Waking Up Dead; Going to Bed Tired
April something 2021.
Hiiiiii Anita!
This is your new life.
Sorting through the silence, and enduring the illness and stillness that is.
Crack isn’t good for me. But I can use it, sometimes. (Note to readers: I am not speaking of real crack. It’s code).
I think of Kevin in the mornings. Of the way he held me, and the way he dropped me
He dropped me in the moments when he could have come through with sharing his thoughts and worries and fears.
Instead, he held them in, and I knew I couldn’t trust a mannequin.
If you don’t hear someone’s misgivings from time to time, you know you can’t give them your heart.
No one has no fears.
My heart was waiting to be pounced on.
The initial days were TESTS. Me, pulling back. But I think — and I take responsibility for this — I think I broke his heart in those days. And then he kept hanging on, because he’s the kind of man who will keep hanging on (think staying in previous non-functioning marriage for ten years), and so I found I couldn’t trust his love for love.
His love wasn’t love
It was hanging on to something comfortable.
I will no longer be that thing for him. Or he that thing for me.
It’s okay. I’ll find a different thing. Or things.
Silence. Fasting. Starving. Eating. Carving. Out a new way.
Oh, yeah, and happy birthday, Kevin! I won’t be telling you that! I’m having the day to MYSELF, and you can have the day to YOURSELF!
I’ll get that massage for you.
For me.
April 25
Two days after Kevin’s birthday. That day really took it’s toll on me. I almost reached out to him.
I’ve drank too much alcohol the last four days. I don’t want to get sloppy or sad.
I want to stay lean, clean and smart.
