Verka had a nice morning.

I got up. I cried for a while. I find I don’t know what to do for me. Sam has settled down, but now it is my turn.

Look, still dead.

As if in the night, I go about deluding myself, and I have to adjust to reality all over again. I probably do. It’s hard to hang onto reality in sleep.

I got on with things though. I had that Plan A/Plan B thought, and it helped. It helped immensely. Not with the dead part, but living with the rest of the day.

Verka was happy. She did the chores. It was Sunday, and because we teach six days a week, Sunday is the traditional chore day. She made breakfast and lunch. She did a lot of laundry—my coat needs washing again, so do my jeans, and it’s time to wash a jacket as well. It was supposed to snow the following day. I don’t know that it will—they seem to have cancelled the prediction—but Sunday was a beautiful, sunny, windy laundry day. She thought it was time.

After that, she did yoga. She washed the floors. She scrubbed the bathroom floor. At noon, she finally fell asleep.

I think it’s hard to get across how burdening self-deception is. It takes an enormous effort to go on not seeing things that are in front of you. It takes effort even to go on ignoring things that keep catching your attention from your peripheral vision.

My first whirl with life involved complete self-deception. Let’s pretend the problems are not there or are much smaller than they are. Let’s pretend that the only problem was some family-based child sexual abuse and a whacked-out, culty upbringing.

Those are big enough, really. I mean anyone would be screwed up from that. It’s an almost adequate explanation.

No, though, it’s not.

It doesn’t, for example, quite explain the hollowness of everything, the sense of restlessness about life, as if I keep looking for something that will fix what’s wrong.

You do that when you are lying to yourself about the source of the real problem. You do that when you are trying to pretend that things are other than what they are.

I spent a long time refusing to see that my personality was in pieces. It helped to begin to see that I was.

I spent a long time refusing to see my memories of having been trafficked. It helped to begin to recognize them for what they were.

I spent a long time refusing to see that I had seen a murder. I spent a longer time refusing to see how important the victim had been to me.

I spent a long time exhausting myself with everything I wouldn’t see. It was not really easier to see it, but there is something about it that flows better. The truth is somehow more natural.

It allows for more fluidity. It allows you attain a degree of grace, instead of trying to hop around with your laces tied.

At the very least, it made me happy for a few hours to finally let myself see what was. And as a result, my house is clean.