August 14, 2019:

Somewhere in there I had a long, adolescent, destructive relationship with entirely the wrong partner.

Charming narcissist: ur-model of many future heartbreaks.

Ruthless in her selfishness. She wanted what she wanted and it was gonna happen, nevermind collateral damage. Cutting, frequently biting in a self-absorbed way. Annoyed by my poor spelling, my writing in general, my acne and my skinny legs. In a cruel spasm of Narcissistic Personality Disorder she told me she was embarrassed to be seen with me. That hurt, and I carried the wound for a very long time.

Which, as you may imagine, dovetailed perfectly with Kierkegaard as Romantic avatar of despair.

It made perfect artistic sense. Was I supposed to have successful relationships? Of course not. What would there be to write about?

But the damage was real. When you're thinking of suicide 24x7, being told by your girlfriend that she finds you embarrassing is a wickedass dick punch.

In her defense, she had no idea. I never told her, and she was far too disinterested in the world outside herself to notice without being prompted.