| That last entry scares the bejesus outta even me. |
| Can I do this? Can I write about this? Because it sure feels like I can't. |
| I think it's hard to continue writing right now because being a multiple seems to define the entirety of who I am. And I know that's not really true, it just really feels that way. |
| Today (yesterday, the day before, last week) I am consumed with it. The complexity of it, the frustration of it, the lonliness of it (yes, believe it or not, it's actually easy to get lonely in a head full of people), the pain it involves. I feel like I am balancing on the edge of lucidity, gripping my crumbling denial with one hand and reaching for an elusive strand of hope with the other. I feel like I can't yell out "help me!" lest someone actually hears. |
| So I sit in front of my computer trying to decide what to write about, not being able to nail down a complete thought long enough to share it with you. That's because anything else I might write about today would be totally fabricated. The only things I'm really thinking about are my pain and the pain of people like me. I don't care if it's self-absorbed. That's where I am right now. And I am damned sure that's where you'd be if you were in my shoes. Not that I'd want you to be in them. |
| So instead of pouring out how much I hurt, instead of giving you grizzly details, instead of letting someone else write, instead of arousing either pity or disgust in your hearts and throats, I choose to put down the electronic pen. Why? |
| Because I am ashamed. I was once a productive, capable, respected, sane person just like you. I still have as much pride as you do. And I am ashamed that these feelings have taken over the person that I want you to see. |