The truthiest truth?
I hate more than I love. And I can't see anyway to fix it.
That more time will let me heal and finish and grow, but it never seems to quite work. There is always more things, more time needed.
That I want love and passion in my life. Love and Sex and passion in a bigger and grander way than I have had, but that I don't deserve it and anyway I can't have it and it is all in my head and I should just find a way to settle and be happy and content.
But I never,never am.
And I understand how you can end up an eccentric old writer, drinking too much and embittered and wanting to shoot the people you love because god dammit, why can't they see that you are no good - that THIS is no good.
And that I understand how people kill themselves, not simply from depression, but from the exhaustion of listening to all the noise in your head - the voices that push you beyond creative output into hysteria. From delight into delirium.
And that I want to run away from everything, even my daughter who keeps me grounded to this plane of existence, and just pretend everything is still wide open. But I hesitate. My unspoken promise to her keeps me here, keeps me tethered. Whatever I am, I would be less if I failed her.
Of all my wounds, self inflicted or hard won or battles lost or rarely innocent bystander, that wound would never, never heal.
That I am dominant, but cravenly submissive. Submissive from fear and obligation and staid indifference. And rage. That is what my headaches are. the contained rage.
Those are my truthiest truths, kate.