Kneel and disconnect.

It's finally getting easier. I'm finally becoming comfortable with being alone again. Instead of every other day being bad, it's every two days, sometimes three if I'm lucky. It's getting better. I'm getting better.

But I'm not going to lie. Every time I see a white suburban within five miles of home - and this dirty old town is full of them - I picture you running to my door, crying, sobbing that you're sorry, folding me into your arms and kissing my forehead the way you used to. Just for a moment, I want it so badly. I want it the way the living want the dead.

But logic, my deepest friend, prevails. It's like a McDonald's commercial. You see the Big Mac and my god, it looks fucking delicious, look at that goddamned perfect cheese and lettuce and pickles and that's it, I'm going to get one right now. But what happens when you buy one? It's squished and sideways and the bun looks old and the cheese is too greasy and the patties are a bit burnt.

Nothing is ever as good as what we imagine it might be. Take heed.

I finally stopped wondering about her. Sure, it sneaks into my head sometimes, but it never even comes close to consuming me now.

And November is a distant worry. I have forced it from my heart.

I can't let myself think too much about the good times and all the sticky summer days I took for granted. That hurts more than anything else.

It's all so sickeningly familiar.

The desktop. The dark. The music.

Wondering. Hating. Waiting for nothing that will come anytime soon.

Feeling alone even when I'm surrounded by people.


I know I shouldn't have, but I've constructed November.

It will be a cute little cafe, the kind we used to love. I'll be skinnier. He'll have stubble. He'll comment on my hair. I'll smile, half-pained and half-flippant.

I'll eat like a bird. I'll have a Shirley Temple. I'll be sweating even though it's cold. I'll have butterflies that I don't want. He'll be quiet, stoic, polite like a stranger. It will irk me, but I will have expected it. I will tell myself over and over that none of it means anything.

Small talk. That's all it will be, really. I'll want to ask about her. About why. I'll want to dredge it up. I'll have to fight myself not to. I'll have to fight myself not to unveil my latest sexual adventures - assuming such things will even exist. I'll try my damnedest to stay cool. Maybe it'll show.

I know I'll never be able to "win". I'll never be anywhere even remotely close to winning. Because he doesn't care, and he may never care again. The powerlessness will sap me of my confidence, or so it feels now in lonely, languid August.

I picture myself with a cigarette, something I've sworn against for as long as I can remember. I picture my red hair and my navy cloche. I picture the contrast as striking. When the syrup is gone and the cherry stems are laid out on the crumpled napkin and there's nothing but sauce on our plates I'll say what I've carefully planned.

I'll say, "Listen. I could go either way on this. If you don't honestly think you did anything wrong, if you don't feel a bit of remorse, and if you never missed me...then I never want to see you again."

And in the fantasy he doesn't wince. He shrugs. It's realistic and plain and devastating. I smile wistfully, still composed, and throw a ten on the table, shrugging my coat on as I take off in high heels, not looking over my shoulder once. And we never speak again.


It's the days I spend at home that get me. When I don't see anything but my own reflection. I'm doing well but on these days I all but crumple.

I hate how easy it is to slip. I hate how strong I have to be simply to keep my chin up.

I went through all the pictures today.

I didn't want to. I had to. It had been hanging over my head. I had to decide what to keep and where to put it. I deleted, of course, all the stuff that I would've wanted no one else to see.

That video of him fucking me. He was a lot skinnier then, ribbed and gaunt. I was wearing purple.

I watched a little with glazed eyes. I obliterated the entire folder.

The rest is all on my external now. If the external dies, so does everything else.

That fucking camera. He loved it. He took it everywhere.


Three steps forward, one step back. This site is the only place I write about him anymore.

The goons told me to watch Swingers, so I did. It helped. All the advice I received helped.

The night. The music. They hurt.

I've been so strong and solid and dignified that it feels almost like my masochistic right to occasionally slip up. My license as an artist to flail and sob. Not that I've cried, though - not since I went through my old phone. It sounds like pretentious bullshit, I guess.

But they told me to allow little windows for the pain. They told me it was a lot better than bottling it up. Maybe this is what they meant. This journal is that window.


It's so fucking hard not to set out on a crusade for my next addiction. The next guy who'll fit me like a glove. It's so fucking hard being so vulnerable and so alone and so rational and logical and smart at the same goddamn time.

I wouldn't praise myself if I didn't feel that I deserve it. My self-esteem isn't exactly at an all-time high.

It'll be two weeks Wednesday, and just look at the progress I've made.

His apathy is still there, though, like a blood blister. Rome wasn't built in a day.


It's hard to focus on the wisdom of the end instead of the euphoria of the beginning after seeing all those months spread out before me in high resolution. I remember every one of those days, those days that all felt like the best day of my life.

The memories feel the way coffee smells. You never waver on that smell. You never ask yourself, is that coffee or something else? Coffee smells like coffee. The memories are just as fixed in my mind...in every single one of my senses.

I can still remember his laugh, and the way he said my name. His conversational voice, however, is becoming fuzzy. I don't know why that doesn't make me more upset.

If I really try, though, I can feel, hear, taste, see, almost touch him, like a ghost in a dream. But I don't want to try. It makes everything so much worse.


There was an intermission last night in the dream theater. For once it wasn't him sneering, saying, "she's so much fucking better than you. I always thought you were fat and annoying. Just like Sarah. I don't care about you. I never really did. She's everything to me now, and you? You are nothing."

The actual dream was vague, but I know his face wasn't in it. For once I woke up on the right side of the bell curve.


I wish I could be content with just going out and walking or biking aimlessly around town. They say I need to get out no matter what, but leaving my mind unattended invites obvious trouble. So I stay here and write or read or bullshit with people, because I don't know what else to do.

I had a bursting moment today, as if a sliver of my blissful childhood fell through the crack in the door. The light was right and the heat was dry and the song on the radio was old. I felt that old familiar hope, that addictive, enraptured hope, which told me that this would be the year, THE year that I reinvent myself.

There's always so much pleasure in that foolish fantasy. I can change my outsides, but the inside stays very much the same.


I feel like I'd be better if I knew he was even feeling a quarter of what I am. But he's not.

I feel like I'd feel better if I could stop taking his feelings into consideration. But I can't.

Yes, yes, don't remind me, "can't" is bullshit. Well, this night is a "can't" night. I'm human. I'm sorry. I'll sleep and tomorrow will wipe the slate as close to blank as I can get.

I guess eight days is too long to be upset about a gigantic break-up.

Well who fucking knew.

Yeah, I know nobody enjoys the downer friend, but it's been just over a week, can you at least PRETEND to care? Fuck.

I'm not actively trying to be a complete and total mopey asshole. I mean, you wouldn't know it from reading this, but everywhere else I haven't said a word about him. On the internet, I mean. Maybe they think I don't need to talk? I have no idea.

Additionally, it's really only the last two days that have been bad.

I feel fat. Amazingly fat. I think I only gained two pounds back after starving but I feel like a blimp.

I wish I could never eat and just sleep all the time. Or have someone who really wanted me around.

It's a constant battle lately. I know I should do this for my own good, but I don't feel like it. Painting, drawing, writing, exercising, just fucking going outside, whatever. Every little thing is a goddamned challenge.

I was doing so well at first. I don't know what happened.

I guess a lot of it could be that the influx of support completely stopped.

Right.

I'm going out to tea at six. I wish I didn't feel like having a full-blown panic attack at the thought of going out into public.

It's always in the back of my mind: "what if he's there?"

And, ever worse:

"What if he's there with her?"

Fucking shit.

I don't know why I fall in love with completely selfish people.

I kept your dark secrets.

The pain you inflicted. Thoughts of rape, murder. Deviance.

I loved you anyway, and for the love of god I can't figure out why.

I guess I felt special. You were cruel to everyone, except ME. You made everyone cry, except ME. No one could understand you, except ME. I was vital, singular. My ego was on top of the world.

I remember when the thought of me in pain broke you. That feels like a different time, a different life. A dream.

You're harsh. You don't care about the people you've made cry. Now I am one of those people.

I used to be separate. Treasured. Unique.

I'm just another stupid girl. Another thing you used up, got bored with, surpassed.

Like an empty acrylic tube. The color is gone.

Why did you ever love me?

Because I was so fucking much like you?

Is that why we're through, because I became a better person? Because I improved myself and you were too weak to?

I was going through a selfish asshole phase when I met you. Maybe you helped me justify it. We were so alike for so long, but with you, it wasn't a phase.

I thought maybe it would help to write out the fucked up things you did, so I can look at it and remember why I don't love you anymore (or that I'm trying not to, I'm never sure which):

- Great love of violence.

- General disregard for the well-being of people you consider beneath you (thought that comes couple with this bizarre, almost passionate concern for people you actually approve of).

- The way you got mad when I wouldn't have sex with you, even when I'd just walked in the door. If I kissed you and touched you I was being a slutty tease and you felt I was obligated to let you fuck me. You never appreciated the foreplay.

- Utter lack of effort in terms of ever improving our relationship. I honestly don't think you ever tried ONCE. I don't think you ever told me, hey, can you stop doing this? Whereas I, you know, actually wanted to make things better.

- You were lazy in the stupidest ways. Yeah, the door was open, but did you really have to stay in bed right up until I got there? Did you really need to sleep in until one in the afternoon? Was it so fucking hard to get up and answer the goddamn door? I should've left all those times. I shouldn't have put up with your fucking bullshit.

- You were content having me drive you around for the last year. You never once thought it might be good to get your fucking license just to give me a break. You were fine with having your parents throw more money into that driving school because you couldn't be bothered to fucking get your shit together or wake up on time to go to driver's training.

- In fact, I don't think you ever did a damned thing purely to benefit me, at least not without me first planting the idea in your head. I can only remember a handful of times you surprised me with anything, and it was all material. You never thought, hey, maybe I'm being an asshole, maybe I should change! No, I always had to instigate everything.

- You allowed me to treat you as my entire universe. I realize I should've been smart enough not to do this, but you never told me, hey, you should make more friends. It would've been good to hear. I'm sorry I'm human and I obsess about things.

- I know for a fact you got pissed at stuff I did, but you'd never admit to it. For being as harsh as you inherently are I'm shocked you couldn't just man the fuck up and tell me what to do. You could've said, stop being so fucking insecure, stop clinging, go out and make friends, improve your life, god damn it. You never did. You were content to watch me cling and wallow and destroy everything from the inside out. You know why? Because it fed your fucking ego, you asshole.

- Every time I fucked up (flirting, etc.) I came clean. I felt terrible. And after that, I was loyal. Nothing too serious ever happened; most of it could be pinned to the fact that I had so much goddamn baggage from Marc when I started dating you. That was a HUGE problem and you never treated it like one, at least not to my face. But you...you never came clean. I always had to find out on my own. I always had to do a little detective work. Yeah, it was fucking shitty and immature and assholeish to log into your facebook/myspace, BUT EVERY SINGLE TIME I FOUND EVIDENCE. Always the blondes, jesus christ. Like I said before, Katelyn, Roxy, then Kristian. And you had the nerve to be angry at me for being upset? You had the nerve to be FURIOUS with me for accusing you of something you very obviously did? You had the nerve to be enraged that I would stoop so low as to invade your privacy, even though every fucking time it turned out I had good reason? I'M NOT STUPID. I knew when you dumped me you were lying about something huge, and then I find that fucking message. "I have become infatuated with you as well" - shut the fuck up. You think I didn't have infatuations when we were dating? I FUCKING DID. GUESS WHAT. I ALMOST FUCKED A COUPLE OF PEOPLE. I REALLY WANTED TO. BUT I DIDN'T. BECAUSE I LOVED YOU. BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WERE WORTH STAYING WITH. BECAUSE I BELIEVED IN US.

- You always justified all the fucked up stupid things you did. You were level-headed during arguments, and you conceded a lot, but it wasn't sincere. In your head, I know, you always thought you were right. BECAUSE YOU NEVER CHAGNED. You have not changed for the better in a single way in the past two years. That means you don't see a problem with your behavior. And god, that pisses me off so fucking much.

- You are a child. I may be insecure, clingy, needy, and occasionally petty, but you are a child. What you want is what you want is what you want and fuck anyone who gets in the way.

- Oh how you sweet talked me. You fucked me right up until a couple days before when you full-well knew your feelings for gone, you lying asshole. That message I found from her was from very early June, and from all I know it could've been going on before that. And, "you are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen, Samantha, and I love you more than anyone else in the world." WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT? HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT TO SOMEONE YOU NO LONGER GIVE A SHIT ABOUT, HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT TO SOMEONE YOU'RE FUCKING CHEATING ON?

- I'm going to go back to the point that you're just an asshole, plain and straight, because even when I confronted you with that message you had the gall to scream at me for what I'd done instead of just being a decent human being and taking some fucking responsibility for your actions. You lied about THE ONE THING I ASKED YOU NEVER TO LIE ABOUT, THE ONE MOTHERFUCKING THING, AND THEN LIED ABOUT LYING!

- Because it's always someone else's fault, isn't it? Yes, of course, it's never something YOU did. Even when you take the blame, you're only pretending to take it just so the situation will die. Of course it was your parents' fault that you decided to play video games and do nothing instead of doing homework and studying, consequently failing your classes. Of course. And of course it was my fault that you got bored and resorted to fucking some tragically average plain-Jane who you know is young and naive enough to worship the ground you shit on until you destroy her heart without a single moment of hesitation.

After all of this, all of, why do I still care about you at all?

After all of this, why can I still not feel the adrenaline of rage flooding my veins?

I just can't be as angry as I want to be, as I know I should be. This all came out at once and my fingers feel funny for going so fast but I'm still not incensed. Not even close.

God, I don't know why. I don't know why I've been cursed with this inability to feel the hatred your actions merit.

I told myself I wasn't going to hate you, but I'm wondering if that wouldn't make all of this easier.

You just...you always want some girl who's having problems with someone else, it seems. You talk to all these girls about their fucking stupid meathead boyfriends and hold their hands (maybe not even metaphorically anymore) through the entire goddamn situation. And they're so beautiful, they're so broken and fragile and vulnerable, and they're just begging for a savior, and you've come riding in with your indie music and your intelligent words and your distracting banter and they fall. Hard. And you fall too, because how could you not? You're saving these girls. You are a god to them. Your ego practically explodes. And you want them, you want them so much even as they're entangled with someone else, and eventually when you win in every sense of the world and that other guy loses you're feeling like hot shit.

But that doesn't last forever, does it? Because eventually that delicate little flower becomes a weed to you. She's still insecure and scared, but now she's clinging to you. There's no other guy to save (or is it steal?) her from. You're her world. And you can't handle that, because where's the fun in it? Where's the challenge? No, it's too easy. Too easy to make things comfortable. There's no chase, no adrenaline, no doubt, no excitement. And then she just starts to fade. She's not interesting, because she's too available.

But she likes you talking to other girls about their problems, doesn't she? It's just reinforcing the sweet, sensitive guy persona. And she's so special that you won't stray - she knows this. She is totally confident that you won't leave her, because you've made her feel so important, so amazing that she doesn't think you could possibly find anyone better. In fact, what she's actually afraid of is that she will leave YOU, because it just seems so much more likely. It's because you have no other friends and she thinks she's your universe as much as you are hers. But she's wrong.

You find someone damaged. You start to fix her. The feeling is addicting. You can't stop. And combined with the lackluster relationship you've got at home, it's just enough to push you over the edge. You admit your feelings. She returns them. There you go, you've got that forbidden, ego-pumping excitement back. You've bought a brand new horse right before sending the other one to the glue factory.

You use her for sex first, though. Because you feel a little guilty and also because you can. You've got an entree, yes, but why ignore the side dish? You fuck her right up until the end. It's only when she starts to suspect, even subconsciously, that you decide you really have to leave. She's getting annoying, you know. Insecure. You don't want her to know. It's better if she doesn't. You don't want a drama bomb. You just want to be happy with the new girl.

And, god, why should you care about the old girl anyways? She's pathetic. She's old news. You've worn her out. She's like a shoe that's too small for you and out of style anyways. Sure, you had some good times, and you'll probably still care about her, you guess, but she'll get over it. And thus the guilt is lifted from your shoulders.

You call because you're a fucking pussy. It's the best way, you tell yourself, because there won't be a scene, and she won't have to face the drive home. There you go again, rationalizing to preserve your precious, precious ego. It ALL centers around your ego, doesn't it? Of course it does. There is nothing more important. Literally nothing.

She finds out. Sneaking, stooping, disrespectful little bitch. You expected better, you really did. How dare she invade your privacy? This is bullshit. Well, so she knows now, so what? You don't care about her. Let her be angry. Doesn't matter. You're driving a newer and shinier model. Doesn't matter if the old one sits in its driveway or goes to the junkyard. It is no longer your responsibility.

I bet you feel pretty good. You threw away the old ball and chain and you've got a younger, leaner, stupider orifice to play with until you get to go on your merry way to college in September. Man, talk about living the life. That's fucking paradise. Zero responsibility AND an ego the size of the sun? Doesn't get any better than that.

It's different this time.

It happened eight days ago.

And my god, that foreign, violent pain. He doesn't care anymore.

I have never tried harder to be strong, and while I've succeeded overwhelmingly, there are still moments when I crumble uncontrollably, when I dissolve into tears, when I think, my babe, my love, why did you have to leave me this way?

And I want him with everything, and I weep as though I'm weeping for my life, his cheating, his laziness, his immaturity disregarded.

It hurts like nothing else. WHY WAS IT ALWAYS BLONDES WITH YOU? Katelyn, Roxy, and this Kristian.

The one thing I asked him never to do to me. THE ONE FUCKING THING.

I can't hate her, and don't want to, and I can't hate him either. I can't do anything but fake it til I make it.

I don't know, though, because the general trend has been a detached sort of acceptance. I wish I could say that I don't sometimes stay up until five a.m., going over all the things in my head that I would've and could've done differently.

She's ugly. Mousy. Boring-looking. Completely unremarkable in personality from what I can read. And god, did he fuck her? I don't know. I don't know anything. Because he lied to my face even when I showed him what I found.

I haven't gone looking for any more answers because I'm trying to stay sober through all this.

There is no cushion this time. No other man to fall back on.

And he's just gone on his merry way, apparently fine. You could've thought his dog died for all the sadness he expressed.

And I know, in my head, that this was and is for the best. In the last year, I've grown up - he hasn't. And it hurt us, of course. But I thought he would change. I thought he would change to keep me.

No, of course not. I'm not worth getting a driver's license, doing laundry, not sleeping in until five, getting a job, not acting like a fucking manchild in general.

I dyed my hair and they say I'm so pretty, and last night I was on top of the world for that. It was a long fall back down.

I hate that I put my identity and self-worth in his hands. I hate that I gave so much of myself to him, accommodated him so fucking well, sacrificed huge parts of my life for our wellbeing. I hate that I stayed here, momentarily happy, only to watch us deteriorate.

And he gets to go away in September, start a new life with new people. I have to stay here. I damned myself. One more year for me in this fucking smog prison.

I don't think I love him anymore, but I don't know. He certainly doesn't love me anymore. Does that prove that it's not there, merely the evidence of doubt? If I have to question it, perhaps it does not exist.

I miss my best friend. I fucking miss my best friend.

I lost everything at once, and he had no qualms about it.

I always told him I hoped he'd hurt me first, because the guilt of what I did to Marc nearly ate me alive. But the pain inside is screaming for vengeance, and I'm doing my best to ignore it.

Cheated on. Thrown aside like trash.

I'm not special, I'm not interesting. I'm washed up, old news.

Please, anyone, make it stop hurting, please, please, please. I can't breathe, can't see when I sob this way, like there's a black hole in my stomach and it's pulling everything in.

I was so strong all week. I took it like a fucking champ.

So where did this spring from?

Ah, yes, two places:

1) She's commenting on everything he says, of course, now that we're through.

2) I was told not to visit the one person whom I really want to see.

And I just asked, why? Why is this not a good idea? And all at once I questioned everything and I broke because goddamnit I miss him and maybe Sasha knows something I don't but FUCK I NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE.

I didn't eat for four days and lost weight and now of course I've gained it back because I want to eat everything in sight. Wonderful. I can't have a single fucking thing, can I?

All his stuff is in a box in the closet, all our pictures are gone, all my ties to him are severed, even his screenname and phone number, but for whatever reason I can't stop looking at his facebook page. He hasn't said anything about anything - it's just business as usual. But it's like this masochist inside me is waiting for the day when he's in a relationship with her, or when they post pictures together, just so I can have the excuse I crave to rip my own skin off and chug cough syrup.

And did I mention that he broke up with me on the phone? Yes, courteous, mature gentleman that he is, he woke me up (I was in bed, sick) and gave me that whole "you're a good person but we're going in different directions" crock of shit.

Yeah, your cock is going in her direction. I fucking get it.

He was the one solid, comforting thing I had, honestly.

2010 has been a fucking terrible year. This is like the cherry on the rejection sundae. Everything I've tried to do has been an utter failure and now the one person I really, really needed cheats on me with some fucking substandard high school slut?

No, no. I should not call her that. She does not understand what she's doing. She is young and naive and incredibly fucking stupid. Getting angry at her is like beating a puppy for pissing on your shoes. It's not fair.

He deserves this wrath, this pain; he deserves to empathize, and my god, I hope karma fists him until he can't walk.

I don't know. I felt at peace with this last night. Maybe I'll feel better tomorrow. Or maybe I'll still want to burn orphanages, I don't know.

A lesson, boys and girls: never choose men over your career or education, don't put all your eggs in one basket, and know that if they cheated to be with you, they will cheat ON you, no matter how fucking special they insist you are, no matter how different you feel you are, no matter how singular you feel the relationship is. Truth is, it's really not, and he will start to fuck you in a bad way.

I should've listened to my gut on this one. I knew something was wrong. He lied to me for a month and a half. For all I know he could've fucked that girl, come home, slept, then fucked me later that day.

I wish I'd been thinking clearly enough to punch him in the face.

The sacrifices I made, ooh boy.

And you know what? He never sacrificed a single motherfucking thing for me. NOT ONCE, NOT EVER.

I should've dumped him a long time ago, I know, but of course I'm stupid and optimistic and hope people will change and better themselves. Wow, how foolish of me.

I regret how pathetic I acted the day he broke up with me. I drove over to his house, cried, yada yada. I wish I had said "okay" and hung up the phone. I wish he thought that it didn't bother me either.

I hate this...I hate feeling this slighted, this humiliated, this worthless.

I feel so stupid for EVER thinking he'd treat me with more respect than he did the others.

Because what was I, in the end?

One half of a conversation, a piggy bank, an orifice.

It hurts. It hurts.

I'm not sure what I'm doing or why I'm trying anymore. I'm not sure why I still want your approval or why I feel any obligation when you piss me off so much of the time.

I just want to bang my head against the wall until I pass out.

Please erase my mind.

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.

I had a dream about you. We were in a theater with red velvet seats. We were down in the very front where all the chairs are level and you can't see past the head of the person in front of you. Except there was no one immediately in front of me. There was someone adjacent, and I think it might've been him.

You looked nervously at me. You were sweating desperation. I wanted away. I was so uncomfortable; I could feel that. You asked if you could move closer. I said no. You looked briefly at the screen and stroked your hard cock through your jeans. I looked away, shocked and repulsed.

How odd it is, to have a dream in which I do not seek you, but in which you seek me and I run.

Mentally and emotionally, I run.

darling, sad lady

happy 2nd of October, dear girl. I took the liberty of making you a cathartic space- feel free to erase/modify whatever. Blogger is fun, inspires one to be a bit more open minded in posting- pictures, tidbits, prose, and best of all, nice and clean. Simplify!