halfhearted catholic guilt

i am absolutely tormented. i lie awake and repeat and repeat and repeat, a caricature of some incredible cineamatic psycho. i remove myself as far as possible from him. i don't want him to sense me shaking and feel there's something he could or should do about it. i can't even have a telephone conversation. i can't focus. my mind is everywhere.
and nowhere.
i can't lasso it for the life of me.
i don't know what i expected from them...not to find me such a buzzing, bumping, bumbling peripheral annoyance, i suppose.
i don't know what i expected from him...to want things as badly and desperately and achingly as i do, i suppose. to not put things off, shrug things off with such remarkably unaffected ease.
i don't know what i expected from me...to bounce back unfazed immediately, fantastically as only wonderwoman herself could do.
i don't know what i expected from her...to not be human. to not want him for her own.
which makes an enormous hypocrite of me.
his semi-interest in my wallowing weepiness throws handfuls of sand in my mouth, leaving my teeth gritty, my throat parched and irritatingly itchy. his snores are a million times more illustrative than the hand he halfheartedly places on my back.
the same hand that works his halfhearted fondle as he pretends to include me in his intimate world...as he pretends it has anything to do with me...but he always says he loves me when he ends.
i can't sleep, can't sleep, can't sleep. blood crusts my thighs and come crusts my stomach. i can't wrap my head around simultaneously craving him so painfully and urgently needing to roll over and spit shards in his face. just because he doesn't have a problem waiting.
just because he makes it seem like none of it matters.
just because i don't like feeling so unhinged, and his aloofness only exacerbates my crazy.
here's when he calls me while i look at paper after paper asking me to prove to their panel that i'm worthy and he bothers to think of me all the way across the ocean and wants to reach out to be helpful to me and i can't even focus on his words. i can't focus on her words when she tells me about her day. i can't focus on his words when he tells me about whatever he just finished reading. i'm living too much inside my head. but i'm petrified to crawl out of it because i'm afraid of what insidious specimen i might find trailing. i'm afraid to have my ugly, clinging, craven, neediness exposed. i'm afraid to admit to the universe that looking at him lying on the rumpled bedclothes in his birth center baby t-shirt and diaper and stroking his long, thin foot between my fingers and not being able to stop kissing his head and telling him that i was done taking care of him and that his parents were going to take him home was utterly fucking wrenching. because i don't want to admit to myself that there is anything about that tongue-sucking baby that penetrates me so completely that i feel utterly helpless before his helplessness, that i awake in consuming tears because i've dreamt his large body slipping from me, falling, dying. which is not about fear, as she suggested this morning. it's about loss. it's about grief. it's almost as if he's dead to me. and there's no way to spit that out without a cloud of psychosis.
there's no way to make sense of my lying awake at 1:30, 2:30, 3:30, 4:30 listening to him snore and staring at the ceiling, wishing more than ever that i were back in october thinking more exactly about the different ponds i planned to dive into and the things that each of them would bring. a new life. a wilted one. a new body. an angry one. a new bond. a divided one. and heaps and heaps of something somewhat like guilt swallowing me from every angle.