2nd December 2011
Tilly found my bag. I had been condensing my wardrobe into my rucksack, which I had stored near the backdoor beneath a whole bunch of other stuff. The idea was that it would be out of the way whilst still being accessible. But Tilly found it, this morning. And she looked through everything that was in there. Which means that she found her old top, and everything else I haven’t written about in here yet – I dressed one weekend and added a sanitary towel, because I was interested, no other reason, it wasn’t anything interesting in the end but I hadn’t thrown it all away yet.
|Bag like this, full of my 'wardrobe', had|
been lurking in the kitchen by the back
door under a load of stuff. Safe? No.
I came home, Tilly mentioned that she wanted a ‘chat’. She detailed what she’d found. She was angry at being lied to. Twice. She’d previously found some of the stash and I had denied ownership, she had believed me. I had also said I wasn’t wearing her stuff, but one of her old tops was in there, so she felt betrayed. She felt that if I could lie to her without her noticing so easily then I could lie to her about anything. And she felt stupid for not noticing the lie. After all, the first one was ridiculous, she knew that, but she believed it and now she felt stupid. She was keen not to ‘blow it all up’ but she wanted assurances. As usual I could not offer them. I have previously waxed lyrical about my ability to twist the truth, how I do it without realising and don’t mean to lie but end up doing it anyway. Tilly has never believed that. Now she has proof.
She didn’t want to know anything else, she had no questions about what she found, apart from the sanitary towel, and was not interested in whether they had been used recently or not. She did not want to know why they were there, she said she had no demands, she wants nothing from the conversation, she just wanted to let me know and have an assurance that I would not lie to her knowingly. What is that worth? She has it, of course she has it, but is it worth when I’ve already done it, twice?
And I feel bad. Really bad. She shouldn’t have found the bag. I didn’t know what else to do on the two occasions, of course I lied, the alternative was great anger and upset and ructions. The top in question was thrown out by Tilly a good two months before I appropriated it. It doesn’t matter. Like Tilly said: it felt a bit weird for her. No amount of ‘lawyer-ing’, her term, would make that feeling go away, no matter how I twisted things. She’s right, I have proved my ability to manipulate people and events, to twist words and meanings and to lie with a straight face.
I’ve been sleeping dressed now and again, it’s a habit I’ve never really lost but it’s infrequent, because it’s comfortable, it’s nice. But I haven’t dressed for two weeks. Thursday a few weeks ago as it happens, I was on strike and Tilly was out. Seemed like a good idea. I marked in my new dress, with the shoes, in tights, the top and a stuffed bra. I enjoyed it. It was nice. Now that feeling is ash, hedonistic pleasure in the short term exchanged for cold reality and guilt in the real world. Nothing happens without consequence, no action has no effect, and nothing I ever do comes without strings attached or guilt as part of the baggage. I’d managed to avoid it so far, but it couldn’t last forever. Today… Today it caught up. Properly. And there are no excuses. No second chances. No way out.
I’m sick, possibly? This isn’t right. It’s never been right. Being ‘nice’ or making me happy doesn’t make it right. But lying to Tilly sure as Hell makes it wrong. Betraying her trust makes it wrong. The guilt and the ash and the horrible feeling in my bones makes it wrong. And my continuing desire to engage in the activity makes me wrong.
Tilly’s doing my CBT questionnaire now. She’s just pointed out that she doesn’t like me or Lauren in the conversation in that. It’s interesting, when I’m honest about my life, I am the bad guy. I am. Confirmation has now been given. I thought my therapist looked a little differently at me after reading the information that it was carved from. I thought I would come out as in the wrong, and at least I was right about that. Further confirmation that I am not a terribly nice person. I lie, I cheat, I manipulate, I’m incompetent and I have a serious perversion that negatively affects my day to day life. Is therapy enough?
I started this, I think, to record that odd feeling I had when I first dressed since my therapy began. I tried to document that feeling of happiness. As if that could be separated. Instead, it has become a document that charts how that goes. It has become a place to confirm that the reasons I have for feeling I am a horrible person are, well, correct.
Fucking bastard. Fucking, waste-of-space, lazy-arse, shit-headed bastard. I want an end to me.