Post Op Frustrations

I'm less than two weeks out of my surgery. It feels like years, I feel like years ago that I was dealing with the withdraw from morphine and caffeine and shitty hospital food. There is this mood of frustration and anger and depression and unmotivation. A lot of the rage is based in, and found around my trans status, having a vagina now, makes me face a lot of the maintenance hassle of having to deal with something now, for the rest of my life. It is an amazing thing to do, but also an amazing hassle that I now have to deal with, when I shouldn't have to.

It's the same anger at cisgender privilege and ease of life that has always frustrated me.

I know this will pass, and that this will get easier, but it's just hard to stay out of the here and now, when you're forced to deal with it at least twice a day.

Less than two weeks, and it will get better. I have to believe this. I can let myself feel these emotions, but I should not try to get bogged down in them, they will pass as my health and my new organ heals and gets better.

There, is just a lot of isolation and loneliness here. Being across the planet leads to a lot of time problems as my friends and loved ones are nearly exactly opposite of my time. I really want to communicate and talk to them, and hug and have this dialogue, but it just isn't there. I understand they are busy and have their own lives, and I have a bias telling me that I don't matter, but it still hurts, and feels lonely here.

I keep looking to my ex and wanting that emotional connection, but I know it isn't where I should be turning, and it isn't going to be there anyway, but still, old habits die hard.

More Sleep Deprivation

I'm not naive. It is not like I was expecting transition or surgery to fix my mind. I expected it to help my quality of life, and my daily depression. If nothing else I expected it to make things a bit easier, and less severe. By and large, that has been true. Yet even know I still, continuously, struggle over and over and exhaustingly over again with the same depression. Where before it was over being trans, now it's over the hollow and purposeless life feels. I fill it with stuff. I go to work, I tune out of my life for a few hours, I come home and repeat. Never at one point is my life engaging or enthralling in a new and fantastic way. I've not been challenged or entertained in years. I've been, at best, delayed and entertained. Any would be challenges are entirely arbitrary constructs from myself, or others. Climb a mountain? Sure but why? I don't need to, there's no purpose in it outside the idea of doing it. Why then should I bother?

The most, irritating, aspect of all this is that it never, ever, stops. The depression comes over and over and over again like bad inlaws that overstay their welcome and visit uninvited and oft-too often. I transitioned, moved, fell in/out of love, became polyamorous, tried S/M, and tried other BD aspects, group sex, marijuana, I tried having multiple partners at once. I tried monogamous relationships, I tried therapy (and still go), I tried different hobbies and environments, I tried vitamins and acceptance. Nothing alleviates, or dissuades the epic de-saturation of my life and my world.  Vibrant colors leave in great haste towards tepid levels of varying gray and any one purpose or enjoyment I saw in anything, leaves swiftly with it. Then, like the regular annoying ticking of your grand mothers clock, the suicidal thoughts, hopelessness, and helpless feelings come in, and my nervous/muscular twitches start as my mind starts to turn against me. The little voice becomes louder until it is the only thing i hear.

All of this, again, and again, and again again again. Then I sleep, wake up, and wonder if today's the lucky day I get hit by a bus and don't have to worry about it anymore.

I grow exhausted with this. The endless crying leading to tired mornings with swollen eyes. The endless despair and suicidal thou

Beating the War Drums

These are tired drums. The old war between my body and mind is one fought for many, many years and for a while a decent armistice seemed to brew. Now though, tensions are starting back up. I could spend the hours trying to figure out the innevitable cause, but end the end it doesn't really matter. Be it stress, or hormonal fluctuations, or what have you, this existence is never one I will be at peace with. that thought, that I'll always be blaming and pointing at my trans identity as the root cause for all my personal, and interpersonal woes, is exceedingly exhausting. It would be reasonable if say, post surgery, I could just cast off the identity like so much baggage and proclaim myself cured, but that's not an option.

 

Speaking of, There's about 6 months until then, and I'm slowly coming to simply accept the fact that my parts will be ugly to me. At least then though their form will follow and match how they should. I can live with an ugly vagina, hell it matches the fucked up and ugly rest of me, so why should it stand out as being normal. I find myself asking why again, which I expect will start coming back up again as it draws closer.

I'm starting to feel numb again. My hunger and body signals are slowing down or becoming quiet, I don't know when I'm hungry or at least I never feel the urge to eat. I occasionally think about food if it comes up, but by and large its a thing I don't put thought into. This mirrors my thoughts on anything else, I'm bored and distracted easily, I find no real attraction or happiness from things. My sex drive or desire for affection has fallen off the face of the planet.

I don't want to do anything, and everything sounds like shit. I'm withdrawn, unsocial, and by and large simply depressed. In that though, It feels like disillusionment. Like there is no point or hope in trying to find the things I feel are missing from my life, the things that I feel are unsatisified. I base this, entirely off the few times that I can remember feeling as such, and trying to pursue the same avenues again (finding an D/S relationship for one). But even that I can't say was established in a firm ground of emotional health, wellbeing and secure/reassured reality. More, thrown into a full on NRE ecstacy filled abusive drug habbit with someone who seemed to get off on the idea. I remember being happy (or at least, the abuse led me to believe I was) and now I pursue that again because its one of the few times I remember not feeling partially empty inside.

Not to cast out the efforts and strides of my partner, who genuinly is wonderful. That relationship however, just isn't, and can't be the entirety of my desires. I hate that I continue to look for that missing piece, and I hate that I never find, and that I feel like I never will, and that there is no point in searching. It feels like I just have to accept the fact that I'll feel partially empty and hollow for the rest of my life, living a pale, shallow existence devoid of anything resembling meaning or passion. People say do what you love, or do what you want to do with your time. I have no idea what that is, and no idea where to even begin looking

Seas

There are a few things I'm struggling to understand at the moment. Prominent amongst them being how can I be with someone and yet feel so alone at times. With that, comes sensations of uselessness, and the normal plethora of standard negative emotions associated with it. It's like the more I search the more alone I feel, and the more alone I feel the more drastic my search. I trace down old familiar mental alleys and corridors, well attuned to my foot steps, I've loosened these cobblestones personally, and worn away soft indentions where my knees have fallen in tribute and prayer to those old self destructive habits.

I find that anytime I'm left alone to think, my mood and emotions turn pretty harshly destructive. When around other people, or escaping I can box the emotions off into their own little realm. Banished to their room like the petty childish emotions I paint them as in a rude mockery of a monument to my inability to affect my own personal story. How absurd of me to feel powerless in my own story that I write about myself. Yet I feel entirely victim to the whims and indifference to a greater universe than mine own, one wholly hostile and cruel to all the things and ideas I would see manifested.

What causes me the most unending anguish in all of this is not the loneliness, or the literal mind-numbing decades long depression. It's the length of it. The sheer fact that I'm still here, still working on these same fucking problems and these same fucking woes. Had I collected all the tears wept into a bucket I could fairly realistically likely drown myself in it.

Beyond that is only the anger, that vast red sea of unending power and rage that would see all things to their rightful end and deserved place. That is the thing that scares me the most, that even now, some few years after, that ocean is still there, crashing awfully against those all to thin shutters and threatening my calm and tranquil seas. I desire violent change, the kind I don't find productive, or altogether useful, but at least satisfying. The fact this exists, within the context of my relationship, gives me a great deal of guilt and grief.

Never before have I felt so entirely unsatisfied with the sand castle I've built, and so entirely willing to see it all lost to the waves. I hate this. I hate this. I hate this.

Apologies for the mixed ocean metaphors, I'm a cancer, we deal in all things water.

Disposability

It is hard to describe the hollowness that comes from things. After a year of saying I love you too, it doesn't diminish the meaning of the world, but it certainly doesn't carry the same weight. Don't get me wrong, this is not a post lamenting the diminishment of NRE (New Relationship Energy), but given the crazyness that was the mid-late March, things now have calmed down and returned to a nice normal level. A level, I find to be quite hollow and without substance.

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.

The Great Intolerable Voice of All Things Wrong

This came out last night, in describing my anger at someone using my depression against me.

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.

Weary Eyes and Cold Tea

It's hard to describe what all I'm feeling. There's a plethora of shit going on in my head and it all just seems to be compounding in on itself. Between the ongoing stress in trying to find a reason or purpose in my life, and then all this new found other stress from a polyamourous relationship is just starting to weigh on me.

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.

Oracles

I guess the remembrance aspect is what I'm stuck on. How can other people remember an aspect of myself that has never existed, and how in doing so can they relate said stories without it feeling somehow superficial. Is it a point that I should, suspend my disbelieve, so to speak on?

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.

King David

This, is now the second fucking time I've had to write this out. I don't want to do it again. This will thus be, with increased frustration and animosity.

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.

I need to buy some super glue.

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.

What is this

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.

Photographs & Cycles

So, I think most people can relate when I say pictures make me uncomfortable. However, having a photographer/artist partner has forced me to reexamine, and experience this in a much more present state of mind.

I've found that being asked to have my photo taken makes me not nearly as averse as having someone simply take it without my regard. I'm not sure if it is the control or respect aspect, of having someone ask permission for something that they should ask permission for, or, if it is the idea that I can mentally prepare for the act.

It might be a bit of both. However, I can, an have, posed for photos and been okay with photo shoots before. The idea being that I know what I'm getting into, I can mentally and physically prepare for the experience, and when I have, I've generally been okay with it.

The bits that bother me, are the casual, candid and voyeur style photos that often get taken when either I feel I'm unprepared, or don't want, to have my picture taken. It is disrespectful to do so, and most often people (and there are many different people) do it anyway because "what's the big deal". I've noticed it is always "I want a picture", emphasis on the I. Well, maybe I don't? Why does your desire for a photo, take precedent over my desire to not be photographed?

The big deal, is respect. Maybe I want to have a good time without worrying about the fine details of how I look, or, without being brought out of my good mood/fun time to worry about this photo, wear it's going, who has control over it, and who all is going to see it.

Maybe, I just want to experience a moment, without it being interrupted, to make me worry about all the ramifications of a photograph.


That bit aside, things are murky. I can't remember the past four months in any great detail. Not that they've been bad, in fact it has largely been good, but that it has been filled with routine. Albeit enjoyable, it still feels like I'm not going anywhere. I often feel powerless, frustrated, and at times depressed. I lack motivation to do even, remote aspects of things that might change my situation. I'll go to my therapist, then, think proactively for a day or so, then fall back into routine.

I'm afraid of wasting my life like this, playing games, going to dinner, doing the same bits in and out, yet, when prompted to do differently, I can't find the reasoning or motivation to do anything else. I feel very much trapped within the largess and monotony of bullshit socio-economic work/life routines. I go to work, for no real benefit or value to myself, but to pay the people who I have to pay to let me reside in their building, or use electricity, or cook food. I get no real value added to my life, that, couldn't be added by a series of highly trained monkeys or semi-sentient robots.

I'm not sure what I need to break me out of the cycle.

Nightmares and enslavement

I've been plagued by nightmares, again, recently. Almost all of these have to do with my death or ensuing death. One involved earthquakes and being burned alive by molten lava. Last night's involved having my blood siphoned out via a strange syringe inserted into my gum line. The odd bit, about this last one, was that I went in willingly. Apparently it was a process I had to go through, as there were other versions of me that I had talked to (apparently from the future?) that said it was necessary for me to do this. Yet I couldn't shake the feeling that it was all a ruse that I had fallen for, and someone just wanted to murder me. It is a very strange feeling to accept your death in a dream.

This isn't new. All my nightmares seem to involve the destruction of my being in some form, be it physical body mutilation or actual mind/spirit death.

I don't think these are unrelated to my emotional stressors at the moment. I have felt very disappointed in my life and where it is at the moment. I dislike my job, and I dislike my situation. While some of this is likely the ebb and flow of my depression (the past 2 months or so have been tolerable if not numb). Some, I think, is situationally derived. The social contract of my job is increasingly feeling unbalanced, yet I feel powerless to change the situation without flatly leaving to find another job. I'm looking, but it isn't a quick process. In the meanwhile, more and more of my energy is being expelled at my job, and my down time is spent trying to recover from that.

I find myself laying awake angry, hating my situation and my life. With that sentiment comes my old favorite thoughts of walking into traffic. These are escapist thoughts, motivations and causes to not go to work, to break the routine and the stalemate. I've no inherent desire to break bones or injure myself, but if it means I can get out of the current box that is my life, then so justified.

The whole chain and loop leaves me feeling inherently unvalued and worthless. A tool to funnel money from one hand to another, without creating any inherent value or worth to myself. I pay my bills, my debts and rent, I eat food, and at the end I've nothing left to show for it. Nothing has transpired to better myself or get me any closer to my goals. I feel I'm emotionally, and spiritually, living paycheck to paycheck. Creating no increase in value or emotional and mental wealth or worth for myself.

My personal life has gotten into a much more agreeable place, but it likewise doesn't feel rewarding, simply less bad.

I feel like I'm confined in a box, and I can't breath. Emotionally asphyxiated and enslaved to what this society has deemed the social contract. That in order to simply exist in life, I have to put in 40 hours of misery, if I want to actually enjoy life, well good luck with that.

Maybe it gets easier as you simply accept the mediocrity and shityness of your life, thats how it seems my parents did it, distracted themselves with the kids and picket fence lifestyle. A distraction denied to me, even if I were to take it. Or maybe it is easier for people who "enjoy their work" if such thing isn't an oxymoron, but I never knew what I wanted to do, and the creative arts I would perform are so stunted and malnourished in me that I don't feel I could ever make a living doing them.

Which points to the reoccurring theme, of focusing on end goals vs pleasure of acts.  I'm trying to curb this mentality, but I was always one for fatalism, romance, and big pictures. What is pessimism after all but a fatalistic belief that the shitty things the world has done to you, will continue to be done to you.

The Tumultuous Turmoil of Tinkering

Things are tumultuous. My days are ranging from a physically sickening level of depression and feelings of lost helplessness, to being okay and nigh bearable. I've increased the frequency of my therapy sessions to once a week until I can get out of this fog. In addition, my acupuncture and massage therapy seems to be helping, at least on the days I have them.

I've been taking Sundays as a self care day that prohibits sitting on my computer for extended periods of the day. I believe one of the main issues is one that I've faced previously. When I first started therapy a few years ago to deal with my depression, I couldn't figure out who I was, I didn't know what I enjoyed, or liked, and nothing felt like fun. I find myself facing the same feelings.

I've begun to loath myself for my laziness, and my addiction to escapism. I refuse to play my guitar, to try to compose anything, to draw, or write, or sing, or anything because I know I won't be any good at it. I'm approaching it as a means to and end, rather than as an activity to enjoy for the sake of doing the activity. it is the same petty childish mindset that paralyzed me as a teenager. The "I can't be perfect, so I'm not going to try" sense of fatalistic self-deprecation that keeps me attuned to depressions and infatuations with all I can't do, rather than what I can. I get so wrapped up in my lack of ability to achieve my end goal/desire/validation, that I forget the reason I started doing it in the first place.

If I had spent as much time as I do playing games, doing some form of art, I'd likely be a master at it. Games have a level cap, there is an attainable end goal, which, I guess is one reason they appeal to me. Life, itself has an end goal. The mortality aspect of life means at some point we all finish. My obsession with this seems to be a similar motif. Focusing on end goals and achievements, rather than the act or journey itself for the fun of it.

The theory behind all this is fairly simple, but the applications towards my behaviors and mindsets are much more stubborn. If you were to imagine my identity as a pie chart, I'd say a good 65-70% is taken up by my identity as a trans-woman. This, is almost always a negative aspect, as being trans largely fucking sucks 98% of the time. The rest, that 30%, is at any time taken up by various other identities, hobbies, relationships, and anything else you might attribute to intrapersonal or external stimuli. The two parts (internal/external identities) are largely intertwined and a depression/trauma in one can cause the other to collapse, exacerbate, or respond in a similar way.

You can see this in my lack of satisfaction in my personal life, which largely leads to my focusing on my lack of satisfaction in who I am as a person. It comes down to how I look at things, I see negatives easier than I see positives. Chalk that up to whatever you will, but I have situated myself on a precarious mountainside slope. It is vastly easier for momentum and gravity to carry me downward in a snowballing effect of depression and negative emotions. Likewise, pulling myself up, in a positive way feels unnatural for me, it is a struggle and requires far greater amounts of work the more alone I feel.

It is, however, definitely easier to climb the mountain with people helping me. I know, this is an unpopular statement, and considered a red flag for some. People say "you should be content to be alone, before you try being in a relationship". That is fine and dandy if you're perfect. If you've no emotional problems or mental illness (which depression most certainly is). Personally, I find it bullshit. Humans are social creatures, we die if we are isolated long enough. We all want and desire to have friends, partners, relationships, and families. I do NOT think the desire for that, or the need for that, is a bad thing. Nor do I find that inherently abusive, addictive, or problematic. I consider myself a broken clock. I require a little elbow grease and work, but can be polished nicely, and end up being a rewarding, lovely, and entirely fantastic experience.

The ability to be content by one's self, to me, definitely feels like a privilege of the healthy, wealthy, cisgender, and untroubled. It is easy to be content with yourself, when you aren't constantly at war with yourself over things you have no ability to change, but the utmost paramount and salient desire to do so.

SO, that rant aside, the schematics of my emotional framework on display. Where, do I go from here?

The state of things, and ongoing.

I originally wrote this on another site, here it is, in the original form. I have added updates at the bottom.

I've delayed writing this for a while. I've put off
writing in general because I know it isn't what people will want to
read. I'm doing it here, now, because I'm avoiding showing it to people.
This will go up on the blog, it is just a matter of when. I'm writing
it out now, in preparation for a therapist appointment, and as a form of
public shaming.

Starting on New Years, I've been struggling with some very deep
depression, exhaustion, disassociation, self-mutilation, and suicidal
fantasies.

I'm stuck trying to figure out what purpose my life has, and why I
should bother with it. I'm exhausted in dealing with the mediocrity that
my life. I'm tired of my gender being a constant struggle. I'm tired of
the metaphors of surgeries and used car dealers (even if you get what
you want it's still not as good as what you want). I'm tired of it all.
I'm tired of the conversations I am forced to have, and I'm tired of the
negotiations involved in any sexual encounter. It's like playing Guess
Who? before anything fun.

I'm tired of my job, I'm tired of the sameness, of everything. Of the
monotony of everyday life. And I'm ready to take my ball, and go home.
It is not fair that I should have this burden, when I've done nothing
wrong. It is

On New Years eve, I was triggered early in the morning, worked a half
day, and then went to Walgreens to pick up a prescription, and some
shaving razors. While there, I stood, for a good 5 minutes staring at a
package of straight razors, and ended up buying them.

I wasn't upset, or emotional, I was dissociative (a strange headspace
where I feel a bit half conscious, most things lose color, my breathing
goes shallow and I just, don't feel anything). I went and drew a bath
as I was wanting to shave my legs before the events of that night.

The idiocy, of taking newly bought straight razors into a warm bath,
was not lost on me. I was in there for an hour, weeping, often
uncontrollably, until I finally ended up just shaving my legs and
bathing. I did end up re-cutting a design into my leg with said razors
however (hence the photo I posted recently). If you saw me
limping/wincing on New Years, that was why.

Since, I've had a few fantasies, but haven't engaged any actual
behaviors. Anyway, that is the current state of things. Depending on
what my therapist says things may change, I'm just not sure what else to
do.

---

Since this, things are still in a strange area. I'm not as low at the moment, but that can easily change. I'm hesitant to release myself from that place and identity of depression because of how volatile it can be. I don't want to go around saying, "oh hey everyone, I'm fine now" even though I may not feel as low, because it is so easy to fall back into it. It feels disingenuous to communicate to people that I'm alright, when I am at the time, on a Micro level feeling better, yet haven't not positioned myself in a better place on a Macro sense of self.  In short, I dislike the idea of crying wolf.

I have started a new plan of treating my body, rather than fighting it. I've plans to begin a few services (massage/acupuncture at the moment) to try and align my body with a more pleasurable sensations/mood than the normal dysphoric feelings of animosity and hatred. Not in that, those aren't still omnipresent, but they don't have to be the only experiences.

This, is in contrast to external relationships which seem even harder to come by now than before. I've been blown off, dismissed, de-appetized, overlooked, and passed over by just about every potential romantic interest I have yet to find. I grow extremely weary of it. I've long said that those who have a desire, will make the time for it. Yet, again and again and again I find I have to pursue, I have to call and remind, I have to rearrange, and schedule, plan, over-plan, and berate to simply get a date setup. It is exhausting, humiliating, frustrating, degrading, and intensely dissatisfying. Much to the point that I've given up on trying to motivate other people into action.

I find my appetite for gaming is decreasing as well. I find this a good habit to get into as there are many other, and more productive areas in which I can direct my energies. My guitar sits lonely and cold by itself, unplayed, for months. Outside of that, romantically, it would seem I've to hit the dregs in search of a diamond again. Maybe I can at least drink myself into a stupor on the way to the bottom of that barrel.

Year end.

So, upfront, this will likely be long and wandering. I will make an attempt to clean it up and reorganize my thoughts once I am done.

The holidays are over (mostly) and I find myself relieved, but, depressed. It was good to see my family, even if they forget to check their cis-privilege at times and stressed me out. I was glad to see my brother again, but I realize we are different people now, and I have no idea who he is. Likewise, he really doesn't know me at all. Yet, still thinks I'm that angry 18 year old kid who hated the world and everything in it.

I'm not that person anymore. I am still very angry at things, but it is channeled, and focused onto things rather than at everyone. My family relationship has, and will likely always be strained. Unlike them, I didn't spend my childhood and adolescence knowing and loving my family. I spent it hiding who I was and creating disinformation. Trying as hard as possible to keep them at a distance.

Still, I am relieved to see them leave. Bringing people up to see my city can be exhausting. Hopefully next time things will be more relaxed and I can simply enjoy the company, rather than be inundated with a schedule of events and tasks we have to do.

The other cause of dread this time, is that I'm a romantic/cancer. I place a significant importance on dates, and anniversaries. New Years day was the day I fell in love with my ex, and I'm dreading what reliving the day will mean to me now. The joy, and love that I felt won't be there, and that haunts me. I know we aren't compatible, and that is alright with me, but I still find myself thinking about her, and how I felt, at times. I have moved on from her, but I'm still tentatively avoiding testing my will and strength around her.

There are a few other romantic interests on the horizon, but, I don't place a lot of hope or potential in them. Not in that they lack possibility, just that the energy level being directed towards me is low, and thus I reflect an equally low response.

Things, on a whole, feel...foggy. This marks another end of the year, and I haven't anything to really show for it. I ate a lot of food, I payed off bills, I worked...and for what? My life still seems as empty and hollow when I lay my head down at night. I still have nightmares and bad dreams. My dysphoria is still quite bad, and I seemed to have developed a nice eating disorder on top of it. I did start seeing a therapist and that seems to help, if not force me to talk about things instead of brooding. I still can't seem to find a point to anything however. The isolation and loneliness is omnipresent, and endless. Life as a whole just seems fundamentally without purpose. Do X to be able to do Y, because it makes you feel Z. When asked if there was anything I enjoy, I can't name anything. There are things that are nice, but, nothing that on a whole I would take over a painless quick death.

I say that not, as someone angry at the world and wanting to leave (I am), but simply as someone who sees no point in it. We all die at some point, so, why should my death not be planned and carried out by myself? I can think of nothing more sanctified than that. It scares me, it scares the shit out of me, and that is likely the only reason I don't actively jump off a bridge. But, I would love for walking out into traffic to not sound like the perfect ending to a regular work day.

I realize this is abnormal thought behavior. But it doesn't seem to be motivated on animosity, or pity, or deprecation. It is not "woe is me, I hate my life, so I'm taking my ball and going home". It feels more like watching a game, that is destined to never end, and all the players seem to not realize they are playing the same meaningless game as everyone else. It all seems so material, and physical, with no real connection, or higher meaning.

Perhaps it is to do with the disconnect I have with my body. I feel sensations from it, but It doesn't feel like "me". It feels like a vessel I have been placed trapped within. Thus death would be a release from said prison, rather than the ending of an altogether not unpleasant existence. But, then hypothesizing, if I had been born cisgender, would I still feel life is a pointless existence? It is hard for me to imagine, but my thoughts point to yes.

In my last therapist sessions we rooted down an importance I place on being desirable (discussions on eating disorders). I believe I get some validation from this, but, at the same time, I get no joy from the catcalls and guys trying to hit on me. They all know I'm trans (those that try to pick me up) but, I just feel nothing for them, and thus don't really care. Hints of my inner lesbian, obviously, but that still doesn't explain why such an importance on being desirable. My best guess is that I see it as a attack on the loneliness. Getting people to see past my issues is a large step, one that most people won't be are less willing to take if I'm not at least partially pretty to look at.

So, rooting that down, it comes to being isolated, and alone, my dislike, displeasure, and distaste for it. I've said before I been alone for most of my life, and it seems true to me. There has never been a great deal of connection between myself and other people. It all feels, numb, or muted. There is something there, but it is very small and sparse.

I just, I don't know what to do anymore. Even when I was with my ex, and things were going well, I thought of suicide as it seemed appropriate to go out on a highnote. That...seems abnormal, but I don't know of any way around that idea. When even the best of times feel meaningless, what is a person left to do?

Updates, and innebriation.

I am again, forcing this issue, I feel like I am peeling a scab off so that it heals properly. I honestly can't say where my head has been these past two weeks or so. Some moments have been nice, others I have felt completely and utterly lost.

This, perhaps, culminated in a salient moment on Thanksgiving Day. Amid the stress, and alcohol, I lost myself. I began to have intense sadistic fantasies or abusing random people, at my whim, for no reason. That, isn't who I am, and is a drastic change from how alcohol normally alters my mood and personality. More and more I find myself feeling like I am losing control when I am inebriated. It feels like I lose hours that I might have enjoyed. A while later, I attempted not to drink, and failed miserably, only to have the same urges come back for a second before I pushed them aside.

I will be making an honest attempt to not drink anymore, at least for a while, until I manage to center myself a bit more, and get a larger control over my substances. I have seen much of my family destroyed by substance, and I very much do not want to follow similar paths.

I worry about this however, specifically in relation to potential relationships, and the people in my life who like to drink.

My shakes, withdrawal, and day dreaming has gotten pretty bad when I'm not strictly engaged in escapism or distraction. I'm not entirely sure why, and hopefully I can figure that out, but I wanted to at least, get this out as an update to what is going on.

A referendum on choice

I'm not sure where to begin. I feel utterly lost, and helpless. I look back at my city as I walk home, and ask myself what the fuck am I doing here. I can't help but keep my frustration and anger at a minimum and dive fully into escapism. Walking home has become a trial of how long I can hold back my tears until I can find another venture to stick my brain into. Books, games, movies, television, other people. It is all just one form of escapism or another, and nothing really alleviates the prime issues.

I am still unable to find a reason, something that gives my life meaning. I just don't understand why I am doing this, or anything. What is the point? I work, so that I can provide for myself, until my body dies anyway. That implies some sort of benefit from being alive, which, I fail at the moment to comprehend or understand.

I feel old habits returning again. meh. I honestly can't be bothered to care anymore.

The Inherent Gravity

I am very much forcing this entry. I have not been in the mood to write, despite knowing I should. It is hard to pin down where I stand these days. One day, I'm a fucking mess, getting emotionally triggered shakes and enraged beyond belief. So utterly pissed and frustrated that even thinking about my situation tenses my arms and sends me into tears. The next, I'll feel tolerable, confident, awake, and ready to slit the throat of anyone who would dare cross me.

I believe I've come to a point where I know things are gone with my ex. I just have to reiterate to myself why, and how, and the plethora of reasons we aren't together. What we had was an infatuation, I've no other words for it. I understand what triggers those emotions in me, and having been there, I know now what I'm looking for. I won't however, tolerate the rest of everything that happened. I've seen the type of person ze thinks I am, and I know I'm not that person. I'm done trying to convince or alter opinions.

In a sense, this is back to the drawing board. I feel like I'm resetting everything and starting fresh. Which, is nice, but at the same time, it feels exhausting.

I'm complimented, a lot. I get told regularly how attractive I am, I get cat called, and pass with ease. Yet, every time people do compliment me, I can't help but feel I'm queen of the trans girls. As in, "Yes, I'm quite pretty, for a trans girl". Whether or not they mean it, I add it on whenever they leave it off. Yes, I am pretty, but I still feel like I'm winning the special Olympics. This becomes extremely apparent to me around other trans girls who don't pass as well as I do. I notice things, the most minute details that they have forgotten, yet that I've picked up. How to walk, carry one's self, posture, demeanor, not pitch of voice, but tone, intonation, the list is endless. It just, furthers my feelings of isolation, that sense of better than the undesirables, but not good enough to be wanted outright. The first pick for a second choice.

I don't know what the answer is. Let me be clear that I don't feel I am better than anyone else, simply because I pass easier.

I'm, just exhausted from being frustrated and angry, all the time. I'm exhausted of having to presume most people aren't interested in me, even if they are into girls, simply because they won't be into the type of girl I am. You'd think being trans was like being a drug addict or a child molester. And people scoff, question, and deride me for not wanting to tell people I'm trans, when I'm post op. Why the fuck would I? Yes, let me voluntarily make myself more undesirable. I've had enough rejection in my life, thanks.

The anger, the pain, and all that lot aren't gone. I know they are hiding around the corner for me. I've no more reason to continue on than I did last week, but, at least now it's because the so called journey that is life, that so many people seem to just be able to enjoy without effort, is full of shit and pain. Not because it isn't filled with an addictive emotional high triggered by an ignorant girl pulling on strings with no idea of what black holes they were attached to.

Endure, Master Wayne.

Reading through this book, I see so much more than I did prior to transitioning. It is where I draw my name, and the similarities are striking. I find myself laughing, hysterically, and then weeping. The latter, on this passage;

But she had become a goddess and he could not help it if he were astonished. She had always been beautiful in his eyes, and admirable, too. He had worshipped her, in some ways, for her courage in adversity, for her resistance to the ways of his own world. But that had been bravery under siege and now, it seemed, she single-handedly gave siege to that same society which, a few months before, had threatened to engulf and destroy her identity. There was a determination in her bearing, a lightness, an air of confidence that proclaimed to everyone what he had always sensed in her -- and he was proud that his world should see her as the woman he knew, in full command of herself and of her situation. Yet there was, as well, a private knowledge, an intimate understanding between them, of the resources of character she drew to achieve that command. For the first time he became conscious of the depth of his love for her and, although he had always known that she had loved him, he became confident that her emotion was as strong as his own. Like her, he required no declaration; her bearing was declaration enough.

I had been meaning to write for a while, but I find I often lack the energy or motivation. My depression grows daily, and while some days I fight it off more than others, the beast wins more and more. The monotony, the daily bullshit is just..exasperating. Every week is the same, every day is the same, with mere strange changing of temperatures to make the seasons. Ask me what I've done the past year and I can't tell you. I feel useless, and meaningless. I find myself wishing I'd get hit by a car, or mugged, or robbed, just for a change of pace. I know better than to hope for positive things to happen randomly to me.

I deceive myself. I surround myself with avenues for creation, yet I never use them. I play, I write, I sing, I compose, or, rather, I have the ability to. Yet when I sit down and get ready to, nothing comes. My mind is blank and my emotions freeze. I shrug my shoulders of it in frustration and return to mind numbing escapism. I read, I play games, I do anything and everything I can to not think about things. Until something triggers me, like the passage above, and I twitch, spasm, and then just bawl my eyes out at the frustration, envy, and anger, so much anger, of everything.

I don't pine for my ex-love any longer. I am cautious, but the intense desire is gone. I realize now how young, and nubile ze is, and how not-ready for me ze is. Instead I long for the feelings produced then, I miss being drunk on love, of finally after so many years being able to let my guard down with someone. It was premature, I recognize that, but it was honest. Now, everything just feels passionless, the days blend together and there is just, nothing there. I question my motivations for everything and habit or routine are the only answers I find.

I am struggling heavily with the question of why. What purpose or driving factor do I have in my life? It is a question I have had since I was a little thing, and I've never had a good answer. I went to school because I was supposed to, I went to college because It delayed that question, I went to graduate school because it delayed that question. My motif in life has been to improve it, personal growth, and positive change above all things. I'm lost as to what direction that now means.

For a long, long time I thought it meant love. So I put myself out there, in often uncomfortable, abusive situations, because I felt that sacrifice or being uncomfortable meant doing difficult things, and thus growth, as a person. It hurt when people mistook that for weakness, or a fear of being alone. Now, being able to say I know what being IN love feels like, and yes, that word makes a remarkable difference. I'm not sure my purpose is there, and if it isn't I'm not sure where I've left to look.  More so, I'm quickly encroaching on Middle age, and I fear greatly holding out hope. and living a shit life for the naive idea that one day I'll find someone. Only to look back at the past 10-20-40 years at how much of my life I wasted, sitting here, typing entries about pining for a reason that never came.

My life, as such, then, is not enjoyable by default. Why should I have to endure?