See Name Of This Blog

Zi and I named this blog Bare And Raw because that's how we want to be with each other. Bare and raw. In everything from sex to emotions. And I *love* that concept. I expect nothing less from Zi, and I know he expects bare honesty from me, too. But here's the hard part. I'm a chicken shit.

And that's so stupid coming from an artist.

If I paint something, or sculpt something, or write something, I am laying naked on a stage. Vulnerable. Letting my insides leak out. People can see everything.

And it's the same for me with sharing emotions. If I let my 'all' outside my skin, who will like me? Will I be driving away the very people I love and need right then?

My therapist said that if I act in a certain way in order to make someone else feel/do/say something, I am 1) being manipulative (ouch), and 2) I'm not showing up and being authentic. And if I don't show up as who I am, flaws and all, then how can I expect others to love the real me -- if I don't show them that.

So here's me saying something I've been afraid of saying:
I'm confused.

I'm starting to feel different about this long-distance relationship. But I don't know what that means. Or if it means anything. And lots of times I'm afraid to look at it, for fear of it showing me something I don't want to see.

I used to find joy in imagining Zi with me during the day. I'd be sitting on the couch typing, and imagine him in the kitchen making me tea, and I'd smile. I'd be driving in the van doing errands and imagine him sitting next to me, talking. I'd go to sleep and pull a pillow close, or wad the comforter up and throw my leg across it, imagining they were Zi. My Aashik. And I'd smile. I'd wear his clothes, his cologne, drink his brand of tea. Drink coffee in the morning even when I didn't want to, because I knew where he was, he was doing it, too. I'd do it all with a smile.

I'd Skype with him every day. Look forward to it. Run to the computer with a smile. Talk to him on his lunch hour and text him frequently. All with joy in my heart. I felt close to him. Sharing our love together. Feeding off of each other.

But lately...

I don't feel joy in any of that.
It's depressing now.

I used to find joy in coming up with exciting new sexy videos to send him; now even masturbating seems depressing.

Why is that?

Not about the masturbating, but the rest of it.

Why would something that once brought me joy, now fill me with black clouds?

I used to find joy in planning our future out, and imagining our visits together. Now thinking about the future is depressing. Aashik has said this is true for him, too, though, and so he just doesn't think about it.  Maybe what's happening is I'm trying that tactic, and my result is .... a distancing.

If I try not to have such constant contact with him (which previously helped me breathe and make it so I could get through the day), because now it reminds me that we live three thousand miles apart from each other, then what happens is: a distance between his soul and mine. A cooling. In an effort to protect my heart, am I pushing away my Zi?

He says that he's been feeling something different between us lately. Is it this? Is it depression (mine or his)? Or is it me pms-ing and I'll feel totally different in two weeks? Relieved. Full of imagery again. Planning for our next visit again.

These are the things I don't like sharing with anyone ... *especially* Zi, because what if pms is really all it is? What if this is just a different kind of missing him? What if this is just a blue day? And what if it is just one of those things, but Zi takes it to heart and panics and breaks up with me?

But what if it's not?
What if it's not one of those things, but something else entirely?
The thing I don't want to look at.

What if I've met the One, the best guy in the world for me, but it's just not the right time? What if I just can't handle this distance? I'm so lonely.

I go out with my girlfriends. I plan, organize and hold a Divorced Ladies Support Group once or twice a month where I laugh; talk about boobs, porn and dating; eat cupcakes and drink vodka. I'm reading all the time. I watch movies all the time. I'm a mom, which means I'm just doing stuff, all the time. I work part time at a restaurant. I'm trying to write/edit/promote. I'm exercising. I'm trying to learn a new language. I'm dancing now. Just signed my divorce papers. And I'm stupidly looking for a new apartment that will take dogs. And trying to get a hold on to my finances.

The point is: I fill my days. And my nights. And my weekends.
I have hobbies.
And I have love.
And I still feel lonely.

So what do I do?

Do I ignore the loneliness? What if that causes it to fester and rot into something even uglier?

Do I talk about it to my friends? While my friends love me and want the best for me, sometimes that doesn't translate to encouraging my long-distance relationship. So, it's ... non-productive at times to talk about me and Zi to them.

Seriously. What do I do?

Do I ride it out in this half-dead, auto-pilot existence? Hmm. If I'm only half-dead now, a year or two of this will finish me off.

Do I cut down on my contact with Zi? If I dive into my hobbies and interests and try to feel like not-a-boring person, I'll be more interested in myself. I might get excited about things again. And I'll have things to talk about with Zi again (instead of same old 'picked up kids from school/hard day at work/did you find a job yet' conversations.) Maybe I'll find *me* again. Maybe I've pulled this relationship with Zi up so far past my shoulders that it's covering me completely. Maybe I'm lost. Maybe I'm not real anymore.

Am I here?

What's real?

Is it my loneliness?
Is it feeling like I'm going to throw up when I think of living even the next four *months* without Zi -- let alone the one year that I'm telling myself that it will be, even though I know underneath it'll be closer to two years?
Is it wanting this relationship with Zi so much that I'm falling apart at the seams and then wondering if I want it because it's real, or because it's what I have right now?
Is it wanting to meet Jimmy for a cup of coffee, not because I want to start dating him again, but because he and I once loved each other (sort-of), and if I'm around him, maybe I'll get some of that love vibe in the airwaves and I can feel like a human again?
Or is it wanting my totally-platonic-like-a-brother-that-snuggles friend to come over and hold me so I *don't* contact Jimmy for that cup of coffee and find out I *do* miss him?

What is real?

Is it that I have a beautiful Indian lover in NJ that loves me and wants me, for me, no matter the cost, the challenges, the distance, the hardships, the taboo? Is it that he'll care for me always and worship me and make all my dreams come true?
Is it that I have a deep and penetrating connection to him that I fear living without?
Is he The One?

I don't want to look inside me to know the answers to these questions.
I want to just know.

Is this depression?
Is this missing Aashik?
Is this serious?
Is this something to just ride through?
Is is PMS?
Is it that I just haven't seem him in going on three months now? Without an end in sight. Sure. "When he gets his apartment." But (head shake) if he gets his apartment, that means he isn't coming to the NW any time soon. So I'm not really wishing for that either -- even though it means I'll get to see him.

And here's one last thing. When I'm with Zi in the present, I *never* *never* *never* have these thoughts. Ever. So, this is not me having seconds thoughts about Zi. This is me wondering how to be in relationship with him and still be fully alive. Not on auto-pilot. Auto-pilot hurts too much.

Maybe this is just my spirit's way of telling me that I need to see him every two months, no matter the cost, or I can't survive this.

I love you so much, Zi.
I want you.

Again

I’m staring at the wall again.

It feels like a boulder is pressing on my lungs again.

I’m in that place where I can’t breathe. Where I can’t think. Where I can only mourn.

Whatever that means.

I’m in that place, again, where all I want to do is sleep. Where all I want to do is watch movies to escape.

Again.

Where I want to touch myself to forget.

Where I want to touch myself to remember.

Again.

I’m in that place again where sleep often mocks me dddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd unless I’m falling asleep at the keyboard.

Where I float through my life’s existence like a ghost, watching from above.

I want to crawl under a mossy log and hide from drippy wet rain that seeps into the knees of my jeans, and mats my hair.

It’s that time again where I have to breathe fast and shallow to get enough air, because my lungs have so much weight on them I can’t wiggle out from under it.

It’s that time again when the alarm is going off and I can’t find the off switch.

It’s that time again where I turn the crank on the popcorn maker and nothing pops. I just turn and turn and turn. And I think of how that’s a pretty crummy metaphor for my life right now, but then a breeze forces it’s way past the blinds and lifts my hair, cooling me.

And tickles my calves.

And I smile in spite of myself.

I'm really good at lying

I’m really good at lying to myself. But I wish I weren’t.

“I love the extreme-ness of my boot camp class. It’s the only way I can get myself to do exercise.”  (It sucks ass. I hate it.)

“I want to read books and review them for my blogs. It’ll be good for platform building and give me new content.” (Assigned reading has become my enemy. I’m starting to hate it. A chore list to hock spit wads at.)

“Leading the meetings for the writer’s organization I’m in is fulfilling and will be great for networking. I’ll meet so many authors!” (Chore list. And I’m uber anxious over remembering the random yet oh so important tasks that come up never at once but all spread out during the month … like, sending out press releases and contacting the speakers to confirm they are coming. And then … getting a babysitter for the meeting night and running the meeting, and driving the babysitter home with the kids in the car at 9:30 at night on a school night because the babysitter doesn’t have a car yet. Fuck, maybe she doesn’t even drive.)

“I love my job!” (It’s hard work … even if it’s only three or four hours a day, five days a week. Right in the middle of the day. My most productive writing hours of the day.)

“This divorce is easy. No sweat. Nothing much has changed, really. Hahaha.” (The parenting visitation schedule blows just a little bit. My ex didn’t bother to lose weight until after I split. I don’t get to go to Costa Rica. And I miss my fucking dog.)

“I have plenty of money.” (Ok. So this one isn’t a lie, but I can’t seem to figure out what I’m doing wrong on the managing of it and it’s super stressful. Paycheck to paycheck stressful.)

“Living in an apartment is way easier. I really like where I live.” (I miss my dog. I miss having chickens. I miss my hot tub. I miss having a back yard and the ability to grow something in the earth. I miss the damn roses I planted that look great in my ex’s yard. I miss my washer and dryer.)

“Sure I miss N. but we’re doing great on the communicating long distance and I’m taking it one day at a time. I can handle the distance and the time apart. He’s totally worth the wait.” (Ok. So most of this isn’t a lie either. I do love him. He is totally worth the wait. But I’m not taking it one day at a time; I’m not handling the distance and the time apart. It’s been 74 days since I’ve been in the same room with him. Touched him. Kissed him. Or held him. I’m starting to fall apart. I’m lonely. I’m depressed. I’m getting tired all the time. I don’t want to eat anything. Except maybe marshmallows … and I hate marshmallows. And I’m staring at the walls again. I’m irritated all the time now and … I’m finding it hard to breathe. And I hate everything. And I’m … thinking too much. And … I’m trying to repress my desire for male attention.)