Denial is difficult to maintain. In order to function and remain alive, I must engage with reality to some extent. But then inevitably reminders of the truth leak in, And the truth feels unbearable. I don’t know how to live with the truth. I don’t want to live with the truth. I don’t want to live as the person who’s done the things I’ve done, or seen the things I’ve seen. I can’t stand it, seeing myself as that person. There’s no meaning in living in that reality. Maybe I’m too proud, or narcissistic, or conceited, or idealistic. Whatever the fuck it is, acknowledging that this is who I really am makes me want to not be alive anymore.
And I assume it’s fear that’s preventing me following through with that sentiment. And perhaps that’s entirely instinctual and animalistic. But the story that emerges from it in my mind is fear of an afterlife. Possibly somewhere where I’m confronted with the reality of what I’ve done by others, with no escape. Or just being left on my own in the dark, with no interruption to distract me from the despair of it. That scares me. This feeling, with no escape, no shield, nowhere to hide.
So I take a couple of sleeping pills, and hope that the everyday stresses of tomorrow will once again drown out the truth. This might be where it would be comforting to believe in God, in some kind of force that could forgive sin or somehow make things “ok”. But I don’t. I don’t believe anything can make it ok. Even some all-powerful, all-loving creator of the universe. I haven’t really believed in “ok” since I crossed these lines. I haven’t felt comforted in over 15 years. Hence the despair, the anxiety, the regret, the longing, the dysfunction, the addiction. I’ve created my own little limbo, Who knows what’ll follow at the end.