He didn’t understand that high maintenance didn’t mean clingy. Even though I was. It didn’t mean constant crying. Even though I did. And it didn’t mean fastidious even though I am.
How could he have known that my ability to accept simple facts of reality would change depending on my disposition? That sometimes I’m confident and strong and can take on the world but there would also be times when I would question my worthiness to even know his name. When some days I can clean house in three hours flat, accomplishing in bounds the feats that even my imagination lacks when I’m low?
I’m not bipolar. I suffer no mental instability. But the call of my hormones is too strong to resist and I bend as they see fit, making me a puppet on a string, battered and broken, functioning as I’m moved but with no capabilities of my own.
Would he leave me if he knew? He protests that he will never leave me and that I’m his forever. But he also doesn’t know… doesn’t understand. This is how weak I am.
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