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How sick does one have to be?

Summer 2017 Writings from the Nuthouse

I now describe my relationship with Jeff as 90% vapor, 5% in person, 5% 10-word email responses. The 90% vapor is me. Hours’ worth of emails. Long emails. My heart, my very heart poured into vapor.

Who is Jeff really? He's not a person he's an archetype. Who does he represent? He's present in all the places my father wasn't. Or that's what I imagine. I have no idea, really. My assessment is derived from social media photos. Do photos lie?

He’s the perfect lover because he’s not a lover. The less than a handful of times we’ve been together have been horribly rushed. I’d walk him out, down the elevator and he’d give me a half hug and a brush kiss on the cheek. Not the lips. He’s always in a hurry.

I don't blame Jeff. I cannot hold him accountable. I cannot. I created the vapor. It's all on me. I set it up, I made the rules, I bent the rules when he didn't follow them so I could keep him. I need to keep him. I have to have him. I don't think I can survive without him. I know the truth now, but I'm still not sure. Give up Jeff? Not yet. When? When? When I'm well?

I don't understand at all why I can label it vapor, yet continue to believe I can't live without it. How sick does one have to be? And the thought crosses my mind, if I let go of the vapor when I'm well, do I want to stay unwell to keep it?

Photo by Rayson Tan on Unsplash



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