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1:46 p.m. - Thursday, Apr. 22, 2010
The Need to Win
Are we born with fundamental characteristics that we cannot change?

I've been fighting this for a long time. Trying to be someone I'm not. First pretending, then actually trying to become something else.

And I could point to this or that . . .I am this way, because of this event. I am that way, because of these things which happened.

But maybe none of that is true. And I want it to be true so badly, because I hate what I am.

I knew he was waiting there. I knew it was breaking his heart. I knew I was ignoring his phone calls. Annoyed that he would call at 3:00 in the morning. Annoyed that he was attracted to my friends. Jealous. But I ignored him until he went away. Well, he went away, didn't he? Forever. I could have been a light in his dark life. I could have made his few short years on Earth worth living. But I was part of his hell. One more thing from which he needed to escape.

And for others, I could have been an angel. He drove hundreds of miles to see me. Paid hundreds of dollars just to get to me . . .and then hundreds more just to touch me. He made me suffer. And instead of letting it go . . .I had to gain back the power, and turn around and make him suffer. So many hotel rooms, me and him. So many clenched jaws . . .clenched fists. "Don't go . . ." "Fuck you." I hurt him. More than he hurt me. I'm strong. Too strong. I can handle what you give me. I can be abused and tortured and abandoned. I'll survive. But I knew the others weren't as strong . . .and I took advantage . . .and killed their souls. Trampled them. And got pleasure from it.

So now, give me what I'm worth. I have trained him to be hard. Every time I pulled away when he kissed my neck. Every time I laughed in his face when he told me I was beautiful. Every time I insulted him when he told me he loved me.

So now, I get a pinch on the leg. A punch to the arm. A biting remark about love that doesn't exist. A resistance to hold my hand. A resistance to tell me he loves me.

I can embrace the bruise on my arm so much more readily than a kiss to the cheek. A soul like mine deserves to be punched.

So the point is . . .

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