A dead blog

 Hello, welcome to my dead blog. I started it after I was molested. I was about 11 when I published this blog, as well as a youtube account attached to it. Both died with the little boy I used to be. I remember how I would cry in the shower, and I didn't understand why. I remember when I didn't understand why all the will to publish on this blog or to publish videos completely left me. I was depressed, and I had no idea why.

You know that memory repression is a defense mechanism? When someone experiences something too traumatic for the mind to handle, it represses the memory. It makes them forget. Yeah, your brain forgets, but your body never forgets. So you have all of these triggers that you don't even understand, and you're lost in a pool of confusion.

I know no one will ever find my blog again. Maybe, I don't want them to. I just... want to disappear. I wish the world would forget me, so that they wouldn't miss me when I'm gone. For too long, I've felt inadequite, like I'll never be enough for anyone. My girlfriend tells me that I'm enough for her, but she tells a different story when she's crying. I think she's afraid to admit that she believes the same things about me that I believe about myself. I think that, in the deepest of grief, I am alone -- there is no mortal on earth who understands, or truly desires to understand. Not even I understand. I am lost in the black confusion that is life. After about eight attempts in the past four years, being in and out of psych wards, I wonder why I even am alive. It's not like anything in this world is enjoyable. And when she's angry at me, I don't think she wants me enough for me to want myself. I don't want myself. I feel like I am trapped inside the skin of a monster, who committed the greatest moral atrocities the mind could ever imagine -- yet I do not understand the monster. I am not like him. I want to be free of him.

I'm three months clean of pornography. Crazy, I think my addiction began close to the time I published this blog. It seems like children who have been molested incline to one of two extremes: 1) never wanting to be intimate again, 2) being absolutely obsessed with sexual desire. I was the latter, and I blamed myself. I hated myself, and I still do. I try not to, though. Jesus once said, "Love your neighbor AS YOURSELF", giving a clear command to love myself. Since I'm a Christian, and fight to serve Him to the best of my ability, then it follows that I should obey His command.

Maybe I don't hear His voice sometimes because my hatred for myself is so deep, and sin makes us deaf to the words of God. I am trying to forgive myself, but the greatest difficulty is...

I don't want to.