Chapter 8 - I Grow Backwards

I dream of him that night. My promiscuity being a huge part of this exhibitionism makes me feel as though my marriage was a bandaid to my mental health disorder. All of my problems are back – including my need to have sex.

I wake up with my hand in my panties and sweat all over my body. I am not sleeping in my bedroom, I am in the guest room. I no longer feel the need to cry my eyes out. Only that now, I experience guilt.

Guilt that it's been three days and I'm coping by wanting sex with strangers who possibly get off on fucking widows. How more ludicrous could I be?

My parents would be ashamed.

I text him despite it being 5a.m.

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Good morning.

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I set my phone down and hop out of bed. I obviously need to take my medication as I am still dangerously manic – knowing myself I do not do what is best for me in these states. As soon as I'm about to leave the room my phone goes off.

Richard is undoubtedly awake and happy to hear from me.

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Sleep well?

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I respond with a "yes" and ask him why he is awake so early. His response is that waking early builds discipline that the brain benefits from. I enjoy talking to him. Again, more guilt.

What would anyone else do? I've always been a nymphomaniac. This is my element… I can't possibly hate myself over my coping mechanism.

I check the bedrooms belonging to the kids to find Colby is in the basement gaming on a school night. Addison is asleep in her room with her phone in her hand. I just thank God they haven't gotten into sneaking out and drinking yet.

My generation was different. We partied at extensively young ages since our parents were hippies themselves. For example, I smoked my first joint at eleven. This was considered taboo to my daughter. And I preferred it that way.

Drugs were a gateway to my whore-like behaviour. I had the confidence to perform the way I only imagined doing so. Perhaps it was an illusion. But I remember every partner saying the same thing. That they had never fucked on a level like that before. That I had something special going on down there.

It is time to start using it again.

I start practicing my sit ups, adding weights to my feet. Just like in high school. I'm not out of practice. I prepare in case he is a heavier weight than my deceased husband.

I want to lift him so high he moans in my ear how amazed he is at my skill. I want to be appreciated. I want to be loved despite only having lust towards him. I want him to get wound up in worshipping every part of me.

I work hard at my core for the next fifteen minutes, alternating between cardio exercises and strength. At this point, I am ready to move on to push ups. I go by the feel of the burn after the amount of sets I do to avoid overdoing my muscles as I still need to use them later.

Once I'm finished, I get on my phone to arrange a date. I spot a photo of Robert in the hallway and feel instant shame. I promise myself I am not moving on from him. That I am filling a void. That the void is eating me alive and if I don't fix it, I shall languish.

He wouldn't want that.