I saw a friend of sorts a week ago. Someone I hadn’t seen in fourteen years, but have been speaking to more and more over the last two years or so. Our relationship began in our childhood and has been rather complicated, at times intense and messy, at times distant and cold. What keeps drawing us back together, aside from shared history, is a pattern of abuse that we both suffered as children. Abused kids don’t always do adulthood well, and in her case this is particularly true.
Turns out, she thinks I’m boring. I am the reliable, predictable and at times complacent and content person that she doesn’t want to be. She tried to rouse me out of that state, a bit unsuccessfully. But she has no idea why she failed.