Life Got Worse…

I wrote several blogs on here under the name of Shelly, my last was about six years ago. So much has happened since then that I literally don’t know where to start, and not in a good way! I’m still alive. Clearly. I’m now 45 and I’ve lost nearly everyone dear to me except for my dog, cat and sole remaining friend. One of the people I lived with for a long time turned against us and moved out severing all contact… that’s his choice, though I guess I mean nothing to him now.  Then my life partner and best friend died, in two months time it’ll be the one year anniversary of his passing. I’m an inherently emotionally unstable person so I can’t state how much he was my rock, as he provided my life with a relative sense of stability it would otherwise have lacked. But during the last four or five years of his life I felt that rock slowly but surely crumbling, to my horror, and when he finally died it broke apart under my feet. I’ve struggled to find a mooring ever since. My emotions can be extremely intrusive, volatile and profoundly overwhelming. I have next to no one left. I’m more socially isolated than ever. After Rob drew his last breath I ended up in a psych ward for the first time in nine years, the same night as his death, because I was dissociating on and off all the way home in the car for the first time in as many years. I’ve been in four times since then. In my thirties I lost count of how many times I was in and out of mental health units. My third stay in I had to give up one of my dogs as they got into a fight, the vet said that if I didn’t separate them one of them was going to get killed. The nurses decided not to tell me for two days as I was already in emotional distress. I understand why. I’d never had to give up a pet before so I took it especially hard. I’m afraid I’ll have to give up my last two pets due to my declining mental health and precarious financial situation. And in truth, there’s a part of me that wants to give them up so I can end it all. The only reason I’m still alive is because of others. And animals, they are dependent. However I’m not sure I’m dependable enough to be able to provide a stable home for them in the long run. I’m tired of losing everyone I love, or them leaving me, moving on. Life is intrinsically unfair. I hope my friend doesn’t hate me when the time finally comes, I never wanted to cause her hurt but this is something I have to do. I can’t really explain why. I just can’t. Something deep within compels me.

I’m transgender and bisexual. I transitioned young and have been living as a woman since I was 17 which was like, in 1988. That was also the age that I last saw my family, my mum and dad are both dead now so no chance of reconciliation. My family couldn’t accept me, so I ran away from home and lived on the streets for a time. Got extremely self destructive, took drugs including but not limited to heroin. But I screwed up my transition. I’m still preoperative. I made an awful lot of big mistakes and bad decisions. I made it through, but I’ve sort of drifted through life without knowing what I ever wanted to do with any certainty. I find it hard to form lasting connections.

My primary diagnoses are Borderline Personality Disorder and Atypical Depression. I had gotten better, relatively speaking for someone with my condition. For nine long years I barely had any dissociative episodes, didn’t self harm or land in a psych ward every other week. But my anger became unbearable. I was filled with fury, rage and resentment. For society, my family but above all for myself. I’d scream at those I loved then be wracked with guilt and end up in tears. I feel like I hurt and fail everyone I love. I often use the analogy that I’m like a broken mirror. Smashed into a thousand shards, and anyone who gets too close or tries to help me is invariably going to end up getting cut. It isn’t deliberate. I don’t understand. The reason eludes me, much like trying to catch smoke with your hands, it slips through my fingers. I have a fractured perception of self, like I’m incomplete somehow. I sometimes wish I could hermetically seal myself off from the rest of the world and just go insane, I think if I did all that makes me who I am would vanish. Nothing but a husk would be left. I’m defective, disturbed and troubled. I want to die more than ever. I’m closer to my goal than perhaps ever before, so near yet still so far. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know why I’m like this or what’s wrong with me and I fucking loathe myself for it. Above all, I don’t think I can be helped as I’m simply too tired, too set in my ways… the damage is done. I’m not going to get better this time round. I’m over it, finished. I don’t belong in this world I never felt a part of. I’m an outsider. If I go up to the mall I often feel like an alien, or a ghost and wish I could be like the people around me. Normal. Isn’t it strange how you can feel more alone than ever when surrounded by crowds? But then I’m quite antisocial. I’m a loner, I like being alone just not the feeling of being lonely. I’m sorry if this post has been a bit stream of consciousness, my thoughts are very disorganised and incoherent at times. I’ve so much more I could say but I feel like I’m running out of time. I don’t know how much longer I can hold out. I can’t keep on doing this. I wish I could disappear, evaporate. I feel insubstantial, disconnected and tortured by my own mind.

I’ve tried to let go of the past, but I can’t. I just can’t. If you can’t resolve things that have happened in your past, then you can’t move on. Find closure. Make amends. It grips you firm, holds you back and drains your strength like a hungry shadow. I don’t want to get old, not like this. I’m so intensely suicidal I was even going to overdose the other night when I was on leave for the evening, but my meds were up at the hospital. It’s a struggle to keep me alive at the moment. This may be the last time I ever post. I know now that whether I kill myself in a week, a month or a year for me suicide is an inevitability. It draws me like a moth to a flame, like a magnet. It’s the only way I have left to end my pain, in the vain hope that in death I’ll find the peace I never could in life. Even if that peace is in oblivion. It’s the way I’m going to die, and perhaps that’s for the best. This is something I should have done a long time ago before I got tied too deeply into this life.

Forgive Me, Kirsten.