I hear her words race through my brain and on the one hand they sound crazy, but on the other hand she has found me out, she has seen past my fakery and found the truth but she's warped it into what worked for her to drive me away. And there is nothing but an empty space for them and a wellspring of fresh hate for her.
I couldn't deny that I didn't like her. I never did. That it took so long for her to figure it out and to reveal me in such an uncivilized way was more to dislike.
At some point, I mourned for the man I'd never hold, the man he was for her, the life I would never have. I remember it. A dirty train, a subway, a strange city, and them reflected in the darkness, smiling at one another with their children between them, I realized then that all my crazy thoughts and half hearted wishes had some deep longing that would never be fulfilled. And I actually right then and there began to cry. In the meantime she was trying to get my attention and I wouldn't give it to her.
That was the day I stopped caring enough to hide my disdain for her, yet another woman in the way of what I wanted, another undeserving wretch who didn't measure up to me. I thought I could hide under the brim of my hat, in the shadows of the days, in the din of family, but she watched me, she scoured me, she made sure before she let loose the words that would break us and send me back into another bout of uncertainty. And I relied on all the other people I'd fooled in the past, all the other poor souls who sensed my disgust and carried on as if nothing was wrong.
I hate who I am sometimes more than I can love myself. I know the difference and it is whether or not I can maintain a semblance of normalcy, a pretense of organization, and a sense of control. Just when I thought everything was fine, she pulled my hat off, she shone the light on me, she listened for me in the fray and she left me exposed and vulnerable to everything.
I was manic and she was my depressive.
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