And nobody is.
That seems to be the theme right now. In case you didn’t read the beginning of the last post, a friend died on Sunday evening. He was a good guy and I went to school with him. Poor sod even took care of me when I was paralytic and distraught at one point in the past few months. I’ll never forget him for that. I really needed that half an hour or so of company and he wasn’t about to let me go anywhere on my own until I’d calmed down.
[And we all know he’ll be hitting on the angels by now.]
I hate thinking of that night for how distressed I was. It was probably one of my lowest points in this whole shitty charade (excuse my language).
Usually it’s me looking after other people. I’m more comfortable with that. But that night… I don’t even really know what set me off. I know what it was about, but there was no real trigger. And sitting on the bathroom floor of a posh pub, crying hysterically and hyperventilating… Yeah… Not my proudest moment. But still, I’ll share it with you.
We all know what it was about anyway, right? I won’t go into it. I try not to. I think too much and it messes more with my head, like getting texts for three hours from that unsaved number.
I wasn’t even home when I got them. I’d driven to York, managed to block out thoughts of him for long hours. He knows that everytime he texts he just brings it all back up for me when I’m trying to block it all away and that’s not fair. I’d thought that the lack of anything before meant it was done and dusted and I could slowly stop thinking again. Then those messages.
And the fact that everything I write is being read. Tell me again why that is? Because somehow I don’t believe you would do it to see how much I hate you…
I don’t know…
I know what I want, but I don’t know what anyone else wants. I can’t do this mixed messages thing. I just need answers. Answers I can work with instead of constantly having to guess at things. Sick of the guesswork.
Life’s too short, which has been harshly impressed on me by Dani’s recent death. The guy was the same age as me. In fact, he was a few months younger.
There’s not enough time to faff around saying things you don’t mean, being with people you don’t care about and doing things you don’t really want to do. The whole point is to live life to the full.
So maybe it would be nice if I had some answers. Some truths.
Maybe I’d like to know why I’d gotten those texts and he’d felt the need to send them. Maybe I’d like to know how he goddamn feels about me instead of his stupid floating around all the time. Maybe it would be nice to know why he’s texting me shit and not his girlfriend.
MAYBE I’d rather have the whole truth, because maybe then I could sort myself out.
Maybe then I wouldn’t be half-hoping and half-wondering if things mean more than they do. Maybe then I’d know for certain whether this is some attempt to get me back or something. Or maybe I’d know that things were never going to change from the way they are and that he’ll stay with her.
And at least then I would know instead of having to second guess all the time. Can’t he see how much better that would be? Or is the truth really such an alien concept to him?
Because I know how I feel. I know what I would do if I knew how he felt.
Because life’s too fucking short.