What’s your trigger?
“You need to go.”
“I need to go.”
“It’s time for you to go.” “I have to get going.” “It’s time for me to go.” “You really need to get going.”
Whatever form it takes, I hate it. It means I’m about to be alone again.
I remember the night it first hit me. It was four months ago. I had spent a few hours with a guy, not a guy I loved, but someone I enjoyed being with. I knew it was time to get going, then he said the words aloud, “It’s time for you to go home.” That sentence hit me like a big, solid wrecking ball. Bam. Tears started. I tried to hold them back, but they came softly, but noticeably.
I left and went down to my car. I sat there for about fifteen minutes. Bawling. Hard. Feeling so incredibly alone. Knowing what I was going home to. The reality of leaving somewhere I felt wanted to go back to somewhere I wasn’t.
It was just too much. I broke.
It happened again last week. “You better go.” It felt like shit, but I held it together.
But tonight… Tonight I’m not ok again.
I just spent a wonderful night with someone I enjoy being with. Someone who enjoys being with me. We watched a movie while we snuggled, drank some wine, and then enjoyed each other’s bodies for the next couple hours. Thoroughly.
Then we fell asleep for a bit. Delicious. It was all amazing and good.
Then it happened. “I need to go.”
I was half asleep. He kissed me sweetly and left.
In that hazy state, I heard the door. I woke up cold. Wide awake, coming to the realization of what just happened.
I ran upstairs, but I was too late. He was pulling out of the driveway. Gone. Those words echoing in my head. “I need to go.”
I wrapped my arms around myself and broke down.
Bitterly alone. Completely, crushingly alone.
I hate it. An otherwise perfect night ruined by my own demons. I should be blissfully asleep right now in a post-coital glow. Instead, I text him. Then I write. I write because I hurt.
I hate that I’m doing this. I hate that I mentioned it to him. I hate that I put a negative spin on an otherwise perfect night.
I’m afraid he won’t want to be with me again. I’m afraid I’m too fucked up for anyone.
“I need to go.”
Those words don’t always hit me like this.
After those “lunch” rendevous I’m ok. That glow lasts.
It’s when it’s dark. It’s usually 2 or 3am. That’s when I can’t handle it. Being alone. Afraid I’ll always really be alone.
Craving with every fibre of my soul someone (not just anyone) to sleep beside. Someone (not just anyone) to wake beside. Oh how I’m starving for someone to wake next to. To wake out of a blissful sleep and kiss his back, run my hands down his side, wake him in various, delicious ways. Or to be the one woken up. to be brought out of a dreamland by the touch of lips on my shoulder or a hand running along my hip.
That’s what I really need. “It’s time to go” ensures that is not going to happen.
So I lay here and cry, wet from the tears running down my face, neck and onto my back.
I lay here and hurt instead of drifting back into what should be a happy, blissful sleep. And I hate myself even more.
*Photo credit: Copyright VickyElleBurton flickr.com/photos/hahasorandom/8580413879