The Marks We Make

Well this was supposed to be a totally different write-up but in light of, well, everything, it’s going to be somewhat the same. But then again, not completely so. I also want to apologize in advance for this one being shorter than my usual writings.

 

You own everything that happens to you. And you own everything that you say or do to a person and as a person yourself. Trying to cover it up or make excuses is shitty and toxic. It’s also abusive. It’s also gaslighting. But if you think you’re in the right and everyone else is against you or in the wrong or making you out to look bad, then you’re probably the problem. Especially if more than one person tends to agree with the other party or if more than one person sees the same issue repeating itself. That’s just common sense.

In any case, the whole ‘you are what you eat’ thing is true. And by that, I mean in the metaphorical sense of you are what you eat. You are what you put into your life and you are what you put out. You are how you treat one another. And you are how you see people around you and speak about them. I believe in all of these things and more. And it rings true in the case of a vast majority of my relatives. As I’ve stated several times.

But now the tides have gotten higher and the waters rougher. After expressing certain medical issues that have come up to people, it was met with such blandness and topic swapping that I couldn’t think fast enough to react properly. A few days later it came to my attention that certain members of the family were now spitting out that they were an only child and there were no siblings or no other children in the family. That the so-called-couldn’t-do-it-any-other-time party was plastered over my birthday on purpose. And when asked about it, nobody could look others in the eye, much less come up with an excuse. At this point, I’ve become faced with the decision much sooner than I had planned on for taking matters into my own hands. I won’t go into further detail since, by June, you’ll all be able to see for yourself. But things are changing, and I’m going to make damned sure that it’s for the better. At least, for me.

Yet . . . in the middle of all that and my frustrations and willingness to finally do what I have to do, I know what’s going to become of it on the other side. While I don’t have to engage in it or hear it directly, I know all too well what will happen and what will be painted in my image from them. And that brings me back to the ‘you are what you eat’ thing. You cannot say one thing, and mean ten others. You cannot say that I am family in the same breathe you claim that you only have one child. It doesn’t work that way. And if people think I’m not going to hear about it, well then they’re wrong. And if they think I’m not going to react, they’re wrong about that, too. And I don’t have to react positively, no no no. There’s no chance in hell I could ever react positively to this slandering. I am allowed to respond negatively, with as much politeness as I can stand with all the salt and let-me-make-this-as-clear-as-possible that I can throw in. Receipts, my friends, are your ticket to anything these days it seems.

You make what you break. And you make your own marks. Nobody can make you react, behave, or say what you do. You make your own decisions based on everyday life. You make your own choices based on personal beliefs whether religious or not. Nobody is holding a gun to your head when you make your life’s choices.

You are what you eat.

Oh . . . and one more thing?

Once again, I’m faced with the harsh blow to the head of trying to find a place to live. On top of the cancer, the slightly-secret-project-thing I’m writing, legal issues facing discrimination from my insurances based on my gender and name, and about twenty other things as usual.

But all of that?

Well, that’s for another writing.

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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.

 

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?”