Fantasy.

As another therapy session looms, introspection of the one previous migrates to the forefront. It was in that session that I confessed to a listening ear, an idea so hidden, that I was almost afraid to speak it aloud. She had asked me a question, something along the lines of: ‘what do I want for myself?’. After a lingering pause, and some brooding breaths, I confessed – “I’ve always had this idea…” I went on to explain it, fighting every natural urge to hide away like a turtle in a shell, from embarrassment. I explained that my idea was that I would be saved. I know reading that is rather non-descript, and broad. So, allow me to elaborate; the scenario goes like this: I sit alone at the bar, just like always. Music plays in the background, and one drunk regular is being – a drunk regular. I hold up residency atop of my stool. Trading beer or whiskey for thoughts. One drink for a thousand memories. Thoughts of times gone by, and the fog of what lies ahead. This is usually what I do. This is how I live my life, and how I manage my pain. I drown the demons, and when they learn to swim, I try again…

whiskey

In my scripted fable, it would be in that process that my restoration would begin. I’ve held thoughts for some time that somewhere, in some bar, at some time, a woman would approach me. She would do so after overlooking my all too generic looks, and after feeling compelled to do so out of desire and mercy. As she approached, she would become the only person I see in the bar. She would be kind and gentle. Genuine, and sweet. Equal parts sexy, and sincere. Her voice would sound like music, and her scent like spring. Fresh, and new. She would comment on my sad eyes. That is usually the only thing I get told by people now, is that I have sad eyes. I have been told that I have a kind smile, but I don’t smile much. Not anymore…

 

She would be the woman that saves me. The woman to soothe the pain. To push back the demons. That’s the fantasy. I know how silly it is. I do. But that’s the thing about fantasies, they’re all silly, but they’re still nice to have.

 

If my fantasy sounds as though it’s from Hollywood? Well, that’s because it likely is. If you know how I grew up, it may make sense to you. If you don’t, well, in the absence of a father, and a mother who battled mental illness all the way to her grave, I spent a lot of time with ‘Uncle TV’… It was there that I would see the troubled hero navigating the 12 stages of his journey. Weather it was TV or movies, I was entranced. Hypnotically manacled by the romantic idea of someone caring so much, that they could actually save you! Save – – me…

beautiful

In my last relationship, I never really had that. Not at all really. Whenever I had been through a bad call at work, or when Colin died overseas, I was not greeted with compassion or genuine kindness. It was baffling to me because, it was not at all what I had seen on TV as I was growing up. Maybe that was unfair of me to put that pressure on her?… It all just felt so wrong. I was collecting pain, and ghosts, and no one was saving me, even though the water was rising… I was saving people. I did it well. I tried anyway. But, as for me, I was left alone with my thoughts, and confliction in a dingy bar, sipping the only savior I knew, and know, from a glass…

 

I think the reason I yearn for this so badly, is because when it is left to me, my best thinking tells me that it is okay to drink beer, after beer, and beer after beer, then get in my car, and drive home. Or, it tells me that the overpass would be a good place to end it all. One quick swan dive to end the pain. Or maybe that passing semi? I could just wait until the moment was right, and then throw myself beneath its roaring tires. That aught to do it. Night times are the worst. Especially now that my mom is gone. Now there is nothing. Just silence. Silence and pain. And when I’m not exercising self-discipline, beer too. See, the idea of a beautiful, kind, and fictitious woman isn’t such a bad thing to think of instead, is it? Meh, maybe it’s just as damaging…

 

Anyway, those are my thoughts at 07:23 hours of a Thursday morning. Therapy day. And with how I’m feeling, likely beer day too…

 

As a side note, trust me, I know this is a fantasy. Women like this do not exist. People like this, do not exist. And if they did it would take trust to allow for such a thing to take place. A trust I will never again give anyone. Never again…

 

Cheers.

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