my careless contagion

I decided to write you a letter about how I see our first meeting... I've been thinking about this for several days now, the chat censorship unfortunately doesn't allow me to describe in words everything that I want to say.... ... I get off the plane, take my luggage and go out into the hall looking for you with my eyes, I'm worried, what if you don't meet me... what if you changed your mind... I'm worried and suddenly, I see you... you're standing there and smiling back at me... We're both a little embarrassed, my heart is beating wildly, my breathing is completely out of order... you take my hand and kiss me... how I've been waiting for this... ... you hold my hand the whole way, we chat about something and get to know each other again... And now we're home... I drop my bag and go to the shower, stand under it and, closing my eyes, enjoy the water that runs down my body... and suddenly I feel your hands on me, you came in quietly and stood beh...

Funny thing about the last post is Blogger (Google) flagged it for having triggering content. I'm sorry if anyone was disturbed by reading about my life. And I'm sorry for breathing out trauma inflicted upon me. Sorry reading about my life could be traumatizing to someone. Imagine what it was like to live it. This is not an apology. My life and my reactions will never be an apology to those who hated me enough to harm me. Seeking to understand what happened was a level of kindness most do not possess and which I continually displayed.  It's one thing to get away from a toxic person. It's another thing to get the poison out they put in you. Trauma is stored in our bodies. We carry it with us, unless we separate it from ourselves — dispatching it with precision — or venting, lancing it like a boil. But the root must be destroyed so it doesn't regenerate. Forgiveness kills the root, but the rest has to be bled out. No, I don't want the gym. It's air conditioned...

Maybe you were curious what happened to the guy who had his heart destroyed. Maybe you thought he was a pussy for crashing out over the biggest disappointment of his life. Maybe you never knew the backstory. Wandering through Gatsby’s abandoned mansion, you wondered what transpired. Maybe you just stumbled in. In any case, you’re here. [Could have split into two posts. To save space, I refer to my ex-wife as K and the woman I fell in love with after divorce as C.] There’s a scene in the movie Drive where a bad guy calmly slits a man’s wrist (the right way — the long way) and tells him to sit down, be calm, because, “It’s done, it’s over, there’s no pain.” That’s how I imagined C ending things. I held out my hand for a friendly goodbye handshake, and she slit my wrist cooly, as if it was her duty. But, it wasn’t over, and there was pain. I sat down, bleeding. I’m still here, and it still hurts.   I hate when people experience a small disruption and attach to it spiritual significanc...