain it. For now all I can do is dig, reach, pull and hope that what appears on the page holds some kind of meaning. And yet, commandeering any and all of my intents is the need to express, to convey, to tell. How is the answer, if there was a question.

I had this great big thought while in Sauve. Thoughts I should say. I will write. But I need my own space. So I just got a desk and a chair from the classifieds and I’m turning my room around tomorrow. This will be, quite literally (yes, I’ve read the book, and yes, I know it’s not only about the title), a room of my own.

And then while I'm away, I'll write home (almost) everyday

Je décolle demain soir. YUL-CDG. Je décolle demain soir, moi, seule, mes valises, mon laptop, la clé d’un appart dans le 15è au fond de mon sac.

Au sol resteront mes angoisses, mes peurs, mes troubles de comportement, mes troubles troublants.

D’un voyage à l’autre j’apprends à ne pas accoler de symboles à ces départs, à ces endroits où je rêve de me retrouver, en petite extase.

L’épiphanie ne viendra pas. Le bouquin ne s’écrira pas. Ma vie n’aura pas plus de sens après ces expériences. D’ailleurs, pourquoi voyager si tout ce qui me rend vraiment heureuse se trouve ici? Que trouverai-je de si significatif, de si différent ailleurs?

Et puis merde avec la philosophie à cinq cennes! C’est quand même la France là, c’est pas Buffalo!

Je n’écris plus beaucoup depuis quelques semaines. Mais quand je le fais, c’est surtout sur 365 jours. Pour des nouvelles de Swan à Paris, je vous invite à m’y rejoindre. Mais pour les états d’âmes de Swan à Paris ce sera ici, et il risque d’y en avoir plus d’un…

7 jours

Je suis dans une bulle. Une bulle remplie de moi, juste moi et mes angoisses. Plus je suis stressée, plus je me retire, m’isole. Je suis de très mauvaise compagnie. Irritable. Égocentrée. Électrique, prête à sauter d’une seconde à l’autre.

Je m’excuse par la bande à vous mes amis. Je vous néglige. Je suis désolée. La bulle est très serrée. Et l’air pas particulièrement agréable à respirer.

Je penserai à vous là-bas. Vous écrirai, vous enverrai des cartes postales. Je penserai à vous. Là-bas.

Mais pas ici, pas maintenant.

Full disclosure (ou presque)

Il y a de ces moments où je me dis, “Oh my, j’ai vraiment envie de partager ces moments avec un gars cool”. Et dans ces moments-là, la solitude que j’ai choisie m’écoeure un peu. Depuis plus d’un an que je suis célibataire, et deux fois j’ai ouvert un profil sur “le” site de rencontre, et deux fois je l’ai fermé une couple de jours plus tard.

Rien à faire. Je n’y arrive pas. Figurer dans un catalogue me répugne autant que de le consulter. Mais il n’y a pas que ça.

À la veille d’une rencontre possible je me suis mis à douter de moi, de mon apparence, de mes capacités à plaire, à intéresser… Juste ce sentiment-là aurait suffi. Mais avant de fermer mon compte pour la dernière fois, je me suis questionnée sur mes désirs véritables. De quoi ai-je envie? Qu’est-ce que je recherche vraiment? Et puis finalement j’en suis venue à la conclusion que dans le fond, quand je m’inscrit, c’est pour me gonfler un peu l’égo, mais qu’au final, j’ai pas vraiment envie d’avoir un chum.

Je ne ressens pas de vide dans ma vie. Je n’ai pas cette urgence d’être deux, de partager. C’est plutôt le contraire. Le besoin d’être seule est encore le plus fort de tous. Mon amie me dit “Cool! Même si c’est juste pour le cul, profites-en!”. Mais je ne pourrais pas. Du cul pour du cul? Nope. No interest whatsoever. C’est pas un corps qui m’allume, c’est une tête. Et le catalogue que j’ai consulté en semble particulièrement pauvre. Et toute cette catégorisation, ces préférences, ces exigences, ces idées préconçues de ce que devrait être une relation me donne la nausée. Si c’est ça, fuck it.

J’ai quarante et un an. À ce jour j’aurai vécu plus de la moitié de ma vie à deux. Peut-être aurai-je cette envie à nouveau au cours des trente, quarantes années qui me reste à vivre. Sans aucun doute. Mais forcer le destin pour un moment de solitude un peu triste, ça, je n’y crois pas.

With a little effort

With a little effort, I think I could even see poetry in things like I used to.

J’avais des rêves, ce que je ne m’étais pas permis pendant des années. Pour finalement les voir étouffés, écrasés, effacés, oubliés.

Cachés

Dreams and poetry. Pour adoucir les aspérités, éclairer les noirceurs de mon esprit.

Like a tall glass of cool water on a sad day.

 

[not really] sorry

(I feel like I should be apologizing but at the same time I don’t want to)

I’m sorry, but not really you know? Sorry to have put this up here, but here is mine after all.

Fak, anyway. Je me sens tellement bien aujourd’hui. Pour une vraie fois. Comme si j’avais gardé un sac à vidanges plein dans la maison pendant trop longtemps et que je me décidais enfin à le mettre au chemin. I really enjoyed the click at the end of the call.

I feel fantastic! L’appart avance, et dans moins de six semaines je serai sur un avion en direction de Paris. What exactly am I complaining about? :)

Lots of fucks and no more to give

Yeah, we all need someone we can bleed on
Yeah, and if you want it, baby, well you can bleed on me
Yeah, we all need someone we can bleed on
Yeah, yeah, and if you want it, baby, why don’cha bleed on me
All over

ALL OVER

ALL OVER

Come on. Try me. Fuckhead. (A person of shitty intelligence and/or judgment)

Fuck you and your silences. Fuck you and stupid and jealous girlfriend. Fuck you and your infinite interest in yourself.

But mostly, fuck me and my stupid hope that there is good in everyone. That within your heart lies empathy. Understanding. Sensibility. Friendship.

FEARLESSNESS.

Isn’t there anyone, ANYONE, who is not afraid of me? Please tell me, I’d love to know. I won’t change I know that much. But surely to know would make things easier no? I don’t know. I just know this fact, this thing. I scare. I’m sorry. No I’m not. I’m mostly sorry for knowing but not being able to not do it. And yet, I can be so nice, so sweet… If you only knew.

But I will never show you as long as you’re being such an asshole.

And that goes for everyone that has let me down. I will remember you. I’ m done with forgiving. Understanding. Being sensible.

This is a shitty post I know. I’m sorry to all the nice people/friends that come across it. But if the shoe fits, put it on and run the fuck out of here. I’m done with you*.

*Just to make sure, I’ll let you know in person too. Because that’s what I do/am.

 

Carl Jung has got something on me

This one had this theory that I was insane. That I was defective. That something in my head did not work properly. And because of that I was driving him insane. My reaction whenever he brought it up ranged from indifference to anger, sometimes dancing on uncertainty when I was feeling more vulnerable. Indifference when I though he was just trying to get to me, anger when he was clearly trying to hurt me. Because serioulsy, you want to hurt me, go for my brain, it’s a sure shot.

This other one felt intimidated to the point of exploding rages and long rants about how I played with his head, about how I was placating him with words to confuse and belittle him and how I was a calculating heartless cunt. You can add that to the list. Brain, heart. I’m down for the count.

That one never uttered the words, but I know the signs now. I’ll fade away before anything comes out of his mouth. Some might call it retreat. I call it survival.

*****************

I have always felt different in my head. All my life, from my fist memories, I always new my difference was not only in my personality, but that it went much further. It can be a heavy burden. There are times I feel trapped, I feel like a prisoner of my thoughts. But of course I can’t help thinking the way I do. I considered therapy often (when it was not heavily suggested to me by one of the hims), but each time I tried, I felt like it was such a fucking waste of time I never went further than one session on a few occasions. I know this will sound incredibly pretentious, but fuck it, I’ll say it. I never felt they would understand me. The feeling I got after that one hour shitchat was one of extreme loneliness and isolation.

*****************
Something strange and extraordinary happened the other day. Through an exchange on my friend Dave’s Facebook wall about introverts and extroverts, a friend suggested we did a little personality test. I KNOW. SHUT UP for a minute ok? Listen. I know it sounds stupid, futile, childish, I don’t care. Because for the very first time in my life, I found something, some kind of explanation that made sense. I did the test and was amused by the results. So I read a little further about what they meant. And this is what happened, this is what I learned:

INTPs are one of the rarest of personality types, only accounting for about 3–5% of the population.

And this, this is what gave me the greatest shock, for I never understood this about myself, but only felt the consequences of the mechanics of my brain:

INTPs are driven to understand a discussion from all relevant angles. Their impatience with seemingly indefensible ideas can make them particularly devastating at debate. When INTPs feel insulted, they may respond with sudden, cutting criticism. After such an incident, INTPs are likely to be as bewildered as the recipient. They have broken the rules of debate and exposed their raw emotions. To INTPs, this is the crux of the problem: improperly handled emotions, INTPs believe, can only harm. While INTPs experience emotions as an important part of their internal lives, and sometimes share their emotions with others, INTPs nevertheless believe that emotions must not play a role in logical discussions, or be expressed in a way that would put themselves at disadvantage.

I’m not saying that a 10 minute personality test and a wiki page changed my life. But somehow, since that night, I’ve felt a freedom in my thought process, like a weight was lifted, of maybe more accurately a veil of some kind. If that test was wrong so be it. I can live with that. The only thing that matters really, is that I can now articulate, in thought, my reactions and interactions. I understand where it comes from. I’ll never be anything else than what I am. It might not validate everything about me, but it sure helps.

The just because flowers

Something happened today. A girl at the office got flowers delivered to her from her boyfriend. It wasn’t her birthday. It was just because. It got to me in a way I can’t explain. I’ve seen it happen many times before. It never left a dent. Maybe it’s my hormones, maybe it’s the accumulated stress of moving. Maybe I was just ripe for that kind of reaction. In any case, when I saw her face, and when I saw her mouth, her lips move to say “No, no birthday, no celebration. Just because.” I smiled, I moved on, I sat down. I felt a prodding, a push. And I let it in. Twenty five years, two relationships and I received flowers once. Never got breakfast in bed, no surprise parties, no romantic weekends, no candlelit dinners, nothing ever just because. I remember the two times I was taken to a restaurant where the bill came over a hundred dollars. It started out as “Oh, he’s not the romantic type” and ended as “Oh, I’m not the romantic type. I don’t like flowers. They’re expensive, they stink then they die.” And it’s true (that they die). Another constant absentee was compliments. “You’re beautiful” while wearing sex shop rags and high heels do not count. At 35, in my second relationship, I held hands and kissed in public for the first time in my life. And as much as I enjoyed it, it opened a crack that only grew through the years. I was never abused, merely neglected. I don’t cry for what is gone now, but for what I never had. I know that these things would not have made me happier in the long run. I know that things would have gone the way they have eventually. It’s the weight of telling myself that I got what I deserved, and that I did not deserve more than what I got that I cannot, will not bear anymore. I am a just because type of girl. Being a just because person is great, making people happy is a wonderful feeling. But when I start to question whether I am a just because girl because I wanted to be loved, it’s stirring things deep inside, it’s making me feel even guiltier. Of my passiveness, of my own neglect. Blaming others is hard for me, but it’s getting too heavy on my shoulders now. I’ve got to let this go, acknowledge where I’m at and let time do its work. I get flowers for myself now. I travel to places I’ve always wanted to travel. Slowly but surely I’m letting myself being kind to myself. My kindness will not be my weakness, not anymore. Please, please… be kind to the ones you love.