Every now and then I get an explicit reminder of what I spend my life trying to deny. That no one will ever be able to accept me, or love me, without me deceiving them about who I am on a fundamental level. That no matter whose company I spend my time in, or who I may share some level of physical intimacy with, I will always feel utterly alone, and isolated. There is no solution for this longing I feel – for acceptance, emotional intimacy, mutual connection. To be actually seen by another human being, and valued. To be able to lower my guard and relax, and not be constantly afraid of everyone. The truth is that any morally sane person would be disgusted by me – and they’d be right. I’m a bad person.
I’m not a psychopath, and that’s what makes this painful. I need people. I need acceptance, to feel I’m all right and part of the group. I need to be seen, and known, and accepted. And I can’t get that, ever.
I would say that I’ve created my own kind of hell, but that would be being dramatic. The reality is that I’m less scared of continuing with this painful non-life than I am of dying. That wouldn’t be the case if this were hell. I’m not in agony. Just constant low-level background pain. With nothing to make it worth enduring. There’s no light, just endless grey.
I could say that I deserve this, but I’m not sure I believe anyone really deserves anything. If there are reasons for the things we do, and those extend back beyond our own existence, then the flaws kind of seem to be built into the framework of existence itself. There was always going to be someone like me. It just so happens that I’m it.
But I did do this to myself. Not exactly consciously – I can’t claim to have understood the consequences, or even really thought about it at all. But I made choices, and now I’m living with the results. I made my bed, now I’m lying in it. Can’t say fairer than that, right?