I can’t imagine anyone really knowing me, understanding me, seeing me, and still wanting to be close to me. And that’s something I have this fundamental longing for. To be seen, to be loved, to be accepted, to be held. To be ok. In the eyes of others, through my own eyes. To be acceptable. And I can’t imagine ever getting to that point, no matter what I do.
Even if I spent the next 20 years successfully resisting my worst impulses, and pulled myself together enough to do some real good in the world. Even if I really tried to be someone I’m not ashamed of. I still can’t imagine ever getting to the point where I could let someone see the truth of who I am right now, or the things I’ve done in my past, without them turning away in disgust.
And that lack of hope hurts so badly. It feels unbearable. The despair of it. Of course I deny it. I bury it. I distract myself. Again and again.
To not just be utterly alone, but to have no hope of that isolation ever ending. Of ever being loved, or even liked, or accepted. Of ever being acceptable, or lovable, or truly likable. That’s a recipe for depression. For despair. So I lie to myself, over and over. I pretend I’m fine as I am. That the worst parts of me are fine as they are. When the reality is that the shame is so heavy that it’s impossible to even fully acknowledge. I continue to be a terrible person, because the shame of being such a terrible person is too huge to face, and there’s no hope of ever being acceptable. In for a penny, in for a pound. Why not just indulge in the depravity of it, if you can’t ever wipe away the stains?
So all I’m really left with is the question of how I want to respond to such endless despair. Do I want to end myself, and in so doing bring devastation to my family? Not really? Sometimes? Maybe?
Do I want to continue to endure such despair, putting on a brave face while it eats me from inside? No.
Do I want to continue to bury myself in denial & addiction, forever running from the reality that I will never be ok? Probably.
Do I want to try mind-expanding drugs, or anything else that might shake up my brain enough to free me from the despair, longing, shame & regret? Possibly.
7 comments
Ive spoken of one of my depravities, the least of them, here. I have worse ones. I don’t mean to make it about me, it’s just…you’re unfortunately not alone. I can’t seem to help myself either. I indulge in lesser ways because to allow myself to be consumed in it completely is…well…too much.
If you need to, you can talk to me. I will listen. I will not judge you, I will not tell.
If you leave an email, I can message you. But if you’d prefer, maybe I can leave mine instead.
My soul is filthy too. Believe me.
oh i thought the 2 of you already exchanged emails
@Plainwhite – I appreciate the offer dude, really. I’m just not sure talking about it would help. From past experience, having anyone else knowing just makes me want to avoid talking to them – because when I do, I have to face the reality myself instead of living in denial.
I think the only exception would be someone who has got through the same things as me and somehow come out the other side. Because maybe such a person could convince me there was hope. But if that person exists, they’re not public about it, for understandable reasons.
Well, the question is, what happens when you either no longer want to keep fighting it, or can no longer fight it? Do you then give in to your deprave desires and act on them? You have only 4 options-
1- end your life
2- keep fighting it and living in constant turmoil
3- eventually give in to your worst depravities
4- have a miracle where you’re “cured”
Option 4 seems rather unlikely, and options 1-3 are all pretty lousy
It’s probably unclear from what I said, but it’s not like I’m really fighting it now. I suppose fighting it would be preventing it from having any grip on my mind. Instead I tend to channel it into actions that I feel less bad about. I’m still “giving in” to it, in that I allow it to control my thinking and behaviour. For a certain amount of time each day, I allow it to possess me, in a semi-controlled manner. And then I feel shame, and spend the rest of the time in denial.
But it’s not like I ever actually fully act out the desires. I can’t imagine I ever would, unless I somehow lost all self-control and sense of self. It’s a part of me, but it’s only ever one part.
Option 3 isn’t in my mind, because I know, rationally, that it wouldn’t really make me happy. So there’s no sense in which it would be worth it. Unless my rationality entirely disappeared, and I was somehow reduced to an animal state, it wouldn’t apply.
Rationally, it’d be far better to kill myself than fully give in to that side of me. And I think I’d be less scared of that.
20 years is a long toss is all, ambitious. I don’t even know how I’m going to do this week. Who is paying as much attention as we are to our own story though? That’s something that has been coming up more and more, that we write our stories, not others. You seem determined to write yours as a tragedy.
I’m also stuck there though, because I’m pro empowerment; write your story as a horror story, or tragedy if you wish. I’m an anti hero in my own story, so it’s just as wacky around here.
It sure does seem like it’s turning into a horror story, but people need to appreciate horror more.
Possibly. Not really sure how to spin this story into a romantic comedy. The reality doesn’t fit. And I’m pretty good at denial, but sometimes the dissonance is just too great.
Though it might be kind of funny as a parody. Imagine a romcom where one of the protagonists is a horror villain.