Longing for the Continent

[fabrisse]

It's the name of one of my favorite MJQ albums, but it also explains how I feel.

I went from an email from a friend to a new ad that had popped in without having a chance to delete it and there it was. Brussels for relatively cheap. I could do it. I'd be evicted, but I could do it.

For about ten seconds, I thought about it.

Bruxelles me manque, and I don't know why it's so strong right now.

21 years ago Saturday, is the anniversary of my suicidal night. I promised a friend that I'd speak to her in the morning. Keeping that promise was the hardest thing I ever did. Walking home the night after I was mugged was a piece of cake in comparison.

All of that happened in Brussels. But the happiness I felt there far outweighed the bleak couple of months in the winter of 87-88.

How often is Brussels the big selling point for an airline?

I miss it.

Comments

[riverfox.livejournal.com]

{{{{{{{{{{{{{ huge hugs }}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}

I've had one of those days. I can remember the afternoon clearly, can remember the destructive feelings, and I was alone (no friend to call) and had a gun. But I don't remember the date and I'm no longer sure which year it was, '90 or '91. SoI'm curious, and bit worried about you, so I'd like to ask a question. Why mark the occasion permanently by choosing to remember it every year and calling it an anniversary? Isn't best to move on and consider it a part of the past?

[fabrisse.livejournal.com]

I learned awhile ago that if I ignored it, my strange brain made it much worse -- including little bits of weird self-destructive and relationship-destructive behavior. It wasn't until I recognized a pattern, made sure I treated my mild SAD, and acknowledged that this was something that would come up every year that it started to lose its force.

Now, I know to look underneath weird things that come up in late January. It's amazing how many of them happen on 01/24. So I celebrate the fact that I was strong, that I got a life that gave me my friends when I so nearly ended it.

But I'm the girl who tried to get out of summer camp every year. When I failed to do so, I often got sick. I wasn't faking. I fought against it. My brain made my body get me someplace safe. If the only safe place was the infirmary, it made sure I was sick enough.

[riverfox.livejournal.com]

Damn, hun. That's one hell of a psychosomatic illness. Have you ever been able to find a competent therapist to help you through that?