Fiction 1: The glorious twentieth
So just what is going on? I'd suspect that the latent bipolarity in me is starting to assert itself, if that didn't sound so damn melodramatic.
Still, I'm losing all the threads that I've generated in the days since Saturday; insights that come at 4am are not necessarily the ones that are sharp enough to last. A good thing? Perhaps. But I thought it might have been valuable to remember where I was now going in my emotional life.
I'm scared too. So up, then so down. I didn't expect to be crying at 7.45am on the Bakerloo line, just because Ed Harcourt sang something. And they were real tearstuds too.
And all because, and all because I've fucked it up. Yet. Again. A text with a request to talk (at which I would apologise for being a heel, and confirm that there will be no romantic gestures, no inappropriate declarations) has not been replied to, and I am bereft, as bereft as I've ever been. A simple thing has become huge, bigger than it should be, threatening the preciousness of what we have (had?), and I just can't believe I've done it. Again.
So now it appears that my only redemption is patience. To wait. For a response, for a few weeks. In the hope that next time, whenever it is, if it is, my keel will be even, my head clearer, and a calm can reign again.
And did I say I'm sorry? Because I am, for making you feel bad for making me feel bad, because that was never the idea. And I'm sorry for causing you fear too, of what might happen. Who said that the not knowing is easy? It's as bad as the regret.
And the insomnia, fuelled by champagne and red wine and heat and Nurofen, has me in its mild grip now. The musical self-medication is failing too. I almost couldn't breathe when Michael sang, "Don't throw your hand". Because what else am I to do? I've gambled and lost again. Get up and leave. And don't hurt anyone anymore. Don't hurt you anymore. Can I do it? The next years of bliss depend upon it.