Warning signs are all I have left

I've grown into a weird comfort level with being on edge. Before I get too in depth, the current plan is to start some form of medication for my depression, it just depends first on meeting with the right people and appointments and what not. There is no current timeframe.

Regressing, I'm being slowly trained on how to dance on knife edge. People ask how I'm doing, and I write out long truths about how I debate what songs to ruin for people by requesting them at my memorial, before erasing it and saying "not so great".

It isn't, that this is an idea I actively court, it's more like a stalker that never leaves my window, and more and more seems like the only viable option I have left. I have, nothing else really in my life. There, is no real light there. The plan is just to suffer through it until I see a psychiatrist, sooner rather than later.

I write, and try to form some sort of narrative, as that is kind of the only thing keeping me alive at this point. I find it incredibly hard to get out of bed, to stop crying, or to write here. Writing here forces me to face the realities of my situation, and that is incredibly painful to relive.

I know there are other options if I begin to lose control. The question though, is can I opt into those in that brief span where I lose control but don't do succumb to my temptations towards violence.

I feel like I've lost the last three months of my life to this. So much time just wasted, lost to this vacuum. As it goes on, I'm starting to feel like I won't be able to climb back out again this time. How many times can I tell people that I want to die before they just stop asking all together.


Still ticking

Oh. Hi. Given all that has transpired, it seems odd that I haven't written. The last two weeks of September were, interesting.

I'd been dealing with some bad depression, and instead of turning to my normal vice of cutting for relief, I tried to smoke. Now, Marijuana has a psychosis effect than can trigger within depressive people, and people with psychotic tendencies. I had the unfortunate luck to trigger one.

What happened, in my bad trip, was that all of my internal monologue of suicide, depression, worthless and hopelessness, became voiced from a third party. I then became the victim of my own emotional abuse, and spiraled out of control. I ended up calling on some friends for help. In the meantime, cutting to pull myself into a state of lucidity, where I could communicate well enough to let people know I needed help. I ended up with ninety plus cuts down my leg. I don't remember doing them all.

I relayed this to my therapist, and she gave me the option of staying with friends, or going to the hospital, since at this point I was still under some heavy duress. I went to stay with some friends. It's been easier there, than staying at home.  Having people to watch over me has been nice.

A few days later, I ran into another heavy depressive episode. fits of crying and hopelessness returned, and the suicidal ideation returned. I watched myself get up, walk to my bag, fetch my razors in secret, and walk to the bathroom. I wasn't alone. But I'd not told anyone what I brought. I sat in the bathroom, playing with the container of my razors, slipping one out, and being unable to put it back in. I began to cut lines down my wrist. Lightly at first, and then harder as I got used it. I drew blood. The cuts weren't serious enough, so I dug harder at where I could find veins with the edge. These were deeper, and got more blood flowing.

At this point, I'd been in the restroom for maybe thirty minutes, maybe longer, I lost track of time between fits of crying and depression. I was, lost. I felt hopeless, in my life, in my situation. The endorphines from the cutting had elevated my mood to the point where I wasn't depressed enough to finish the job, and the sadness had turned to anger. Incredible anger. Eventually I cleaned up all the blood, and my arm, and returned outside.

I wasn't left alone for long after that. I was told I'd have to give up my razors (reasonable), and that if it got any worse I'd have to go to the hospital (also reasonable).

I spent another few days at my friends place before returning home for another therapy session. I spend a few days at home, that felt okay, until they didn't. I woke up late, again, and felt my depression suck the life, and will, out of me. I didn't want to wake up, I didn't want to get up, and face another day of meaningless nothing. I spent the entire day distracting myself, and making arrangements to spend more time away from home.

Which, brings you up to speed.

The last few days have been okay, and, feel like I can swim again. But, it's, not self sustained. I'm leaning on people to support me, and I fear that being alone is a recipe for my depression to start draining my life away.

When things are okay, I feel fine, I feel, not great, but I recognize myself.

When the lows come, I ..can't function. I lose the ability to see any reason to continue existing, and I question my sanity, I question if I'm losing my mind, if my normal rational mind is somehow losing its battle to keep my emotions in check, or perhaps I'm just developing into schizophrenia. It feels like someone opens up a drain beneath me and all the heat, and passion and love and will just slowly seeps out of my pores.

That, isn't the bad part. It's bad, but ..it's not the scary part at least.

What, worries me, is that years ago, even when I was suicidal, I couldn't bring myself to cut my wrists. I'm getting practiced at it now. Each time it gets this bad, my fear gets slightly less, my anger at failing grows, my fear and willingness to fight decreases, and more and more it just seems like the only real solution. It's not, sad, it's not bad, it just is, and that realization becomes very peaceful.

That peace, is truely, fucking, terrifying.

At times, it feels very much like I'm being kidnapped, taken over by some monstrosity, that forces my hand, and kills me. I can ward it off, and keep it at bay, but it's always just sitting behind my shoulder, just out of eyesight. Waiting, just...waiting for me to slip up.


You're a Wizard Harry

I'm an aunt now. Which, is weird. It's one of the strange aspects of my existence that isolates me from my family. Depression and mental illness I share with my brother. Femininity I share with my mom, Transsexualism I share with my cousin (who may yet also join me in sterility), but at the moment, I'm the only one incapable of reproducing.

The affect this has on me is...profound. But that seems to escape the glee of my mother, who insists on sending me photos of my niece, seemingly unconscious of how triggering it can be to see the child of my brother. It isn't, that I haven't had time to think about it. I've mourned and grieved over my lost children before, as I do now, but it's different to see it in your email and text messages. To be asked to congratulate people, without a second thought as to why you might be distant.

Normally I might handle this in my typical graceful tolerance, but at the moment I struggle with a new existential crises, and a flair of the dramatic.

I find myself losing entire days to depression, I get caught up in my lack of schedule and lack of plans. I eliminate possibilities of action because they have no purpose.

Go to a coffee shop? Okay sure, but why? What will I do there? Nothing? Then why bother?

With no underlining purpose, I have a hard to finding the motivation to do anything. That includes life in general. Being unemployed puts a financial strain on all of my decisions, so that I can't just go out and enjoy my time by say, going to a movie, or going for ice cream. No, it's ramen and mac and cheese every day sadly.

Which, leads one to feel a bit like a rat in a cage. I exhaust my games quickly, and blow through books like no other while waiting ages for something to do, or an excuse to go back to a coffee shop for a few hours to do, essentially what I do at home.

I've offered to help my ex of a few years ago around her business/studio, which, should if nothing else, get me out of the house and a bit more structure in my schedule. How and whether that devolves or develops into something else is a matter for a different entry. In discussing it with my therapist, she was described as stirring up shit for me, which can be a source of growth. Which, if you know, you know is my thing. I can't stand stagnating. I feel almost entirely like I am now, and it drives me to awful and familiar thoughts of self harm.


Move Along, Nothing to See Here

I haven't updated in nearly two months. I wish I could say it was due to amazing circumstances.

True to form, the last big obstacle left for me to change this year was my job, and about a month after my last post I was laid off. At least, they did it for me this time. I don't mind really, it's an inconvenience, but I have unemployment and a number of good options in case things fall through.

It has also given me plenty of time to do some things I hadn't been able to before. I've taken up a daily yoga practice, which seems to have some nice effects so far. More importantly though I've been drafting out a comic that rehashes some of the themes/events of my previous relationship (not the most recent, but the prior one that I've often labeled emotionally abusive). In drafting all of that out, it brought back a lot of memories. Mostly unpleasing in their vividness. Not in that the memories themselves are bad. I find them enjoyable and at times erotic, but a large part of me hates that. After all the bullshit I went through, there's no reason I should long for those memories. Enjoy them, think about them, sure, but not long for them.

I had an opportunity to re-read some of our old messages from three and a half years ago, it was...upsetting. The verbiage and wording made me incredibly anxious and unnerved. I couldn't tell if I wanted to cry or throw up. Hell I still can't tell.

My hope was that in writing the comic/story of that, it would help excise it from me, much in the way writing here helps pull the emotions out of me. So far that's yet to be seen, though there is a nice sense of fulfillment, along side the uncomfortable turned on/near tears emotions that haunt me at coffee shops while I write.

I'm not sure if I simply underestimated, or forgot, just how much that whole event fucked with my head.

I feel more and more isolated, purposefully. I find myself cutting connections (or wanting to) from people I don't feel I have a thriving relationship with anymore. I can't tell if I feel closed off from people out of a need to issue reaffirmation tests, or if I honestly don't value that relationship anymore. In reality it's likely a combination of the two.

These are not new warning signs, the isolation and depression, the withdrawal, they're all pretty familiar things that I've learned to watch out for. I mean, well, let me put it this way. I can remember doing this same thing, typing into the soft glow of a computer, to music, while I deal with depression and tears, fifteen years ago. The fact that I feel like so little has changed doesn't bode well.

Instances likes these make me wonder how anyone gets through life alive. I can look at some folks, who seem to have their shit figured out, and they don't seem to have any fundamental advantage over me (at least not anymore). Yet they seem to consistently get the best possible dice rolls. You'd expect eventually the numbers would play out and something would come my way, yet it never seems to work out that way. Hell even my good rolls apparently end up fucked in the end.

With the return of the old baggage comes the old devils. While they've yet to manifest, I can smell their chummed waters already. And as with any addiction, it's not if, but when.


A long time coming

I've been meaning to write this for a while, but haven't managed to find the time in my normal pre-sleep time. A few weeks ago I managed to have my first orgasm post surgery. The mechanics aside, it was a an intense experience.

Outside the muscle and pleasurable aspects. While I was cleaning up and showering, I started to laugh, and cry, as this wave of mirth and contentment washed over me. There was just this ocean of warmth and relaxation that came in getting that weight and worry off me. I had been really anxious about not being able to orgasm since my previous attempts had been unfruitful. I'd started to think I was just broken, and doomed to a life of unfulfilled sex, and unfulfilled relationships. Sex, is, and was, a huge part of my life. It's always been the catalyst for the emotional intimacy that I crave. It's when I'm my most open and vulnerable, and sharing that mental space, with someone who is just as vulnerable, and connected with me, is, well, it's like no other feeling I have.

In the past, that love has always had a sideline of shame, of incongruence, dissonance, and disharmony. Sex was always like a musical chord with one note slightly out of tune. You got most of what you wanted to hear, but it wasn't right. It was that slight drizzle when you wanted pouring rain, the inch of snow when you wanted three to close down schools. I always got the sense that what I felt was..close enough to what it should be. But it never felt whole.

In that orgasm, I left behind all the surgery baggage. I've no regrets or worries about it anymore.

But also, in that orgasm, I left behind all the negative body shame and baggage that I've felt in every previous orgasm. That emotional self-disparaging wave of shame that always followed like the bad comic that always seems to open for your favorite act. Experiencing the bliss of an intense body orgasm, with no negative emotional baggage of shame or the normal self-loathing that I'd contained, and quartered, and carted off into their own little mental spaces, was..well..enough for me to cry tears of joy for the first time in my life. It was mind-shattering, and world shaping.

It's such a strange place to be in. I promised myself I'd rip open every ugly root of my experience that I didn't like. So far, so good.

The evening that followed said experience, was filled with good friends, and a party, that involved a good fifty people cheering, celebrating, and toasting, to my orgasm. It's a surreal moment that I don't think I'll ever forget. It was, fantastic, and awe inspiring.

It feels, weird to be happy again. Which, in itself is a sad statement. I'm glad to be where I am, not that I'm satisfied however.


Not even my final form.

It feels weird to be trans now. That might seem, like an odd statement, so let me explain.

For a long time I've distanced myself from the trans community because I felt ashamed of being trans. That, largely from terrible people teaching me it was something to be ashamed of, meant that being in the trans community meant facing my trans status. I acknowledged it, and dealt with it, but it was never celebrated. It was too painful to celebrate. I'm sure there's a post here from years ago where I can't imagine how or why anyone would celebrate or take pride in being trans. It felt like taking pride in being disfigured or injured, sure you can celebrate surviving it, but no one celebrates the fact that you are it.

That..feels different now. I know this is, sort of shitty of me to admit, but it feels much more acceptable for me to label myself trans, now that I don't have to deal with the worst aspect of it. Being post-op, I gain a great deal of privilege that most trans folk don't have to deal with. I no longer have to have "that conversation" with people about my genitals. I no longer have to stress out about if a person I'm into, is going to abandon me because my parts don't match what they're expecting.

I have this routine every time I shower. I get out, I dry off, and while I dry off my legs, I lean over and try to touch my toes. It feels nice as a stretch, and also, coincidentally puts me eye level at my parts. For years..YEARS this moment was filled with some combination of animosity, hatred, shame, loathing, or at best ambivalence. This routine continues now, but it's never filled with any of those feelings.

I look in the mirror, and think, is this the body I always wanted (mostly), is this how I wanted to look? This all seems like shit I should have thought about in Thailand, but to be honest so much of that time is spent in a hazy clusterfuck of healing and therapy and crazyness that you never get much downtime to just sit, and stare, and think about how insane it is to have something, you've dreamed about for the last 19 years. I get teary eyed if I stare at it, and this weird smirk, it's sad to me, that being comfortable in my body, in how it moves, and how it looks at different angles feels so foreign. I'm glad, but also sad that it took this long just to feel normal.

I feel like a trans ally now, rather than a member of the community. Do I have any right to carry that flag now that I don't have to deal with as many of the negative aspects of it? I suspect I do, but I'm not sure.

The other side of this, is I have this strange confidence and assuredness in expressing my sexuality that I never had before. It feels very strange, and okay to post nude photos without feeling disgust or shame. I find myself flirting more, and being a lot more open and expressive with my body and sexuality. I was always a very sexually drive person, I love that connection and intimacy that I have with people, but so much of it was bottled and restrained (really should be a bondage pun here) by dealing with the trans shame that it came out in (heh) small, isolated spurts. It was always a restrained confidence, one of first acts only, one I couldn't pursue in front of people, or at my own whim. It had to always be carefully planned and organized as to avoid being seen.

Now though, well, I'm no longer bound by that shame. I'm as light as the wind, as strong as the sea, and I won't be bound by any such small thing again.


A Eulogy for a Relationship

Fights come and go, as do partners. She came and got her stuff, without issue. The goodbye was a bit awkward and, for me, a bit sadly nonchalant. Though I'm the hopeless romantic of our pairing (and most to be honest). The week since has been mostly trouble free. A few down moments that get combined into messy balls of depression, but overall more just peaceful, calm, sadness, rather than outright heart ache or grieving loss that it used to be.

I think about her on occasion, which, is going to happen. I'm not beating myself up for that, as I did with prior relationships. There are times where I'm longing for something, and unsure what it is, that I think she becomes a focal point for a lot of things, simply out of familiarity. It's a longing for a relationship (I think), and that intimacy and connection that is no longer there. Not necessarily a longing for her, specifically.

That's all rehash though. Closing the book on that chapter does my heart good, for all the loss it brings. I promised myself I'd be ruthless this year in changing what I was unhappy with. I almost have to force myself to be selfish in doing what is right for me, rather than thinking of other people's needs and wants first. That is what ends up keeping me in places where I'm taken advantage of, or throwing away good emotional energy at a lost cause.

A few things did come up in processing all this though. On some level, a part of me is exceedingly angry that I put up with people who treat me like shit, or who refuse to take my feelings into consideration. I'm not quite sure why it is that I stick myself to people and give them chance after chance after chance to prove me wrong, when I know they only continue to disappoint me with their selfishness.

I should have ended things when she wouldn't compromise with me on our relationship boundaries. When it became a dictatorship, with only her needs being considered by her, it was over. Yet I stayed for another six months, watching it slowly deteriorate and rot from the inside thinking I could somehow save it. When really, neither one of us had the strength to just end things then and there.

I blame that on myself. For all my emotional strength, I fall into a trap of romance. I talk myself into doing emotionally irrational actions. I tell myself "but what if this is the last time I see her" or "what if I just needed to do this one thing to fix this". Despite the fact I know people don't change. It is just a part of me. The source of my sweetness and compassion is also the source of my idiocy and unperceptive stupor. Love blind in a true sense.

At this point, I deal with the loss, and the stray thoughts, and I move on with my life. As I've done with so many other relationships. There are many other opportunities for change I need to breach, and new folks to meet that are hopefully a bit more compatible. I have an idea of where I want my life to go, it's just a matter of getting there. And hopefully, managing to not destroy myself on the way.