I never expect my assumptions to be correct. When they are, it tends to be surprising in an unfortunate way. I invent hypothetical conversations in my head which confront issues with other people, and try to make the responses resemble whoever is speaking to me, but I always expect my ordering to fall apart in real life, or to be surprised by one or more of the actual responses. My stomach fell pretty hard when that didn't happen. What a miserable person I must be, to avoid my emotional baggage and to be devoid of any willpower whatsoever to the point where the other person feels they must be the bigger person and cut me off.

I walked for nine miles. I actually had left the apartment as soon as he had, with the intention of not coming back that evening. I didn't want to be there, confronted by the fact that I might never feel his touch again, or worse, imagining him touching someone else. It turned every square inch of my skin into flame and anguish. I was Medea. I was one or all of the Furies. I was motherfucking Kali. I had to go somewhere or I would destroy the apartment. But I couldn't talk to a friend, not at the moment at least. I knew I'd just be sobbing and incoherent and spitting mad and sounding far too upset and possibly obsessive.

 I can't say I didn't get sound incredulous looks from folks on the main street when I absolutely couldn't contain myself. I wanted to go somewhere where I could scream without a pillow, to be allowed to just be in nature by myself and grieve and lick my wounds and scare away small animals. I didn't quite get there. Unfortunately it was a sunny day and no matter where I went around the little trails on the river there were others just enjoying their day. The beautiful houses in the neighborhoods, the happy folks, the soft, sandy trails. It was overwhelmingly beautiful and it just made me hurt worse. Eventually I just turned around because my feet hurt and I was quite tired already. I had to go home; I hadn't even fed the cats.

I know I can't disassociate my feelings from my physical desires. I was foolish to try, or else, I wasn't trying at all. I was too busy fantasizing. And that only makes me feel worse for him. I thought I heard him choke up just a tad when he admitted why we was being unapproachable. If he did, then I wasn't sure if it was for me, or for himself, or for the both of us.

Though to say that I'll stop being sad when I can disassociate/stop being intimate is an oversimplification.

On a related note, I got a call from the school's counseling services(read: therapy). Perhaps I'll finally be able to talk to a professional.

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