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This truth telling experiment that I’m doing is more to me right now than these daily posts. It has invaded every waking minute of my day. I keep finding myself returning to this question moment after moment after moment: what is true?

Earlier today I was texting with a friend whom I have plans with this evening and I asked myself this question. And the truth is, while I love this person, while I enjoy spending time with this person, while I know that seeing this person this evening will lift me a little, I am going to have to force myself out of this house. I am going to have to steel myself and make myself do this thing that is good for me. And the truth is, I wish I didn’t feel this way. I wish that this friction that doing seems to cause in me didn’t exist. I wish this was just easy for me. That I wanted to leave my house and do things out in the world with other people. That it didn’t hurt me just a little to put my shoes on and go. That I didn’t have to hold my breath until I’d shut the door behind me, until I’d gotten in my car, until I’d parked outside her house, until she walked out her front door and hugged me.

I don’t want to feel the way I do most of the time. I think that there’s something wrong with me that I do. I take the way I feel to be the problem. It never really occurred to me that the feelings could be trying to tell me that something else is wrong. I just assumed that I was wrong. The truth is, I hoped that I was wrong. I hoped there was something wrong with me. Because for as long as there is something wrong with me then there is something that can be fixed. There is something that can be changed. And maybe when that thing is changed I won’t feel like this anymore. Maybe I won’t have to hold my breath anymore. Maybe it’ll be easier then.

I have the sense that there’s this giant truth that I am peeling off the layers to get to, and even while I do the work of peeling, I am bracing myself. Because whatever that truth is, it’s going to decimate me and the world as I know it. Even while I do the work, there is some huge part of me that doesn’t want to acknowledge that this truth even exists. It scares the shit out of me to think that I’m getting closer to having to stand before it. Because I know that I won’t survive it–at least not I as have known myself.

I say this because I have this feeling that whatever truth this is, it’s somehow related to the idea that there is absolutely nothing wrong with me. That there is nothing to be changed. Nothing to be fixed. This is just how it is.