Time Heals All Wounds. And If It

I Finally Accept That Not Only Do I Not Understand The Death Of My Relationship, But I Do Not Need To. These Men Were Good And Kind To Me, They Loved Me And I Loved Them Back And The Shock At The Finish Holds No Wisdom. The Revelation Is Not That I Lost Them, But That I Had Them.

I Envied Women With Signature Hair-dos, Signature Perfumes, Signature Sign-offs. Novelists Who Tell Vogue Magazine: “i Can’t Live Without My Smythson Notebook, Pomegranate Noir Cologne By Jo Malone And Frette Sheets”. In The Grip Of Madness, Materialism Begins To Look Like An Admirable Belief System.

A Lot Of The Time In My Recurring Dreams, Before I Was Diagnosed, Iconic People Would Either Be Good Or Evil Figures. I Remember Dreaming Really Basic Stuff Like Trying To Navigate The London Underground, But Then Paul Newman Would Be The Only One Who Would Direct Me To The Right Trains. And I'm Trying To Remember Who Would Direct Me To The Wrong Ones.

Is It Needy? It's Not. We Don't Need Each Other. We Just Really, Really Enjoy Each Other. And We're Good Together. We're Good People Together. And I Have The Funniest Feeling. I Can Really, Truly Touch This All, This Happiness And The Sadness Too, I Can Trace All Of It With My Fingers. It Isn't Theoretical Or Distant. This Feels Like Me. This Is Me. I Love Him, And, For The First Time In A Relationship, I Also Like Me. Every Time He Says "i Love You," I Answer, "i Believe You.

I Think A Neurotic Learns From Their Mistakes. A Psychotic Does Not.