Things That Hurt My memories of being little; my mother and father, and being with them now. It hurts that they love me. It hurts that I love them. If there was no love it would just be another time, another trauma, another unpleasantness. I could say, oh he was an asshole, oh she was a bitch. Love confuses things. I denied loving them for years, like I denied being Jewish. I don’t want it. Want to pretend I don’t need it. I don’t want to know/accept that love can be like this. Like I tell myself post-break-up that of course I never loved them because they hurt me, but the truth of course is that I did. It took me forever to remember good things about my mother, like the time we both got up in the middle of the night to eat extra Enteman’s chocolate chip cookies at Granny Annie’s and she didn’t say a word to me about getting fat. Like how easily she accepted Alice into my life. I want to believe that love is all good. That it is all like that good glowing purity of energy/synergy connection I sometimes feel, like the faith that comes bubbling up from my stomach to my throat and eyes. Like, once you get there you’re finally safe from being hurt. I hate giving up on my illusions.  ¶ 7:28 AM