Last week he said for the first time that he didn’t want to talk anymore, had lost hope of reconciliation, was going to move on.
Last night I had a disturbing dream.
I am crouching on top of a man, having sex with him. Actually, we are mostly clothed and we are not moving — I’m just there, sitting on top, joined with him. It isn’t a “sexy” dream. He doesn’t seem to be anyone in particular.
He is unconscious or perhaps even dead. We’re in a hallway, in a semi-public place.
Someone is coming around a corner. I don’t want to be seen. I’m not sure if that’s because the situation is sexual or the because situation is suspicious. Instead of getting up, I scoot along, dragging him with me, heading for a bathroom I see down the hall, where I can close the door.
I’m through the bathroom door when someone glances down the hall, spotting the limbs of a lifeless body being dragged into a bathroom. “Hey, what’s going on over there?” the stranger shouts.
“Nothing! We’re ok!” I yell, as I try to get my unconscious partner fully inside the door.
I wake up. Holy shit, what is wrong with me, with this rapey necro dream, I think. But shortly it becomes obvious that this dream was not really about sex.
He is no longer with me. I am trying to maintain intimacy with someone who is gone.
He is being dragged along, by me, the dominant partner, the conscious partner. I am trying to carry this relationship alone.
I am trying to believe that “we’re ok” when we are not.
I am trying to hide my struggle from those who might be watching. I am embarrassed; I am alone.
Last night a friend had shared an inspirational photo meme with me. It said: “But grief is a walk alone. Others can be there and listen. But you will walk alone down your own path, at your own pace.”