And So It Goes

I'm sitting at home, alone, cashing in on my stores of built up self-hatred. My stomach drops everytime I check the mail, my heart leaps everytime I hear the phone ring, and, without fail, the knot of disappointment knarls tighter and tighter every time neither turns out to be what I had hoped. I do this to myself, I realize, and I only make things worse by not letting go. Silence has never been a turn-off, in fact, it only piques my interest more. That whole "absence makes the heart grow fonder" bullshit, you know.
A week ago, I sent him a gift. A nice little present with a nice little card and a nice little packaged piece of my heart sent priority mail. I anticipated a speedy response, but, nothing as of yet. In a sad ploy to relieve the pain, I've begun to make excuses. Maybe it didn't fit in his mailbox so it is sitting at the post office and he hasn't had time to retrieve it. Maybe, the writing blurred during shipping and the package is finding its way back here. Maybe there was an accident, like a mailman mugging or tragic car versus postal truck collision, and now my package is sitting in the evidence room of the SFPD or the city impound lot. Maybe.
I'm hurting and I've had to wage war with myself not to call or email. I'm beginning to realize that he can say anything he wants because it doesn't have to be true. I'm not there now and I won't be for months. I'm not asking to be Helen of Troy, I don't need battles fought in my name. I have enough of those to fight myself. But, I do want to be worth time and effort and pain and heartache. I want to feel loved and missed and desired and cherished. I don't even need those things now, though that would be nice. I only want to know that they are waiting for me out there, somewhere.
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