And call me in the morning.

I took two muscle relaxants for that pleasant, eyes soft-focused lilt, and now I lay here with a heavy feeling in my chest, awake but still, and full of worry. My brain sounds like this:

He hasn’t called. He must have died. Or gotten drunk and cheated and wants to talk in person. Or lost his phone. Or his phone died. Or he died. Or is in the hospital. I wouldn’t find out. Holy shit, I wouldn’t find out. Who would tell me? Maybe he lost his phone, and left a note on my door when I didn’t hear him knock. I should check. A note? He is not the type to leave a note. I should go for a walk, be anywhere but here when I get the news that he’s okay, just tired, just wants out of this relationship. Or is dead. (At this point I went down to check for a note, and, finding none but discovering I’d left the door unlocked knew for certain that he hadn’t been by. I went to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror and saw a sad person with my hair. I stripped and crawled back into bed, thought about masturbating and then thought how awful it would be if I was jerking off while he lay dying somewhere. This is certainly a ridiculous train of thought, but it’s a situation I’ve been in before, only with the movie ET and not masturbation, and the boy was, actually, dead.) Maybe I need a break. Do I need this relationship? Am I just questioning it because I am scared/stressed/lonely? Will I ever sleep? There’s no way I could be right, that something’s wrong. Didn’t I have this sick, heavy feeling before my brother opened the door and told me about S_? Or did that feeling just bleed into memories it doesn’t belong in? What if…

And this goes on for an hour and fifty-three minutes (or so) before I realize that it’s probably not going away unless I get it out. Anxiety = no fun.

I don’t want to live here, in this place of unease, anymore. I can smell the rain in the air and I hope…well, I hope. That’s a start.