Another night, alone in the dark with nothing but my thoughts and a full glass.
It was a night of heavy emotions from the start. Anxiety sparked the evening.
Love attempted healed it.
But then it ignited once again, full force this time. Threatened with the possibility of an evening alone while he sleeps…of spending time in the dark alone…
Anxiety is the only and immediate feeling.
But the sadness is the outcome. Anxiety without the anger is just…sadness. Hopelessness.
Love doused it’s self destructive nature, its tendency towards anger.
It’s so much easier to be angry. To blame him. “Well, he fucked up. He didn’t do this, he should have done this instead.”
But tonight, he did do that. He fucking listened. Every time. And he fixed it. He wasn’t great, he caused a great bit of it initially….. but he fucking came around every time and loved me through it.
It’s everything I ask for…to be loved through it. And it worked, it always does.
But… I still left. I didn’t want to break down in his arms. I left. I took my glass and my bottle with me.
The anger isn’t there, I don’t feel anything towards him. Not blame, not anger, not annoyance.
He did trigger this initial anxiety…an attempt to go to bed early with no communication pointing towards that. When you suffer with insomnia and nightmares as severely as I do…notice of an anticipated early bedtime is paramount. (I would’ve altered my drinking schedule to accommodate his sleeping schedule.)
He created it, or at the very least, contributed to it. He knew it, and he came around. Offering me the exact thing I needed and wanted…just some fucking love. He softened himself, understood…heard what I’ve been trying to say to him all along tonight…
And he fucking did it. He gave me what I needed.
He held me and loved me and made me feel softer….safer.
It worked, just like I told him it would.
But I didn’t want to cry in his arms. I didn’t want to break down and lose it.
He held me and the anger left.
But everything else remained. The pain, the hurt…it’s all fucking there.
I’m glad the anger is gone. The anger….the anxiety mixed with false anger is so scary. That’s a recipe for incredibly fucked up decisions.
But all that’s left without it is pain.
I have therapy in less than 7 hours. There’s no hope of a good night sleep or a less than puffy, fucked up face.
The pain is fierce. It’s fucking blatant and screaming.
I’m hurting. I’m in pain. I am a fuck up, a loser, a monster…. and I am undeserving.
I’ll hang out a bit longer with my empty glass and a not so empty bottle.
This empty, dark and lonely space is my kryptonite.
Shit. It’s time for an angry “Dear, _____” letter.
One I’ve never done before.
(Spoiler alert…it’s about someone I’m not allowed to hate……….)