I’m hiding from myself and what I know I need to do.
I need to drink less, stop all the horrible men, focus on my body, my baby, my work. More. Not as something to do, but as something to be.
I cried today on my new blue couch as the man with the same name as The Neighbor, the non-drinker who took me to breakfast many weeks ago, told me he missed me.
I had just told him I wasn’t up to seeing him tonight.
I don’t have it in me to poke beyond the failed morning we shared after a night spent playing pool and me drinking more than I needed to prove I wasn’t self-conscious that he wasn’t at all. I don’t have it in me to give of myself, to his sweet attempts to connect and build a real friendship with me. I feel my insides churl at the thought of anyone reaching me. Least of all him and his soft, apologetic way.
The other day I let slip my iron grip and browsed the library of photos of my beautiful ex, the one who left me, The Neighbor. I fell headlong into pictures of our long, three-year liaison, our passionate affair. His giant, beautiful cock jut out from his thick, pale thighs in photo after photo and I sat still with tears in my eyes longing for what I felt with him.
This afternoon after I came twice to a submissive’s texts of obedience I was triggered to look for my old submissive’s gift: a video he once sent while I was in California. A video of him cumming to me, calling out my name as his hand, a Caucasian blur on his giant erection, created an arc to and from the black lace panties he’d somehow procured while I was away. “Fuck me, Hy. Fuck me,” he panted “I’m gonna cum, Hy,” and then his body jerked and cum spurted onto his taught, furry belly as he moaned my name one last time.
But I couldn’t find it so finely buried deep in the tombs of my email. It appears to be as gone as he is.
I feel as though I am festering, deliberately mistreating myself with booze, men, and inactivity. Instead of moving or creating I sit, nearly comatose, binge watching this show or that. Sex and the City, Golden Girls, Masters of Sex. Each a parable, a lesson in human sexuality and society in its own right. Be daring, be open, be free, be happy.
But I am none of those things anymore.
I am scared and alone and above all else lonely. I am trapped between worlds and between decisions and I don’t know which way is the right way. I am in some sort of stasis, my heart trapped in this place of low and sustained pain as if a pen were driven into it; not so far as to be fatal, but far enough to make every movement painful. I don’t even fantasize about life without the pain. That almost doesn’t seem possible.
But this – this feels like the moment before I choose to do something. This paralysis surely predates movement and traction. My psyche is merely gearing up for the heavy work, right?? For making the choices I know I need to make. The tough, “This is the right thing to do,” shit.
Because if the thought of a kind man coming over because he cares about me and wants to get closer reduces me to tears then I do have work to do. And lots of it.