Loss

I struggle to accept the loss of women in my life, a pattern rooted in losing my mother repeatedly.

I reflect on my lack of passionate, spontaneous sex and the losses inherent in any particular sexual configuration.

I keep telling myself a story, using various women, in which I do everything right but am still left, feeling somehow at fault and unable to prevent or repair the loss.

Just what is it I’m scared of? Same old same old…. Shame. Abandonment. Loss.

Looking at porn to feel sad.

I happen to know that I’m less than a block from Serena. I’m tempted to shoot her a text, to say, “Hey, I’m a block away, and I’m thinking of you.” I’m not going to do that.

My affair with Serena is flickering out, and the pain has been overwhelming. I’ve kept my thoughts hidden, too raw and vulnerable. Now, I’m torn between rage and terror, emotions that clash with my rational understanding.

‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?

Reconciling myself to the inevitability of imperfection, the certainty of loss.

In which I realize some things about how I’m crazy, revisiting ancient wounds of loss.