Filling in the Blanks

That’s what she called it, filling in the blanks.

When you fill in someone’s gaps with whatever fantasy currently occupies your head. When you don’t really know enough to make an informed decision. This is probably where my mental illness comes into play, but who knows maybe this is what everyone does in a new relationship and their brain is filled with oxytocin.

“He was never a good person Nick, and he proved that at the end”

“And you think I am?”

“I know you are, you just spend a lot of time trying to convince people otherwise”

She’s right, on both counts. But because I’m a narcissist and have trouble admitting that I can’t always see what’s right in front of me I’m tempted to argue.

I don’t even really care about the apartment, the furniture, and the clothes. What gets me is that I spent a year and half covering for his more obvious flaws. Cleaning up his history, his present, and his future so that my family and friends would accept him.

I covered for him over and over but the second I stepped out of line, all my shit was fair game. And I mean all of it. Rarely do I care what other people think of me, but he sent letters to the Fortune 500 firm we worked for and our property management company. Who the fuck does that? Some of it wasn’t even true but was close enough to something I would do that it was impossible for people to tell the difference.

My girlfriend tells me that living well is the best revenge, and I agree when my emotions aren’t wrapped up in the situation. I’ve never been happier, but still, I want him to hurt. Is that normal? Or am I just a fucked up person, destined for lifelong bitterness?

When she told me another detail of what he did when I finally left, I lost it and did something with his LinkedIn page I shouldn’t have. She didn’t do it to be malicious. It was just a reference, something that added to the conversation we were having.

I took a beta blocker and an extra sleeping pill. It was well past the time we needed to be in bed in order to act like high functioning adults the next day, but still, I couldn’t sleep.

I care about my family more then I care about myself, although this isn’t always obvious to them. My mom treated this kid like a son, and when we broke up he was a malicious little cunt. Just thinking about the texts he sent her throws me into a homicidal rage – good thing I’ve sworn off heavy narcotics.

I know he hates me, a fact I would know if he hadn’t contacted all of my friends afterward and told them. ‘He will always have you and his Dad‘ he told my mom during one of their last friendly conversations. He’s right though, I will always have my family, and I will probably never have to suffer any real consequences.

As always, my disdain for him shifts quickly to self-hatred. I hate myself for being with him, for bringing him into my life and introducing him to the people I love.

What a fucking piece of shit,” I think, “and I’m a bigger piece of shit for not recognizing it“.

It would be easier to hate him instead of myself. I’m just too smart to put all of the blame on someone else.

I probably won’t be happy until I inadvertently stumble across his obituary. Until then I’ll try to be good to myself.

Everyone makes mistakes.