she asked me to help her, but it was a ruse. it was a way of ending the discussion, throw herself on my mercy, because she knew i had mercy and she didn't have any, not when it came to winning.

the articulation of the conceptual models underlying these conversations, well, it begs belief. even i wonder if i was making it all up. how can we ever know someone else's motivations? how could i know whether or not she wanted me dead most of the time? if i felt rejected and neglected, maybe she wasn't meaning that. maybe, in her mind, she was only thinking of herself, only noticing her own soap opera of emotional longings, her own unfulfilled dreamscape. me, me, mine. oh yeah. that's all it takes to create paranoia in the other person. am i real? do i matter? obviously not. i can't be real if you can't see me, can i? is it legitimate to be real only to oneself?

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