Undoing myself, for better or for worse

If it is true that our greatest fears typically deal with things that have already happened, then I´m fighting a battle that was lost long ago. I´m struggling to justify being who I am, but I feel an increasing alienation towards the me that is doing the struggling. In my mind it takes the form of a noisy, querulent fanatic who is rabidly enthusiastic about every miniscule way in which he can prove his opponents wrong.

My most treacherous feelings are those which contradict what this self-righteous mouthpiece is saying. Their existence is humiliating, but it is quixotic of me to assume that this makes them an illness that must be removed. They are legit. They exist. My feelings contradict my stated beliefs, which means that I state them despite knowing better. What I do is highly unreasonable. I only need to look at my feelings in order to know what is true, at least in terms of the truth I´m looking for. What I do is ill.

Looked at from the depths of my heart I see a troll when I look at myself. I see someone who will humourously contradict everything she resents, a false note in her voice, because humour means she doesn´t have to answer to anyone. I see someone who is using humor in order to justify reprehensible things. I see an abuser.

At this point nausea hits me straight in the stomach and I cannot go on anymore. There´s nowhere to go from this thought. There is no darker thought I can use to punish myself for what I am. I´ve gone from hurting my pride to a much darker place. Trying to challenge myself to stomach even worse thoughts in order to get relief or as a form of atonement seems like a highly indecent act to me. The worst punishment is to dwell on that thought without considering it a punishment. It should come naturally to me. But since I´m apparently emotionally too twisted to react appropriately to the graveness and the reality of my guilt, maybe I should pay my debt to humanity by denying myself things I enjoy. It is the only shot at relative decency that I have. The only way to prove I at least vaguely understand the depth of my guilt, even though I´m incapable of emotionally taking it seriously.

When I look at this groveling, castrated part of me, I see a rapist who was put in a ward for the criminally insane for life because he can never be expected to develop true moral feelings, which is also why everybody turns away in disgust when he whines about how remorseful he is. He is just one step below fully human, and so am I.




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