Lethe Wards

This is my third attempt to live in the world; both other attempts ended in collapse. This one cannot, but yet I fear it will. I wait for joy as one may wait for the arctic dawn, but it does not come for me. It may not exist for me.

I have always said, “Life is not like this. It is not meant to be such as this. It is I who am sick, and I will someday be better.” I have always held to this hope that one day all will be better, but it has not come.

In truth, I have been sick since the day I left home at age seventeen. It has been many years that I have lived in hell. I have been drunk, on and off, for a long time. I have been ashamed, shy, nervous, self-conscious, and cowardly all the way, and still am so.

I fight with every ounce of my being to be normal, to be sane, to be happy, but the storehouse from which I have been drawing this strength is nearly empty. A famine is near. There is no joy, no relaxation, no consolation, no reward, no compensation. All is negative. I can let no one in to see me no matter how hard I try to do so. I am quick to see the weaknesses and faults in myself and others, yet I do not paint a pretty picture of myself in order to think highly of myself. Is it necessary to fool oneself in order to live happily

I did not live long after the age of seventeen until I discovered that the opinions of men are not to be trusted or taken for the truth because the truth is far from them. Men believe what they must and let all else go. They think what they please and not what is. ? Men cannot, indeed, must not see themselves as they really are.

Some few see their true selves, but most do not. For example, four of the most disturbed people I have ever known had no idea that they were even sick. If I had slapped them, sat them down, and told them the whole truth about themselves, and if they had accepted this truth, they might have killed themselves. Who am I that I can see and all the others are blind? I see the weaknesses of men yet do not exploit them; I see the troubles of men but do not seek to add to them, and I have compassion for the weak and pity for the exploiters, but for me, there is no reward, no justice.

They spring upon the weak and let the strong go free; they challenge the quiet and agree with the noisy; they follow the blind and shun those who see; they use the timid and agree with the loud. They commit all manner of injustice while complaining of the unjust way they are treated; they tyrannize their subordinates while complaining of tyranny from their superiors; they squelch the complaints of lesser men while they rage that they are given no freedom to complain. Indeed, I have found that those who protest the loudest are the ones to commit the very acts they yell against. There is no justice.

How can I live in the same world with these men, much less love them? I have no place on this earth. There is no quiet place where I can congregate with those who share my feelings.

When I am made to abandon these truths, then I, myself, will be as false as the rest. I will join the massive ranks of misguided humanity who, though free from agony, live in a world of their own making.