Nightmare

So I have to record last night's dream because it was just completely bizarre.

In the dream I'm standing outside of my house, not my current house but the one I grew up in as a child, and for some reason the streets felt..dirty. Like the neighborhood itself looked very bland and grey. There were a sporadic bustle of people every which way I looked, but the street wasn't crowded, they were sticking to the sidewalks. You could tell they were loud and obnoxious by their mannerisms and behaviors but they were all mute to my ears. The whole look and feel reminded me of an old early 20th century photograph with an eerie apocalypse aftermath. I know that sounds really strange. Anyways a UPS truck pulls up and a delivery man throws a package at my feet. He immediately drives off in a hurry, wheels screeching against the pavement.

Now in real life let me tell you I am currently expecting a package from Phil of all my belongings that still reside at his house, before the breakup happened. I'm supposed to get it any day now I guess.

Anyways, the box doesn't look how I thought it would at all. There were only a few little things I left behind, so naturally you'd think it would be small, but it's huge and in the shape of a rectangular-somewhat square flat skinny box. The kind you would imagine a large frame or picture would be in. The box is beaten up, with dirt and torn on one side, somewhat exposed, and written on a white piece of paper taped to the front says this in black scratchy handwritting: "I'm sorry. [You] or [It] hurt(s) me too." I can't remember exactly how I read it, it was either/or as far as the message went.

So I am obviously upset, confused, I rip the tear larger to open the box and it's my Zombie Napoleon painting I made for him, something I wasn't expecting to get back or want back because I wanted him to have it. The other things I was expecting that are mine are not in the box, and what's even worse is the painting is destroyed. It looks nothing like how I originally painted it. Layers and layers of paint have been removed and the canvas is thin, becoming thinner at the touch the longer I hold it until it feels like a piece of paper. Each layer of paint becomes one thin piece of paper until the entire thing feels like a stack, just one big mess of paint and a distorted face. The frame that I bought for the painting is gone as well, and I'm thinking "Why on earth would he keep the frame but throw away the painting?" The frame itself was $285 when I paid for it; pretty expensive. I start to think he may have kept it for some other selfish use. So I'm completely distressed and start to walk back to the house, taking the torn box and the ruined Zombie Napoleon painting with me.

When I get into my house, it isn't my house at all. It's a place I've never seen before, nothing looks familiar. The entire thing is a wreck, something you would see off a hoarders reality tv show. There is junk everywhere and the junk isn't even mine. There is barely room to walk. The walls are thin burnt brown panels, like something from the '70's, and the couch in the room is an ugly off-white yellow with a scratchy, uncomfortable material. I walk down these iron-barred skinny stairs into this front room and behind me someone calls for me trying to grab my attention. I turn around and it's one of Phil's friends, which I'll just call her nameless. So nameless runs desperately down the stairs to give me some sort of small packet or envelope. It's purple and has white writing with a green border on the lettering but I can't make out or understand what it says. She tells me she is sorry Phil destroyed the painting but can't tell me why, I think she may be as clueless as I am as far as how he feels. She feels bad and tells me to take the packet, that I will feel much better. I'm assuming there are pills inside but I don't know for sure and she chooses not to tell me. Throughout this whole craziness I somehow am still in absolute shock. I'm not crying, I'm not angry, I'm just thinking what in the fucking world is going on? So then I tell nameless, no, I am going to call Phil and we are going to figure this out. And that's when I do start to get really mad he ruined the painting and I want to know fucking why. I made that from the heart, just for him, why would he do that? But still, I'm thinking rationally, I'm not losing it just yet. And nameless is telling me no, he is hurting too much and she doesn't think it's a good idea, to just leave it and him alone, but I just scream back at her "I'm hurting too! More than he is! He did this to me! He left me!" And I am just ready to drive right over to his house and get in his face, so I can make sense of all of this.

And then I wake up.

Seriously, what the fuck.

Repeat

I feel like there is a record player skipping on repeat in my ear. It doesn't matter what anyone says or what he says. I'm still broken. He doesn't want me.

I was finally able to go to bed last night around 3am, after again breaking down in tears. It's more of a silent sob now, which I feel seems to be the worst. That, and the angry sobbing/falling to the floor ordeal. That part I hope has passed, it's been a few days. Overall, the wound has become deeper and deeper since time speaks the truth more and more each and every day; with every silence and his unseen face.

When I finally slept, it was a deep sleep, and amongst other dreams, he appeared again. We were in bed together, laughing and playing at something. For a moment it felt exactly how I felt every time we did do that together, just acting cute and silly, which is a big deal considering nothing has made me laugh or remotely smile in over a week. It felt so warm, like bliss. All of a sudden, I had to get up to talk to someone or get something. As soon as I came back to bed with him he had this look of anger on his face and was so cold towards me. It almost reminded me of the night the first time he broke up with me after Van Goghs. I had never seen him so angry before until that night. I was astonished in my dream and very confused; I tried to consul him but he wouldn't listen to me and wouldn't really talk to me. And then he just got up and left. That's when I woke up and I realized I had started crying in my sleep. I haven't done that in a while, it's probably been almost a year. I couldn't go back to sleep after that, I just had this incredible urge to call him to believe we still might be together, just to hear him say everything was okay.

I'm literally driving myself insane, in sleep and in wake, and it just won't stop. Somebody please make it stop.

:'(

I'm so tempted to drink a whole bottle of wine and then some. I'm already overmedicating myself with xanax so my anxiety doesn't get the best of me, but it's just not working, nothing can numb the sadness in my heart. It physically hurts to be heartbroken, my God, I so do hate this feeling. I knew it was coming, I knew he would never love me. I miss him so much, yet I hate him for the suffering he will never have to experience in leaving and losing me. The last time this happened, many years ago, I was ready to die. That man took so much away from me, I don't know how I even survived without actually going through with killing myself. I'm not even close to how I was then, but I do feel like a part of me has died inside, ready to end it all. I cannot eat, I cannot sleep. I've lost 6 pounds in an entire week and I don't fucking care. Good, at least I'll be skinny out of this agony. But I can't function, I can't work or go to school, I just want to sleep but my thoughts are preventing me from doing so. Everytime I dream, I dream of him and it doesn't help. Then I wake up and a burst of fear and a desperate desire takes over me. I just want him to come back to me, even though again, it would probably mean he will still never love me. It's a toxic feeling. He and I have exchanged letters over the whole ordeal recently, which has been somewhat theraputic, but it doesn't help when I make myself read them over and over again analyzing every little thing. There was more I wanted to ask that I didn't think about at the time, but I know it's best not to ask at all anymore and leave it be. I wonder if there is another woman he's already interested in that played a part in this whole breakup. I wonder if she is already fucking him. I know that sounds sick..it fills me with absolute disgust. I know he said I was more than enough, but I wasn't, I couldn't keep his feelings for me alive. I don't even know if he has any real feelings for me now, attraction-wise. The bit where he continously professed his deep care for me and that he loves me, but not in the way I love him, really confuses me. It's driving me crazy because I keep thinking over and over what does that exactly mean. It's just hard for me to understand how a real romantic feelings couldn't evolve into a unity of feelings/deep or never-ending love throughout the entire time we were together. We spent almost every moment together. Ohhhh...I don't want to type anymore. I'll just take a dose of sleeping pills, cry myself to sleep and be like Scarlett O'Hara..I'll think about it tomorrow. Because that undoubtly will happen.