It’s tricky. It comes and goes. I’m still not sure if those workshops are a good idea cuz even when I’m not thinking about it, it’s lurking there in the back of my mind simply due to the nature of the beast.

(Side note: I can’t believe that fucking jerk tried to talk to me like we’re friends. Maybe she was just being pleasant and, considering she is fucking terrible at boundaries, that’s the only way she knows how. Still though. FUCK HER.)

I was talking to my therapist this week about how wonderful it is to have a physical goal to focus on because the results may be incremental but they’re measurable and consistent and so much more tangible than emotional goals. It was a good talk. This week has been hard though. Hard in ways that I haven’t really had to deal with in awhile.

I’m reading this incredible romance by this new-to-me author that writes really phenomenal contemporary, some of which has a kinky slant, and I came across this quote and it blew my mind.


THIS. So much this. I posted it on fb and I know that everyone who responded to it did so with their own lens, that it doesn’t necessarily mean for them what it means for me and that’s ok. For me though … this so beautifully encapsulates everything I want to say to the people (especially you) that were so insistent that I get to a place where I can forgive. To be honest, they’re probably still so insistent but I don’t associate with them anymore. Fuck them. I am not in that place. I am not ready to forgive and, quite frankly, no one has ever apologised. At least, no one who caused actual harm. It hit me that I need that. I know I won’t get it – it’s purely a pipe dream – but I need it. This isn’t super surprising, considering how powerful it was when she apologised back in January. Even knowing that it was basically meaningless and just to make her feel better about herself, it was powerful. I need you to apologise. You won’t and that sucks. You’d have to acknowledge that you did something wrong. You’d have to acknowledge my personhood. I’m sure you’ve concocted some story about how I need to apologise or whatever – more of that bullshit about how you’re so hurt and angry (and how fucking dare you, btw). Still though. I need you to apologise. You won’t. That sucks.

Later in this amazeballs book, I came across this quote and I cried.


That’s really the crux of it, isn’t it. You never expected the best from me. You were always waiting for the other shoe to drop, always convinced that my assholery was about to attack, always throwing up walls and guards to make sure that I wouldn’t get away with it unscathed.

It took me MONTHS to understand that I couldn’t pin any hopes on you, or your ability to come through. I believed you and I believed IN you. Sometimes I still do. That sucks too. It really, really does.




When I think back to that night, the whole plot unravels. I’m so sure I have it all sorted in my head until I remember the way you held me, the reassurance you needed, how well we fit together. You were always an excellent lover, and certainly never shied away from touching and cuddles, but that night it wasn’t just sex for you. I wanted so much to reduce it to the physical that night and you flat out refused. The things you said to me when I kept prodding you to talk dirty still make me gooey and are on regular rotation in the spank bank.

After you fell asleep in my arms, I kept waiting for you to wake up and shift away. You were always so conscious of your own space and comfort when we slept, allowing me to cuddle up to you but only to a point. Keeping yourself turned away ever so slightly, not in rebuff or rejection, just in independence. You were always so afraid of the cling, lol, and I know it disconcerted you when I didn’t.

I absolutely assumed that you’d have reclaimed your distance when I got up to pee … but when I got back and you needed me there, pulling me so seamlessly back into the spot I’d vacated, that’s the square moment I can’t force into the round hole.

To be sure, there are other moments, other memories, that call the whole thing in to question but most of them are little things. Small details that can be framed as inconsequential or misread, especially when held up against all the bits that prove my point.

That night though. It doesn’t fit. I can’t explain it away.

Most of the time, I forget about it entirely. It doesn’t fit with the narrative I’ve concocted and so I ignore it. I can pretend it’s an obnoxious outlying point on an otherwise nicely grouped scatter plot; pretend that if I zoom in a little, I don’t even notice it.

What do you tell yourself, I wonder? I’m guessing it’s the same for you but in reverse. You’ve crafted a narrative to fit the evidence, same as I have, though instead of using the events that shaped us you’ve chosen to focus on the tale your fears told you … Wow, that was judgy. Makes me think of her self-righteous claim that she bases her actions on logic, whereas I’m locked into feelings that aren’t based in reality. Hypocritical much?

I’m not sure how else to interpret it though. I know what happened – I even know how you reacted to what happened – I was there. I saw you. I FELT you. When we were together, I know you were unhappy about it but I also know that you were mine (just as I was – as I still am – yours). Yet, seemingly out of nowhere, you were parroting a whole new set of beliefs. It isn’t my imagination that you needed to keep your distance in order to maintain your new facade. It boggles my mind that you refuse to admit how fragile it is when you’re so worried that I’ll hold up the mirror and you’ll see all the bullshit you’ve smeared across yourself.

I think back to that last date, if one can even call it that, and the rawness of your pain. I noticed it at the time but it never occurred to me that it would be the last chance I had to address it. I believed you and so I figured there’d be plenty of opportunity to hash things out “properly.”

I think I knew, though, even then that you were saying goodbye. You gave me too much. You let me see what you needed – worse, you let me provide it to you – and so I had to go. No one’s allowed to know those things. You hide them from yourself. How dare I come along and insist on the integrity you claimed to espouse?  How dare I believe in you and expect you to be the man you want to be? How dare I, indeed?



I’ve heard it said that love and hate are but too sides of the same coin. I remember once you told me that you weren’t overly worried about any negative feelings I might harbour toward you – that it was my indifference you feared. Well. I hate that I’m not indifferent. I don’t know how to get there. I want so badly to get there.

My life comes and goes around me. Things move on. Everything has changed and yet stayed the same. I’m so frustrated by the problematic individuals in my life that my therapist asked me to write a set of criteria / commandments that I want to govern the friends I make – and she, of course, asked me to track how well I can live by them as what use is a standard one can’t hold oneself to?

You don’t fit. You don’t qualify. You wouldn’t be able to meet these rules. I doubt I could honestly say that you are able to pass even one. Yet I long for you in the darkest recesses of my heart. I don’t talk about it. I’m not willing to suffer the scorn and reprimands, however well meant, of those around me.

Most days I manage to suppress the longing. I go whole weeks without even thinking of you. Then there you are, in front of me as though the universe just can’t get enough of that sick, twisting knife of the perverse.

I hate that you don’t care, that you likely never did. I hate that I probably don’t ever flit across your mind. I hate that I’m not indifferent. But I’m not.

The Point of No Return

I envy her. I didn’t before. Hell before I giddily relished my position as superior to hers – it wouldn’t have been possible for me to envy her. I feel foolish thinking of it now. Pitying her for the meagre scraps she was forced to accept… for the fact that she couldn’t know all of you.

Hindsight being what it is – I can’t help but look back and want to slap my younger self. I KNEW better. My gut screamed at me about it but, oh, how desperately my heart refused to hear.

It’s so painful to have figured out the moment it changed, to have made the connection between those deep undercurrents and to know – with every fibre of my being – that nothing would have convinced me to make a different choice at the time.

That’s a sign that all the subterfuge works I guess. We’re supposed to want it and I did. Oh, how I wanted it. If I’d known that it was linked to you, that it would be the point of no return in our relationship … but that’s a useless hypothetical. There’s no way I’d have understood the connection at the time and no one would’ve clued me in because they wanted me to make that choice. I know they meant well, most of them any way, but that still sucks.

It hurts so much that your decisions were based on my answer that night … and that you weren’t honest with me about it. I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s not like I can point to a moment between us where you were honest and up front. Yet somehow you see me as the villain.

Gods, I envy her and her blissful ignorance.

“One minute I held the key
Next the walls were closed on me
And I discovered that my castles stand
Upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand”


It’s the night before the annual making of resolutions. I could be out revelling. I’m not. I can’t be around happy people right now – even if the happiness is somewhat forced and contrived.

I’m not happy.

I have happy moments. I have a pretty spectacular life when it comes down to it. I have worked hard to get where I am and my current life is the result of immense growth and change – especially in 2017. It was a rollercoaster year.

I should be happy … or so the voice  in my head tells me …

It’s not even an asshole voice, as so many of them are. It truly wants what is best for me. It genuinely strives for my best interests.

I just can’t. I’m just not.

I resolve that 2018 will be alright. That I will be alright. I don’t know what that looks like. I don’t know how to get there. I’m terrified of the not knowing. I’m already exhausted at the prospect.

I want to wish you happiness. I want to wish you the best. But I’m selfish. I know I can’t make those things contingent on other outcomes … but if I’m honest those other outcomes are what I really want.

I resolve to learn more. To be a better love. Better able to handle your absence.

I resolve to let you go on to your next iteration. I don’t know how and I resolve to accept that I will never know.

I love you. I’m holding out my hand to you. I’m still here. Abandoned.

I resolve. I’m resolved.

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’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.