This is Not My Memoir

I’ve written hundreds of characters over the years, but none has been as difficult as writing me. There is a lesson to be learned here. I’m sure at some point in time I’ll figure it out. This is not my memoir: I’m not that exciting. This is a small excerpt from Pathological, a fictional account of what it is like to essentially date a narcissistic sociopath. This follows Eddie’s confession at having slept with a woman (who now claims to be pregnant) during a time he was trying to date Gabbie.


With hands tossed in the air, I backed up to the small office chair and dropped. Was I entitled to be upset? Was I? We were talking; only talking. We weren’t dating. Hadn’t spoken on dating. Hadn’t even hinted at going out. My mind waged a war, a million thoughts, infinite emotions all running into each other like those epic scenes of thousands of warriors running full speed into each other on some desolate battle ground. The destruction left behind was never noble, and I could already feel the acid of the aftermath. Did I have the right to be upset?

In my mind a reel of rationalization began to unfold. I wasn’t a pessimist, but I wasn’t a glittery optimist either. My world, my teachings, my studies all hinged on realism; on bringing people back to spatial reality and acknowledging that good and bad coexist to create function. But, that was my job. When it came to me, to my personal life, to my own vagabond emotions there was only visceral reaction. And every time—each and every time—I arced my neck, shuddered, and betrayed myself to give another person the benefit of the doubt.


An excerpt by, Tania L Ramos

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