And then, when there is nothing else between us but love, we can begin to find a way to truly be together.

We’re constantly changing facts, rewriting history to make things easier, to make them fit in with our preferred version of events. We do it automatically. We invent memories. Without thinking. If we tell ourselves something happened often enough we start to believe it, and then we can actually remember it.

I am an adult, but a damaged one.

What are we, if not an accumulation of our memories?

Work. Write. Read. Keep putting words on the page, because that's the only way you'll get better.

There are memories I a better off without. Things better lost forever.

I feel like he's taking advantage of me. Advantage of my illness. He thinks he can rewrite history in any way that he likes and I will never know, never be any the wiser. But I do know. I know exactly what he's doing. And so I don’t trust him. In the end he is pushing me away, Dr. Nash. Ruining everything.