Twenty-five years ago, my world imploded. It marked me more than I ever anticipated, with a form letter on Johns Hopkins University letterhead. It was the beginning of the end in so many ways.
One of my friends, with whom I was talking about all of this, did a little of that "harsh truth" thing quite deliberately, to wit: "He doesn't want to see you again. That's obvious."
Thanks for that brilliant observation. I think I figured that out, and with greater insight than yours, about a thousand years ago. Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, or that I will give anyone the satisfaction of hurting me just for the satisfaction of seeing me wince...admittedly, though, it's the fastest way to get from point A to point B in delivering the coup de grace.
I'm still working through it a little at a time, crawling along and feeling my way, trying to negotiate the jagged edges. Part of me doesn't want to believe, but another part of me is bludgeoned into acceptance. Sometimes being part of a shared past is a negative, not a positive. Knowing where the bodies are buried can get you buried with them in an anonymous shallow grave.
All I have are my memories, and a knifelike perception of the day that it all turned on a dime. What was intended to protect me, slaughtered me. I don't need anyone to twist the knife, because it's already done its worst.