When I was a child, we had a cat named Lexington. A common barn-cat, he was a free kitten my parents had gotten in Virginia - so they had decided to name him after the town the barn was in. He was my first pet, ever, and lived to see the grand age of 21 (or 22, we aren't exactly sure how old he was. My parents had gotten him quite a few years before I was born). To this day I remember his soft black fur, situated in a pattern not unlike that of a tuxedo and his bright green (and sometimes all-knowing) eyes.
He taught me how to love.
He always found me when I was upset as a child. Whether it was from the hazing I received as from my peers, or my parents fighting, he always knew when to show up so I could hug him and be comforted.
I wish I had Lex now.
Pookie and I...we are no longer a "we." He has decided that he's no longer in love with me, that he only views me as a friend. That he's not attracted to me.
It's a bitter pill to swallow. I miss the way he held me, the way he smelled. The way he'd cheer me up when I was down. I miss his dumb-ass snoring, and his ridiculously long legs, and that little mole he had on his upper lip. I miss our conversations, his love of boats and wine and all things French.
I just miss him, point blank.
He's a good guy, and I have to give him props for letting me know and not dragging it out like boyfriend #2 did. But damn. I miss him.
It's been four days, and I keep expecting to get up out of this depression. Last night was the first night I've been able to sleep without having to down a bottle of alcohol. Four books managed to do it, and even then sleep came unwilling.
I woke up hugging my blankets again.
Logically, I know that I'm acting ridiculously. Logically, I know that there's probably some other bloke out there that I'll fall for, and I'll be happy again, and everything will be fucking perfect sometime in the distant future.
But I don't want him. He's not Pookie. He doesn't know me. He's not the one I've shared so much of myself with. He wasn't there for me when we had to put Rusty and Lili down. He didn't hold me when I told him about my grandmother's decent into madness, spurred on by Alzheimer's. He wasn't the one that I trusted with myself. All that was Pookie.
It's taken every bit of strength I have not to text him, call him, visit him. I'm like a freaking junkie going through withdrawal.
And, deep down I know that this? Isn't healthy or normal. My brain is telling me to move on - if it won't work it won't work. I can't control what he does, or how he feels. We're incompatible. And yet...I can't help but think that we are. We're totally compatible. Other people were disgusted with how compatible we were.
Well. Apparently we're not.
I'm angry. I'm so freaking angry that he'd just throw me away, that he wouldn't even try to work things out. That he didn't care enough to even put in the damn effort.
My previous breakups have left me totally and emotionally unprepared.
I hurt. And I can't stop crying. Just when I don't think I have any more fluid in my body to spare, something will remind me of him and I'll just start bawling my eyes out like a damn spoiled brat.