Even in therapy, I think, I couldn’t be honest. For months I’d talk around the issue. The immediate is harrowing, impossible, and my ability to interpret, to express that is lacking. At times, it feels like I can only communicate at a distance. Anything close, immediate is rendered indescribable by the pain it entails to draw into view. I make no sense at these times, I have a will to self destruction and will attempt to tear at myself until there is nothing left. It’s always been easier to destroy than it is to create. As fear creeps in, I’d find myself lashing out, a wounded animal.

I would sit there for hours saying nothing. Words came out, explanations, discussion, but I shied away from what was really the problem. Perhaps, in a way, the talking eventually led to my own personal discoveries, but it’s been so long. I was a different man then. I was angry and afraid, I probably knew what the problem was, but I was unwilling to let go – it seemed too great a leap to make. But we cling to it, whatever “it” may be, some sense of ourselves, some idea that seems so central that in the relinquishing we might burst. Talking might never be enough.

It’s a struggle, between the world we inherit and the world we inhabit. Where I was seemingly bore no relation to the world I had been told was mine. It can lead to resentment, to the worst of us. In this Godless world we are left with little more than ourselves to believe in, and when that fails, what hope is left?

We inherit so much, take for granted all the meaning bestowed by our upbringing, how can we possibly come to reconcile that, the world of our past, our history with what horrors are to come? There is an emptiness within me, unsettled and at odds with the world I once imagined would be my own. This is a lie.

I’d always sensed that something was amiss, that this life I lived was predicated on a fabrication. It was on long journeys, where I had time to think, that I became terrified of my mortality, constructing elaborate transhumanist schemes to escape the rapidly approaching inevitability of my death. I was terrified of germs, of bacteria and infections – the invasion of my body seemed so real, so frightening.

My earliest memory is in a hospital bed. I was being tested. What I have gleaned from external sources is that I was a healthy participant, but the stigma remains. I have always been scarred. Due to complications with a duplex kidney I have had a part of me removed, I am left with both a void and the immutable reminder of that violation. I exaggerate, of course, for dramatic effect, but to a child, that absence was palpable.

When I was in my early twenties, during a severe period of depression I began to fear sleep. The loss of consciousness, in many senses a loss of control became almost unbearable to me. My problem was, in dreaming things felt more real – I’ve written here before of my experience of sleep. When I dream, I am alive, the world sings with meaning, when I awake, I return to this barren nightmare. It wasn’t the falling asleep that troubled me, it was the waking.

As a child I feared my end, as an adult, my beginning. Every day I start anew. With each new day, I try to carry those dreams with me. Whoever I thought I was I can forget, start again and bring new meaning to the world I can’t escape.

I could never tell the truth in therapy because I was wrong, because there is no truth, only interpretations, my understanding was flawed, my imagination too weak to truly grasp the opportunities laid before me. Eventually we must sacrifice something of ourselves. It’s never been much, but what I have left is enough, for now.

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