Blind and Shaking
Transcribed from one of my many journals . . .
Other than the fact I left my glasses in the car (and I’m blind), I’m strangely relaxed. It’s taken me a few days to shake him (not that I ever truly will).
When I say/tell him I love him, I’m not even sure what that means in the context of any future endeavors (I know awful word choice). I just know that I enjoy him in the time and space he invites me into — and we are friends — life long friends. And I will always love him. Even if he once again belongs to someone else.
ES asked me last night what I want. We were talking about KS and MS. I couldn’t answer her. I want love. I want sex. I want companionship. I want it all. But more than anything right now in this moment, I want my freedom. I want to choose what I do in my own space and time. At least right now. Unencumbered. I don’t want to move in or anyone move in with me. I just want freedom to love and play and explore. The freedom to love who I want and be loved (and pleasured) in return.
The fact I forgot my glasses in the car has forced me to sit in silent contemplation. (ES is in a yoga class, mine doesn’t start for two hours). I can’t read without my glasses. Even as I write now, the words are fuzzy on the page.
Ed Sheeran’s “Happier” in the background at the coffee shop. And fuck. I’m lost again in my own head.
The Universe speaks and sometimes it knocks you down on your ass. Other times, it rips your heart in half. Like when I opened my suitcase and everything (especially the maroon dress) smelled like KS. I immediately felt like I did the day I left watching him stand in the driveway. Like my fucking heart was being ripped in two. Sobbing the first 50 miles of the trip home. Changing every song on Spotify b/c it fucking reminded me of him. Remember his how his eyes lit up when he talked about his work. Sharing champagne and oysters and laughter and tears. And now there are tears in my eyes again. Why do I torture myself?
It’s other things too . . . a hair tie in my bed from when he pulled his hair back (MS). Or coming home finding she (NS) has taken care of something in the house that I forgot about. The lightbulbs are changed or there is wine in the fridge for me after work. And why are smells so powerful? Why do they always bring the memories and emotions flooding back? Bringing you to your knees or getting you buzzing inside and wet between the thighs.
The smell of smoke (not cigarettes) in the mountain air. The bedroom smells like sweat, and sex, and perfume, and yes, candy. Reminding me of the wild night when they both attacked me in my bed, taking turns until I was completely spent. Helping me forget how much I miss KS by fucking me over and over.
Or when KS smells like soap, cigars and liquor (that smell fucking melts me). Or the ocean air right after it rains. Or the smell of a clean kitchen. (I tell my girls all the time that a happy kitchen is a clean kitchen.)
I’ve been trying to figure out how to write about the three of them online. I want to protect them. Preserve their anonymity. But I desperately need to capture each of them in words on a page — my canvas. And of course, they all know my nom de plume. So . . . caution is probably required. But I feel as if NOT writing about them is somehow not authentic to myself or this piecemeal story I’ve been haphazardly documenting. (So I’ve assigned letters instead of names. So many S’s.)
And perhaps this writing is all more meaningful to me than to anyone of them. That’s the thing though — this is a story (stories) of my lived experiences. And therefore, it may not always mesh with their perceptions. It’s quite possible I’m dreaming all of this anyway.