I accepted his awkwardnesses as solecisms. He often alluded to his troubled background. I had no reason to disbelieve him because i deemed him trustworthy. Such trustfulness was my defence against the irrationality of the world. My belief in his putative veracity reaffirmed my belief in my own probity. Distrusting him was tantamount to excoriating self doubt.
It transpired, however, that his solecisms accumulated and i was unable to disavow their import. His inveterate inattentiveness no longer seemed to be evidence of his nobility of thought but a deliberate effacing of my consciousness from his. Often he would utter invectives then promptly apologize as though to neutralize the ramifications. I put up with these anomalies for reasons i outlined above.
But my own sense of self was undergoing seismic shifts with psychoanalysis. Habitually accustomed to self loathing i sought this palliative which, instead of alleviating, crystallized my misgivings about myself . I was assure that this was a natural process that would eventually grant me a wholesomeness. But, for the moment, the discomfiting realizations of my unconscious, latently preponderant but now conspicuous, pained me deeply.
As i underwent an unpeeling of my own layers of deception i could see his own deceptions clearly. Or as clearly as my own divesting of my solipsism rendered possible. I was seeing him clearly because i was seeing mysel clearly. And the sight was dismaying enough. As my own naivete was revealed to me so was the utter disingenuousness underpinning it. I had inadvertently inveigled my own compendium of solecisms to counteract his. My own pliability was no longer agreeable but a compromise. What i deemed sagacity was a makeshift truce with destiny to ameliorate the uncertainty of an indeterminate existence.
I am deliberately withholding tangible explorations ,through this account, of his depredations because the story is grisly and sordid enough. Violence and alcoholism are conventional bedfellows and need i explicate more. But what struck me most was that the pattern of compromise i demonstrated was a common paradigm. Clearly his exterior possessed powers of persuasion which, in conjunction with my inner incertitude, augmented my predicament. I could either absolve myself of accountability, given my ingenuousness or see that very ingenuousness as a precarious buttressing of a tenuous self. I oscillate between the two positions but eschew neither exculpation or self evisceration. I flit between the two.
I am also aware, palpably, that this yarn is hardly composed of those satisfying significations of a beginning, middle or end. But it is a moment i wish to capture through an adroit circumvention of its more dreary accoutrements. It is the pattern i seek to explore than the experience. The experience varies but the pattern, though fluid and protean, remains unaltered. And it is that which conjoins me with others that prompts this than a need to segregate myself as special.