Broken Doll

About a week ago, I asked The Powers That Be to give me a dream, to show me how this was all going to work out. That night I dreamed that my cat had severely injured his paw, blood everywhere, squalling in pain. And I dreamed that I saw myself, standing across the bedroom from me as I lie in bed. I forced my eyes open. Me-across-the-room was still there, for a moment. Then I disappeared.

A couple days ago, I realized that I could no longer remember what color David’s eyes are. All I could remember was the abstract idea that they were the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen. I had to run to his online profile in the hopes that he still had a photo up there that was close enough to show his eye color. Green, I think. Like mine. But I’m still not sure.

A couple weeks ago, I ran into Paul who indicated to me that the nasty false rumors had (contrary to all Bal’s assurances) not only leaked beyond the leadership committee, but were common knowledge among the membership. Details and all. Paul also made a big production of getting my phone number and promising to call me the following day so we could hang out. I knew he was lying but didn’t call him on it then because my therapist and my mother are always harping about giving them the benefit of the doubt. Two days later, still no call, and that night I nearly died. I still haven’t heard from him.

This past week, one loud thought keeps rolling around in my head, over and over:

As much joy as you brought me in those short six months, loving you wasn’t worth the price that I’ve paid. I wish I’d never met you. I wish that I could hate you.

And then last night… I go to a demo, run into a number of folk from the membership, and they astonishingly treat me like one of the gang. Some I suppose can be written off as “not around often enough to be in on the rumor mill,” but not all. Bizarre, wonderful — what’s the catch? Be nice to believe that it is just as it appears… people finally mature enough not to bother with rumors and gossip. But then why and how did it get spread around in the first place? I’ve been here before, only to have it all fall apart, only to be driven out, again and again. So where’s the other shoe? When will it drop?

Black inside, untrusting, hurt, joyless, damaged, broken, beyond repair. I hate what this has become. I hate what it’s turned me into.