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.