Last night, I came home from losing at canasta eager to skim through the parts of my library book I was interested in so I could return it today.  But when I sat down with it, I realized I just wasn't in the mood to be lectured on the decadence of modern art.  I thought I'd go back to the beginning, the first post, in August of 2001, and make an index, so I could quickly see what happened on "this day in history."

For some reason, I remember those days differently.  When I've looked back on them recently, I thought, "Gee, all I ever did back then was write stuff like, 'I went to the supermarket and the cashier forgot to charge me for shredded coconut and I said nothing!'"  Here I was, pacing along, patting myself on the back for having grown up so much, and being able to write something that could hold interest for someone besides myself.  But after reading through the end of September, I worried that I've steadily changed for the worse.

The time when I first began blogging I count as the most distressing time in my life thus far.  When I was writing my Index, the summary phrases that kept popping up were:

I typed that through blinding tears.  I'd driven home after a party that I'd been to with Aaron.  I'd gone to visit him at work as I did every now and then, and he'd invited me along.  Naturally I was thrilled.  I wanted to be with him all the time.  I was a big hit at the party, and somehow Aaron ended up in my lap.  I'd rubbed his back, played with his hair (he needed a haircut, I remember) for what seemed the longest time.  It was late and I'd a few drinks and I seized the opportunity.  It was the most glorious feeling in the world.  I've never felt so euphorious touching any guy, ever again.  When I look back on it now, I suppose Aaron must have been trying to make some other guys at the party jealous.  I can see objectively now that he was like that.

After the party, I drove back to Aaron's house on my way home.  Reed had brought him home, and Reed would be staying the night.  With Aaron.  It all seemed so wrong, so terribly wrong, what had gone wrong?  I must have stood in his doorway for eons while Aaron tried to get me to leave, but I was too astonished to move.  Finally, he just gave me a hug, and I fell into my car, and it moved.  The car drove me all the way home while I sobbed and moaned.  It was a summer night but I shivered like icicles were forming and I wanted to shake them off.

Eventually, I stopped thinking about Aaron every day.  I stopped wondering what he was doing, who had made him smile, what he thought about.  If he showed up at my door today and asked to come in, I'd wrap my arms around him and probably cry.  I'd tell him how much I felt for him.  I loved Aaron.  He treated people like toys and I loved him.  He made me feel worse than anyone has ever done before or since, and I still love him, in a way.

I honestly don't see how I could have made it through such a horrible time without Elsa and Cyndee.  They read faithfully, offering their advice, almost every day, and I'm still baffled what they could have found compelling about my struggles.  I wrote repetitive reams, going over and over the problem in my mind, trying to figure out what the hell was happening to me.  Why I couldn't just let go, why I had to devour every scrap of kindness Aaron gave me and beg for more.  I believe they saved my life.  I don't use those words casually.

When I read these entries, I wonder what happened to the guy who devoted so much of his time to trying to understand himself.  I'm surprised by how much fun I managed to have, even when going through wrenching crises, and how I was able to make new friends, and keep up with my schoolwork, find time to exercise and eat right.  What has happened to me?  I don't watch the evening news because it's too unpleasant.  I never cook any more, rarely get active, have not managed to connect to anyone in this town . . . I've given up on higher education, have nothing to do, and I refuse to express an honest emotion.  I've turned into someone scared of his own shadow.  If anything's remotely uncomfortable, I make a joke out of it.  I used to think that humor was a good way to deal with things, but now I see I've grown so detached from myself.

Something's got to change, but how?