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This is me, dealing with myself. It’s not about him, she says. She wants you to know this with absolute certainty. This is a period of self-reflection. This means something, she says. Her urgency transcends her words. You’re not sure what, but there’s something you’re not getting. You’re missing something, or she’s missed something. Something is missing. She looks at you as if you’re to respond. Say something. Vague alarms go off in your head. She’s not quite there, again. She’s dramatic, but harmless, quirky. She’s someone to roll your eyes at, a decent show sometimes. But it can be too much. She can say too much. You can tell she sincerely wants for you to get it but is having a hard time bridging the gap between her broken synapses, between her mind and yours. Having a hard time finding the right combination of words that will transform her jibberish into meaning, something meaningful, to you and to her.

 

She’s having a hard time. She’s having an inconvenient time. But there’s nothing to be done. As hard as she is trying, you know there’s no connecting, there’s no talking it out. Rationalizing it. You listen for a few minutes more, maybe 10 minutes, maybe 20. Then, you have to shut her out. Make her stop. After all, she can’t stop herself. She is completely incapable of doing that. Really. You’re doing her a favor.

SOB with me

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