What can I even say that will express my feelings and thoughts, without sounding petulant or forced? I call myself a writer, but I can't find the words to make others understand. Both because I daren't reveal myself, even to myself, but also because I'm just not that good a writer.
"Morning, m'lady," he said.
M'lady. If it weren't so ridiculous it would be sweet. And though it's well meant, it sounds mocking when faced with the reality of my face, the face he knows. I'm not an ephemeral, digital being. I'm ugly, lumpy. Even after losing 3 stone, and still losing I hope, I'm big and fat and in no way feminine. Even next to Brienne I'm nothing - but then she is a model.
"How are thy?"
Thy?! One of these days I've got to correct him on that.
Anyway... how am I? ... overdramatic as it sounds, the answer came to me: broken. But then, hardly. Just rough. I can't even have a breakdown properly, it's damp and half-assed.
Listen to this shit. I can't even angst properly. Am I pretending, blowing boredom out of all proportion? Or have I forgotten how to feel, but for the merest shadow of sensation?
Monday 20 May 2013
Monday 3 December 2012
Cold
Jobless
Carless
Stuck in my Mum's house
No degree
No experience
Little talent
Little skill
Ugly
Repulsively masculine
No hormones
No style
No future
No hope
So cold inside, cold like the weeks I spent with blade and blood.
Carless
Stuck in my Mum's house
No degree
No experience
Little talent
Little skill
Ugly
Repulsively masculine
No hormones
No style
No future
No hope
So cold inside, cold like the weeks I spent with blade and blood.
Tuesday 9 October 2012
No change
Three months later and here I am again. Still depressed. Still have no money. Still not getting help with transition. Still living at home with no job, no love, no hope of improvement. All I've had to cling on to lately is the vague distant possibility of my writing in interactive fiction and games news meaning something to someone.
Aren't things supposed to happen when you tell people you want to kill yourself? That, too, hasn't changed. Rope or knives or step into the road or fling myself from some high place - which are remarkably hard to find around here, by the way - I just want to end. Only a miracle could solve my life to a point I'd be willing to bear it long enough to deal with psychological depression. Not that I believe in miracles.
If I tell people face to face I want to die, or ask them to help me end myself, they would express horror or sympathy. But they don't do anything. Some can't, others can but won't. For all their admonitions, people are unwilling to do what it takes to make another's life worth living. And why should they, the thinking goes? The poor, the miserable, the depressed need to work themselves into a position of strength. Even if that takes decades. Even if that never happens and they spend years, years in abject misery. Stiff upper lip and all that.
What's the point of writing this? I don't even know. I'm not going to get a paying job. What idiot would hire me? I don't smile. I'm not as smart as I should be. I'm not presentable or qualified or experienced. And how could I find companionship - never mind actual love - looking like I do, in the wrong body with no money or prospects and living with my mum. I'm not even capable of love, I fear.
Until now I've managed to distract myself. Lately I've run out of distractions and, like those early months of 2011, I spend my time sleeping, eating and wondering how to die. Each time I close my eyes, I hope I will never awaken. Perhaps one day soon I won't. And then what will those people, who watched and did nothing, what will they say?
Aren't things supposed to happen when you tell people you want to kill yourself? That, too, hasn't changed. Rope or knives or step into the road or fling myself from some high place - which are remarkably hard to find around here, by the way - I just want to end. Only a miracle could solve my life to a point I'd be willing to bear it long enough to deal with psychological depression. Not that I believe in miracles.
If I tell people face to face I want to die, or ask them to help me end myself, they would express horror or sympathy. But they don't do anything. Some can't, others can but won't. For all their admonitions, people are unwilling to do what it takes to make another's life worth living. And why should they, the thinking goes? The poor, the miserable, the depressed need to work themselves into a position of strength. Even if that takes decades. Even if that never happens and they spend years, years in abject misery. Stiff upper lip and all that.
What's the point of writing this? I don't even know. I'm not going to get a paying job. What idiot would hire me? I don't smile. I'm not as smart as I should be. I'm not presentable or qualified or experienced. And how could I find companionship - never mind actual love - looking like I do, in the wrong body with no money or prospects and living with my mum. I'm not even capable of love, I fear.
Until now I've managed to distract myself. Lately I've run out of distractions and, like those early months of 2011, I spend my time sleeping, eating and wondering how to die. Each time I close my eyes, I hope I will never awaken. Perhaps one day soon I won't. And then what will those people, who watched and did nothing, what will they say?
Wednesday 11 July 2012
First and Only Truth
Here follows some self-indulgent honesty. The kind of things you only tell people at 3am at a house party where everyone is blasted on vodka, absinthe, cheap wine and weed. Clothes and empty bottles litter the stairs and every bed is a tangle of sheets and exhausted limbs. I haven't been to anything so full of life in years, not since I was 17 I guess.
I am now 24. I live at home with my Mum in the same room I've possessed, on and off, for fourteen years. I have no job, no degree, no money - though plenty of debts - no car and no hope. I see friends once a week if I am lucky and spend my days watching Twitter go by and not daring to look at my writing in case I've received more negative or luke-warm feedback.
And if I left my fugue long enough to care to search in earnest for employment and some fool actually took a chance on me? Or I returned, even at this late age, to education and got some worthwhile degree. Even IF everything came true and I were a great games designer or writer, rich and well regarded with awards and the respect of my peers, with all the freedom and ability to create and travel and experience... even if all these infinite miracles came to pass... could I ever be happy? Or merely distracted?
And then there's the whole trans thing. Rejected by some doctors, hear nothing from others. I am repulsive, fat, just masculine enough to never be mistaken for what I feel inside but not masculine enough not to feel sick looking in the mirror or not to be rejected by anyone I might seek some comfort in. Every hair upon my chest or chin, every erection is alien and wrong. No matter what hormones or surgery I might eventually get, I will always be somehow wrong and yet I can't even get that little.
Each and every day and every night and I consider precisely how to kill myself. Knives one night, the other it might be rope or carbon monoxide, yet another jumping from a great height. I haven't made an attempt since February last year, when first I almost hung myself and next ineptly slashed my forearm up. If only I hadn't wussed out on the precipice that first time, I wouldn't be in this mess. But I didn't have the strength to proceed then and I don't have it now.
I don't want to be 'better', whatever that means. I don't want to be me. Just let me end, end life, end care.
Fuck, I can't even write my secret heart compellingly.
I am now 24. I live at home with my Mum in the same room I've possessed, on and off, for fourteen years. I have no job, no degree, no money - though plenty of debts - no car and no hope. I see friends once a week if I am lucky and spend my days watching Twitter go by and not daring to look at my writing in case I've received more negative or luke-warm feedback.
And if I left my fugue long enough to care to search in earnest for employment and some fool actually took a chance on me? Or I returned, even at this late age, to education and got some worthwhile degree. Even IF everything came true and I were a great games designer or writer, rich and well regarded with awards and the respect of my peers, with all the freedom and ability to create and travel and experience... even if all these infinite miracles came to pass... could I ever be happy? Or merely distracted?
And then there's the whole trans thing. Rejected by some doctors, hear nothing from others. I am repulsive, fat, just masculine enough to never be mistaken for what I feel inside but not masculine enough not to feel sick looking in the mirror or not to be rejected by anyone I might seek some comfort in. Every hair upon my chest or chin, every erection is alien and wrong. No matter what hormones or surgery I might eventually get, I will always be somehow wrong and yet I can't even get that little.
Each and every day and every night and I consider precisely how to kill myself. Knives one night, the other it might be rope or carbon monoxide, yet another jumping from a great height. I haven't made an attempt since February last year, when first I almost hung myself and next ineptly slashed my forearm up. If only I hadn't wussed out on the precipice that first time, I wouldn't be in this mess. But I didn't have the strength to proceed then and I don't have it now.
I don't want to be 'better', whatever that means. I don't want to be me. Just let me end, end life, end care.
Fuck, I can't even write my secret heart compellingly.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)