Think twice. Give up the fight, dear friend. My trauma, it’s not your style. No domestic abuse in my history. I was never raped by a relative. Never physically abused. The nature of my crisis is of a mighty foreign flavor. Sure, you say it’s safe to spill, you insist that I purge myself before you, to you, dump all I can express into your eager, welcoming mind. This is a kind gesture and all, but I can only offer, in response, an educated and emphatic:
You just don’t get it. You truly have no idea what you’re asking of me, what doing so would in turn put us both through. I’ll tell you how it will go. First I’ll reluctantly bear my soul, present the easiest to stomach so as to ease you into odd waters, and by then we will both feel the weight of the mistake.
Honesty is a killer. Even these sneak peeks, swift and measured glimpses turn you against me instinctively, like some intellectual gag reflex. You cannot swallow it. Naked before you, I’m now just a madman. A victim of my own overactive imagination. The collateral damage in the war between the hemispheres embraced by my agonizing skull.
My life is a perfectly reasonable, rational reaction to irrational, unreasonable perceptions. The nature of Reality is To Be Determined.
In any case, I am crazy. A nut job. I am mental. Insane. Mad. I’ll be forced to watch you try to conceal your horror at my clear insanity and strive to come across as supportive, understanding, compassionate. As a natural consequence, I will feel ashamed. You will be afraid of me or, in the least, judge me in some significant way, in either case now knowing the depths to which I do not belong. Knowing something you can never unlearn. Sane or mad, it will be irreversibly known, eternally clear to you:
the depths to which I do not belong.