Excuse me while I spoil everything.
No, it’s not nice and pretty. No pretty pictures today.
So. Chicken or egg: was I narcissistic before I was abandoned, or was I abandoned before I was narcissistic?
I came across this, and so many— too many traits of the husband fit me. It became clear. But not really; not much in my mind is clear anymore. But I felt sad. The man is in his own mental prison. The sick thing was, I felt like crying partly because I identify with him on a shallow level. The positive thing about the article, having read the entirety on the original site, is the woman is free, and strong enough to live on her own. She supported the lying child of a man, and seems to be better off, as if the ‘relationship’ prepared her for bad conditions, and it’s only going to get better for her thereon.
She is becoming better off, and in thought I am happy for her.
I felt almost sick posting a comment on the site. Everything else on there was positive; per usual, I was the negative, no matter how hopeful and kind I tried to make the message. It was almost as if I was just there for my own attention; in the exaggerated hypothetical, leave him, wind up with me. I stripped my website and most of my name.
Well, I’m going to be sick now, as if I’m not already. Neglected and abandoned only to neglect and abandon myself all these years. An ‘intellectual type,’ I suppose, the why my health is so bad. It would be inaccurate, but… none of what I say matters much, does it? I could also say, I’m going to be sick, that I’m posting this.
The one thing I’m not, is I’m not a liar. I may have left out things, many important things, and lied by omission that way, but I try not to lie. At all, period. I know how lies, all lies, big and small, cause damage. But it’s not good enough. I’m insincere. I’m friendless. Great distance indicates I have no family too.
It baffles me that anyone could call themselves unlovable. That is, besides me, stuck in this virtual prison. All this time… all this hopelessness… all this sadness… uselessness. It becomes virtually clear to me why I am unlovable.
Maybe I’m going off the rails, having been diagnosed with Asperger’s as a child. I could believe anything at this point, being so empty and so in pain. I examine every little move I make. I ask myself questions on how I should hide.
Empty and toxic: those are the real reasons I can’t be a real writer. Now do you believe me? I told you I was a fraud. …And it’s almost paradoxical, that, with a virtual laugh… how I shouldn’t be believed, even when I tell you I’m a fraud.
A conundrum. …Go ahead and unfollow.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to be (or continue to be) sick.
Impossibly but apparently deservedly alone,