I’ve been staying home. I came right back from my appointment in the city 3 hours away because I didn’t want to have to be with other people. I didn’t want to have to put on a face and grimace and deal with it. I’ve been overwhelmed and tired.
I told my therapist about what I did during the week. He asked me if it was a quickie because we were in the car, and if it felt good. Then he questioned if we had been fooling around while driving—all weird, seemingly inappropriate questions. I answered because his sudden interest in my sex life after months of more or less glossing over it and avoiding it, was intriguing. I assume he has some reason for asking those questions, but maybe he’s just a man and he doesn’t. I don’t know. Maybe he wanted to know if it was an impulsive act, or more thought out. Or maybe he was just curious and wanted to know how fucked up girls cope. Or maybe he’s a pervert. Fuck, I don’t know.
I met up again with my ex boyfriend, on a bridge out by a reservoir. He fingered me while I sucked his dick. He bought me a bunch of things, gave me money and I went home. Like a fucking hooker.
My therapist asked me if it was just sex, and I felt almost…insulted? How do you explain something—a feeling—to another person who has never experienced it before? Do you tell them it makes you crazy, this feeling? That without the other person, you suddenly feel like less, like a part of something that got shattered?
Then there you are, broken pieces held together, but it’s not enough to be anything. The good parts are gone, and you’re left alone, holding onto fantasies and daydreams because you’ve finally realized that everything was an illusion. You made this person out to be what you needed them to be, but when you stop and look, you realize that you were avoiding all the things about the relationship that were never going to work. He has parts of what I want, but only parts. The whole is riddled with addiction and anxiety and lies. Nothing will ever be true.
I could cut it all off and turn away. But then, there I am, left with nothing. I gave everything away already, and I guess looking back, there’s none left for me. I can have the fragments or I can have nothing and move along. But what’s life without some fire, without some pain? It already feels like what I get from it isn’t enough. I’m jaded.
I feel cheated. He gets to go home to someone else, and I go home alone, just like I wanted. I don’t know. I don’t want to be with him, but I don’t want to be completely without him. I want to fuck him and touch him, and be held for a few minutes. I want to be able to tell someone the truth about my life, to their face. He serves all those purposes. But is it worth feeling like this? Like everything is dark and hollow and terrible now? I don’t feel desperate or confused anymore, just tired. So tired and worn down. I want away, but I feel stuck in place. I already know how everything will turn out. It’s written in stone, the story told a thousand times. I’ve told the story myself.
Change. I keep asking myself who I want to be, and I think back to all the times I had to cower in fear and hide away. It’s been years, but even now when I think back to it, I flinch in disgust and self loathing. Whatever that was, never again. I can’t afford to go back. Making it out alive seems like some kind of distant, unattainable future, but there it looms. And so does the power to end it at any second. Everything, every problem I have ever had, it can be gone.
I can be done. Sometimes that’s the only comfort you get.