The problem with private diaries is that nobody ever sees what you wrote.
The problem with public diaries is that someone always sees what you wrote.
To the world, and, of course, some more than others:
You out there: you are all liars. All of you. If I were to kill everyone who’s ever lied to me, my life would be empty. So I just play along; I humor everyone; I pretend not to know. Sometimes I wonder why I do it. Wouldn’t I be happier to finally do everything that lies make me want to do? Wouldn’t I be happier as the condemned multiple murderer, having killed everyone I love, rather than as the miserable idiot who everyone has always assumed they’ve fooled?
You all tell me that you’re not lying, that you’ve never lied to me. If I ever let on that I’ve found you out, you tell me that you lied to protect me, or because it was in my best interest. That’s a lie, too. You all have always lied to protect your interests — to make sure that I’m a hostage, physically and emotionally. To make sure I’m around. To make sure that I’ll still care. Because you can’t bear to be alone and unloved, and yet you know — you know — that you’ve done things that make you undeserving and unloveable and unloveworthy; you know that really, if the world was fair, I wouldn’t care, shouldn’t care, and so you exploit me, tear me apart, rape me, feeling guilty always, but never too guilty to stop, never too guilty to really care about me, never too guilty to come clean about any of the lies.
You know that if I confront you — if any of us confronts each other — we’ll all be alone.
I hate humanity. I hate the lies. I have never known anything but lies, from anyone. Parents, siblings, friends, lovers — liars. The only way out is destruction, because solitude is unbearable — as unbearable as the lies. I am so hurt by everything I have ever known and everyone I have ever known. But because I am here and I am unwilling to kill myself and others, I pretend, day after interminable day, to think about other things: money, a class, a job, the sunshine, the ocean, a pet dog, a trip to the grocery store. But I never do and I never have. From the day I learned to think (the day I learned to speak), there has been only one thing. Only one thing: my suffering at the hands of lies.
And the bitter irony is twofold: first, that the suffering is the result of the lies themselves — and the loneliness and uncaring that they portend — rather than the result of the truth that you all think you’ve created; second, that those things that you have all lied about have always been infinitely less hurtful than the lies themselves. I can stand to be battered by life and cirumstance… but to be battered by everyone that I love is, and has always been, unforgivable.
I trust no-one. And in spite of my hopes, that tendency has never been anything but reinforced.