In some parallel existence, I must get the guy. It has to be, right? That somewhere I not only fall for a tall, goofy and kind man, but that he also falls for me and we have good enough timing that we can
DO something about it.
You get to the point, eventually, that you don't even have the stomach to listen to your own whining. So, instead, you mentally wallow, you resist the turn of your stomach and the sting in your eyes when someone asks how you're doing.
You say, 'I'm fine - how are you?'
Wallowing is pleasantly cool and quiet, like the Swamp of Sadness. You find a steely, impersonal comfort as you sink into the black, mossy mud and look up at the sky so far up and think about why you never could reach it, and why you don't have the will to dream of it now.
I smile through as well as I can, until I can find him, and by 'him' I mean rest, happiness, those eyes I recognize, the ones that have been looking for me, too. Staying emotionally open means feeling every single night that I am alone, knowing that the only legs that will warm up the cold blankets will be my legs, and that the only things to wrap around are my mismatched pillows.
It hurts when your imaginary life is interrupted unapologetically by your real one. It hurts to be reminded that your fantasies of how he's thinking of you, how he needs you, are just that - fantasies of a fat girl whose first kiss was fruitless, who's second led to two years of emotional prostitution, and who, at the moment, has little hope left with which to anticipate a third.
It comforts me to think that maybe a ME somewhere is being held close by a HIM somewhere, and that maybe I will find a wormhole to that place, maybe soon. I am so tired of 'someday..." I want a now.