He was habitually accustomed to awkward demonstrations of regard wherein his proclamations seemed more like objurgations. He used to tell me 'I love you despite everything you are'. It always seemed incredibly condescending to me as though he were conceding or deferring to my dark side. He felt it evinced his veracity in love. I didn't protest or inveigle my counter balancing rejoinder. Rather our repartee continued though i inwardly withdrew from him.
It is not as though i don't know i have a dark side. Everybody does and it is wise to accept it. With him, it felt like he was patronizing me because whenever i tried to point out to him things about him i did not like he would shut me up or detach himself. I sensed a double standard there. Why must he not accept his own darkness given that he was so keen on pointing out mine, telling me, in effect, that he loved me in spite of it. I wanted my good points focused on, i wanted my brighter side given importance. And he was having none of that.
I exist on no easy terms with my unconscious. Its intimations discomfit me immeasurably. If i were adroit enough to repress it or circumvent its insidious encroachments i might be better off. But committed as my conscious mind is to honesty, considering its ineffectualness in effectuating a process of denial and avoidance which, though indicative of dissimulation, are also survival tools, i forbore to suppress. Though i did try to sidestep its more precipitant suggestiveness. I needed to survive.
Which is why when he tells me that he loves me despite my dark side i feel doubt. Because who could love my dark side. Would anyone not leave me to be with a better person because my darkness is so negative. And as i said earlier he resists my pointing out his own. I've given up any attempt at closeness. It is bound to fail. I hope, though against the very grain of the hope i hope for, that things would change. I don't think they will.
Ultimately, though, his negation of my iridescence bothers me the most. Whenever he speaks of love he draws attention to the crepuscular, never to the luminous. His own evasions are his mechanisms to stay afloat and i am generally respectful of such self concealment in any person. But he has yanked open, with importunate though, to him, loving intent , the antechamber of my unconscious. My visage is grotesque, my consciousness disembodied. In making me feel agreeable he has instituted a self scrutiny so irrevocable that i can do nothing but surrender to its overtures. Had such a process of excoriation been unrealized i might have forgiven him this lapse as contretemps. But i intend to drive home to him, through the darkness he has unearthed in me, the animadversions and antipathies immanent in him. Such recompense seems befitting.