After Goodbye

This will be my last entry here. Dr. Brown agreed with my assessment of our current situation—that I really have no choice but to try to move on. I don’t know what I expected from our phone call, but I know a part of me was hoping for some sort of swift reconciliation, impossible as it seemed. And now I have to face losing you all over again. It’s worse than the first time. I can’t sleep. It takes a small handful of pills every night to make the memories of you fade away, and even then, I dream of you. Some of the dreams are good, others bad, all painful, because I always wake up alone, with the realization that we’re over. I write this because I want you to know that I don’t leave you easily—that every cell in my body is screaming at me to end this agony. To call you. To give you whatever freedom or time you need, if only so I can hear your voice again and curl up against you in the dark. I mourn the loss of so many things that I loved doing with you. I want us to go shopping, see a movie, try new foods, take walks and drives, explore new places, plan exotic trips, veg naked indoors all day with a wedge of cambozola cheese, a bottle of wine, and our favorite stupid sci-fi shows. This was how I wanted to spend the rest of my life—with you. I was sure, absolutely fucking sure; and now I am bereaved at the cold truth that you are not what’s best for me—that to take care of myself, I must let all of these beautiful treasures go. And I’ll try. I’ll really try. But dear God, I don’t want to. I don’t want to. I don’t want to.

Sick today, and extra lonely. All I want is cuddles, but only if they come from you. Tough luck.

My dad had to dig a trench in the front yard a while ago because of sewage probs, and now mushrooms are growing in a straight line right along where the trench was—kinda neat.

We're supposed to talk in one week. I am anxious in so many good and bad ways—excited to see your face and hear your voice again, terrified of what you might or might not say, obsessed with figuring out what *I* should say, wondering if I'll really be ready.

I can’t stop thinking about all of the good kisses, today—the first one tangled up on your couch after the horrible Depeche Mode concert, you dragging me into the bushes at the Academy of Sciences, the surprise kiss you gave me on our nighttime walk down to the beach in Carmel, even the last desperate ones as we said our long goodbye in my bed. How long will your lips haunt me?

Agh, my heart!

During tonight's go-go shift, someone shouted, "Hang in there, Jensen!" and it nearly floored me.

Your mom sent me a thank-you note for the Christmas gift. Before opening it, I half-heartedly wished it was a motherly plea for me to take you back. Every day is a mixture of hope and despair. I'm looking forward to the moment we finally speak again with both yearning and terror. Another week and a half, I think—if I'm ready. We'll see.

I went on Facebook for the first time since you left today. Of course, I had to look at your page. It took me three Ativans before I could do it, and I still felt like vomiting the whole time. Clearly, staying away has been a good idea, and I’m not ready to speak with you yet.

My legs are soaked after walking to the BART station in heavy rain. Is this what you have to deal with every day in Portland? I worry about you having to ride your bike in the wet and cold. :(

Almost like it never happened...