Snippets, or Nothing At All

I was on my fourth cup and not really sure what I was writing anymore, but had I not written it all down, in some sense, somehow, even if it was coded in the dinner table story, I couldn't have told her about it earlier, and it was nice to tell her about it, and get it out, and have her be proud of me for it.

The same thing is happening, kinda, okay, some of the same things are KINDA happening, but they're different somehow so I don't mind. She left me out, but I'm not a secret. They don't know, but not because she doesn't want to tell them. I really don't think I'm justifying anything, I'm just going back on what I said because we all change and I'm in a new place now. I think it means that I've grown, because I can see a difference. Maybe I should be more frightened. Maybe I shouldn't. In practice it feels entirely different and new, but in re-telling it, it feels the same. It's not. Is it? It can't be. It's different because the intent is different. I'd say it's different because I don't care, but I didn't care back then either. I did, but only without knowing it. So did I? If I did care now, would I know it? Am I making a big deal out of nothing?

Maybe it's not that it's the same. Maybe it's totally different, but I feel funny because it reminds me of before. And that, that did not feel good. I go back to some thing I wrote that I've read over and over and over and I'm sure hardly shared even though I liked it enough to read it more than once or twice, and it said, I was her dirty, little secret, only not even a secret, just dirty and little. It has to be real for it to be a secret, and that didn't feel real, it felt like my feelings were real and everything and my entire life, but that was just a constant threat of destruction of life as I knew it. And life was destroyed.

I had a sad day yesterday. The impromptu BBQ helped, and going to bed early--even though I couldn't sleep due to itching (weird, my whole body just f'ing itched, it was a first)--but it was still a sad day. I sat on the shower floor trying to understand how to let someone new in. And if I even should. Or on what time frame.

With people who care about me, my pain hurts them. With people who are capable of empathy, my sadness also makes them sad. So with this latest ex, she didn't really know how to care about anyone other than herself, she didn't empathize with me, so it sucked, but then I could talk about my pain and sadness. I could talk about it because it wouldn't make her look at me any differently. I don't want to be _________ that girl. Whatever that girl happens to be, I don't want to be her. And I never was with Jessa. I was only ever what she needed me to be. And it was easy. This time around, I'm expected to and even wanted to be: me.

Fuck.