Erm…

I don’t know that I’m ready to write about this yet. Things are just too fresh in that sense, I suppose. The adjustment period hasn’t quite come to an end. Well, it’s underway but I don’t suppose it will come to an end soon at all. Every day there is something that makes me feel the Big Love’s absence, but not in a terrible, heart-wrenching way, but rather in a sad way. I know that what I did was the right thing, that this is truly the right thing for me. I know that it isn’t for him, but I do have to look out for myself, and I just wasn’t where I thought I was. Where he thought he was.

I do feel pretty damn awful about the whole situation. It mightn’t have happened had I not met the Catalyst. Perhaps a few years later, but not now. Not with the way that the Big Love and I had been together for so long. I can’t believe that I hadn’t seen it. I was supporting him so blindly for so long. Unquestioningly faithful. Until there were questions, a deluge of questions.

How is it that life can turn upside down, topsy-turvy, so unbelievably quickly. One minute everything is fine, and then, well…fine turns into its anagram: fucked-up, insecure, neurotic and emotional. Yes, I’m fucking FINE!

What do I want? What is it that I really want for myself? I feel quite content right now. I’m enjoying living alone for the time being. I’m enjoying having time to think, to maybe write more and discover where I am in this world. I’m writing again, that’s a step! I want to write a play; maybe a screenplay. I need to spend time writing and venting. It’s a cathartic process. It’s just strange that turning my experience these past few weeks into a play somehow felt wrong, as though I was cheapening the power of the situation by trying to document it. As though I can’t really do it justice.

And I can’t.

Maybe it’s the style I was trying to write in. I should do it mostly from my perspective, like Blank Pages. Fucking Blank Pages.

I feel so strange. Sort of manic, I suppose. I’m hot and cold, but really feeling. The more I think about the Catalyst and what he did to my life, the more I think that I want him, oh man…do I ever want his body. To touch and taste him and feel that incredible electricity charging through me again. It couldn’t have happened with a less worthy person. That’s for sure. He’s open and kind and goofy and honest about who he is and where he’s at. He might see me a little more clearly than I’d like, but then again, I need to learn to stand up for myself and tell him off when he makes me feel uncomfortable. I guess it’s when I make him feel uncomfortable too, really. He just posted some pictures of himself, and I just want to reach out and grab him. Pull him into me, touch him all over.

It’s sad that that sort of passion died so long ago with the Big Love and me. It amazes me that I was capable of going for so long without it. Accepting that things on that level were mediocre and that that was and would be okay. It’s not okay. I’m too young, too green, too inexperienced to have any idea of what I want and need. But I know that passion is one of those things.

God I miss him. I just got an email from him. He’s “okayish”. At the family home, busy with family stuff. I miss him so much. I wish that there could have been a way for him to still be in my life, but I guess that that’s asking for too much. Not really possible when you’re this tied up in one another and things end the way they have.

What a little crazy person I am. One minute one thing, the next completely different. It would be delightful to have a little solid ground, but then maybe jumping across lily pads and wading through waist-deep bogs is something I need to do in the interim. I don’t know that solid ground is really what I need anyhow.

New Question:

Will sleeping with the French guy (who lives a few houses away) make me feel better or worse? And do I really want to?