Tuesday means therapy

Today I woke up and made espresso and wrote a chapter in my book about the first time I had violent sex.  I didn't feel connected To it, but I didn't feel distant either.  I then made pizzas from scratch, breadfruit fries and guacamole from fruits I found on the island and then hung out with a baby and made a big dinner and read Angela Carter and swam and did therapy.  It didn't feel like I did much today until I typed it all out.  I miss Big dog still.  I feel really confused.  I hate the term "space." It doesn't fucking mean anything.  If you don't want to talk to someone or see someone you should just say that.  My generation and the one below me uses the term space so freely it becomes a margarine word, slippery and without meaning.  She needs space? how much? Why? To move through things? what things?  I feel angry and insecure.  I worry she's w this other guy she used to date a long time ago or someone knew, that she moved on quickly, that I was too much, that I wasn't enough, that if I acted differently she would be here with me on the big island for this month and we would be hanging by the pool and cooking fancy meals and fooling around in the pool and hot tub and my bedroom with AC that I set to 64 degrees.  She wouldn't want it that cold, I would compromise.  I compromise more than it seems like I do.  I'm supposed to just let my feelings go.  I don't even know.  I have too many and not enough at the same time.  I want a time machine. I want to fix things. I want to ask her questions.  I want to explain myself.  I'm worried she doesn't value me, and that love means something very different for her than me.  I dunno.  This sucks.