To want to die, to constantly desire to cease, to end, is just too much to bear.
February 28, 2018
Just got off the phone with Hank. He agreed to read the book. Shit. I wonder if he can actually do it. I told him it’s a horribly transparent naked bulb ugly picture of who I truly am. To the core. That there’s a whole bunch of raunchy sex in it. Detailed nasty dirty deviant sex. That I’ve negotiated with STRANGERS and performed with STRANGERS.
He probably won’t be shocked. But he will be sickened. Sickened by my depravity. Although he knows full well what I am capable of sexually. He knows me through and through.
He’s knows my mind is sick. He knows I’m doing things that are completely out of character for me. Not completely out of character for me sexually with someone I know and trust. But completely out of character for me sexually with STRANGERS. That is the part that will trouble him. It will make him lose sleep. It will make him worry for my safety. My physical and emotional safety. He loves me. He wants the best for me. It will kill him to read the book.
I fear I will be alone, completely alone, that all will abandon me. Because I am sicker than the sickest of the sickest of the sick. That I have no worth whatsoever. That all those I love will believe I would be better off dead. I am terrified.
Is all this worth it? Is getting the book published as significant and critical as I believe it to be to my very core? I don’t know, intellectually I really don’t know. But I do know that when I’m at my most fearful, when I’m at my most base, I beg and plead with friends to MAKE CERTAIN THE BOOK IS PUBLISHED. AT ANY AND ALL COST.
Why do I feel so strongly? Because I don’t want all the Me’s to suffer. I want the Me’s to have some relief. Reprieve. Life is ugly enough. To want to die, to constantly desire to cease, to end, is just too much to bear.