Happiness is a weak memory

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I've managed to cultivate the habit of forgetting things people have said that bothered me. Not so much for the sake of the other person. It makes my life easier to not remember or at least not clearly how and when I was offended, felt abused.

That has certainly been a help in my life with Charles. I'm dimly aware that he's done many things that pissed me mightily. But not in detail. He, on the other hand, can recall insults from childhood. I suspect that is one reason he has to take antidepressants.

I think I unwittingly picked up this habit from my momma.

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Having been in long-term relationships with both a person who kept an exquisitely detailed catalog of long-past hurts and a person with a prodigious memory — but for news and history, not my faults and foibles — I find the latter to be a huge gift.

From being badgered about my purported ability to cause all kinds of hurts, I learned to love by letting my loved one be who he is. Pretty good stuff.

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Thanks,
Richard

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