My ex, the real one, really fucked me up. There are some things that I can blame on him, and some things I can’t, but as I try to schedule a time into my day to bring the final papers to my notary and for the last time let him siphon another $75 (exactly .01% of what he previously stole, ironically) from me, I realize how I have turned away from monitoring my money because I didn’t want to acknowledge how much he stole. It sickens me that I can be so blind.
I’m holding back, and I don’t know why. At the beginning, where I say that I don’t have time for this, I then frame my thoughts with that as the excuse for glossing over things, for rushing through things, and leaving the stones unturned along my path to whatever scrap of meaning that I scrape together out of my sleep dust. All that’s well and good, but I see that I’m still here, more than a year later, with the same problems, the same ex, the same boy, and the same headache. If I skip over the stones, if I turn over the stones, the same time was taken. There is no use rushing through this. This space, it’s not a path to somewhere, it’s a racing track. Everything that I run past, I’ll be running past it again on the next lap.
In my family, which is full of very attractive people, most of which get better with age, it is thoroughly acknowledged that sexuality is a part of everything human, as obvious as that is. And, it is expected that, with all inherent talents and skills, it should be honed and used to it’s maximum advantage. I feel bad for everyone who feels differently.
If this is meditation, then yes, it does work. I’m going to tell him that I have too much work. Then, I’m going to message my current boss and ask him when we can speak today. Then, I’m going to message the person who said they would help and didn’t and ask if they did anything, and then of course go do the work.
My Father tells me that I have to change my relationship to money. That’s easy for him to say, now that he has so much of it, more than he will probably spend in his lifetime (I still can’t cope with his mortality, I have to get a tombstone made. I also need a piece of property to keep it on, as I don’t think that he wants to be buried anywhere. It will be a simple, flat granite block, the perfect height for him to do a handstand on.) and now he tells me that I have to change, because he has changed. And I am just like him.
These were my thoughts as I looked down the steep sandy embankment towards the gathering waves… We were doomed, If not with the next wave, then the one after that. Or the one after that. Or we could run back, to where there was no water and we were doomed anyway.
Once at the top, My boyfriend parked, and was leaning on the back bumper of his car. I went in for a hug, and the feeling… I could feel him be warm, and somewhat squishy, but his arms were limp at his sides. I tried to find his collarbone with my cheek to feel his structure… Did I find it? I woke up.
I clicked away rather than think further down that. I don’t like repressing things, I like to know what I have in my mind and where, and that’s why I write here. However, some things make me scared to think of, and then I wonder what else I have hidden in here that I don’t even know about, hiding behind the things that I see but am too afraid to move.
I’m really nervous over how my interview went. I had good feelings about the first interview, bad feelings about the second. I feel like I impressed the sales person, but not the engineer – accurate, because I’m a fake. However, regardless of how this goes, I feel like I got a valuable resource out of it. I should concentrate on that, and calm the fuck down. I was clearly reaching for a job that I was definitely not qualified for, so what did I expect. However, I did get an interview, and I should feel good about that generally. I will and I do.
He took up a lot of space in my life, and without him, things are saggy. The support beams are rotted, and I have to go around and replace some things. Reach out to all the friends that I’ve been ignoring to make sure that I’m directing my attention to him (he’d get pissy if I looked way for too long, even though he was just bitching about work and other people who I did not know anyway), go to the gym finally maybe or at least do the physical activity that he never wanted to do the progressively fatter fuck that he is, eat my own food which is far superior to the repetitive pizza place that he lives off of, revamp my professional life so that I can get fucked well and on a regular basis by men who will have a drink ready for me when I arrive and know when to use lube.