It’s just after 3 am where I am, and I am – obviously – not sleeping.
Insomnia is one of the side effects of the work that I’m doing to purge my demons. Of course, insomnia has been something that has plagued me for most of my life – reaching back to these very same events that I am trying to relate here.
It’s almost certainly appropriate that the song I’m listening to as I write this is My Demons, by Starset.
I had planned to write something different here, but something within needs to get out now, so here I am.
I’ve been to see many counselors and healers of various different specialties. I’ve been on drugs, both the prescribed-for-you kind, and the self-medicating variety. I’ve meditated and even cast spells in an effort to push the memories away, but they will not die.
I know that every event in my life has contributed to make me who I am today, and for the most part, I am proud of that man, so I do not express the opinion lightly that despite that pride, and even against the chance that I am now a better person than I would otherwise have been, I wish I could undo certain things from my past.
I have striven to make amends for all of my past mistakes, and I am content with what I have been able to accomplish in that regard. Those are not the things of which I speak. I would have that younger me not endure the things the he did… and I feel terribly selfish for thinking that.
It’s not just possible, but likely, that without the experiences that I have had, that I would not be nearly so compassionate, kind, or thoughtful. Without the suffering, I would likely not have learned empathy to the extent which I have. Without the years of bitterness and resentment, I would not have built a stronger character that can weather hardship without becoming spiteful. Without my relationship failures, I would not have been introduced to BDSM, I would not have had children, and I would not have started this blog.
I know that my reach is not vast and that this is an insignificant piece of a vastly larger construct, which is, itself, infinitesimally smaller against the vastness of the universe itself. What I do or don’t do does not change the course of things much. However, as a result of this blog, I’ve met some of the very best people from all over the world. I’ve made durable, lasting, loving friendships that I treasure. I’ve been told more than once that my message and compassion have saved a life.
And I would wish all of that away if I could.
Sometimes I wonder if the demons are me.
I feel weak. Most of the images that I would wish away are not even real. At least, that is what I tell myself, as I hide behind my bastion of science that does not allow for such things to exist. But either way, most of the images that I would wish away, changing the course of time, are not even real. So I am weak, and to be rid of these unreal, troubling images, I would undo all of it.
One of my psychologists was very interested to know about my views on religion, and asked me to question my own adherence to atheism, pointing out that because one cannot prove that God does not exist, atheism is as much a matter of faith as Christianity.
I made a pithy remark about the tenuous existence of a God whose existence depended on the logical fallacy of proving a negative, but there was no real passion behind it, and I realized that whether she was right about atheism being a matter of faith or not in general, it didn’t matter at all, because for me, it was.
I had to believe that there was no such thing as God, because if there was, then the things that I took part in were real. I had to believe that the supernatural was impossible, because if it was possible, then the things that I saw were true.
I have always been a firm believer that observable events always have rational explanations, even if sometimes those explanations are not something that we understand just yet. But for a time, even that definition was too permissive. That might mean that the things I witnessed were real, just not something I could understand, and that is an even more terrifying idea.
I’m in nowhere near so fragile a place now, and writing things here does help.
I know that my experiences were drug induced – poisons, really. That is all the rational explanation I need. It fits. And with the exception of the occasional late-night bout of insomnia, I really am dealing with it much better now, on my own path. I know that I will soon be to a point where I can get past the hold these things have on me, where I can use the experiences that I had to help others heal, and I know that the journey is worth the sacrifice, but sometimes I wish that younger me, the one who was curious and bold, would not have had to be broken first, and that I didn’t sometimes become him again in my dreams.