I’ve spent the last month investigating things about the girl who sparked the recent changes in my being. Every revelation has led me further down the obsessive rabbit hole of lies and somber truths about psychoses, manipulation, trust, freedom to choose, and my own unhealthy behavior. I’m torn between wanting to know everything and trying to let sleeping dogs lie. How does one reconcile the nice parts of the story—those that are fondly remembered—with the simple realities? How does one stop from believing that the nice parts may have not been truth at all?
You’re sick I want to say to her face as I hold up a mirror beside it.
Now comes the burden of not merely reacting to the facts but understanding them on an objective level. Not allowing myself to be consumed by obsession, which had begun to takes its toll until the end of last year, at which point I was, for lack of a better phrase, pulled back in. No amount of vicarious release upon someone else will allow me to come to terms.
‘Time heals’ is not just a lazy platitude, but it sure as hell isn’t comforting.