Most of the snow from yesterday's deluge um Mitternacht is now a sort of natural custard; hard and glistening on the top, caramelized by the relentless insistence of the sun. The air is bitter and unforgiving; even I, a staunch believer that a cloudless sunny day call for shorts, wore jeans for a second day in a row. Also: boots, though meant more for fashion than function, and a double layer of a long-sleeved thermal with an UnderArmor pullover. Threw a ball cap on and managed to leave the house to observe the stark change in weather fifteen minutes after six. I didn't want to stop and get an energy drink, consigning myself to office coffee - which, by the way, is actually damned good - and had a marginally less surreal day.
Since I am a majestic creature, I proceeded to have a grand mal coughing fit at 1am and PISS MYSELF. Not enough for it to be a huge problem, but just. . . what the fuck, body? I'm chalking it up to the residual effects of having lost my voice and zero esophageal lubrication. I think I drank water before I collapsed back into bed last night, but I can't remember completely. I just remember being embarrassed, and absolutely pissed. Pun intended.
Another day of tepid email exchanges with him, although they weren't anything remarkable. We each made one overtly and admittedly premature sexual comment. I think ultimately he'll realize that he's got his hands full still messing around on his former-ex-now-girlfriend-again with former-girlfriend-then-ex-then-side trick, aaaand it's just as well. He's a wreck of a human, still.
I do love him. I always will. But that doesn't mean that I need to skip into that dark night whenever he decides that he wants to contact me out of impulse and, what's more, frustration because he chose the wrong people to be intimate with. That's honestly what it is, and I believe he knows that. Acting on it is out of the question, because it would mean tearing apart the image he has created for himself - or that which he believes to have created, even though my intuition and several credible sources tell me that he's more or less become the Mr. Magoo of socialites. It's sad. But it's also not my fucking problem.
There will always be a part of me that gets romantic when I consider the connection we share(d). I think that axiom about the bullet - and how the name with THAT BULLET, when it goes through you, will be a wound that never heals. He is that for me, no doubt. Over the last few days since he reached out, I realized that things like that are best left behind us. The things that can be the worst for us sometimes mean the most, which makes it so profoundly painful and difficult to let go. Doing this has been a months long process; he even pointed out that I've come a long way, and I'm gratified that he recognized that. I have. He hasn't, and that's a sadness I will carry with me forever. That what we had wasn't enough for him; that I wasn't enough for him. It's been the crux of deep depression. No one knows this, but that last push from him was enough for me to lose entire chunks of my humanity. Not singing, not creating - it all has to do with that final battle when his darkness overpowered what little light I had left; when he convinced me that I was nothing at all.
To this day, I'm not sure that what his consort said to me was remotely the truth. She played me pretty hard, and it's possible that he reached out so that she can enact some sort of fucked up revenge. I honestly wouldn't put it past either of them.
Someday, I swear to God, I'm writing a book about this one section of my life. It's just crazy. There's no other word for it.
And anyway, the remains of the day were unremarkable. Casse made me laugh hard; things slowed down in the middle of the day, which always translates into a leisurely Friday.
I met Dad for dinner after work. Had some good steak and conversation even though I was by that point exhausted. Drove home, didn't hear from Dave but anticipated that after a late night with him last night. We're going to be together on Saturday, plus whatever stupidity we engage in on Friday. If any. To be honest, I'm kind of feeling the home and hearth vibe again.
Huh. When faced with something as mundane as an old flame reaching out, I'm sent into a place of introspection and spiritual auditing. I'm pretty proud of myself. I guess the old adage is true: time heals all wounds.