Friday, April 9


And though I have been able to love men since...

It was a poem about domestic violence; I don't remember anything but that line. It hits home. Because yeah, I've loved and lost since; but how many times has the loss (or the love itself) been in direct correlation to the "thing" that happened?

I've loved men since, and some of them have even loved me back. Few to none have known the reason for the walls behind my eyes (Stephen King called the eyes "deadlights," which is another perfectly-fitting term, but I shy away from using it because of connotations). I think none of them have ever actually understood the reasons behind some of my rather pathetic actions: locking myself in my room for days, refusing to speak or lipread for days or weeks, reading books and books and sliding into a nearly manic state while reliving them, experiencing the same manic-slash-dead state while writing, and of course, always the starving, the binging, the running, the hours in the bathroom with the tiles swimming and a cat rubbing on my shaking legs.

I've been diagnosed, undiagnosed, and rediagnosed so many times I've practically memorized the DSM-IV. I've been called fat, thin, ugly, and average. I've been gifted and talented, the dumb kid in class, the guy who knows everything, and the stupid highschool dropout what-the-hell-does-he-know. Maybe all of it's true; maybe none of is. Maybe most of those things have been said by one of the men I have mistakingly loved since.

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