Reality bites

[Ed note: I originally posted this before New Years. Then deleted it a few days later because exposing frailties isn’t my thing. I didn’t want to wallow in my shit by putting it out there. Maestro convinced me to post it again because it makes for a better story, which is true. It’s Act 2. Conflict needs to occur otherwise why continue reading. I agree from a literary perspective, but that doesn’t mean I’m totally comfortable with it either.]

After a couple of months of writing (or attempting to write) about my erotic journey, let’s be realistic. This ain’t exactly the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I’m deliberately concealing the pain, heartbreak, and confusion because I’m not sure how to put it all into words. Words, words, words … my go-to tool fails me. I’ve been using them, I think, to give me the impression that the act of writing about my experience is helping me heal. I’m trying to write away my pain instead of feel my pain. Like what I’m doing right now. It’s midnight and sleep is nowhere in sight. So how do I feel the pain and make it real? Crack open a bottle and drink myself to sleep? Curl up in bed and cry? I’m lost right now.

I started writing this flowery, juvenile-y post about missing Maestro. All sorts of insipid stuff equivalent to taking long sunset walks on the beach. I deleted it all on second read then almost puked. Silly me. I’m not a kid anymore and neither are you. You won’t fall for that blather. And I won’t shovel it out there just for the sake of getting lots of content out there. If it’s not genuine, then don’t even bother.

So here’s genuine. I’m scared. Scared that I made a mistake. That I got caught up in a fantasy that can’t be sustained. Scared that he’s dreaming about other women. That I miss him way more than he misses me. Scared that my jealousy will overtake us. Scared that I can’t handle what I started. Scared that he’ll fall for a younger woman. Scared that I’m his whore and nothing more. (That was a pretty good rhyme, don’t you think? So maybe my linguistic prowess hasn’t totally abandoned me.) Scared of being scared.

All the other stuff I wrote is real. But so is this. No journey is without the occasional flat tire. And maybe that’s all this is. Just get out the spare tire and get on with it. So consider this post the spare tire. All it needs to do is get me to the next stop.