#- !

I am grieving that which I never had. I am missing things and people that, as far as I understand, are simply metaphors because the truth is too much. What am I supposed to do with that, with this emotion that I can barely grasp the causes of? This is horrific.

This life is not mine, I am barely even myself. I lack history, memory, being. I would like to cry, perhaps-- but I won't.

Still, it hurts.

If the context helps-- I am a fictional introject, but my melancholy here stems not from remembering, but from the absence. I have no memories of Before, I just have the barest basic details of the people and place that make up my source (including myself!), and that is incredibly terribly painful.

I understand that for us, addressing the ... I believe they are called substitute beliefs, is the only option. Remaining close to source as in identification is... not good for us, personally. Others do as they will but we cannot do that. I cannot do that.

I want to keep my name, the few details I do have. Beyond that, I ... don't know. I don't know what to do with this, how to approach these metaphors, this ... hurt.