Solitaire

My favorite activities are those done in solitude. No one is present to make me feel inferior or misunderstood. I can make up my own rules or cheat without scolding by

my under-protected kin.

I used to play solitaire in my downtime at work, hoping that one of the other caddies would pluck me out of my derivative daydreams and invite me to play spades. The rules were firm and the company was unpleasant. I kept forgetting which cloud of dots was a spade and was too embarrassed to ask.

If I kept playing with myself, I could have avoided the explosive backlash. But, I wanted to be liked. I wanted to participate in small talk with the same ease as the brainless idiots that sat beside me. Even when it wasn’t spades, I was always grasping for a rule book that had half of the pages ripped out.

When I’m alone, I have an easier time being honest. My therapist doesn’t know I started smoking cigarettes again or the plight I feel surrounding my sexuality. I don’t ever lie to people, I simply withhold the truth because my true feelings are too complex for me to express.

I, unlike others, don’t ask stupid questions. Why aren’t you saying what I want you to say? This isn’t how I practiced. Why do I have to explain to you what’s going on in my mind for you to listen?

I could never figure out how to fix everything in my life or operate in a way that was perceived as normal. I thought other people were the answer, but maybe they’re not. I don’t know if I can keep having the same conversations with a person that doesn’t understand what it’s like to be “girl interrupted” adjacent. It’s not like I’m getting worse, I’ve just stopped getting better.

I’ll go back to playing solitaire and disassociate as I hear another fragmented apology from a well-meaning but hopeless blood relative. They don’t plan on changing, so why should I?