There is something else. It’s part of the memory of my dad abusing me.

So, I think when I colluded with him in his delusion, when I enacted my worthlessness and my degradation, then he felt connected to my.

It’s as though, for him, because his psychopathy made him so different for other people, he could never sit down with anyone and say, “Oh, I feel that way too.” He heard voices, in a sense, and no one else heard them. It was lonely for him to be that way.

But when I behaved as though he were right about the world and about me, then it was like I could hear the voices too, and he felt close to me. So he was hurting me, and I had to twist myself up into the most unimaginably painful pretzel for his sake, and he finally felt a sense of connection to someone when I did that. It was entirely a lie on my part, I didn’t want any of the things he wanted me to pretend I wanted. The lie I told him was for him the truth finally revealed, and it felt to him in abusing me the way it felt to me to be with the girls at Yuri’s place: like finally returning to “doh.”

I wouldn’t be thinking about this, I think, except that it’s a part of what I remember. It’s one of the pieces, the sense that for him abusing me created a feeling of rightness for him, a kind of relaxation and safety that he didn’t otherwise have. It explains to me why it always feels to me the way it does to be around someone who sees the world in a distorted way: they never seem to be satisfied until you are in the crazy pool along with them. It’s never enough to say, “Well, I can imagine how you would feel that way. I can imagine your perspective. I don’t see it that way, but when I try I can see it from yours.” You have to dive in right alongside them. They want that echo of a shared viewpoint that we all want, but they are crazy: they are seeing things that aren’t there and thinking things that make no sense. And it’s lonely for them. They crave the connection that comes from seeing things the same way, and no one ever does unless they make them.

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