He's gone and I'm a bundle of contradicting emotions and unfulfilled needs- I'm happy for him and excited for all of the opportunities that lie ahead of him, but I'm also lonely and frustrated and restless and confused.
It's almost 3am and no matter how many of the questions running through my head I try to answer, there always seem to be more. It seems through all of this, we've just become friends who kiss occasionally. I can't reduce my daily life into 160 characters or less and neither can he. Texting is a shitty way to communicate and it certainly doesn't help with my detachment issues. Things happen, good and bad, and he misses so much, as I'm sure I do as well. I really thought getting all of this out of the way would give us more time to get closer again, but the move itself just seems to have intensified my loneliness and frustration and our detachment.
I can feel myself beginning to build walls again. I'm allowing my life to be consumed by reruns of Star Trek and terribly written fanfiction. I spend my days mapping out countless crochet projects and my nights reading romance novels littered with pirates and princesses and relationships that work out despite the fact that the heroine used to be a snob or a prostitute and the prince has a skin disease. I play out elaborate scenarios about Paris in my head and pretend I'll actually make it there someday. I pretend things are better. I'm steeling myself. I'm pulling away.
My birthday is Monday and I've never been less excited about it. I guess I'll have to build a few more walls and mentally box up a few more things if I'm going to get through this week, let alone beyond that. Bring on the imaginary packing tape - it's time to clean house.