I still get bitter. As with everything else, I try to write it, explain it, rationalize it; but in this instance I never manage to. When I begin to, I disgust myself, I tell myself about self-pity and self-justification;
I do not believe one can speak of one's flaws and handicaps without it looking like a plea. I do not believe in compassion without contempt.
I still get bitter, rediscovering the terms of my being; it takes up space in my mind, but it does not need to take up any space in yours. I know I was not always this silent; you berate me for it.
I think I am better for it.