Dear me,
I've been haunted by a dream that I can't stop trying to analyse.
I am not picking at something just because I need the depth.
I am picking at it because it keeps returning.
Every morning.
When I open my eyes, even the smell is still there.
I have lived too long to believe this is a coincidence,
or that my mind isn't trying to tell me something.
It's the same man.
D.
A different scene every night.
—
And what drives me completely mad
is that I haven't thought about him for ages.
And I mean nothing.
Even if something reminds me of him,
there is no feeling file attached to it anymore.
Just an object no longer in use.
Yet the object talks to me.
Explains things I never asked.
And out of everything remotely close to reality,
the only thing that stays consistent
is that somehow the conversation is still about him.I never cared much about the meaning of dreams.
I sometimes fall asleep thinking about something I am missing,
something I want, something I am trying to solve.
But he hasn't been on that list for months.
And even writing this, or standing inside the dream itself,
I feel nothing about him.
Not even cravings for the great sex
that was only available in the beginning.
—
S.O.S. in the group chat.
And I am on my way to collect two more opinions,
even though the arrogance in me is convinced
they won't tell me anything I haven't already thought myself.
Message sent.
Two blue checks.
The support group has officially been activated.
—
F. is very spiritual.
So naturally she explains it through secret desires,
loneliness, unfinished emotions,
or maybe that I am still trying to deny he matters.
That I still bleed on his floor.
—
L. immediately makes it about herself.
Or whatever happens to be happening in her life this week.In fact, her response was the one I cared the least about
because she somehow manages to make every conversation
circle back to her own reflection.
I believe my connection with her only exists when F. is there.
Otherwise it is endless conversations about men.
Men.
And more men.
If you asked me to tell you something interesting about her,
I genuinely don't think I could.
Unless it involved a man.
That is how little personality I have managed to find underneath it all.
How a smart woman, living in the centre of one of the biggest cities in
Europe,
reaches this age with nothing to talk about
except the desire to be seen, desired, admired,
and constantly chasing the illusion of the perfect man
in whoever happens to be standing in front of her.
And then the next one is even better.
But what is reality and what is fantasy?
Nobody can really tell.
—
In fact, lately even talking to her irritates me.
I disappeared from the chat for a few days.
Mostly because of her.
And if it wasn't for F.,I honestly don't think I would choose to sit down and have a drink with
her.
I generally find almost everything else more entertaining.
I sound like a bitch.
But do I have to lie to myself just so I don't sound like one?
We are who we are.
I guess.
—
...
Oh my God.
Wait a minute.
She is him.
I have never thought about that before.
We always say:
Toxic man.
Toxic man.
Toxic man.
But the pattern is exactly the same.
The only difference between D. and L.
is that one of them at least gave me an orgasm.
—
So is it possible that my mind wasn't trying to tell me anything about D. at
all?
Is it possible that it was trying to show me a pattern?That I am still inviting the same energy into my life,
just in different forms?
And if that's true,
then maybe toxic was never only for men.
Maybe nobody talks about toxic friendships
because friendship sounds softer.
Kinder.
Less dangerous.
But what if it isn't?
What if the friendship version simply takes longer to recognise?
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