Censorship gone awry

I shouldn't blog when I feel this fucking dreadful. It seems pretty pathetic to admit that I hope the six bottles of beer I just guzzled is enough to knock me out enough that I can sleep. All I can say is, "Don't try this at home kids." Whilst the red-tops and celeb mags of the Western World might glamorise rehabilitation, like business travel, it's really not all it's cracked up to be.

But getting wasted is still better than lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Shit, I wish I had some weed.

It's just another day of floundering in the darkness. And frankly, I'd be doing a lot better if I was genuinely alone rather than hoping that - at any second - that call will come.

"It's time."

"I'm ready to meet."

"I'm strong enough."

"My doctors say it's OK for me to see you."

"I'm sorry it's been so long, but now I can explain why I behaved the way I did...over dinner..."

Whatever way, shape, or form it comes in, days like this make me long for a few words of hope from her. It's another holiday. It's obvious I'm hurting. But despite everything that I'd classify easily as 'blatantly fucking obvious' the words never come, and I feel all the more presumptuous and naive when they don't. That's why I won't be letting the invisible woman know my new address and phone number when I move next month. For nearly a year I've leapt out of the front porch chair whenever a red truck has passed by. For nearly a year I've checked my voicemail hoping there's a message from her. For nearly a year I've tried my best to cajole, persuade, intimidate, or invoke in some way the kind of response I need to hear from her. And for nearly a year I've tried to invite her into my life in every way I can think of.

But the kind of responses I need have never arrived, and now I'm left to wonder whether she really meant anything she said. I'd explain why she behaves the way she does, but I honestly don't know why. I don't receive any information. I'm not in the loop, not included, not trusted. And I can't even tell you why I'm not because I honestly don't know. What started as a quasi-mature relationship between two adults has somehow turned into a teenage-esque battle of wits. I feel like I don't know anything any more. How she's doing, how she was, how she's likely to be, and - most importantly - when the dangling carrot of a perfect soulmate match and family life to go with it will come to fruition.

If ever.

It really doesn't help me in my recovery. Moreover, I have worked long and hard to counter my illnesses. Those victories I've achieved in other areas of my life now serve only to highlight where things aren't keeping up with all else. At one point I couldn't answer the phone or a knock at the door, yet somehow I've managed to motivate myself to apply for a job, get it, and then receive glowing feedback after only a month. I've pinned it down and despite fighting the demons on an hourly basis I've managed - somehow - to maintain some kind of façade that's got me through.

I hate where I live, so I've got the job that gives me enough cash that I can move out into a place of my own.

Through meds, group therapy, individual shrinkage and a shitload of research and hard work I've managed to understand, believe, analyse, and counter-attack an illness that might've caused a lesser man to take his own life. And I should know, because I've been fucking close enough to it to know.

Yet if anyone were to ask me how the invisible woman is doing, I wouldn't be able to answer the question.

The relationship, if you can call it that, feels distant and theoretical at best. She probably lives less than a mile from me but I don't know where. She ignores the 'serious' questions I ask and answers only in smalltalk. Those times when I've stood up for myself and demanded an explanation, I've been told that I'm triggering her. Yet she keeps hanging on.

What does she want?

What is she getting out of this?

Why does she persist in persisting, yet still refuse to meet?

Why - or better yet - how does she gloss over the obvious excruciating pain I'm feeling and blogging about on here? If this were a teenage romance and she the subdued vicar's daughter, then I could understand it. But this is a 35 year-old (maybe 36 by now) woman!!!! And I am a 38 year-old man. Isn't there EVER a time you get to in life when you're beyond the bullshit, or as a species are we doomed to wallow in it for as long as we live and (attempt to) court?

Exasperated doesn't even cover it. Frankly, I feel like this for most of the time and I've felt like this for a long time but it's not often that I'm honest about the kind of stress and misery this situation puts me under.

I am Tantalus incarnate.

I just don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to do anymore. And I'm exhausted. I wish I could just say, "Fuck this shit" and walk away, but I've been *cough cough* blessed with the kind of conscience that won't let me do that.