Dis-ease

I still hurt. My foot feels like it's broken. I don't know what to do with it anymore.

But I got my male.

At least on paper. It's the bright spot in the middle of a bunch of dark days. This little card that was in his possession yesterday has now been transferred to me. And my package was transferrred to him. He's not going to open it untill Saturday. It's a nice gesture, but not necessary. The burden has not waned. But realization, of course, has said hello.

He doesn't miss me. Not like I miss him. His life goes on. He doesn't pick up the phone, then stare at it before putting it back down again. He doesn't look around and see my influence. And I even left the painting, even though I wanted it at the time. He doesn't think that the knock at the door, or that noise behind him is someone else. He's not thinking about 2% milk or the beach or other stupid things that get me from this moment to the next. He's not listening to music and thinking, yes, this is how I feel, or could someone else be listening to the same thing.

He can get through it. He has rituals. The things that happen every day to keep things normal. I have nothing. I never got to form rituals. My life is constantly messed up. I have the weekly writing ritual that is dependent on his. That's it. So now I'm stuck with some sort of OCD; counting everything I can think of. The number of papers I read, the number of movies I watched, what I ate, how many cars went by the house, how many minutes have passed, how many petals on the poinsettia bush, how many pairs of shoes are on the floor, how many blankets on the bed, how many bottles of wine...

It's a disease of dis-ease.