Write a blog post about how I plan to soon begin Ketamine-Assisted Psychotherapy.
About writing C the email about how I’m afraid of this therapy being so effective that I get over him, my unhealthy fixation on him. Afraid of what redefining our relationship in a “healthy” new light will mean for both of us.
About how I lay awake every night and imagine a version of us together where we experience intimacy. How I’ve been doing that for years.
About how it becomes it’s own alternate reality, the versions of us spring to life in their own world. And now, when I lay awake, I just imagine them talking about how it’s all about to end— they don’t have much more time together.
Whether they confide in each other that they believe they’ll get through this— that the love that they have for each other is more than my sickness, more than my delusion. That the feelings I have for him that make them possible aren’t some illness to be pathologized— that it’s not addiction. That it’s real love.
About listening to the song “Death Bed” by Powfu. How I have been listening to it for weeks now and couldn’t understand why I related so closely to it— the story of a young man laying on his death bed, lamenting the future he’ll never have with his lover.
How suddenly it becomes the story of the versions of me and C that live in my head— one of them knows they are about to be fumigated from existence— which one is it? Which one is on their death bed? Won’t they both die together?
God, I wish I could pitch this whole concept to C as a musical. But this might be a bridge too far, even for us.
I think this has somehow just become the blog post in itself. Too bad, I could write it better. Maybe I will. Who is keeping track, really? Who is to stop me?
There’s a lot more to explore about Ketamine Therapy— about what it is, about what it could do for me. I’ll probably quote the email I sent to C when I explore this further, as that was kind of a blog post in itself.
Except, he will read it. I haven’t told him about any of these posts lately, and for good reason. But any of you out there who have begun to form an opinion of him, based entirely on the craziness that pours out of me— remember. You have no control about how other people might see you, what they might do with your image, how they might distort you. None of this is his fault.
And I wrote him and email tonight, full of honesty and bluster, about how sick I am over him. And how afraid I am to lose that sickness. It was a fucking tidal wave of honesty. And he will read it. And we will be okay.
Any of you out there who believe that he is the bad guy: he will read my words, and they will matter to him. And we will be okay.
He will accept me. So fuck anyone who believes that I need to simply move on from him, as if he is nothing. As if he isn’t one of the precious few that take me as I am.
And fuck me for still not being able to internalize that he loves me. Fuck how hard that sentence is even to type.
There’s a lot more to explore about Ketamine therapy, and what it could mean for me, and all of the many reasons that I am afraid.
But it is late.
And I am tired.
And I have date with myself in another reality. And she has a date with him. And they have a lot to talk about.
And so little time left to do it.
On with it.
