Saying I'm Sorry: Part IV (The Scientist)

Before I start this blog post, I'd just like to say a few words of gratitude to my far-flung audience. I never intended for this to be anything other than a personal growth and exploration journal, but the thousands of page views from all corners of the planet indicates I'm tapping into something else. I'll admit I was inspired to do a deeper dive into the mental health ramifications of Autism by one reader telling me how greatly my words resonated with her, that a particular post found its way into her hands on the brink of a crisis and helped ground her. Others have shared praise for the quality of the writing and unfiltered truths, which I deeply appreciate.

As much as I am moved by the benefit sharing my experiences has to others, it is still, at its heart, my space for me, as stated in the very first entry nearly nine years ago. Thank you for reading, nonetheless.

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Female Scientist by Medic Kun

It would be irresponsible to perpetuate the impression that my perseveration is limited to botched romantic entanglements, as I likely have with the first three parts of this post. The more intimate a relationship however, the more deeply intertwined two minds, hearts, souls, the more opportunities there are for serious misunderstandings and subsequent hurt to occur. Involvement requires trust; trust is founded upon vulnerability; vulnerability makes me nervous; nerves short circuit my brain into panic; panic leads to flight; flight leaves questions unanswered, chords unresolved, words unspoken and years or decades down the track, endless loops of all the things I wish I could do and say differently playing through my mind.

When I think back on these myriad relationships and the consternation they continue to cause, I'm often struck by just how hard I actually did try to make amends in the past. How I've tried to explain the inexplicable, apologise for outright inexcusable behaviour, smooth ruffled feathers and even been pardoned, but the broken trust never heals. This is what gets me. I don't know if the other parties ever actually trust me again, but I do know that I don't trust them to trust me and so I slink away to avoid censure. This is what happened with The Scientist.

The Scientist was a stalwart woman, infinitely dedicated to her pursuits. In the many years I knew her, I watched wave after wave of tragedy, mishap, misogyny, and hardship smash her up against the rocks of life, but she never bowed. Looking back now, I can imagine she undoubtedly must have had her moments in private where she broke down and wept, wanted to throw in the towel and give up, but her public persona was so steadfast that any weakness was hidden. She was definitely one tough cookie and I seriously admired her.

In the wake of several of my own major life upheavals, I was foisted unexpectedly upon The Scientist. She didn't really want me in her charge for many good reasons, but neither of us had much of a choice in the matter. I always sincerely wanted to do right by her, as anyone would when working directly under one of their heroes, but my heart was never in the work she had me doing, and then my head couldn't stay in it either.

I've written briefly before about my cycling accident in New Zealand but haven't yet had the opportunity to fully explore the damage it did physically, mentally and emotionally. I've been toying with a PTSD-focussed post to explore its different manifestations, but my writing energies keep pulling me in different directions. I mention it now because it played a significant role in the destruction of my working relationship with The Scientist.

Hitting the ground at 30 km/hr is never a good thing. Landing head first at that velocity is an especially bad thing. In conjunction with the multitude of serious injuries I sustained that day, I was also severely concussed. I can only estimate how long I was out cold by what I can remember of the distance between where I lay crumpled and the path where the first people on the scene would have been when I crashed, but however long it was sufficient to cause significant damage that continued to give me grief for many months afterward.

I had no idea how bad things were upstairs until several sleepless weeks went by. It's hard to say how much of my memory issues were directly related to the trauma and what was a secondary byproduct of the concussion-induced insomnia, either way, my brain was fucked. It's never nice to have your brain operating at less than full capacity, but I can tell you that having scrambled brains whilst completing intricate scientific research, taking the most complex graduate coursework and trying to mop up the mess of your life truly fucking sucks. My normally brilliant mind was rendered useless. I couldn't remember a conversation from the day before let alone what a professor was talking about by the time I finished writing notes in class. My typically hyper-reactive emotions jumped into uncontrolled chaos. I was a walking time bomb.

When you can't keep anything straight in your mind and everthing feels like a race against the clock, it's only a matter of probability before one of the many mistakes you're making daily is going to genuinely cost you. The Scientist's lab was absolutely no place for a mis-wired brain like mine. There were so many protocols to follow, so many minute details to attend to every second, so much to learn and keep track of. I probably would have been OK if I hadn't been so over committed, if all my attention was focussed there, but it wasn't and I was floundering. Then one day up whipped the perfect storm.

I was stressed beyond belief and trying to juggle too many things. A dear friend, who was also under the The Scientist's wing, but didn't work in this lab, came in with me when I needed to check my experiments. There was no problem with her being in the lab, she often use the microscope therein, but she had zero training on the experimental equipment. We were talking, she wanted to be helpful, I was distracted and trying to get things done quickly. I asked her to do something deceptively simple before checking something else and realised too late that what she did affected someone else's experiments on the line. At the time, I honestly didn't think it was a big deal. The same tiny perturbation to my own experiments wouldn't have made any difference whatsoever. But the other experiments were a completely different beast. We destroyed them in a thoughtless instant. Weeks worth of someone else's work down the toilet.

My ridiculous mistake was so opaque to my mind that it never occurred to me to contact my mentor or the other student right away. I casually mentioned it in passing a few days later and the shit hit the fan. The other student was murderous; my mentor asked why she shouldn't ban me from ever using the lab again. Let me clarify here that not using that lab again would sign the death warrant on the PhD I'd been pursuing for the previous five years. It was not a happy option.

After wallowing in mortification for a few days, I wrote my supervisor a very long explanation and apology. I was seriously remorseful. It was the single biggest mistake of my professional life, one I knew had completely tarnished my reputation. The Scientist is a most magnanimous woman and she pardoned my sins, allowed me to resume working in the lab, and did her best to insure I successfully completed my PhD.

But I never felt right about things between us again. The strain on our already burdened relationship was enormous. Every interaction with her felt dangerous, never knowing if she was going to throw this or one of my myriad minor transgressions back at me.

The day I defended my thesis, The Scientist took me and my parents out for a celebratory lunch. We'd scarcely spoken outside of obligatory thesis and research group meetings since the lab debacle, so I was incredibly on edge about this small social outing. Much to my surprise, she positively glowed to my parents about what an amazing job I'd done, how much cutting edge research I'd successfully pursued, and what a fantastic student I was. I was absolutely floored. She never struck me as the type of person who would spout insincere flattery, but I can never stop wondering if she made an exception that day.

Thoughts of this woman whom I so admire, with whom I've travelled, dined, worked in the field, taken saunas, and partied, who's baby I've held and dear friends I've shared and lost, now only evoke shudders of shame and remorse. I've never been able to bring myself to connect with her via any social media or list her as a reference on my CV. Sadly, I never went through graduation ceremonies for my PhD, in part because I was too ashamed to ask her to hood me. I'm simply left to wonder if she considers me a black stain on her otherwise impeccable advisory record.

Saying I'm Sorry (*Again*): Part III (Ant)

Cover of: I love you, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I love you, by Kevin Farran

I love you, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I love you. It's a beautiful book title and an apt summary of all my more intimate relationships. If we remove the second comma, my entire love life suddenly falls neatly into one of these two categories. Either I'm apologising to those I love because my love is simply never enough or I'm deeply sorry to someone for ever loving them in the first place. I suppose many of us are often sorry for loving someone when it goes wrong and wish with all our souls we could go back to intercede at some fateful moment past, but for me, the guilt comes for the havoc my loving seems to wreak on others. I feel I'm a tornado in a trailer park: unleashing calamities upon the most vulnerable, innocent and unsuspecting victims of all.

In Part I & II of this series, I explored two formative relationships gone awry because their unresolved questions refuse to release my mind from purgatory. I classify these two intersections under the "I'm sorry I love you" heading. I believe my affections were more burdensome to the recipients than they were worth and generated chaos where there was calm. But now I want to explore a relationship of the "I love you, I'm sorry" variety.

Before I do, however, I need to lapse into a brief interlude to discuss the twined beauty and beast of neurodiverse relationships. As always, I must emphasise that my experience is certainly not universal, but these paired traits I am about to discuss are incredibly common among those on the Autism spectrum. We seem to be given to express most things in extremes, in this case oscillating wildly from unwavering loyalty to suddenly and unapologetically severing ties. It certainly sounds paradoxical and I imagine is the emotional equivalent of a swift kick to the head. 

Loyalty is an oft cited positive Autistic trait. It is a wonderful thing not to be fickle, to be willing to lay down your life or sanity for a cause, an institution, or a friend, but it can also be extraordinarily costly, personally, emotionally, mentally, and physically. Autistics are very vulnerable to manipulative people who learn to use this trait (often conveniently coupled with naïvety) to their advantage. While I haven't discussed this particular topic with many Autistic men, the female identifying portion of the population would resoundingly prefer support and coaching on safety skills in this arena over being "trained" to conform to NT social norms. However, when that loyalty is appropriately bestowed upon a deserving recipient, it is a grand and noble thing.

The flip side of this coin is as insidious on its face and protective in the long run as loyalty is the other way around. While not a diagnostic criteria for ASD, a tendency to abruptly sever ties with little or no explanation is a common question on Autism screening tests. It is often chalked up to black and white thinking, and this is the only explanation that makes it make any sense to me. Otherwise, I have no idea why a switch suddenly flips in my head, telling me to walk away from someone I had deep affections for a moment before and never look back. Even when it hurts so unbearably much I'd rather be hit by a train, only forced proximity and outside intervention can unfurl the clenched fist of rejection once I've made up my mind. It's a pattern I've repeated far more times than I care to remember. I feel deeply sorry in retrospect for every time I've done it, but I had my reasons, they were logical, and I had to stick to them regardless of the consequences. I know this doesn't mean shit to the people I hurt.

I can only see in hindsight that I mattered enough to someone for my hasty departure to cause them suffering. It was only ever after I made up my mind to tarry no longer that their affections became clear enough to register. This has been a brutal source of confusion and misery throughout my life, but I now finally understand from whence this idiosyncrasy springs. I suppose this is why I now feel an ever more intense impulse to go out and say I'm sorry to everyone I ever did this to. Now I can explain it. Now that I understand the thing, I feel like my apology has more weight, is more sincere free from entanglement within my own self confusion. But I'm almost certain no one else gives a flying leap at a rolling donut.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, this unrelenting need to apologise for these transgressions haunts my dreams. While I find myself occasionally wending through my unwaking world to seek forgiveness from some of the minor players in my life, there is one refrain that dominates: seeking absolution from Ant. I beg for it in my dreams because I cannot grant it to myself in the light of day.

My dreams are always intense. Wild and fantastical worlds, complete with colour, sound, and even smells light up my nights and sometimes leave me feeling exhausted when I awake. I don't know whether it's sad, ironic, or just an early red flag I missed that one of the first presents Ant gave me was a dream journal. I thought it was a wonderful present initially, but when he added that I no longer needed to regale him with my nightly adventures as I could enter them in it instead, I was deflated. He was the first and last person to whom I ever tried to fully describe the magical realms of my dream world. So, it is certainly with more than a hint of irony that I now chase him through the hallways of my mind, endlessly trying to explain my actions and beg to resume our friendship.

I want to explain why I couldn't stand having face-to-face conversations to talk about our relationship problems, especially not when he insisted I make so much eye contact. I want to explain why I was so "embarrassingly" over the top at parties and incapable of making respectable small talk. I want to explain why I would invariably blow up and become a raging mess after every social occasion, why I just wanted to stay in bed sometimes even when the sun was shining, why I wanted to be alone with him and not out interacting with others so much of the time it drove him crazy.

I wish I could tell him that I didn't know I was worthy of love and therefore I didn't think I really mattered to him at all. I wish I could tell him that his insistence we share a tightly coupled schedule that allowed me no breathing room when I was completely overwhelmed by people and responsibilities fuelled the deepest burning resentment I'd ever experienced. I wish I could tell him that my suicidal ideation and adulterous fantasies were born out of an overwhelming and very real need for solitude. 

Through the lens of Autism, I can see all these stumbling blocks, inconsequential things to most people, but insurmountable obstacles to me. I am now able to look back and see how the mask I was forced to wear, a mask I'd only just started to don in the year before we met and welded into place with the guidance, tutelage and admonishments of those who "loved me most" during those years we were together, was slowly, silently strangling me. I had to get out to save my life.

I didn't leave because I stopped loving. I didn't leave because I wanted to be with someone else. I didn't leave because I needed something more convenient. I only left a little because I really wanted a cat… I left because I didn't know what I needed and even if I had, I sure as hell didn't know how to ask for it.

So, even though I've said I'm sorry before, and you've professed to forgive me even though it seemed disingenuous, here it is again, flung out into the ether because I don't want to disrupt your life again. As much as it would buoy my heart to count you among my friends in the world again, I sense that is not your wish at all. To you, the past is the past, what's done is done. I wish my brain could work that way too.

Saying I'm Sorry: Part II (Der Komiker)

The arc of some stories is much longer than others. Some people burst into our world like Halley's Comet, lighting up our sky for a brief but eternally memorable moment once in a lifetime, whereas others pass slowly through the month of our existence like a waxing moon, their nearly imperceptible pull only making itself known just before it slips away forever. One such moon rose my first day of high school.

I don't remember precisely the first words der Komiker said to me, but I can almost guarantee they made me laugh. I do remember the layout of the room and the complete bafflement of most of the students when the Frau launched straight into our first German lesson with "ich heiße Frau Schneider, wie heißt du?", but didn't recognise at the time that my immediate comprehension of her words and pantomime said more about my linguistic skills than the inferred stupidity of my classmates. Much to my delight and our teacher's chagrin, der Komiker sat next to me in our science class and kept me laughing for the rest of the year.

If some kindly person had thought to hand my 14-year-old self a checklist of what to look for as the foundation of a healthy relationship, I might have realised as quickly as I'd understood the Frau that der Komiker was ideal boyfriend material. I always felt relaxed and happy around him, I found everything he did and said fascinating, but I only associated attraction and passion for someone with unrequited yearning, so I failed to recognise the gem I'd stumbled upon. It took me nearly three full years to realise the depths of my feelings for him.

Three years is a long time in the life of a teen. Three years is also a very long time to think someone is your best friend even though you rarely see them outside of school, except for the occasional encounter on your way to or from school, or a shared extracurricular activity. This, to my mind, is one of the greatest travesties of not having my social-emotional challenges recognised decades earlier: I have no idea what it means to actually make a friend.

To my way of thinking, a friend was anyone with whom I could share a pleasant and comfortable conversation, a few laughs, maybe an inside joke or two, on more than one occasion. A best friend was someone who kept coming back over the years and had a shared interest or two. Der Komiker was one of the few who ticked both boxes in those tumultuous high school years.

The summer before our Senior year, I took up a new martial art he'd been studying for many years and it struck me that I really wanted to extend the reach of our friendship. I still had no notion of spending much time with my peers outside of school or coordinated activities, as my time was highly over subscribed with work, study, practice, and extracurricular activities. I thought that sharing a locker would cement our friendship and perhaps facilitate its growth into something more.

The year started out normally enough, I was still dating an older guy from the other side of the state and hadn't fully hatched my long-term locker scheme. I also wasn't around school much anymore, as I was taking the bulk of my classes at the university. As someone for whom flying solo is the norm, it  never dawned on me at the time that this might have been socially isolating for my friend to have a perpetually absentee locker mate. But I don't know what caused the schism.

Schism by Panagiotis Kountouras

Shortly after I broke up with my boyfriend at Thanksgiving, der Komiker lit up on my radar like never before. Maybe I'd finally learned enough about crappy relationships to start cluing into better ones, or maybe he clocked me properly over the head during one of our sparring matches, or perhaps the wind just shifted the right way, but suddenly the moon was shining so brightly I could no longer ignore it. I'm sure my behaviour toward him changed because I wanted the nature of our relationship to change, but I had no idea how to go about it. What I was unaware of, was all the other friendships he'd fostered in lieu of a real one with me. The more I tried to draw him into a state of exclusivity with me, the more strongly I repelled him into their fold.

I don't know if there was one particularly egregious faux pas or just a whole series of muddled social niceties, misunderstandings, and over estimations of our loyalties to one another that tipped the balance, but he eventually cut me off completely. Not only did he stop using our shared locker altogether, but he ceased acknowledging my existence. Instead of a friendly 'hello', I was met only with contemptuous looks from his companions as I passed their tight little knot of friends. He was the last link I had to any kind of social life within my high school and he made it explicitly clear that I was not wanted. I cannot even begin to put words to the degree of pain caused by this ostracisation. When I think back on it, I experience a sense of disconnection with my body the likes of which I can only relate to hovering near-death. It is not pleasant.

We graduated and went our separate ways without saying goodbye or even the most cursory reparations. I was heart broken. I'd lost my best friend and I didn't think he even cared.

Then something truly horrendous happened. Death puts all things into stark perspective and the sudden and unexpected death of someone who dramatically changed so many young lives leaves people reeling and reconsidering all kinds of things. It was death that reconnected us, if only tangentially, just momentarily, only just enough to see a crack of light in the shroud of confusion over what happened between us. I have never wished so desperately to attend a memorial service and never regretted so deeply not insisting on doing so. But my mother went in place of her children who were both so moulded by the man a vast community gathered to grieve that day, and der Komiker sought her out, "bounded, not walked, across the gym to get to me!" to ask her how I was. She gave him my newly minted email address and he wrote to me.

I had to ask what happened. I had to tell him how much I missed him and how much it hurt that he rejected me. He was deeply sorry, but he wouldn't explain what happened. He brushed it off as a "stupid misunderstanding". If I knew then how horribly that incomplete explanation would haunt me for the rest of my days, I would have begged for more information because I am fundamentally unable to "just let it go."

We had one brief encounter a little over a year later. I transferred to his university for a multitude of reasons and was walking across campus during a quiet period between terms. I can still hear the widely spaced slaps of his enormous feet bounding not walking up behind me in an attempted sneak attack and see him flying through the air as I spun around to catch him in the act. Once again, he'd made me laugh. We only talked briefly and I never saw him again.

On the surface, one could easily argue that nothing ever happened between us, that it was all in my head. Certainly I'd agree that the less platonic feelings were entirely one-sided and I have no problem owning that, but our friendship seemed so very real to me, there was an undeniable falling out, and he showed in the aftermath that he did value my friendship too. But I cannot make sense of what happened. There is such an agonising sense of loss that accompanies every thought of him, even if it is just for the friend I thought I had.

I cannot help but wonder if things would have been different if my neurological differences had been recognised, accepted, and supported back then. How I might have received more instruction on how to make friends and navigate relationships of all kinds. How I might have had the courage to say, "I do not understand why you're doing/saying that, can you please explain," instead of slinking back into my corner of self doubt and loathing assuming I was simply an unloveable soul. This is why I want things to be different for my daughter, I do not want her lost in this sea of confusion that continues to drown her for 20, 30, 40, ?? years. I want her to seek resolution and answers in the moment instead of letting them bang around in her head until she wants to tear them out by any means possible.

I think this is an important component of Autism awareness/acceptance and the mental health risks that accompany neurological differences. Seemingly small or innocuous things that other people can "just get over" can spiral the Autistic/ND brain into a whirlpool of anxiety and depression, suicidal ideation, or worse. It seems like such a small ask to support the ND community with guidance to gaining closure and NTs to recognising how desperately important it is for us to have this whenever possible. Sometimes the littlest things can make the biggest difference.

Saying I'm Sorry: Part I (Master T)

Beautiful watercolour by kiwitachan

I've written previously about how my ASD diagnosis opened a whole new world of self understanding floating in the alphabet soup of personal experiences I never previously recognised as "things". In the year that has passed since the possibility I could be neurodivergent was first floated, I've had the eye-opening experience of connecting with Autistics and other ND folks from around the world. This has provided ample opportunity to discuss commonalities and differences in how we experience the world. While we are all individuals ("I'm not!" one for the Life of Brian fans…), there are some shared experiences that resonate strongly with nearly all Autistics I've had the pleasure of interacting with. One of these is the overwhelming need for closure that tends to trigger endlessly looping thoughts, clinically described as perseveration.

I imagine that all people have niggling thoughts they simply cannot lay to rest from time to time, but many Autistics report having multitudes of thoughts that continue to echo through the vast hallways of their brains endlessly. It is not uncommon for such thoughts to rip us out of a dead sleep and keep us awake for days, interrupt normal daily activities, or sap the joy from our lives. It can be something as simple as a conversation 25 years ago that didn't go the way we expected, or an entire relationship left in shambles that we would give anything to at least understand, if not repair. In an earlier post, I touched on my own desperate desire to rectify past bungled relationships and felt it was time to move on and let those go, but alas, my brain is like a rusted vice grip, so I will endeavour to write my side of the stories in an attempt to lay my ghosts to rest.

Jewish Headstone by Nikodem Nijaki (wikimedia commons)

There is a picture of me horsing around with my first real boyfriend, snapped by my mom one happy afternoon, that clearly depicts my whole-hearted adoration of him. We're on the couch in my living room, playfully punching each other, I'm wearing a ridiculous hat, and we're both laughing through our pretend acts of aggression. I do not need to look at this photo to remember all the details because it is so clearly emblazoned on my brain as one of the few times in four years of high school I was truly happy.

Master T was a year younger than me and at least a foot taller. Even before he got sick, he was a dangerously skinny kid with the proudest Roman nose and a razor sharp sense of humour, which he could instantly turn against any unwitting adversary at the slightest provocation. To me he was a god.

We met through a high school theatre production, he working back stage while I lapped up the limelight. In the years to come, his prowess on the stage would far surpass mine, but that first season, he seemed content to control the curtains and make cutting remarks at the expense of all the actors. I wanted nothing more than for him to like me, but that desire just made me spout the most insipid utterances when I could think of anything to say at all. Somehow, more by sheer will than any degree of finesse, I got him alone and professed my overpowering attraction to him. This led to a delightful make-out session and us 'going out together', which mostly amounted to him occasionally coming to my house for more kissing.

He never invited me to his house and quickly thwarted any suggestion that we go there. He never included me in anything to do with his friends and would nearly always leave me hanging to meet up with them. I wanted him so badly, but as the weeks went on, he became increasingly distracted and intent on drinking with his friends any time alcohol presented itself. My mind raced through these discrete and incomplete pieces of evidence to conclude that 1) I really didn't mean much to him at all, and 2) he was developing a substance abuse problem at the ripe old age of 15. The first conclusion broke my heart, the second was simply terrifying. I'd grown up on a steady diet of stories about a family friend a few years my senior who was a brilliant and beautiful girl being dragged down by her dead-beat, drug addicted boyfriend. These stories fuelled my rapidly spiralling fears that this was the path I had unwittingly stumbled upon and if I didn't change course quickly, I would be "ruined" as she was (N.B. she ended up becoming a doctor).

I resolutely did not want to break up with Master T, the thought of it crushed me. I wanted to talk to him about his drinking, but I lacked the skills to broach such a delicate topic with anyone, especially someone who left me tongue tied and capable of slicing me to ribbons with an unparalleled caustic tongue. I was also of the mind that no one, especially not him, could actually care about me. I honestly believed it would not bother him one scrap if I simply vaporised and let him be. So, I just stopped talking to him and couldn't even bring myself to look at him in passing because it hurt so much. Twenty five years have passed, and the simple act of writing this brings tears to my eyes and an unbearable tightness in my chest. I can still see him coming toward me from the Senior wing as I approached it and just walking right past.

No one knew it at the time, but Master T was incredibly sick. He knew he was in excruciating pain, but he didn't tell anyone, choosing instead to self medicate with whatever alcohol his friends could get their hands on. My inability to deal with confusing and conflicting signals meant I walked away from someone who made my heart sing when he needed more support than ever. This thought still gnaws away at the corners of my brain far more often than I appreciate. Not long after I left him in a lurch, he was admitted to a distinguished hospital with the most advanced case of his disease they'd ever witnessed in someone his age. He required intensive treatment and was partly disabled from the extensive damage. While I know the disease and its effects are in no way my fault, I have never been able to forgive myself for walking away at that critical time in his life, for my inability to sit with someone else's pain rather than run away from the overwhelming effect it has on me.

A year later, another stage production underway, we were foisted together again. Tensions were high, but my feelings for Master T had only intensified. Now it was his turn to drive and as we sat in a darkened parking lot he wanted answers. Answers I didn't have. Answers for something it would take me decades to completely decipher. I was nearly 30 before I discovered my inability to perceive love and affection from others and on the brink of 40 before I understood the interplay between my neurology and environment that generated that devastating flaw.

We got back together during the production run and I was over the moon at this second chance. I wanted to do it better. I wanted so badly to right the wrongs, but he was only in it for retribution. With cold calculation, he threw back the dish I'd unintentionally served and had his revenge. I can still feel my breath wrenched from my body as he delivered the blow, he didn't want to see me anymore. I can see the grass around me wavering as I made my way unsteadily back across the open field where the new high school now stands. The ache was so palpable and pervasive; it would have hurt less if he'd physically beat me.

The only benefit to holding on so clearly to these painful details is using them as raw materials to weave into something new and beautiful. I'm nearly finished writing a novel in which my main character shares many of my challenges, but is more self aware and better supported. Still, she is not immune to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and the scene in which her boyfriend breaks up with her is based directly on this moment of acute agony in my own anthology of pain.

I thought that writing a friendly post-script to our story could stop the perseverating on my grievous error, but I was wrong. While it did bring me great joy to reconnect with Master T online in recent years, and even more so to talk in person, it did not resolve the final chord still hanging in my mind. Our interactions and conversation steered clear of the past, navigating only the safe waters of the present. I thought this would be enough, to feel absolved in a smile and a snarky joke, but without the chance to ever say "I'm sorry I hurt you, and I forgive you for hurting me" the thoughts play on endless repeat, wearing holes in the carpet of my mind.

It's a complicated thing, the past. It's made even more complicated by the way my brain holds so fiercely to things others can lay to rest. I assume Master T never looses a wink of sleep over this briefest moment of our shared ancient history, but for me it's an interminable wobbly tooth that I cannot excise.

The Battles in My Mind

Self care is also not arguing with

people who are committed to

misunderstanding you.

A.A. Akanbi

I saw this quote today and was struck immediately by how much energy I waste in these kind of arguments. These arguments are utterly futile as they generally never even materialise outside my own head. There is no greater waste of brain space.

There are a few people I expend a ridiculous amount of wholly unproductive mental energy on in these imaginary arguments. These people have a few things in common: they are men, they always think they're right, even about things of which they know nothing (like my inner world), arguing with them virtually or in real life creates a vicious cycle of anger and further misunderstanding, which is wholly counterproductive. But I can't stop perseverating on these unresolved conflicts, so I formulate and refine my attack, evidence, and counterpoints over, and over, and over, and over, for days, weeks, months, years, decades, never finding any resolve. I know its futile. I know it solves nothing. I know its exhausting for me and leaves them completely unscathed, which builds resentment and further entrenches the cycle.

I need to lay down my (s)words, pick up my pen, and write away the battles in my mind.