7:10 a.m. - August 31, 2004
I need to iron my shirt
Last night Ryan called and we chatted for a while about nothing, briefly touching on school (he's going, I'm not), work (he's not, I am), dating (he's perplexed with me, I'm not), sex (he wants, I don't). It was good to hear his voice; I was surprised to register how much I've missed him. Suprised I cared. No, that's inaccurate; I care, I care too much for some people that it's easier to cut them out wholly and pretend I've moved on than deal with my emotions and negotiating relationships.
Last night I dreamed of would-be sex, inspired by Ryan, I'm sure, but would-be in that I couldn't find the guy I was going to sleep with. I was walking down hallways that remind me of Suzallo asking various people if they had seen him, running to catch just a glimpse of him before he rounded another corner. I woke up angry because in my dreams, as in real life, I'm cheated even of minimally satisfactory sex.
This morning in the shower I thought about how good it would be to see Brad again and discuss how things are. Funny, isn't it, that now I want to talk with a therapist? To talk without censure, to talk without ceasing until there's nothing left to say - these things are fantasy.
I realize just now that I've woken up sad, very sad. How does this work? Sigh. I know too much of chemicals and brain structures to not know the answer. I'd rather not know.
