Tapped, Part Two – Trudy’s Diary


December 2, 2003

I know how to fix it.
I know how to fix it.
I know how to fix it.

It is possible, in fact, to be too compassionate. Compassion has crossed over into a sickness, a malady that requires a lot of wine and way too much down time from which to recover. This need to love the shit out of someone until they feel better is nothing short of madness. I know this now. I see it.

I know.

I do.

He did not come to me; rather, I saw an inkling of his discomfort, and I was drawn to him like an ant to yesterday’s coffee sugar, spilt and sticky. I hunger for a place to shelve this overwhelming feeling that bleeds from my heart to my head to my restless fingertips. No, it doesn’t matter who he is. It matters that the need exists. Tall, short, skinny, fat, angry, placid, funny, nerdy, handsome, smart, dumb as fuck, single, married. The only thing I see is a hole that can be filled with this gooey, sickly sweet, disgustingly overused compassion.

Today I saw his daughter. Blonde curls everywhere. I didn’t feel an ounce of compassion for her though, did I? Why not? She was singing as she pumped her thin little legs back and forth to swing higher and higher, leaning so far forward and then so far back that I thought surely she would lose her grip and fall hard and fast to the earth with a painful thunk. But she didn’t. She just kept going, and singing, and then she laughed and I thought to myself, yes. That’s the life I want. I want that.

Not this. Most certainly not this.

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