I'm unexpectedly and quite rapidly falling in love.

Odd to say, odd to think.

And so fast.

It took me near a year and some change to fall in love with Darkeyes, and even then, it was never full, never complete. Some sort of half-hearted love, carnival-food style love.

GV8, while I adored him, trusted him, respected him, he did not have my love for near six months.

This, this thing with PD which should be a rebound but never was, something that is nowhere near as intense as what I had with GV8...

And each day I look at him, I look at the creases around his eyes as he grins at me and my stomach crinkles up inside me, an unexpected, oddly pleasurable sensation. A sense of things rearranging themselves, of bonding.

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Date with the porn director (henceforth known as PD because I have no imagination) was... incredibly good.

Instant comfortability.

Constant conversation, no awkward moments of silence. Complete easy flow.

There's actually a lot I want to write and things I want to remember, but I'm so goddamned tired (as always) that I don't want to write in this state.

We had fun. We had good chemistry. I met some of his coworkers, his ex-girlfriend (who I later looked up online and am now completely intimidated by), watched a -very- softcore lesbian porn being shot (by someone else renting the space). Wandered through downtown, just talking. Went back to his place, messed around a little bit, but he kept his pants on.

I totally didn't. Such a slut, I know. Stone me, already.

I didn't spend the night, though I wanted to. When I left, we made plans for breakfast, and he showed up at my place bright and early and we walked down to a restaurant on the beach, talked more.

I really like him.

But that doesn't matter. That's a no-go zone.

Makes me circle back around to my fear that since GV8 broke down my walls, I might not be able to have casual sex again without turning into one of those girls that falls in love with her casual partner.

I don't want to go through that again. Once with GV8 was enough.

Personally, I'm going to do my best not to dwell on it. Not until it proves to be a potential issue. As things are right now, we have two dates under our belt and scads of things could happen to prevent any future dates. I've seen it go that way before and, while disappointing, is just the way life can go.

I'll examine, watch, and be aware.

But I'm not going to live in fear. Not this way.

Moment of *squeak*

Well, it's currently official, pending interference by natural disasters.

Roman is coming out to stay with me for a few days in three weeks.

The one man in my life right now that I'd actually sleep with.

The one man in my life right now that I can actually talk to.

I'm torn between a *squeak* of happiness and a "what exactly is the universe planning that is going to prevent this from happening?" thought.

Because that happens to me a lot.

In other, less exciting news, tomorrow looks to be packed. Scattered errands and socialization in the morning and early afternoon, date in the late afternoon/early evening with the porn director, clubbing at night. Invited to a birthday dinner as well, but that's likely not going to happen.

Not really... wanting to go out on that date tomorrow.

It's one of those fruitless endeavors. It really is fairly useless. He's not anyone I would have a relationship with, nor can/will I sleep with him. Too risky. So it's just another social point of contact in yet another series of social leapfrogging because I don't let my social circles overlap.

Which is probably because of experiences I had in childhood/early teenage years of losing entire social groups due to drama, and always being the little bitch of the group (because I did not grow a set until after getting kicked out of college).

It's simply not socially safe to have a small number of social groups.

Things happen, people change, drama happens, groups age and then... cocooning. Watching some partner off into safe, happy, sexless relationships. Content. Not adventuring. Locked into their lives. Locked into their friends, their friends' friends, and those who float in, having little to no say over the whole group.

I never fully belong.

But, sometimes, that's a good thing.

So, another friend. Maybe someone I mildly mess around with. Another person to work into my too-busy schedule.

Useless.

I kinda don't even want to get to know him, as he's just going to wind up another guy that I hung out with once or maybe twice, then tapered off talking to because my plate is already too full. And then I feel bad, and pressured.

Heh, I'm kinda setting myself up for a miserable date, aren't I?

No time for a relationship, losing desire for casual sex.

Frightening to think that maybe, after what I experienced with GV8, that I may no longer be able to have casual sex. God knows that the only reason I'm able to consider sleeping with Roman is because I care for him so much. As much as you can when all you have is the voice on the other end of a telephone, knowing that things will go absolutely no where.

So am I there now? Stuck in that place where nothing is going to "work" except for emotions, that I'll start emotionally entangling myself with any man I end up sleeping with regularly?

Or is that just weakness, vulnerability, left over by GV8 stripping me so raw?

That, eventually, I'll get back to normal, to casual sex for the sake of casual sex?

Maybe. I suppose time will tell.

Kinda of odd, being so emotionally vulnerable on a sexual level. That's so new, something I can hardly remember. When I started banging the nights away, I was doing so out of self-destruction, more focused on myself than the person I was sleeping with, using them to hurt my basic value system instilled in me by my parents. So the man didn't really matter, and I was aiming, purposefully, so low quality, that one-night stands were expected. It wasn't until I was 17-18 that I started having regular partners.

Aside from the first person I slept with, I never had that real chance or inclination to bond with my partners. And even that first person, while I thought myself in love with him, the sex did nothing to bring us closer together, though I enjoyed it. It wasn't needed, no bonds were strengthened.

Then GV8 flips things around on me. Shows me what emotional sex can be like.

Never thought I'd learn that.

Never thought I'd be one of those people that say making love is better than fucking.

Another check-mark in the column of "craziness".

One of my favorite quotes on love...

“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.”

~Neil Gaiman

Overwhelmed. Gut-wrenchly overwhelmed. Vomit-inducing levels of tearing emotion ripping through my system with little disregard for basic biological functions.

He left me. He split with me.

Crying. Crying some more. Gravity pulling tears downward as they cling to my skin, leaving shining trails down my face and oh god, oh god it hurts.

Rending. The rending of future, the rending of hope, from my mind, my heart, tossed in with the rest of them, a compost heap to things that will never be, piling up behind my eyes, deposits of shimmering twisted metal wrecks of the accidents of my love life, the accidents of dreams wrecked on this highway inside my skull.

Sirens blaring, social ambulances following my tear tracks, distractions, justifications, rationalizations, theories on why it shouldn't hurt as they run the shovels through the mounds of what things were, assembling it into piles, applying bandages.

It does hurt.

Sitting on the bumper of an ambulance, heart in a sling.

Skeletons of things gone by, adding goliath structure to those that were sacrificed in front of its altar.

The Things We Have Irrevocably Lost.

My ceremonial dance is of sex and sweat, trying to appease the gods of broken hearts, internal validation, superficial-this-does-more-harm-than-good one-night-stands as I take the wrappings of desire and bundle myself against the wind whipping through the hollow in my chest.

My song becomes a scream of the moans I've given to men. To Man. The chorus is a repetitive barking of names I have forgot and things that have gone unforgiven, shoring up the defenses against Men That Have Yet To Come.

It's a monument. It's my monument to hurt and desire, it's my monument to a girl that, according to my mother, is too passionate and gives too myself of herself. They're funeral pyres of innocence, of naivty, of loving without reserve. Breathe in the smoke and prophesize.

You will always be alone.

Crazed oracular ramblings or truth? Fears that echo through my hollow legs. Denial of my constant, overdone romantic nature, something that I'll never be able to kick. A dirty habit, dwelling in daydreams I hide in alleys and dark corners, showing to no one out of shame because I should be harder than this. I should have given up on this.

I should know better.

Better than to leave myself wanting. To leave that opening for that puzzle piece that does not exist because I'm too far outside of the norm, but not far enough to pass into the next social/sexual bellcurve.

Balancing on the tip of a glacier.

Fear-driven words whispering. Knowing I've pushed myself too far. Knowing life would be so much easier if I was ever able to mimic normal.

Bundle up and keen.

Untangle the knots in my stomach, then unweave the threads of the ropes that form them.

This hurts, so I cry.
This hurts, so I withdraw.
This hurts and, for once, I acknowledge the pain.
For once, I will allow myself the time to mourn. Because all I am is what I do. We become the roles we play and I've played being a Dissolved Girl too many times and it is now time to try something new.

Because that obviously isn't working.

He left me. He left me with my burning funeral pyres and the smoke rising out of my eyes, ashes of things I've swallowed under but they still leak out.

I'm a walking ball of relationship debris.

Baggage enough to stuff a 747, my carousel floodeth over.

Aware, but not strong enough to change. Not strong enough to be strong.

Strictly controlled and monitored, 24/7 survelliance through my eyes as I move. But I never swoop in.

Analyze and judge.

I received a bootycall text at 230AM on Saturday night, while I was curled up with GV8. I looked at it Sunday morning and realized that, of things I do, putting up with that is not one of them.

I'm wounded. He drove his knife into me and it clicked and slid along the other blades that I never took out, the ones my flesh has grown over and incorporated into who I am. Living around those things that have been done. My heart adjusts for the lack of space as the weapons of severance trainwreck around it.

I have... so much to give. I am so goddamned passionate and devoted, so freaking loyal and supportive. It makes me ache when I have no one to give these things to, when it loads up inside me and the pressure builds that I have no one to shower my unending love on. That there is no skin at my lips for me to search and trail with my tongue, with my heart.

It hurts.

For the first time, I did something.

For the first time, when a relationship ended and I was left shattered, I took the rest of the day off work. To examine. To mourn. To search.

Since I started dating, whenever something goes south, I've never taken a day off. I've always been told to buck up, suffer through it, distract yourself, responsibilities come first, you can mourn later.

But I never mourn.

I just let myself get distracted by the endless to-do list life presents me. People tell me I wallow in things, and I do, but the wallowing is in my constant analysis, constant judgement. It's never me allowing myself to feel hurt, but distracting myself from the hurt, logic-ing and rationalizing the hurt until I convince myself that it's okay, that I don't feel it anymore.

That it doesn't impact me.

Today, as people were checking up on me, texts, emails, IMs, I found myself saying "Oh well".

To everything. Whenever advice was offered, an apology given, a rationalization, a hug, and then they looked or paused expectantly, the only thing I could say was "Oh well".

Really?

"Oh well"?? Is that all I have? This non-committal conclusion-ish statement? Withdrawing into myself because I can't take the advice and rationalization, because crying, trying not to hit that sobbing level, on the freeway, heading home so I can sit here in bed, wrapped in my grandmother's blanket, stomach growling as I attempt to pretend to others, at least to make them feel not so helpless if not just to stop the advice and rationalizing of why it's "for the best", that it's okay?

Trying to convince myself.

No other words come to my lips as I sit here.

Feeling the tears rolling down my face, that slight drag as the saline attempts to cling but gravity pulls it down, the idea that whenever two things come in physical contact with one another they bond together and then are pulled apart, the stronger surface of the two keeping tiny molecular pieces of the weaker, knowing that the tears are the weaker, so much weaker, and the salt is still on my cheeks even as the liquid dries.

I found myself wanting male contact. Wanting to be pulled into strong arms, strong heat, wide chest, and be comforted.

I found a text message from my sister, asking if I wanted to go shopping today, realizing that that is one of the few times she's ever... done that. Taken care of me. I always take care of her. And how that pushed me into sobbing.

I found myself trying to console myself, trying to feel better, knowing that I had finally jumped that hurdle of opening up. Of being vunerable. Of chasing. Of following my instincts. Of trying to allow myself to trust. Ever.

And I was starting to trust him.

One of three males in my life that I ever started to trust.

Of course, now I trust none of them.

It's not a daddy-issue or an infidelity issue, simply a human issue.


I hurt.

I keep trying to distract myself from this pain. Following my brain down whatever rabbit holes it presents, hoping one will shrink this pain, allow that distance.

Wishing that any rationalization could make this hurt less. Could take the edge off. Wondering if they can. Wondering if I'm simply a failure at this, that I'm too damaged for any real, healthy logic to make sense. To stop the bleeding.

I had fifteen days with him, fifteen days after I left him, fifteen days to show him who I was, how I felt, and what we could be together. Fifteen days to love, to devote, to serve someone worth serving. Fifteen days to cling to threads of hope.

And they were good days. Days full of love and laughter, of sex and cuddling, of walks and lengthy conversations, of discussing dreams.

I should be thankful for them. I should be thankful to myself for finally being willing to be hurt so badly. For taking that step, even knowing that it was entirely likely that I'd simply step into space and tumble down.

They were good days. Days that allowed me time to take pictures of us together.

I wish I could say that I felt this coming. Yes, when I wrote in here, I kept trying to bring myself back to earth, kept trying to keep it realistic. But in my heart, I thought we had made it. In my heart, I thought it was a matter of time until he decided we suited and we'd work all those knots out because he wanted to be with me, he wanted me in his life.

In my heart, I dreamed. In my heart, I erected a circus tent and allowed my fantasies to step into the center ring.

In my heart, he was there.

But I didn't want to be caught off guard. I did not want to be seen being the naively devoted girl to such a man. I wanted to be perceived as strong, as aware, as realistic. I wanted to convince myself of that, as well. If others believed it of me, then maybe I would become that way.

And not a little girl daydreaming at her desk, ignoring the lessons of life and reality.

What good has this done me? In the last seven months, who have I become? In the last fifteen days, what choices have I made? Even though my future with him is gone, he has still impacted who I am going to be.

I want to spend all day in bed, watching movies.
I want to fall into my books, my distractions.
I want to write until my fingers become calloused and the wave of text when this blog is opened by an unsuspecting reader makes them exclaim in shock of the wave of disorganzied mental crap I have tossed up.
I want a man to pretend with. I want those warm arms around me so I can fantasize, just for a moment, that there's someone I can trust, that I can be safe with.

That I'm not just alone.