No.
I really wish I had been journaling all along. I have too many thoughts and feelings to easily digest in one sitting.
Last post, was single. Not long after my last post, I got back together with my first boyfriend post-skeletons. That was a tumultuous disaster; a huge waste of time, money and energy. He was the type that would never work for a thing, but take what was given. I realize this now. In his life before we met, his ex gave him a car, got him a job, bore him a child. He had to apply zero effort, minus the fucking - which was admittedly done with the intended outcome well before they should have considered having a child together. His effort was fucking. His effort was fucking. One more time, his effort was putting his dick inside of someone and cumming. Okay?
When he was with me the fucking was great for some time. I almost hoped that he would make me fat with babies, too. Some tenderness in his moments with his daughter ignited my dormant instincts to reproduce. Fucking is fun. Fucking is not work. Having a baby and parenting it, that's hard work. Carrying a child in a body that won't give up blood to a needle for hours of poking and prodding by skilled professionals - that would be hard work. Carrying a child when riddled with heart palpitations, also hard work. Fucking is not hard work.
My beautiful lover, with his beautiful smile was just unwilling to do any work. He never made me feel special, he never made me feel safe except for at night, when his long arms enclosed me. But never safe. He never had my back really. But god, I loved him. And I tried so hard to make believe that it would be okay. As time wore on, the efforts on his part became even lesser, where even fucking was hard. He didn't even want the fun parts anymore. And I told him plainly that I don't want an 'old married couple' relationship with him. He has not earned that right with me. He didn't laugh at my jokes, he didn't make me laugh. He didn't protect me when he had the opportunities presented to him on many occasions. He let me fend for myself in those battles. He has not earned the right to enjoy a relationship with no effort. And that was The End.
The day I left him, we were still pretending to each other that there might be hope for us yet, but I had known for a long time that it wasn't right. He knew, too. I was too deep, he was too shallow. He was unwilling to meet me at the halfway point in this pool of ours.
It took me weeks and weeks sitting beside the pool, wanting to get back in for fear I would never swim again. Eventually, my suit reached that point where it was dry enough to be comfortable again; where the idea of getting back into still water that will remain unchanged is no longer appealing.
I'm still afraid of never really swimming again.
Last post, was single. Not long after my last post, I got back together with my first boyfriend post-skeletons. That was a tumultuous disaster; a huge waste of time, money and energy. He was the type that would never work for a thing, but take what was given. I realize this now. In his life before we met, his ex gave him a car, got him a job, bore him a child. He had to apply zero effort, minus the fucking - which was admittedly done with the intended outcome well before they should have considered having a child together. His effort was fucking. His effort was fucking. One more time, his effort was putting his dick inside of someone and cumming. Okay?
When he was with me the fucking was great for some time. I almost hoped that he would make me fat with babies, too. Some tenderness in his moments with his daughter ignited my dormant instincts to reproduce. Fucking is fun. Fucking is not work. Having a baby and parenting it, that's hard work. Carrying a child in a body that won't give up blood to a needle for hours of poking and prodding by skilled professionals - that would be hard work. Carrying a child when riddled with heart palpitations, also hard work. Fucking is not hard work.
My beautiful lover, with his beautiful smile was just unwilling to do any work. He never made me feel special, he never made me feel safe except for at night, when his long arms enclosed me. But never safe. He never had my back really. But god, I loved him. And I tried so hard to make believe that it would be okay. As time wore on, the efforts on his part became even lesser, where even fucking was hard. He didn't even want the fun parts anymore. And I told him plainly that I don't want an 'old married couple' relationship with him. He has not earned that right with me. He didn't laugh at my jokes, he didn't make me laugh. He didn't protect me when he had the opportunities presented to him on many occasions. He let me fend for myself in those battles. He has not earned the right to enjoy a relationship with no effort. And that was The End.
The day I left him, we were still pretending to each other that there might be hope for us yet, but I had known for a long time that it wasn't right. He knew, too. I was too deep, he was too shallow. He was unwilling to meet me at the halfway point in this pool of ours.
It took me weeks and weeks sitting beside the pool, wanting to get back in for fear I would never swim again. Eventually, my suit reached that point where it was dry enough to be comfortable again; where the idea of getting back into still water that will remain unchanged is no longer appealing.
I'm still afraid of never really swimming again.