The danger in expressing this idea of him wanting and me loving is arrogance. It makes me able and him in impoverished. And that's not right. What I did not really say said in my thousand hours of mourning and tears, is that he and I are not different. That I am so burdened by his intense loneliness and brutality because those things burden me in myself. I think I may have quietly watched his lying and his cruelty without objection because of the familiar helpless terror I knew they aimed to protect. I longed to get word to him that he was still loved above and over and far beyond all of his actions because it is what I need to hear, what I keep my ear to the ground for, hoping to discover that it is being said to me.
Some of my least proud moments since this all happened have involved painting him dark and me lily white. My loving, hurting well intentioned ones, more than one of them, has said, pure evil - he is evil, what he did was evil, you escaped. And I let them say it. And I nodded and I called him bad and me good, and the victim unknowing and maligned. No, I’m sorry, but no. Or I am evil too. If he is, then me too. Am also afraid - terrified by love and fractured by the lack of it. I have also lied to get it and lied to keep it and watched others lie in the name of it. Have I pretended to be someone else, fabricated heart wrenching stories of unreal dying relatives, have I pretended journeys, imitated fidelity and mocked the simplest of human needs the way he did? No. In the details we are different. But I suspect mostly because we learned different languages. It could be that the thing that keeps me from being more like him, or him more like me, is simply the different vocabulary we learned for speaking the words of life. Also possible that I was not with him in spite of all this lack, or ignorant of its existence, but because of it. At my core, perhaps our brittle notions of ourselves is what I hoped to make new. There is truth there.