In poetry I can hide my meaning and be a bit more direct without being so actively confrontational.
The past few days have been emotionally draining and extremely trying for me. Not that, it hasn't been without rewards. I find myself looking for signs that things will get better, and keep not finding them. It's these times that the distractions start to creep in. I don't necessarily need to do anything specific, I just have to do something. My crutch of distraction and escapism is one that is trusty and reliable, but it is still a crutch.
My ability to express and vent my emotions has been stunted. I can talk about them, and convey them to people, but they still feel inside me. There is no exorcism in conveying ideas. While there is a pleasantness is understanding the commonality of people and theirs in kind, there is no catharsis there. In the past, my coping mechanisms have been crying, and cutting, and just depression. I'm trying to divert from those into something more productive, along with a change in my overall outlook. The new zen/okay-ness with a lot of things has been a positive step I think. Keeping busy, and trying to make plans on the weekdays will also help. That link, between my emotions, and my art, has always been elusive, and existentially frustrating. I feel like if I could bring those two together I'd have both a positive/productive outlet for the intense negative emotions and a hobby that I can push into a more creative outlet.
It is of course, easier said than done.
I can hold off the negativity. It just becomes more troublesome in the lonely setting of being in my apartment alone. That, has always been my problem. Hence trying to keep busy and visiting folks as much as possible. It helps to ward off the depression, but, it always seems to come creeping back in, like an ugly carpet that you hate, but can't seem to get rid of. You might think you can cut it out, but it involves a great deal of damage to the overall sense of self.
That said, there is a core issue at play, and I feel like I'm stuck in limbo. I know how to move on from a relationship, and I know how to be a functioning member of a relationship, but I'm stuck in a seemingly half way point between the two. I'm not sure where I stand, and where the relationship stands. I have my secret fears about what is going on, but I feel like I can't communicate those. Even If I did, I don't feel like I'd get an honest answer either way.
I've been told, above all, to take things slow, and I am. I just keep telling myself that I have agency, and I have control over my life and who is in it, and how things happen. If things end, it won't be because I haven't tried hard enough (romanticism) or because we are fundamentally incompatible (fatalism, another trap), but because we simply had our time, and that time came to an end. I say that over and over, as I cry in the shower, and as I go to bed at night. It helps, but it doesn't change the fact that I sleep alone.
It isn't set in stone, and all things are liable to change. That said, I've always been one to prepare for the writing that I see on the wall.
A while back I said I was going to be unapologetic in change this year. That I'd be ripping things out by the roots to prune the garden of my life. Some of these things are going to be painful, and some, are going to be as easy as doing nothing.
As is, I'm done trying to beg and plead for people to be who I want them to be, rather than who they are. This is unfair to them, and to myself.
This has perhaps culminated in my separating (of sorts) from my partner. I'll once again be spending the majority of my home time alone, which has the effect of helping me feel not so taken advantage of (a problem I had felt, but not one based in reason), but is also helping me distance myself. Not that it is something I'm wanting, but more feels necessary given the larger context of our relationship. I'm always looking a few months down the road, and where I see this going isn't where I want to be.
Which, is fine, really. Not that it isn't upsetting or saddening, but that is just how life is. People come into your life, and then they leave, or they stay to a different degree. I did not, start this with the expectation that we would always be together or always be in the same style of relationship. That is, to an extent, one of the great joys of poly.
Assuming I can handle the loneliness, I've gone through worse. If my ex did nothing else she did at least ensure few if any breakups would be as bad. I digress though.
My first root is that I can no longer afford myself the ability to complain and bitch and moan whenever someone is too busy for me. If a person can't be bothered to make plans with me, I surely can't be bothered to feel bad about it. It's, disappointing, but, I can't do much of anything to change it so why bother. Forcing someone to make plans when they clearly don't want (or can't be bothered) to, only serves to make me feel like shit. It may grant some temporary reprieve from the idea that a relationship is waning, or that they aren't interested, but it is self defeating in the end.
This is, all, of course, easier said than done. Yet, while I start to think that my partner & I just may want different things in life, at this point. While we may be able to compliment that, and each other, I'm not sure we are the best answer for one another anymore. It's sad, but again, it's life.
All of this is part of a larger context of my turning thirty, and amongst this year of drastic change. I'd rather get this all out of the way now, rather than dragged out for another three years.
In that same style, it is time I looked at what I was spending my time and energy on, and where it was being directed and to what end and gain to my person. Investing 3000 hours into games only goes so far, and granted, it was mostly as a distraction from the horrors of my life, if I can fill that void with something more productive, then I should do so. I can no longer afford to grant myself cart blanch based on what I thought was true eight years ago.
It's time I started to act my age, and put away my childish behaviors. I should expect better from myself, and from those I surround myself with.
The most, irritating, aspect of all this is that it never, ever, stops. The depression comes over and over and over again like bad inlaws that overstay their welcome and visit uninvited and oft-too often. I transitioned, moved, fell in/out of love, became polyamorous, tried S/M, and tried other BD aspects, group sex, marijuana, I tried having multiple partners at once. I tried monogamous relationships, I tried therapy (and still go), I tried different hobbies and environments, I tried vitamins and acceptance. Nothing alleviates, or dissuades the epic de-saturation of my life and my world. Vibrant colors leave in great haste towards tepid levels of varying gray and any one purpose or enjoyment I saw in anything, leaves swiftly with it. Then, like the regular annoying ticking of your grand mothers clock, the suicidal thoughts, hopelessness, and helpless feelings come in, and my nervous/muscular twitches start as my mind starts to turn against me. The little voice becomes louder until it is the only thing i hear.
All of this, again, and again, and again again again. Then I sleep, wake up, and wonder if today's the lucky day I get hit by a bus and don't have to worry about it anymore.
I grow exhausted with this. The endless crying leading to tired mornings with swollen eyes. The endless despair and suicidal thou
These are tired drums. The old war between my body and mind is one fought for many, many years and for a while a decent armistice seemed to brew. Now though, tensions are starting back up. I could spend the hours trying to figure out the innevitable cause, but end the end it doesn't really matter. Be it stress, or hormonal fluctuations, or what have you, this existence is never one I will be at peace with. that thought, that I'll always be blaming and pointing at my trans identity as the root cause for all my personal, and interpersonal woes, is exceedingly exhausting. It would be reasonable if say, post surgery, I could just cast off the identity like so much baggage and proclaim myself cured, but that's not an option.
Speaking of, There's about 6 months until then, and I'm slowly coming to simply accept the fact that my parts will be ugly to me. At least then though their form will follow and match how they should. I can live with an ugly vagina, hell it matches the fucked up and ugly rest of me, so why should it stand out as being normal. I find myself asking why again, which I expect will start coming back up again as it draws closer.
I'm starting to feel numb again. My hunger and body signals are slowing down or becoming quiet, I don't know when I'm hungry or at least I never feel the urge to eat. I occasionally think about food if it comes up, but by and large its a thing I don't put thought into. This mirrors my thoughts on anything else, I'm bored and distracted easily, I find no real attraction or happiness from things. My sex drive or desire for affection has fallen off the face of the planet.
I don't want to do anything, and everything sounds like shit. I'm withdrawn, unsocial, and by and large simply depressed. In that though, It feels like disillusionment. Like there is no point or hope in trying to find the things I feel are missing from my life, the things that I feel are unsatisified. I base this, entirely off the few times that I can remember feeling as such, and trying to pursue the same avenues again (finding an D/S relationship for one). But even that I can't say was established in a firm ground of emotional health, wellbeing and secure/reassured reality. More, thrown into a full on NRE ecstacy filled abusive drug habbit with someone who seemed to get off on the idea. I remember being happy (or at least, the abuse led me to believe I was) and now I pursue that again because its one of the few times I remember not feeling partially empty inside.
Not to cast out the efforts and strides of my partner, who genuinly is wonderful. That relationship however, just isn't, and can't be the entirety of my desires. I hate that I continue to look for that missing piece, and I hate that I never find, and that I feel like I never will, and that there is no point in searching. It feels like I just have to accept the fact that I'll feel partially empty and hollow for the rest of my life, living a pale, shallow existence devoid of anything resembling meaning or passion. People say do what you love, or do what you want to do with your time. I have no idea what that is, and no idea where to even begin looking
Apologies for the lack of updates. I've been struggling for topics to write about and mostly been delving in escapism as my mechanism. However writing is really the best form for this. The big news is that the plans for my surgery are underway. Deposit money is being moved and the real make or break point is approaching. Which really brings out a lot of other emotions and fear around this. I'm afraid of this and I'm afraid of what is coming. This is something I feel I should do, the discomfort I've had with my lady bits has been well known. I've referred to it as a cancer before, as a deformity. There is no love lost there. Yet, in the past year or two it's become less of the epitome of symbolism for all of my struggle in being trans. Before, when I first started this, there was an unspeakable amount of rage and anger, frustration, and disgust at being trans. The grief and anger over why I have this injustice and others do not. There was no greater symbol of that than the bits themselves.
It was a constant reminder. It IS a constant reminder. But lately as my relationship with my partner has bloomed, it's become less of a harsh reality, and less on the forefront of my mind. I don't face that rejection from it as often, or as harshly as I did when I was single. This makes me question my desires, and my relationship with my body.
I'm trying to be objective in my decisions, and at least remove as much doubt and emotional instability as possible. Being partnered, and having function left (many trans folk don't) means I've gotten to enjoy an aspect of my body that previously has been uncomfortable (and still is at times). Now that the time has come to decide what to do with it, how do I value that?
I have to learn how to have sex with my partner again, something that we've both been comfortable/compatible with. Meaning this will put strain on our relationship as we both relearn how my body works. And there is risk that if we aren't sexually compatible, that things might have to change for the worse.
I worry that once this is done I won't be satisfied. I worry that I won't be able to feel anything, that it will be ugly or unrecognizable. I worry about something happening. I worry that I'll regret it and that I'll regret not being able to penetrate my partner in the way I used to be able to. I worry about it being a waste of money, and I worry that I don't want it badly enough.
For as long as I can remember I've wanted to be a lesbian. Why then am I having such doubt over this change? So then, the better questions is why then am I still going through with it? For one, I doubt my peace with myself. If my partner and I were to split up I can easily see this becoming the symbol and anguish generating source it once was. My current state of acceptance I believe has less to do with my lack of desire to see it removed, than my being distracted from it. As in, if my partner wasn't in the picture, I would have a huge desire to see this through. Just because I may not have he utmost of hatred and loathing for it now (now that I've another use for it) that doesn't mean said sentiment is gone.
In talking to my friend who's had the procedure done before, her opinion was such that any result was better than what she currently had. That, was my same sentiment in starting this transition. When looking at this now, are my bits objectively worth keeping over the potential for a bad result? Further more, in the laundry list of situations, feelings, emotions, placements, and minute uncomfortabilities that enumerate my experience, is the sum of said things greater, than the enjoyment and pleasure I get out of penetrating my partner.
Looking further into that, is it the act of penetration, or the closeness and emotional connection that the act brings that I enjoy. Assuming that pleasurable sex and orgasms will be had either way, why the reluctance to give up something I have for something that is slightly different given ceteris paribus? Which brings me back to the fear of the unknown. Not knowing what the results will be is of grave portent in regards to my comfort and sexuality.
Looking at this through the lenses of my education it's easy to see my bias in overvaluing what I have now. Still, this risk and discomfort associated with not knowing is proving to be significant. At least, more than I thought I would have at this point. I will muddle along however, under the idea that objectively, it is the right choice even if I'm terrified of taking the risk.
It's hard to describe what the lows are like. If I can remove myself from the ether, and stay in the real world; either by distracting or focusing on activities, keeping busy, or otherwise preoccupied, I can make do with most things. It is when I get bored and begin to analyze and withdraw into myself/my emotions that things get a bit off. I'll shut off the outside world and think about things, it's almost a meditative state. In this state, which I've previously labeled as disassociated, the ability of my mind to distinguish between what it imagines, and what is real, is a bit bad. It isn't that I see these things and think they are real, or that they exists in reality. Don't mistake me for hallucinating. I can easily differentiate what I see in my minds eye, and what is real.
The problem though, is that I'm not the only one in there. In that state, where my imagination and my consciousness are a bit melded, I often begin to see/hear things that I feel aren't coming from me. The most vivid, and recent one is as thus.
I was laying on my couch, sobbing. I had imagined the face of my matron/crone figure, a woman I looked up to, who could make me feel safe, protected, secure, and wholesome. This is not a thing I had created before, but the ideas were. It was simply new to give them this form. I began to reach out to her, and tell her what was wrong, what I felt, looking for sympathy, compassion and a warming embrace between that of a lover and a protector. She then said this: "Aww honey,there there, It's okay, it's simple, you just have to kill yourself".
As this was said, a horrible nervous wreching went down my spine. These sorts of thoughts and surprising dark comments that seemed to be pushed into my imagination are disturbing. I don't provoke them, I know they are negative, awful, and bad thoughts and I know I don't want them, and honestly know they are unhealthy. My only explanation is that my subconscious is pushing these deeper/darker thoughts through in that meditative state so that they feel as if I'm not creating them (when in all likelihood, they can come from nowhere else, while we are still dealing in the realm of the realistic. While I've not utterly ruled out the idea of a haunting, it is at least, less easy to diagnose).
Being subconscious, I have lesser control of when and how they come, and when they do they almost always produce the same lecherous nervous twitching. Either in my arms, or legs. It's as if you were going about your normal business, and someone just suddenly induced an electric shock down your arm. It's odd, and it goes away as quickly as it comes, but you do look a bit odd. I've had these twitches for a long time (going back at least 10 years) However, they haven't been around in a while. It does however, serve to depress, and darken anything I would otherwise do. While I may be going about doing anything, these horrible thoughts being consistently injected into you like so much intravenous drug has the effect akin of being shown a flash of your close relatives/loved ones all murdered for a brief instant. It isn't real, but seeing the image is disturbing and offputting regardless.
These thoughts feel foreign to me. Not that I'm unfamiliar with them, but just that they feel like they are coming from an outside source, and that disturbs me. If the sanctity of my own internal church can't protect me from darkening thoughts, just how secure is my emotional foundation to begin with? Part of my wonders if this has to do with the psychotropic effects of marijuana.
My old bad habits help, they life me out of the fog, and while I can still see it there, and dive back in if I so desired, it is at least pleasurable to be moved away from that place. Still, pushing the storm away only does so much good until your shelter is in a better shape.