bluevalentine

talking to darksphere has made me nostalgic for Ireland.

That time is this skyscraper of a lifemarker. It's huge.

I barely recognize me then. I have no memory of me before then.

On a lark. I went to see if I could still log in to the email account my then boyfriend had set up for me. Surely he had deleted it by now.

It still works.

And Boomtown Rats' "I don't like Mondays" has just started playing over the speakers here. It's like it's scripted.

My trip to Ireland marks the last time I spoke to my mother, my first physical split from my husband, my first time really feeling like I was on my own and transitioning into my first time really feeling like I could make anything happen. I could make the impossible possible. I was no longer at the mercy of the world. The world was at my mercy.

It's not an easy thing, giving up who you are to be who you want to be.

But I did it. In a country that wasn't home. With people who weren't family. Stranger is a strange land.

My transition wasn't a complete success at first. I still had a good year of work to do. My money ran out, I decided to give it a second go with my husband after his promise that we'd be living in the UK within a year. He didn't really mean that and I really didn't mean I wanted to give it another go. I guess it all balanced out.

And I'm deleteing mail as I tell you all this story and after not using the address for nearly 2 years, I see an email from someone I havent talked to in ages. A boy I loved more than life itself.

And here I thought I was just logging on to read some old messages that should mean little to me.

But why. Why am I all of a sudden interested in rereading what is ancient history? It doesn't even seem like real events at this point.