...is the theme right now.
If I make it through this week, I may survive.
It's roughly the same as sweating out a fever. I don't know what I can do or will do; I feel totally out of control of my emotions.
My assumptions were wrong. It's not that I didn't give someone credit for what and who they are -- I have done that before, and have judged myself harshly for it -- but, this time, that I gave the person in question too much credit, saw admirable qualities that simply aren't there.
I was a fool.
But I was not alone in my delusions. Others saw the same qualities, and continue to do so. They don't know what I know.
I can't fault myself for being steadfast in spite of the warning signs. I can't fault myself for loving.
I can, however, fault myself for being stupid. Which I was.
There is a good possibility I will survive. What I fear most is that I won't like the me that emerges from the flames.
The words "love" and "trust" have been ripped out of my vocabulary in a ruthless, bloody manner. I cannot imagine anyone being willing to go through the torture of putting them back into my lexicon.
Lessons learned, but at a price no one should have to pay.
And now, back to regular programming from the world of gratuitous cats, illegal aliens and walks along the ocean.
The funeral for the other, better part of me will be private. Please don't send flowers. Prayers are welcome.
2 hours ago