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2017-11-14 07:53:36 (UTC)

The Lies We Tell Ourselves

That to be truly loved there can be no secrets.

That it is best to have all your ugly out in the world and be loved (in spite) of it. Whatever. I have that. And you know what I wish for, my secrets back. I wish that those who loved me saw not every nasty scar, or ugly oddity that I am more than capable of. That like so many other people, my darkness was firmly put up in the attic and on my death there was only the good, smiley things to say of me.

Being deep and complex is f*cking overrated. I don't want my greatest loves to see each and every twisted thought of mine. I want privacy to be dark and tell no one. Can't someone who loves me just suspect I have my demons? Why do I have to name them? Yeah, I guess that is bitter talking and I don't begrudge her that. After more years of talk therapy than I have fingers and toes, I am entitled to want my image to be accepted as real without the asterisk next to my name. Look at how many people have that, that image of having nothing deeper than a secret recipe about themselves, maybe a drunken night carousing.

And I have my depravity. What's worse is how dear I hold it. How much I wish to lie naked and f*ck it. How I long for the pain and release of my wickedness only to have it all again. I cannot convince myself it was bad. It was way too much fun. To feel alive breaking images of myself to myself. Inflicting my will and pain on others and being thanked was cathartic, amoral, me. But I feel as if my life has walked in on me rutting like the beast I am and now I cannot cover myself enough to undue the image. So I feel torn, between my darkness and the image others have of me and I want them to keep. Don't understand me, just look away and pretend you didn't see what we both know you saw.

Is it crazy not to wish for my sharp parts to be dulled and my wanton ways to be Sunday schooled? After all, I was that woman too. Never fully, but no one save a person or two knew that. I've taught your children morality even as mine was compromised. I shown and modeled empathy when none was wasted on me. One of the most amazing stories of redemption was told me by a blind man who was deeper and more complex than I will ever be.

Oh, to be superficial! To have my eye make-up and diet and exercise be the most complex things about me! No, that won't happen for me, that ship, if ever I even had a ticket, long ago left me on the wharf. Now that simplistic single mindedness angers me and my bitter core because the deep end of being is morose and hard, fraught with sharpened edges and screams in the night.

And yet this padded room is where I belong, and sometimes where I long to be. I don't want those who love me to know my darkness fully. Already too much of me is visible in this shallow world my depth is on display and it is horrible. I pray that when I die, those who know me will only allude to, and never name, the dark around me. I know I am loved, but knowing how dark I am, sometimes I think I should not be.

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