The week from Hell follows my leaving his place. I'm miserable and I don't know what to do with myself. I draw a whole hell of a lot, but that doesn't help. I have to take sleeping pills to even get myself to close my eyes, and those don't help. I can't eat, which doesn't help the outrageous amount of pain I'm feeling. I want to die, which also doesn't help because that's just depressing and I'm not a depressed sort of guy—and I'm certainly not suicidal, or I never have been before, at least.
My car sits abandoned in the driveway, parked sloppily because of my rush that night. It's a good thing it's parked that way, though, actually. It's taking up the whole driveway, so no one can park beside me or behind me. That's the way it should be. Mine, for myself only, no one else.
My phone sits abandoned on the kitchen counter. The battery died two days ago when he tried to call again. It was the third time, and I wasn't ready to answer, so I didn't. He didn't leave a message the first two times, just like I knew he wouldn't because it's not like he was actually calling to make shit better. He probably just wanted to hurt me some more. Call me a few more hurtful names. Treat me like a piece of shit. He definitely wasn't calling to apologize.
I sit abandoned at my easel. I was never a good painter, but I'm trying. I have no idea what I'm doing, but I found my paints the other day and I decided that I needed to use them up. So I'm painting. And it looks ridiculous. I'm pretty sure kindergarteners finger-paint better than this, but I don't care.
I have art, and it doesn't help at all, because art doesn't hold me or kiss me. Art also doesn't make me feel like a whore or say terrible things, but that doesn't seem to matter, because I miss the things that art can't offer me. The good things. I forget about the bad a lot, but I always remember it before I decide to do something stupid.
I can't call him. He's not mine to call. I can't see him. He's not mine to see. I can't forgive him, because he won't apologize to me. I hate him, but I love him, and I want to forget him. What I want doesn't matter, I don't even try to forget. I can't. I hold onto the one thing I have left of him.
The pair of underwear that I mistook as mine when I grabbed them from the dryer. Which means he has my underwear too. Knowing him, he probably threw them away or set them on fire. But I have his favorite pair, the ones he wore the first time he came for me, and I keep them in my bed with me like a complete creep. At least I don't wear them.
So basically, I want to die alone with a pair of underwear that belongs to a man who doesn't belong to me, and never did, while I paint ridiculous pieces of shit for no good reason.
God, that is depressing. I'm such a tortured artist. Why the hell do my paintings still look like garbage?
I'm so done with men. I think that maybe I should try to switch teams. Maybe the pink taco won't be that bad. I mean, it looks really bad, like an axe wound with mucosal leakage and shit, but maybe if I don't look it won't be so bad. And boobs could be fun. I might like playing with boobs. Or one of those athletic girls with flat chests and muscular legs might work.
I start to cry unexpectedly because I definitely don't want to be with a woman, ever. I also don't want to come to terms with the fact that I can't be with E— him.
I throw my paints down, pissed that once again I'm crying over him. The piece of me is gone again and I still don't know what to do without it. I don't know how I let him get to be so important, but it's like he's a vital organ to me, to my body. Not having him is like being fractured, like parts of me are missing, and I know that's because he has them. He has my heart and he has my soul and my balls too, those are right up on his damn mantel. He has my brain; my mind is lost unless it's on him. He must have my dick too, because it's turned into a useless flopper with no sign of life.
I strip down to nothing and climb into bed, hugging my favorite pillow like it's my last lifeline. I find his underwear and I just hold them for a while, but then it's too much and I miss him too terribly. I need him to be with me somehow, so I crush them to my chest and I swear I can smell him. I don't sleep, I can never sleep, but I remember. Sometimes it feels like a dream, but I know it's just my memories combined with my lack of sleep that makes it all so surreal. I'm nearly able to forget the pain, though it never goes away.
I can remember what it felt like to be in his arms while he slept. I can remember the look in his eyes that I swore was love. I can remember the way he moaned my name. I can remember his lighthearted banter. I can remember the way he'd unexpectedly embrace me and just start kissing. I can remember how much I fell in love with him, in such a short time.
But this isn't a dream, it's a memory, and it's inevitable that I start to think about the other things I remember. The way his moods would shift so suddenly and the way he could say the most hurtful things without a second thought and the way he told me he didn't care anymore. It isn't a dream, it isn't even a nightmare, and I can't wake up from it.