Sunday, June 18, 2006

I felt so accomplished for the past few months. Dove in, walked out, went cold turkey. Lately, I've discovered the secret of distancing myself from how I really feel; for instance, with Zack's new friend, whom, for the few two weeks or so, I could not stand to think about or acknowledge in anyway. It's been maybe a little over a week and half now, and I've fallen into a groove: I don't think about her, and when I do, it's removed. Just don't open the door to that kind of emotion, just don't let her in, just don't let it out. Don't even acknowledge, except in a faint, distant way, that there are those kinds of emotions, and that I did feel them, and that the reasons for me to feel them haven't changed. Don't even acknowledge anything at all. Just keep right on moving.

Last night, I had a nightmare about it, though. I'll spare the details, from jumping on Zack's chest in a rage when I found him on the phone with her, to screaming profanity at her, and zip right to the end, with him and her walking into her house for some reason, me left on the outside-- they'd both assured me he'd be back soon, they were just going into have a chat. The door closed behind them and I told myself over and over again to remain calm, he'd be back soon, but before a minute could elapse, I was crying-- not delicately, not subtly, not with any beautiful undertones. In the dream, I ran back to my trailer, alone, screaming and crying as I did, the tears streaking down my face, my voice repeating the words over and over again: Why me? Why me? How can he do this to me?

It's not with pride that I admit that that is how I really feel about her. Not when I'm by myself, in a room, alone, with no one to judge me for the horrifying volume that my own insecurities tend to reach.

I suppose my trick as of late, then, is to pretend that I am not myself, to pretend that I am someone constantly judging me for my own actions. That way, even when I am alone, my pride will not let me admit how deeply I hate, hate, hate her, how angry I am at him for breaking his promises to give me what I needed until this whole vaginismus ordeal was over, and how ashamed I am of myself for...being so ashamed of myself, it seems.

I keep myself in check with fear of judgement from within. What a fine way to live.

But this post was neither started by thoughts of her, nor intended to be about her. This post was to be about somebody else I feel strongly about, and the days I've seen go by where I've persevered in keeping him safely out of my life, and the matter of moments wherein I failed that today. A few short moments; a breach of my hull. A few short moments and I find myself taking on water, and thinking about him, and struggling to remember the exact composition of his face.

It's as I'm doing this that I hear myself whisper that in this particular instance, that's the secret. "Don't picture him," I hear myself say. "It only really hurts when you picture his face. Or his skin."

Oh, I say. So I don't.

And from another part of me,one more interested in what's real than what's convenient, I hear myself argue that same old point, ripe with that same old word.

"If it's this hard after all this time, it must be the same as it always was. It must be that you'll always--"

No. I say. Don't go there.

I strain not to put up any veiled messages hoping he'll read them when I go on away, and very nearly succeed. I feel myself looking for excuses to go back for more, and I remind myself that this is why I must do this.

I allow myself this entry, maybe just for old time's sake. Moreover, because this blog is supposed to be about me, wholly and fully and truly. It's not the blog's fault if so much of me is made up of him.

On with it.