Midnight musings.

There always has to be something, doesn't there? I pour over her old livejournal entries, the ones I fortuitously saved before they were wiped away by her escapist hand, and long for that old struggle, the anxiety and the pain and the unknown but somehow the known as well; somewhere, somehow, I knew it all had to fall into place. It was just a matter of when.

It's pathetic, dwelling, remembering. Wanting. But what have I been reduced to? Plodding across a community campus, popping pills to feel normal, withdrawing because I'm scared I'll find no one but reaching because I have to find someone.

I'm sweating late at night and my toes are freezing and I'm listening to dreamy lo-fi that is somehow extremely aesthetically pleasing and absolutely stressful at the same time. Those sorts of things don't quite cancel out.

The worst of it is I feel like I'd give almost anything to turn the clock back fourteen months. Our love was at its highest peak. Passion evolving to madness. Secret sex, stolen kisses in the shadows, the most carefully planned hand-brushes played off as accidental, and on Halloween, me spreading my legs for him in that Little Red Riding Hood costume as she looked away.

I was so stupid, so foolish not to enjoy it all despite the blood-and-tear-forcing stress. There's nothing like a fight to make you appreciative. I fought for him and won - and then what? The following months seemed so utterly boring. Not unpleasant, not at all - we were in love and still are. But god, the comparison. No, nothing can ever compare to last year.

I'm scared I won't be satisfied until I'm chasing something I can never have, but THAT is inherently unsatisfying; inherently MADDENING in the least positive way. So what will happen? Will I settle, relinquish adventure, and try to cherish my dull albeit generally pleasant life? Or will I destroy things, hate myself, fall into depression, and attempt to start over, an attempt that may never prove fruitful in any way, shape, or form?

I'm beginning to think I'll never be satisfied with anything at all. I want blinding, deafening, maddening, heart-bursting passion 24/7, 365 days a year, until the day I finally die. I want rage and depression and nostalgia and ecstasy and the deepest, most poignant stab of love. How could anyone feel content without these things? Extremes are internal adventures. Consider me a rolling stone. I want to feel and feel and feel and feel and I'm terrified I'll never reach that point.

I have to, HAVE to get over what happened, stop wishing, stop wanting - but it's hard. My life is so fucking boring and it's hard. What do I do? I go to class. I write papers. I paint occasionally. I write desperately. I fuck him. I talk to him. I adore him. I try to connect with others and often fail for reasons I'm not sure I wish to be made aware of. I actively hate this town. I am suffocated. I sigh. I sleep too much and read too little. I eat things I know I shouldn't. I fail - myself and others - in so very many ways.

Another deep fear: if he does manage to whisk me away from this terrible place, will I be happy then? Or will I still lack contentedness? And what happens if I do? What if there is no pill, no amount of conversation, no amount of pouring my thoughts into this clicking keyboard, no amount of sunlight that will fix whatever the hell is wrong with my brain? And what if trying to convince myself to feel differently doesn't work?

What if I feel this way forever? Even worse: what if we fall apart?

He is all that I know and so much of what I am. I am more comfortable with him than I have ever been with any human being in my entire life. We know everything about each other, which, while admirable, may be part of the problem; I thrive on mystery; I live to figure things out and understand as well as to feel every possible emotion along the way. What if this stops working? What if I stop loving? It seems inevitable (though I would never admit it anywhere but here) that it will be me to fall first; I need so much more than he does. But I don't want that.

I've been tempted so many times by the idea of death, for this reason and others. I would rather never breathe again than hurt him, that much is true. I know that death, while selfish, would prevent me from hurting more people, being a bigger disappointment, letting my parents down any more than I already have. It would keep me from consuming people the way I have a habit of doing, devouring their hearts in one steady breath and exhaling a stream of ash. Death is not something I actively want, which is something no one, not even my therapist, can seem to understand. Death seems logical, and though harmful in the short term, the right thing in the end. No, I won't do it. I can't do that to them. But it doesn't mean I don't think about it close to every day.

I have to fix this, somehow, and occasionally I cry myself to sleep because I'm not sure I can. I just wish there could be some other external struggle...so I could avoid the internal ones.