It was no longer her absence that wounded me, but my growing indifference to it. Forgetting, however calming, was also a reminder of infidelity to what I had at one time held so dear.
Alain de Botton
As I move through the grieving I recognize that it involves a different kind of infidelity and dishonesty. Types of infidelity and betrayal more socially acceptable. Emotional dissonance becomes my ally instead of my co-conspirator in this betrayal.
I have to lie to myself to convince myself the relationship wasn’t what I believe it was. Instead of honoring all the generous and beautiful experiences in my life with my xp, I have had to refocus my natural generosity to a more cold and calculating perspective. One that makes fewer and fewer allowances for the humanity behind her secrets, hurt, sulking sullenness, silence, and cruelty. One warping what was wonderful in the moment of adventure and passion into a pattern of heroism undermining the essence of discovered in the truth of the experience.
Acts that were once simply acts of love and passion between us are twisted by fear, counseling, and entirely too many outsiders into Shameless story arcs of codependency, entitlement, triangles, and narcissism. Mistakes and poor decisions are now Patterns and Red Flags. There is no room for generosity or compassion or understanding or learning or growing or healing or hope. All the relationship principles my hurt tells me to abandon in order to harden my heart and find peace.
Therefore by necessity, revisionist history becomes history.
I’m left to lie to myself so I can remain angry enough to justify not caring any longer. It requires maintaining a general apathy towards my own truth, and a casual dismissal of my heart, and therefore to my life. As I said, moving through grieving demands a different kind of infidelity and betrayal: I have denied what I know to be true in order to pretend it is for the best.
There is no greater lie I have ever told, no greater betrayal I’ve had to live, and it shatters me…but at least it is more acceptable than the truths of I care for her, I love her, I miss her, and I would try again.
No one wants to hear those truths. Least of all me, therefore, I too embrace the snappening intended to bend reality and truth.
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