I keep thinking about that guy who was my friend, still. I keep thinking about my coworkers who are still friends with him and how I’m supposed to interact with them now, not knowing if they know what happened but not having a reason to ask. I keep thinking about aces with cruel friends and partners who they make excuses for and want to keep. But mostly, I just want reassurance for myself, that I shouldn’t try to work it out with him. That how he was the rest of the time doesn’t make up for it. That I shouldn’t start texting him again. That I shouldn’t try to figure out what exactly was going on in his head or how the things he said could possibly make sense because they don’t, they won’t.
When I finally read Bancroft’s book like I’ve been meaning to, this sentence really resonated with me:
He wants you to puzzle over him, to try to figure him out, as though he were a wonderful but broken machine for which you need only to find and fix the malfunctioning parts to bring it roaring to its full potential.
…Yeah. This hurts full of truth.
And in spite of everything, I keep thinking about it. The chat logs of our discussion over gchat, specifically. I bet I could find them. I could read over them again and look for confirmation of what I was in denial of at the time. There’ll probably be a lot of crying involved, but I want to do it, to post the text here, to put it on record. A string of concrete examples for anyone to see.
I don’t actually know what I’m hoping for.
But I keep thinking about it.