[cw for self-harm, especially for the first entry. also some disordered eating later on but that's just a mention]

*

Can I just say, before anything else, that having your heart ripped out of your chest and curbstomped is bad enough but going thru that and not having ANYONE to turn to in the moment who would understand and sympathize (or worse, they'd see it all as a fucking joke) is even worse and even more humiliating. I KNEW something was off lately I fucking KNEW it I could tell. I'd ask Nate if something was up with Greg and he'd shrug, I'd ask Walt if something was up and he'd shrug-- "Trouble in paradise?", he snarked once (and I knew he was trying to get a rise out of me, so didn't give him the satisfaction). --The Halloween party was PERFECT, I thought things were actually going to be fine for us by then, that I could accept this continuing to simply be an ~affair~ and get used to his girl if I really had to tho had relatively high hopes I wouldn’t even have to worry about that, but then it was just more radio silence, worrying, throwing myself into as much as I could to avoid the worrying, trying to tell myself as much as I could that I was overthinking things, I was being silly, everything was fine...

Long story short is that Greg is getting married. To Lori, of course. Someone he's apparently more in love with than he's ever been in his life, in fact! To the point that he wants to leave the band completely to start a family with her (which is, I know, the ONE thing I could never give him, but is it really so necessary? Is it really what he wants?). He told all of us at once, at a band meeting in Walt's yacht-office, with Lori there, and I think the only reason I didn't do something embarrassing was that I heard it, saw it, and immediately checked out. Did all the pleasantries I needed to to look, well, normal. Smiles and congratulations and quick hugs and pats on the shoulders and looks... not into his eyes. I couldn't do that. But between them-- I could do that, and did. Knew I couldn't hang around long after the necessary was over and done with. Knew I had to figure out an excuse to get them to leave me alone.

I started out at a normal walk on my way out of there. It was like tunnel vision. I knew I had to get the hell out and every part of me was screaming it at once and I just had to grind my jaw and move at what felt like a snail's pace until I was away from everyone, off the stupid boat, and eventually I couldn't control my breathing unless I broke into a run, so I did. Thankful my place isn't the longest distance from the marina-- I've run a lot farther, especially in that sort of state-- and thankful I wasn't a sobbing mess or anything that would look too strange to anyone, I don't think, but I wasn't even thinking about that at the time. I was still in that tunnel.

And that tunnel took me home, to the bathroom, drew the bath as hot as it would go, scrubbed every inch of myself until it hurt and then some, and then curled myself up, dug my nails into my shoulders at first but that wasn’t enough, grabbed my shaving razor without thinking about anything but half the urges I’d tried my best to keep at bay on the second half of that damn tour; told myself of course he was leaving, everyone did, and I'm such a fucking idiot for ever hoping otherwise, stupid fucking faggot whore-- when I felt like I could breathe again both of my thighs were fully scraped up and the water was cold enough that I was shivering. Bloody. Fuck, it'd been so fucking long since I lost myself like that. YEARS. I came close at times during the last tour, but I thought the scratching would be enough. It wasn’t, the pain in my heart and mind was too much, screaming to the point I’d do anything to shut it up. And it was over something like THIS? At the same time, I can't help but be angry with Greg, just dropping that bomb like it was nothing, like I was nothing.

I truly don't know what to do, now. I feel like such an idiot. I still have to work with this asshole somehow knowing he's going to leave anyway and he doesn't give a shit about me and he probably never really gave a shit about me and there's nothing I can do about it. I rationally knew an outcome like this was possible right from the start, hence why it's generally a bad idea to get serious with co-workers or mostly-straight men and he was BOTH, I just thought that I could avoid all the bad of it through... what? Being cute? Being good enough at sex? ~An increased amount of emotional openness~? HA.

At least Nate'll drive my car back for me (and I'll pay him for the cab he'll have to take back)-- thankful he hasn't drunk himself into a stupor yet (ugh... he better not crash it. It's a shitty car but it's MY shitty car).

PS: Not only did he bring my car back intact, but he also gave me a few joints with a get-well-soon (I just told him I felt sick and didn't trust myself to drive). Hopefully I can sleep, now.

*

I truly should've never fucked him, even though he asked for it. It was never the same after that and I tried my best not to notice I gave an Academy-award-winning performance of not noticing but it's just the truth of the situation. I knew I was expecting too much I knew it was a stupid thing to want I knew I should've kept it as a fantasy and nothing else but no I had to be selfish again and ruin things like usual. He's still a fucking coward, though. Couldn't stand the fact that another man could make him feel as good as a woman could if not better; was fucking SCARED of the idea that "man" could mean more than that. And I was enough of an idiot to believe that I was special enough to make him seriously switch teams! FUCK I don't know whether I'm more angry at him or at myself.

And what does all this mean for how he thought of me?? If a man is the one who fucks others, and I'm the other, what does that make me, to him? G-d I KNOW the fucking answer, other men have been trying to hammer the same fucking answer into my skull since I was a fucking kid; how the fuck do I still expect ANYTHING different.

The only place where other men can see me as I am and don't treat me like a disposable whore freak to fuck and toss aside is La Rosa. That's the only place, still, where I can understand myself as beautiful, and a type of beautiful that's whole, that's respected, accepted. G-D I fucking miss it so much. Even on stage and around it I'm seen as some Object to reach out and grab and take a piece of; strangers think they know me and all they know is my stage name and an assortment of facts and half-truths and white lies out of context. At La Rosa, some guys might not even know my name, but they know ME, and it's a far more comfortable kind of knowing, a mutual physical knowing and understanding. Straight men will never be able to see me and I was always just going to be something interesting and ~exotic~ to do on the side 'til things got too inconvenient. As much of a fetish as fucking three girls at once is, or whatever. Ugh I'm a FUCKING IDIOT.

*

Ricky,

Truly, no one compares to you; no one can replace you. I have no idea why I was naive enough to think otherwise. I'm such a fucking idiot, I really should just be single the rest of my life. I don't deserve to be loved by anyone anymore anyway. I think I proved that well enough. You always tried to convince me I was better than I was and I nearly believed you by the end, but could never quite get there. I'd keep letting you down and you'd keep letting me back. I'd be better for awhile and then I wouldn't be able to take myself anymore, so couldn't trust that you could, either. I guess that must be one of my problems. That I don't trust myself. But how can I? I haven't given myself much to work with.

If I could control my emotions even a little bit better, if they didn't hurt so much they made me have to hurt myself even more to stop feeling them, it'd be far easier to trust myself. Some days I think I can get there, and then times like this I doubt every bit of myself and my abilities. I don't know where I'm going with this, baby. I love you. I wish I could've been better for you. For everyone. I'm going to keep trying, but it's so damn hard.

Love you always,

Julie

*

Kinda drunk but I love Linda sooooooo much she's my BEST friend I've made from band/work stuff ok one of my best friends. She's my best straight girliefriend these days that's for sure, so she obviously knows who I like dating/etc. We're both cursed to like the stupidest sex (not to say I'M not the stupidest sex-- just a slightly smarter variation, but only slight, I KNOW i'm stupid)! She's a DJ, that's SO cool and I’ve told her that, I used to want to be a DJ when I was a kid, my Dad did radio stuff for awhile....

Anyway, I brought her down to La Rosa and she let me vent as much as I needed. Went over her place before we were TOO sauced up (I only got tipsy enough there to want to dance-- with her and with a few ol' regulars) and we braided each others' hair and took silly polaroids. Had more drinks. Watched TV curled up on the couch next to her, sometimes with my head on her lap, sometimes on her shoulder. It feels like I'm a teenager at a slumber party or something and honestly it's cute and just what I needed-- it's not like I was really invited to slumber parties when I was a teenager anyway (brought notebook in my bag; trust Linda to not be a snoop/etc).

I needed to not be alone, too. I did admit that to her at some point and she was good about it. She knows a decent amount of how I can be, but she hasn't really witnessed it herself and I want to keep it that way if I can. Drunk is a lot nicer than depressed (especially since I didn't get drunk enough to be a wailing mess or anything). So I'm sleeping on her couch tonight. Will probably be okay enough to be alone tomorrow. I just needed tonight and she's still such a sweetheart to have given me that.

*

Shameless enough to admit in here that I've been driving around[25] and blasting Rumours on repeat and belting it along to 2nd Hand News and Go Your Own Way and Silver Springs as a weird kind of therapy. Like, I still have to work around the guy, and it's not like he'd get it or care. And anyway, I think it's working? Kind of? I've probably worn the hell out of my cassette tho. But G-d--

"I'll follow you down 'til the sound of my voice will haunt you/Give me just a chance, you'll never get away from the sound of the (wo)man that loves you"

It's a good thing that song's last because I want to kick things most of the time by the end of it.

An extremely EXTREMELY stupid part of me still thinks if I sing the right things and sing them perfect and look perfect and fuck perfect that it'll be like the past couple weeks didn't happen, that even if he ended up with Lori I could at least get him to stay... but see, I don't even want to finish that sentence here. It's useless, and beyond that, I know I wouldn't actually be satisfied being Greg's third wheel. Or anyone's, for that matter. But blasting Silver Springs at maximum volume scratches that fantasy's itch, at least. That and running in lieu of breakfast. Working in lieu of lunch. And actually doing some crunches and squats and other... working out things... I usually hate doing. It won't get him back, but it gives me things to do and shuts my brain up, and that's really what I need right now.

*

[25]In a NEW car, finally, one of the more standard Mercedes; not ostentatious enough to turn heads, neutral color, good build and engine and GREAT stereosystem, SO much more roomy than Miss Rustbucket-- may her memory be a blessing, she got me thru some real rough times.