The Curse of the Real Thing


I have to say, when I come home, all discombobulated from an afternoon of FEELING THINGS in preparation for tomorrow’s official FEELING OF THINGS and I’ve eaten shite and I’m dancing in my head with the bad and the good of it, the nicest thing in the world is to walk into my room and see this made bed.   There’s an odd sense of relief, that I at least have a toe in the door.  That it’s not all given up.

You don’t want to admit these things publicly, but there was some part of me that had my fingers crossed that today would be the day there’d be some, OMG, I’m so sorry, I fell down a well kind of email.  I got kidnapped, and was forced borscht in my tea cozy sort of hat kind of scenario emails where I would have to swallow back all of the smack I talked and my snide disregard for the vicissitudes of this particular man’s life.  Because I told the therapist that one of the things we would talk about, or could, or should, was this desire to figure out how to deal with this emotional connection and how to stoke it and not kill it and deal.  And now, well, there’s nothing to say.  There’s things to say, but they aren’t the things I wanted to get to say.  Just sent back to the start of the board game.

Of course, I’m sane enough to know it makes me feel ridiculous.  It’s out of my control, but it makes me feel profoundly vulnerable to be so hung out to dry yet again.  To get that this comedy of errors and imperfection has me in a starring role and I can’t get off the stage or get to Act III where everything is revealed and plot wins its bride.   I feel like I haven’t done my homework.   We can’t get to the next part of the lesson plan if nobody does the clothing.

I just can’t stand the feeling of someone being kind to me because they have to.  Interested because they’re required to.  To spend time with someone who finds that time an obligation, be it of position or social mores.  I would rather be alone forever and forever and spend every last grain of sand of life alone (“alone”) than be a creature who is patronized and endured by someone who loves by tea spoon and single-servings.   At least I know that so deep in my marrow that it is sort of comforting.  I don’t want to concede myself to some Charlotte Lucasian fate.  Rather cut out my tongue.  Not that anyone’s asking me to.

It’s just me, here, spinning.

There’s some of that anger.  I think the anger is healthy, but it, like the sadness hasn’t really happened.  It’s just resignation, a book shelved.  A month passed.   I’m furious and despairing and screaming on one hand.  On the other, what the fuck is special about any of this?  Nothing.  And the mobius strip just knocks us right back on Euclid Avenue, same phone booth we don’t have a quarter for.

Okay, there’s going to be twenty minutes of cleaning/unfucking then, I will begin to degrade all the uranium in my belly.   It should be an interesting two weeks.

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