Finally posted again on WordPress, my second post of all time. Woot. Also decided it was time to update my about page. So have a gander, if you're totally bored and have nothing better to do.
Melancholia
Monday, October 7, 2013
Friday, August 30, 2013
The Strangely Random Ramblings of an Anxiety-ridden Introvert
Does anybody else get this weird restless tired as shit but full of anxiety feeling, especially when it's night time and you should be getting ready for bed? Sigh. SIGH I tell you.
I'm kind of excited and kind of torn about turning Strangely Random Thoughts into a wordpress blog. I've already created it. And put up my first post (which is actually a re-post from here, shhh...) but I'm wondering if I should treat it as a fresh start, or if I should attempt to export this blog to Wordpress and continue on. I've already made a couple of changes--my user name for one. Sadly, the name MaryPoppins was taken, so instead of adding a bunch of the suggested numbers to the end of it, I just changed it to MaryPoppinz.
For now, it's still Strangely Random Thoughts, but I'm wondering if I should change the name. When I set out to have a blog, I don't think I had anything in particular in mind that I wanted to get across. I thought it would just be a place where I could be myself and use it (and you) as a bit of an outlet. So no real purpose, (hence the name strangely random thoughts). I didn't know that I would basically be using the world of Blogger as a big ol' couch floating around in space. My blog has become almost entirely about clinical depression. Should I change my new blog to reflect that or should I change the way I write in my blog. I'm afraid that if I do the latter, this will become just one more place where I can't be myself. One more place where I have to pretend that this depression hasn't been all-consuming.
I'm not very good at faking it. I never have been. But I try anyway. It's just so exhausting. And pointless. I'm sure that everyone can see that there's just something not quite right there. That quiet girl who's just so hard to make small talk with. That strange girl that I just can't understand, that girl who's not readable so it makes me uncomfortable. I was actually told this once, by my ex, the V. He said that I make people uncomfortable. Well. If that isn't a boost to the self-esteem I don't know what is. Of course now I want to hang out more with your friends, sign me up! I can't blame him for saying it though. It was the truth then and it's the truth now.
Back to my point. Do I continue to continuously write about my struggles with depression? I'm afraid that my posts make people want to jump off a bridge or something, you know? I suppose I could make more of an effort to put a positive spin on things....
I hate it when I feel like this. I'm feeling that black hole rising up to swallow me again. Only it's not quite here yet so I feel like I'm sinking slowly, and my anxiety is rising, but I'm totally helpless against the pull. That's why I'm here. I needed a distraction.
There's just something in my chest, and it's spreading. Is it because I was worried about the long weekend? Is it because I've been having to get up earlier? Is it something in the air? Is it because I started running again? Trying to figure out what the Hell brings on these episodes is like trying to follow the instructions of assembling factory-made furniture. Frustrating and hopeless. And when you're finished you end up with something that's just not put together quite right, something that just doesn't have all its parts, a final product with missing pieces.
Okay, enough with the furniture-talk already, geez. I have a feeling this is going to be a really, really long post. I apologize if anyone is reading this and going WTF.
So about Musician Guy (I'll call him MG)... The last thing I mentioned was that he moved back to my city. That's changed again. He was here for a couple of months but has now moved to the next town over, an hour away. We've been seeing each other for about a year and three months now, except shortly after getting together he moved far away, so most of our relationship has been long distance. We still haven't met each other's parents. I've met two of his friends.
And...I have yet to meet his children who live with their mom. He has one of his own, a seven year old boy, and another boy who's already 16 years old! The teenager is not his biological son, but he's been his Dad since the boy was 5. They are spending the weekend with MG. At first, I thought he wanted me to come be with him this weekend and to meet them for the first time, but now I'm not so sure.
I can't even put into words what the idea of meeting his kids does to me. I want to be the kind of person who is crazy about the idea of meeting them. Who desperately wants to spend time and get to know these little people that have this amazing connection to him. But all I can feel is anxiety. And fear. And it seems crazy to me. How can I be afraid to meet a seven year old?? And what exactly am I afraid of? So, so many things.
What if they don't like me? We've all heard that children and animals can sense when something's not quite human. What if they see through me, and all they see is my Monster D? What if they sense that I'm all chewed up inside? I have a hard enough time faking some semblance of normalcy with my coworkers, how am I going to pull that off with these kids?
And then there's the other stuff, like what does it mean? What if for some insane reason they do connect with me and then it doesn't work out? And did I mention that he had a vasectomy? This has been gnawing on my insides since the first time we had sex and he told me about it. I was surprised that my first reaction was quite...visceral, is that the right word? There was no rationale behind it, I just felt...sadness. Immediate and intense. It's like in that moment I saw a world of possibilities I never knew I wanted get washed away with a razor blade. I've struggled with that reaction ever since. What did it mean? Is there some part of me that still wants to have babies? Or was it purely primitive? A physical reaction to a physical act that's rooted in our desire to procreate?
I don't know if I want kids and I feel like time is running out for me to make up my mind. But what I do know is that the possibility doesn't even exist with the man I'm with right now. And it's cruel. I want so badly to go back to a time when our lives were less complicated, when we were both happier, healthier, less...jagged and worn. I violently wish that we could have met at that time. And then I feel horribly guilty because that means that his son would never have been born. But we are so perfect for each other in so many ways, and if there was ever any person that I could see myself having babies with it's him.
I've never been with someone that makes me feel so safe. And I know that sounds boring. I know that doesn't sound at all sexy or romantic, but I've come to realize these past few years that it's what I need. I need to feel safe to be myself. I need to feel safe to be creative. I need to feel safe to open up and be less lonely. And he does that for me. Don't get me wrong, sometimes I still feel like even he doesn't know me, but he's come closer than anyone else I've known. I've let him inside my hamster ball, at least partially, and it doesn't feel wrong. That's huge.
So maybe some of the anxiety about meeting the child he had with another woman is partly rooted in my heartbreak over losing the possibility of being the mother of his children.
I'm so confused about this. I don't really feel like I'm at all ready to be a parent, and if I don't feel ready at my age then I probably never will. But when I look to the future, it looks very lonely. And full of regret. Is it just because I've been conditioned to believe that this is how it's done? That if I don't grow up, get married, have babies, be a mom, and a grandma, that there's something wrong with me? Or is it the guilt? My parents have made their happiness the 100% responsibility of my sister and I. There's not a single phone conversation that doesn't lay the guilt on thick, that we don't live closer. That their lives are empty and lonely because we are not around. That they are not grandparents and therefore have no joy in their life. That's a heavy burden to carry. And it doesn't seem to matter how many times other more rational people tell me that it's not my responsibility, that their guilt trips are not fair, it still hurts like Hell.
Well, that's where I'm at tonight. Trying to hope my mood will improve by the weekend, but kind of afraid to hope at the same time. I should get ready for bed. Sleep deprivation compounds my depressive episodes by like a thousand.
I'm kind of excited and kind of torn about turning Strangely Random Thoughts into a wordpress blog. I've already created it. And put up my first post (which is actually a re-post from here, shhh...) but I'm wondering if I should treat it as a fresh start, or if I should attempt to export this blog to Wordpress and continue on. I've already made a couple of changes--my user name for one. Sadly, the name MaryPoppins was taken, so instead of adding a bunch of the suggested numbers to the end of it, I just changed it to MaryPoppinz.
For now, it's still Strangely Random Thoughts, but I'm wondering if I should change the name. When I set out to have a blog, I don't think I had anything in particular in mind that I wanted to get across. I thought it would just be a place where I could be myself and use it (and you) as a bit of an outlet. So no real purpose, (hence the name strangely random thoughts). I didn't know that I would basically be using the world of Blogger as a big ol' couch floating around in space. My blog has become almost entirely about clinical depression. Should I change my new blog to reflect that or should I change the way I write in my blog. I'm afraid that if I do the latter, this will become just one more place where I can't be myself. One more place where I have to pretend that this depression hasn't been all-consuming.
I'm not very good at faking it. I never have been. But I try anyway. It's just so exhausting. And pointless. I'm sure that everyone can see that there's just something not quite right there. That quiet girl who's just so hard to make small talk with. That strange girl that I just can't understand, that girl who's not readable so it makes me uncomfortable. I was actually told this once, by my ex, the V. He said that I make people uncomfortable. Well. If that isn't a boost to the self-esteem I don't know what is. Of course now I want to hang out more with your friends, sign me up! I can't blame him for saying it though. It was the truth then and it's the truth now.
Back to my point. Do I continue to continuously write about my struggles with depression? I'm afraid that my posts make people want to jump off a bridge or something, you know? I suppose I could make more of an effort to put a positive spin on things....
I hate it when I feel like this. I'm feeling that black hole rising up to swallow me again. Only it's not quite here yet so I feel like I'm sinking slowly, and my anxiety is rising, but I'm totally helpless against the pull. That's why I'm here. I needed a distraction.
There's just something in my chest, and it's spreading. Is it because I was worried about the long weekend? Is it because I've been having to get up earlier? Is it something in the air? Is it because I started running again? Trying to figure out what the Hell brings on these episodes is like trying to follow the instructions of assembling factory-made furniture. Frustrating and hopeless. And when you're finished you end up with something that's just not put together quite right, something that just doesn't have all its parts, a final product with missing pieces.
Okay, enough with the furniture-talk already, geez. I have a feeling this is going to be a really, really long post. I apologize if anyone is reading this and going WTF.
So about Musician Guy (I'll call him MG)... The last thing I mentioned was that he moved back to my city. That's changed again. He was here for a couple of months but has now moved to the next town over, an hour away. We've been seeing each other for about a year and three months now, except shortly after getting together he moved far away, so most of our relationship has been long distance. We still haven't met each other's parents. I've met two of his friends.
And...I have yet to meet his children who live with their mom. He has one of his own, a seven year old boy, and another boy who's already 16 years old! The teenager is not his biological son, but he's been his Dad since the boy was 5. They are spending the weekend with MG. At first, I thought he wanted me to come be with him this weekend and to meet them for the first time, but now I'm not so sure.
I can't even put into words what the idea of meeting his kids does to me. I want to be the kind of person who is crazy about the idea of meeting them. Who desperately wants to spend time and get to know these little people that have this amazing connection to him. But all I can feel is anxiety. And fear. And it seems crazy to me. How can I be afraid to meet a seven year old?? And what exactly am I afraid of? So, so many things.
What if they don't like me? We've all heard that children and animals can sense when something's not quite human. What if they see through me, and all they see is my Monster D? What if they sense that I'm all chewed up inside? I have a hard enough time faking some semblance of normalcy with my coworkers, how am I going to pull that off with these kids?
And then there's the other stuff, like what does it mean? What if for some insane reason they do connect with me and then it doesn't work out? And did I mention that he had a vasectomy? This has been gnawing on my insides since the first time we had sex and he told me about it. I was surprised that my first reaction was quite...visceral, is that the right word? There was no rationale behind it, I just felt...sadness. Immediate and intense. It's like in that moment I saw a world of possibilities I never knew I wanted get washed away with a razor blade. I've struggled with that reaction ever since. What did it mean? Is there some part of me that still wants to have babies? Or was it purely primitive? A physical reaction to a physical act that's rooted in our desire to procreate?
I don't know if I want kids and I feel like time is running out for me to make up my mind. But what I do know is that the possibility doesn't even exist with the man I'm with right now. And it's cruel. I want so badly to go back to a time when our lives were less complicated, when we were both happier, healthier, less...jagged and worn. I violently wish that we could have met at that time. And then I feel horribly guilty because that means that his son would never have been born. But we are so perfect for each other in so many ways, and if there was ever any person that I could see myself having babies with it's him.
I've never been with someone that makes me feel so safe. And I know that sounds boring. I know that doesn't sound at all sexy or romantic, but I've come to realize these past few years that it's what I need. I need to feel safe to be myself. I need to feel safe to be creative. I need to feel safe to open up and be less lonely. And he does that for me. Don't get me wrong, sometimes I still feel like even he doesn't know me, but he's come closer than anyone else I've known. I've let him inside my hamster ball, at least partially, and it doesn't feel wrong. That's huge.
So maybe some of the anxiety about meeting the child he had with another woman is partly rooted in my heartbreak over losing the possibility of being the mother of his children.
I'm so confused about this. I don't really feel like I'm at all ready to be a parent, and if I don't feel ready at my age then I probably never will. But when I look to the future, it looks very lonely. And full of regret. Is it just because I've been conditioned to believe that this is how it's done? That if I don't grow up, get married, have babies, be a mom, and a grandma, that there's something wrong with me? Or is it the guilt? My parents have made their happiness the 100% responsibility of my sister and I. There's not a single phone conversation that doesn't lay the guilt on thick, that we don't live closer. That their lives are empty and lonely because we are not around. That they are not grandparents and therefore have no joy in their life. That's a heavy burden to carry. And it doesn't seem to matter how many times other more rational people tell me that it's not my responsibility, that their guilt trips are not fair, it still hurts like Hell.
Well, that's where I'm at tonight. Trying to hope my mood will improve by the weekend, but kind of afraid to hope at the same time. I should get ready for bed. Sleep deprivation compounds my depressive episodes by like a thousand.
Friday, August 16, 2013
This just in: MaryPoppins to become a WordPress blog!
They want everything and anything to be linked and designed for optimal sharing. What if I don't want to optimally fucking share every last detail of my online self with every person with an Internet connection?
I am going to start using FireFox, and I'm going to delete my useless Gmail account, my Google browser, my Blogger account, my Chrome bookmarks...but oh wait, I can't delete my Google account if I want to keep using YouTube.... DickTits. Am I the only one pissed off with how disrespectful to users re: privacy and choice Google has become? There's a lot of other issues with Google that I'm not even mentioning here of course, but I should stop now. Before I get violent with my laptop.
So... yeah. The point of this rant: I'm going to switch my MaryPoppins blog to WordPress. I think. And um, sorry for the profanity.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
The Monster Inside
I don't talk much about the novel I'm working on here. It's basically YA Fantasy and my main character is a girl named Laya that literally takes on other people's demons. Surprisingly, I didn't realize at the time how my main character's struggle mirrors my own. Her superpower is a fantastical but literal interpretation of what I do. I'm very affected by my environment and the people around me. I'm overly sensitive to moods, and tones and innuendo, and very often I take on other's people's negativity and make their problems my own. The problem with this of course, is that I have enough of my own craziness to deal with. I've come to relate to my character's story on such a deep level that it's kind of scary.
I've been advised to shelve this work-in-progress because I've been "working on it" for about five years. (I can't believe it's been that long! Damn you time vortex!) What I don't think this very respected successful writer considered (and couldn't have as I've never actually met her) is that this is nothing new for me. This is not a problem with my WIP, this is an ongoing problem with me. It's not the fault of my story that I have no drive. It's not the fault of my story that I lack the will to change; that I waste my free time tumbling in a mind-numbing disorientating pitch black void. It's not my story's fault that I have an aversion to accomplishing anything. And it's not my story's fault that all good deeds to myself must be punished.
I've come to notice that every "good" day I have is followed by a horrible one. I'm too depressed to be considered anything close to bipolar--I never reach that other extreme of happiness and mania--but some semblance of happiness or contentment or just plain being okay, is almost always followed by an extreme depressive episode, like payback with interest rather than some bizarre balancing act. This makes the mental image of My Monster D terrifyingly real; an actual manifestation of the monster inside that wants to thrive, that wants to survive, and that takes any hint of happiness as a threat to that survival. It wages a war in me and it doesn't hold back. It fights dirty and I'm sick of it.
I've been trying to write the morning pages again. For anyone who doesn't know, the morning pages is stream-of-consciousness journaling first thing upon waking. It's supposed to help with creativity and a connection to divinity. It also serves as a way of purging the garbage from your mind before you start your day. I took a very long hiatus and I'm hoping to change that. Yesterday, while I was writing, after endless mundane stream-of-consciousness bullshit, words came out that actually meant something. I was writing about how every good day that I have results in a depressive episode, and how My Monster D tries to gain back control. Here's an excerpt:
"I always stop doing the things that have a positive impact on me. Is it because I don't have the patience for the slow progress...? I start to feel a little better and then I just say "fuck it" it's taking too long? Is it My Monster D fighting back because it wants to live? It wants to thrive...? Because I'm its vessel; I'm the only thing keeping it alive. Without me, it would dissipate into nothing; a figment of my warped imagination. And it won't allow that. It can't allow that. Because IT WANTS TO LIVE. Why is its will to live greater than mine? What have I done to feed it and starve me??"
After writing this I burst into tears. Not entirely sure why. It's not news to me that there are some parallels between Laya's world and my own. But it was like I suddenly really connected to that--to her. The idea was scratching at the surface of my mind for a good long while though.
Will there be a happy ending for me? A psychic once told me yes, and we all know how reliable psychics are....
I guess I will have to wait and see what's in store for my main character to know what's in store for me.
Image found: http://createdisney.deviantart.com/art/Terra-Monster-inside-of-me-339308190
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
My Life As A Tardis
Someone recently reminded me that it’s been almost a year since I've posted anything. I knew it had been a while, but a whole YEAR?? This only serves to demonstrate how lost in the vortex of time I can become.
I know everybody feels like time flies sometimes but this is crazy. I wish it was an example of how “time flies when you’re having fun”, but this expression does not tell the whole story does it? Because not only does time fly when you’re having fun, it also flies when you are supremely unhappy – when nothing happens in your life. Because how do you differentiate one day from the next, when nothing ever happens to break up the monotony? Time flies when you’re bored to death, but for some reason this rule never seems to apply when you are at work; hence, why I’m writing this entry from The Hellmouth.
I can’t say that this past year has been completely uneventful. Maybe that feeling is just an illusion, because while things change around me, I always seem to be stuck, standing still while the world rushes by. Circumstances change but I’m still the same fucked up depressed loner I've always been.
Since I last posted a year ago, there have been some big changes. The inevitable happened with married-but-separated-cute-musician-guy who moved in last April.
On May 5th I complained on here that I was becoming closer and closer to him and why can’t I just think of him as my new best friend?
It was about 2 weeks after that post that we became cautiously more than friends. Not wanting to fall into previously made mistakes, like co-dependency, we both steered clear of the L-word , and tried to carve out a space where we could exist as simply two people enjoying each other’s company. We were both terrified of losing ourselves in each other, of starting another long-ass voyage that ends in a fiery crash-and-burn-like scenario.
Despite our best attempts at keeping some emotional distance, things progressed into a whole relationship thing. But because his life was in upheaval, he had to move five hours away, and so not long after starting a new relationship, it turned into a long distance one.
This was both good and bad. The distance allowed me to continue to work on myself in ways that I find difficult when in relationships. (More on that in a future post). It also meant that I missed him. And it also left me at times feeling a little like this was a relationship of convenience; I became insecure about his feelings for me.
His visits became more frequent though, and he moved back to this city almost a month ago. I have mixed feelings about that too, but it will have to wait for another post.
My time here at the Hellmouth is coming to a close, for today. But, I will try and create some momentum and post again tomorrow. Until then, if the apocalypse comes, beep me.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
The Only One
See her come down, through the clouds
I feel like a fool
I ain't got nothing left to give
Nothing to lose
So come on Love, draw your swords
Shoot me to the ground
You are mine, I am yours
Lets not fuck around
Cause you are, the only one
Cause you are, the only one
I see them snakes come through the ground
They choke me to the bone
They tie me to their wooden chair
Hear all my songs
So come on Love, draw your swords
Shoot me to the ground
You are mine, I am yours
Lets not fuck around
Cause you are, the only one
Cause you are, the only one
The only
Cause you are, the only one
Cause you are, the only one
The only one
The only one
The only one
The only one
So come on Love, draw your swords
Shoot me to the ground
You are mine, I am yours
Lets not fuck around
The only
---
"Draw Your Swords" as written by Angus Stone, Julia Stone
Lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
Lyrics powerd by LyricFind
Read more at http://www.songmeanings.net/songs/view/3530822107858775602/#YuZocwL1sfOXPvu6.99
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Patterns
It's been two months since my last confession. Where does the time go?
When I made the decision to ease myself out of the V's life and into my own, I thought renting a room from my friend's mom would be a good way to move on without becoming too overwhelmed at the prospect. This was to be my safe place. A temporary safe place. But it's already been over 8 months since I moved in, and I still don't feel ready to leave. It's like this has become my new normal. This has become the new grave that I dug out myself, and willingly stepped into. Everyday, a little more earth is shovelled back where it belongs, and it's only a matter of time before I'm buried again.
I do this. I get "comfortable". I get stuck. I thought that by now I would be ready to move on, from this house, from this town, from this province. I thought I would have figured a few things out by now, and be well on my way to starting over. But I'm still here.
I went bankrupt. It's not something I'm proud of, but having finally addressed my financial situation did bring me some relief. It will still be hanging over my head for the next 8 months or more, as my creditors (the government and the banks) have that much time to object before I'm discharged.
I'm still working the same job at the printing establishment, as a proofreader. It's ridiculously mind-numbing and I don't know how much longer I can do this. My co-worker, who was there for over a year I think, quit about a month ago, and I couldn't help but take it personally. There was no warning (except the standard bitching about the job). But there was no actual heads up. She just didn't show up one day. And now she's moved on to another job (at a bankruptcy trustee's office no less) and left me behind. I am jealous at her ability to pick up and move on. When will it be my turn?
My living situation has changed somewhat in the last couple of weeks. When the woman I rent from let me know that a friend of her daughter's (a 34 year old man going through a divorce) will be renting another room from her, I felt dread. And fear. And when she asked how I felt about it, the closet thing to the truth I could say was "I'll adjust". Inside I was furious. And fearful. About my safe place being compromised. I could only think of the possibility of leaving, and that scared the shit out of me.
But he moved in anyway. And I felt an instant connection to him. We have a ridiculous amount of stuff in common, and his personality is compatible with mine. I was worried he would be like most people out there - the inconsiderate extroverts that bulldoze their way through life and through other people's lives. But he wasn't like that. He's a strange mixture of introvert and attention-seeker, who can talk endlessly but because he's so soft-spoken, I could never mind. He's so thoughtful, always taking into consideration how his actions might affect others.
As if the Universe wanted to be cruel, he's also terribly cute, and a musician. Who offered me guitar lessons. Which I've been wanting for how long now? And here he is, my own personal music teacher. Nicely put together. And sweet.
And still married.
With children.
I could feel myself becoming emotionally dependent on him right away. The logic part of my brain kept warning me about it. Don't get too close. Don't fall into another trap. One where you're dependent on another human being to feel safe. To feel anything. To feel...alive.
But it happened anyway. We've become inseparable. I find myself, night after night, hanging out with him in the common room, by the fireplace. Just talking. Or playing guitar. Or watching a movie. And I get stuck. Down here in the basement. I haven't been going to bed early enough, and it's showing. I've been so tired all week. On Thursday night, we didn't go to bed until about three in the morning. Only to have to work the next day.
But he's quickly turning into an addiction. And I'm worried. Worried that I'm the only one feeling this. Worried that I'm not the only one. Worried about how it will end.
And annoyed with myself that I can't just think of him as my new best friend.
When I made the decision to ease myself out of the V's life and into my own, I thought renting a room from my friend's mom would be a good way to move on without becoming too overwhelmed at the prospect. This was to be my safe place. A temporary safe place. But it's already been over 8 months since I moved in, and I still don't feel ready to leave. It's like this has become my new normal. This has become the new grave that I dug out myself, and willingly stepped into. Everyday, a little more earth is shovelled back where it belongs, and it's only a matter of time before I'm buried again.
I do this. I get "comfortable". I get stuck. I thought that by now I would be ready to move on, from this house, from this town, from this province. I thought I would have figured a few things out by now, and be well on my way to starting over. But I'm still here.
I went bankrupt. It's not something I'm proud of, but having finally addressed my financial situation did bring me some relief. It will still be hanging over my head for the next 8 months or more, as my creditors (the government and the banks) have that much time to object before I'm discharged.
I'm still working the same job at the printing establishment, as a proofreader. It's ridiculously mind-numbing and I don't know how much longer I can do this. My co-worker, who was there for over a year I think, quit about a month ago, and I couldn't help but take it personally. There was no warning (except the standard bitching about the job). But there was no actual heads up. She just didn't show up one day. And now she's moved on to another job (at a bankruptcy trustee's office no less) and left me behind. I am jealous at her ability to pick up and move on. When will it be my turn?
My living situation has changed somewhat in the last couple of weeks. When the woman I rent from let me know that a friend of her daughter's (a 34 year old man going through a divorce) will be renting another room from her, I felt dread. And fear. And when she asked how I felt about it, the closet thing to the truth I could say was "I'll adjust". Inside I was furious. And fearful. About my safe place being compromised. I could only think of the possibility of leaving, and that scared the shit out of me.
But he moved in anyway. And I felt an instant connection to him. We have a ridiculous amount of stuff in common, and his personality is compatible with mine. I was worried he would be like most people out there - the inconsiderate extroverts that bulldoze their way through life and through other people's lives. But he wasn't like that. He's a strange mixture of introvert and attention-seeker, who can talk endlessly but because he's so soft-spoken, I could never mind. He's so thoughtful, always taking into consideration how his actions might affect others.
As if the Universe wanted to be cruel, he's also terribly cute, and a musician. Who offered me guitar lessons. Which I've been wanting for how long now? And here he is, my own personal music teacher. Nicely put together. And sweet.
And still married.
With children.
I could feel myself becoming emotionally dependent on him right away. The logic part of my brain kept warning me about it. Don't get too close. Don't fall into another trap. One where you're dependent on another human being to feel safe. To feel anything. To feel...alive.
But it happened anyway. We've become inseparable. I find myself, night after night, hanging out with him in the common room, by the fireplace. Just talking. Or playing guitar. Or watching a movie. And I get stuck. Down here in the basement. I haven't been going to bed early enough, and it's showing. I've been so tired all week. On Thursday night, we didn't go to bed until about three in the morning. Only to have to work the next day.
But he's quickly turning into an addiction. And I'm worried. Worried that I'm the only one feeling this. Worried that I'm not the only one. Worried about how it will end.
And annoyed with myself that I can't just think of him as my new best friend.
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