*

I'm managing. Somehow. Sometimes with another type of pill on top of everything else, ugh (well, just half of a Valium), but not every day at least. Sometimes I need it to sleep, but I try and alternate between that, booze, pot. Two out of the three are bad for my throat, but I don't need to sleep every night. Just most nights. I wake up looking forty-six more than thirty-six and somehow miraculously put myself together back to somewhat close to my age by the time I step out the door. Most touch is fine now but shoulders unsurprisingly make me murderous. I did actually have to tell that to people. I'll never give Walter a chance to even try to touch my shoulders, so that's irrelevant. Whenever he's around it's like every single cell in my body is on alert. He hasn't done anything serious to me (touch-wise, that is). But I don't know about Nate. And I don't know how or when to ask him about that. I don't want to destroy him the way I'm destroyed right now. I don't want Jeffrey having to carry the both of us around like dead weight. The last date, maybe. That way if the question breaks him, his life isn't flipped upside down in the middle of having to work. By then, too, I hope we know each other on a few new levels. And I can hold him if he needs it. Or just be there at whatever distance is comfortable for him, now that it's happened to me. And then we can get out of this fucking house.

I hope Walter doesn't come on the road too often. He'll probably watch Nate like a hawk (not like the idea of him watching me is any more comfortable). I still have my people on the crew, though. We can think of something. If I can remain relatively stable on the road, then I'm ready for Nathan. I want to be strong for him. I can be. I feel it more deeply now, I'm more sure of it, even in the state I'm in now. Maybe it's the val, ha. I dunno.

It was difficult for awhile to want to see Jack again. Thinking of him made me feel like a monster. I couldn't think of anything I've done with him in any other light than some awful predatory one, even though he's an adult. But another reason this can't last, another reason why this has always partially been a fantasy: I could give him the life I have, but he would be chained to it by me. I remember when I was with Lorenzo, writing and daydreaming about getting some sugar daddy that would give me a nice brownstone and a new car and a record deal. Now I'm here and I'm wondering what the fuck monkey's paw I wished on. But anyway, I know I can't do that to Jack. Or at least, I know it now. For awhile I think the idea did turn me on, to be for him what I would've wanted at that age (not literally one-to-one, but just providing for everything for him). But I was in a place of desperation he isn't in. Sometimes I can think of how happy I am for Jack that he's never known that, and other times I think of myself at that age and want to scream. And similarly, sometimes I can't help but hate the self I was at nineteen for being such a fucking sucker and a moron. Other times my naivete just breaks my heart. I was a nice fucking kid. A dumb fucking kid. But a nice one. And he crushed me into something so ugly, and then into nothing, and I only barely put myself back together into something I felt was truly beautiful before Ricky died and I was crushed into nothing again. And then I met Walter. Of course. Fucker. FUCKER. I don't know whether to be more angry at my twenty-seven-year-old self for being an even BIGGER fucking sucker, or what. Like fool me once shame on you, fool me twice... right? Better late than never, I guess. Third time's the charm?

Anyway, thinking of Jack made me feel disgusting for awhile. I'd answer his calls, but felt terrible still knowing I couldn't give him anything. I didn't have anything for him and anything I could give him just felt evil. But I did see him recently. We still didn't have sex. I did tell him the very bare bones of things, and that I probably couldn't keep teaching him-- which also made me feel terrible. There's less and less I can do. But he felt awful that I felt awful; he said he wanted to make me happy or at least give me a time and place without any bullshit, "so you can just do whatever you need to do". And then he paused, looked away for a moment, sighed. "I also shaved my head 'cause I know you're leaving soon. And I can't do shit about it. And I'm mad at you for it but it's stupid that I am. ...I know you need to go. I know you need to do what you gotta do, and figure something the fuck out for yourself." And he said that I'd given him so much that no one ever had before, and sometimes that got him close to freaking out, too. He didn't think I would actually turn down any of his more rape-centric fantasies. It made him angry that I did, at first. He thought I was underestimating him, or treating him like a child, that there was still something he had to prove to me. But the more time went on and the more scenes we did together, the more we fucked, the more I think he learned that there's a difference between aggressive passion and agreed-upon adrenaline rushes versus being treated like shit for someone elses' sake.

One very nice thing to hear-- something that almost made me cry again, admittedly-- even though he understands if I can't teach him again, he said again that I was a wonderful teacher. And he never felt gross or dirty or anything after we were together, whether that was for sex or for lessons. There's still a part of me that thinks I just tricked him well enough, but at least that didn't bother me at the time. And even if I did, I stopped. But there's no pleasing myself sometimes. Anyway-- not so nervous about Jack and I's last day together anymore, at least, and that was something that was hanging lower and lower over my head.

*

Release-day (night) party felt as surreal as I expected it would. I mean, the extra glasses of wine didn't help with that-- but even before then. Nothing's felt 100% real since remembering... that. Like I'm just sort of ping-ponging along and bouncing off of whatever corner I hit first. I'm not sure how noticeable it is to everyone else. Jeffrey and Nathan both think I'm crazy already for their own reasons at this point, so maybe it's just more of me being crazy. I almost hope so. I ESPECIALLY don't want Jeffrey nosing into my business. He didn't last night, at least. He was too drunk to try, himself. We were still corraled for an interview at one point and ALL of us were already smashed, and Jeffrey and I just had to try our best to keep everything together. Nate... well, I didn't have high expectations for him anyway. But I don't think we embarrassed ourselves... too much? Certainly a little, ugh. It was Japanese TV anyway, they won't even know what the hell we're saying.

All that was silly enough to remember. The rest was a blur that I'm glad is behind me. I just want to keep moving forward, now. Even though there's a sense of dread with it, too. If I don't succeed in what I want to succeed in, I don't know what I'll do. This has to be the last time things are the way they are, though. That much is for sure. But I don't want to linger on the dread. I have enough I want to leave behind for awhile. I can think of my more serious concerns after I get Nathan in more entertaining ways first.

*

Tour starts tomorrow. I saw Jack again yesterday, for likely the last time in my life. I don't want him to hope for anything. I don't know what or who I'll be when I come back. I don't know what I'll be ready for, or what I'll want to do, or even if I'll want to be alive or not. He's so young. He has so much damn time. "I don't know what I'll be without you." And you have the time to figure that out, but god, he was already so much before he met me. I hope he understands that, or comes to if he doesn't yet. He held me and cried and rocked and I just held him back, kissed his head, stayed as steady as I could for him. Tucked a note and some extra in one of his pockets.

And then, because I'm an idiot, I went back home and read old journals. Really I have no idea why I wanted to look at them-- I felt like shit afterwords, because of course I did. The person who wrote the things he wrote five years ago isn't the person I am. He's so driven, so determined, so happy and confident, so effortlessly beautiful-sounding, so in love. As close to perfection as I could've ever dreamed to get. But he doesn't know what's coming, doesn't see the tidal wave looming overhead. He doesn't know how ugly the fight's going to get. He doesn't know he's going to have to become just as ugly to remain standing at the end of it, and he doesn't know it might not fucking matter a single bit, ‘cause the ugliness needed to win was too much ugliness for the man he was in love with. He doesn't know that he'll be here and his mother, Cryssie, and two of his good friends would be dead and three more dying. He doesn't know that he'll be here without the man the person five years ago thought was his soulmate.

And I'm going to be on the road without him for the first time since '78. I'm not going to feel the rush of pride and strength and goodness I would get from seeing him work and working alongside him ever again. I'm going to be singing the songs I made our songs and they're not going to be our beautiful shared secret anymore (the only consolation is that they're not Jeff and Teri's, either). He's not going to be squatting against the crowd barriers near the front row or standing side-stage beaming at me. I can't put on my quietly-flirtateous little shows for him. Neither of us are going to take the other by the arm and yank us both into hidden little alcoves before shows to give each other good luck kisses (and he'd always know where all the best ones were). We're not going to have quick, clandestine, thrilling-and-beautiful encounters anywhere afterwards, sharing and reveling in my post-show endorphins. He's not going to find the prettiest wildflower growing on the farthest edge of any given truck stop to tuck into my hair or my shirt lapel. I'll never beat him at poker. I'll never teach him how to swim. I'll never feel the elation of making him proud of me ever again. I'm never going to be able to do anything to make him look at me in lovestruck awe ever again. I'll never see his smile just generally, won't see him around by pure chance and have my heart leap in my chest in relief, never feel the security I felt just knowing he was around, that he loved me, that he had me. He won't be around to catch me and gently bring me back when I get too close to the edge of anything. I'll never be able to lean my head against his chest and lose myself in the low rumble of his voice, to feel like a small thing safe in a burrow (Now half the time I feel more like a feral ugly thing with matted fur growling, hackles raised and teeth bared in some hole somewhere-- maybe the same burrow, but partially collapsed, rain-soaked, freezing, but all I have left). I'm never going to smell his stupid fucking Camels on my clothes or in my hair again, never going to taste them in my mouth (our mouths, or in his mustache and beard, even in his fucking chest hair...). The bastard's made me miss the fucking smell and taste of his goddamn cigarettes.

I can write all this down now because I thought all of it and more before, curled up and sobbing on my bed (crying for him, crying for Jack, crying for Nate, for Lou, crying for Mom and Cryssie and Tommy and Dave, so many dams breaking at once-- I suppose I'm more stray than feral. It would be easier to be feral). Being with Ben was the one thing that made me most excited to get on the road. It was the place we were fully together, fully US. One unit. A package deal. Benny and Julie. King and queen of the crew. Road husbands. So strong, so happy, so powerful, for such a fleeting moment. All ruined because Walt won't stop so I can't stop yet and Ben made the mistake of believing he had to stop me for me too early. I get it more, now. Why he wanted to. But it still wasn't the right decision.

I know there are things to look forward to on the road, too. Well, really, just one. A very important one. But I still have no idea if I'll be able to make it through this intact. Am I even intact now, after so much in me breaking at once? Ugh. I need to try. For him (for that fucking idiot).

PS: At least I can eat again and not be punished by my own body for it. Silver linings!

*

Jack,

I truly couldn't have predicted how this ended up turning out. So much of the good of it was because of you. I tried my best not to allow the rest of my life to invade what you helped create for us; I tried to create and give pleasure through methods (or variations on methods) people in my early life had used to instill fear in me. I know I didn't fully succeed in the former, but I'm happy I was able to give you the latter and more (and that you taught me so much, yourself). I wish that hadn't come with so much extra baggage, still. I know you say you don't mind, and you truly were so good to me at various times in the past year and change when I thought I couldn't take things anymore. I just hope I gave enough to you, too. You deserve so much more than what you've already been given-- by me but by life, generally, as well, and in that regard I hope what comes along with this helps some. Please don't feel as though you owe me anything; you absolutely don't and I very much would like you to use this however you need, whether it's for your surgery bill or any future work you need done or for anything else (and if it makes you uncomfortable to keep it or use it on yourself, there are plenty of places around that could use it right now).

What we had was wonderfully intense at its best (its lows could be equally intense, and I am sorry for my part in those lows and their intensity), and coming down from it might be difficult, but you'll do it, and in the end, you'll find a partner and master far better for you than I could have ever been. You're worthy of so much.

Love and luck to you in all things,

Jules

*