When you were first dating, he told you the horror stories about all the relationships that had ended in disaster. But you weren’t without a few horror stories of your own so, naturally, you gave him the benefit of the doubt. You cursed those hussies for kicking him to the curb, never dreaming that one day you would want to do the same. But now everything is so clear; they didn’t kick him anywhere, they ran screaming for their lives, as far away from the crazy as they could get, because you can’t fix crazy.
Once I realized what I was up against, I thought I was clever enough to outsmart crazy. I thought I’d be able to wait it out, to let it pass. Outwit it, kill it with kindness and drown it in sanity. I thought that I had enough love in me to quiet the storms of crazy that roiled and thundered and never seemed to abate. I guess that was my own form of crazy. But crazy is infectious and if you hang around it long enough it begins to drag you down. Truth be told, I tried to save him, even though deep down, I knew that wasn’t my job. And I know that was crazy. I wish I could go back and do the whole thing over again because I think I’d see his crazy sooner than later and I could swerve out of his path and avoid the whole head-on collision