A year later

I can’t believe I just dropped this blog. I found it a few weeks ago and was shocked to find that I didn’t completely hate myself for what I’d written. So, what do you want to know?

A year later, and Z and I are still together. Things are generally always pretty great. He stands up for me and treats me better than any other guy has. Sometimes, I don’t know if we’ll last forever, or even that much longer; I just know that for right now things are working.

I’ve gained a ton of weight. Maybe that comes with being with a feeder.

Maybe it’s grad school (I got into my dream program).

And maybe it’s just because I’ve lost all control of anything.

More later. Maybe.

I’ve been living on coffee and nicotine …

… and my body feels about ready to collapse at any second. I do this thing where I either binge eat or eat nothing at all. Just one more totally fucked-up thing about being me, but I hear it’s pretty common. Stars are dancing in the corner of my eyes and I’m supposed to be a journalist and it’s all I can do to sit here and look like I’m not working and not scream my fucking head off because I’m so strung out. Everyone has bad days, and this would be one of them for me. I’m feeling more unsure than usual. Is it because I haven’t had any food? Is it because I’m unhappy? Do I need therapy? I fucking have no idea.

I want to be a kid again and have no responsibility. This is all a horrible, fucking joke.

Slip and Slide

So Z and I have gotten into the habit of making the 45-minute journey to each other’s homes. Until last night, things had been relatively nonsexual, basically due to the fact that one or both of us tends to have too much to drink when we meet up. And neither of us really want, to put it bluntly, to fuck things up by fucking.

So it was interesting to be fully, soberly aware of tongues and lips and necks when we started kissing last night. And it felt so hot to feel almost ticklish at the touch of his hand sliding into my underwear — I thought it sweet that he didn’t know if it was okay to go there yet, and I almost grew impatient. All of that self-consciousness that comes with being in a new relationship is there, although I’m trying to get over it. So I put his hands where I needed them to go (he didn’t need much help) and really, truly tried to turn my brain off. I wanted to feel, not think, and I think I did better than okay this first time around.

It’s not like I’ve never done any of this before. I’ve done a lot of it before. And I find it unnerving that I’ve been willing to screw the brains out of people I like about a fraction as much as Z. But when it comes to him, I feel like what I’m starting to hold onto is too precious to give up with something forced or shallow.

An exercise in self-hatred.

I am on day number 2 of a no-carb diet, day number 5 on a seemingly endless bout of PMS and day number oh it’s countless stuck in this brain of mine.

I get so nervous when I don’t hear back from Z in a timely manner, like he’s just gonna blink and decide he doesn’t want to see me or talk to me again. A big part of me is scared he’s going to figure me all out and realize I’m so not what he thought I was. When will I get to the point where I feel sure that he’ll be on the other end, even if I’m not calling?

I am hungry. I’m tired of feeling fat, but I’m also tired of my jeans cinching into places that were much slimmer a few months ago. I know diets don’t work, but crash diets do, and I am a big fan of instant gratification.

I hate myself today. I hate everything today. I want to go home, but I’ll hate that too. Some days, the only answer is sleep.

Burning it down.

I made it three days without a cigarette, and gave in today.

I’m sorry. I can go without drinking, without sex, without everything else … just give me one vice, so I can flick away ashes in 90-degree heat. Give me something to burn while I wonder how I got here.

Aww, fuck it.

In the absence of any real crushes or love interests, I’ve decided to do a little work on myself in order to waste time until the next waste of time comes along. I fluctuate between wanting to find love and being totally okay with being single about 100 times a day, and right now I just happen to be comfortable with being alone. I don’t know if it’s the same thing as being lonely, but I have a feeling it’s not.

Anyway, I suppose there’s just not much to say if it’s not about guys or sex or drinking or dating. I’m not doing much of any of those lately. I think that’s a really good thing. Have I said that already? I don’t know.

So here’s my plan:
1. Quit smoking. I’m two days in and I’m doing okay. The only time I’m tempted is when I’m driving. I love to smoke and drive. But I’m learning to cram gum in my mouth if I start salivating over the thought of nicotine.
Seeing myself in pictures with a cigarette between my index and middle fingers is just starting to gross me out. So unclassy.

2. Eat better. Eh. Everyone needs to.

3. Stop paying attention to boys I don’t like just because I’m bored. It’s not nice.

4. Sleep naked. I wake up feeling better about myself. And when I catch myself looking in the mirror at a body part I don’t like, I’ve taken to telling myself it’s okay. Then I hate it a little less. Only a little, but less. It’s a start.

Good sex, gone.

One of my good friends, Mel, was just over at my house. We smoked cigarettes and talked about how to meet men in our area of the state, which is pretty limited to rednecks and hillrats. She and I are two college-educated, cute and fun girls who have had the worst luck since moving here for work.

Now, I’m not saying the problem is me. Maybe it is. I can be sort of demanding, emotionally distant, overly aggressive and just plan insane. But I know at my core I’m a cool girl. And, let it be said, I am awesome in the sack — and I HATE it when people say that, but I think it’s true for me.

This is just a half-drunken rant (I happened to be drinking some sort of vanilla-bean flavored ale while chain smoking Ultra Lights), but I have not had good sex with someone I felt a connection with in over a year, and it’s driving me nuts. It’s a dry spell like I’ve never known. It’s sort of like starvation from the type of intimacy I used to find almost too easily.

It’s not like I’ve been celibate, though. In fact, far from it. I’ve racked up a fair number of unworthy lovers in the 13 months I’ve been home, at a higher rate than I’m comfortable with. Men like me, I’m not going to lie. Or at least they do when I’m shiny and clean and slightly tipsy, smiling in their faces like the most classy bar slut they’ve ever seen. When we wake up there is that mutual disgust I don’t even need to go into right now. That’s when I lose interest, or he loses interest, but usually we go on few dates just to save face. It’s a horrible waste of time and money in the face of $4 gas.

Anyway, back to my original, beer-driven complaint: Is it my stage of life, is it me or is it my location that’s to blame for this total lack of finding anything like a connection? I have about had it with this shit. I’m sick of this, honestly. It’s all so predictable.

… Where’s my beer?

The case of the crotch grabber

I’m still casually responding to messages from Sean. This is someone tried to get me to extend our date a little longer by grabbing my hand and bumping it against his erection.

“See what you did to me?” He asked, “Why are you leaving now, just when we were getting friendly?”

The pleasantness of the past three hours, which included a cutesy date of “Gossip Girl” and Chinese takeout, flew out the window. Bile rose to my throat. It was my second time ever spending time with this guy, and apparently a kiss goodnight was not enough. So I say goodnight as quickly as possible, snatch my hand away from his crotch area and nearly hit a wall with my shoulder in the rush to get the fuck out of there.

Why am I still talking to him? I don’t know. I suppose it was inappropriate and gross and could very well be a deal-breaking kind of thing to do. I haven’t seen him since then, and I know before I decide to hang out with him again we’ll have to have the “Do Not Ever Put Your Hands On Me (Or My Hands On You) Without Being Absolutely Respectful First”-talk. If I don’t have the balls to bring his offense up, I certainly won’t have the balls to ever see him again. At least that’s what I’ve promised myself.

Or at least we’ll have to hang out in a group. Hopefully there will be minimal crotch grabbing when my friends are around.

Can’t do it.

I feel like a huge piece of me is missing and I don’t know exactly what part of me is gone. I just know that something is wrong. The anti-depressant doesn’t change my life like I thought it would. If anything, the Cymbalta just makes things a little lighter, and drags my emotions off into the distance where I can’t quite reach them. I can’t seem to cry when I want to, or laugh when I need to. Maybe I should try just talking to someone. Maybe I should sit down for an hour and talk about how I’m completely fucked up about men, how I’ll never be able to make anyone happy for more than a few short months. There are guys who have tried to love me and have left me because I went ahead and destroyed them. There’s one right now who asked me to come watch a movie with him tonight, but I won’t go because I don’t want him touching me. I am sick of fighting it. Fighting it off, fighting it right, fighting myself fine. I want to lie limp in my bed and leave my hair unwashed. I want to drift off into a stupor in my living room of this silly house I inherited, the sunny 1960’s ski lodge that reminds me every day that the ones I love die and will continue to be gone. I want to shrivel into nothing, want my skin to turn grey and my eyes to go from blue to black huge pupils that don’t see anything, unfocused.

I don’t want to die. I want to check out for awhile. I want to come back a better person, someone who deserves the things I want so badly.

The art of the booty call …

Since I intend to cut Sean off, I want to contact of Brad for some no-strings-attached sex. I realize my last post was about making some guy wait until I was ready, and I still plan to do that. When I meet someone I could like, I’m not going to give it up just because that’s what is expected. I’m promising to myself to hold out for romance.

However, I’ve already gone ahead and slept with Brad, and it was good, so I need to figure out the art of booty calling/fuck buddyism. I can tell he can match me in bed — I don’t get that vibe often — and I’m not sure I could see myself getting attached to him. He’s really sort of bland beyond his physical attractiveness. Everybody wins.

Brad’s left me a message but I haven’t returned it. So when I resurface, I want to be flirty in an “I don’t want you, I don’t need you, I’m just being cute [but I really wanna get laid]” sort of way.

These situations never turn out well, do they?