My best beloved flea
May. 22nd, 2001 06:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thejunipertreeIn an effort to draw myself out of this funk,
I bought a black sleeveless dress with giant
red poppies patterned all over. I'm wearing it
right now. Combined with my tattoos and Betty
Page hair, I now look like a rockabilly's
goth pin-up.
I'm still not very happy. I even bought a new
push-up bra. Retail therapy fails, once again.
Yesterday, in an AIM conversation with Richard,
I partially unloaded how I've been feeling. I
told him how I'd never understand why he continues
to love me, why he even started loving me in
the first place. I'm only a dead weight, an
anchor around his neck. I can barely tread water
on my own, feebly keeping my head above the
surface.
I told him again how I was afraid I'd never
see him again. And how it makes me feel helpless.
Hopeless. I told him how "Soon." and "It'll
be alright." and "We'll find a way" just isn't
good enough. I want cold, hard facts. I want
something to actually work towards, rather than
continuing to flounder about in my own sick.
I'm tired of this inertia. I'm tired of not
having any answers. Does this mean I've given up?
That the next step is to swallow my pride and
walk away from him?
To make matters more complicated, bits of my
heart are being siphoned away on another. They
also occupy my thoughts, where before it was only
Richard I dreamt of. Is this another sign that
things are dead in the water?
I wish I knew.
I wish I knew what to do.
Add into this wonderful combination the fact that
I am so very desperate for human skin on skin
contact, that it's not even funny. Almost all of
my dreams are about sex. I sit at my desk in the
office and think about sex. In the car, on the
way home. In the car, on the way to work. When
I'm out with the Wee One and Black Death. In
the shower. Watching television.
Constant.
It doesn't go away, no matter what I do. This is
most distressing. I am about to scream bloody
murder.
*sighs*
Desperation is not a pretty mask to wear.
And it's not desperation in the way that I
couldn't be fucked if I wanted. I could /easily/
go out, find random Friend X who I know wouldn't
kick me out of bed for eating crackers, and
screw them senseless.
It's desperation in the fact that I am choosing
to not do this, but yet knowing how goddamn easy
it could very well be.
Fucking morals.
Pun not intended.
I bought a black sleeveless dress with giant
red poppies patterned all over. I'm wearing it
right now. Combined with my tattoos and Betty
Page hair, I now look like a rockabilly's
goth pin-up.
I'm still not very happy. I even bought a new
push-up bra. Retail therapy fails, once again.
Yesterday, in an AIM conversation with Richard,
I partially unloaded how I've been feeling. I
told him how I'd never understand why he continues
to love me, why he even started loving me in
the first place. I'm only a dead weight, an
anchor around his neck. I can barely tread water
on my own, feebly keeping my head above the
surface.
I told him again how I was afraid I'd never
see him again. And how it makes me feel helpless.
Hopeless. I told him how "Soon." and "It'll
be alright." and "We'll find a way" just isn't
good enough. I want cold, hard facts. I want
something to actually work towards, rather than
continuing to flounder about in my own sick.
I'm tired of this inertia. I'm tired of not
having any answers. Does this mean I've given up?
That the next step is to swallow my pride and
walk away from him?
To make matters more complicated, bits of my
heart are being siphoned away on another. They
also occupy my thoughts, where before it was only
Richard I dreamt of. Is this another sign that
things are dead in the water?
I wish I knew.
I wish I knew what to do.
Add into this wonderful combination the fact that
I am so very desperate for human skin on skin
contact, that it's not even funny. Almost all of
my dreams are about sex. I sit at my desk in the
office and think about sex. In the car, on the
way home. In the car, on the way to work. When
I'm out with the Wee One and Black Death. In
the shower. Watching television.
Constant.
It doesn't go away, no matter what I do. This is
most distressing. I am about to scream bloody
murder.
*sighs*
Desperation is not a pretty mask to wear.
And it's not desperation in the way that I
couldn't be fucked if I wanted. I could /easily/
go out, find random Friend X who I know wouldn't
kick me out of bed for eating crackers, and
screw them senseless.
It's desperation in the fact that I am choosing
to not do this, but yet knowing how goddamn easy
it could very well be.
Fucking morals.
Pun not intended.