I forget sometimes. Other times it is simply hard to remember. And yet other times, I’m not certain I want to.
Being me has been very hard for a very long time.
I don’t really like what I am, but I’ve found a way to live with it. I’m not certain that it will make me happy though. I keep thinking that something else will be the true dream of mine, and that if fulfilled, I will be truly happy.
But it’s probably a lie. Most such things are.
But can lies be more liveable than a selective truth? Is it okay if it is? Would I be able to live with myself knowing I lived a partial lie? Or would it gnaw at me like it did before until my self-desructive behaviours get out of hand and I need hospital more direly than before?
I don’t know. I don’t know and that’s why I write.