Why do I, having grown up in a dysfunctional family, always end up looking for the other person's flaws after I get home?

Why do I always end up looking for the other person's flaws after I get home?

While we were together, I acted normally.
I smiled. I nodded. I listened to what they had to say.
Even when we parted ways, I probably didn't say anything strange.

"See you later."

I said that, and waved my hand.

But after I get home, something changes.

I enter the room. I put down my bag. I take off my coat.

Up until that point, my body is still outside.

Once I take off my socks, it suddenly becomes quiet.

I open my phone.
I open the notes app.

It's not like I decided to write anything in particular.

But my fingers move on their own.

That way of speaking bothered me a little. They weren't looking at me at that moment. That reply, wasn't it actually dismissive? That silence, were they hiding something?

Once I write one thing, the next one comes out.

For some reason, the good things about them don't come to mind.

The fact that they waited for me properly. The fact that they didn't blame me. The fact that they matched my pace.

Those things fall off the screen.

My eyes pick up only the flaws.
My fingers line up what I've picked up.
Only while I'm lining them up, I can breathe a little easier.

It's not that I've come to dislike them.

If I really disliked them, I wouldn't be thinking about them over and over again.
If they were someone I didn't care about, I wouldn't open my notes app after getting home.

But after getting too close, I can't stay in that warm state.
If I stay warm, my body doesn't feel settled.

So, I go to cool something down.

Looking for the flaws in others.

This person isn't perfect. This person has sloppy habits, too. There are parts of this person I can't fully trust either.

By placing them one by one like that, the distance that felt close just a moment ago pulls back a little.

Once it pulls back, my body feels a little bit of relief.

If I turn this into a story about my own personality, the sequence of events becomes obscured.

I have a bad personality. I only look at people's bad points. I can't cherish the people who cherish me.

If I say it that way, it certainly explains things.

But my fingers move before my personality does. My gaze searches for the other person's rough edges before I can reflect on myself.

My stomach sinks just a little the moment I manage to deduct points from the other person.

Deducting points isn't just an attack.

It is also a distance I create to protect myself.

If I can make it the other person's fault, I don't have to get close.

If I can make it so that the other person has a problem, I have a reason to run away.

Once I have a reason, my body feels a little easier.

Because it feels easier, I look again.

One more. Just one more. This was also a point of discomfort. That, too, was something I actually disliked.

Inside my mind, the other person's flaws keep piling up.

The more they pile up, the wider my escape route becomes.

But that width is a little different from peace of mind.

It looks like peace of mind. It also looks like righteousness. And yet, the pit of my stomach still feels heavy.

If I truly disliked the person, it would be much simpler.

I won't see them again. I won't reply anymore. It's over.

I could just cut them off. But I can't.

I want to cut them off, but I can't. Because I can't, I collect only their flaws.

Looking at those, I waver again.

Maybe this person really is impossible after all.

The moment I think that, I return to the thought that they were kind at that time.

Because I return to that, I look for other flaws again.

My body is alternating between reasons to get closer and reasons to pull away on the same screen.

In my old home, being close didn't necessarily mean being safe.

There were kind moments. There were smiling faces, too.

But after that, the atmosphere would sometimes change suddenly.

That is why, when I am in a warm situation, my body looks for the exit first.

When I can't find an exit, I look for flaws.

I make the other person a little smaller. I keep them as someone I cannot fully trust.

If I do that, the drop if I lose them will be a little smaller.

Sometimes that is explained by a specific name.

But before the name, there are the fingers after I return home.

The fingers that open the memo app.

The eyes that skip over the good things and pick out only the rough edges.

The more I write, the calmer I feel, yet the heaviness in my stomach remains.

When I am looking for someone's flaws, it seems like I am only looking at them, but in reality, I am measuring the distance.

How close is too close? Where is the point from which I can escape?

What kind of flaws must they have for me to be forgiven if I leave?

That calculation falls from my mind to my fingertips before it can even become words.

That is why my notes are not a record of the other person.

They have become a map for my own escape.

What is written there is not just the truth about the other person.

It also contains the traces of how I tried to step back after getting too close.

Those traces are mixed in as well.

I try to close the screen.

But I cannot delete it.

I feel that if I delete it, I will get too close again.

I feel that if I delete it, only the kind parts of them will remain.

That scares me. So, I keep it.

I leave it there and turn my phone face down.

The room is quiet. No one is blaming me. The other person is not here either.

Even so, my fingertips are still cold.

In my notes, the other person is a bit of a bad person. Because of that, I am a little further away.

Even though I should be far away, only the pit of my stomach feels heavy.

Here is a person who is still living, even though they haven't been healed.