Last night I lay down on my bed and cried.
So hard my head hurt, curled up in a fetal position wishing the world would go away. Just like that day in Ms. Gordon's English class when I was thirteen. So hard that I had to fight the emotion back down and put it back inside it's proverbial box, to I guess, let it eat away me until I can afford good therapy. Really really good therapy.
The show is over. Sporty and I talked and... dreamtime is no more.
At work I can feel it behind my eyes when an errant memory flashes, a visceral emotion that threatens to cause a torrent of tears, which would then lead to a need for explanations. I suddenly would like the Lacuna treatment from that Jim Carrey movie I only half watched. I'm having dangerous thoughts. I feel like I only imagined the whole thing.
Sometime in the next few months, I'll open the door to that mental dressing room in the back of my mind and put on the makeup again. And pretend to be that someone else. Maybe forever.
I really hoped it wouldn't come to this. Playing at being someone that someone will like. I just wanted to be that someone that they did like. Really like.
I really really did.