[524] Stabby Stab Stab

I don’t even want to write this. I feel left without a choice. It only takes a fleeting glance to provoke a rush of bullshit you’ve been trying to ignore. So here I’ll go trying to get rid of it.

I actually managed to trick myself. I believed. I thought one way or another I’d have a future with someone I could be perfectly honest with. I believed after I disavowed the word love. I believed despite a handful of dramatic fights. I believed because it seemed to be the thing happening in my life that I had little control over how it was stuck together despite so many things I’ve employed to keep it apart.

I can’t decide whether I feel worse having had that someone or when I only dreamed of being with someone. Over time it’s easier to distort the fantasy of a life not lived. What are you supposed to do with the actual good times? Where do you replace the trust you exhibited? What do you make of your new plans when they were all B, C, or D to your guiding ethic?

And then what to make of it when things were bad? The idea of saying something you can’t take back. What truth was being spoken to when lashing out didn’t just feel good, but necessary and appropriate. When the other person doesn’t even pretend to feel or care about what you’re experiencing. As if the reality of separating is as neat and professional as a “conscious uncoupling.”

I just want to be able to forget. I don’t want to feel anything from looking at her. I belittle people frequently who profess their heartfelt tales of woe as having little perspective and naïve hearts. I’m not going to endlessly profess how amazing, beautiful, or “special” she was to me. This needs to remain clear. I don’t let myself be dictated by the stomach I can’t control or the irrational whims of people I choose to be close to. My response is measured reflection for as long as it takes to die.

The tragedy is in the act of believing. The tragedy is in trust. The tragedy is going to be what turns every positive emotion, memory, or interaction we’ve had into something I actively work to forget or degrade so I can take back my nervous system. If trying to be human has taught me anything, it’s that I’m not a bitch. I may have to endlessly write. I may have to cut mutual friends. I may have to embody the worst myths from your perception of me, needlessly playing up their importance under the guise you’re even bothering to think that hard about me.

Nothing in my life has suggested you can rely on anyone that isn’t practically suicidal in their self-effacement or psychopathically transparent in their motivations. Everything in between is a liar’s game of rationalization and excuses. That’s the evidence. That’s why I know what you can rely on about me.