(no subject)
Like clockwork, the too-vivid, too-strange dreams return to warn that I've forgotten enough doses of lexapro to fall out of steady state. My dreams are usually hazy, almost colorless things, evaporating quickly upon waking. Not these dreams. These linger on the air, damp and oppressive.
Three things occur to me:
1. R cared more about feeling like a good person than he did about dealing with the damage he inflicted, which is why he could never bring himself to look directly at the wreckage. He would have liked to think of this as guilt. And maybe it was, maybe that's all guilt is - a socially acceptable period of performatively feeling bad followed by an appropriate number of hail marys and our fathers, then sailing blissfully on to repeat your patterns with your slate washed clean, having learned as little as possible.
2. L telling me that each new relationship felt a little more rote, a little less real; each time I love them a little less. I realize now that what he was talking about was not love, but that does not make it any less disconcerting.
3. You get what you want, then you want something else.