I finally stopped vomiting around 9am, and managed to fall asleep. Woke up around 3pm in a state because of a bad dream; I’m still a little wobbly over it, a couple of hours later. Sometimes, I dream that B is still alive. I always know deep down that I’m dreaming though, so it doesn’t hit me so hard when I wake up. This dream was too realistic for my liking; we went on walks together, I spoke to him, he was alive. Still brain-damaged and still with cancer, but alive. I had to face his death all over again when I woke; am I ever going to get over this? Sometimes the grief takes me by surprise and slaps me in the face.
I also woke to a text from O.
“Hey! How’s tricks? What you upta today? Bored and cold. Grr x”
I forgot to mention that we spoke via text message a week or so ago, after months of no contact at all. The usual stuff; I asked him how the kids are, he asked how my mum is. The polite exchanges which can only come from a failed engagement and years of pain. I do still want him in my life; he was a good friend to me, even if he did rip me apart emotionally. I just don’t know if I can trust his motives. Any trust I had died long ago when it comes to O, and I haven’t replied to this morning’s message. I don’t know how to. I feel like I should point out that S and I are very close, and that I love him madly… but I’m aware that I could just be being paranoid that O is after something I’m no longer willing to give him, and that by pushing the bare facts of my love life onto him, I might break that small connection we still have. I do care about O; we were young and stupid and reckless, and something had to break eventually. I can’t be with someone for over four years and not care about them. The love though… that died long ago. S has taught me what real love is about. Being with him has taught me that it’s not about jealousy or denial, as it was with O. It’s not about tearful phone calls and paranoia. It just… is. I’m happy now.
So far today I’ve done nothing except read other blogs and run to the toilet every 10 minutes. Just because the vomiting has stopped, doesn’t mean everything else isn’t going well and truly to pot. I don’t know if I dare take my Metformin since it makes me feel sick anyway, but I can’t really mess around with the dose. I need to get settled on it properly if it’s going to work. It’s already showing signs of improving the PCOS; my waist size has reduced dramatically in the past month, and my skin has cleared up, along with less hair growth on my face.
Since I didn’t sleep last night, I spent a lot of time looking around other blogs on depression, BPD, eating disorders, anxiety and fibromyalgia. I wish I’d discovered the blogsphere earlier; the information out there from people experiencing these things is far, far better than any textbook or doctor. I’ve subscribed to anything which I want to keep up with; I get confused and forgetful easily, and having everything in one place makes it easier. I just wish I had the balls to comment more often on other blogs, I don’t want to seem ignorant but my confidence is still pretty shaky when it comes to expressing myself elsewhere.
Yet again, I’m going to use the phrase “the weekend was brilliant”. On Friday evening, I met S at the hospital where he works, and we walked to the pub together. Got a little tipsy on Kronenbourg and had a giggly trip to Tesco to pick up some red wine and snacks. We got the takeaway and I dealt with it pretty well; I had tofu in hoisin sauce, satay tofu skewers and vegeterian duck. Ate half of it and felt quite comfortable. I didn’t even take any diet pills afterwards, and I resisted the urge to binge later on. I haven’t told S that I’ve been struggling with the combination of needing to lose weight and having an eating disorder; I think he’s probably guessed though.
We spent most of the weekend in bed, doing what we do best. After nine months together, S and I still have a lot of sex, averaging seven times a weekend. It’s got to the point where I’m permanently bruised down there, yet I simply I can’t resist him. I’ve always had a high sex drive, and I suspect I’ve had a lot of sex compared to some people my age… but this is something new. It’s pure passion, and not driven by insecurity or neediness like it has been in the past. Put simply, I’m never happier than when we’re lying together, our legs tangled and smiling like idiots, indulging in silly pillow talk. There’s always a sexual undercurrent running when we’re together, and I’m still slightly baffled by it. After one particularly gorgeous session on Saturday which started while we were watching a documentary on Pearl Jam and which was fuelled by red wine and much flirting, we spent time just lying together, staring at each other. He held me as he lay on me, and stroked my face and kissed my forehead a hundred times. We must have lay there for half an hour, occasionally whispering to each other, smiling, laughing. He told me he loves me, over and over, until I thought I would burst.
I finally said it.
“How do you say to someone… that you’ve found the person you’d like to marry one day… without scaring them?”
Straight away, I hid myself in his armpit and refused to come out. When he finally managed to untangle my beetroot-red face, he smiled at me and said “well, you’ll just have to wait and see”.