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I knew it was coming.
Feb. 27th, 2008 06:57 amIn the beginning, the very beginning, I said: you're gonna break my heart someday, boy.
The title of this journal is watching the cycle: leaves to mulch to soil to leaves. It's because that's the only thing I can count on.
This week I talked to Eva about what-ifs, backup plans, and I tried to stay open and not close myself off to him in case I was wrong.
Last night I took the twenty up Victoria for 'a talk' that, when asked, he admitted I should have a friend around afterward for. I knew to ask that question. I was angry on the bus ride there, and I dreaded waiting for the bus because then I'd have to think. Luckily there was no wait.
He was upfront and straightforward. He made no excuses. He doesn't love me, he wishes he did, but he doesn't. He's not the sort of person who can continue on just like that even so, despite my many wonderful qualities. It's maybe the second time in my life someone's been so upfront about a breakup with me, and the first time was when I was thirteen. He held me, he cried, I cried. He said in the next couple weeks I could go to him for comfort if I needed. I said don't do this to me-- I didn't mean to say it, because he was being so good about it, but I had to, just in case it helped. He said he really wanted to be friends. I said when I get over the angry phase, I'm not there yet but I'll let you know when I get to it, so yes, comfort, but please could he not do this to me?
When I first came into the room he asked me what I meant when I said I loved him. I said no, just say what you need to say, and he did. Later I tried to put it into words: he's the shining thing that my life sudenly and inexplicably organised itself to hold up, rather than just curling and tumbling in an attempt to stay up with no particular focus. He is a reason for things. He is beautiful. He is... I don't know how to describe, it's a spiritual thing, he makes me ring. It's like a flower at the top of my head with a lacework all down my spine. Still when he smiled at me it gave me butterflies in my stomach.
He doesn't feel any comfort when I hold him in my arms. When he holds me, even now, even after that, it's still the best place ever to be.
It was seven months to the day from the date we had decided was the beginning. That was the day he came over to talk about rats, after the first family dinner where things sparked and Eva brought us together. We talked about rats for a long time, then things went silent and he looked up at me. I looked back. Eventually I went around behind him in the chair and bit his shoulders, and that was that. I took the day off work to see him get his tattoo and we went to the park and made out for hours, then hesitated before going to his place.
We waited to fuck for what seemed like forever, waiting for test results to come back (I do try to keep my STD tests up to date before the fact).
It was private. I called him babydoll, puppy, my love, sweetie, Mister, every pet name seemed to fit him. He called me ma'am and my tummy did bellyflops. I beat him with a cane for the first time and he liked it. I cried sometimes, after sex or during, because it was like god coming down. His body was built for mine-- ribcage fashioned to fit the length of my arm, his arms designed to curl around me just right to trigger all my safe feelings. His cock was exactly right. I loved the little bit of soft on his belly, the way it pooled out a little. I loved the flame tattoo on his arm, and the grapes. I loved the way he looked at me when I hurt him, his eyes got so big and soft. They were usually blue eyes, with a ring in the middle the colour of his year. He's a redhead. I notice redheads more on the street now, and people dressed in construction-worker clothes.
I didn't write much about it and I regret that now because it will slip away, but at the same time I couldn't.
I don't regret the thing, because it was spring itself. I think I'll be okay. I didn't, on the way to his house; I thought of bridges and knives. I don't do that, it's not my style. When I was there, though, the network kicked in. I thought of the people waiting for me-- Mom, my brother, Eva, Bob, and the web caught me, and I couldn't just lie down and roll over.
On the way home it was a feeling of unreality, like the last seven months had been a little miracle. They're over, sure, and I'm back to my regular programming.
I wanted to have his babies. I wanted to marry him. I wanted to do all those silly things, carve his name into my flesh, you know?
I don't really know what to do now. I still want a job that I can have children in. If men are fickle, dammit, I still want to raise a child. I have work - retail today, which may be awful but better than an empty day. It's the second-last shift, and 10-8, which is long. Then there's dinner with Eva and/or karaoke. Ryan was home last night. He held me, which felt weird -- he's so tiny compared. He let me talk, and he talked, and it was diverting. That was important. Diversion.
When people said they love me to that last post-- thank you, it helped. Sympathy would be a problem for me right now though. Love, yes. Caring, yes. Sympathy, no.
I'm a bit of a mess. I hate spring.
I never showed him Secretary, or Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.
We never had sex in public.
When he was really sick I used to hold him and he'd feel better, but later on he wanted space to deal with it. A sign, I guess. He woke up at the same time as me, in the mornings. At night he'd tell me he was going to stay up, then fall asleep. Id' poke him and he'd sit up sleepily, trying to look alert, and say, 'I wasn't asleep'. Everything he did was adorable, odd on a six-foot-something construction worker.
He _was_ my springtime. When it snowed he'd get up, all excited, and put on his clothes and go out into it. It's snowed a lot this winter, and after awhile I started to smile too when it snowed. There's more to say, perhaps -- he was in Vegas for New Years, and I still have the message saved on my phone that says he wants me to be his forever. I want to save that message, but I don't want to listen to it for awhile.
His hair is still wrapped around the ring of my black collar.
His hands were much bigger than mine, a full joint plus some. Something about his cheekbones and lips was a song, a poem. I look at him all the time, even after seven months, just for the sheer pleasure I took in it. He does his best, he feels guilty a lot of the time over not living up to his personal standards which are high, sometimes unrealistic. He tried really hard in this, and he tries really hard generally to be a good person.
I don't know. This morning before work will be long.
I've done this to other people. Jan, I remember you didn't say much. I know why now. I'm sorry. I am so sorry.
The title of this journal is watching the cycle: leaves to mulch to soil to leaves. It's because that's the only thing I can count on.
This week I talked to Eva about what-ifs, backup plans, and I tried to stay open and not close myself off to him in case I was wrong.
Last night I took the twenty up Victoria for 'a talk' that, when asked, he admitted I should have a friend around afterward for. I knew to ask that question. I was angry on the bus ride there, and I dreaded waiting for the bus because then I'd have to think. Luckily there was no wait.
He was upfront and straightforward. He made no excuses. He doesn't love me, he wishes he did, but he doesn't. He's not the sort of person who can continue on just like that even so, despite my many wonderful qualities. It's maybe the second time in my life someone's been so upfront about a breakup with me, and the first time was when I was thirteen. He held me, he cried, I cried. He said in the next couple weeks I could go to him for comfort if I needed. I said don't do this to me-- I didn't mean to say it, because he was being so good about it, but I had to, just in case it helped. He said he really wanted to be friends. I said when I get over the angry phase, I'm not there yet but I'll let you know when I get to it, so yes, comfort, but please could he not do this to me?
When I first came into the room he asked me what I meant when I said I loved him. I said no, just say what you need to say, and he did. Later I tried to put it into words: he's the shining thing that my life sudenly and inexplicably organised itself to hold up, rather than just curling and tumbling in an attempt to stay up with no particular focus. He is a reason for things. He is beautiful. He is... I don't know how to describe, it's a spiritual thing, he makes me ring. It's like a flower at the top of my head with a lacework all down my spine. Still when he smiled at me it gave me butterflies in my stomach.
He doesn't feel any comfort when I hold him in my arms. When he holds me, even now, even after that, it's still the best place ever to be.
It was seven months to the day from the date we had decided was the beginning. That was the day he came over to talk about rats, after the first family dinner where things sparked and Eva brought us together. We talked about rats for a long time, then things went silent and he looked up at me. I looked back. Eventually I went around behind him in the chair and bit his shoulders, and that was that. I took the day off work to see him get his tattoo and we went to the park and made out for hours, then hesitated before going to his place.
We waited to fuck for what seemed like forever, waiting for test results to come back (I do try to keep my STD tests up to date before the fact).
It was private. I called him babydoll, puppy, my love, sweetie, Mister, every pet name seemed to fit him. He called me ma'am and my tummy did bellyflops. I beat him with a cane for the first time and he liked it. I cried sometimes, after sex or during, because it was like god coming down. His body was built for mine-- ribcage fashioned to fit the length of my arm, his arms designed to curl around me just right to trigger all my safe feelings. His cock was exactly right. I loved the little bit of soft on his belly, the way it pooled out a little. I loved the flame tattoo on his arm, and the grapes. I loved the way he looked at me when I hurt him, his eyes got so big and soft. They were usually blue eyes, with a ring in the middle the colour of his year. He's a redhead. I notice redheads more on the street now, and people dressed in construction-worker clothes.
I didn't write much about it and I regret that now because it will slip away, but at the same time I couldn't.
I don't regret the thing, because it was spring itself. I think I'll be okay. I didn't, on the way to his house; I thought of bridges and knives. I don't do that, it's not my style. When I was there, though, the network kicked in. I thought of the people waiting for me-- Mom, my brother, Eva, Bob, and the web caught me, and I couldn't just lie down and roll over.
On the way home it was a feeling of unreality, like the last seven months had been a little miracle. They're over, sure, and I'm back to my regular programming.
I wanted to have his babies. I wanted to marry him. I wanted to do all those silly things, carve his name into my flesh, you know?
I don't really know what to do now. I still want a job that I can have children in. If men are fickle, dammit, I still want to raise a child. I have work - retail today, which may be awful but better than an empty day. It's the second-last shift, and 10-8, which is long. Then there's dinner with Eva and/or karaoke. Ryan was home last night. He held me, which felt weird -- he's so tiny compared. He let me talk, and he talked, and it was diverting. That was important. Diversion.
When people said they love me to that last post-- thank you, it helped. Sympathy would be a problem for me right now though. Love, yes. Caring, yes. Sympathy, no.
I'm a bit of a mess. I hate spring.
I never showed him Secretary, or Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.
We never had sex in public.
When he was really sick I used to hold him and he'd feel better, but later on he wanted space to deal with it. A sign, I guess. He woke up at the same time as me, in the mornings. At night he'd tell me he was going to stay up, then fall asleep. Id' poke him and he'd sit up sleepily, trying to look alert, and say, 'I wasn't asleep'. Everything he did was adorable, odd on a six-foot-something construction worker.
He _was_ my springtime. When it snowed he'd get up, all excited, and put on his clothes and go out into it. It's snowed a lot this winter, and after awhile I started to smile too when it snowed. There's more to say, perhaps -- he was in Vegas for New Years, and I still have the message saved on my phone that says he wants me to be his forever. I want to save that message, but I don't want to listen to it for awhile.
His hair is still wrapped around the ring of my black collar.
His hands were much bigger than mine, a full joint plus some. Something about his cheekbones and lips was a song, a poem. I look at him all the time, even after seven months, just for the sheer pleasure I took in it. He does his best, he feels guilty a lot of the time over not living up to his personal standards which are high, sometimes unrealistic. He tried really hard in this, and he tries really hard generally to be a good person.
I don't know. This morning before work will be long.
I've done this to other people. Jan, I remember you didn't say much. I know why now. I'm sorry. I am so sorry.
