Dragging Him Along

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.”



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