Last night was stupendously alcoholic, as my nights often are. From arriving to late to work, getting abadoned at an indie
lesbian bar, and then stuck in downtown SF with no
money and no way of getting home at 3 am. I ended up speaking to a very
heart-broken homeless man until the 38 Geary showed up at 3:30 and I begged the
driver to let me board.
I called him during all of this. He
didn’t answer, which was good. My therapist called this victimizing myself. He
called this morning and we actually had a civil conversation. I was not trying
to be anything but myself. I didn’t try to be wonderful or funny
super-girlfriend. Ironically, this resulted in me being all of these things.
The during was fine, as was the immediate after. It’s this 12 hours later I’m
battling. There are two people inside of me now. the one who picks apart and
analyzes to the point of nausea, and the rational one who accepts the varied
phases of her mending heart and that they will lead to her recovery from all
this.