October 10, 2006:
Of that whole litany of mistakes I suppose there's one that stands out.
I thought that our friendship mattered.
I thought — I mean I deeply, profoundly believed — that we'd be friends for the rest of our lives. Even after we were no longer lovers.
That was the core mistake.
She did not view me as a friend. I'm not sure she can have male friends. You remember all that business about men and women being different species. Now I believe that was probably literal, not hyperbole.
She viewed me primarily as a sex partner, secondarily as a source of emotional support. The former was at least mutual, probably the only thing we ever truly shared. The latter was a one-way door in our relationship.
I was naive. In my eyes the friendship was the bedrock, the basis. There was that word, "communion". I meant that.
So that when the bottom fell out my response was more than mere devastation. It was surprise.
I felt I'd entered a parallel universe, like a Star Trek episode, where the people look the same but the laws of physics are alien and the stars are strange. This is not my life.
Years.
I understand this better, now. Co-dependency, denial, Stockholm Syndrome. Excuses. "She's a good person. She's just troubled by her abusive upbringing." When the truth was closer to what my friends unanimously warned me about. That she was a liar, and she was not loyal.
Isn't it retarded that I still find that hard to accept? I guess, that's how strong one's illusions can be.
In my memory she'll probably always be eighteen, and I'll always be writing her stories, and there'll always be games of shadow tag in the park. That's probably not healthy. But it's true, and I especially like the remembered image of shadow tag, which I now see as metaphorical for our years together, and for the ways our lives turned out.