Ignoring, Forgiving and Forgetting Only Go So Far
Moving to The House wasn’t my idea. It was suggested to me by my former landlord, who worked in concert with a former resident of The House.
Officially, I’m moving of my own volition because she wants to give my room to her father, who is in ailing health. This may be and probably is true. I can’t help but feel that she and I parted on the best of terms, and I have no idea why.
I’m more-or-less respectful, I’m financially stable, I don’t snack on their food and I keep to myself. I don’t hog their televisions, game consoles or laundry room.
Even so, I can’t help but think that the owners of the house don’t like me very much. It’s something about the way I’m reluctantly introduced to their friends when we cross paths in the kitchen; it’s something about their polite laughter when they hear me say something they think is a joke; it’s something about tired and disappointed faces I see out of the corner of my eye.
This could all be some kind of self-constructed illusion, but I couldn’t help but feel an undercurrent of resentment — I couldn’t help but feel as if there’s something else going on, beneath the surface, to which I’m am totally oblivious.
In my experience, there always is. Rather than dwell on it, I move on, ignoring, forgiving and forgetting suspicious behavior, habitually chalking it up to my feeble personal paranoia. I’ve been ignoring, forgiving and forgetting a lot, though — their effectiveness dulls quickly.
Here’s to hoping they hold out a little longer.