Story: Pattern Recognition

This is a pattern. I've been here before, or a close variance thereof, many times. Five, Six, Ten? More? I don't really know, but at least five.
The morning after I feel so consumed. Raw. Frustrated, sick, depressed, and a little angry. I leave in search of peace. Take double-doses of medicine, too early, and forgo breakfast. Endure a terrible morning commute BART ride, all just to leave, to go back to peace. Vowing to myself never to endure such emotional torture ever again. Yet somehow I keep coming back.

As usual, I leave. She's sad and confused and hurt. So am I. But every moment I spent there just made me feel worse. Why is there always such pain in that place, in that house? Why, why, why. Never a useful question. My head aches just being there. So I start over.

It's afternoon, I get there. She's in the garage. We start to hang out and she begins to complain about her safety in her house and how random men are always breaking in, etc. So this freaks me out incredibly, possessively, and instantly my feelings drop to Hell as I begin to worry about her safety, which is something else I do not control. I mean, she controls it, if anyone does, so there is nothing I can do about it but worry more. So I do. So twenty minutes into my visit I'm already depressed and scared for her; all amorousness gone. That means not horny. Just both of us nervous and scared together. Ew. No, I was not enjoying thigs. I tried to lighten matters up with descriptions of her happiest places, etc, but I did not seem to succeed much.

Eventually, we semi-mechanically retired to her bedroom, where I become unusually super-conscious of the sound of her mother in the kitchen nearby; I could hear her mother chopping carrots, I could hear her mother walking around, I could hear her mother breathing. And no, she wasn't super sexy. All of this a turn-off. This added to the fact that during intercourse my lover refused to touch my penis, contributed to a lack of amorousness on my part. The final result was us making love only once that evening. My lover obviously wanted more, and usually we would have, but my mood was in the dumps, as was also becoming unfortunately typical as of late. My lover sensed this too, I think, but did nothing to help.

My feelings were so hurt that I thought of leaving, just going home, several times that night. Maybe I should have, but I was determined to make it through the night for "my lover's sake." I wonder now if perhaps it was just masochism. The self-inflicted shame of going home that early would have been great, even with my PTSD excuse.

Thus in my dark, sour, mood, she asked me if a friend of hers whom I didn't know could stop by to meet me, knowing full well that I wouldn't be up for it; and I was not. This further darkened my mood and our short, serious "talk" at this time made my emotional matters even worse.
Not knowing what to do, not wanting to run away in theory while my body screamed "flight", horrified at the painful prospect of more "talking" with her, I did something new for me: I fell sleep. Or close to it. I simply went comatose around six in the evening and refused to be roused. My lover lay with me for a bit, but for the most part she ignored me completely, smoking outside and talking on the phone. Though sad, this option was at least less painful than others. Though cowardly, it was surprisingly efficacious.

The next morning I woke her with a shower of kisses and genuine good cheer I had not expected to have. Last night's sadness remained in my heart, but for the moment it was in the back of my mind. I gave way to the unexpected cheer and made coffee. She wanted sex, I thought, which brought back last nights feelings stronger and I gradually became quieter and more withdrawn.

I drank my coffee and chatted with her sister, things seemed okay enough... though the darkness and the heaviness of the house atmosphere was still oppressive, still tangible. My lover came out to smoke with me... we sat in silence, I think, unusual for us... she seemed so sad, though... she might have invited me back to bed and I night have refused, still hurt by her strange fear of my penis. I can't really remember clearly. I talked with her about this fear and she agreed, saying she understood how I felt, but how could she really? She did not apologize for anything (though I was secretly hoping she would), nor did she seem to understand how deeply it all hurt me. I got quieter again...

I went out to her house's garden to meditate by their tree, as I usually did. My sitting was shorter than usual. Rather than soothing me it seemed to awaken in me a fervent desire to run away from the horrible place, my lovers psychically poisoned house, and her similarly poisoned heart. To leave now, at all costs. Upon reentering the kitchen with the full intenet of grabbing everything I had and leaving ASAP, still holding the door open I saw she had made me breakfast.

A beautiful act. Something she'd never done for me before.
So simple, so kind. It looked delicious, but my stomach felt sour and I still felt I had to get away. Looking to her for strength I found none. I refused it, with tears in my eyes. I did not feel any hunger. Flight, freedom, the only things on my mind. Add to that now Guilt, for refusing my lovers sweetest of intentions. I didn't even take a single bite. I had to go. Sadly, almost wordlessly, we hugged numbly, said almost nothing to each other, and I left.

A jerk, an ingrate, an early-leaver, spent, stressed, a lover at his wits end.