I want to be with you. It is as simple, and complicated as that. – Charles Bukowski
He is a fellow blogger. Matthew is charming, witty, flirtatious and has a large following. I am new to blogging, and with his every post I feel a stronger attraction to this man and his intellect.
His name flashes on my screen. I have just posted a provocative comment on his latest post. We exchange witticisms, and it soon turns sexual. He emails me several times a day, tells me how beautiful I am, wants to know everything about me. I tell him everything. For someone with a low self-esteem seeking external validation, Matt’s approval and praise is a shot of heroin. My husband has long ago stopped being my fix. What I cannot get from him, Matt supplies in dangerous doses. I am spending most of my time obsessing over a make-believe relationship, with fewer emails, less praise and an increased guilt and panic.
The emergency room psychiatrist calls it mania and obsessive-compulsive disorder.
Carla says it’s over between us. We have been best friends for 13 years. I married her brother and our separation is too hard for her to manage. ‘I don’t want to talk to you. Please get over it.’
I need another hit, just a gesture that our friendship ever meant anything to her. There is an emptiness, a lack, searing pain, like loss of a limb. I threaten suicide. I tell her she is the reason I don’t want to live anymore. I hate her.
My psychologist says I have borderline personality disorder.
I feel sunshine on my face. The National is on the radio. I breathe along. I smile, despite the burning in my thighs and lead in my shoulders. I notice the thoughts about my alone-ness.
They say one day I will feel whole. All by myself.