This years love; It was what it had been. I regretted some of the things I had shown, and a good many of the words I had said and sent. I wasn’t unhappy without it; just disappointed at its absence because it had been something I had thought was remotely real. Scared was the word on both minds; but in multiple levels. I was scared of him; the way he spoke and what he wanted. He had been scared because of what he thought I wanted. I was unsure as to whether what he thought I wanted was the reality of the situation; but it didn’t matter now anyway, because it had gone. Whilst I had been creating something, he had been minimising it. Whether this was subconscious to him or not, it was debatable. The fact that nothing had been said until the last minute, could have been relevant. He had walked away, in the place he’d dropped me off on so many occasions after I had stayed with him. The difference was that that time I wasn’t wearing any of his clothes, and I didn’t smell of him, and I didn’t have a ridiculously big grin across my face, which I didn’t have to try and turn into a coy smile when I walked passed someone on my way back home. I was wearing my own clothes, and smelling of nothing but a loss. I was by myself, and that was why I cried for a while subsequently. I had missed him; and longed for some kind of emotion; but nothing came. Not the kind I had hoped he could give anyway. I had pleaded through actions for some time; for him to give some form of care; and it was at that last minute, I had given up as he turned and I walked away back to the Lake where the sun was shining and everyone was laughing. I had left the Lake because I didn’t feel laughter. It was a long way off; the opposite emotion was what I felt. I wanted to speak, to talk, communicate, bond again and remember why we had first moved to something meaningful in the first place. True to himself, he refused to show or give. I was unsure as to who was at fault; but I felt little but self-pity after the events of the week before. Self pity was something I did too well; and it all stemmed from feeling violated; and used. Our hearts had given in at one point, but it seems that his mind was fighting for repression; which was what he was used to as far as I can tell. I didn’t think it was healthy to be that way, but then im no-one to judge because I made a good many mistakes, and I knew all about repression, depth and independence of an unhealthy manner. This years loving had come to an end; but I had dealt with it like I always do, and had found another. The thing was, this was going to have to come to an end aswell soon; due to the same reason that the orginal distraction would have had to end by anyway. I didn’t know how I felt now; I had managed somehow to not have to confront him or the situation. All I feel is anger, with a splash of regret. I don’t regret many things; and I know that if I tried to ease my regret by means of talking to him, it would only ease the regret in the sense that i’d remember why I didn’t want to bother anymore.

Satisfaction: something we generally categorise as a feeling. Is this rightfully so? It is something widely understood as a feeling we experience as a product of achievement. But are we ever really satisfied? Even if we reach our planned goals? We aim to learn whilst young, in both academic and personal matters. We can obtain qualifications, yet never fulfil our full potential. We can spend years involved with people, of both sexes if need be, love and relationships, yet still, winding up in a state of unhappiness remains a possibility. Although we aim high, we may still strike low.

If satisfaction is sought, we believe, conceptually, that our degree of satisfaction could be maximised by experience. But do we ever learn and adapt appropriately? Do our mistakes mean we are credited or debited later in life? A concept is defined as something which is not really real. It has no habitat for existence, except as a visualisation, a piece of knowledge of the imagination. It cannot be pinpointed, yet what it is constituted of can be described in detail, have chapters written on its exact contents and their profound meaning. Is satisfaction ever actually achieved? Honestly? Whilst life is demanding, on all fronts, public and private, academic and personal, do we just struggle to meet expectations of others and ourselves? If satisfaction is not met or felt, fulfilled or shown; do we respond with cynicism towards expectations due to a lack of certainty or understanding with regard to what the hell the point of our lives has become; or how the hell we use it productively to get the most from the 70 odd years we are given? (Or less, if you’re a smoker/live in a city/have a bad diet/bad mental health/genetic health risks.) If you too, have at some point, also asked yourself out loud “what the hell am I doing here” whether it was on the way into the office, in a cramped city, going into a lecture of a course you knew you didn’t want to do, being fired, divorced (or married), then chances are you fit into one or more if the above categories; probably due to your place of work, type of work, and subsequently your continuous search for some form of satisfaction; be it consciously or subconsciously. That would depend on whether you were a child of denial, which is another issue all together.

Anyway, if so, then cynicism is a product of disappointment. Disappointment is most definitely a feeling; whether self-inflicted due to not meeting our own expectations; or vested in us by our not meeting the expectations of others. So; there lays the question of expectations. What are they? Fact? Or fiction? Depending on your answer to previous questions I asked a minute ago, you will answer differently. If you care what other people think, then “Fact” I hear you mentally cry. If not, then “Fiction; who gives a shit about this fucking bollocks anyway?” If the latter, then satisfaction, it seems, is a concept, that alters from person to person. Do you care of you meet your own expectations? Yes? Then surely it is a perfect feeling, one of gratitude twinned with subtle smugness. No? Then you’re probably just a cynical bugger, who is now mentally arguing that you are ‘living realistically.’ A cynic, of course. You’re clearly fuelled by the resentment of the disappointment at all the unmet expectations of yourself you made years ago; and just remembered you had.

It was the first time I had seen you again. I want to write that it was awful; and I suppose it was, awfully awkward anyway. You’d deny that I know, you’d shake your head, half smile, and shrug your shoulders in your own patronizing way. But I wouldn’t mind. It would just be you, and that’s just how you are. I still know, which is why its so horrible. Because I still know you inside out, and I know you know that we both know that we still know and its still the same. The only difference now is the situation. Im still appalled at the way you acted back then, and I still want to hate you for it. I knew the hate was fading, and I couldn’t be rude, so I made up for it. I had thought it would be a good idea; to make me hate you again. I regret it, which is what I expected, but I didn’t think it would make me shake, make my heart race, loose my focus, stir me up and turn me upside down. Biting is a short, quick, but harsh pain, which makes you cry out. And its usually followed by a burst of anger.“I don’t bite” is what you said; but every word you say, and every time I look up and see your face, with your half smile, it cuts. A cut is a deeper, more prolonged pain, a pain that makes you sob. I know you don’t bite. Im glad you said that, because it shows you don’t feel the same. You always say you don’t feel the same; but I was taught that actions speak louder than words. I hope you didn’t notice me leave. I left because you were there and the shaking of my hand meant I couldn’t hold my pen. I could feel my heart beating hard and fast, just like yours did when I used to listen. I hope you weren’t listening to mine this time, because I was trying to act like you feel. I know you, and that’s why its hard. Because I miss it. And I miss sugary tea in the mornings. You knew where I’d been, and you knew Id cut all my hair off. You wouldn’t tell me how you knew; and I cant guess. I always called you a loser, laughing, but now its all changed and we’ve both lost. I’m not laughing anymore, and judging by the amount of time I saw you spend gazing out of the window, rather than working,
neither are you.

I had started thinking. Granted; I was going on 3 hours sleep in the last 48 hours, possibly more-I had lost track. It had been a whirlwind of alcohol, Cigarettes, stress, locating various pairs of heels and dresses, long limbs, vast amounts of hairspray and other things. I could hazard a guess that thinking, in any way, about anything, was not an ideal option now. Sleep would have been; but the 2 americano’s from Plug and the redbulls from Parade said that wasn’t an option. Deluded, I may have been; but I was ecstatic, buzzing, hysterical and low all at once. It was like a fear was living inside; surfacing like it does after any fashion event. The previous night had been awesome, positively fabulous, and fun.. The fact that we spent the entire time intoxicated with white wine meant the memories were slightly hazy. Once more, the past circled around; or perhaps ‘surfaced’ would have been a better word. It was always there, I knew that. It could be called an insecurity; or just a fear; I couldn’t really say. Back in the day, not even Marilyn, the councillor, could tell me. I had gone to her young and immature, for answers; hoping she would be able to give me some kind of information on myself and my mind, something that would let me sleep; rather than remain an insomniac. Instead, she resembled some kind of bathroom sponge, merely absorbing everything; just sitting and looking at me. The patronising nature of the whole thing; the way she looked at you in that chair like you were some kind of victim merely made matters worse. Girls go to her because they’re refusing to let their eating issues stop them from being alive; it’s an expression of the fighting spirit within them; by sitting in her ‘victimising’ chair they are refusing to be victims. That’s the other side of the coin. My guess is she has never been in the other chair of her office, and so this is unknown to her. Her sprit, on the other hand has the power to reduce them to tears in seconds; it overcomes them and takes them back to being weak. The box of Kleenex on the table in-between the two of you is enough to set anyone, even remotely fragile, off. Maybe it was a personal thing; it just wasn’t for me. Perhaps I wasn’t strong at all; perhaps my spirit was so weak and my mind so complex that I was too defensive. Who knows. She didn’t, and I still don’t. Besides; I never did what she asked. I never cut him out of my life, although she said and I knew I had to, and I was still struggling to do it now. A friend I used to know once said to me “The only way to get over someone is to find someone else.” We had been 14. You felt so grown-up; the thought of GCSE’s scared you. Now we were in our fresher year; and we no longer spoke. (Thank God-if that memorable comment was anything to go by, she talks bullshit.) A lot had happened. A booze-cruise in the summer; (when we were 14-I would never let any child of mine do that. I haven’t forgiven my parents for their overly liberal take on parenting), a lot of kissing boys (and men), a couple of pregnancy tests, the loosing of virginities and innocence, and one major fight. As per norm (well, subsequently it turned out that way) she had slept with my boyfriend. She was the first, but by no means the last. The past was messy; and if I wanted to, I could tell you that the reason I carried on fighting for him was because my spirit was so strong-I refused, point blank, to let her win. I never loose at anything, ever. I may not win, but there’s no way il loose; not in front of anyone anyway. (The real friends who stood by me through her stupidity think I’m deluded when I say that; and give me a sympathetic rub on my arm) And I refused, after that, to let any of my other so called ‘friends’ win, either. I had let him win, with both a good few of my sexier girlfriends and myself, on every occasion. I had always taken him back; put him back into my ‘circle of trust’, whilst I always cut them right out, sitting them on a back bench of the world. I don’t really believe in regret, or maybe I’m just naïve. Its not as if I can say I’ve never made a decision I should regret; I have, many times. Regret doesn’t agree with me; I don’t understand its purpose. Is it just there to make you feel bad? To question yourself? I do that anyway. And I expect other people do aswell; I don’t need regret to help or force me to do that. One good quality of regret is that it should help you learn from your mistakes; not to make them twice. I had made the same ones over and over now, for years. Its like in those Science evaluations you had to do at secondary school; those simple evaluation sheets after an experiment; the last question was always “If you had to do this again, would you do anything differently and how?” Maybe I’m alone with this thought; but if I had to fill one out on my life since 14; Id say Id do it all again. Exactly the same and wouldn’t change a thing. My Dad always calls me a pessimist; but he’s wrong when it comes to this. It has been a learning curve; a process of elimination as far as friendship is concerned. If I knew someone who was going through anything similar; I would ask them now if they would treat someone how they’re being treated. It was something I was always too weak to ask those around me at the time; and something I was too scared to ask myself. It was all that should have been said, and the answer should have been the only thing listened to. The 12 weeks of talking didn’t need to be listened to by Marilyn the councillor. My circle was corrupt; yet I never removed myself. If someone is strong enough to answer and tell you that the hurt (and insomnia in my case) is not worth the friends (or the love) that its costing them; there is no point in them being weakened by sitting in the chair of a victim in the office of a nice woman like Marilyn. If they can tell you that no, its not worth it, not really, underneath, they should just move circles; cut off the offenders and the ones who cause hurt; be it for whatever reason, whatever situation It’s the ones who wouldn’t see Marilyn that can be brought up by the victim chair. Ironic. Because they’re the ones who would never, and possibly will never, sit in it. I left the Kleenex in the box on the table for you.

It just wasn’t me. I had reached the conclusion that the past just hadn’t been my cup of tea; I had to have at least 4 sugars in my tea; and in the past three years it had been less than sweet. Often sour, even. The internet was down (again); and everytime I couldn’t do something I had planned to do; even something as trivial as checking my email; his words came back to haunt me. “Keep happy-get organised-Dad x.” That was all he had written in the card my family had sent to me a week after I left home. They had all written something; a few lines. I had always thought my Dad had under estimated me. By a long way. He had believed I wasn’t anywhere near capable of living for myself. I knew otherwise; or at least I thought I did. There was always this idea that maybe he was right though; and this thought arose in my head every time something didn’t go to plan. I had let him down in some areas; but he wasn’t aware of the extent. I knew Id let him down; and the battle continued within myself as to whether I was in the right or the wrong. It had been confusing and it was only now; after 6 months of living 250 miles away that it was beginning to decipher itself to me. One of the end results of much thinking was that he just didn’t know me. Maybe it was a lack of understanding; or a lack of communication; but an inability to understand my ideas and my actions had definitely materialised. The previous night; (I still had my make up on) had been interlaced with irony (again), which was always something I found interesting; what the guy next door always called “the OC timing of Sarah’s life”. I had been talking to one particular person; and I went to bed at someone else’s, wearing the former’s rugby training shorts. The comedy factor came from the fact that the shorts had been given to me by the latter; who was oblivious. I slept in my place; slotted together like a jigsaw puzzle. It felt like the two pieces had been missing; and then found years later under a dusty book shelf; and smugly placed back together again. I wasn’t entirely sure how he felt; but the fact I was starting to become anxious told me it had taken a step into the direction of serious. A good thing or bad; I wasn’t sure; and I would even say I didn’t care. It was what I wanted and it made me smile. Besides; he always let me have 4 sugars in my tea. One thing that did make me wonder, though, was that he wasn’t all too aware of my life before I came here. I had always assumed that was a bad thing; but what did I have to gain by his knowledge? Perhaps he would understand me better; but I wasn’t sure that was necessary. If he didn’t understand, like everyone else, I would risk loosing him or creating problems with the perfection it was. Emotional drama was what I did best; It was all I had known since 14, and after a semester or 2 here, I had almost boiled game playing down to perfection. I figured that things hadn’t always been this rosy; so perhaps this was why-I could almost say I had played down the dramatic side of my life to the point of non-existence. Whatever it was; whatever I had done, consicoulsy or subconsciously, it seemed to have worked. I was now getting tea in the mornings with at least 4 sugars; made by my rugby guy with great arms. Of course life was rosy. Dad was impressed with him (for once); and suprisingly I was aswell. Not only had he made me realise I had to let go of his prior; he made an awesome cup of (sweet) tea.

I felt slightly sick from the peanut butter. I was worrying again. She worried me. Her lack of support worried me. Or perhaps scared me would be a better way of describing it. I wanted to be independent; I always had been. It was just that there are times when we all need some support from our family. It seemed to me that mine was non-existant. The only support I felt I had was from 2 little boys who weren’t even teenagers yet. I knew that if I wanted a hug, that’s where I could get it from. I knew that whatever it was that I needed; they would give it, if they could. That was the void-sometimes you need things that they simply just couldn’t give. My parents had never been too good on the giving front as far as emotional support went. They sucked. Not a proper adjective I know; but there really was no other way to put it. They just really did suck...it was a waste of time and a waste of hope. It had only left me feeling let down. It was a cycle; a vicious circle. It always went the same; I would try, fail, and then swear I wasn’t going to rely on them for anything ever again. But then time would pass, and id try again. Then Id fail again, and that’s when I remembered why I never should have bothered, and I would remember the promise I made myself last time; and id make it again. I wondered when id learn. I noticed that I was learning, but it was a slow process. Although I still asked sometimes; the times were becoming less and less frequent, and farther apart. I was still doing it though. Still asking. I had done it again, and once more I had sworn that I was going to give up on them, my expectations of them, and be myself, by myself, for myself. I was going to do everything in my power to never, ever need them, ever again. I always hoped it would work out, and my objectives were always the same. Grow up, lean on myself. Someone I know once said to me “The only person you can trust is yourself.” I had agreed, but underneath I had thought it was rubbish. Now I think shes the wisest person I have ever met. She followed this comment, saying “Don’t be self-destructive, Sarah. It’s a slippery slope.” I hadn’t really knew what she meant. Or understand what she was trying to say to me; her implications. I understood the first part; not to be self-destructive, but the second part was something I still fail to understand. That was the one thing my parents had always intervened in; the final straw. It was a class A attention grabber. When it came to the crunch, they had always stepped in. It was just the fact that to force them into being there, I had to push myself incredibly far. I was a runner, in many senses of the word. I wanted to run in pretty much every situation. When I was bored, I always wanted to go for a run, no matter how bad my shin splints were; I would still go. In a bad situation, I always wanted to just turn and run away. I had done before. Another thing; when I did reach the crunch point; the final straw, I was always bombarded with questions from them. Stupid questions. Do I have a drug addiction? Have I taken coke in the last 24 hours? Am I pregnant? Have I had an abortion? Have I dropped out of Uni? Although they never said it, I always knew there was a silent “yet” on the end of each of their questions. It was just de-moralising. I have always believed/known that they underestimate me; massively. But then with that thought, I undermined myself. If that was true, and they were oblivious to my potential and my intelligence, then why do I repeatedly let myself down with expectations they never meet? Am I the one who fails to understand the situation? I didn’t think that was the case. Maybe I am deluded though; my parents had always said that was what I do best.

I had always thought the theme was change. Now I was starting to think that it wasn’t infact the theme; it was the process. Maybe it was happening now; right under my nose. It seemed it was possible to be friends...if that’s what we had become. I wasn’t sure; but I was starting to think that I knew all of these things all along; but I was too scared to admit them. And perhaps change was a process; even if it was a reluctant one to begin with. I had been scared, but now I was starting to get used to it and was willing to try and help it along even. That’s what people do isn’t it? You’re scared of getting involved with the new person after the long mess you call your last relationship; all you need is the right person who has the patience to wait with you. Maybe it was coincidence that Id found someone who had enough patience to deal with me. Is it hard to find that quality? I guess it depends on how much reluctance you feel; it would make sense to correlate reluctance with patience. Together they balance each other out, and thats when it works. All along the way communication is key; which I guess means that you have to find someone who not only has the patience for you, but also has that connection with you. Because the connection would enable you to communicate, and therefore patience would be made easier. So if its easy to find someone with patience, it would mean that its easy to find someone who you have a connection with. But that’s not the case; it’s a long way from the truth. Having said that, is honesty really the best policy? In every couple there must be somethings which are shielded from one half. Maybe because they don’t matter. Theyre white lies, small things which wouldn’t make any difference. On the other hand, maybe theyre kept inside because they mean too much. Its hard to distinguish with some issues. For example the whole being friends with an ex thing; is it relevant enough to tell the current that you are friends with the ex, or is it justified to hold your tongue because you’re over it anyway, its in the past so why let it affect your future? Then comes the question of are you actually over it..If yes, then why is it worth hiding the new friend? You said it wouldn’t make any difference because it didn’t matter to you. If no, then you’d hide it because of how it looks, right? So what would you do? You’d have to ask yourself whether you are really over it. Could you still be without this person in your life? Would you still be without this person in your life? What are your reasons? But then what are the right ones? We all have moral boundaries, but what if yours don’t match your current other half? You want to be friends with the ex, but theyre not so sure you should..or can. If you’ve been lucky enough to find a current someone who you have that rare connection with; then your moral boundaries probably do match. If not, then you should thank god for their patience, because you might need it.

The theme had been Changes. Changes had happened all over the place; everyone had changed and so had situations. Experiences had changed memories, and also feelings. Yet, ironically it had remained the same. We had never changed, and even now, despite my best efforts, it was totally unobtainable. We had never learnt to change, adapt or breathe. In my heart and in my mind, I knew that it would never change, we would never change. Maybe I knew we couldn’t ever be friends, but maybe I just didn’t want to admit that to anyone, I didn’t want to let go and loose it all. Change was just something we couldn’t master. I felt it was because of him, but what does my opinion count for? It was meant to be counted for 50% of the relationship, yet it seemed to be the only percentage we could muster. The other 50% seemed missing to me; just nonexistent. I had tried to explain, but he didn’t understand. I wasn’t always sure I understood either. I swayed between it being too simple and me dressing it up as complex, and it being too complex and me dressing it as simple. I had no idea. Saying that, to him, it always looked like I had too many ideas. The problem lay somewhere in between him not understanding me, and me being clueless about the way his mind worked. He claimed his mind worked overtime, thinking on our issues, yet to me it didn’t seem that way. It seemed the exact opposite; minimal input, minimal communication and minimal decisions or direction. Whilst, on the other side of the coin, it seemed to him that I had too much direction, too much input. In my head, I though about what constitutes a relationship of any kind. In everything, 100% is the total. It is the whole amount of anything; everything has 100% in it somewhere. In relationships, there is 100%. An equal relationship is made up of each person giving half; 50% each. I felt like I had to give both my 50% and his 50%; that would make it whole. I nagged and I shouted, I cried, and I longed; trying to get his 50% from him, searching for his input. I felt like id been doing that for ages; because of our messy past. Sometimes, I would be annoyed at me having to put in extra effort in order to survive any little problems we had. To him, it seemed like I was working overtime; and was just hassling him. In truth, all I was trying to do was encourage him to be more involved; more like an equal. The more I pushed, the less he gave, and eventually I felt forced to be harsh to him, in words and actions, because that was like my final solution. It was all I had left to try and do; I figured id tried everything else; being patient, sticking out the hard times, trying again and again, apologising to those around me; saying that he was “different” this time round. I always hoped he’d pull through and start meeting me half way. The crazy thing is, he seems oblivious to this. Seems to be totally unaware of it, like it hasn’t been going on. But to me it was obvious, and it had been a gradual descent into the current situation. Now, when I sit and think about whether friends (or anything) would work between us, I feel angry. And he still doesn’t understand; we still haven’t reached the point of knowing where we’re going wrong, let alone deciding what to do about it and how to solve it.
“I’m not gonna fucking just fucking leave it all now. Youre gonna let our thing simply crash and fall down? Youre well out of order, this is way out of town.” At times, id refused to let it go, id clung on to the point of humiliation, and so had he at other times when id fucked up. But now, input was all I wanted. Just an understanding and a healthy, happy balance. He said he wanted me to be happy; and he sounds like he feels worthless. That wasn’t what I wanted to achieve; I was just trying to get you in gear. Looking to give you motivation to find passion; find direction and see sense. It was the only thing I had left to try; I didn’t want to be mean; I didn’t know what else to do and I only did it out of anger. I still don’t know what else I should (or could) have done to help us get our act together; maybe I should have apologised more. I can’t go back, and I can’t move forward, so the best I can do is say sorry now.

Gallivanting. That was the only word I could use to describe things this week. We had been gallivanting around and just about everywhere. Whilst it had been a lot of fun; alcohol was everywhere, as was nicotine. Men were also very much central to the happenings of the last week or so. There had been the constant, the occasional and the rare. All in the space of about 3 days. The constant was fine and dandy, a source of happiness. The occasional had been a source of fun, of confidence, of butterflies and a hint of anger. The rare had been a source of excitement, alcohol and passion. I knew which I wanted; underneath. The constant. If I didn’t then I wouldn’t be in the present with the constant. I did, however, want to keep the occasional around for occasional benefits that it brought. The rare; I wasn;t fussed on. Besides, I always had been possessive. And I didn’t think it was a habit I was going to break now, or easily. I had, however, managed to let go of the past..but that was just because I didn’t care anymore. I did care about the constant in the present, despite how it seemed. Bear in mind, that in any situation, as far as priorities were concerned, he would always get number one. I would always put him at the top-the occasional and the rare just wouldn’t do-in the entire entirety I had with them; it just wasn’t worth it. I’ve always said I never loose at anything; and no matter in what situation; that most definitely wasn’t going to be the case with any guys I knew.

It’s hard to battle your Dad, or any other close relative, for that matter. It’s on a parallel with battling your conscience, like fighting yourself; but only marginally better with a brilliant feeling of satisfaction and the closest thing to fulfilment some children have ever felt.

To fight something, you need to hate it. This is your incentive; or your motivation. It becomes complicated when it’s a parent, because they’re under your skin. You’ve trusted them most/all of your life, and there lies this awful, terrifying idea that they’ve helped make you who, or according to them ‘what,’ you are. Because these parents in question will, of course, be adamant that they are always right, without failure, and you have always been wrong, and will always be wrong. You loose total trust in yourself and your opinion; because this God-like figure knows you’re wrong and reminds you of it, frequently. So, if you battle this God, you basically have to put all your trust back in yourself-you’re denying them that glint of satisfaction they gather from belittling you constantly. However, this game plan is fundamentally flawed-if you’re not quite strong enough to do this, if you have remotely weak moments, then ‘FamilyGod’ will verbally reduce you to a crying splodge of putty, calling you “useless, pathetic, unorganised, incompetent etc.” In these times, you may actually believe that you are all of the above, or that one or more apply to you. (They don’t; it just take a while, and quite a bit of distance, 250 miles to be approximate; for the younger, littler person to have this big revelation.)

If so, then you are beginning a part-time battle with yourself. That’s why some people, hate themselves sometimes, some days. “I don’t deserve to like myself” is common reasoning of the subconscious. You win some, you loose some. It becomes complicated when you don’t actually feel like you ‘loose’ some-he wants you to hate yourself; so, if you hate yourself, not only has it meant you let him win, but it turns out you share something in common, with a sick twist. Well; you are related, after all.