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.


No win scenario

I honestly don't know what's wrong anymore. It felt like for about six months now that the medication was really helping. Now though, it feels like I stopped taking it, even while I continue my normal dosages. Perhaps my system has adjusted, but I wouldn't think it was have such drastic effects.

I know, I could be doing more to help it out. I've struggled to get my body moving again, the yoga and exercise I had been doing so regularly is now a monumental struggle. I haven't written anything in months either. Both are things I thought generally helped me feel productive, and helped my mood, but lately I haven't had either the energy, motivation, believe in, and capacity to do.

The time I spend alone, I find myself wincing through as if in constant physical pain. I've lost the enjoyment of nearly all the things I used to enjoy, and I flutter from distraction to distraction as soon as possible much to the chagrin of my wallet. I've basically come up with any excuse possible to stop going into the office because there's no point in doing so.

My negative self talk is constant, and the violent visions and fantasies have crept back in. I am cognizant that these aren't normal, aren't reasonable, and aren't healthy, but you can only tune out the background radiation of self-loathing for so long before you believe it.

Every now and then I will feel a sense of conflict over it, and an urge to fight back, but it feels a bit like seeing someone else's arm plunging into the water as you drown some hundred meters down. You could, if you chose, make an effort to reach back, but you're so far gone there's no point in wasting the energy. Easier to just let it all go and stop fighting it.

And I am so so tired of fighting it.



Friday felt okay. I did things I enjoyed, even if they weren't strictly social. I avoided doing the things I said I would do though. Laundry went undone, yoga went undone. I stayed up until I couldn't stand being awake, and then I slept.

Saturday, I woke up, I played a few games, and then I slept more. I slept for hours. I woke again, dreading the fun plans I had made for myself. I didn't want to go out. I didn't want to do anything. I barely managed to make myself do laundry, and couldn't force myself to do yoga. I dived into more distractions to avoid dealing with things.

I messaged apologies to the people who were depending on me. The people who wanted to see me, who invited me to things, who wasted tickets on me. Hopefully they understand.

Sunday came, and I slept more. I forced myself out, to get dressed and forced nutrients into my body. I went out to a soccer game, and felt my own face curl into a frown as I watched things trigger me from the inside out. I watched as a cute lesbian couple became the sole obsession of my focus and jealousy. As they stole my vision away from the entertainment. I could feel my face curling into a frown as I heard those old voices slowly reversing their echo into my brain. I pushed my face back to normal in fear someone would see my expression.

It's not clear to me when the depression seeped back into me. But It's clear it's here again. I remember being triggered by similar imagery years ago. Seeing happy couples used to be something I had to avoid. It seems it's again going to start being a point of contention anytime I see people expressing their love for one another. Some, apparent, privilege I don't seem to have.

I'm not sure what makes me feel worse, the fact that this is still an issue for me, or the fact that I'm still here, purging negative emotions into an empty canvass for what seems like the 20,000th time, expecting it to change anything. Reason says to be patient and optimistic, but experience says to give it up and surrender.

And now, to start another pointless week, of waiting, of hoping, of being disappointed, of regretting that I've yet spent another one in this miserable experience. I've begun the process of removing myself from places I don't feel are beneficial (poly groups that end up being circle jerks of privileged folks congratulating each other how great their lives are). We'll see if anything else ends up going out with the bath water.


Intimacy and Vulnerability

This past week saw yet another tidal low. Sparked by the ongoing isolation and lack of progress in life. The general feeling of stagnation has always been a triggering point for my lows.

The one positive thing to come out of this low however, is an ongoing discussion about what I desire in said times, and what my hang ups around intimacy might be.

Working with my most recent ex, and still good friend, to talk through the depths of the depression, it was asked what it was I needed. The loneliness sparks depression, and one of the best salves for it is physical touch, and closeness. It's why I typically so often go to visit friends in a low. But for all of emotional intimacy that I share with them, it doesn't feel as valid or intense, as it does with a romantic partner.

I feel a more intense and cathartic connection with my ex, than I do with my best friends for the past two or so years. Despite the fact that we only dated for maybe two months.

I get ahead of myself though. The things I need in a depression are physical closeness, to be heard, to seen/acknowledged/witnessed, emotional closeness/intimacy, and reassurance.

I can get a variation of all of these with good friends. But only with romantic partners do I feel like I get all of them. It illustrates why I pine for partners so hard, and why I'm so reluctant to let them go even when it's for the best.

So what can I only get in a romantic relationship? Well, the key difference being the physical connection, be it sex, or kink, paired with the emotional. There's a vulnerability there that is accepted and seen that isn't present in a friendship that doesn't share that. It's a physical manifestation of the emotional connection, the pairing and truely seeing of one another, in a physical bond, that I don't typically get within a friendship. I don't feel seen in the same way. My friends are my allies, but I don't feel vulnerable to them.

Which, also paints to why I typically don't enjoy physical connections that don't have an emotional aspect. Casual sex and pick up play have always felt hollow for lacking that emotional context. I can enjoy the physical sensations, but at the end of the day, my emotional center isn't attached.

This, is where things get interesting.

There are two things that I want to discuss in relation to that statement. The first, is that then, a simple explanation of demisexuality? Do I feel that experience, as a manifestation of my sexual style as demi? Or, have I ascribed a label to my particular brand of fucked up sexuality, that just happens to fit perfectly?

The latter, which blends into the reason of the first, my fucked up sexuality/body to mind connection:

I probing why I have a split between body and emotional and mental center, it seems to make sense that after spending so many years detaching who I was from my body, things I enjoyed from my body, things I took pleasure in, from my body, that things that directed pleasure from my body aren't inherently wired back into those same pleasure centers in my mind or emotions.

That is to say, I can reconnect them from the mind, to the body, but the reverse isn't true. It explains why I have a hard time finding people attractive until I know them better. I wasn't sure about my ex at first meeting, but six weeks later and I'm staring at her in a coffee shop like a sixteen year old girl wrapped around her finger. It literally alters my perception of people. That, is incredibly shocking to me.

But it also explains why, once an emotional connection is in place, having the physical connection is so fulfilling and cathartic to me. It's so rare and so historically unknown to my body, that any physical intimacy is incredible. That feeling of vulnerability and of being truely seen and appreciated and loved both emotionally and physically, erases a lot of the baggage and bullshit I've built up over the years.

When asked, how I might begin to provide that need for myself. I had no answers. I did know why I couldn't however, and that's because of the long ongoing war I have with my body. There is a bitterness, a resentment, and an animosity I have towards it that prevents me from feeling truely compassionate towards myself. You can't be close or love someone you dislike. You can't feel compassion and resentment at the same time.


Oh, right.

I seem to have stumbled back into the midst of my depression out of nowhere. I have trouble focusing on anything that isn't an immediate distraction. The isolation is pretty chilling, and I find myself reaching out to connect to people for emotional intimacy, only to find them not reaching out in kind. I can't blame them, people have their own lives to lead and such.

This among the ongoing light being shined onto trans folk around the nation, and seeing how hated and feared we are as people.

Along with the ongoing existential dread of realizing that my generation has no real economic or environmental future to speak of, and there just doesn't seem to be a lot of reason to exist at the moment.

I feel alone, and hated, and discouraged. The lack of romantic interest, and the feeling of being unwanted compound into a general hopelessness of ever being emotionally or sexually satisfied. Meanwhile I sit and watch every cisgender person I know entertain multiple offers from multiple people, while everyone claims to open to dating trans folk.

Maybe I'm just a terrible person to be around, or maybe I am as ugly as I think I am. Either way it doesn't change the end results.

I just, never could find much of a point to this, and now more than ever there seems to be less of a reason to continue putting up with it.