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The more I thought about the kind of hot, bewildering insanity that encompassed me when I became embroiled with X, the more I could not understand it. Even as the months progressed and I moved further away from it, I was obsessed with what I had done and what I had become during its unfolding — a version of me that no one recognised.
I had bullishly insisted at the time that I was finally revealing the true version of me, but I knew in my heart that this was not the case. I came to all my realisations slowly during that time, like a drunk person. It was a strange and horrible sensation, a feeling of being taken over, but at the time I mistook it for the kind of love I had never felt before.
It is, apparently, an easy mistake to make. Even as I heard myself say it and even as I almost believed it to be true, I was embarrassed by the basic cliche of that statement. If true love had picked now to visit, why had it done so in favour of a man who had already cheated on his wife and family, who lied to me in obvious ways, who could be cold and distant on a whim, who made me feel idiotic for asking for the most basic reassurance?
A hilariously vain man, obsessed with his hair and figure, who feigned an intelligent interest in things that I was passionate about but could not sustain that pretence for long enough even to finish a conversation? Love would surely not pick such a person to narrow its gaze upon. Surely not. I did not, in the final analysis, believe what I was saying. And yet, the madness, the compulsion, they were real. They were the strongest feelings I had felt in a very long time and as such, they were addictive.
