A great part of me wants to attribute this to the unfulfilled aspects of my life. Not that I don't have goals, both long and short, but, it all just seems so meaningless and arbitrary. I'm learning French because I want to, and while I' can find enjoyment in that, it is a shallow one. It exists because I want it to, and not at all within itself.
What does one strive for when one's needs and pains are remedied. These goals are nice, but, feel arbitrary and self imposed (likely as they are). Commendable, sure, but I can't take them to the bank, so to speak.
Why do I feel so, pointless in my endeavors? I have friends, great friends. I have a lovely partner, but, at the end of the day when everyone is asleep, I still lie awake at night with longing for something greater.
I...understand..that these dreams of grandeur, are likely the last grasps of the dieing breath of my hopes for a better life. I'm not sure what to think of that sentiment. Part of it seems realistic, and the childish remnants sees it as fatalstic romance. That last bead that if I would only strive for and put my entire energy towards, could make work into some sort of epiphany of a dream for a one way ticket into a better life/higher class/fantasy land.
All my life I've made pragmatic choices. It's a side effect of being given a shit predisposition of choices in life. When all your options are shit, you tend to become realistic, and play for what you can achieve. Having dreams is a side quest to pain, disappointment, and a quick slap in the face from the realities of the world. Now that my pragmatism has played out as it can, I'm out of realistic options, as it were. Everything is my life is, satisfactory. Not fantastic, not great, but acceptable.
The question then, is where do I go from here. Do I accept the realistic options of mediocrity that is my life as is? As, difficult as it might seem, there is solidarity in accepting the fatalism that is the majority of us. Most people go through their lives with unfulfilled desires, knowing that they can't achieve what the want. It seems, at least, progressive and mature to accept that I am as most are, and mediocre at best. That, jives, so to speak, with my mentality.
The, downside, of course, is the sheer depression and sadness that comes with knowing how futile, pointless, and meaningless your life has come to summarize in the vast expanse that is the time you've spent on this planet. Life, is an extravagantly, and a fantastically expensive long time. Most of which is spent doing vast quantities of unremarkable task for no reason. Leading one to question what the point is, if not for something fantastic.
Which all points to the issues of cognitive dissonance. A person has to maintain two separate countering ideas, while attempting to balance the two, or at least, remain ignorant of one. In the one, that life has to worth something, else it isn't worth anything. In the other, the realistic notion that there are seven billion people in the world, half of which are infinitely more qualified to be worth more than you at any given task (statistically).
So does one accept ones own mediocrity, or does one strive for what one will inevitably likely never achieve (at least, by my age standards)? If one opts to accept, how does one then rationalize that depressing, and truthful fact of self-obsolescence.
In the past, I've had people say they couldn't (or wouldn't) be with me because of my depression, or the roots it has in some of my dysmorphia and anger/frustration at my situation. I understand that it may be unappealing, or hurtful to you, but it is a completely unfair claim to use it as the reasoning to not be with me. Just as claiming my trans status is an unfair bullshit claim, my depression is as well.
Imagine telling someone you couldn't be with them because they had panic attacks, or were had epileptic seizures at times. How abelist and unfair is that statement to make.
The depression, doesn't sit with me, all the time. It's a small voice that whispers in your ears when you're aren't busy, the tiniest of voices that points out all the bad things, all the wrong things you did, or that were done. It points out the flaws, the makes wild accusations about how they are linked. It draws paranoid conclusions about how that one thing you did, has connections to this other, unrelated thing, and how it all really is your fault. It whispers, softly, that everything you know is a lie, that it is wrong, its bad, its shit, and terrible. It tells you that this is a pattern, that you've always felt this way, that you're entire life has been this way, bad, shit, terrible, and that it will always be this way. It tells you over and over how this is all there is, and how there is no meaning to it. It tells you the universe is pointless, and that with no point, you're just suffering in a shit world, and that really, suicide is the only way out, an act of mercy and kindness in a world of shit, that will be shit, and has been shit, and will be as such forevermore.
It never stops. You just lean to adjust to it. Sometimes you forget about it, and tune it out. Sometimes it shouts at you, and it yells painfully into your ear.
You learn to compensate around it, as humans do. You pull a shroud around yourself to block out everything, both the good and the bad, as, well as long as it keeps the shit out, its better than not. And then someone leaves you, because in the middle of all this, they don't feel loved, or, they can't handle you, or, any myriad of other excuses. And you can't help but wonder, why they can't smell all this shit, why don't they see it?
That's what its like in here. That's what depression is. You can't control the voices, you just have different periods of attenuation to it. Somedays you can tune it out with amazing other experiences, others not, but there is no getting rid of it. There is no escape from it. You just, hope to more good days than not.
Then, of course, there is a now renewed desire to start cutting again. Which, while I debated heavily last night is still yet to happen for various reasons. I'm still not quite sure what my plans are on that front. Part of me feels I need the emotional release and control that it would bring, but another doesn't want to go back down that alley, and the last few times that I have decided to, haven't been that great at granted said desires, or rewarded. So, it is, as of yet, undecided. The desire, however, remains.
The poly problems, which more or less started this week, revolve around the hurt from people being careless with my emotions. I felt hurt, obviously, mainly dealing with the fact that in a time designed to be spent with my primary partner, after being left with nothing to do for a bit, opted to visit her new flame for what was intending to be a 4 hour jaunt. This then turned into an all day/night thing.
Thus not knowing when she would be back, and not really having anything to do on my own, resulted in a wasted Friday being spent watching Star Trek. I don't mind these things on a normal weekday, they are routine in their acceptability, but not my ideal way of spending one of the few days that I have time in which to do things.
I'm not upset at her having a new flame, I've encouraged it as there are aspects of our relationship that are unfulfilled, and I don't wish for her to be stuck without them. However I felt somewhat used, more as a closet and maid, than for any possible sexual reason. When the time meant to be spent together is then used to spend time with someone else. The word abandoned was mentioned, but that feels more extreme than I want it to. I don't worry that the relationship is over, or that I'll be neglected like my last relationship, which I think would be more akin to the meaning of the word. There was however a deep sense of isolation, disappointment, and hurt. Along with speckles of betrayal. Not in the "Et Tu brutus" sort of sense, but more in a being lied to sort of way, even if unintentional.
To compound on that sentiment, acting in either my masochism or plain idiocy, I opted to discuss, in vague terms, what was going on with my ex (I prefer to keep her at best, a few arms lengths away from my emotionality). This, predictably, didn't end well (in case you wondered why). In short, my venting was taken as an opportunity to critique my character and boast, albeit unintentionally, about her own situation. I'm starting to find that interactions with her end more and more with "oh fuck you". At which point it's probably not a good idea to continue conversing with her.
In the midst of the night, while feeling the plethora of shit cocktail, the friends and other partners that I did try to confide in either weren't intimately acquainted enough to feel comfortable properly conveying my emotions, or were too busy to deal with me. Which, inevitably ended up with my feeling even worse, both for annoying/pestering them, and for my continued exacerbated isolation.
I worry about being too isolated because it is in such that the worse thoughts come to bear. The suicidal and violent thoughts that I may often have but don't give much credence to come back stronger and magnified in isolation, especially when predisposed to a negative mood. I do not like being tempted/teased in this regard, I find it dangerous and unhealthy. I've no outright objection to the thoughts, but I dislike the idea of being in between them. Such, I suppose, is the curse of being a fatalist, however. I want things to happen, one way or the other, not be stuck in some half-assed half-state somewhere in between. A fitting parallel for my life, in fact.
I write this now, in the late morning trying to wrap my head around things and figure out how I feel, and what I can do to lift this veil of depression. She has apologized and I accepted it, but that doesn't repair the hurt that I feel. I'm trying, but I still can't help but feel somewhat displaced and offput by things. I'm trying hard to restrain from feeling bitter, jaded, and cynical. Though the struggle continues to be pervasive. I find myself wanting to lash out and say hurtful things, but, I've yet to sink into that much self-loathing.
One cannot claim to be graceful if it shreds at the first sign of an ill fitted environment. Grace under fire is my definition of the word. This may though, by the most extreme test of said quality to date.
This whole idea of a wake, is a bit trying for me. It makes sense to me, but at the same time, these people who are there to try and help me move through the grieving process can't possible know what that aspect is or who or how it would have been different. How do I reconcile that while trying to take it for what it is, am I in any better a position to say that any one story would have been different or any other given way? Does any story necessarily have to be as I say it is? I don't think so.
If I'm going to try and get through this, then it's going to take a willingness on my part to believe in what that life could have been. Perhaps the stories are just as real as any other, who am I to say that anything would or wouldn't have happened had I not been born trans. They are more just stories of a different dimension, and that doesn't invalidate them. In this dimension, I'm disfigured in comparison, from who I was in what In that existence. I've been cursed with said knowledge of that existence and of the potentiality that existed in not being disfigured.
My original hope was to get to a point where being trans didn't matter. But, I feel, lately, that it will always matter. I'll always be underprivileged and devalued for my trans status, even post surgery. It's coming to terms with the acceptance of that, and the anger, frustration, depression, and sadness that comes from knowing that through no action of your own, you've been branded with a disfigurement. (note, that I'm using that as a term to indicate a physical deformation from an original, not to exaggerate the supposed lack of attraction).
Which, raises the question, do other minorities feel the same anger of their lack f privilege and hardships, or is it something unique to the trans spectrum do to the proximity of being cisgender? My inkling is that the anger is more due to the reasoning, if there was a reason, or a way to identify how it happened, it may at least make sense. Children of racial minorities have no real genetic chance of being non-minorities. There is yet to be any strong genetic reasoning for trans people, thus it feels like a random curse to be afflicted with, and prompts a response of unjustification and outrage.
There is no rhyme or reason and thus it doesn't make sense. If there's no reason, then why should I have to suffer? There in lies the issue. One cannot look beyond a reason one doesn't understand.
While I can try to rationalize how an elephant got into my house, I'll never know really. So now then I have to adjust and mourn and process without ever really knowing how or why. There is no closure in a process that has no purpose or beginning. So, then, how does one find closure in being a random victim to a curse.
That in, is the purpose of the whole event. I guess the real question is how will this go. How do you provide closure for being cursed, and let go of what was that life, the other dimensions, or the realm of possibilities that had existed.
I'm so fucking tired of everything being ruined. No matter what it is it seems to be just an endless process of patching things. I acquire nice things, they break, get worn out, stolen, ripped, stained, or some other how ruined, and I then have to go about and maintain them. Thus is with my clothes, is also in my life. Ever just patching holes on a ship to weather the storm, never bothering to change course or properly fixing parts.
This sensation thus culminated in having my laptop stolen this past weekend, along with about seven years of my life and a countless amount of private and pertinent information should they wish to pillage it.
I'm just so fucking sick of having to fix everything. It feels like nothing is ever just working properly. Even this stupid software is making me rewrite this, with less poignancy and flow than the original, and I'm just sick to death of it all.
I'm sick of feeling nothing but rage and numb muted pragmatism. I chose this option as it was objectively better in minor way X. There's never a decent emotional response to sway me one way or the other, and I'm so veyr tired of asking myself what I have to gain by a particular action. I want something that strikes me straight in the chest and makes me scream yes! I want to feel something so clearly, so defiantly that there is no possibly way I can sit on my ass and consider the pros and cons.
I'm tired of middle ground, logical compromised bargains. I'm tired of good enough and make due. I want something to make me feel alive, for once.
The current plan of holding a wake is the best thing I can come up with for some sense of closure. I don't want to do it, but feel I have to. The whole thing makes me feel embarassed, ashamed, silly, and self absorbed. But, so far, its the best way I can think of to give some sort of closure to the matter.
What am I doing. This seems to be the question I find myself asking over and over and over again. No matter what I end up doing I never seem to find any sort of semblance or respite that says, "yes, this is what you should be doing with your life". This, then, causes some significant depression because everything seems to be the same. I feel no great emotional sway towards any one direction. The abivilance and drunken wanderings I committ to my person are largely from a lack of any feedback on what I'm doing. It all seems muted and desaturated. The reason for this, and how to get around it has been something I've been working on for a good while.
The recent idea, is that the greif and process of my dealing with my being trans, has sucked the emotional life out of me. That is, until that grief is dealt with in its entirety, that all of my emotional strength and direction is put into dealing with that. In other words all of my strength is put into holding myself together, and while I'm doing such I can't much look outside to see where to go.
I've no idea how to accomplish that task. While I deal with my trans issues, and the massive amounts of anger that comes with it, I don't know how to vent that without destroying myself in the process. In that same token, even during bouts of emotional relapse, I keep people at bay from really allowing myself to grieve. I believe this is done partly to as to avoid having them be unloaded upon, but also to prevent myself from going to an emotional extreme, along with large swaths of insecurity and not trusting people.
The thought is that then, if I can get that far, possible find a way to vent that, I'll be happier and less self-structure focused, along with being able to find some direction in which to take my life. More of an ability to find my dreams and accomplish them. This versus the current which is endless distraction and emotional numbing from the emotional muscle-cringing process of holding a knife to one's self to make sure you don't fall apart.
That said, I find myself hungering for something, but I don't know what it is. Some sort of passion, and for some reason I just can't seem to find it. Part of this can (and likely is) due to my recurrent and stealthy depression sneaking into to fuck with my head. Still, it is unnerving.
I knew things were bad when I started wishing I'd get cancer. Being hit by a bus is an old favorite, but it lacks the emotional sympathy you get with the big C. At least then I'd have a few months to piddle around and enjoy life, then just let go. That doesn't't seem so bad. The bus, while immediate, lacks in the ability to let go. Still, it makes up for it in not dragging out the inevitable. There's always the old bridge jump, or razors, but, that requires far too much courage on my end. I'be always been one for the cowards way out.
This update comes as a bit of a surprise to most, and myself as well, as things have been fairly rosy. Well, rose-like, anyway. I have some wonderful friends, and a fantastic partner, but something is still missing, and I grow very very weary of the cycle. There simply has to be more to life than this, I just can't seem to comprehend or accept that this is what my life is now; a never ending routine of short-changing my life for chump change so I can pay money to people who supposedly allow me to live. What a waste this life, and lifestyle is. It's a cycle based entirely on consumption, greed, and profiteering of those who have most.
I know that is a bit vague, so let me elaborate. I go to work, and waste 2/3 of my life doing this, things I don't enjoy, don't want to do, and have no interest in doing, in exchange for money. That exchange short changes me of both deserved wages, and life experience (things I could have otherwise spent my life doing). I then have to spend that money on things I have no choice on, such as rent, or food. How people don't see this as slavery, I can't understand. You're not free, if you have to work in exchange for your life. Food and shelter are biological needs, yet I have to work in order to secure them? What madness and injustice every decided that was a suitable or acceptable way to live. Yet because you give people the illusion of choice, drug them with sweets and anti-depressants and they suddenly forget. Anything to forget if not just for a little while.
And that is where I find myself now. I work, I run home on the brink of tears to plug myself into a digital life where I can escape into something interesting, entertaining, and acceptable. I then unplug, sleep, and repeat. Anything to forget the madness that is the majority of my life. I dream hourly of quitting, of doing anything else, fuck, even Porn would at least provide me with something I do of my own volition and choice.
Given that scenario, you can see why Cancer seems a desirable option, it's an out that allows me to not care, to not work, to not be a slave. I can do what I want, and when asked why I get this maddening privilege, I can spout with a smug sense of pride "Oh, well I have cancer so". How fucking ridiculously absurd that only when a person has cancer are the deemed acceptable to do what they wish. This is why I game endlessly, because not doing so requires me to look at what my life has become in the eyes, and I can't bear that shame, let alone look it straight in those giant avian eyes that seem to stare straight through me. The worst part of this, is that I did it to myself. In my fear of making mistakes I opted for a half measure that enshrined my misery through inaction. And now, here, now, this instant, I'm paralyzed once again. Taking current temporary security for long term sanity, enjoyment, and satisfaction in my life.
The fact that I haven't collapsed into a mental breakdown of anxiety, fear, and an unfathomable unstoppable rage at my life and the great and fundamental injustice done to me in my existence, if a god damn miracle.