#29 - I Disgust Myself

That was another turning point.  The first one that I acknowledge was the moment I agreed to be Limyé’s patient.  It was only the first of many.

That agreement was grudging and hard fought, with the silence and the loneliness, the realization that there was no other course for me.

When I agreed to pray to Her – I still find it hard to refer to Her as Goddess, Mistress, Exalted, or by Her name or call her Mother – I began to actively participate in my own healing.  I went from snarling animal, to dull acceptance and then to seeking out the things that caused me the most sweating terror; to seize the roots of them, rip them out of my soul and see if they were truly mine.  Or to see if they were the alien, vile seeds of horror planted in my, poisoning me, growing into and through me.  The illness is like a parasitic weed, wending about my soul, deceiving me into thinking it is my own, even as it battens on me, draining me dry, withering me.

It is more than merely parasitic.  It changed me.  It shifted my mind and my heart, my thoughts and the way my body reacted to any kind of stimulation.

Every prayer now eases that.  Every mindful draught of water, every mouthful of food, every drop of water that cleanses me.  The jagged, ragged edges of my life, that once cut me with every breath, are slowly being eased out of the flesh of my mind and the depths of my soul.  Limyé gives me remedies that leave me floating peacefully, for the first time it feels like, in the state half way between waking and sleeping.  The cat comes to lie upon me then and Heylia’s thunderous purr seems to deepen the effect of any remedy that Limyé give me.

And the talking. Day after day after day.  Limyé is gaining a copious wad of notes for his study of how the difference of nature and nurture of the same man, in effect, affect him.  I never believed I would say this to an Imaryan.  I’m sorry.

I’m dreaming of all those innocent souls I killed, watching my former self, blood on my face and hands, white bared smile blinding against the red, killing and killing, dashing children against walls.

And I cannot stop him.

I wake screaming.

Even the ink in the lamplight seems to fade before my gut-wrenching horror of myself.  I eat and then sit rocking, holding my gut because some part of me does not want it, does not feel I deserve it.

I do not deserve food, sleep, peace.  And if I do not deserve peace then I may not kill myself to escape this wretched agony.  I deserve this anguish, this woe and torment of myself.  It fits right in to my pattern of self-punishment.  I am not allowed to commit suicide.

In my dreams I fling myself in my own way, screaming “Kill me, not them! Kill ME!” But I am invisible, inaudible and the monster steps through my ineffectual ghost to commit another atrocity, set another fire in Aeono’s name, stick another mortal blade into the God’s heart.

No wonder the God is dying. No wonder miracles are become tawdry sideshow tricks and flashy, false executions.  The Empire is killing Him.  WHY is the Empire being allowed to affect Him so?  Isn’t He above all that?  Perhaps that is the reason.  He and She have given us free will, but still care for us enough to remain enmeshed in our two worlds, obeying the rules under which They created us.  We come ever closer to destroying ourselves and the Gods who made us. With every witch accused and flamed.  With every horror done in His name.  Our prayers have power because They created us so and are helpless in the face of our evil, I suppose. But They love us too much to abandon us, cut us off.  Father, Mother, you are enduring the pain of our free will.  I’m sorry.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry

What can I do to make it right?  I cannot touch the Empire’s villainy, much less my own.  I cannot even fix what I did.  Helpless to do anything that might atone for the dreadfulness I’ve personally wreaked upon my world.  I am repulsed by myself. Ahrimaz, my other self, save them, heal them.  Hold strong in the face of my evil and save my people from me.

The gifts I’ve commanded, the science I’ve fostered to make people’s lives easier, longer, more productive do not compensate for the violence and heartbreak I have personally meted out.  Sen-Lum’s families wiped out if he crossed me, Sen-Grands stripped down to nothing… if I didn’t kill them.  Sen-Regal set at each other’s throats for my regard.  I used people with no regard for their humanity. My children and my wife abhor and fear me.

I disgust myself.  I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry… please do not forgive me.  I don’t deserve forgiveness.  I do not deserve such grace.  I’m sorry, I’m sorry…

I'm sorry I'm begging for forgiveness.  I know it isn't possible.  How can anyone forgive me if I cannot fix it, make it right, atone?  How can anyone else truly forgive me if I cannot and will not forgive myself?

I'm sorry