The first day/night is always the hardest.

This is the first time we haven’t spoken all day since…we started going out back in July/August. And it’s always weird to have a constant in your life stop so abruptly. It’s weird. It’s different. I’m not used to it.

But I SHOULD be used to it, though. I went on nineteen years of my life not having him around, and he’s been pretty in and out of my life for the last two. And this brief four month period that we shared so intimately makes it seem as though I’ve been missing out on something all along. 

Our time together temporarily eliminated some of the roughness of life. It gave me something to look forward to. It made suffering throughout the week a bit more bearable. And now I don’t even have that to fall back on anymore.

I went to the grocery store today, and perused the alcohol aisle. I couldn’t even go through without being reminded of him. Ralphs was stocked full of beer that we used to drink together—the special kind, the good IPAs, not the shitastic Coronas or Budd Light. His favorite. 

And then I thought about how he told me I was his favorite. Like his favorite beer.

For the moments where we are briefly intoxicated, we never once think about when the buzz will wear off.  But we all know, however, that we all must sober up eventually. It’s inevitable. 

These associations really need to stop.

Sometimes, I wish we knew ahead of time when the last time we were going to be with someone was.

I keep thinking back to the last time we really saw each other, before everything came crashing down and our paths started to diverge.  If I had known that was going to be the last time we’d really be happy together, I’d chase you back to your apartment and give you a “proper” kiss goodbye.  If I had known that that was going to be the last time I’d be able to show you how much you meant to me or how much I really cared, I would have missed my bus ride home and spent as much time as I possibly could with you. It would have made a difference, because then I wouldn’t have this excruciating regret that I didn’t make the most of my time with you.  I just expected there to be more kisses, more opportunities to entrapped in ecstasy and pure bliss, to be so encased in everything that made up your existence and feel as connected to someone as I did with you. 

I had no idea that these opportunities had an expiration date to them. I expected them to be limitless. At least, I hoped for them to be.

Now, I don’t time with someone special for granted anymore.  This idealistic notion of forever has been disrupted as it does not exist anymore, because everything will  either end or transpire into something completely different. Love’s kinetic like that, I suppose; it never ends, it only transforms into a new form of energy.  I’m making everything every expression of affection count for something, because unfortunately, we don’t know when the “last time” will come. And I’m scared of feeling like I do now all over again and not cherishing every second of what I do have now. That’s the only thing guaranteed to me, and hell, I will take whatever is presented NOW.

Real strength isn’t about blocking out the pain and forcing a smile on your face so you don’t have a complete breakdown in front of everyone. 

Real strength is about allowing pain to hit you and feeling it at the strongest degree, and still having the courage to continue on.

There’s real strength in vulnerability.

There’s this one picture of us that I took that will forever be one of my favorite pictures ever taken. Just the way that we’re positioned, the context in which the picture was taken, it’s all so beautiful to me. What’s most beautiful  is how your face looks. You just look so happy, so pleased, so content and satisfied with life. Because at the moment in time, it was us that made you happy. And it was everything you wanted…or thought you wanted.

Things were much simpler back then.

I am terribly bummed that unfortunately, what we shared in that blissful past is not something that you currently desire. I will always look back at that moment not in regret or disdain, but as evidence that our paths did cross in that sacred way, and how ever so grateful I am that it did.  That we were able to share something so special with each other, even if it was only for a brief amount of time. 

Truly, I am disappointed that I won’t ever have a photo taken like of us ever again, but more importantly, I am happy that it ever did happened.

That we ever happened.

[:

I usually encounter true feelings of what love feels like after a lover decides to leave, stray, or check out from the relationship. I’m so guarded from realizing or saying how I truly feel whenever I’m in the actual relationship, that I never fully express the intensity of these feelings and emotions when it’s blissful. Instead, these feelings are communicated and delivered at a time where it’s no longer appropriate or safe for me to do so, or when the other person deems it to not have any sway or significance in looking at you in a positive manner. Instead of cute, I am now crazy. Crazy for you, crazy in how this situation situates me.  

This crack in emotional instability has lead me to wonder what now qualifies for me as “love,” since I become pretty damn upset every time someone decides to leave. The intensity in which I feel the loss of a lover varies, but the way in which I react is pretty predictable. Yet, I would argue in retrospect that some lovers I cried over more, I perhaps didn’t even love at all.  Is this definition of love now met by the number of days I spend crying or agonizing over a fantasy of what could have been? Does love reveal itself when I vomit everything that sits in my stomach, with the possibility of puking up all other organs? Maybe the ultimate qualifier is how hopeless my prospective outlook seems to turn, or the longing I feel when it’s declared as being over.

I slept for seventeen hours straight a couple of days ago, because my body and mind couldn’t handle being fully awake and alert. This week has felt like a dream, but I know as soon as we communicate, I will begrudgingly awaken to our crossroads. I’m still sleeping, dreaming blissfully and in denial that everything and nothing and anything has happened.

The Big Red Spot is not just a spot,

it’s actually a storm.

The eye of the storm, the storm of my soul.

my soul, is bleeding. 

It bleeds because you penetrated.

It now bleeds because you withdrew.

Fuck you for fucking me,

Fuck me for fucking you. 

Jupiter, in all of your gas, do you even exist? 

I am quite aware that I’m still alive. I’m showing all visible signs that point are pointing to the fact that I’m still maintaining a constant state of living: my blood is still running thick through my veins, my brain is still receiving all neural messages from my spinal cord and nerves, my lungs are still transporting oxygen into my bloodstream and releasing carbon dioxide into the world, and my stomach is still digesting my food and making the attempt to transfer it all out of me. Vitals signs have all been checked, and yep, everything is all clear. The diagnosis is that I’m still going to be around for at least another couple of seconds.

People have been asking me how I’ve been lately, and I keep using the “I’m alive” cop out excuse to respond back to me. It is true, though, right? There’s no lie in the statement that I am still alive. I have been alive. I have been alive all this time.  And I will continue to still be alive so long as death allows me to live. 

At first, I found a lot of strength by using that response. It empowered me to know that even though I lost control of my life and that I was hurting tremendously, I was still here on this Earth.  I was reassured that I had a bit more strength over the something/someone that was trying to overpower me.  I was still here, and whatever was trying to topple me over failed at making me crumble.  This thinking kept me for awhile, but then I started to realize how detrimental saying this over and over again to other people and even myself, was on myself. Saying “I’m alive” repeatedly is slowly killing me, because regardless of what my outer being suggests, fact is, my inner being is dead.  Denying my actual feelings and trying to remove some of the hurt by focusing on what I knew was working is failing its initial intention.

I’m only getting worse by going about things in this way.

This needs to stop.

Do you ever walk down a crowded walkway of people ever wondering how much of your life they know, or even if they bother to care to know about what’s going on in your life? Call it me being paranoid or socially anxious, but I often wonder how much complete strangers pick up on matters that I would classify to be seemingly private.  Because I have complete knowledge and am extremely familiar with whatever is troubling me, I often believe that the world has this limitless knowledge of my problems and conflicts, too, even though I know I cannot possibly be that transparent.

I guess it’s just a social fear of mine: having private dramas surface to such a public degree, and having my image tarnished and ruined. I’m not proud with how I’ve been handling certain issues lately, and it shames me to the point where I don’t want anyone else knowing. I don’t want to be judged by people who don’t even matter; they don’t deserve to know what’s going on. But, at the same time, it’s hard not to notice irritated eyelids, a red nose, and tear stained cheeks.

I should really appreciate that I lead a private life, and whatever information I wish to disclose to people is at my total and complete disclosure.

I worry that even strangers have a better ability to detect under their radar that I cried the night before. What’s worse is even considering the possibility that they know the reason for why I’m crying. 

I’m tired of feeling like an open exhibit. I don’t need for my open wounds to become infected with outside bacteria.