A Waste

I had the weirdest dream. I had tucked all sorts of things, little items (my ID, a Borders gift card I just got, a check from my mom for my birthday) in my book, as, actually, I am wont to do. I carry it everywhere, it is easy to find in my bag and holds papers well.

In my dream, I had left my book, part open on table outside somewhere, and all my things, important and sometimes irreplacable, had blown out all about the table benches.

I could see it, see it all, I think, account for it.

But I just couldn't move. I could not move an inch, I felt the anxiety and panic rising in my throat and wanted to--quick as light!--jump on all my goods. But I just couldn't. It was an incredibly distressing dream.

The phone woke me when it rang a KC number that I don't know, at 6 am. I could not sleep a wink after that, but lay, motionless and tense, until well after I needed to be up.

I just couldn't sleep with the heavy weight of my heart. The awful panicky, re-living I do after a confrontation with someone important to me.

Someone I love.

Who--again--does not love me. I suppose what he said was true, I pushed him away. I slid, as I have so often before, into dropping information and revealing other guy-agendas so that I am at a distance, clearly stated that all my eggs are not in YOUR basket, sir. I know I do this with the vague idea like, "Hello, get on it, or else it'll get on." But more, it is just a childish reaction to knowing--somewhere in this head of mine--that I have already been pushed away. It is some knee-jerk to the distance someone else is already inserting between them and me.

I shouldn't do it. Not only because it so stellarly succeeds in pushing someone away--alienating them, even--but because then it gives my own, gnawing, self-destructive, eat-myself-alive tendency so much ammunition. I replay all the things I said and did that were foolish and uncommunicative and petty, when wasn't all of that post-mortem already?

In honest truth, my actions in that regard had nothing to do with why I was dumped, sorta--again--and on my birthday, for terrible timing. It makes me glad I knew well enough to never leave Broken Heart B for Broken Heart A. Or, as I affectionately used to call him, BM. I knew then, that what I had was so much more worthwhile. And, for better or worse (but clearly more worse, considering how things in THAT arena turned out) I was right.

I was right about you, anyway. I was wrong about B.

Maybe everyone is right. I need to be alone alone alone. For a while, just be more alone than I have been already the past few months, which, as far as I am concerned, was pretty alone. But maybe, like getting in a cold pool when you KNOW you HAVE to swim, I just have to jump right in to my cold alone, head on, let it envelope me, so I can just get on with it.

It is scary, though, I am pretty sure I used to be that alone, and I don't think I did very well. I am just not that strong a swimmer.