3:44 A.M.

Shut up!

Shut up!

shut up! Shut up! Shut the fuck up!
Just shut the fuck up! Pack the fuck up! And get the fuck out!
Shut the fuck up! You are such a fucking cunt! A fucking CUNT!
murmuring, crying
You are just no fucking good for me, just no fucking good!
door slams

I think it’s pretty safe to say my next door neighbors are breaking up… or at least in a bad way right now. I’ve never heard them fighting before, especially not like this, so it was a bit of a shock when I woke up to this kind of drama. I briefly entertained the idea that it wasn’t even coming from next door, maybe the alley behind my apartment, or maybe a remnant of a dream I was having still echoing in my head. But K’s accent was unmistakable. He always seemed so mellow and mild-mannered; and, I think, he usually is. She must have done something very… interesting.

I have never, to my recollection, called any woman a cunt before, nor do I think I would ever be justified in doing so. I admit to calling someone a bitch before, and it is something I still regret and feel bad for. There is never the justification to call someone you love any kind of harsh derogatory name, no matter how angry you are, or how provoked by even worse verbal treatment as prelude. It’s just not right. And it’s weak. I know this.

Hearing K and J fight reminded me of the days leading up to ADG and I breaking up. We never had anything like that, exactly, and I was never that offensive (I hope), but we did have one terrible, awful, obviously no recovery from fight late into the night. And, of course, I can’t even remember what it was about… which is always the way.

I think that says something about the nature of arguments in relationships, actually. You can never remember what the fight was about, but you can always remember the fight. There are several, now, that come to mind now that I’m thinking about it. I can see the location, I can see our faces in anger, I can feel the lead in my chest of hurt and despair… but I can’t remember the point. The sting remains long after the issue fades away. Turning my mind to good moments, dates, anniversaries, happy days, the memories are harder to come by. They are hazier. They are shorter. They are less numerous.

The thing is, I know that’s not true. I know that the good far far outweighed the bad, even when things were falling apart; but, for whatever reason, those images are harder to grasp.

Why is that?

Is it a primal defense mechanism gone over zealous? Is it my minds way of trying to continually remind me to avoid situations where I will experience that kind of pain, that kind of anguish? I would much rather my memories focused on the positive, motivating me to seek those times out, instead of teaching me to avoid the negative.

End today’s introspection.

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