Actually, there was nothing important about the dream, except that I dreamed about my brother, in a house I couldn’t recognize in my sleep, except that now I recognize it as our old house, where we grew up.
The rug was a lighter, beige color, and new. The bathroom fixtures had been replaced with something generic and white. I wonder if that is how it looks now. I hope whoever bought it falls down the stairs and dies.
If I say I love you, I want you to believe it. I don’t want to have to lie and say I love you in order to fuck you. You don’t have to lie and say that you love me in order to fuck me. You don’t have to lie to *yourself* and say that you love me in order to fuck me. But the fact that you would… that’s some damning praise, asshole. I want no part of that.
Because now I can work without distraction, because I don’t think he’s coming back. It’s ok. He was complicating a situation. He was making me question what I was doing here. He was jeopardizing my current empty relationship and forcing some very difficult conversations with other people. He was too much stress on my body when I really should have just obeyed the rules of my medical leave (I loved it). He made me want to do things out of order. He made me feel guilty about talking with my ex. He made me feel afraid to tell him who I actually was, or the fact that really, I’m someone else entirely. That I am a fraud, a liar, and one more word that I have not wanted to use, but as I am here, now, I will. I am a whore.