A is certain of the other’s existence in my life. According to him we are still together. Despite the fact that there is absolutely no indication of my being with him, or anyone else, A asks about him each time we see each other. How is he doing? What have you two been doing?
How should I know? “We two” have not been doing anything. As far as how he is doing, I don’t know. Whatever I did wrong to make him leave in the first place, I then exacerbated further while we were apart to the point where he doesn’t want to talk, and probably couldn’t even stand the sight of me. I am awful, and the worst part is, I don’t even understand why. Not that it matters I suppose.
I don’t so much mind being reminded of him. I seem to do that just fine on my own. But to have my memories probed, as if they never mattered, to be taken from me and mistreated like ordinary things, and prodded at with questions, is just cruel.
There is nothing left to conceal, but that is not the point. My memories are mine, and precious, and the only baubles I have left. You cannot violate them with your nonsense! They are not things!
A says he wants closure, and wants to understand. But he doesn’t ask about the times I hurt him, or even dwell on how often I was a wicked wife. Instead he wants to pull it out of me, to lay it bare, dissect it slowly and make it common. Because “it all makes sense.” Does it really? What exactly makes sense? Of course that man would never want to be with me. And I am the only idiot with enough self interest not to understand.
Sometimes I think A just wants to hurt me by cataloging my faults. It all makes sense if you look at it that way. Who would want any of that? Then other times I think A just wants to show me, as in, “now do you understand?” Now do you understand why he doesn’t want you? Do you see why he wants someone, anyone, else?
A asks so I can say it out loud. Yes, I see. No, I don’t see. Because I don’t see. Because to me those memories are fragile and real. Before the man made up his mind that I was this horrible thing that needed to be disposed of, it was all real. I say it out loud and then A can spool out the memories, one at a time. Out loud into reality. This all happened. It is not happening. It will never happen again.
After a few minutes the lobotomy style invasion is over. And I will have two more weeks before I am emptied again.
