The Waiting Room

I haven't written in awhile. Instead, I've been waiting for things to write about. I've been waiting for "O" to contact me after saying he wanted to go out, and as the weeks go by that's not happening. I've been waiting for me EEG, and after a successful reading of it last week, the results are less than satisfactory. In fact, they came back completely normal -- no evidence of seizures found. While this should be a good thing, it doesn't take away my symptoms or make me any less closer to being well. And O's silence doesn't make me any closer to moving on since he lives right above me and I can hear him when he gets up in the morning, when he walks around the apartment, and when he has a social gathering like he is right now. The exact thing he was afraid of for himself is what he is putting on me -- ending things awkwardly and without a word while living right upstairs.

I was excited about O because spending time with him was the one thing I didn't have to wait to do. I have to wait for a diagnosis, a job, a car, etc., but I didn't have to wait to go upstairs and hang out with someone I wanted to get to know. But apparently my waiting is not yet over. I'm still no less close to having love (and, erm, sex), and still no less close to having a diagnosis.

What I do have control over is my schooling, and I've been refocusing my attention on that. I've been doing everything I can to have the mental capacity to read tragic mulatta fiction for my independent study so that I can graduate on time. (Well, graduate after one extension which I am currently in.) I've been focusing on losing those five pounds I regained during my period. I've been focusing on applying for more online teaching jobs. And, as always, I've been focusing on hours of mindless TV.

I should be furious at O, but I'm not. After finally doing everything the right way I can say with 99% certainty that "it's him, not me." This should give me a feeling of satisfaction, and in a way it does, but more than that it gives me a feeling of ungroundedness. If the problem were me, I could change. But since it's him, there's nothing to do but attempt to forget him -- even as I hear the toilet flush upstairs or see his car parked in the driveway when my roommate and I return home after spending an evening in a movie theater or a day at her parents' where O is freeingly far, far away. My one consolation? The knowledge that someone I thought was hot thought me just as hot. The knowledge that someone admitted to taking extra looks at my rear as I walked away and thought my rack was refreshingly enormous. Well, that's not quite the same as actually being loved, but at least I'm not unnoticed. At least I'm a piece of meat. (Yes, you're correctly reading the subtle sarcasm.) There is also another consolation... the knowledge that I made him wait for all of me and that there are subsequently no tears shed. He can't get the booty if he doesn't take it out of the complex.

So, back to schoolwork. Back to the fall job hunt. Back to seeing my neurologist and hoping that this time he'll have an answer to what keeps me locked in this house so that I can get better and walk away from under O. ;)