It turns out… some of it was my fault.

Even without M, I still feel the compulsion to take responsibility for the people who are closest to me—even when, especially when, they don’t ask.

I still believe self-sacrifice is the most powerful expression of love and sacrifice myself, silently, automatically, and without request. And then resent it later.

I still try to control… everything.

I still overreact.

I still PMS and don’t know “it’s only PMS” until I’ve cried for no reason.

I still implode, shut down, and cannot speak when I am upset.

I am still intermittently insecure about my physicality and need to be convinced that I am beautiful.

I still leap headfirst to conclusions.

I still don’t know how to trust.

I still am secretly waiting for every romantic relationship to end in deception and/or infidelity.

Without M, I would have had the same ugly parts. Our lives together revealed them. (Those nasty little fuck-faces). And I guess… I am grateful to him for helping me discover the hidden pieces of me.