The Orion Star

The Next Mozart

Eviscerate this feeling from my head

Disintegrate the words I just said

You have the power to connive

Just push the other thoughts aside

--From the song Wasted

Lyrics By Orion Bauwens

So my mom had a twelve pack of beer. Every night I had one beer--one, I swear--until they were gone. And it was always under the scornful eye of Amy. Mom drank a few from the case too, so it's not like I drank twelve beers myself. But once that pack was done I didn't buy any more, and I've made it a point to not go looking in the fridge in case she bought more.

I never puked after that one morning. I also never called Heather. What can I say? Ya win some, ya lose some.

I talk to Tristan on the phone daily but... It's not enough. I miss him. I miss him holding me. I miss how he looks. I miss how instantaneously he centers my being without even trying. It's like he's started to pour concrete into my chest, plugging up the holes in a way I never figured out how to.

I can't stop thinking about his body, his body I had gotten to know when I stayed with him at his apartment. He works out and it shows. He's muscular, tanned. His pecs are defined, so are his stomach muscles, and--God...The v-shape of his hips as they dip into his briefs is just delectable. I don't think his hair is dyed, either, dirty-blondness being a byproduct from the Texan sun.

He's literally perfect, from his sculpted calves to the two little dimples in his lower back. I love how the muscles around his shoulder blades ripple when he moves. I love how his face brightens up when he smiles. I absolutely adore his straight teeth, save one adorable one that's just slightly crooked on the right.

His hands are huge. I've memorized their shape--his blunted fingertips, how the area on his palms by his thumb are raised like a cushion. I've traced my finger over the lines of his palms so often when we lay in bed I think I have them memorized. I've even scrutinized his fingerprints, how they're always slightly dirty no matter how often he washes them. They're the strong hands of someone who has done manual labor for awhile, and I love them.

I love how they feel as they hold me. He's my anchor. When he's holding me, it's always assured. I feel grounded--I feel real. He plasters my feet to the ground, holds my brain in place so it can't go running off to the scary places it loves running off to.

His mere touch makes me feel in the present. I don't think about my abusive upbringing. I don't worry about what happens if my career were to fall apart. All I think about are his arms that are like walls, holding me and making me steady, and I'm pretty sure it's what Heaven must feel like.

I miss it. I'm so fucking miserable without him.

Since everything happened I haven't been going to AA here in Minnesota. Heather was one of the people I called as soon as I landed. I told her everything; she was kind enough to just tell the group due to extenuating circumstances I wouldn't be in attendance, indefinitely. I'm sure that raised some eyebrows, but, whatever.

I've switched all my psych and therapy appointments to over the phone or via Zoom. Which is...odd. While I'm grateful to have medical support that's so flexible given the unusual circumstances, it's just not the same. Never thought I'd say this, but I miss physically going in. Tack on yet another thing I miss.

It's been a month. I'm going out of my fucking skull.

Don't get me wrong, I've come to love my family. It's actually a little startling how easily I've moulded into their unit. They've accepted me with open arms. I've known this small group of people for such a short amount of time, yet it feels like a lifetime.