It would almost be funny, if it wasn’t so pathetic. The thing that consumes my mind, that seems so amazing and essential, is also one of the worst things in the world. What feels good is also terrible. What kind of exquisite mindfuck is that? Almost as if I’ve devised the perfect method to mentally torture myself.
It’s been almost 4 years since I last went to that place. I think about it often. I might go back at any point. I might’ve gone back today. I seriously considered it. I still might. 4 years teetering on the edge, barely holding myself back. Why? It’s not like I’ve changed. It’s not like it even makes me an acceptable person. ‘Great, you stopped doing that unforgivable thing. Gold star!’
I tell myself it’s because I don’t want to feel worse about myself. How could I possibly feel worse about myself? But there’s always a worse, no matter how low you go. Unless you’re a psychopath, the guilt and shame just continue to pile up. There’s no rock bottom – we passed rock bottom long ago. You just keep on digging.
I tell myself that it won’t satisfy or change anything. That’s true. It won’t make my fantasies real. It won’t make it all ok. It won’t resolve anything. No matter how amazing or relieving it feels in the short term, nothing will get better.
The desire for that short term escape is still very strong. Anything to forget the pain for a few weeks, days, hours, minutes. To feel fully absorbed in anything. To feel fully alive again.
But it won’t last. Perhaps I’ve learned that much. The reality returns, the guilt kicks in, and the low is worse.
So, this wonderful essential terrible sickening thing – we’re not doing that anymore. So then why not suicide? What else is left for a monster to do, if it can’t bring itself to be properly monstrous anymore?
I tell myself that I can’t do that to my parents. To leave them with that kind of pain, with the unanswered questions. It would destroy my mother. But that may be a rationalization. If I cared that much, surely I would never have risked their wellbeing by going down this road.
It may just be blind fear of death. This monster badly wants to survive, and spread it’s monstrousness.
Or perhaps it’s fear of what might follow death – judgement, punishment, torment.
So, not suicide then. At least not yet. So what then? Try and find some way to bear this pain without wanting to tear the world apart? Try and find some kind of fulfilment with those who would be rightfully disgusted by the truth of you? Whilst also keeping everyone at a safe distance, so they don’t become contaminated? Fuuuckkk, just kill me now. Snap your fingers and erase me from existence.