The self-realization du jour is that I have a hard time figuring out what people are thinking, especially as it pertains to me. I almost always assume the worst, or when I don’t the worst happens and I’m surprised.

For example, when M. and I fight, even when I know that he is overwhelmed by other pressures that have nothing to do with me or the “relationship,” I figure it’s because he has doubts and doesn’t really want to be with me. (Of course, it doesn’t help that he is every bit as much of the drama queen that I am and is given to express himself as though everything is wrong.) So, then I worry that I am spending time with someone who secretly hates me and my life is a sham, blah blah.

Conversely, and/or perversely, when I finally reach a feeling of comfort in a situation, holy hell breaks loose, shit falls apart and destruction ensues. Take my last job, for example. Stellar annual reviews, repeated reassurances that no matter what I was a valued cog in the wheel, reorganization meetings up the ass and my belief that the head of my area understood and “got” me and wanted my contributions around. Let’s just say I was completely wrong on all of the above and quite surprised at the manner of proof.

What you have then is my acting opposite to what is “normal” as a result of almost all external stimuli. Jesus, maybe I’m just callous and really dim?

Bringing us back to fighting and all, I just don’t know how to do it and still believe that the embattled opponent doesn’t hate me to a depth beyond what Bush feels for Saddam. How could M. not despise me?

(Much the same way a very young me assumed my aunt would never talk to me again after some childish slight. Then, my burgeoning social retardation was already apparent. I had reasoned, I did X wrong. My aunt would not like X. Therefore, my aunt should not like me and has every right to eliminate my existence from her presence. Imagine my surprise when she became angry at me not for X (which had already made me truly believe in my loathesomeness), but because I would think she was so shallow as to dismiss me, her niece, so easily and readily.)

My point being, I guess, I still have the emotional depth of a seven-year-old, and as M. leaves town, I will feel both sad that he won’t be around and I’ll miss him (and him, me) and that he secretly harbors ill will and hides it by acting as though he does actually care about me. Tricky.