Deep Stupidity

So...sometimes I did things even though I knew they would make me upset.
Seems kind of masochistic, doesn't it?
I sift through the information, just waiting for the tears to come pouring down my face or the knife to twist in my heart. It was hard to pretend like nothing had happened, like what had happened wasn't real, like it didn't still hurt me to think of the things that had been said and the things that had been done. I had laid in bed, crying for hours over those things.
I couldn't help that I had been a spy and still was. I went back to the times I knew had been hard and painful. Why did I do that? Why did I dwell on this? Because it hadn't broken me almost completely through. That's why.
So...putting the pieces back together wasn't so easy. Especially if I kept picking the scabs. I was a scab picker...great.
I wanted fully to believe that he loved me, but I didn't know if he would ever say those words again.