I woke up late today, it’s ok. I really should have done other stuff, but we’ll see. I’m hoping that I can wake up smoothly here, and finish my coffee, and then call my Father. He might call me first (almost capitalized Me, I feel like there is a lot I have to do.) which would be embarrassing, but understandable as it’s so late in the day. Of course, I should allow myself to accept that he knows me better than I think, and will not be surprised.
I have to leave my boyfriend, but I’m so… I left this sentence hanging for a while. And then stalled in starting the next one. And then….
Ok, let’s go somewhere else. Last night I fucked through my boyfriend’s phone call again. By the time I got home, I called back and got voicemail.
My boyfriend said that he had an ex who loved the Pixies. I only ever had one ex. In truth, I have only ever had one ex. I describe people, as my ex because I think that’s the best way. but really they were just dudes I fucked, people I knew professionally most often.
I have to get back over there. I’ve been ignoring my work phone for days.
I have only ever had one ex. I thought it would be easier dating my current boyfriend, because there was no need to rehash my profession, go over all that again, or any of the things that I wrote here and then deleted that are so redundant for me to talk about that I was relieved that finally, finally, someone just wanted to fuck me and was ok with everything that I was. I guess I never really got out there.
I met my ex so, so, young. 6 years old. I had slept with other people, often, sometimes I wished I was in a relationship with some of them, but I always in the soul of myself harshly knew, and even up until now, that the life I had with them was fake and that really, I was going home to him. Even though I hated him.
When I look at my boyfriend, I feel like he’s just waiting for me to tell him I’m leaving. Even since the first time.
However long this lasts…He usually finishes his sentences, but he let this one trail off. It was one of our first dates, at a very nice restaurant, it always is, and he was trying to convince me to have a relationship. I wasn’t trying to be caught, as a matter of fact I don’t know if I had even moved out from my house with my ex yet. It was right then that it even occurred to me that relationships could end at all, and that one would still go in anyway to something that they didn’t feel was permanent. Apparently he had, many times.
I feel terrible for him. But then I remember the things that he’s told me about his exes, and realize that maybe we all get what we deserve. If I am too guilty to leave him, like I always was with my ex, and miss my chance at something real, like I did so many times with my ex, then I also will get what I deserve.
It occurs to me that if I just had the balls to break up with someone, I wouldn’t have to secretly wish they died every night. Like I did with my ex, every minute of most days.
None of this is what I should have come in to talk about today, but I’m down to the last 3rd of the cup.
I had dreams last night, and they were intense, descriptive, and complete. I woke up feeling like an entire, complete narrative had taken place, a complete story that answered all it’s own questions. There was a beginning, middle, end, and even a moral. My brother was there, and so was everyone I wanted, even though I don’t know who that was. I went somewhere I had been meaning to go, and came back home, even though I don’t know where that is.
And I can’t remember any of it. I remember the exact moment that I realized that the dream was gone, and that it was ok. Sometimes it happens. At first I was a little sad, I wanted to remember something my brother had said to me.
There’s an indescribable memory of my brother now, when he was sympathizing with me over breaking up with my ex, who we all hated, but how heartbreaking it had been even still to see him cry over losing me. That guilt, knowing that you are the reason this person in front of you is in so much pain, and that you could fix it, except you can’t. That is the worst part of love. When you would do anything to make them feel better, and their pain is your pain, and you have hurt them. Is it selfish, in the end to not want to hurt them – really, I don’t want to hurt myself. Is this love? I suppose it was, but where was the rest of it? The part that was supposed to be good?
If I had had the balls to leave, I wouldn’t have to just wish I were dead every night, like I did every minute of the day when I was with my ex. I remember seeing him cry one time when I tried to kill myself. I realize that there were a lot of tears that he probably hid under a lot of anger, and behind a lot of silence. Sometimes I wonder if he wished he would just let me do it.
Who am I, and who are we, that my brother instantly knew exactly how I felt. And, that my ex did too.
There is a quote from the boy in here that describes my fear. If my ex were to come back… The fact that there’s an if, and the fact that there is no end to that sentence is what worries me. The fact that I don’t know how I feel about that if. I’m afraid that this feeling isn’t fear.
Are hope and fear opposing feelings? I need to think about that.
Last night. It was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a very, very long time.
And today’s session, with myself as the therapist, was extremely satisfying this time.
Only the last sip of coffee got cold.