It's been one of those years, the kind that you eventually look back on and see why you needed all that torture, in such a condensed amount of time. One of those years where you morph, and change and grow so much, you must yet again, re-find yourself; remake yourself and chisel out another identity. I'm looking forward to when I can look back to now, and it's nothing more than history I learned from. My year started back in April 2016. This was when I got to be with, him, and experience that mountain top high I'd only read about. Then, by New Year's, I was in desperate wallowing depression at loosing, him. I coasted for a couple months, and was just coming up for air, and thinking I could make it, I could get over him, and find my way, but he came back, and well... Back in September, I'd just lost my hot, young boyfriend, who was also my soulmate. The, him, I’d always dreamt of. Sadly, I guess I wasn't his, her. I guess I was wrong about how this thing works. So, there's that, and this permanent hole I now feel in my heart, and my life, and sadly, my bed. I had a moment of cathartic therapy at finishing another entire book; this time about, him, and, him and me, and us, and why I couldn’t make it work, and why I lost him, and myself in the process. I am proud of that memoir and the poetry it contains, but I have a feeling I’ll look back, and when I read it, ten years from now, I’ll see it as juvenile and poorly written. At least that’ll mean I’m still writing, and becoming a better writer, but overall, I’m feeling less than worthy. I’m also realizing that nothing I do, nor myself, matter in the slightest. I am a non-entity at this point in my life and if I disappeared, nobody would be too upset. Then I turned 50. It was just another day, and like one friend said, “A day only means something to a banana.” Ha! Good one! Unfortunately, I am feeling every second of this half-century milestone. Unfortunately, I am feeling ancient, and I look it too. He’d infused youth back into my body, but when he left, he took it with him, and now I am nothing more than an old woman who ended up a massive failure at life and love and this stupid thing I call a journey. Just a month before that milestone birthday, he, returned with a tear-filled apology and a genuine, “I love you!” Or so I thought it was genuine. Silly me. We spent a fabulous week together, and I was so hopeful I'd been wrong about him. I wanted to be wrong, I wanted nothing more than to apologize for the rest of my life. I was instantly, back at the beginning and head over heels in love, and lust, and this thing that happens to me when I’m around him. For the first time in my life, I understand women who take back their abusive men, (all that stuff, is in the memoir, Peeing with the door open; not a love story.) But none of that mattered, because l let him back, happily I might add. I didn’t fall off the wagon, (I consider him an addiction), I leapt and flew! Then I face planted in a pile of my own failure, and he was once again gone, gone, gone. This time I knew I could never allow him back in, no matter how much it killed me, and is still killing me, and often feels as if I will never,fully heal from this short episode in my life. Sadly, for me, my “Rehab,” process was back at scratch, after our March romp, and this time I also felt a fool for allowing him back in, and wanting him back so badly I skipped over all we’d been through and sadly, who he innately is and that he doesn’t love me even a little. I try and stay in my moment, but the future keeps hitting me square between my eyes. I was celibate for over 7 years before I met him. I was waiting for him, so I didn't see any reason to try anyone else, and now that he's gone, the question I can't stop repeating is: Will I have to spend the rest of my life, celibate? It's killing me, the looming answer, which presents as another pestering question: How could I ever open my heart to another? I am incapable of simply opening my body just for the physical. I’m complicated that way, or maybe not, maybe it’s just being a girl. But, unless I love someone, I can’t do the physical with the kind of abandon my soul requires to, ‘get off.’ He was him, he was it, he was who I was waiting for. It all worked with him and I opened, allowed, and surrendered completely to his tidal pull on my heart and body. Now what? Do I merely subsist, until I die? Do I wake every morning and wonder if that day, might be the day I die and find escape? If I’m lucky, maybe, but sadly, I’ve never been lucky. So yeah, it’s been one of those years.
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