Secrets

“Loneliness is the human condition. Cultivate it. The way it tunnels into you allows your soul room to grow. Never expect to outgrow loneliness. Never hope to find people who will understand you, someone to fill that space. An intelligent, sensitive person is the exception, the very great exception. If you expect to find people who will understand you, you will grow murderous with disappointment. The best you’ll ever do is to understand yourself, know what it is that you want, and not let the cattle stand in your way.”
— White Oleander, Janet Fitch

Keeping my secrets is exhausting. I sleep, only to dream. I wake up feeling the weight of the dreams and secrets holding me down, pulling me down, drowning me. Flailing desperately to rise to the surface of madness and inhale sanity is exhausting.

I want to tell everyone. I want to tell them what has happened and what's going on and what I'm afraid will happen.

But who could listen to all that and still look me in the eyes with kindness instead of incredulity, horror, disgust, apathy, derision or twisted excitement? Certainly not anyone I've tried to tell.

Everybody thinks I'm okay. Everybody thinks I'll be okay. I'm not so sure. I cling to normalcy with my fingernails. Holding on is difficult, but I'm sure that letting go will result in death, or worse.

Here's a secret you may have already surmised if you paid close attention to this blog. I fantasise about death. Not only apprehend and fear it, but fantasise about it. I prefer to fantasise about it because worse things appeal to me.

I will die alone, still keeping my terrible secrets. My body will be found days later when people finally realise I'm nowhere to be found. My cats will be adopted by strangers. Soon, I will be forgotten. It will be as if I never existed.

No one will know.