I’m reading 1984 again (might as well be for the first time since it was so long ago) and came upon a section which defines exactly how I feel:

‘Then where does the past exist, if at all?’ ‘In records. It is written down.’ ‘In records. And—?’ ‘In the mind. In human memories.’ ‘In memory. Very well, then. We, the Party, control all records, and we control all memories. Then we control the past, do we not?’ ‘But how can you stop people remembering things?‘ cried Winston again momentarily forgetting the dial. ‘It is involuntary. It is outside oneself. How can you control memory? You have not controlled mine!’ O’Brien’s manner grew stern again. He laid his hand on the dial. ‘On the contrary,’ he said, ‘you have not controlled it. That is what has brought you here. You are here because you have failed in humility, in self-discipline. You would not make the act of submission which is the price of sanity. You preferred to be a lunatic, a minority of one.

1984
Bold and italics not in original

I should just forget and let it go. My not doing so is making me crazy. A crazy madman howling at the moon. No matter how hard I try, my experiences and my truth seem to remain unintelligible to power, and maybe to all.

Submission truly is the price of sanity. I think those words are wiser than we want to believe. We do it every day. I do it too; as rebellious as I am, I submit all the time. This is the price we pay to remain normal and intelligible.

Not this time. To room one oh one it is for me. I won’t deny reality. I won’t deny what happened to me. I will never stop fighting.