He was sitting on the couch, off to the left of the stage, head resting back against the cushion.

I walked over to him, the man that helped compound the anxiety, the panic, the triggers that cause me to blindly run. I walked across the grey marbled floor, the soles of my boots at such ease, fresh from skimming across the dancefloor. I know I'm good, I know this is my home.

He raised his head. Sunglasses made it so I couldn't see if he was looking at me or..? Those everpresent sunglasses that make me call him Darkeyes. Even in a club, even at 130 in the morning, they're on his face.

Quick gestures, fingers moving through the air. You. Me. Go.

I walk off.

He follows.

Threading the needle, passing through crowds, dropping hip high, dropping low. I don't like touching strangers, even if they're the same strangers I've been seeing for years.

I reach the patio, glance behind me, and walk to an empty corner. Hips sway.

"Hey," I tell him, "You look pretty miserable."

His body language is uncomfortable. I can almost see his skin trying to move away from me, his feet shifting back and forth like I've caught him in some naughty act, hand in the cookie jar.

But I wear the face of his guilt.

No cookies stolen.

"I didn't want to make you uncomfortable." More shuffling. It's hard to believe I dated this.

I loved him once. Even through what he did to me, I loved him before it happened. Cared for him before he did what he did.

Something in me, while I was engaging with my family, with my father, these last few days, realized what little he mattered. What he had done... it wasn't worth it. The anger. The holding on. The memories that cling to my brain no matter how hard I scrub at them with words.

"I heard you and Steph broke up."

He squirms, ducks his head. He remembers her role in how things played out. "It was a mutual thing..." he mumbles at me.

"It still sucks. Holidays and all. It hurts. I'm sorry."

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"I only wanted one thing from you. I wanted one thing, voluntarily given. But I realized I'm never going to get it. I just wanted to let you know that I'm sorry for your pain. I'm sorry things didn't work out." He nods, tight, sad smile. "Have a happy new year, Darkeyes."

I walk away. I hear his voice following me, "Have a happy new year, too..."

The DJ picks a track I used to listen to during our break up. Smiling, I hit the dance floor.

... ... ...


In less pleasant news, my father relapsed today. Unbearably so, for me and my "issues". Mostly, my insane driving need to have a safe place to reside where my belongings would not be touched.

This is something my father has created in me due to his behaviors over the years.

Darkeyes, on the other hand, helped create an obsession/anxiety over money, over having enough money to last for months and months should something go wrong, and to never be dependent on someone you don't fully trust.

As I've said before, I haven't trusted my father in over a decade. This simply makes it worse.

So, when my father went on his manic rampage today, one that lasted all day, and will likely continue, I managed. I dealt. I went to Starbucks, sat on the fountain, and silently cried because I couldn't keep it in any longer.

When I got home, my game face on as much as it could be, I discovered that he had, once again, violated my space. This time, it was a film camera and lens set that he dug out of my stack of things in the garage, something I had inherited from his father, my grandfather.

Fix it, he said, or I will sell it.

The light meter is broken on it, you see.

This camera was not in his way. It was likely on the top of a stack of boxes full of books and it caught his eye. But he needed to punish me, probably for going out last night, so he took it.

I stopped my tears, but I could not stop the spasms that ran up my spine as my body jerked to accomodate the emotion of the violation I fear and hate so much.

My sister stood up for me. She distracted him from me. And then I relocated to the couch to sit down. He raged and he raged, incoherently. I went upstairs and slowly packed, waiting for my laundry to finish drying.

And this, this was the amusing point.

I was so afraid all week of doing my laundry because I was terrified that I would be in the middle of doing it and something exactly like this would happen, and suddenly I would be trapped by my clothing.

Which I ended up being.

So I went upstairs and slowly packed. Made the decisions of what goes and what I was willing to give up.

When you only have two duffle bags and you are armed with the knowledge that anything you leave behind may be sold, hidden, or destroyed, you have to turn off emotion and take what you must have if you have to start again somewhere else.

I packed. Laundry finished, I took what I needed from there, then hung the shirts and pants I was not taking, kissed my mother and sister goodbye, and left.

I feel weak. I feel so weak. That one simple thing can get under my skin and shred my brain. I was going to break. I knew I was going to break if I did not leave. And I keep trying to justify leaving my mother and sister alone with him by telling myself that I need to get my feet under me, need to be healthy again, need to be strong and whole so that I can help them when they need me. That I only left them physically, not mentally, not emotionally, and if they call, I will be there.

I'm at C's now. Two duffle bags instead of the one I usually live out of. In two months, I will have been couchsurfing for a year. I only expected it to be the summer. Now look at me.

Trying to come to terms still, with giving up school. With giving up what I was so desperately hoping for. A semester of my own, a semester to work on my dreams and education without worrying about a job or money. A chance to do it right, instead of doing what I did with my Bachelor's.

I suppose that's what happens.

I worry about my mother, my sister. I worry what this will do to my mother, what it will do to all of us.

We took down the Christmas tree today, the decorations, packed up the ornaments.

It was almost as if the holiday did not exist.