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  • Seems my self-destructive streak is still intact.
    Despite the work. Despite the meditation and so-called rededication to the practice.
    These are somewhat violent, nearly daily swings we are dealing with, and it's exhausting. So exhausting.

    I'd had a good date earlier, both from my viewpoint and a more adolescent one.
    I had finally gathered enough proof, in my feeble mind, that I needn't worry.
    That I'm not the hideous gargoyle etc. we've been over before in this space. I am a viable human being, somewhat of a catch, in my grandmother's lingo.
    I'd gone from a firmly reasoned hypothesis to a measured proof, I thought. I thought.

    I went to the local, post-date, and had myself an extra beer, for giggles.
    The ex's place, our former place and one I'd been housesitting for a week, was a mere four doors down.
    The ex's flight landed about a half-hour before I knocked.
    I figured I'd go there and sleep it off on the couch, we were cool enough for that.
    Smarter than risking the drive back far across town with a bunch of rye and beer in me.

    I saw the car in the driveway.
    I knew it wasn't hers; I was driving hers all day.
    I saw a light upstairs, but none down.
    These pieces come together in hindsight much more clearly than they did before I barged in (KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK Open).

    The only conclusion she can draw, and the only one I can as well with the above hindsight, is that I wanted to sabotage her at that point.
    How could I be such a shitheel?
    She met me on the stairs: disheveled, pissed off, incredulous.
    I exploded into redness, into apology, walking backward out of the house. Ashamed. So ashamed. So fucking ashamed.
    I am small; I deserve the worst anyone can throw at me, and then another round of it.

    It leaks over into doubt, of course; how I miss her laughing in the mornings, her gaze, the way she called me "baby" with an inflection just so, the laugh.
    She is dignity and calm and responsibility and rightness and love and an example I try to live up to; why did I leave?
    The dating grab-bag has thus far reinforced that I was with a fucking stellar woman for those five years, a stellar human being above even that.
    From an intellectual standpoint, I know it's important not to confuse familiarity with compatibility (or quality, or whatever), that this reads as a knee-jerk territorial response, but Jesus:

    How do I not regret leaving her on a night like this?

    How can she not be glad I did?
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