I am in a great deal of fear about this operation.  Sorry to go on about it.

I just am.

I have been putting it off, putting it off.  Why?  Because part of me, a big part of me just wants to die.  To never go through the pain of the past few months ever again.

When did I stop fighting to survive?  When did the fight become too exhausting?   I think there were moments on our European adventure when I knew I just couldn’t, wouldn’t carry the both of us.  Between stations in Lille when I vanished to get food for the trip.  I wanted to run away.  That I had done so much for him with so little return.

The problem is:  I stopped fighting for me too.   The more honest I become…the harder life is.  A lie can separate you from the harsh realities.  A lie can make everything better.  The more honest, the more in focus life becomes then the more brutal it is.

To love without trusting is almost too much to bear.  This is the legacy any cheater leaves behind them:  She will never trust another man.  She will always be left wondering if, when her new man goes out, he is cheating behind her back.

At least I knew he was a liar and a cheat and chose to continue.  To get involved.  To catch him as he fell.  All I ended up doing was colluding with him.

The legacy I am left with?  Oh, I blame myself.  Again and again.

Then, there is the perverse thought that we will be OK one day.

Until I don’t believe that we will be friends some time in the future then I am doomed.  Part of me thinks that there will be a moment…even when I am an old man…that we will look back at our time together and smile.  There is NO moment of resolution.  There will be no quiet moment in the future the two of us forgive, when we will laugh at what happened.

It just wasn’t that funny.

I can never ever imagine meeting him again.  Just the thought of bumping into him in the street fills me with revulsion.

Why am I writing about him AGAIN?  I was doing OK..then:

All night I dreamt about JB.  All night.  I may be dealing with him in my conscious life but he is alive a kicking in my unconscious.

There are two dreams:  One where we are making love shuffled in with another altogether more insidious dream.  In the second dream he is changed.  In the second dream he is a gay man enjoying his life.  Subtle changes about his body include the hair on his chest manscaped.

Of course, in the dream, he had his lap top on his lap.  He is chatting with Phil at the house in London.  Telling her about his new apartment, telling her about going to gay pride.

He is letting us know that he is OK.  That things worked out just fine.

He looked so normal and calm.  Perhaps he really was just letting me know that things were OK.  That he is OK.  Communicating this through my dreams.

I dreamt about Issie Blow when she died, and Dione and the Big Dog all in the same way.  They wanted me to know that they had found peace and it was all ok.

Like a grieving dream.  There he was in his life.  Getting on with it.

It’s odd isn’t it that the dream happened in London.  In Phil’s house on Langton Street..though maybe not.  It was there that we had the fight.  There that he lost the iPod and encouraged me to shout at those kids.

I don’t think I will ever stay there again because of him and his stupid iPod.  His clumsiness.

A night of terrible, roiling dreams.  How long will this last?  How long will he be so solidly in my head?

The problem is:  I think he got away with it.  Supported by people who think he is sick rather than duplicitous.  By people who accept that his cheating was perfectly understandable in the circumstance.

The thoughts of JB bubble up over the fear.   Swamped by him rather than face the facts.  I know what’s going on.  I know it.