weight

I'm so sad it's a crushing, nauseating weight in my chest, in my stomach. I can't eat, I can't sleep. I'm a crappy prozzak song. I've got a strange disease alright. Makes me stupid and reckless and so so so stupid. And it's like drifting through my day in a daze cause I just can't see or think or feel straight anymore. I'm so mixed up all over, in every damn way. One second I want him, the next I want to hate him. My only constant is a desperate need for him to look at me the way he used to and mean it. And when we fuck around, and I know he's just thinking of sex and saying what he knows I want to hear, I drown myself in false ignorance and naivete and go with it. Because, pathetic as it is, those moments when I let myself believe the lie are the moments I feel best. The only fucking moments I feel ok again. The only moments this horrible crush in my chest goes away. It's getting harder and harder to fool myself though. Even when I'm with him, riding on the bliss of deceit, the weight comes unexpectedly. Reminding me, over and fucking over, that this is only going to hurt. Hurt so damn bad that there is no cure, no painkiller, no relief. I just have to tough it the fuck out. And you know what? I'm starting to think I'm not that damn tough. Before, for all the other fucked up shit that made me feel like something clawing it's way through my ribs and compressing them like a fucking boa all at once, I could look to the future and tell myself "just get through this, it will be over soon." Over and over, my survival mantra. Right now, this moment, it's damn near impossible to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Any glimpse of one just feels like an oncoming train. Conversely, I seem to be able to subject myself to ever mounting assaults. Weathering hit after hit and swearing each time that this is the last. Like a battered woman fingering the handle of a suitcase and promising herself she's leaving, for real this time. And then turning away and going back to making his dinner just the way he likes. The ultimate willing punching bag. Because I could turn away. I could stop emailing, texting, calling. Well. I assume I can, that it's possible. Though thus far it's proven beyond me. I've become obsessive and clingy and all the things I fucking despise. And I just keep craving the lie. I need his arms around me. And when I have time with him, brief and painful as it always is in the end, I cuddle into his arms and close my eyes and drown out my thoughts--all except one, "Home. I'm home." And I breathe in, and let myself believe it and I pray and wish and hope with every fibre of my being that when my eyes open it won't be a lie anymore. I pray for the only cure I can think of for that crushing, nauseating, constant weight.

I'm seeing him saturday. Is this a form of self harm? Doing the same thing, destructive as it is, over and over because, for a short while, it makes the pain stop? I don't seem to be strong enough to stop this. Hopefully time really does heal all wounds. Damned if I can come up with anything else.