“The heartbreaking necessity of lying about reality and the heartbreaking impossibilty of lying about it”

OK, so you sometimes talk to yourself. Well, maybe not you – I sometimes talk to myself. And it sometimes feels like talking to my own self. And sometimes it doesn’t. It’s really just a simple math of the mind that doesn’t quite hold it all together. Nevertheless, even if it feels alien and not-so-much like me, I know in fact that it is me. In the latter case I tend to think that my interlocutor is a bitch (or at least a dick). Well, happens – you can’t keep your good manners every time you go mad.

We, me vs me, can go on and on – for hours. But sometimes we just stay silent. In that case this silence of ours also feels different than simply just being silent on your own. Both of us are usually doing it in anger; with a spite; to upset or madden the other a little bit more. We stay silent and try to push the other over the edge. It’s something you need to do with commitment, trust me.

But I should start from the beginning – or at least from the point that one can accept as such. This is me – well, the approximation of me; the simplified me.

I like numbers. Of course I know what they say about Pythagoras – but I reckon that if one is to go insane, it’s better to be math insane than any other kind. I might be wrong and I accept it. That’s just basic logic. x=1 v x=0.

It’s funny how I don’t actually remember how it is to feel good. From time to time I ask myself about it hoping this time memories will come back. But then again, maybe I actually remember correctly – that there is nothing to remember. I have been sad for such a long time that sometimes I think I can no longer even feel sad – because I am so sad. Because I am so sad – I don’t feel like anything. And to be precise – I don’t feel like nothing either. I just – don’t.

Fine, so you could ask me when all of that crap has started[1]. The truth is that I don’t exactly recall. You may not entirely believe me, but just for the sake of argument, you will pretend that you do. ‘But if you are sad since you remember, how can you tell that a different state is even possible’, you ask and can’t control the smirk that appears on your face. I roll my eyes. I know I do. I roll my eyes uncontrollably and usually don’t even notice it. The only give away are offended looks shoot at me by passers-by and not-so-inventive swear words floating towards me, lazily drifting on the sound waves. So maybe it’s true that it wasn’t like that all the time; or maybe I somehow can detect the void where something is missing – you know – rough edges surrounding something that once could have been filled with a shape of joy. Maybe it’s more of a metaphysical sensation – the certainty that you have rolled a dice very far far away from the platonic world of ideas – granted you actually believe in such. I don’t. Nevertheless, these are all of the possible answers I could give you.

Once again though – I am rambling. Do-over. So – I do not know how (or when) it started. If I have to tell someone about it I usually use very descriptive and informative: I am sad; or – I am troubled. Recently, when I have allowed myself for some kind of introspection (just remember – don’t go too deep!) I’ve discovered that I am somewhat afraid to use the word “depressed”. It might be the force of habit. When you are a teenager you suspect (even with the mind clouded with all the hormones and tragedies of a cosmic size) that all of that that you are feeling is this infamous teenage angst – a rebel against nothing, a rebel against everything – a rebel against whateverything. And sure, maybe you are going through it faster and maybe you handle it worse than the others and everything you touch not only bursts in flames but also falls into pieces or simply – remains completely and utterly indifferent. After that there are ups and downs of the early twenties, a sort of test ride of this one relationship that could have but also could have not been the one (THE ONE) and obviously ended terribly (even more terrible and horrific than all of the relationships you haven’t treated as seriously (let’s be honest – you actually have never thought of them as real things[2]). At this time you think that there is actually an explanation to the way you feel[3] but the time passes by and none of these matters – well – not in the way they used to. You are depressed and you find yourself unable to say it out loud – to tell anyone – even to yourself. You are depressed but you keep it a secret and listen to never-ending stories of your friends and how they feel depressed. If that’s depression then indeed, you do not suffer from that. By that time you have created a façade that covers all of your problems. You constantly lie with your whole person. That makes you a walking and breathing lie-detector. You are numb. The only thing that actually still motivates you is the compulsion to shelter those very few you care about from your own self. And you still haven’t figured out how to kill yourself without upsetting them. But recently even that becomes weaker, it loses its colours and shape – you start to think that maybe, just maybe, the paradigm of removing the plaster should be applied.

There is one bizarre thing that you may notice after a while: you seem to become a beacon to all of the few other that are just like you. It goes both ways – you give each other a look of recognition in the crowded room or at the party where both of you, maybe a bit more withdrawn or distant, play perfectly roles of these people you might have been if only you weren’t so fucking sad all the time.

You may give each other nod or – if you happen to be a witness of each other’s lies – you may give a stare – blunt, open and nearly obscene. But no-one ever notices it, so it’s safe. It’s like having a secret language – a depressed enigma machine. In some twisted way – well done us, it seems we are winning the war.

There are different ways to keep your secret, usually a combination of all of them, can keep you safe. Obviously you can deflect, change the subject. It is actually quite easy to apply. People in most of the cases are very much absorbed with themselves. They ask you how you feel. Simple, mumble one word sentence and then attack with your own: how are you? you seem a bit sad recently… There you go – you are off the hook. But that’s not everything; you need to somehow let them believe that they know what’s going on with you. Feed them stories. A lot of them. Never about yourself – instead talk about little and big dramas of the people close to you. It works – trust me. The final thing – a cover up. It may happen you have done something that has left some tangible marks on the time and space surface. Then you need to lie. And – they will believe you. Your lies may be grand and twisted, they may be little and without any roots that would anchor them to the real world. But – people will believe you. If they wouldn’t, they would feel obligated to invest their time into finding the truth. And then maybe it would become apparent that you need help. That also consumes time. So they believe in your constant accidents that leave remarkably straight scars, they do not contest that what you said when drunk was just a silly and improper joke. Yes, it’s all that easy.

Of course there are exceptions. Not many but it’s sure as hell they are there – these few people that ask the right questions at the right time, that don’t ask as important questions when you need them not to. Ironically these are also the people you want to shelter from your illness, from all this raw and sharp edges of yours. So you lie more – this time with the precision and maestri of the craftsman and not the butcher. And if you cover entirely all of that well – your solitude will be even more secure and impenetrable. Fuck.

That is probably when you get to the point, when all of this purposeful motion of yours – to go underground, to hide real you from the eyes of the strangers, may get out of hand: the motion becomes a fall and there is no way to stop it. So – a new game. The game is called Hide and Sink.

[1] part of you, admit it, thinks that I am just being dramatic. I am not. But in a way I also do not possess any tools that could convince you about that. Moronic circle of the theory of mind.

[2] thus, if you actually consider yourself a reist – they have never existed. QED

[3] i.e. shit.


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