Mescalin, It's the only way to fly

As the long term effects of dropping my medication comes to reality, the existence of reality starts to become flimsy to me. Let me clarify, My senses continue to function, I can reach out, touch, and all the synapses continue to fire as they normally would. However, there's a layer of distance or fog between everything that makes the synapse signal..unclear. Something about it all seems unreal.

I've managed to keep this in the realm of derealization and depersonalization so far. I fear the moment my mind starts to say, "well, if it isn't real, I can just make stuff up" and begin to hallucinate, that it will cross over into the realm of psychosis.

That in mind, Apparently, I avoid boredom at all cost. I recently found myself turning down things I felt I should and wanted to do, because it might end up in a situation where I would have nothing to do. Instead I opted to do something I thought would be more entertaining. I mad an active choice, that I knew would hurt someone's feelings, so I wouldn't be bored.

That, is an alarming realization for me. As it wasn't just boredom. I entertained the idea of engaging in said situation, if it involved playing more video games. Something I find I end up doing unconsciously. More and more I'm witnessing myself doing these things out of habit, or addiction, or compulsion. I don't realize I'm doing them, but I can't turn down the option of turning my brain off. Of putting it into a low grade hypnotic zone of focus. It's strange that when I play games, Half the time I am zoned out of what I'm playing, and retreating my mind to somewhere else, thinking of something else, while my body and lower brain functions play.

I relive the same idiotic two second Simpsons clip in my mind, over and over, for hours while killing monsters in Diablo. For, no real reason, that I can discern, other than the following.

Twenty years ago, I learned that the only way to deal with my trauma, was to ignore it. The best way to do such, was to turn my mind off, to zone out, to immerse myself so heavily into a different world, a world where I didn't have to deal with being trans, or being depressed, or alone, or battered, or humiliated. As long as I was playing games, I didn't have to think about all that, my goal was simple, Collect the thing, Rescue the person, Kill the bad guy, etc.

Do the thing, solve the problem. Clearly stated goal, clearly stated reward, do the action, get the result.

Fast forward, and here we are. Mired in the ambiguity of adulthood, where myriad reasons for job denial exist in vaguely stated emails, if they are even sent. Why? No reason. Why did you not get the thing? You'll never know, what can you do to adjust your performance to get the thing? You'll never know.

Adulthood is nothing but vague responses to questions you didn't ask. The coping mechanisms I developed en masse have no use here. So I have to make new ones, which, not only do I have to develop all over again, but I have to put to use on my current issues, as well as all the ones I never addressed growing up. I have to be both adult me now, taking care of myself, as well as who my parents should have been, to child me then, to repair the damage that was done and hopefully heal that trauma. It is, exhausting.

How does all that fit together, well it's easy to ignore that ugly growth in your neck if you never go to the doctor. As such, turning your mind off is an easy coping mechanism, and it's easy to slip back into rather than addressing anything that takes energy or effort.

I don't want to process through the years of rejection. I don't want to process through the years of isolation and abandonment. I don't want to process through the feelings of inadequacy.

There is no easy process for that, there is no reward in sight for doing such, there is no getting better, there is just understanding the puzzle, and knowing how and why it hurt you. There is no healing an ugly emotional scar.

So. Where do we go from here.



Again, I find myself attempting to jump start my creativity by writing in my traditional blog style. I have been neglecting it compared to how much and how often I used to write. Part of me worries that I've simply lost my touch with the craft. Maybe all the creativity was burned out of me long ago by disappointment and depression.

My best writing was done in my most low of places, and part of me worries that I won't be able to produce like that again unless I'm back in those depths. Writing is sort of what I've been latching onto as a hope for passion this past year or so, and I keep calling myself a writer, yet I haven't written anything in months. More so, I don't even know where to start writing. I've set out today to just sit down, and write, write anything, write crap, write amazing things, write for fun. Yet, I come to  a blank page yet again and I have nothing.

My lack of ideas and my ongoing addiction to escapsim seem to be correlated pretty positively. It seems the more I turn my mind off to what is going on around me, inside me, the less it's able to produce anything on it's own. Muscle metaphors not withstanding, is there anything left of it?

Perhaps what I'm missing is simple inspiration, I know there is a story I want to tell, but I don't know what it is, or how it unfolds. I know the things I like and enjoy, and want to incorporate, and I know no one else can tell the same story like I can, I guess the issue I'm having is that someone is asking me "then what happens", and my answer is always "I don't fucking know". Hell even having writers block (which maybe this is a form of, but not how I imagine it) would at least have me writing something, even if it's crap.


Faling asleep

I've been using these entries as a prompt to get me writing again. Lately, being the recent two weeks or so, I've found myself incredibly tired almost all the time. There's a number of factors, working a job for one, now, is draining some. I've also had to take variations in my typical medications. That, and the typical caffeine addiction. Even know, it's....what, 3pm-ish? And I feel like i could just lay me head down and pass out. Granted I did accidentally stay up later than I intended, but the sentiment is the same.

It echoes an existing fear and feeling I have that I'm sleeping through my life when I should be working on things. Mainly, writing. I feel like i have made no progress on it recently, and it's causing me some distress as I try and rationalize it. I'm also starting to notice just how unproductive and zoned out I get when I'm at home. I'd never really considered my escapism a problem, but now it may start to become one if I actively end up doing things I don't want to, simply out of habit.

Over-arching that however, is this ongoing sense of cloudy-ness. It feels like there is a slight haze between me and everything else that is making me feel weak. Like all of my sense are dulled, and I'm disassociating, but I'm still present and conscious. Maybe my body is, but my mind is being held here by the medications? I don't know.

There are all sorts of possible rationale for said feelings, but it's a long and boring list of things that are your typical stressors. I feel like citing my mental illness as a reason I have trouble managing the things most people can do normally is a cop out. It's something I have to deal with sure, but it's ...I donno, I feel like I should be able to do these things regardless.

On that line, part of me is worried that without the intensity of depression, that I can muster up the same prose and writing that I could before. There's a desperation that comes in that mind set that has always pushed me to write and express those feelings. Now that I'm medicated, I worry that push is gone, and I can't muster up the same talent. Maybe that's all just an excuse to not write, as after all it is easier to give up and say it is too hard than it is to continue through something.

As I write, even now, it feels like there's a drain at the bottom of me that is slowly leaking through all of my energy and willpower to do...well anything. Is that simply a decrease in dopamine reuptake? or is that my soul simply giving up on yet another passion in the face of my own mediocrity.

It just seems so easy to blame all of my apathy and exhaustion on mental illness and give up to escapsim. It feels so easy to just say I can't do X because of depression, and that feels authentic, so it's not like I'm using that to excuse my lazyness. I donno, sleeping just feels so much easier when you're tired.


retracing my roots

Seems like it has been forever since I've written, but I'm not sure there has been enough to be worth writing. The haze that I normally get from day to day is still there, and as my financial stress increases I find myself more apathetic towards everything. What's the point of doing anything after all if I don't enjoy it. I've been doing some introspection and reflection on what things were like as a child, and just how and when I began to feel so isolated and alone. I can remember telling my parents about not having any friends, despite having friends. I believe now that I meant that I did not feel connected to them, or anyone. When my mom tried to encourage me and help me by practicing social skills I backed away from the issue. Whether that's because she missed my point, or I felt she wasn't understanding me, I'm not sure.

What I do know, is that for as long as I can remember I've felt alone. There's a period of time where in I can be absorbed into another person. If I'm around other folk, I can sort of tune out of myself, and focus on them. I put on this facade of a person that Is like me, but not me. There's a large gap between that boundary and where I find myself when I'm alone. Somewhere in that gap, is where I find myself often these days. Adrift in that chasm unsure of what is real and what isn't. Is the facade myself, and I'm just asleep, am I behind the curtain and just hidden from view?

When I'm alone, I'm more honest with myself, or, authentic maybe. I don't feel like I'm having to put on a falsehood of health for lack of a better term. I feel free to frown and have my normal resting bitch face. I don't feel the pressure to be happy or be entertaining or compassionate or care about other people. I can focus on myself and being authentic to that.

To contrast, when I'm around close friends or family, I shut that part off from the rest of me. The two parts have been so separated for so long that I'm not sure how, or if possible, to merge the two together. Which leaves me feeling detached and disconnected to those who are closest to me. Not to say that without caveats, there's the possibility that this disconnected feeling is due to my current medication putting a dampener on my emotions, making everything feel more compressed than it would be normally. It cuts off the highs and lows, which is great when you have nothing but lows, but not as much when you're in periods of highs. So there's that possibility.

In discussing this with therapist I was asked if I can ever remember feeling deeply connected on both levels to someone. I do, but, it was in an abusive unhealthy relationship, that I had invested all of myself into. She was my reason for living, and when that ended I was broken for a long time. It's very possible that I'm still shielding myself from experiencing that pain again.

Which leads me down some interest thought trains. For one, maybe the only way I can feel deep emotional reactions and connections is through power exchange and putting someone before myself. I'm hesitant to call "deeply emotional reactions" love, but that's perhaps a more adequate phrasing for it. Though in using that, I feel it reduces my other relationships in status and significance, so I'll stick with the DER for now.

Does that then mean, I'm only capable of really feeling connected to myself on both levels if I give up control and put my faith in someone else? I know there is validation for me in that, and the feeling of being desired and accepted and as belonging to someone, as someone with value.

Or maybe that just means that is the only way I know of currently to connect both aspects of myself. Having the choice taken from me is much easier than trying to make the choice myself after all.

It's easier for me to worship someone, and have them ask me to better myself, than it is for me to push myself to do the same thing. Perhaps that comes down to not having any self value, or poor esteem from well, life. In valuing my own desires so low, it becomes harder to even do the things I want to do for myself.

Maybe that's another reason I enjoy masochism as much as I do, as it pushes that boundary between myself alone, and myself with others via physical pain until the facade comes down. It's the main reason I enjoy it, and the catharsis that I get from doing such things. I guess I just want that same sort of emotional connection out of other intense activities (i.e. sex).

But then, maybe I'm just stressed and overthinking things. I haven't had any real catharsis though in about six months, and the feeling of having emotional asphyxiation is starting to creep in.


Fuck mental illness.

I feel like I've been out of touch with a lot of my emotions lately. Maybe because I haven't written here but once in the last six months. I was out earlier today and saw something that cued a depressive wave. I'm not entirely sure why, maybe just the remembrance of it all.

I saw one of the TV dinners that are designed to appeal to kids, and that I used to eat all the time growing up. Something about that, and that image, just felt incredibly lonely and isolating. Which is how I felt a lot of my childhood. Just the toxicity of those awful meals, parallels a lot of the toxicity of my childhood. The neglect and isolation and the image that cooking prepared meals conjures in my mind.

And the knowledge that these things are still being made, that somewhere out there, is another poor girl who's being fed these things, and ignored and dismissed. It's, just heartbreaking.

It also strikes home in my current isolation and touch starvation. I find myself hypnotized and distracting into a blur of days. Without anything to really mark one day to the next, it all blends together into one haze of unproductive screen staring. Transitioning from computer to laptop to TV to laptop and back. I feel like my mind has been injected with Novocain. I can't seem to think straight, or focus on anything other than the fact that I should be doing something. I feel like most of my conscious mind has gone into hibernation and everything is on autopilot. Even now, writing this, I'm not consciously thinking about the words, I'm just letting the stream of thoughts flow. There's no analysis, there's no cognition there, it's just...flow.

I know some of this is likely disassociation in some form, where I tune out everything because it's uncomfortable to be here. The world is an extremely uncomfortable place right now. It's so much easier to stay in bed and sleep for 12-14 hours. I do my Yoga, which helps, but it doesn't make me feel awake.

I want to say this is depression sneaking back in, as it has all the normal signs of it. But, if it is, despite the medications, I'm wondering just what I can do about it. There's just this wellspring of despair that rushes out of me like a geyser that I can't really place most of the time. It's the feeling of heartbreak, but I'm not sure over what. Outside of past injuries or just straight loneliness. And amidst those sobbing spells, the old familiar comes strutting back into my mind like an abusive lover. After those thoughts, it's never quite a question as to why my natural instinct is to constantly busy myself with tasks. Still, as much as I want to focus on my writing, or my guitar playing, or anything else, it all comes back to a feeling of emptiness.

It's not too surprising that someone who was neglected and dismissed as a child would feel uncomfortable on her own, and essentially alone for long periods of time. That instinct has always been clear, but having it then embellished, ripped apart and torn open by an abusive relationship there after just makes things worse. Not only can I not function on my own for periods, but then I also keep people at an emotional distance because the last time I really opened myself up to love someone they shattered me with their carelessness, selfishness and stupidity.

I'm really beginning to loath mental illness.



Looking back,  2015 was a year of healing, of growth, of change. Yet, 2016 felt very much like a year of stagnation and death, and depression. I don't mean in notable deaths, but in that it started off with a break up, that I didn't see coming. Followed by the death of a grandmother I shared no love for, but that affected my mother deeply. Then, just, nothing. I worked, until I didn't. I dated, until I didn't. I coped, until I didn't. And now, that period is over.

It feels in some way that the past year has been one long hang over from the radicalism that was 2015 and the change I accomplished then. But now, I'm anxious to get started again. Not that, I feel I have the emotional strength or tolerance to be on the front lines of the upcoming war against fascism. I used to, but part of this is accepting my limitations in terms of mental disability. Fighting a war does me no good if it makes me want to kill myself.

But, it does me continuing to rip down the walls that are put up around me, by family, by society, and by anyone else. I've already got ideas on where to start, it's just a matter of having that conversation with people. No one likes hearing they're enabling or participating in a regime.

One of the other aspects I've been thinking about is how different I feel as I enter my thirties. I find myself letting go of the social fears that plagued me for years. It's a complacency that I think comes with the constant rejection one faces being trans. You get used to being alone, to being unwanted. It's disappointing, it always is, but, you start to become numb to it. Callused, even. But also, more secure in who you are.

The main villain I face now seems to be the ennui and dread that comes with having nothing to do. The torture of having endless choice but no real inclination as to which way to go. 

I find I take peaks at the old wounds underneath age old bandages. Yet, I don't dwell on them as much as I used to in years past. The time it takes me to heal seems to be decreasing and that feels good.

Yet, as I feel better and secure in this boat I call existence, I find I still have no real compass to navigate my destination. Only the lost hopes of stars that I continue to grasp at for fun.

The lows are there, of course, they are always there. But, they don't seem as deep as they used to be. At times like this I feel calm, relaxed, and just adrift. Let's get started with this year, and see what we can build.


My Handwriting.

I wish I wrote about being happy. I wish I wrote about how great and fantastic my life is. How wonderful and fulfilled I am in all my adventures.

I don't write about that. I don't get that life. So I write about what I am, and what this life is like. I write about how hollow I feel, how I subtly hate everyone I know who has things I want, but can't seem to ever get.

I write about I feel restricted in talking about my suicidal thoughts because of how much people worry.

I write about how I think out scenarios that will end the pain of life as fast as possible, and then don't act on them.

I write about crying, alone, in a house that I once came to think I could love, with subjects of such imagined devotion sleeping on the floor beneath me. I write about running out of sushi restaurants because the femme lesbian couple sitting behind me represents everything I could have ever possible wanted, to be, and to have, but never will.

I write about being unemployed again, and having the mere idea of a job or career I might enjoy being ripped away from me on the basis of "qualifications". I write about the obscenity and snake oil that is a college degree, and how pointless and useless it is.

I write about how I feel guilty for simply asking people to respond in a timely manner, for fear of being a nuisance to them. I write about having to go above and beyond what people expect for fear that any misstep will see me rejected in favor of someone not trans. I write about how I have to downplay my expectations, and forgive people who take advantage of me. I write about having to give and give, while taking nothing, because trans gals get held hostage by their loneliness.

I write about how the only validation I can seem to find in this miserable life is through the physical affection and connection to other people. About how that need goes unfulfilled constantly. A validation that has me crawling towards twenty different people who can between them maybe find time to care about me once every six weeks or so. I write about being a second class citizen, and an invalid. An other, an undesirable, and a reject incarnate.

I write about I'm a modern slave, with no real choice in anything. If your options are starve, or not starve, that's not a real choice is it.

This depression, is crippling. The grief, is too much to bear. The isolation and void, has such immense gravity it seeks to consume me.

I'm taking a plane to see my family tomorrow. I sincerely, hope it crashes on the way. At last would spare me the indignity of not having the courage of my convictions.