I've found myself listening to Loreena McKennitt's rendition of this final soliloquy from Shakespeare's Tempest earlier. I was struck by the ringing quality of purity and the undercurrent of sorrow to it. It seems fitting that it is playing right now.
Even as the lies I tell myself are stripped away and the mask is removed, I can't help but feel grief. Would it be easier if the lie was true? I honestly don't know.
I only know that I feel deep and profound sorrow over the childhood that I wish I had. I also feel and adamant refusal to allow such sorrow to be visited upon my own child for the sake of conveniance or anything else that motivated my parents to treat me as they did when I was a child.
Perhaps it would be easier if I could hate them. I don't know.