A Ticking Bomb: An Open Letter

I firstly (well, mostly for this) want to apologize to everyone for my moods. This is the worst I have felt in a long time and I wish I could snap out of it. I really do. Because I know it’s irritating, it’s annoying, and it’s bitchy. And I absolutely do not mean to be any of those things.

 

I don’t know if it’s the fact of not being on T, the high levels of the prolactin, the depression, the stress, or everything at once. I don’t even know if I can blame anything anymore. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I am as nasty, irritable, bitchy, and negative as people have always pointed me out to be. Maybe I was just ignoring it.

 

Further, I’m sorry for messaging people often. I shouldn’t have to do that. I shouldn’t have to feel like I need to talk to someone about my shit all the time when they have their own. I shouldn’t expect people to be there for me. I shouldn’t have to ask people for help no matter which type it is. I shouldn’t have to. It gets annoying when someone comes to you too much. I understand that, and yet. I feel like I always have to press the messenger button. Most of the time, I don’t. Or I mean I think so . . . .

 

I’m usually not so aggravated, short tempered, irritated, down, upset, or bothered by people being around me. I usually love company. I usually love hanging out. But it’s been so bad lately that I haven’t wanted to do any of that, as much as at the SAME TIME, I do want to be surrounded by people and to be talked to, hung out with, or engaged in. But then it feels like I can only take so much without that burning, red hot irritation coming in strong. I’m not usually like that and I hate it. It hurts. And I have been doing so fucking well keeping my head on. I haven’t lashed out. I haven’t yelled. I haven’t cried. I haven’t snapped at people. And I’ve come so so so close to doing it. I’ve lost enough friends and support as it is. I can’t lose any more.

 

No matter how hard I try, no matter how far I run . . . it’s like picking up sand and trying to keep it in your hands while also trying to shove it in your pockets and you keep on running the shorelines. You’re not gaining much, but you’re losing some here and there. You might have a few moments of forgotten moods and stress of life, but then one little thing can make your rope thin and almost snap. I feel like a bomb. I feel like I’m close to someone cutting my red wire. Even if it’s myself. And I don’t want that to happen. I don’t NEED that to happen. I don’t need something to blow up. I can already feel it getting closer and closer to happening.

 

My complaining , it needs to stop. I need to shut my mouth most days. I need to stop being so negative, all the time. I need to stop thinking I have it worse than everyone else (though I can say that for some). I’m sick of the “I have it worse” competitions. I’m sick of the “OH I HAVE THAT TOO!” and the “Nobody does shit for me” and the “I don’t know why I have so much wrong, I’m a good person. Nobody has it worse than me”. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of hearing it. I know you have it bad, but please. You don’t know. At least you can ask for money every week and get it when you need it. At least you have better health than I do right now, though yeah, it’s not the best. It’s better than me. At least you have parents who love you, talk to you, and are there for you the moment you come up and start yelling.

 

I need to stop asking people for this or that, and I just . . . I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being so . . . horrible. I’m sorry for the things that have happened over the last year and previous to those I have met recently, the last three or more years. I’m a ball of nasty stress, problems piled on top of other problems, bad moods, depression, and so much more bad. And I feel like it’s gotten worse. I don’t know who or what to blame for that anymore. All I know is that I have so much going on and it seems to just be adding onto the intense mood feelings.

 

There are days where I just want to chuck my tumor meds away. That I shouldn’t even be granted the luck I had in catching something and being able to fuckin’ treat it. Though not true (I hope), I feel like the most unwanted bitch ever. I’m looked at badly in the eyes of so many people already and from there, it just feels ten fold. I love that my mind lies to me (I hope), and that I can just . . . pick myself apart and see each little wrong thing I’ve done and know where I’ve bothered people, where my eruptions have almost happened, and what lines I’ve almost completely wiped clean.

 

It’s like all of my colors are running together. The brights of my friends and boyfriend and the dulls of myself. They’re dripping and blending into each other faster than I can repaint. It turns into a mess of oil slick colors in nature. So then it becomes clear to me that I’m bringing everyone down with me. Everyone’s in my drama, my emotions, my problems . . . whether or not they want to, it’s happened. And I can’t paint over it for the better fast than it’s all blending together.

 

Anyone who has known me in the last year or more know that I’m not that bad. I mean, I should hope so. I’m never this bitchy. I’m never this snappy. I’m never this hot-blooded. I’ve become annoyed and aggravated with so many lately, unwillingly. Those I call my friends. Those I call my family. I hate feeling like it’s a 50/50 day. I can look at someone with brightness one moment, the next it feels like my eyes are just nothing but burning red staring at everyone with utter annoyance and anger. And not just people, but sounds. Sometimes the cats. And I’m never like that with any pet. Any little thing can just be . . . red. It’s the only way I can explain it.

 

And for that, to everyone, I am so so sorry. I wish I could make it stop. And I wish I knew why it was like this. Like I said, I don’t even know if I can blame anything medical anymore. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m just that bad of a person without realizing it. Maybe I’m just starting to see myself the way everyone else has been seeing me for the last year or so. Hah. Maybe I am just a red-blooded, cold-hearted bitch. Maybe I am just . . . made of everything that’s bad. There’s more words for it, but. I can’t think.

 

I can’t focus on anything much. Nothing distracts me much anymore. Nothing really makes me happy. I’ve been trying to watch my favorite YouTubers or shows. But I can’t pay attention enough to enjoy it. I try to take in distractions from people to do things or watch things, etc. but I just don’t want to. I don’t feel like it, when I do at the same time. Everything feels messy. Nothing feels enjoyable. Nothing feels happy. Nothing looks good.

 

Life itself feels so . . . messy. It’s like an atomic bomb went off in my head and everything around me is destroyed but at the same time, it’s still put together. It’s a mess that you’re trying to put back together and sort though. The hated erasure from Them, the tumor, the legal bullshit, not being on testosterone, money paranoia every single month, worrying about where I’m living and how to make it look more homey, having somewhere to live period . . . wanting to just feel like I belong. Wanting material things just so it FEELS better for me. I know that things don’t matter but god. It hurts when I can look around houses and people’s apartments or bedrooms and just. It feels like they have what I don’t. It feels home. It feels . . . amazing.

 

I’m jealous of a lot of things lately and for that, I am also sorry. Jealous of homes, rooms, people who have their lives together, have jobs, have money they can spend on friends and themselves, people who can drive and have cars without worry, people who can just live our their dreams and lives and be able to do so, people who seem to get looked at and supported more than I do (even though I know that’s not true, please don’t get mad at me for that. I’m trying to be as honest with this as I can and not sound even WORSE) . . . the jealousy is overwhelming. But not as much as the moods and redness. It’s just a small drawer in my mind. It’s there, but it’s not the biggest drawer of the bunch.

 

I guess I’m going to stop there. I don’t know what more I can put. I’ve said everything, honestly. I wanted to say all this and that I’m sorry to everyone. Please know that I am not usually so bad. Not so bitchy. Not so horrible. Not so bad. I mean I hope I’m not. I don’t think I am. God I hope I’m not. I just feel so much more worse in my head. In my emotions. In everything. I feel so fucking horrible. And I wish it could stop before I end up snapping like a twig at the wrong person. I can’t handle that right now. And I fear it’s going to happen at some point. I don’t know when, but it feels so thin.

 

So to everyone reading this and made it this far, I’m sorry. And thank you for reading. I appreciate so many of you and I feel like in the last few weeks, I’ve been nothing but rude and hot-blooded. And I wish I could stress enough how fucking horrible I feel about that and how unusual that is for me to be. Sure I have my bouts of extreme stress, depressive episodes, and over-stimulation. But nothing at all like I have been in the last almost four weeks.

 

So many of you mean a lot to me and have helped me in ways that I couldn’t thank enough. I wouldn’t have dreamed of. Those who have housed me, spent money on me for medications, who talked to me, took me out to hang out, bought me food . . . thank you. I love you guys so much, please know that. Please know that I love each of my friends for being there in general. Please know that I love my boyfriend who, at this point, I am baffled as to how he’s handling my intense shithead fuckery. Please know that I am sorry and I really hope that in time, all of this will settle again and my moods will be back to normal.

 

That hopefully soon, I can feel like myself again.

 

I’m sorry. And I truly hope that you know I mean it.

 

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What Break?

And here I thought my reign of terror from 2016 was over. How wrong I was.

On April 20th, 2017 I found out that I had a mass (aka: tumor for all purposes) after getting an MRI done and finding out that a particular level in my blood work was 172. Normal was 10-14. Now I am off testosterone until further notice and on a pill that makes me nothing but weak, sick to my stomach, and unable to cope appropriately. I can barely eat a full meal, I’m always tired, traveling two days ago was hell, I can’t do any normal household chores without having problems, I can’t really do anything. And that fucking sucks more than anything. Because I always am on the move and I’m always finishing up projects, chores, writing, taking care of my cats, and everything else in between. Now I can barely pick up a coffee cup without feeling like I’m going to pass out or vomit.

The thing about cancer is . . . yeah, it sneaks up on you. You never thought it would be you. And after the first few days, you laugh it off. You just shrug at all your friends and your boyfriend and are like ‘yeah it happened I’ll be fine. We’ll get it figured out when we go back in June for a blood test again.’ But then everything gets to be too much for you. Everything starts to blur together. And being off T makes it worse. You’re more agitated, angry, frustrated, upset, and irritable. I think that’s worse. Because I look and act a bitch, when really I’m not trying to be. I don’t mean to be annoyed with everything I see or hear or think. I don’t mean to snap. I don’t mean to slam things. I don’t mean to be this way. But everything is so terribly out of balance and out of whack right now. I can’t function properly.

Everything is heightened and anchored down all at once. It’s a horrible feeling, it’s a shitty place to be. You don’t want everyone else to feel just as bad as you do, so you’re trying to fake your emotions but fuck it’s hard. Add all of this medical stuff on top of everything else I’m dealing with. I feel like a ticking bomb. I’m going to explode at some point.

Yeah, that’s right. There’s like 10 other things piled on top of this whole tumor situation. Medicaid shutting me out because of “gender mismatch” that i know have to try and get the birth certificate and letters done while out of state. Isn’t that just so fucking great? After having top surgery and everything, too. The legal system still wants to fuck with me. So now I have to deal with that too? How is that fair? Not to mention trying to get back home in time for a bullshit disability hearing . . . that I shouldn’t even have to do. Again. When the legal and healthcare system doesn’t believe you’re really disabled. So you have to go to court. On top of the 5 other things you’re dealing with.

Also fuck my “family”. They don’t exist anymore. I have no “family” by blood. They’ve erased me completely. Having planted my “sister’s” graduation party on my birthday on purpose. Telling everyone my “sister” is their only child and she says she’s the only child herself. It’s disgusting. It’s sickening. They’re all fucked up. They don’t know what “family” is. They have a very distorted and skewed version of that word. I know who my true family is. I know who loves me for me and will be there for me and has been in the last two years. When your child (or rather, not anymore) tells you they have a tumor or cancer, your fucking answer as a mother shouldn’t be so bland, blaming and “K”. That’s revolting.

So tack that on to the list. Thank fuck I have a wonderful therapist that I’m working with to move forward from their disgusting , toxic , and unhealthy life. I think that was the straw breaker I needed to push away from them for good.

I just wish I could get breaks. I’m already sick 24/7 all the time and can barely do the minimum. Now it’s worse. With medical stacked on top of personal, stacked on top of legal. It’s like I’m looking at a pile of manila folders that just keep getting more paperwork added to them when I’ve barely finished the first two papers. More just keeps on coming.

It’s not a far cry to say that what I’m feeling is normal, but I wish I couldn’t. Because I know it bothers everyone around me. And I know it annoys people when I message them 50 times a day or post stupid shit on Facebook or just generally act like a fucking dick. I wish I could stop it, like a flip of the switch. Instead the switch stays down and things just keep feeling and getting worse.

I honestly wish I didn’t have to take my meds. I wouldn’t if I had the choice. Because I hate the way it makes me feel and I hate how it doesn’t let me do a fucking thing. But I want to get back on my T. I don’t even care about anything else. It could kill me for all I care. That’s how far I’ve sunken. But again, that’s normal. That’s what cancer feels like. That’s what it sounds like. And that’s what it feels like. I didn’t think I could reach lower than rock bottom with my depression alone. Boy was I fucking wrong.

I’m grateful for my family. For Alex, for Dev, for Bobby, for Beta, for Sarah, for Rhi, and for literally everyone else at the Q whom I love and have been there for me more than anyone else in the last two years. But I feel like . . . I’m always too much. There’s always something with me and I’ve only known a handful of these people for a year (come June) and in that year alone so much up and down has happened. So much of the same shit. So many problems. So many annoyances. And this always happens. And then I always lose everyone. Because I’m too much to handle. I love everyone so much, but I’m afraid I’m going to be too much for them.

I won’t lie. I wish I could just throw away the meds and say “oops oh well guess I’ll get worse who cares?” but I can’t. Because I know that’s bad. I know we have to fix this. I know I’ll never get better or be able to get back on T if I don’t. And I know that pisses people off when I say that and say I don’t care and would rather just . . . be gone. But I want people to understand that it’s going to be my normal way of thinking right now.

There’s so much going on. I’m overwhelmed. And the fact that I have to keep up with shit while I’m out of state is so stressful. I don’t WANT to sit here and make 40 phone calls a day to figure out all this legal bull. It’s draining. And I can’t focus for more than five minutes on what’s going on and I can’t handle more manila folders stacking up. But I can’t wait until June to get anything done.

I just . . . . more than anything want people to understand why I’m feeling so fucked up and low. I know I can’t make them, but I want them to try at least. Or see what I’m saying and be like “Oh! That makes sense. I’m sorry.”
I just want to shut my brain off. For at least a day. But I can’t even have that. The only peace of mind I get is when I’m sleeping. You don’t think when you’re sleeping. You don’t see all your folders.

That is, not until you come back to the office the next day. And then you look at your stack of folders that just keeps growing.

Then you think to yourself: “Is it really worth it?”

Don’t Be Scared. It’s Normal.

I made a post on here a few weeks ago, announcing my top surgery day and how I felt surrounding it. It’s been almost a little over two weeks since said surgery day has happened and there’s still a lot of feeling around the whole thing.

Let me start off by saying that I read an article last night browsing on my Facebook from FTM Magazine that touched a bit on post surgery depression. Before surgery, I was experiencing pre surgery depression and anxiety. Of which were completely normal after speaking with a few brothers and friends about how I felt. I figured as much, honestly. Secondly let me state that the article in question (which I will link below this write-up) was totally accurate. It was a total  nail hit on the head , I won’t lie. It completely explained why I have been feeling so exhausted and bleh. I have also been super irritable feeling towards everyone (ie. housemates, friends, the cats, my boyfriend and so on . . .) and everything as of late. The constant on and off sleeping (it is 3:30am as I began writing this. I went to bed at 9PM and only slept up until about midnight.) Plus being under house arrest for the latter of the two weeks after March 9th makes a person want to yank their hair out. I’m not much for being a homebody most of the time. I like to go out and have my walks and socializing.

The thing with major surgery is that it takes a lot of of you, and I should know from experience. It is a huge tolling experience for a quite a while. Your body has to have time to heal from trauma, and with that comes a lot of other physical and also mental exhaustion. Add on the stress of life and things going on with me personally right now, pain medications, and not being able to sleep properly or comfortably. Well, you get my drift. It makes for a wonderful Misery Soup.

I’m happy I got my surgery, do not get me wrong. It’s something I worked very hard to get and took a lot of struggle for me to get here. I’m so glad it happened. I’m so glad for the people who helped me get here. I’m so happy with my loving support the day it came. True be it that I can’t show a lot of emotion right now for it what with between exhaustion, pain pills every six hours, and lots of stress and little to no sleep, I am very happy and thrilled to have gotten to this point in my journey of life.

When you read the article, it explained how this person felt the day before, of, and after their top surgery. All of which were 100% valid and 100% accurate with me as well. People came to me asking me if I was excited or I must be vibrating with happiness and honestly? I wasn’t. And that sounds so shitty to say, but it was a normal feeling. A lot of transfolks who come to with their surgery, even hours before it happens (like the article stated) feel the same exact way. I wasn’t alone and suddenly I didn’t feel like such a bad person for not exuberating pure rainbows and sparkles for this big event in my life. I almost felt like a hypocrite. After all the fight and tears and struggle, I should have been nothing but a shining example of excitement. But I wasn’t. Not until the IV went into my arm did I feel some small semblance of happiness and excitement along with anxiety and nerves. I’ve had 33 surgeries throughout my 25 years of life. And they all felt the same. Top surgery was no exception.

I know that after another two to three weeks of annoyance, I’ll start really feeling good. It’ll sink in more and more every time I look at myself and each time I see more healing throughout the rest of this year. But for right now, it’s okay. I can feel these things. I can feel nothing, in fact. I can be annoyed with the process and life. I can feel a little agitated and stir crazy. I can sleep for five hours, stay up the rest of the day and repeat the cycle for the time being. I can take my meds, I can cry, I can be irritable, I can just be for now. I try not to be, honestly, however. I don’t want to be in a bad mood, but it’s understandable I should hope. In 25 years having 33 surgeries and being in and out of hospitals and bad health problems, I know for a fact this is okay. It’s totally normal. Your body doesn’t know how to handle or process extreme trauma and life changes that comes with surgery and medical ordeals. It’s a lot to handle and process. It’s a lot for your body to rejuvenate.

So if you’re a transgender identifying person looking to get their surgery and are worried or scared about the post or even pre surgery depression/anxiety: it’s okay. It’s totally normal, it’s completely valid, and you are not a bad person for thinking or feeling the way that you are. Take it from someone who knows from several experiences with surgery and most recently, yes, with top surgery. Take it from several of other transfolks who had their surgery and went through the same thing.

It’s 100% normal. It’s 100% okay. And I’m proud of you for being you.

 

Article: https://ftmmagazine.com/post-op-depression/

I’m Angry

I’m angry. I’m angry and I’m hurt. I’m hurt by the world around me and the world within myself. I’m angry and I’m hurt , I’m fearful and I’m lost. I’m angry because it hurts and I hurt because I’m so angry.

 

The world is dark both in my line of sight and in my own personal space. I have to remember that those around me have it so far worse so that makes me s sidelined. I have to wait my turn. The world is ugly and so am I. My thoughts are a lie but they’re my best friend most times. I chose to believe them because it’s the one and only thing I’ve known all my life and any act or word or bit of kindness feels fake, it feels wrong. I’m not worthy of such love, I am not worthy of attention. The world around me is breaking apart at the seams , but so am I. Yet. I must wait my turn.

 

I feel as though my thoughts don’t matter my actions must be kept secret, my smiles never failing. Laugh a lot, complain a little, say you’re okay just to take some of the pain away. Or make it grow. The scars on my body tell me it’s worth it. Tell me that’s relief, they tell me that it’s addictive and God. It is very addictive.

 

I wish I spoke as well as I wrote, I could vent more to people, could tell the ones I love know I hurt, but I’m so afraid. Afraid of the anger, afraid of the hurt, afraid of the disappointment and afraid of the rejection. It’s all a lie I know this to be true but in my head and in my ugly thoughts and my heart , it’s too weak. It’s too scary, too vulnerable and too plain. Won’t it be the worst of me? It’s like looking at the bottom of a pool and you know there is a bottom, but you’re afraid to jump in. What if there is no bottom? What if you sink.

 

I wish for people I can’t have and drive away those who I wish to keep. My mother can’t look into the eyes of a son she doesn’t want. My friends come and go and that’s just life I guess, but the more I hurt and the more I talk, the more I’m angry and the more they start drifting away like sailboats just over the horizon. I can barely see them. Maybe I should be alone , maybe with my thoughts or not at all. Maybe the people I love and the people I see they just tolerate me or maybe not at all. Maybe it’s pity , maybe it’s not but again. Maybe these are all just lies, really.

 

I’m not afraid of death but of the act itself, I’m afraid of what can happen after and what will become of what I’ve left behind, but maybe just maybe I won’t leave behind a lot. Things can get taken care of, my cat can have a home without worry and maybe. Life will just go on.

 

It’s like my thoughts won’t come out in words off paper and if they did would anyone listen? I feel overworked, stressed beyond my stretching point and lost of hope for the better world to come, yet I’m trying to keep my head above water, trying to swim, trying to breathe a little more each day. Trying to be human, trying to be loving. Trying to be helpful, to be a friend and be selfless above all else. Drowning is evident, I know that to be true and if I were to dip my head under the cold, calming waters what would that do?

 

Will I be here tomorrow, or there the next day? Will I have a comfortable place to lay my head each night without worry of where to go next? Can I live happily, can I be peaceful with myself, can I just … live for one day?

 

There are few I keep in my heart I love them so much but why? Why! Am I afraid so much to speak my kind and talk to them and open up? Maybe it’s the nagging, maybe it’s the negativity, but my God it’s the depression I scream every single day. I get up every day and wonder what I am worth, where is my life going, and who am I to anyone? Can I get through this chore, can I make that phone call today, will the depressive episodes and the constant chronic physical pain cease for just maybe a moment?! If I ask for help, is it a bother, will I be annoying or will they see me as weak? Do they want to help me, does anyone look through my viewfinder or maybe it’s just politeness , maybe just so.

 

The world around us is so bleak and my world alone is no match against it. My problems are merely a pebble but is the biggest rock I carry on my shoulder, day after day , wondering where I can leave it or when I can start chipping at it until it ceases to exist completely. We live in dark times and I’m reminded of how small I am. How my worries, my fears, my complaints and my own understanding of pain isn’t worth speaking up against. Maybe it’ll pass. Maybe a good day will happen or two, and I can forget about it for a while. Maybe I can replace my jars with new ones and keep stocking up until my closet is too full. Maybe nobody will notice. Can I forget and let my voice be heard in other ways for other people. Be there for all, a friend to some, and a parental guidance to others. Be the shoulder, be the lover. Don’t fight it, it’s what you’re made for. It’s why you’re here. It’s who you are.

 

If I could be more open, I would be more free, but the daily routine of my head just won’t allow it to happen. I’m afraid of myself, I’m afraid of my voice and more often than not I’m afraid of my demons and letting them out but sometimes they’re my best friends and worst enemy all in one so what then! What happens then ?

 

You fake it to make it in the world you live in the one around you and the one you keep hidden. Maybe you’re more open than I am and for that I can commend you, but for the rest of us who deal with the black shadows in the corner, the monsters who hold our hands, and the past we keep locked in search of some closure or change, please! I beg you don’t forget us. We are all fighting a battle , and you  never  know just when the last one will be.

 

So yes. I am angry. I am angry and I am sad. And above all else before, I have the right to be these things. My emotions are valid and my feelings are true. I don’t want to be ashamed for this but I don’t want to seem selfish or rude. I’m hurt in the worst ways , my scars bearable my naked eye and those with a listening ear. They’re visible unto myself and heard like your favorite song played over. And over. And over again. It might be wrong, but that doesn’t mean I’m weak. It doesn’t mean I should go unnoticed and it doesn’t mean that I should play pretend.

 

But in a world such as this and a world of your own personal accordance. Isn’t it easier to do so?

 

I am angry and I’m hurt. I’m sad and I am defeated. I stand up every day with the same old sword and a new fight. It’s a guess to who will win but for now, it seems that I may have the winning tally. That doesn’t make me any more inspiring. It doesn’t make me any less hurt , or angry , or lost. 

 

I am angry and I’m hurt. I am sad and I am afraid. And for now, that’s a comfort I know best. Sad but true to words, and true of heart. There’s nothing else I know right now, and that is not any one person’s fault. It’s okay to feel, and it’s okay to be. It’s okay to stand up and fight, it’s okay to have a voice.

 

Unfortunately, as it stands, sometimes it tends to be a little easier for some than others.

 

The Trapeze Act Was Wonderful

I’ve dealt with depression and suicide since I was 16 and I will never forget the day it happened. It was terrifying and it seemed to have only gotten worse from there.

I’ve been hospitalized a great many of times for suicide attempts and threats. I’ve self harmed. I’ve thought about death in and out everyday. I still do. It’s one of those things that I can’t control. Even on my good days, it’s still in the back of my mind.

Sad to say things haven’t changed much for that line of thinking. It’s become worse some days. Being trans altered that a little more than I would have liked. But it’s not a blame. If my home life was a little more loving and accepting, maybe it wouldn’t be so much so. Not only that, but daily struggles. Medical situations, the constant feeling of people don’t want me around, they just tolerate me. The ugly fucking stuff that happened all of 2016 in and out. What people spread around about me and say to my face. Not that any of it should matter, but it leaves a mark regardless.

I think about it still a lot. If I wasn’t around. What would change, what wouldn’t change. How people would think, how they would feel. It’s scary to think about sometimes but more often than not I believe that it wouldn’t make much of a difference if I was here or not. And I hate that because it makes people cross with me. As if they don’t care and I don’t believe they care or love me. But that’s the thing. I’ve always felt that way. I’ve always been that way. My mother used to chastise me about thinking and feeling that way. ‘You have a family, you have everything you want. There’s no need to be sad all the time and feel so unloved like nobody/we don’t care. I don’t understand why you think nobody loves you all the time and we’re the worst people in the world.’

Funny. And that’s one of many things you don’t say to someone with major, manic depression and suicidal thoughts day in and day out. That just makes me feel worse. Makes me feel more unwanted. More unloved.

I don’t have a terrible life. That much I can say. But it’s fucking challenging and hardly rewarding at times. I’ve been chewed up and spit out so many times I don’t feel like I have much worth left. Beaten and kicked while I was down on the ground repeatedly. So much that I feel like the bruises will never go away. I’ve been wrung dry, thrown into a hot oven, lied to, lied about, told this, said that, guilted and ripped apart. I don’t know how I ever mend myself back up after all that, but somehow I do. Doesn’t mean I feel any better about myself or life in general. Doesn’t make the situations go away. Doesn’t stop the bleeding.

Aside from the suicidal thoughts, intrusive thoughts have been a new favorite friend. Sometimes they’re acted upon, sometimes I can ignore them. I was clean for a while. I’m sorry to say I haven’t been in the last two to three months. It’s a downfall I carry, but one I shouldn’t fall for shame on. Don’t judge the action before knowing the situation, as I always think. Most days I want to find a knife and stab it in my hand. Jam it down and let me bleed. Let me feel. Let me hurt. Let me grow numb. Other times, I should like to find it in the side of my head. Maybe then all the bad would just leak out and I’d be free. Other forms come in the personification of a bridge I’m steps away from.

I simply just call it My Bridge at this point. I’ve written about it before, but in fic form. Slaying all my feelings and wishes onto a character. Only because I’m too cowardly to do it myself. And too stupid to talk to anyone about it. I walk across it all the time. It’s not very high, but high enough that you’d meet the water with a nice slap. It would be freezing, though. Between September and probably into April. Sometimes it’s not moving much and real quiet. Other times, it’s loud and rushing. I always look at it. I always look over the railing. I always feel the cold metal. I always think. Most days I would rather just sit on it for a while. But having it sit at a busy area, someone would for sure call on me. I don’t want that.

The worst thing about having manic depression and terrible thoughts day in and day out is that you can’t tell anyone. Because there’s no safe spaces for people like me who say “yes. I want to kill myself/hurt myself and I probably will do it later this week or something” without them shutting you away from the world for a week or less in a hospital. I hated the psych wards. They were boring, and the days seemed to last into years. You can’t be honest with therapists/psychiatrists or doctors. And I know that’s for safety reasons, but there really should be a space for people to be able to be honest without fear of being shut off from the world. More often than not, I felt worse being locked up.

I’m one of those people, sadly, who believes with 90% of every fiber in my body that I would not be missed. That I would be talked about for a week, then forgotten. Nothing would change, the days would go on as usual, the world spins on, and people go about their lives. I am nobody special. Nobody to be missed so badly that the world has to stop forever. I’m not that important of a person, and none that loved. I have friends who do care, yes and love. But am I LOVED? Am I SOMEONE? Am I unconditionally remembered, wanted, or loved? Really, really and truly? I don’t think so. I don’t believe so. And that’s a problem. A problem I’ve had for so long.  

I have issues with self love. I have issues with people telling me they care and love me. That I can tell them anything. That I can go to them at X, Y, Z hours or times of the day to talk. I can’t grasp those. And when I want to message someone to talk, I tell myself it doesn’t matter. They’re busy. They have lives. They don’t have 5 minutes to listen to me whine and cry and complain about the same old garbage. Talking isn’t going to change anything. They’re not going to know what to tell me or say. They probably are sick of hearing about it. Sick of hearing me. Sick of seeing me. I’m merely tolerated. You can brush it off. Put everything away back into your little jars, label them, and put them back on the shelf. Because it doesn’t matter, and you’re boring. You’re annoying. You’re not going to do anything. And if you do, you have to keep it to yourself. Because it’s bad. And you’re no better.

I do not say these things for any other reason than it is truth. This is how I feel. This is how I think. This is how it is literally every single day. Even on my really fantastic days. The thing about major and manic depression is that you can fake it until you’re blue in the face. And I’m the fuckin’ master of that. It’s like my own little side show. Everyone comes to see it. They pay for the time that’s spent there, and at the end of it all, the tents come down and my master act has once again proven itself for the day.

Then you get up and do it all over again the next day. Repeatedly. With some interruption of routine. But it’s always the same. Always the same precision, always the same masterful act.

It seems like on my worst days, they’re always ignored. People are busy, so I fully understand that. But on my bad and worst of days, it’s like nobody bats an eye my way. That’s how it feels. That’s how it looks. That’s how it seems. Someone else can post the same exact way I’m feeling and get a ton of support. And I get a whopping -0 of anything. And that’s because everyone’s tired of me. Tired of hearing about it and tired of me whining. It’s just how it’s become. And why I try so hard to distance myself, but at the same time try to be a part of something great. Have friends, get out there, be a community, do this, do that, have fun. I try. But then I feel like I try too hard and suffocate everyone. So I stop. I shut down. I don’t message anyone. I don’t talk about my problems. I don’t tell anyone how I’m doing. I be there for them. I put everything away, again. It’s a cycle. And I always know when it’s coming.

Most days I believe I rather not be here. Not dealing with all of what’s on my shoulders. The chip I have is bigger than anything I could have ever imagined. And I tried so hard to just live for me. Be happier, love myself, look around me and see what’s good. I tried so hard. But it’s difficult to be on that path and stay there. I’m sick of dealing with all the legal issues I’ve had since June 2016, I’m sick of my relatives/parents and the thickness of air around them, I’m sick of feeling like I’m just tolerated and I don’t belong anywhere, I’m sick of fearing where I’m going to be living next month or even next week. I’m sick of worrying. I’m sick of wondering about my health and nobody wanting to take care of it or look at it seriously. I’m sick of running out of money all the time and not being able to afford things that I really need. I’m terrified for the state of our country right now and what that means for me, as a LGBT disabled person. More often than not, leaving this place seems like a grand idea. No more pain, no more suffering, no more problems. But what would I leave behind?? I don’t know. I don’t know if I would leave a mark. I don’t know if I would hurt others. I don’t know.

I used to have this thing where I would say I was sticking around for certain people. My sister, my cat, my boyfriend, etc. No longer. For a short while, it was sticking around for me. That I had too much to do, to see, and to offer. Now that fuse is burning out faster than I can try to keep it alive. I don’t know what I’m sticking around for anymore. I wish I knew the answer. Am I afraid? Probably. Is it something else? Maybe.

If you haven’t lived the manic, major depressive life then I don’t expect you to possibly understand. But I couldn’t leave these words unturned. Unspoken, and unlearned. It’s a terrible, dark, scary world for depressed people. And it’s even worse when you are LGBT, disabled, and have nowhere to go. When you’re always on your toes and on your last dime in the bank. Most days, I don’t know how I make it. Most times, I don’t know what’s picking me back up.

I don’t know how I’m going to move forward from here. I don’t know how I’ll be able to sift through all the damage I’ve been through. Therapy takes years. And it’ll take me years to learn to be okay with who I am, how to deal with my thoughts, how to accept my feelings, and how to not feel like I’m the worst person in the world. That I am loved. That people do care. That I can do good by me. That I have a reason to be here. That I can move on from the damage. It’s going to be a terrible road. Sometimes I don’t know if I want it. But I know I need it. And that’s what’s more important here.

I’ve been thinking about this write-up for a while. My moods have been quite horrific and all over the place, thanks to missed important medications. Even more so with just the state of my personal world right now, along with the world around me. The feeling of not being wanted or joined in on life or friendship. Feeling like I’m a easy piece of paper that can be tossed and forgotten for a while. Feeling like if people look at me and say they love me and I am a good person and beautiful and deserving that I should be able to believe them easily. My depression has felt like a terrible line chart. I’ve wanted to run off, take a walk over that damned bridge and just stop. I’ve wanted to self harm again and again and again until I just feel relief and numb happiness. I’ve wanted all this and yet, I haven’t done it. Because I’m afraid of getting angry at. At getting told off. Getting in trouble, if you will. I couldn’t handle that right now.

And as much as I want people to care and show it, want to go out, want to see people, want hugs, have validation, feel better, want this and that . . .  I also don’t. I do not want to be touched. I don’t want to be talked to. I don’t want to enjoy my favorite activities. I don’t want to watch my favorite shows or movies.I don’t want to go anywhere. I don’t want to eat. I don’t want to see anyone. It’s such a terrible contradiction. But until you’ve been in the same place as someone with major, manic depression, I cannot expect anyone to understand my place.

Don’t take this write-up so lightly. It took a lot of fucking balls for me to write all this out without the fear of someone reporting me. I implore you to not report me, nor my posts anywhere you see them. This is important to me. And like I said, it took a lot of fucking nerve for me to sit here and write all this out. Plain to see, and as blunt as I’ve ever been before. Mental illness shouldn’t be taboo and the negative space thinking that comes along with depression especially should never be swept under the rug. It’s why so many people do actually commit suicide. Because it’s always swept to the sidelines. Put back in jars, boxes, or whatever you put yourself in. And put away for later. Because you have to be okay in the eyes of everyone. Unfortunately being okay sometimes ends with planning a funeral.

Don’t ever turn a blind eye to someone like me. Don’t sweep them away for tomorrow or later, or next week when you’re free. You never know how someone is feeling that exact moment. And you may miss the chance to give them a hug, or ask them out to brunch, or send them a text message about something funny you saw. Be mindful, always if you can. You may not always know what to say or do in that moment, but you should always be ready. Even if they don’t want to talk, it’s important to engage. And how you engage is important and always up to you. Just don’t ever sweep someone under the rug for later. Please, I beg you this much.

You just never know what the morning will bring.