My body aches all over, but it is more pronounced in my upper chest, behind my breastbone.
I am trying to eat good foods, to stay away from the junk and sugar. Don't really even want the junk right now--so the good foods will keep me going and on an even keel.
When I can eat.
I miss the Apollo archetype, the Golden Boy that was the personification of all I could never have nor ever be because I wasn't born at the right conjunction of stars and planets and social class.
It wasn't that I was never pretty enough--it was more that the world I grew up in was far too disordered to give me what I needed to be good enough. But it's always much easier to say that I'm not pretty enough. Pretty is a superficial quality and easily quantifiable. Disorder, chaos, and the sense of "trailer trash" can be hidden behind the prettiness, but is like a cheap perfume that lingers in a cloud after your presence is gone.
They always know it.
I would like to cry, but I can't. That's nothing new. I'm not someone who cries all that often. I didn't cry much at my mother's funeral. Sometimes I can only cry at movies--at the depictions of someone else's hurt and sorrow because I compartmentalize mine so well that I don't conciously even know it's there.
It lurks behind my eyes and in my body. In my mind and my hands I am working, doing things, making things happen, making the next career move and the Next Big Step in my life transpire.
If I keep busy, keep my Eyes on the Prize, I won't t have time for feelings. They can be in a box in the back of a room somewhere in my brain. I can work on improving my Self and my Standing In The Community by building a solid reputation as a fairly decent freelance writer.
And I won't have time for sex because I'll be too busy.
I miss the crashing of bodies and the warmth of another in my space; breathing hard like a marathon runner and a heartbeat right up against mine.
I miss sex that was like heroin.
I miss it so bad that I can't even look at nor touch another.
I have to close that energy gap in my heart chakra. Let it heal over like a scraped knee. Don't pick the scab. Let it peel away naturally.
If I ignore it all, maybe it won't hurt as much. Maybe it will just feel like I'm getting over the flu. Maybe it will heal up and go away without me ever knowing it.
Maybe it will be over and gone before I know it.