I was the kind of child you had to hide things from to make parting easier. The hope lay in me forgetting about the thing removed. It was the only way. Goodbyes continue to be just as hard. Bad news continue to be kept from me to ease the pain. To soften the blow. I have probably been just about ready to welcome tormenting news by the age of 12. However, that way of loving me remains the most efficient.

I am now trying to figure out the best way to reenact this method on my own. Object permanence and a fully formed conscience get in the way. If only I could hide the packet of cigarettes that appears to have a 48 hour expiration window. If I could just come home and forget. 

When it wasn’t the extreme of hiding things, we resorted to ripping the bandage. I couldn’t clean my room? I would walk into it to find everything I owned in bags. That was the only way to tackle it. It was the only way.

I continue to live a life dimmed to those two shades: black and white. I am tender and patient, and then punish myself for doing that for too long. I am my own back-handed compliment. The indirect message with a passive-aggressive tone. I get defensive with myself and then I realise: I have become the parent and the child. 

Today is the first time that I put everything into bags, and then realised I could have just taken my time. Today’s lesson came early.