Nevertheless, I have to admit, I get sick of the struggle, of wanting to believe I am something else, only to be daily tormented by the knowledge that, at least in part, I am not. I have no weapons in my arsenal for self-forgiveness, and maybe that is why I wrote this, to achieve through words what I haven't through thoughts. I don't know. In some manner of speaking I do not deserve forgiveness, no matter what my fleet of therapists argue. Their impression of me and my experiences are necessarily colored through my tell of it, and I cannot ignore that fact. I only know I never wanted to hurt anyone how I had been hurt. If my disaster could for one second free someone else of theirs, then, at a minimum, I could be selfish enough to find some comfort in that. I could know that even though I failed and continue to fail, probably indefinitely so, I helped someone else to win.
In Richard III, Clarence said to his prison keeper, "My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep." I understand that. I wish I didn't.
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