Unfulfilled Desires

Catalog every cause for which you'd mortgage your soul. Number your dreams, then make them boring and real by putting them on a list.

Reach Heaven by Violence. Recognize that they all have this club which doesn't seem to have room for you. You will mourn and most of you will move on, but some of you will be stuck there, worrying the sore.

You love her, but you love anyone that gets in your way. Better than hating them, like you used to. Or nicer, maybe? It'll hurt you either way.

The wound doesn't heal. It just scabs over to be re-opened. Is that grim? Question your metaphors. Have you earned calling yourself a bitch?

Remember the man that taught you the word "liminal." (You should probably hate him for that.) Grim to think of all the people you knew but don't know, all the ghosts you've disappointed with your absence.

Does anyone know how long she wandered? Words are so sexy and bleak and meaningless once you get a handle on them. Try not to get too excited by this.

You want to be the sort of person who goes out and has fun, you just don't like the actual doing of it. Act like it will get better. Sit in front of a computer. As a default, as a refuge, as a peaceful act of atrophy.

Don't show this to anyone.

Milk and Honey

I got hit with a gust of happiness! Not sure why. I've been taking 5-HTP and I just injected myself with life-giving estrogen, one of which I feel obligated to assume is the culprit. It's so, so nice. I listened to a song that's made me feel this intense sense of longing, this profound loss ever since I first heard it. For once I heard it and just felt ... peaceful.

 

It's always Secret of Mana music, isn't it? While each misery is a splinter universe with untold riches left to describe, I find I lack the words for my elation. I want to describe every moment of this to the me of two months ago that was considering the straight razor with such a calculating gaze, walk her through it like I was describing a Mucha painting to a blind person. God's in his heaven, I'm in mine, all's right with the world.

It Will Never Be Enough

I switched to injections, and the first five days were a-w-e-s-o-m-e. But right now, a day before my shot, all I want is to get in a fight with my girlfriend, clean my house, and cry.  I've totally lost control of my eating, and now I have the addict's existential horror of watching myself backslide into my disease while feeling powerless. Which is layered on top of my weight-gain anxiety stemming from a desire to lose weight so as to hopefully maybe some day pass and not look like terrible shit forever?

All I write is dissatisfaction and regret. It's too much, too much. I love cheesy words - like the titles to these posts, which I will hand-wringingly admit to spending more time revising than the body itself. The totem made real excites me, which is why my own personal mythology centers around 90's JRPGs with a dash of anime thrown in. (My name, my real name, comes from a character in the Lunar series. I feel guilt for that.) The link between signifier and signified is always so deliciously short and strong. I'm sure Joseph Campbell began to salivate in his grave the first time Goku went Super Saiyan.

I want to write more, but I just can't. I feel too vulnerable to go off on the long, nerdy tangent I want to. Maybe later.

A Life for a Life

My sisters die, and I can't do anything.

That's what gets me about the recently-past Transgender Day of Remembrance. If I get attacked, that sucks, but fuck me, right? If I saw another trans woman get attacked, I think I would lose my mind and catch a case trying to protect her. I don't know where it falls on the spectrum - is it self-sacrifice, mama bear-ness, maybe a disregard for my own health and welfare?

Back in the mists of history, I met this 16-year-old girl at a therapy thing whose parents had thrown her out for being trans. She had a semi-successful career in the blowjob industry, and not the kind of Tumblr-safe "I do this because it empowers me asshole" sex work. It sucked. It sucked because she really wanted to hang out with me because she seemed so alone, it sucked for my sense of self-importance because I was comfy and middle-class and still bemoaning my problems where she was mostly homeless.

Survivor's guilt?

A couple months ago I was in a total "don't fuck with me" mood when this mixed-up little queer kid with bad nail polish tried to strike up a conversation with me. I shut 'em down, and looked back later and felt awful. Maybe they were a sister or brother reaching out, just like I unsuccessfully tried to back when I was a lil' question mark. E-mailed a local charity that serves queer people, never heard back. I want to claw my way into self-esteem. Practice my love for trans women so that maybe I can get to a point where loving myself doesn't feel like such a distant star.