Desire, Bile

“Almost every woman I have ever met has a secret belief that she is just on the edge of madness . . . that she must be on guard constantly against ‘losing control’ — of her temper, of her appetite, of her sexuality, of her feelings, of her ambition, of her secret fantasies, of her mind”.  - Elana Dykewomon.

I am almost certain that I’d be capable of torture or murder. That’s always been a given for me, never a mystery. What disturbs me, however, is how much glee arises when I allow myself to fantasize about it… that I would, in fact, enjoy violently murdering and torturing certain people. Not in a psychosexual way, per se, but purely from a place of fear, envy, and revenge. Revenge most of all. I can’t go in depth about my murderous fantasies; I don’t want to shock and offend too much, nor excite myself in a way that genuinely frightens me. To say nothing of morality, it makes perfect sense for us to kill each other; we’re animals after all.

I don’t seek to self-correct my desires. I do, however, look away from the cavernous abyss of my subconscious mind; that endless void from which these desires spring forth in droves, often most unwelcome. Spewing over the edges of my psyche, acrid vomit that hardens into a foul crust when the bright light of awareness shines upon it. Layers upon layers of barely realized desires, layers upon layers of bile that thicken over time. I cannot scrub them out, although sometimes I try.