i think my laptop is finally dying (after 12 years!?) so here I am back on my phone. Maybe typing with my thumbs will slow me down.

It's day 8. Driving home from house-sitting, I had so many fantasies: I could buy a bottle of wine, sneak another cigarette and not tell anyone, get a pint of some liquor to minimize calories, SH high on my thigh where even a swimsuit would cover, binge Freddy's or Chipotle or just get ice cream, save money and just snort a bunch of Benadryl once home (fewer calories, too). Revisited my plan(s), realized I would want to unbuckle my seatbelt before wrecking - that detail had never occurred to me. It's disturbing that the fantaplans have continued to evolve, but I'm here. Day 8 without smoking, safely home with no booze, eating a reasonable and balanced dinner, and will probably only take 75mg PO. Because I'm not ready (willing?) to force my death on other people, and I know I won't feel this way forever, and I don't want to make more of a mess for my future self to clean up. So I'm white-knuckling.

I'm sad I've shared my primary blog with my ex bc now I can't talk about him OR her there. Meanwhile they're both love-bombing me and I cried so hard on my birthday that I had a Carrie-level nosebleed all over my aunt's guest bedding and I just want to relapse and binge and self-destruct and hide. I almost kicked the dog several times. I'm not happy, I'm not good, I'm not okay.

ODAAT, motherfucker. Not doing shit tonight - I'll deal with the rest later.

It's mortifying to ask

It's my oldest pattern, running. Freezing, panicking, running, hiding, but then always peeking through my fingers, tilting my face up to the sun chasing warmth, wanting to be pursued, needing comfort. I want to be worth chasing - follow me into the dark, crouch in the corner with me, wrap me in your arms, rock me and soothe me and ask me what's wrong. I want a fierce grip, an intense love, two palms on my face seeking eye contact, holding space. I want to fall apart, feral and writhing and fighting but held.

I tossed and turned in her bed, fighting the destruction bubbling up in my throat. My limbs twitched, the smallest of sounds escaping, my breath too tight; I tried deep breaths, retention, heavy sighs. I lunged up out of her duvet and planted myself upside down in downdog, letting the blood rush to my head and feeling the ache in my shoulders as my palms cramped desperately into her pillow top. She squeezed my forearm and I wanted to rake my fingernails down flesh - I pressed crescents into my chest, holding my heartbeat in place, trying to tamp down my terror with tight pressure. I stumbled out of bed for Benadryl, still craving the Valium she'd jokingly offered, craving salt and crunch and comfort - wanting to run, play, exhaust the burning anxiety overflowing in my veins. Her dog was snoring, the heat was suffocating, I wanted to fight and scream and binge and numb and die. "I'm the problem, I'm the problem, I'm the problem" burrowing toxic and barbed into my brain. I just wanted relief, and she kept her distance. I asked if she'd be sad if I left, and she said she would, but I could do whatever I needed to do. I needed her - I needed to be pinned to the mattress, gripped tightly, teeth in flesh and warm words against my ear. I needed a violent love, louder than my fear; fuck me harder than I hate myself. Pursue me, chase me, hold me in place, draw me out. Make a mess with me. I want to chant the intrusive thoughts, bleed out the insecurity, throw open the doors to all my secret hiding places. But first you have to knock, beat your fists against the door so I know you mean it, won't politely leave when it takes me a moment to free the deadbolts, padlocks, bars and and jams and clutter blocking the entryway. Need me like you mean it, like you want me, like you know it's worth the fight.

She always lets me go. Peacefully recedes into silence, boundaried and quiet and patient. I want fury, I want righteous capacity, I want to be torn out of my comfort zone and sheltered on your island. Give me refuge, grab my arm and tear me out of the street so fiercely that you leave bruises - save me from myself, take control, help me.

I cannot believe I drove home. So doped up, starving and frantic and scared. I played my music loud, kept the windows down, didn't let my eyes rest in one spot too long, but I know I could have died. Could have easily crashed from the fluttering adrenaline, overcorrected into a ditch, slipped across the center line into the lure of a stranger's headlights. I was numb and dissociated and weak. She let me go.

It's mortifying to ask: please chase me. Please fight me. Please shake me and hold me and tear it out of me. Please ask me what's wrong, ask again when I deflect, ask again when I lapse into silence, ask again and again and again. Tell me what you want, what you think, what you see. Don't let me go. Fight me, fight for me, stay. I need a firm hand, a grip on my jaw, fingers laced into my hair, fingerprints wrapped around my arm. Find me. Hold me still. See me through.

It is infuriating to fall apart in front of therapeutic boundaries, inhuman patience, selfless equanimity. Use my color system, take chances, check in, talk to me, fall apart with me. I wanted connection and instead I was frozen and alone and mortified, just wanted to break, wanted to make a mess, and felt acutely like a ticking bomb and she had gone to her bunker without me.

Maybe she's confused because I've told her that initiating sex has scared me in the past, so she's waiting for me to speak up and initiate hard conversations and ask for what I need. Maybe she thinks I'll talk when I'm ready, I'll reach for comfort when I need it, and that leaving is sometimes what I actually need. I don't know how to calmly convey how much a dying person never truly wants to be alone. Don't be afraid of me, don't step away, don't turn away, don't let me go.

She asked for time together but didn't start a single hard conversation besides asking how I was, and when I deflected, we sat in silence. So much silence. I wanted to hang up and fall apart. Why would I invite her into my darkest corners when she looks around, hums noncommittally, and thanks me for inviting her? Why would I open myself up to her when her idea of soothing is to tell me a funny story? Why can't she see me? Can she not see what she hasn't experienced? Does she not understand that "I'm sorry you feel that way" isn't soothing? Don't tell me you love me, don't tell me I'm good, don't thank me or tell me you trust me or say some neutral, accepting shit. I'm feral and messy and dying - I don't want a passive witness. I want a partner. I want someone to pull me out or be in it with me - don't just watch. This isn't a show.

I'm so tired. Dizzy and unfocused and confused. I have therapy in an hour and I don't know what to say: I wanted sex, I wanted to be fucked up and free and dissolve into her, I wanted to make a mess and play and be real. Instead I got false, polite nonsense and a chasm of loneliness.

How do I want to be received when I'm panicking? I know I want intense sensation, the freedom to rant and sob and scream, I want aftercare and soft touches and whole body comfort. I want grounding and reminders and reinforcement and a truth bigger than my fear. I felt obligated to get my shit together, to soothe myself, to communicate what I needed when I was disintegrated - but haven't we talked about this before? Haven't I asked her to ask me? Maybe she could have taken me for a drive, or a walk, or to get comfort food, or she could have pressed ice into my palms or hugged me tightly or fucking anything but lie motionless in bed beside me in the most tense thick silence I've ever felt, intermittently squeezing my forearm in a way that might as well have been a pat on the head.

Ugh I'm tired.

Self harm, press the bruise, flooding, autism trigger tantrum, raw raw raw irritable scream fight wreck run away fuck it leave.

In theory, I like the idea of housesitting: an enforced staycation in a new environment where I can't smoke, can't fuck around because I'm on camera; I don't spend money because I'm not going places, just eating my prepped meals and some of their bougie food that I've always enjoyed. The dog walking needs force me outside a couple times a day, his schedule keeps me up early and to bed early: it's simple living! An awesome stretch of time to do deep work like readmits, or write some letters, or digitize my CDs, or this time I planned to finally do my taxes!

I want to kill this dog. Maybe it's the nicotine withdrawal, maybe it's the irritation of being out of my routine and feeling watched and not being able to dance or read my fanfic or leave whenever I want.. but every time he breaks the silence with a loud, painfully piercing series of barks at nothing, I want to scream (but can't, because I'm on camera). The sound of him constantly, disgustingly, unceasingly licking himself makes me want to throw him. He cannot focus on walks, but weaves back and forth on the path, stops to smell everything, backtracks, suddenly runs and then stops and weaves s'more and then loses. his. shit. every time another human or god forbid a dog nears us. He growls and rushes toward children. I fucking hate picking up his poop, my god ugh ew blech. And then it's cold and windy and I'm antsy and he doesn't respond when I call him so I'm tugging as gently as I can but it tugs his throat and he digs his feet in and coughs but refuses to follow and I hate hate hate him. God and then bedtime, where he gets into bed with me and wants to plant his awful, smelly, matted body UNDER THE BLANKETS right by my fucking face and I'm so filled with disgust because I've seen the way he still has remnants of shit on his ass and there's visible grit and stains on the white bedspread from his body and I'm all nausea and rage.

So that's been a hard time for me. Last time I was here, I accidentally taught him a game with one of his toys and now he whines whines whines at me to play when I'm trying to focus on my deep tasks. He doesn't stop, not when ignored or told no, just whines whines whines right at my fucking face, jumping up on me if I ignore him too long.

I don't like thinking of myself as not-an-animal-person because I loved BabyCat but honestly I'm often so fucking disgusted and do not want to interact at all. I love pictures of pets, stories of pets, but I do not want physical interaction at all. Virtual only please.

So anyway I have not done my taxes. I've barely worked. I certainly haven't written any letters. I did digitize all my old CDs and emotionally wrecked myself reliving 2012-2020, and then as a palate cleanser I made a playlist of my mp3 players from 2008-2012 and honestly that sucked too. I feel gross. I hate remembering, especially the visceral memories that turn my marrow to tar and leave me in the fetal position.

I did finish an audiobook and did a bunch of sudoku, only fucking up a few, and I'm disappointed by how much I did not care for the book, bc now what am I going to say? "Thank you for recommending this book, I had no idea it was a series, I barely slogged my way through the first, but I read the Wiki articles for the last two! They seem fine."

I just feel like an asshole. I feel like a classic villain: hates dogs, hates stories, not good with kids, not good at work - ignoring emails and missing deadlines and just sucking.

Oh God and the whole fuckin debacle of finding out my exex hates my ex and wondering wtf I did wrong to have all my people hating each other. I talk so much shit on people and tell such one-dimensional stories that nobody loves anybody; for having my love language apparently be words of affirmation, I am so toxic and talk so much shit that no one understands why I love anyone. I'm a mess. I feel like a trash person.

And now the fucking dog is whining at me. I will not pet or cuddle it. It has food and water, we walked 90 minutes ago, I'm not fucking playing. I cannot wait to leave. Maybe I'll leave the house and smoke another cigarette. I'm fucking losing it.

I crave the tingle, the sting, the sharp gasp and held breath. I crave the profound stillness at the bottom of the outbreath, the involuntary sway of seated meditation when it begins to sink in and take me away. I want to straddle a lap, grip a hairline, catch a bottom lip between my teeth. Shark print moons on a shoulder, pink parallel lines slightly raised, fingertip bruises, the all-over ache the morning after. I struggle so much to stay in the moment of burning, to find and expand the tapas point, but I revel in the results when all I feel is heavy, tender, and used up. Blissfully devoured. I want to be in my body so badly, chase it in yoga, rubber band snap in and out of it with sex. I want to be marked, changed, consumed. I'm tired of not knowing my no, not finding myself, not being here. I've had indulgent glimmers of leaving my ego behind, embodying the discipline of firmly grasping the outer limits of my boundaries and letting it all melt like warm, settled wax, only for it to cool, harden, crack, shrink, crumble. Who has this figured out? I feel so close and still so alienated, removed, abstract. Pick me up, throw me, pin my wrists, look me in the eye, hold me there - help me hold this space, this capacity, this tidal wave of potential that terrifies me but is probably the only thing that can save me. It almost feels like my destiny and I keep getting lost looking for an easier path, one with no risk, one I can map in advance. This horrifying sensory journey of body, mind, and spirit feels like a trust fall and I continue to peek, stumble, step away, resist. And yet I know I thrill in the fall, feel alive in the knowing and trusting, feel so affirmed when I'm inevitably caught by the strength and presence I shy away from. I know it all feels good, is there when I'm ready, and isn't a selfish endeavor: I know how satisfying it is to catch others, to hold space for their vulnerability, to witness the bravery and grace of trust. I just need to show up for it, get out of my head, be in it.

Who am I to fantasize, all skin hunger and avoidant attachment? Who am I to miss the way she sounds, crave the secondhand ecstasy of her falling apart with me, so open, so free, so earnest? Who am I to long, with my bite and delayed bark and ever-whimpering shame driving me under the porch to die alone? My fingers remember the silk of her hair in my fist, tilting her back to be devoured, all babygirl broken open beneath me, while I'm locked and hidden behind this shelled armor, untouchable. They were both so soft, so trusting, so in love with me and all I want is blooming bruises, tight fists, jaws fiercely held and all the soft, fragile things left unsaid. See me, don't know me, touch me, don't feel me, want me, leave me alone in the closet to sob in the self-destructive peace of my solipsism. I'm mortified. All the time, I'm mortified: a crack appears and I double over to guard the wound, avoiding eye contact and biting my lip to keep the ache from escaping, but it all bleeds out my fingertips and I'm a blood trail of ache and want and intense, fiery, unquiet storm. Shivers rip through me, everything tingles, I can only reach from a distance. Who am I to miss it? Miss them? Want more? Want, want want, but so fucking out of my element when it's here, when I'm held, when they offer. I break my loves, addicted to the sound of breaking glass, throwing myself on the shards, crying for help when it hurts and they're gone and the mess is mine. Dramatic, immature, histrionic, deceptive - fuck him for coining wrought with contradictions, for claiming comfortably numb. My birthright haunts me, seeps into my sacred safe space, looks me dead in the eye and asks me who the fuck I think I am. I say the same lines, my right eye twitches, the cycle repeats. I'm the problem. I'm a problem. My stomach cramps, my thoughts race, I check my phone over and over again looking for the answer. I feel wrong, I am wrong. Right? Certainly self-compassion isn't for these moments.. It's tough love and logic, right? I got myself into this mess, made these decisions, I can get myself out of it - you got up there, didn't you? Get yourself down. Walk it back, apologize, beg, throw yourself on the sword and bleed s'more. That'll fix it. Shame the want, shame the ache, harness your inner bully and push the need down by its shoulders. I'm landing flat on my ass. God my stomach hurts. Please come hold my face, tell me I'm good, tell me it's normal to be so scared, tell me this messy is holy, tell me I'm whole. I just wanted to feel something - feel it all, really. Her pleasure was divine. His soft eyes heaven embodied. I couldn't take it, didn't have space, couldn't breathe and feel and hold eye contact all at the same time. The center cannot hold, indeed. But I miss it. I miss them. I want to be good enough, capable, whole. I'm incoherent.

Ugh. She said she was coming over for just like, an hour, to watch some GBBO. We still haven't talked about her work retreat, or the major shame meltdown I had in the middle of it, or me getting drunk in the bath on wine and benzos (lol@that typo. Benadryl* - I'm not allowed benzos bc I'm snorting bennys and will abuse anything I have access to) and confessing how horrifically jealous I was. I get that she needs time to decompress, so maybe expecting to debrief immediately isn't great, but I would have preferred a video chat or phone call if she wanted extra time together. But I said yeah, bc she offered to drive to me, and it was just for an hour, and watching GBBO is soothing. But then after 20 minutes, she pauses it and starts kissing me and I'm like okay, whatever, kissing can be nice. But one of our noses is running and my feet are freezing and my nails were still drying but she just kept kissing me, pushed up my shirt, took it off, took her all her clothes off, took my pants off, and suddenly we're having sex and she's trying to get me to come and yeah some of it felt good but I felt frustrated and not into it and then I feel like I have to get her off or I'm a lazy and passive lover so I do, and then she's all giggly and happy and we're naked and cuddling and I just didn't want to do any of it. Now my sheets are stained with sex and I smell like sex and I didn't want to have sex. Before she left, she said her favorite part of her day was seeing my chest flushed while we were kissing and liking how into it I was. I think I was just overheated, or anxious. But alas, I faked it and just did it and yet a-fucking-gain I'm feeling crappy and keyed up. I don't want to have sex. I don't. And then she was thinking about a sexy video I had sent her, but the quality got really compressed in sending, and she wanted to play it for me so I could hear how funny the bad quality background noise was, and I literally threw myself out of the bed and said "no no no no no" because I had said at every step of the way "I don't want to see that, don't pull that up, do not open your locked folder in front of me, I do not want to see or hear myself, please do not" but she didn't stop until I physically removed myself and chanted "no" like a feral person.

I dunno man. I wanted a debriefing conversation. I don't want to be doing this. Some of it is fun but mostly I'm exhausted by pretending and faking and performing and I can't keep doing this. I don't like it. I still don't touch her, don't open my mouth, don't initiate, but I think at some point I'm just going to have to chant "no" a bunch. Or have a really hard talk. Or die lol.

love

"I just, I just wanna feel good"

she begs, smoking and doping and fucking and numbing.

Babes, you know what feels good. You've been writing about it and fighting for it for years. Don't try harder, try softer. Get into your body, find your tapas, sweat and breathe. Touch your face, hold a palm to your heart, allow the tears. Believe in yourself, trust the process, drink water and eat plants and fill your freezer with whole meals. Go to bed early and wake up early. Move and listen: you have two ears, one mouth. Read your literature and live into your program. Try, forgive, let go, love, try again. You are beautiful and fierce and true. I love you and I'm listening, remember? Keep forgetting, because you're only human, but keep remembering and saying hello to your old friends. Hold space, feel it all, move through it, rest. Say thank you. Mean it. Laugh and be honest and know you belong, know they all belong here with you, too. You're not lost, not too far from home. I have intuition and wisdom and everything I need. I can say no and have it mean nothing about other people, nothing about my worth, and still say no. I can be perfect and broken, repaired with gold, whole in awe, divine love and messy simplicity. I can't be everything but thank god; I do trust the process. I know I belong here. You eat the elephant one bite at a time.

(I'm so scared. I'm so small. I feel wrong, overwhelmed, mortified, so so scared. I feel so cold and alone and tired. I feel violent, messy, contemptible. I'm sorry all the time, not enough, too much, dishonest and disoriented and wrong wrong wrong.)

Who cares what my stories are? They're just thoughts, just stories, just beliefs that I feed. Wouldn't I rather believe a beautiful story? Wouldn't I rather be wrong and happy, naïve and loving, imperfect but present? What if I am meeting expectations, or what if the expectations have nothing to do with me? What do I owe other people? What do I owe myself?

My dad thought himself into his grave, couldn't think his way into recovery. His notebooks were so much like my blogs, cosmic wrestling with sin and grace, mind and spirit. It killed him. He couldn't ego his way out of ego. His fatal blood is in me, her brutal superficiality keeps me bound. This isn't how it happens, something whispers to me from off-stage. This isn't my story. I'm fighting to love better, love bigger, and take me with me. I can be whole, I can be hope, I can do this. I'm doing it, I've been doing it, I'm so proud of you. It's been so hard but so beautiful.

Last night I was washed in a sense memory of being in our original studio, those community center partitions, the sounds of little kid karate during savasana, pushing myself and crying from frustration and laughing when I would have previously screamed, trying when I would have previously quit, finding myself. I loved the chair wall, loved the clock wall, loved the small talk as we packed up and the debriefs driving home. I loved being seen and believed in, building our community, always rolling on my side to extend a pointed foot to nudge you. I can't roll on my side anymore, still feel your absence, but it had been so long since I looked to the past with love. I loved those rooms. They saved me. I'm saved, ever-balancing, and I can carry all that with me. That was a true thing, a real thing.

My throat feels so tight. I feel like I've slipped from grace, lost my way. I know better and I'm not doing better. It doesn't feel better. It feels vastly more complicated. This too this too this too I remind myself, but it doesn't feel real. I feel like I'm languishing, muddling through, truckin' along but not fully alive. I'm an ant gnawing at saran wrap. I know what I'm supposed to be doing but I've lost my drive, lost my serenity, ever out of touch with my self-love, loving-kindness, compassion. I'm so scared at work. I'm so scared of sex. I want to stay home and get fucked up and read escapism romance. I cannot stop smoking. I feel stuck. That gallon and a half of cabbage hasn't fixed me. I don't have as much money as I'd like. I don't feel capable. I'm cold and scared and I feel like a burden, because I'm meant to be the healed healer, the recovery advocate, the mental health champion and evidence-based-practice poster child. I schedule my salads and can quote so many interventions, and yet I am without ritual, without tether, the center cannot hold. I'm so easily distracted, fatigued, overwhelmed, despairing. Ever-annoyed with my own shit, a common refrain. My thoughts a bad neighborhood, my own company toxic. I know how to fix this, and I don't, haven't yet.

You've lost the thread, babe. Do the next right thing. Urge surf. Use your resources. Be honest, tell the whole truth, be a beginner, breathe, soften, trust, love, move, laugh, rest, try. You can do this. You've done it so many times before and come so far. You haven't lost that progress. Inner peace, motherfucker. You can always wake up, always remember, always start again. You're not bad at this, not bad at all.

(What would it be like if I told her no all the time? Genuinely said no, had her hear my no? Would I want it? What would be left? Try it more, please. Say no. You won't be too small, you won't be too boring. Please say no all the time. Prune and burn and purify, love; you'll still be here when it's all gone. You can say no and breathe in the space you create. Try it please? For me? You have no idea what beauty and capacity the future holds for you, but I think it starts with saying no to what isn't working. You don't have to know what works, first. Just say no when you feel no, know no. You're okay, I promise. I'm here for you. You're so good and you can say no as much as you need to. You're resilient and loyal and honest and capable, AND you can say no. You aren't a quitter, aren't a princess. Those are old stories. Breathe into your no and feel how safe and good we are.)

We'll figure out work. There is so much need in the world, I have so many resources, and I have so many gifts, so many ways I feel flow above the line. Money will be okay. I have enough, and know how to survive and thrive. There is enough for everyone. We can figure this out. I'm not alone.

Action items: meditate? drink water. take benadryl to get back on a sleep schedule. listen to podcasts or audiobooks and do sudoku before bed? deal with the rest tomorrow. <3

I finally did my homework and said no during sex, no to sex. She said she wanted to get one more orgasm out of me before she left (had she gotten one out of me yet at all? Legit can't tell. Maybe. Doubt it though) but I said no. I was ready for her to leave, I didn't want to go through the whole thing all over again. She said really? And I said yes, really. She started kissing me anyway, pushing all my buttons trying to warm me up: tried pulling my hair, hand on my throat, grip on my thighs, kissing along my neck. She would check in, "still no?" and I'd say "yep" and she kept trying, kept pushing. I'd said my pants were staying on and she pushed against every seam of that boundary. I think I had to say no six different times, and push her off me at least three. I finally removed myself from the bed and she followed me, still wrapping around me, but I stayed in my no. I could not believe how difficult it was. I stayed light and playful, didn't scream and fight and spit and hurt her for real, but I kept to my no and she eventually stopped trying. I'm amazed by how persistent and confident she was, like she could play me, change my mind. Her thinking she can turn me on, push my buttons, that I have a high accelerator.. who's playing who? I've obviously tricked her, but sometimes I feel like I'm playing myself, too. I'm so good at faking it that she literally called me "responsive" today. I wanted to laugh out loud, because I was able to stay completely stony and level-headed when she was trying to turn my no around. I can perform the positive reinforcement in the moment, if I want to, but I'm in control. This is my show. I can play the part, but it's a play. This isn't me, not my pleasure, not what I want. I want it more than I want to stop it, but I'm not here; I'm dissociated, acting, thinking, ruminating, gone. I've literally told you pleasure doesn't live here, motherfucker. You wanna play, I'll play, but this isn't romance. I'm not here.

I just miss you so much. I dream of you, think of you, remember you, crave you. I wanna touch my forehead to yours. I wanna straddle your lap and hug your head into my chest. I wanna lace my fingers with yours and kiss the back of your hand. I wanna watch you fall in love with life and look back over your shoulder for me. I want you to be happy - fully, wholly, entirely, peacefully happy. I want to hold your face and kiss you so much I'm worried I'd sob into your mouth. Come with me, take me with you, but I miss doing it together.

I'm growing comfortable with her, feeling more integrated and spontaneous, but I will never replace you. She's helping me find the love in myself I wanted to share with you. I look for you all the time. My palms ache for your jaw, my thumbs tingle in anticipation of trailing across your brow. I want to absorb you, hold you, carry you with me always.

I check your blog multiple times a day, compulsively typing your name into my search bar. I've saved your Things, a stolen intimacy - weren't they all? I'm so sorry for not being trustworthy, for not being safe, for grasping you like someone drowning, dying, suffocating and desperate for air. I want you on the shore, soft sand and warm sun, safe and relaxed and together, still. I miss you so much. She's easy and good and comparison is the thief of joy, I have some joy, but I don't have you and so it feels incomplete. This hurts so much and I don't want to feel it in my body, I want to feel you. When was our last kiss? Do you remember? Was it the concert weekend, nearly a year ago? When can I have you again? Have I ever?

I'm supposed to be single and learning to love myself. Instead I'm splitting myself down the middle, half hers and half yours. I'm not proud. I laid in bed the other morning, half-dreaming and half-planning my suicide: how to minimize the impact on others, how much preparation I could do without getting caught. I'm quicksand, a black hole, a hurricane of mood and impulse and belief. You know I'm no good. But I am good - you've shown me time and time again, lifted me up out of the waves and I've tasted enlightenment. You kept me safe while I learned recovery, but now I'm underwater again and despairing. Where are my arm floaties? Why must it all feel so heavy? Why can't we just float like normal people do? "We all float down here" indeed - fetid, shameful sewer rat. This isn't my final draft, but I'm reluctant to keep writing without you. It all feels so wrong. Meet me in Montauk, I want to re-write it all, I'd tell them put me back in it - I don't want to let go. Espera... take me with you.

I am not turned on by her nudes or sexts, don't come when I'm with her, can't say no or speak up when something isn't working, can't keep my hands off her when we're bed sharing, love the public flirting and the secrecy and the teasing over text. I wanna practice so many things with her, enjoy the play and exploration and novelty, but I miss him I miss him I want him I love him. Maybe I only want what I can't have, would freeze with his body near mine, would stutter in the silences and resent all the hesitation and fear. She has no hesitation and fear, the confidence is intoxicating when it isn't infuriating or terrifying. I'm skittering across the surface of depths I can't fathom, breathing shallow and leg bouncing, fingers twitching to clutch and claw, ever-craving a palm on my cheek to steady me. I can't focus, can't settle, just wanna be flooded and consumed and held whole.

There's so much I need to write about, get right: my discomfort and avoidance in the hotel bed, so ever grateful for my period as a barrier. My childlike, pouting voice going small and petulant in my cutesy game to deflect (what character is THAT?). My horror at watching my body seek his out in hers: tracing an eyebrow, gripping below an ear, thumbs swiping up along inner thighs and hips. I don't want to rewrite him, don't want to paint over my palms' memories of him, but still involuntarily take fistsfull of her. I did notice the rising wave of want in me as soon as I verbalized the pause, and she has joked about me using her for sex, bucking against the pause as extended foreplay for our inevitable clashing crash of bodies: grasping and gasping on our friend's futon, flirting and fucking over text, avoiding each other's eyes in public. It's a game, and it feels good, but as soon as I told her I don't come with other people I started faking and lying about my orgasms with her. She thinks she's the exception, I'm making her feel special, and yet I'm looking for him. She is good: she reads me, listens, remembers, asks, experiments; her hand on my throat feels so fucking good, I love the rough way she grips me, and I love being consumed by her orgasms with my mouth buried in her - some of the pleasure is profoundly, deliciously real. But my face froze when she surprised me at my doorstep last night, my body resisted her this morning when all I wanted was to sleep, and her body still often feels so wrong under my hands. I'm awkwardly aware of my immobile hands, avoidance of her chest, tentative exploring of her body stilted and perfunctory. I want his. I want him. I love her well enough, as a friend, and the chase is a fun game I haven't played in a long time. I well and truly cannot tell you how fucking good her hand on my throat feels; I could write a whole post about how my brain goes blank, my body immediately submissive and warm and floaty, my moans slightly choked but so fucking spontaneously real. She even gripped my jaw a few times, rough and possessive and jesus christ I arch just thinking about it. There are parts of me that truly enjoy getting lost in her, but I know she's in love with me and wants something real but I'm so fucking hung up on how her hands are too small, eyebrows and lips too thin, hair too soft, face all wrong. I want him to fuck me like she does: strong, confident, curious. I wanted this with him. I want this with him.

She wants my writing, wants to know my fantasies and perception and I do want to remember it all, but it's not the sexy love story she wants it to be. It's so much longing and ambivalence and dissociation and deception and angst. Maybe she'll be a slow burn, maybe I'll continue to warm up to her and thaw off the stubborn, ancient frostburn of my former, fossilized love. She's fun and good and profound and I'm a mess. I want him. He's the one whose knees I want to fall at, open mouthed and submissive and integrated and whole, wholly his. He could never hold that space for me, take me the way I wanted him to, and to his credit, I never asked. There was so much silence between us and I am grateful for my Home Depot, U-Haul Lesbian's deep want for talk and connection and disclosure. But he's my love. He's my love, my person, my darling, mi amor, the one who I really want to see fall apart, fall into.

Maybe I'm in love with a fantasy. Maybe I'll never come during sex. Maybe I should have more celibacy and therapy before I fuck around IRL. Maybe I'm just hungry and tired and caffeinated and withdrawing from nicotine and personalizing and giving meaning to neutral physiological experiences. Who knows what's up. My Staci Haines book should be coming in soon. My love has invited me to a session with his therapist and I'm looking forward to it. She's taking me out on a date tonight. Maybe I'm well loved and nothing is wrong. I dunno man, I'm disoriented and I want to smoke and fuck and sleep and read and it's been a really good life and I'm happy but also let it be known I have no idea what I'm doing.

What do I feel, long after she's gone?

What lingers under my skin, leaves me closing my eyes to savor? I feel the ghost of her hand gripping my ribs, teeth pulling my lower lip in a way that tingles long after her mouth is elsewhere. My thigh involuntary flexes with the memory of her grinding against me; fingers woven in my hair, the first time I've ever regretted cutting it short, craving the feeling of her fisting curls to pull my head back, baring my neck for the bruising kisses into my throat that take my breath away - the pressure against my windpipe that makes my mind go deliciously blank. Her fingers intertwined with mine, pressed above my head on the floor. The graze of teeth and rolling suction on my clit that made my nails dig into the cheap texture of the walls, dizzy attempts to steady myself. Her breathlessly asking me if I want two, my whole body an arched bridge, fucked absolutely senseless. Sprawled on the floor, boneless and wanting, only for her to wrap her hands around my thighs and pull my hips against hers, my whole body dragged into her.

She holds me like she loves me. I hold her like I miss him.

I'm cold and craving a bath. Daisy Haites came in and I'm really enjoying it - already a quarter through and would happily binge the rest to the exclusion of other activities. Might soothe my need for warm water by doing the dishes and hand washing my delicates. Spent a butt-ton on ice cream for my three Thanksgivings I hadn't planned contributions for, which feels very adult of me. Woke up chilled and wanting to lift the covers so Vena could crawl under with me. I feel wrong spending Thanksgiving without my love, but we texted this morning and that felt good. Made myself cry while smoking this morning, imagining his funeral: isn't it dark that I find the depths of my love in the most painful, voluntary bouts of suffering? Avoiding a soccer ball text this morning, cringing at so many layers of disconnection and story that hang heavy between her and I. I'm really loving Spotify, still and always. The texture and color of my life would be so different without my music, and how delightful to have /my/ music again. A reconnection, a renewal; now I just need a choker necklace. I'll make another round of tea, shower after I've had my last cigarette of the day. Laura McKowen's We Are The Luckiest highlighted the small joys of having the mundane in place - washed dishes, changed light bulbs, a made bed - and I do appreciate that my anxiety-scanning reveals nothing profoundly neglected. Minus that damn soccer ball and the DTR I gotta have this Saturday. I feel slow today, wanna sway and breathe and cuddle into something soft. I think I'm okay, just evermore in touch with my rhythms and needs. Building space and capacity for all the things. Creating the revolution inside me, cultivating all that I already am and have. Breathing. Feeling. Loving.

What the fuck am I doing (tengo un.. pro'lema)

God where do I even begin? The sabbatical night in bed together, drunk and wanting to come so badly but knowing I'd wreck shit? The fantasies of being with her and her top, begging and being used, open-mouthed and limp with ecstasy? Slumped against the wall of my shower, trembling with the exquisite water pressure between my legs while my moans echoed with her name in my mouth? Or do I start with his jealousy, his fears, my denial? My habituated pattern of outsourcing my desire, denying the intensity, shrouding my lust in friendship, and then panicking when the unnegotiated tension leaves me truly used, trapped, panting and faking and overstimulated, washed in shame and loneliness? Do I start with the pleasure of her praise, her firm mouth on my throat, her hands squeezing delicious pressure into my thighs as I whimper, the actualized want of my tongue pressed and flicking into her clit as she groans and twitches around me? Or do I start where I've finished, unfinished and reeking of sex on my balcony, a fresh third pack tamped and burned anew, breathing in the burn as all I can think is "I'm in love with him, this would crush him, I don't want to tell people I'm in a relationship with her, this would crush her," crushed under the dissonance of wanting him, never coming, unspoken frustration and fear tight in my jaw. Black hole, all bite and grind and mixed messages. She joked about me using her for sex last night and I almost forgot to force a laugh, deflected, saved that panicked reflection to worry over later, finally alone with my own company and wondering. What am I doing? I want the integration, the freedom, the experience, the confidence, the love. I fucking want to come. I'm so sick of the panting hyperventilation, the overcompensated moans trying to psych myself up for a feeling I can't find, my stilled hands and racing thoughts betraying my frozen, numb dissociation between body and mind. I don't work this way, don't know how I work, but I have a Want knitted between my brows, caught in my teeth, desperately trying to work its way out of my rolling hips and gripped fists. I had fantasies of her confidence, communication, transcendence being able to change me, unlock me, discover me. Instead it's novel, frantic, heavy breath in my ear as my frustrated whimpers sound like desire, my bucking and writhing away, toward, away, toward feeling like arousal when I'm not coming, I'm coming out of my skin. He would be so angry. He deserves to be. I've lied, misled, taken, hidden. I promised and reassured and no wonder he doesn't, can't trust me. I'm still not trustworthy. My truth only lives here, flying fingers and fast feelings, desire slammed into a keyboard but demure and denying when you're here. I don't know what's true. She doesn't know this is my script: husky voice, slow drag of seduction, explosion of nails dug in, teeth pulling, friction chased. She doesn't know that I always retreat afterward, alone with my thoughts, so often tearful and filled with a nameless regret that I can't articulate.

I won't call her love, won't call her my person, don't want to fully fill the void of him in me. I may bruise her neck hoping for his moans, may straddle her and grind my wanting into her hoping for him inside me, may press soft lingering kisses to her mouth with my eyes closed, willing the tears back, staying in character, hoping she feels love and not my tidal wave of sorrow and ache and guilt. I fought with him and shared it with her, grew annoyed with her and shared it with him, I staff split and lie and fight tooth and nail for my selfish need to be validated, chased, poured into and filled so wholly that I can finally exhale. I'm a mess. My coffee is cold and I want another cigarette. I crave a firm, unforgiving grip where I am most tender and soft; I crave filthy, desperate, wanting words rasped into my ear; I crave a coming apart. Take me there slowly, trail patient fingers across all of me spread open and waiting, tell me I'm good and bad and right. She stuck her whole tongue in my ear and mistook my writhing as want; I began to get dizzy with panted panic as she tongued across my numb, unfeeling clit and mistook my gripping, pulling hands as encouragement. I managed out a broken "wait, pause" but she couldn't hear me over her own harsh breath. In a brave moment afterward I brought up the color system and she giggled and played with the concept, making it sound like that old "green light, red light" game as played as children. I need to tell her this is my lifeline: I don't speak in the moment, don't know how to sustain your tenuous pleasure of my body while being honest, not hurting feelings, don't take it personally: I don't feel that, I don't think I'm turned on enough, I'm in my head, I'd rather you play with my hair, please stop. Please stop but keep wanting me. Take pleasure in this wanted body, these lines and curves so often lusted over and praised, but know that I've been conditioned only to please you: I know not of my own sensations, know only how I must sound, must feel - my own hands on my body only register my accomplishments, my aesthetic, my value, as my touch goes unfelt. Your orgasms are my own, my only touchstone for success, so please take what you need because I subsist on your overflow. Pleasure does not live in this body, only along it. Either take me, hard and fast and sloppy, and then leave afterward, or stay soft and help me learn me. I know no other way, can't coach you, won't speak up. I don't have the answers, fear I may be a lock with no key. Love me anyway. Love me sexless, love me cheating, love me silent and numb, trapped and feral, a caged thing thinking shadows are substance, knowing not of true light and warmth. I have dreams, fantasies, but it sinks no deeper than my skin, this visual shield that keeps you panting and me locked in.

I don't know what I'm saying, nor what I'm needing. My nails are a hard glossy red with smooth blunt edges, there's a small blood stain on my sheets I can't explain, everything smells like sex, and I'm wanting him. I crave confession, punishment, and dream of redemption, of space, of capacity. This, too? A question, a request for permission. Her hands are now in my hair but my heart is ever in your teeth. You're my person, my love, cariño, amor, mi vida. I'm so sorry I'm with her, I've taken this, tried to deny the pang of knowing you felt so long ago. So brave, so honest, so soft, all trying and leaning in and here I am, denying and compartmentalized and wrong. Ugh. I gotta go to work. I should eat something but I know I want another cigarette, more time, even if it'll feed the nausea and trembling. I'm so sorry. I love you. I'm trying. I want it all and shake under the weight. Fuck.

I started to get mad at her today: after setting such a precedent of over-communicating and letting me set the pace, wtf happened? What the fuck would have happened if I wasn't on my period? What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck? I'm obviously mad at myself for not speaking up, not stopping it, not saying no, for acting like I was into it (WAS I into it..??) but she never fucking asked. The one time she asked, as she kissed down my stomach, I know I didn't say no but I did redirect. I remember flipping over on top of her at least twice to try to slow us down.. I did try. And I did eventually start joking about her blue balls, warning her that we'd need to stop soon because her sister was on the way over.. but seriously, what if I hadn't been on my period? What if her sister hadn't been on the way? What the fuck would I have let happen? Would she have ever checked in? And why the FUCK hasn't she checked in yet afterward? Just a few texts about missing me and a bunch of normal chats about our days, but she hasn't acknowledged her hand down my pants, her mouth all over my chest, her fucking tongue in my ear and her thigh between my legs. I never touched her, maybe skimmed my hands over her chest while pressing into her shoulders as I kissed her neck, but how the fuck did she not notice I wasn't making any moves to reciprocate? How did she not notice I was trying to slow down, stop, back off? Why the fuck, how the fuck, what the fuck. What do I do now?

Ugh. I got my therapy appointment moved up to tomorrow at 12:30. I've hiked 7 miles in two days and that felt really good - took my music and stepped along to the beat. Cancelled movie night tonight with her and her sister but otherwise have kept plans, gotten out of the house, pushed through. I don't know the difference between flashbacks, intrusive thoughts, and just uncomfortable memories/rumination, but I keep hearing her panting into my ear and I want to claw my skin off. I know there were things she did that felt ok, and I remember smiling at I don't think I was faking that?? but I know I don't ever want to do that again and I think it's more than just embarrassment/vulnerability hangover. I really don't know what I wanted, what felt good, which of my feelings are real. I know she commented that I was "wiggly" and she liked it because it made it clear that I was enjoying myself. I don't fucking understand anything. I didn't want that to happen. I don't think I'm attracted to her. I didn't feel comfortable saying no or stopping.

Fucking hell. How do I play this? What do I tell her? Right now I want to cancel all my plans with her, call into work sick for two weeks, and wallow. While hiking at the lake, I kept thinking about ways to hide my body in a way that wouldn't traumatize anyone. I thought about wrecking my car while driving. I thought about the relative lethality of various overdoses. I've taken to using my nails to really dig in and feel the sting as a way to ground me or shock me out of thoughts I don't want to be having. I did have an intentional and very satisfying Freddy's binge tonight. I just want to.. I don't even know. I want to yell at her, accuse her, punish her, play the victim. I also don't want her to be sad, or feel shamed, or fucking apologize. Ugh I hate her fucking apologies, all contrite scripted bullshit. It's my fucking fault I'm not normal and can't consent. It's my fucking fault I'm vulnerable and misleading and feral and self-absorbed. If she'd had that moment with anyone else, it would have been fun and romantic and sexy and free. I'm the problem, the stick in the mud, the uptight liar.

I don't want to be physically affectionate anymore. I'm worried I'm too flirty, people probably judge me at work as being inappropriate and unprofessional. My coworker was probably trying to arrange for a date. I am bad at reading social situations, I am inappropriate, I am rude. I snapped at my grandma today for talking shit on my wardrobe last weekend, after my mom had already jabbed her for not being affirming. I watched my grandma get defensive, and sad, and I felt awful. I'm just trash. I'm mean, immature, dysfunctional, selfish trash. My ex DID know me best and he didn't feel safe around me, didn't trust me, and everyone around me minimized him because they didn't see the full picture like he did. He was right. I'm inconsistent and selfish and judgmental and I don't communicate clearly.

I dunno what's left to do. I could do meds, but I already eat ok and exercise and sleep well and have social connection and a stable job and good health so wtf could meds do besides give me side effects and also still not address the cognitive warfare I assault myself with on a regular basis. Would confidence or positive affect save me? What's missing? I'm fundamentally mortified by who I am.. can pills fix that? I don't trust or believe external validation, I'm not satisfied by or comfortable in my relationships, I feel so fundamentally lonely and broken and wrong. This fucking bullshit with my best friend, the awful breakup with my ex, the loss of my dad.. I'm not holding it together. I'm surrounded by loss and heartbreak and profound human error and it's not cute. I want out of the way. I want to curl up in a ball on the sidelines where no one notices me. I don't want to die, I just want to go somewhere I won't be perceived, won't be judged, won't be found lacking. I want away from people because I'm bad and don't belong here. I'm happy in the woods, alone in my apartment, doing work that doesn't involve other people. It's being perceived and found lacking that is absolutely killing me. I am a black hole and I'm exhausted trying to fill it.

Gonna take an appropriate amount of Benadryl and read romance stories until I pass out. Will try to work tomorrow, but might cancel some meetings. I don't want to be exposed right now. Who cares if I'm perceived as flaky or useless or unreliable. Something should be better than nothing and part of me knows that total avoidance will make it worse.

No fuckin clue what I do with my friend. Maybe act like it didn't happen since she clearly isn't going to ask about it, avoid being alone with or near her, maybe she'll take the hint and we can go back to casual hangouts. No sleepovers, limited alone time, keep it casual and superficial. I'm not doing deep with her, she fuckin threw me off the high dive and my dumb ass hadn't packed my floaties. That's my bad for not telling her I can't swim but her bad for not asking and also I HAVE LITERALLY TOLD HER I CAN'T SWIM so was she confused by my swimming jokes? My increasing time spent in the shallow end? Where the fuck did we miss each other? And why the fuck does my drowning behavior have to fucking mimic pleasure? Lying manipulative traumatized confusing misleading bullshit. Ugh. Taking my pills and going to bed. My therapist can figure that out tomorrow.