Another self pitying ramble

  January 2nd, 2010 by N_C

I had no idea this kind of project existed. In the past I’ve come across ‘suicide deterrents’, usually the religious sort, but this is certainly a great way of getting these feelings out.
Writing for me, always helps, a little. Unfortunately it just never cures these feelings, because they always doggedly linger on. My life has been plagued by deep depression and anxiety – low self esteem – but frustratingly in the past two years I had hoped that it was behind me.
I’ve had a lot of input over the years (I’m 27 in Feb) since I was 15 in fact. I wouldn’t say it’s been helpful though. The odd counsellor has been insightful and supportive, but I loathe psychiatrists and doctors.
Trying to kill oneself is not very helpful either. The best solution is either commit to living, or commit to dying – being in between is like being a ghost.
And a ghost I feel myself to be. Not because of the world, or what others have done, or not done, but just because of myself, because of what I can’t live with, who I can’t be, and who I am instead.
I’ve been healthy, and ill. I’ve been focused and lost. I’ve been hopeful and desperate. I’ve felt rich, and poor. Endless roller coasters that turn life upside down.
I’ve tried carving my life into something, but I don’t recognise it as my own as yet. I work; I enjoy helping others, and that seems to be how I validate myself.
I want so much more out of life though. I feel empty. I feel immensely frustrated, and exhausted, having sought help, support, education, religion, personal development, spirituality, blah blah and I still feel this way, I still look in the mirror and see an alien staring back at me, and I work so fucking hard to have a body, and a life that I recognise, and more importantly like.
Being transgender is really shit.
My life has never been my own. It was ruled by some unknown demonising force right from the off. Call it biology, call it mental illness, call it a being called God, whatever it is it has taken my life from me and left me with a shell in return.
I’ve spent my life being many different people, until I got the guts to be myself, and I’m so tired of the battle with myself, because I’m not myself, not who I want to be, not who I know I am, yet. But when? It’s already been far too long.
I thought I could love myself. I hoped I could make miracles happen.
I believed in my future, maybe I still do. That’s why my drive to survive at all costs leads me to places like this.
I’ve picked myself up, over and over. Been desperate, searching, yearning, crazy with rage and fear. Been delirious with heartache and sadness.
Been lonely, lost, broken, having nothing, no one. Felt the loss of love, the coldness of isolation.
Life has been a mystery to me. The thing I want to find the most, to love the most, to create and see for real, reflected in this matrix we call life, is simply me.
But who am I? Life tells me I’m something other than who I know myself to be.
In my soul I feel myself to be a powerful, creative, free being – life is constant humiliation, and degradation and imprisonment though. How can this be?
It seems the soul of me inside is elusive, faded, buried underneath the façade I wear that tells the world I’m OK, so don’t you worry about me.
I push anything, and anyone, good away. I feel the self-love in the background but a more pervasive force is hell bent on watching me suffer, writhing in emotional agony.
I hate when hope is gone. I hate when I want so much to live but just can’t fathom how to live feeling like this – for all my life perhaps – scary.
What if life is just a dream? Lots of other peoples dreams, all fighting to be visible, and real. Is that what we come forth to do? To create and experience? Whatever does the creating just doesn’t listen to me.
What happens when our dreams seem too grand to manifest? Or worse still, when our dreams simply fade away because of the apathy we feel?
The emptiness fills everything – which is pretty miraculous considering its empty.
In which case maybe life has miracles to offer, maybe they come few and far between, maybe they are there but they’re different to how we imagine, maybe I see them but I don’t understand them. Maybe I don’t know anything, and maybe I don’t want to. Knowledge only raises more impatient questions within me rather than quelling the curiosities.
Sleep is a good idea, but the passage of time compounds the pain.
Maybe I could sleep for an eternity, or at least until my dreams become real. Even when I sleep my night life is a nightmare. Full of twisting and confusing metaphors. Never restful. The torment constant. A softness eases the burden – love I can feel, with my animals, with nature. I find it easy to love other people too, but so very hard to love myself.
Endless ‘vision quests’ and yet still at the bottom of the mountain. No energy to keep going. Life revolving around me. The luxury of the past, when I spent days and weeks wallowing in bed, hiding from the world. Never made anything better though.
Trying to live more these days, since the hormones, and surgery. Since I got my job. Since I reclaimed the fragments of my life.
I’m the friendly professional one at work, bubbly and empathic. Nothing gets to me. They don’t know.
I’m doing well these days don’t you know. Family take it for granted I’m all right now. Must be; look at the lengths I’ve gone to.
They don’t know.
Still this sadness threatens to drown me. Never did kill me though. It’s a slow and painful end.
A whole lifetime of dying.

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