Relapse is a cruel bitch

TFW your whole face hurts from a day spent crying … when the word crying seems too soft and gentle to encompass the body-wracking sobs and heaving hiccup-y coughs, the type of ugly cry where you literally can’t breathe because your nasal passages have all swollen shut, your lungs robbed of air as it gets swallowed into the vacuum of the cavernous abyss where your heart used to reside … your eyes feel like they’ve spent quality time with their new friend sandpaper, your eyelids are puffy and yet that somehow makes them harder to close … that frontal headache that you can’t determine the source of – seeing as there are so many options … when you feel like you *should* desperately want a drink and just can’t fucking be bothered cuz you’re too exhausted to do anything desperately …

Anywho – that feeling was my day today.


I haven’t felt this broken in quite some time. I thought the gaping rift left by your death had knitted together sufficiently that it couldn’t be blown back open … but I was wrong. Boy howdy, was I ever.

I dreamt about you this week. You and I were existing in a future context. We were waking up together, limbs heavy and intertwined, the intoxication of you pervading my senses – and she was yelling. At us – at you mostly, let’s be honest – and I think she may even have slapped you as she kicked you out of my bed (and our room), the better to focus her yelling on me once you’d gone, no doubt.

She would’ve been right … she generally is, especially about my self destructive desires.

Regardless, it took me a few moments of chuckling to myself at our shenanigans for it to hit me. This future moment will never be. We won’t wake up together in Vegas, ever. We certainly won’t have an Elvis wedding neither of us was quite drunk enough to justify (and yet both of us agreed to). My ring looked good on your finger, cheap and fake and rushed as it prolly was. Would we have regretted it? Would we have hurried to get it annulled or shrugged and moved on; the silly slip of paper not making much difference in the grand scheme(s) of our lives?

I haven’t been without the bone-deep knowledge of your death simmering on the back burner of my soul for fucking AGES. I hate you a lot right now. How the fuck could you do this to me? Why the fuck does this still feel so raw?


In other news, he still isn’t speaking to me. Can’t even stand to be in the same room. It’s pathetic and childish and cowardly … and it hurts every time. Every. Single. Time. *sigh* Someday this too shall pass.

She’s feeling calmer and getting some catharsis. I should be happy for her and – mostly – I am. I’m glad to have her in my life and that she hasn’t jumped on the bandwagon of writing me off. That said, I’d be lying if I didn’t acknowledge my jealousy. She has always been more important, someone precious with a relationship worth safeguarding and repairing.

I wonder what is happening with him. I’m guessing he still refuses to acknowledge his heavy handed part in this. It’s absurd how rabidly he insisted that his actions were to protect them from me and my wicked ways, my nefarious intentions, my evil conspiracy to ruin whatever it is he so carefully guards. I would never have been in a position to know the deep dark secrets (that really aren’t, let’s face it) without him. In his frenzy to block and later destroy me, he flailed so wildly that he left me painted a la Pollack in knowledge I neither needed nor wanted. I’m still finding fucking dots and streaks in odd places. He’s such an empty human and so transparently hypocritical that the mind boggles. Maybe it helps him feel like a deity or channel his divinity? (That’s for you PLP.)

And how is she these days? The “closeness” forged through shared experience turned out to be a bigger sham than the so-called sacrifices. Wouldn’t you know those lambs have become fat fuzzy sheep out to pasture. With friends like these …

Shes gonna be furious about this. The easter egg shells sure make pretty mosaics when they get smunched though.


That moustache. Oh. My. GOD.

Those pants… and the gloves you twisted between your hands before letting me stroke them. The softness of the leather contrasting with the stiffness. Finding out that you do your own leather care … and the twinkle in your eyes as you shook my hand, hinting at the potential meetings to come.

Is there anything better than a solid flirt? Solid and tangible and full of enticing sensations.

Your compliment on my earrings and descriptions of your pair with the iridescent insect wings… set my heart a-thumping.

Good ole Shakespeare said journeys end in lovers meeting, so here’s me hoping I’ll find a travel opportunity 😏


That’s the only way I can think of to describe the look on your face as you accused me and I protested that I hadn’t done anything wrong.

I thought I’d fallen for someone with intelligence but your insistence on the ridiculous and fallacious version of events presented by your Master, who wasn’t even there when you were, belies any claim you might have had to wisdom.

I find myself dwelling on that today. The idea that your Master had anything like the integrity you spoke so highly of, that somehow his opinion carried more weight than the actual lived experience of someone who had experienced trauma … the heartbreaking understanding your actions led to –  that you never loved me, that I was only ever a proxy for something (and someone) else… Well. These things aren’t ever going to change and I strive daily to accept them. Them, and your abject cowardice.

You led me to believe you had a certain amount of strength and willingness to do the work … but at this point I’m forced to acknowledge that, regardless of your pride in your “street-punk” origins, you are desperately clinging to the safety of the status quo.

I fervently hope that someday my heart will catch up to my brain where you are concerned. Fingers crossed.