I went to my lovers and demanded to know what happened. As he explained I was appalled at my behavior. I was ashamed at what I was hearing. I didn’t even understand half of what he was saying that I said. I believed him but it just sounded insane.
There was nowhere to hide. What a stupid idea to confront the situation. What the fuck was going on. It was the benzos. Those goddamn fucking benzos. I consumed over a hundred in a couple days. I assume now as I look back it is because I took myself off all my medication and things started falling apart slowly and suddenly I am left a psycho.
Seriously. That is what benzos do to a person. It is my addiction. I hate them. They make me a monster. But I don’t care when I crave death. I don’t care when I am looking for death. The monster demands the pain. The shame. Bring on all that can be in the storm so that I may have no reason to survive. Fuck that shit. I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t. This was not cool. I sat there mortified. How is an apology any good at this point? Psycho cannot be undone. This cannot be unforgotten.
I can’t even believe that I asked to stay. The rejection would have shaken me into a different world. Perhaps it doesn’t have to be so hard to love. To keep him I would give up benzos. I don’t care if it’s a month, a day, an hour. I so thoroughly enjoy him. There is nothing more satisfying to my day than to be intertwined with him. That is all I must worry about. Nothing else matters to me. Just the sweet comfort of his body next to mine as I sleep.
I do not fear that I could not get another lover. I do not fear that I could never find another. I just fear that another would not fill the void he fills. That another lover would not make me feel as he makes me feels. I do not want another lover. I want him. I just want him. Of course I went fucking crazy. It only makes sense. It is because it is him who soothes me. Him who scares me. Him who I so desperately want.
I even penned him a book and gave him the only copy like an idiot. Because I was not thinking. Because I am impulsive. Because I work magic when stressed or thinking the end is inevitable near. Because it seemed like a brilliant idea. Let’s just give the man everything inside me inked on paper. Great idea. I shake my head at my own foolishness. I do not want him to go away. I don’t. If he must, he must and I will survive but it would be such a travesty. He told me once he didn’t read books. I don’t know how I still find him as attractive as ever knowing that what I love most in life he doesn’t possess. Possibly why I felt the burning desire to not only present him a book but make the book about him.
Is it wrong to let someone know that they saved you? That they touched your very core? That they are a reason for your high steps or morning smiles. I don’t mind loving. I must love. I must express. I must make sure I do not die in the darkness without exposing my vulnerabilities to those deserving to know. He deserves to know he is cherished. I feel special to be naked beside him in the nights he allows me his comfort. It brings me such pleasure to pleasure him. Surely, an addiction. Surely one that I am unable to maintain in moderation. He is like crack. I just want more and more and he is never enough.
For many broken relationships have befallen us prior to this affair and to those broken we have formed our walls. I do not seek to find my way through them or around them. If a door shall open I shall be lucky. If I shall be banned on the outside I shall also name myself lucky. An honor it is just to love someone I find worthy of it. Accepting of it. Deserving of it. One who perhaps does not feel so loved or deserving. One who has also accepted what I have accepted and that is why we alone stand together.
The stars do not offer me hope of everlasting compatibility but I am going to ignore them for once and just enjoy it without the ICHING. Often it does more damage than good. I shall just be still. Psycho already became of me and that shall never happen again. Ever. I shall forgive myself this once. Somethings are known not to be repeated. This is known.