People ask me. All the damn time, they ask me.
I tell them that I don't know. Then, in a somewhat firmer voice, I state that I don't want to talk about it.
That second part is kind of a lie. The insistence in my voice is as much for my own benefit as it is for my interrogators.
Because, I do want to talk about it. I want another pair of ears to hear the story. I want another brain to process the information. I want another pair of lips to, I suppose, explain to me that which I haven't been able to explain to myself. I want, maybe even need, a different perspective.
I desperately want to talk about it.
But, I don't. I'm trying to be a nice guy, after all. Deserved or not, I'm trying.
So, I don't talk about. I pretend that my silence is my choice, but it's not. I don't talk about it because she doesn't like it when I talk about it. And I don't blame her for that. I'd be the same way, in her situation. Whatever that might be.
That first part, however, from way back at the beginning of this stupid entry, is the truth; I really don't know what's going on.
I have my suspicions and opinions, though. And I don't like them very much.
And I really really really wish that I didn't care. My life would be so much easier, if I could just stop caring.
But, I do care. I suspect that I will always care.
That suspicion scares the shit out of me.