I write because I write. Seemingly, there is not much left to say – not much that I can gracefully share. Still a woman, which is about the triteest thing I can think of saying. But that’s what it boils down to. That and a belief that whatever gender you are, that’s the gender you’re gonna be, when you’re ready, or die trying. No one is going to like it, but you’ll meet new people who like you the way you’ve become. They may even take you behind the brunch joint and all intervene on you like It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia about how you have no self esteem and need to cut that shit out. I was touched, really.
When I got home, I reprised a mental exercise, think a happy thought. I can always think of something. Tonight it just doesn’t matter; nothing does. And that makes me very, very happy.
When you close your eyes on the subway. Because you don’t want them to look into your eyes. To see what you’ve become last night – and cast off yet again. That your only hope and desire is for your next hit of unconditional acceptance.
As the world speeds around you. Your saving grace, these others. The people and their smells and ways, their clothing and polite attitudes. An occasional smile, or moment of understanding. Chaos of thoughtless purpose. Save my soul.
I try, desperately to forget who I was. The information in my head, steampunk equations of science. Things, which in wartimes would have me working in a national laboratory. I should hate myself for succeeding, but no one believes me.
Thank you to GoodnightNina for the pic from her blog and constant inspiration.
I find myself with not very much to say. There’s no context. Everything is new and blank, and I’m forced to move on, to start again. Any attempt to salvage my old life is met with disgrace. There are some things, like my education and a handful of core relationships (absurdly repurposed core relationships) that I’m taking with me. But attempts to, say, utilize my network of professional contacts, are yet to succeed.
My new body is comfortable; it is also unfamiliar and somewhat disgusting. I’m sick of standing up straight.
I want to hate myself, but I can’t find any clear reason to, other than being so consistently out of my depth, not knowing my sexual orientation with any precision, being afraid of random shit, and crying too much. But I can’t bring myself to hate myself for these things.
I feel lost and also without a need for direction.
I would ask myself why.
“Don’t think about the future. Don’t think about the past. Look at what’s in front of you. Please, just focus.”
I put one foot in front of the other, not thinking of who I am, how I’m coming across, what I’ll ever do about any of it. It’s numbing. And I fear the truth, that I can’t.
It’s been awhile since I’ve written anything. I tell myself that it’s over, that the worst is behind me, that it’s not necessary, that I don’t have time and I’m hungry, that I shouldn’t write when I’m tired.
But someone said that I handle the things I write about so gracefully. This gives me hope; and wrending, vertigo-inducing dissociation.
And part of me feels nothing at all – It’s not fair.