What does it mean, then, that I cannot stand to be there even when you are?
That your presence is a boon is unquestionable, a fact of life. You make every experience a joy, both a multiplicative and additive factor for everything that involves you. Yet, that is such a black hole of thought, of experience, that even your presence cannot make it anything but?
What does it say for me, that I cannot separate its sickness from your own improvements to my life? That I cannot struggle through the experience of being there, even to see you?
Is it so terrible, then? So uniquely terrible, that it outweighs everything else? Perhaps to others, no, it is not. It's only a town, some say. It's where you grew up, where you lived and breathed. It's what formed you, they might say.
What a boon it is, for me to have been formed by that place! To have sprouted in its cursed and radioactive garden, to have uprooted myself for greener pastures the moment it was possible. How can I explain this, this utter disgust and vitriol I feel for an utterly forgettable settlement on the face of this planet?
I cannot, I think. What it means to me, this horrible place, I feel cannot be described in words, because my own feelings cannot be described in words. The sinking nature of it, the stone in my gut when I consider coming close to it; these are not things that can be explained to someone who has not felt them. What would it mean, then, to convince you of them?
Can I trust that you would believe my own experience? That my disdain for this desolate wasteland of concrete and commerce means nothing for my care and love for you? How can I handle the idea that you would believe me to choose my hatred over you? I cannot, and so I fear I shall never tell you a word of how I feel.