(no subject)
I'm not supposed to be writing this. Truth is, I really don't want to, but this is the only place I can be as pathetic as I might like, as I might be, tell the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth and still find some sort of... escape, I think the word is, I'm not quite sure.
so remember how about a week ago I wrote him that stupid like, not even three full sentences and he never answered? Yes, I do. And then, god, this is so stupid. I have no idea what I was watching on saturday night but it was something, and I just couldn't help it, I missed my friend. Not even my boyfriend, damn it, but my friend. The guy I used to tell everything to, who would, god, fuck, who would sigh when he was frustrated with me and din't want to yell and then place his hands on either side of my face and just look at me like h ewas thinking, "man, I don't get you" and it ... I don't know. I don't know what I was thinking, okay, I don't. So I wrote him this other email, calm and collected, just saying that I was hoping he was fine and that work was fine and how I was hoping he'd answer this email because I just want to know that he was doing well. I told him that I thought maybe, in the not so near future, we could try to be friends again, considering we had known each other so long, and that maybe he missed being able to talk to someone that knew before all this. I thought it sounded, you know, friendly, just friendly. I guess it did.
He answered. Around 6am this morning, my time, more like 1pm his time, he answered. Not more than four lines, how he was fine, work was good, he hoped I was okay, best regards, him. Period. And it just, maybe, I don't know, but I think in that second I knew, that I had been feeling myself this line of bullshit, this short story tuned into a saga that started angsty but ended up happy and man, how fucked up is it, that I'm believing my own lies, my own storytelling, my own shit. how fucked up is it that I'm that desperate to believe it that it took me only a couple of hours to come up with the beginning, middle and ending of that story, and how just four lines made me see that it was just that, a story. I could write Seth and Ryan into it, make it fit, but it'd still be just that, a story, that I might want to be truth but is nothing more than lies. how fucked up, god.
I don't know anything any more, and I've said this before. Half the time I don't know if I did right, if it was the thing to do, if maybe I just fucked it all up being repair, if maybe I just took too long to figure out, if this is right or not, if I'm okay or not, if I'm in love or not. I don't know. I want to know, more than anything, I want to know but I just don't know how, how the fuck does anyone figure it out? I've never been this confused, this lost, this adrift. I'm fine as long as I'm at work, as long as I'm doing nothing, having something to get done, more and more each day, one email answered, five more that come in to replace that one, and god, I thank you god for my work because without it? I really don't wanna know. that semester that I took off really fucked me up, I still bear the scars, because having too much time to think is never a good thing, and with things with Jose and me going down hill, with me starting to open my eyes and actually realize that he wasn't really coming back, man, it was horrible. Having too much time to think, it's always horrible.
I'm not in that much pain, I gotta say. It's not as horrible as that first month, or last week. I read the email and it hurt, yes, but not heartbreaking hurt. I took a shower and went to work and was fine, didn't even cry, so that's good. But it still. I'm sitting here and suddenly, yeah, I know. I know and see that I was trying to spin myself a story, a good one, sure, but a story nonetheless, and then he answered it, with the same despondence that he use to have, for the last 6+ months of our relationship, and I can see things haven't changed.
I can tell myself many things, sure, that this story would go like this: after the break up, a few months after, we try to be friends. Which is easy, through email and chat and maybe webcam. It's easy, it's simple. We tell each other stuff and maybe I date or he dates and we don't really care about that. But then at some point he does have to come back for vacations, so we say we can meet, have a cup of coffee. Which we do, and then have sex because you can't have been nine years with a guy without knowing which buttons to push. And then we do that, and he goes back and we try to be friends again, just friends, because we're not together. And we each has their own lives, easy and good, with another relationship or two, without hating each other, and maybe in a few years, three or four or five, when he does come back for good, when he's done what he set out to do, maybe we can finally make it work. That's the story, that's the movie and it's a good one, you'd go and watch it and like but fuck it if this isn't a movie it's my mother fucking life and it doesn't go like that because.... three or four or five years don't go on in three paragraphs or five minutes of screen time. three years is a thousand days and a thousand days is 999 too many to spend them alone, seeing through the windows of the bus other people going out on dates, on dinners, kissing and touching and being in love. it's... i tried it, okay, i did, i tried i swear to god that i tried it just hurt too much, still does, sometimes, like right now, when it think too much about it. and i can't. i just can't live like this, waiting for the story to get shape, for the characters to do as they are supposed to do. life isn't like that and i know it, i do, i swear i do it's just kinda hard to really do it, to let go.
i just. i think maybe i really do need therapy, someone to talk to, that isn't you guys and isn't my friends to whom I pretend I didn't write the first email and he sent me one on his very own, way better than the one he actually wrote. I can't. I can't keep doing this, I think, be okay most of the time and then something fucks it all up. It's been four months. I'm supposed to on my way to being over it, right, not trying to hold on. I'm supposed to, I don't know, something. I just. fuck it.
therapy or no therapy, this is going to end, if only because there is no pain that last a hundred years, not a body that can endure it, so, yeah. I just gotta power through, wait for it until it's gone, left, long forgotten. can't be that much longer, huh?
so remember how about a week ago I wrote him that stupid like, not even three full sentences and he never answered? Yes, I do. And then, god, this is so stupid. I have no idea what I was watching on saturday night but it was something, and I just couldn't help it, I missed my friend. Not even my boyfriend, damn it, but my friend. The guy I used to tell everything to, who would, god, fuck, who would sigh when he was frustrated with me and din't want to yell and then place his hands on either side of my face and just look at me like h ewas thinking, "man, I don't get you" and it ... I don't know. I don't know what I was thinking, okay, I don't. So I wrote him this other email, calm and collected, just saying that I was hoping he was fine and that work was fine and how I was hoping he'd answer this email because I just want to know that he was doing well. I told him that I thought maybe, in the not so near future, we could try to be friends again, considering we had known each other so long, and that maybe he missed being able to talk to someone that knew before all this. I thought it sounded, you know, friendly, just friendly. I guess it did.
He answered. Around 6am this morning, my time, more like 1pm his time, he answered. Not more than four lines, how he was fine, work was good, he hoped I was okay, best regards, him. Period. And it just, maybe, I don't know, but I think in that second I knew, that I had been feeling myself this line of bullshit, this short story tuned into a saga that started angsty but ended up happy and man, how fucked up is it, that I'm believing my own lies, my own storytelling, my own shit. how fucked up is it that I'm that desperate to believe it that it took me only a couple of hours to come up with the beginning, middle and ending of that story, and how just four lines made me see that it was just that, a story. I could write Seth and Ryan into it, make it fit, but it'd still be just that, a story, that I might want to be truth but is nothing more than lies. how fucked up, god.
I don't know anything any more, and I've said this before. Half the time I don't know if I did right, if it was the thing to do, if maybe I just fucked it all up being repair, if maybe I just took too long to figure out, if this is right or not, if I'm okay or not, if I'm in love or not. I don't know. I want to know, more than anything, I want to know but I just don't know how, how the fuck does anyone figure it out? I've never been this confused, this lost, this adrift. I'm fine as long as I'm at work, as long as I'm doing nothing, having something to get done, more and more each day, one email answered, five more that come in to replace that one, and god, I thank you god for my work because without it? I really don't wanna know. that semester that I took off really fucked me up, I still bear the scars, because having too much time to think is never a good thing, and with things with Jose and me going down hill, with me starting to open my eyes and actually realize that he wasn't really coming back, man, it was horrible. Having too much time to think, it's always horrible.
I'm not in that much pain, I gotta say. It's not as horrible as that first month, or last week. I read the email and it hurt, yes, but not heartbreaking hurt. I took a shower and went to work and was fine, didn't even cry, so that's good. But it still. I'm sitting here and suddenly, yeah, I know. I know and see that I was trying to spin myself a story, a good one, sure, but a story nonetheless, and then he answered it, with the same despondence that he use to have, for the last 6+ months of our relationship, and I can see things haven't changed.
I can tell myself many things, sure, that this story would go like this: after the break up, a few months after, we try to be friends. Which is easy, through email and chat and maybe webcam. It's easy, it's simple. We tell each other stuff and maybe I date or he dates and we don't really care about that. But then at some point he does have to come back for vacations, so we say we can meet, have a cup of coffee. Which we do, and then have sex because you can't have been nine years with a guy without knowing which buttons to push. And then we do that, and he goes back and we try to be friends again, just friends, because we're not together. And we each has their own lives, easy and good, with another relationship or two, without hating each other, and maybe in a few years, three or four or five, when he does come back for good, when he's done what he set out to do, maybe we can finally make it work. That's the story, that's the movie and it's a good one, you'd go and watch it and like but fuck it if this isn't a movie it's my mother fucking life and it doesn't go like that because.... three or four or five years don't go on in three paragraphs or five minutes of screen time. three years is a thousand days and a thousand days is 999 too many to spend them alone, seeing through the windows of the bus other people going out on dates, on dinners, kissing and touching and being in love. it's... i tried it, okay, i did, i tried i swear to god that i tried it just hurt too much, still does, sometimes, like right now, when it think too much about it. and i can't. i just can't live like this, waiting for the story to get shape, for the characters to do as they are supposed to do. life isn't like that and i know it, i do, i swear i do it's just kinda hard to really do it, to let go.
i just. i think maybe i really do need therapy, someone to talk to, that isn't you guys and isn't my friends to whom I pretend I didn't write the first email and he sent me one on his very own, way better than the one he actually wrote. I can't. I can't keep doing this, I think, be okay most of the time and then something fucks it all up. It's been four months. I'm supposed to on my way to being over it, right, not trying to hold on. I'm supposed to, I don't know, something. I just. fuck it.
therapy or no therapy, this is going to end, if only because there is no pain that last a hundred years, not a body that can endure it, so, yeah. I just gotta power through, wait for it until it's gone, left, long forgotten. can't be that much longer, huh?