Beach House

It's hard to describe the emotions that come into this. I feel forced, and yet writing is seemingly the only way I can process things. I've been extremely low and suicidal lately. Mostly due to the ongoing feelings of being trapped and hopeless. The cyclical nature of my life becoming more evident, and feeling like nothing ever changes. Since I've moved here, I've bounced around jobs but never really landed a "career" or anything resembling job security. I've pushed my wage up, but the most I've ever made is still well below the area's median average. While it's a small point of pride that I can live on 17/hr, it's not comfortable living. It's certainly betraying what my skills and qualifications should be garnering. Of course, people who are hiring folks with my skills, don't want to hire people who look like me. They want cis folk, they want people who will fall in line and do all that 110% company life bullshit. That isn't me, but then I'm not asking for 100K a year.

The most depressing part is watching people in my same position, who are less qualified, get better opportunities because they "interview well" despite admitting to me lieing in their interviews, and other bullshit and questionable behavior that would get someone like me even more disqualified.

Being trans inherently means I have to work four times as hard as anyone else to get the same thing, and I just don't have the energy or mental capacity to do that. So I bounce around from temp job to temp job, struggling to get by, and watch as the money I've saved gets eroded away by months of unemployment.

Which, wouldn't be so bad if I felt like I was making some sort of progress towards anything. My relationship also has parallels of running the same course as my last one. The same anxiety/depression pairing where I get pushed into a nurture role that I'm not enjoying, but get stuck being in because, as with jobs, being trans means it's 2x as long to find an interested romantic partner.

Suffice to summarize, everything is incredible difficult, and I see no way to change any of that, or create or produce anything of meaning. So I wake up and I sit on the couch and I just ...waste. Time, money, energy, it all just gets wasted as I sit in this room, and just exist waiting for something dire to happen.

my heart aches for some sort of raison d'être, and everything feels pointless until I find it. I thought it was writing, I thought it was music, but so far the only thing I excel at is self delusion, suicidal tendencies, escapism and compartmentalization of my emotions. 

Everything in my experience of this world is so atrociously mediocre or short that I can't wait to pass onto some new existence. 

I often dream up a character who routinely kills themselves only to end up trapped in the same room over and over again in a sort of purgatory hellscape. It isn't intentionally auto-biographical, but that feels very humbly stupid and imperceptive of me. If I knew I would end up right back here, why would I even bother killing myself. The whole point is to get out of this bullshit.

I've no hope or options, but to just numb the pain away and continue on until I hopefully get hit by a truck.