I knew going into this that I had no idea what was going to happen–I know he knew it too, although maybe in a less finite way. I know I’m the one who over-thinks, over-worries, over-analyzes every single fucking thing that comes my way, and that more often than not I make myself miserable over nothing (recalling the idiocy that was 3 weekends ago…yeah, that little bit of paranoid stupidity). I knew he’d be busy, and I’d (hopefully) be busy, and that he’d want time alone, as would I, and that I hadhadHAD to make him go and be by himself with his friends when he needed it and I would just need to suck it up and find something else to occupy me. I knew all of that–and all of it was fine. I could deal with all of it–you know very fucking well how used I am to being on my own.
But last night…last night almost killed me. Which is stupid, right? NOT going out to hang out with strangers, in a strange place? Yeah, that’s a real fucking bummer. And yet I felt abysmal and cried until about 3 am. I still feel awful. And I don’t know how to make it stop.
I know this is stupid. I know it’s only been–hell, it hasn’t even BEEN a whole week, has it? And I know I have to say something. I will…but you know how freaking awful I am at starting these conversations. Besides, this is definitely a me problem, which unfortunately needs a me solution that, for the life of me, I can’t come up with.
I read this book once (aaaand I can’t believe I’m referencing an assigned reading in what, whatever my original intentions, has turned out to be a prayer) which said that all prayers only boil down to basically 2 fundamental requests of God: ‘help me, help me, help me’ and ‘thank you, thank you, thank you’. Guess which one this is?