I've had this blog since 2008. 13 years almost. I've neglected it in the last few though as it became easier to escape and avoid the things that were getting to me. Easier to not deal with the negativity and the creeping dread. The pandemic, the politics, the relationships, the lack of any real sort of fulfillment, the impending sense of foreboding, and the complete sense of helplessness. Why would you want to look into that. Why tap into your own unending fountain of suffering.
Honestly, I was content to not write anymore. Only on the suggestion of my therapist am I here again. Masks off I guess.
So where do we begin? I'm trying to ignore the voices, the whispers that ask if anyone cares, if anyone will notice or bother. Because whether anyone does or not isn't the point. The point is not the response, the point is the asking of the question.
Where do we begin? How do I feel? I feel numb. I have suicidal thoughts, and I fantasize about shooting myself. I have no plans to do such, but the desire is there. I find myself watching anime and feeling like I'm wasting my life. I talk to my therapist and we rehash the same conversations and nothing ever changes. I wake up, I go to work, I go to bed. We repeat. One day I'll die and my last words will probably be "fucking finally".
I think about what all of this is for, what I'm supposed to be doing, what I want to do, and it's just empty. My brother has things he's passionate about, his music, his kids (I assume), and I look around and there's just..circuses and distractions. Things to occupy my mind so that it doesn't think about what's going on, or how I feel, or how empty everything is, just, waiting to consume the next thing.
I'm on the wrong side of 30. And, reading back to 2014, I can say that my anger at being trans has diminished a lot. It's not something that I actively grieve as much. I've largely made peace with it I think. The surgery helped a lot in that regard. I don't feel attractive, and I don't think I'll ever be so. But, I've accepted that. It makes dating hard, but as we've seen, I'm used to being alone. It isn't desirable, but it is at least routine.
I feel suicidal because my life is needless suffering. It's needless because my life has no purpose. I've tried to ascribe some point to it, to try and create something, to try and say something, to scream into the void of anyone who would listen, but I can't form sentences. I get so paralyzed at the idea that someone might be listening that I freeze and go non-verbal anytime I'm emotional. So raw and sensitive am I to the idea that I might actually be seen that I shut down out of fear that I might reveal something. A lifetime of hiding will do that. Hiding who was I was, what I wanted, how I felt. Hiding everything under the guise of performative masculinity and fear. Convincing myself that I would never be perfect and so there was no point in trying. Since there was no point in trying, the only other option was suicide. Thinking, back in 2008. Holding that razer to my wrist, have the last 13 years been worth it, or do I regret not killing myself then. Or hell, back in 2000. If you asked me, given the chance, if I had the option to go back and make those attempts successful, would I? Probably.
It isn't that things haven't gotten better since then. They have, objectively, I'm in a better place all around than I was then. Its more that, it still all feels so meaningless, and I still don't place much value on my life. I don't hope for better things, because better things don't happen. Will I have good days, sure, I'm sure I'll a few really good days before the end of my life, but I know by far those will be outnumbered by awful days. And dwarfed by the sheer endless numbers of pointless, meaningless, meandering nothing days. Pointless weeks on end of doing pointless capitalist busy work peaking from weekend to weekend in the hopes that one of three people in my life might be free to do something interesting.
I feel like I've become a non-player Character in my own life. A passenger without agency to say where and how it goes. And even when someone does ask me what I would do with my own story, I have no answers. The things I would do, are closed off from me, by me.
I say I want a voice, I want to say things, to express things, and every time I try I find my nothing comes. I try to create a song but I can't hear it. I try to create a world but I can't see it. I'd long ago given up any attempts at finding success with a voice, the goal was simply to speak for the first time. But I can't even do that.
Maybe that's the true irony of being cursed. I can transition to be a woman, but I'll still never be able to create anything in exchange. Be it life or art. But I can suffer for it all the same. Someone remind why I don't kill myself again.
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