raining all the time

Don't know why
There's no sun up in the sky
Stormy weather
Since my man and I ain't together
Keeps raining all the time...

I love that song, especially sung by Lena Horne.

RAIN RAIN RAIN.

Random news and bits and pieces:

Only 5 weeks left in Berlin then I'm going back home...It went by really fast. Now I have guests every weekend, will try to keep up with my friendships here and a lot of lobbying work to do. We shall see.

Planning to spend NYE in Venice. I never celebrate NYE, being so stuffed at Christmas I need a week to recover from indigestion. My grandmother was always the soul of Christmas for me, so this year should be very different, and quite sad. Maybe I should start celebrating NYE!

My grandfather is not doing well at all. My mother is not sure he will still be with us in November, but if he is, I will probably go to London to help take care of him or do daily visits at the hospital. I hope I will see him. I have great affection for him.

I'm looking for good American fiction to read, can anyone recommend something contemporary?

And with this, I go forth through the rain.

Jealous

I come from jealous stock. Some people in my family, most notably my mother, are intensely jealous. It's not an emotion I feel very often. As a child, I was jealous of the attention my sister got, like many children, I suppose. As a teenager, I felt jealous of people who had friends. Now I sometimes feel a twinge of envy when people go on awesome vacations. But it's not much to write home about.

Both of my ex-boyfriends were/still are flirtatious, attractive men who were surrounded by women a lot of the time. Some of whom were trying to go out with them. This never made me particularly jealous. And then X actually did more than flirting with one of his groupies.

And I felt so jealous. I suddenly realized what jealous meant. And I hated it!

Jealousy is one of the most pointless emotions I can think of. It brings you nothing but pain. Sometimes I remember in a flash of horror just how bad I felt. How eaten up. How wrecked.

And you never know when it may come again.

Cambridge and London (snippets)

Hello Cambridge! you are so pretty. Let me take somber and depressing snapshots of you.

What can I say, I love food, and I love sweets, so instead of taking nice pictures of buildings, I took pictures of the fudge shop.

Cambridge, the Bridge of Sighs.

So I'm in the Eurostar station, coming home after a lot of work, and some fun too. I went to London to do library research in the Quaker library, which is amazingly quaint, filled with sweet and insane people doing research as well, and filled with the rythmic sound of people turning pages at the same time. The way I like it, baby. And in the evening I have nice dinners with friends who bore with my endless prattling. When you spend 7 hours a day writing, you feel loquacious, you really do. You also seem to think that your arcane subject is FASCINATING. I apologize to my friends, but that's what you risk when you get yourself an over-enthusiastic multitasker pal.

But it wasn't all work. I popped into Cambridge to spend the weekend with my friends N and Am, cuddled baby Sym, ate so much food (damn those triple chocolate butter Belgian biscuits from Sainsbury's) and slept. I needed a break. And my friends made me feel like a Wonderful Butter Biscuit of a Girl.

Those of you who've exchanged emails would have an inkling about why I like anything Holmes. Inside joke!

Can you tell I'm a bit frantic/happy? The internet connection here is prehistoric so expect more pictures at a later date. I'm crossing the Channel back to classes and WORKWORKWORK, but all in all, I feel regenerated. It's all in the fudge, really.

STFU Couples?

I stumbled upon the tumblr (hee) STFU Married. While some part of me was amused by how TMI some of those Facebook wall posts were, I was only seriously annoyed by the ones that expressed hatred, passive-agressiveness and bile. Why would you insult your ex-wife and sling accusations in a public forum? I hate it when people argue in public-it's one thing to have a disagreement about where you want to have dinner, it's a whole other ball game to describe your partner's poor skills in bed, horrendous parents or awkward mullet phase in front of a train compartment or in a hotel lobby. Let alone the interwebz.

But lovey-dovey messages? "OMG you are the best boyfriend ever I love you so much my little rabbit"? What's so wrong with that?

Last night I was invited to a lovely dinner party. Three couples were there, and I was the sole single person in the room. At one point all the couples were semi-cuddling (hair-stroking, neck-nuzzling) and one guy asked me if I felt uncomfortable. Of course not! Even at the height of my break-up misery, seeing two people staring in each other's eyes, lost to all things trivial, wrapped into their own paradise, never failed to make me smile.

The honeymoon period! Is there anything nicer? When your partner can do no wrong, when each phone call feels too brief, when the days are too short to cram in all the romance and excitement?

I remember mine, and I think back on it fondly.

Dear couples, I'm really happy for you and I hope your honeymoon phase lasts as long as possible. Because being in love and blurry-headed with passion is a wonderful thing.

STFU, haters.

I like to watch

There's the faint trace of purple lipstick on the narrow strip of skin between his spike-studded cuff and his leather gloves. He stares at the bartender. She leans towards him, her short green hair gleaming under the poor lighting. She grabs his cell phone, using the camera application as a mirror to reapply some lipstick. She looks at him provocatively. He's grinning at her. Her backless dress shows off the huge tattoo etched on her shoulders: "ONLY GOD CAN JUDGE ME". She throws a quick glance at me: "Wanna drink?"
"A lemonade please."

You know, because my jeans and cardigan weren't conspicuous enough.

I love this Goth bar. I come here when I can't sleep and feel like people watching. There's always a couple making out in front of the entrance door, alternately taking puffs from a cigarette and kissing. There's always a guy in his fifties hungrily staring at the young girls wearing bunny ears, and at the lesbian couples slow-dancing. And there's me, with my book and my owlish glasses, perched on a armchair, using the book as an alibi to watch the scene.

There's the two guys who always argue about nü metal, and the other guy who texts all the time.

There's the other bartender, with his spiky pink hair, who conjures up pastel coloured cocktails with one whisk, and who flirts with the indie guys who turn up already drunk.

I'm fascinated by the courtship ritual.Theway bodies find a way around each other, moving slowly, surely towards their goal. The way it always ends in the same way.

When I lived with X, I hoped his gift for living would rub off on me. One day, I would wake up, and I would no longer feel desolation rushing up to my heart, crashing like a wave against an obstacle. Depression would no longer follow me stealthily, robbing me of what was rightfully mine. I would bounce out of bed and everything would sparkle at me like a promise like passion like love like lust like faith like you.


I watch them as if they will entrust me with their secret.

As I leave the bar, rain pelting down on my bare head, I espy a couple under the bus stop. His hands move passionately down her back, and her arms are wrapped around him. As she breaks off the kiss, I notice the tattoo snaking around her white neck: CARPE DIEM. Seize the day.

I like to watch, because I want to like to live.

In the meantime, I'll fight this bitch off with everything I have.

Overanalyse this!

« What’s the use of being overanalytical about everything ? What’s the use of being so emotional ? »
I must have heard this a million times in my life, and it is always a source of mingled irritation and amusement. I am very sensitive to people’s moods and behaviours. I don’t react to things because it’s useful-I just do. I like understanding the way people act. I like wondering what’s the link between a friend’s endless partying and the fact that her father has remarried. I like investigating mentally: why do I suddenly feel sad about something?

I’ll be the first to admit that this overanalytical behaviour is probably a secondary effect of my analysis. When you are getting over depression, you are taught to identify “triggers” that you can then work around. Say you are always depressed after listening to Malher symphonies (check) or after seeing a critical family member, you’ll avoid these triggers when particularly vulnerable.

Being overanalytical also has some social advantages for someone as shy as I am; I’ve become quite adept at predicting people’s reactions (once I know them a bit, obviously), and this avoids awkwardness. Would I be better off by just asking :”What’s wrong?” Often, yes. I’ve been trying actually to stop making projections and just ask when I’m not sure of why someone is angry/sad/perplexed. Being straightforward is also a time saver, since you avoid the endless handwringing of the overanalytical species.

But let me defend my kind: many “straightforward” people are not good at defining what ails them, or how they are affected by events, because they aren’t prone to overanalysis. They’ll just try to solve the problem. It’s much more difficult to solve a problem the source of which is unclear. Just as frequently as my less emotional friends have helped me muddle through a situation by asking clear questions and underlining my overreactions, I have been able to reciprocate by explaining the emotional undercurrents of an argument. As much as I sometimes wish I could be a hermit, we are a social species. We can’t rely on others to behave the way we would. Only our own reactions make sense to us. My sad habit of always wondering why, where and when has helped me be more respectful of people’s choices, especially when they go against my own reactions or beliefs.

This being said, it’s often a relief to me when I spend time with people who are blunt and to the purpose. They pull me out of my own head, and laugh at my interpretations of their behaviour. But in the end, little do they know that for all my histrionics, I am far more accepting of their idiosyncrasies than they could ever imagine.

Before Copenhague

I don't talk much about my environmental concerns. First of all, I don't believe in preaching. If anyone is interested and wants to ask me a few questions, I'll buy them coffee gladly. But I won't bother people who don't care.

However, I would like to say a few words about the environment before the summit on climate change in Copenhague. This is what I'm studying after all.

1°Climate change is happening. Whether you believe that scientists worldwide are conspiring together to destroy capitalism or that man is the origin of 100% of global warming, that doesn't change facts. The earth is getting warmer.

2°We don't know what that means. Anyone who tells you that we have scientific proof about the consequences of global warming is lying. Scientists can make projections and there are a few things that seem statistically probable like sea levels rising etc. But these models remain models. Some are very optimistic, some are very pessimistic. In the end, we have no certainties.

3°Something is certain though: Western countries are not going to suffer as much as developping countries. We're talking overpopulation, droughts, famine, disease here. I'm not judging people's habits: we could all be more environmentally friendly, or frugal. I'm just saying: why do I deserve a better life than someone in THailand or in Sudan?

4°There is something you can do: get informed. Sure, if every American car respected European regulations you would save the equivalent of enough energy for 1 billion people in developping countries. Sure, eating less meat, eating local, using energy-saving light bulbs are good ideas. But there is no black or white: doing these things does not mean you are a "good" person. Sometimes environmental behaviour is counter-intuitive: if you stop drinking coffee because coffee cultivation is the cause of so much deforestation, you are also depriving developping countries of a chance to offer a better life for their people. It's not simple. But read about it. Read conflicting opinions. Ignorance is never the right choice.

Nothing is going to be decided in Copenhague. Why? Because China and India won't reduce their carbon emissions unless the US does as well. And do you think the US congress will vote such an unpopular reform anytime soon? Maybe if people petitionned their representatives, but I'm not seeing that happening either. In France President Sarkozy wants us to pay a carbon tax and no one is happy about that either.

I truly believe there are ways to make changes without coercion or treating people like stupid children. That talking honestly, without scare-mongering tactics, is the best policy. We've all seen pictures of polar bears dying or of children in Africa eating mud because water supplies are polluted or dried up. Newsweek is full of them. I'll see them, feel terrible, and go on with my life. Emotional blackmail is no way to change the world.


I'll get off my soapbox now. But if anyone has any questions, coffee's on me...

Shy

The boom-box is destroying my ears. I'm wearing my best jeans, battered sneakers and a plain T-shirt. I knew none of the writhing teenagers would care about how I looked. I'm in Hessen Germany, partying with underage locals.
I always do the same thing at parties. I find someone who looks as shy as me and I try to strike up a conversation.
I scan the room. Most of the girls are in denim minis and leather boots. They are trying so hard to look older. I remember how we used to cover up our faces with insane amounts of makeup. There's enough mascare here to paint a ceiling.
The guys are drunk. To my ageing eyes, they look like a throw-back to the grunge era, except they don't know it's a throw-back. All plaid shirts and holes. They can't dance and they were born in 1993.
One youth is propping up the impromptu bar. Alone? Check. Shy-looking? Yup. I advance towards him. The DJ is playing some ode to grinding. I pour myself some water and smile way up at him. He's tall. He wears braces. He's eighteen.

This is pretty funny.

As I speak with him in German, he answers timidly at first, but with more aplomb as the conversation advances. A drunk crony of his crashes into me. I force water down him, and let him cry on my shoulder.
When he goes off to lie down, my tall German sits next to me. He's pegged me down as an eccentric, worldly, older French girl. He confesses that he's never kissed a girl and that he can't wait to get his braces off. We drink to their removal. He asks me about France. His hands inch towards me, then retreat.

I'm five years older. I know all the moves, baby.

I dance, lost in the weirdness of the situation. Sweaty Germans merge hazily. The Tall German comes up to me. His hand clumsily clasps my waist, clumsily draws me towards him. His eyes are full of sadness, fear, desire and resolution. And I remember every single one of those emotions. I remember being a teenager.


I stare at him, watching him stare back. I'm surprisingly moved. I want to kiss him because I never got the nerve to kiss all those other boys, when I was sixteen. I want to kiss him because he wants me to. I know I won't.

He watches me leave the improvised disco. As I gather my stuff, I know how he feels, and as I walk into the cool autumn dawn, I see how pretty the mist is. My T-shirt clings to me. As I cross a shop window, a pink face is watching me with haunted smiling eyes, filled with forgotten anguish, and everlasting shyness.

David Bowie is my homeboy

This week hasn't been very high in excitement or merriment: it's been a slow burner, with long, tiring days, followed by short, harried nights. I've been slightly reckless in that respect, not sleeping quite enough, and avoiding meals altogether. Chocolate has been good to me.
But the rest of the week has great potential, I think.
Tomorrow I'm meeting someone to get on with a political blog project we have going on AND playing with the cousins AND partying with my sport buddies.
Friday will see my uncle from America come over have dinner with us.
Saturday is running club!
And SUNDAY IS SEMI-MARATHON!!!
I can't say how bloody scared and exhilarated I am. I'm Magic Dancing with excitement here.
I've never run so far, and I'll probably never run so fast. So wish me luck and actual meals instead of scraps of food.
I hope I do well and that I'm not too tired. But hey, I'm 23! This is the time to shimmer, right?
I really need sleep.

Running away

There are days where I run towards things or people. And today I went to my first EVER group run event. I enrolled for the track and field club in my new uni.

I was horribly nervous; I'm not good at sports, never was. Last picked for gym and all that sob stuff. Who cares? New year, new resolution.

We ran 10K as warm-up, did some interval training and then ab exercices. Three hours. I was much slower than anyone else there, but I finished all the same.
So why can't I just feel proud instead of wasting my afternoon? I mean I have lots of work. But I feel depressed and lonely. I feel unfit to belong to this club. I feel that I'll slow everyone down and be an object of scorn or pity. All the procrastinating makes me feel worse. It's a spiral of self-hatred.

Shut up! I want this unproductive rut to cease. SHUT UP, VOICE.

But instead I fantasize about running away from everyone, everything, all my responsabilities, and just get numb again.

In olden days I used to go hug my boyfriend, he would be the voice of reason and of kick-assness.

Now I'm my own coach and sometimes it's rough. But if I manage to get myself out of this mire, all the success will be my own.

How to choose your therapist (or do they choose you?)

My first experience with a therapist was at my university in America, where foreign students were encouraged to talk to someone in case they had adaptation problems. This was a good initiative and since I was homesick (and also without realizing it at the time spiraling down into depression), I booked a meeting with Rachel.
Rachel was a kind person but she was incredibly wrong for me, for several reasons.
1)She was easy to read.
Let me clarify: I could tell exactly how she reacted to all my disclosures and which ones hit home. She was clearly a troubled eater, I guessed that early in our conversations from her way of talking. She was constantly reassuring me about my weight, which is neither here nor there. It's not about the weight for me. It's about loving myself. However, she had a fixation on weight and it showed. I ended up not talking to her honestly because I knew in advance how she would react and that it hurt her feelings that I , a slimmer person than she, should feel unlovable.

2)She was not subtle.
My maternal language is French. I was talking to her in English. This obviously has consequences for therapy. I would often try to explain why some words had a special meaning to me because they were "new", or reminded me of a French word that had impacted me in some way. She would never understand this and always tell me that "it's the same word, just in a different language."

3)She let herself be manipulated by me
I'd like to emphasize the fact that I don't think she was bad at her job, just bad for me. I managed to have her prescribe me the medication I wanted to take to commit suicide. I never told her I had tried to kill myself. I never trusted her enough, because she hadn't been able to understand my deviousness.

My second therapist was a Lacanian psychotherapist who believed that only complete silence on his part would reveal my pain. I quickly got freaked out by the eery silence pervading all our "conversations" and gave up.

My current therapist is a psychiatrist. He is very good at deciphering my moods, never lets himself be misled by me. He avoids any identification and gently reproves me when I try to get him involved in my story. For the time being, he is the right person for me. Funnily enough, I feel that he chose me rather than the other way round: during our first talk he looked at me earnestly, and then told me to come back next week because we had work to do. I felt like I'd just passed a successful test. Yes, you are demented enough for me!
So if at first you don't succeed, try again. I believe many could benefit from therapy, but that we all have different needs. So trying out different methods can be necessary. Or you can be lucky and find someone perfect for you on your first try.

I find therapy incredibly challenging. I often ponder our discussions during the entire week after our meeting. I often leave the office crying or very sad, but it has taught me so much about myself.

Good conversations

We know them when we have them, but how do we get them, exactly?
I always think about good conversation as a matter of rythm. Ping-Ping. Pingping-Ping. Like a tennis match. I can hear the ball cross the net and BAAM! Back at you. Yet it's more complex than that. I remember an amazing conversation with someone in Germany: we were constantly interrupting each other (with that greatest of gestures, the conciliatory hand patting the knee as you break someone's flow just to say sorry, nothing against you doll but I need to say this) yet it felt unrushed, perfect, exhilarating. Another interruption-ridden conversation I recall was just bad-we weren't listening to each other. It was forced. We both knew how bad the conversation was, I seem to remember that one of us just halted and said ruefully :"This is a terrible conversation." And so we stopped it.

As a bad-listener-trying-to-improve, I love hearing good conversations. I try to understand what makes them interesting, try to implement my findings in my own life. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Because conversation is a lot of good manners, a lot of passion and hopefully chemistry. We all know great people to talk to, as opposed to great people to talk at.

Ping. Ping. Pingpingpingping. You start the conversation and it works. You're communicating, arguing, laughing or staying serious, but the rythm is there, the sparkle is there. I'm ready for all these good conversations please.