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I don't know if I am depressed in a way that I should look at as a treatable chemical imbalance, or if I'm just entirely emotionally drained by the immense sense of loss hanging over my life and the world overall. Is it hard to get out of bed because I'm not making happy chemicals correctly or because I'm justifiably saddened by the state of things? Is there a difference?
I know that I have so, so much that I love and enjoy in life and the people I care for. But recent history has made it so hard to trust that those things and people won't be ripped from my world without warning.
Three years is so long. It's long in the sense that it offered a million opportunities a day for us to know each other, to discover and treasure a nuance,to make love without breaking eye contact. The five months since you left me seem infinitely longer, though. You're a selfish asshole, and a drunk. You're passive aggressive. I'm an emotional slut, and a pillhead, and I'm just fucking aggressive. But I don't care, and for the longest time, you didn't either. I don't know that I can do this without you. There are always memories lurking, tripping me up, bringing me down low. And after the memories, the tears. I'm subsisting on secondhand sweetness. I want to carve my ability to love out. Split open my chest, pull the rotten hope and fallow dreams out. Throw them in the dumpster. I want to eat Xanax and bang Oxies until I stop breathing. Until my heart stops beating your name, until my brain stops reminding me that you loved me more intensely than I will ever be loved again, and I threw it away in pursuit of a high. "Why don't you find someone else?" You say, with the best of intentions. I don't want someone else. I want your arm around me every night, from the time we fall asleep til we wake up. I want to be treasured, by you. I want to bury my face in your hair. I want the waiting period to be over. I'll find someone else. But I want them to like me, all of me, and that makes it difficult. I've never needed rescued like I need it now. The therapy doesn't do much. School is a welcome distraction, nothing more. And none of these pretty, pretty boys are you. They're vapid, they probably get off by watching themselves in the mirrors of my eyes. I know we're not supposed to need anyone. But just this once, I'd like to be rescued. Not by a lover. By a friend. Or a stranger who becomes a friend. I'm tired of slogging through this bullshit on my own. Always on my own. It won't happen, though. And each day will slowly bring me closer to that one dose too much, the cut that goes too deep, the mist of my brains settling into some poor fuck's carpet. I don't want to do it, yet. But the thought is a comfort.
From a note written long ago and recently rediscovered: I know that she doesn't want to never see me again, but I also know that there's a part of me that she never wants to see again and a part of her that I'll never get to see again. I'll never see "girlfriend [her]" again. I'll never be able to show her "boyfriend [me]" anymore. I guess that some other guys will be seeing "girlfriend [her]" soon. I already miss having someone to be "boyfriend [me]" around. But I guess that's how I hurt her. Forgetting to be her boyfriend when we were together. I took her for granted and accidentally tortured her by keeping "boyfriend [me]" locked away when he wasn't convenient. Now all I can do is open the door and leave "boyfriend [me]" to cry in the doorway, having no one to run to. I wish I could make up for it all and show her how much I love her. Not so much for the sake of reclaiming ground in a losing war, but more to release what started to bottle up in me the moment she severed her connection. I wish I could show her how much I love her, but... I guess we just got sick of each other. Neither of us spent enough time thinking about what we love in the other person. She allowed our faults to fester in her mind until her contempt spilled over. I was too passive and didn't provide someone for her to argue and scream with. I still think that it's tragic and that it shouldn't have happened. I think that we should be at an old hangout right now in each other's arms, talking about how much we love each other. But I've realized too late that I only had a finite number of chances to make her happy and that they're all up. I have failed and subsequently been lanced like a boil from [her] life. All that I can do now is leech off of the fading memories of our time together to feel fleeting traces of happiness.