Psychology is weird.
It’s like a compilation of reasons why I fell in love with you and so many logical points of why I shouldn’t have.
Psychology tells me that chemicals made me do it, that my background created this love, that subconscious elements that I don’t know how to name were behind it all.
Psychology tells me there is a reason.
I used to believe that everything does have a reason. Our love had some great purpose in the messy ending, the way we tore each other to shreds with our words, and the beginning that I can never erase.
Now I wonder if my need to cling to reason prevented me from seeing the manic in the reality.
When you wandered off to talk to other girls and I pretended to look busy, I told myself that there were underlying reasons that had nothing to do with me. When you hid your life from me—but told me you were honest—I believed you because you didn’t match the red flags that all the articles painted.
People told me that if you were a narcissist, I would see 10 signs, 20 signs, 50. They would be big, blaring, ugly red ones that I couldn’t ignore. Somehow, I ignored every sign, but maybe it was because you had slapped a coat of green paint over the torn flags. You were so good at the game that I was willing to squint so that I couldn’t see the red peeking through.
Psychology tells me that it makes sense. That you were just good at hiding, that there was a reason for the decline in our relationship until we ended up standing two feet apart, you yelling at me as I cried.
Now I realize that psychology tried, but I don’t know if anything could describe the riotous explosion that was us.
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