f the relationship was healthy, I was off happily living my life, not sitting on my window seat, writing about how happy I was. But if the relationship was dysfunctional, I wrote . . . and wrote . . . and wrote.
When I look back now at those journals, I have to laugh at myself because every whining, complaining story I told had me as the heroine of my “poor me” story. The guy was always a liar/cheater/loser/wimp/alcoholic/abuser/narcissist/jerk. They were all wrong. But me, I was always right.
Do you hear the ring of “victim story” here? Bingo. That would be me in my twenties—a hot mess who blamed everyone else for the messes I was creating.