Pandora's Box

There has only been one time in my life, I think, that I felt that I was "not me".  I couldn't =possibly= be me, because everything felt so, so wrong.  Even during the war-scarred times when I had to step outside of my own body and dissociate, I never really felt like I lost my sense of self.  But at that time I felt like an imposter, a foreigner who had stepped in and somehow was in the wrong place, living in the place of the real me.  The only thing I hoped is that the real version of me would come back somehow.  I felt guilty for taking their place, for messing everything up, for not being able to do any of the things that they would be able to do.

Now, even at the end of it all, I am still me, deep down.  Even if you don't know it, I do.  I can feel it not only in my strength but also in my weakness.  In my cries for help and my despair, in my laugh and in my smile.  All of it comes from who I am, and more importantly, who I have been.

If I pray to God will he accept my shame?  What is the difference between forgiveness from God and forgiveness from self?  We are laid bare, have no secrets from God, but what of our own selves?  What are the secrets that we keep from ourselves, tucked away in the little boxes that we know are there, somewhere in the back of our minds, but choose to ignore.  Inconvenient little truths that we aren't ready to look in the eye, even when no one else is watching, why?

Perhaps it is because we don't want to disappoint ourselves, our own ego.  And who could blame us?  The relationship with one's self is ever-present, ever-important.  If we reject our own self then we face constant rejection.  And we know, more than anyone else, how judgmental, how unforgiving, how uncompromising our selves can be, why?

Which hurts more, rejection from self or rejection from others?  We reject ourselves to preempt a "failed product" from reaching the outside world, but at what cost?  Do those "failed products" only find value on the second-hand market, in the back-alley trade of life?  What would it be like, for them to find a home, at home?  What would life be like, if we kept ourselves safe?

And yet, we trudge on, constantly in search of elusive fantasies.  The call of the siren, the anglerfish's lure, the desert oasis.  Searching for the "other keys" that will unlock the boxes we tuck underneath our bed, even though such a thing does not exist.  Those keys rust at the bottom of the river, lost but not forgotten.

Is it worth opening?  Pandora's box.  Without it, there is no such thing as hope in this world.