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.