"The silent type who never wins the race,
Stands alone against time, resting on their face.
Isolated and in despair, there are no friendships there,
In the darkness of the mind."
-- The Silent Type
When you contemplate suicide sometimes you will lose friends in the writing community. One of my first writing acquaintances had straight up unfriended me on social media because I talk about me considering suicide.
My assumption since had been that in general people tended to not stay beside people who considered it.
There came a point where I felt like I had no more stories to tell. After all who wants to listen to some transgendered woman contemplate killing herself.
My room mate has stayed strong for a long time, but I'm unsure how much longer it will last. I already scared my friend by attempting suicide twice. I'm still not entirely sure I wont after me and her live separately
There are a lot of things I regret in my life I haven't spoken about, nor do I have any reason to speak about them. In general one may hope the future will change, but in general I don't really believe there is one. I've been living every day like it's my last, for like six months now.
When I first set off for Washington State, I was under the hope that maybe things would be different. I was willing to leave certain things behind in order to hope that perhaps I could maybe gets some hormone replacement therapy. Unfortunately, after a three day bus ride after 2,500 miles, and a family that was abusing me in different ways, I am once again forced to endure that same abuse because my family is the only ones with the proper medical documents to get disability. It was my hope that maybe after joining the Satanic Temple, maybe I could find people who cared enough about me that they wouldn't be total shit heads.
The first few months in Washington we had money, although we were careful how we spent this money. Except that my room mate would spend most of the time spending that money on buying smokes, which while nice are not exactly a permanent way of dealing with unresolved personal issues of a sexual nature. For me, I consumed mainly cigarettes but would sometimes indulge myself in cigarillos and cigars. At one point as part of my bucket list I even got to indulge in smoking pot. What more could one ask for toward the end of their life. It was a comfortable existence, even for a little while. However eventually it became all to obvious that despite me wanting to get a car, so I could at least have something to sleep in, most of that money was being spent toward tobacco. But still I held onto hope that things would improve.
And yet over time a lot of the things I thought I knew in my early life turned out to be false perceptions. My own family made me question my own perceptions of reality, and made me question some of my most sacred memories. And yet on some level I could never tell them I tried ending things three times in a row. I had a friend who offered to give me a pseudo therapy session, but instead what she ended up doing was triggering another mental breakdown, my third mental breakdown. My room mate tried telling me not to listen to anyone on the web who offered a fake therapy session, but I felt pressured into doing it even though she said there was no pressure. After all I had a book I needed to beta read for them, and I always felt eager to please people.
And yet I know if my family were here they may twist it in such a way as to make it look like this never happened. On some level this is why I never trusted them. I had three mental breakdowns overall, and I almost had one after talking to the one that would help me get disability.
So why do I write, you might ask. After all nobody cares to read what you write. Well for me I don't write my science fiction for other people. I've always written it in such a way as to give myself some kind of therapy that as of late seem increasingly impossible to obtain. One of the therapists I tried to get in touch with only works part time, so the only way I can really discuss issues is by working them out on my own in drunken stupors on the page. There are various memories that I have that I keep secret from the world, as I'm unsure of whether I would be viewed as the bad guy. Keep in mind I went through my whole life doubting everything that I perceptive. I couldn't even begin to write realistic fiction, doubting everything I know to be true.
So I end up creating speculative futures; near futures, personal futures. Dystopian futures about things that may well happen to me that others outside of the richness of society as a whole may never understand. I don't mean conspiratorial stuff, but the basic ways of how societal treats people toward the end of their lives. At times I constantly feel like my life is coming to a close, as yet at times I could never actually make myself try to kill myself. And most therapists will not even look at wattpad. Maybe on some level this is why I choose to spill my thoughts on the page here. I don't want them to know just how broken I truly am.
My best friend who helped me through suicide, used to talk about how us as broken toys would try to support each other. She was the best support I could have possibly hoped for. And yet I find lately they she says things largely because they are good things to say. Maybe she really does mean it. But it doesn't change the fact that I'm stuck here basically rotting away with someone not determined to find some mean of employment, when I can't even count on myself to maintain my entire life. I feel like someone's cat constantly shitting on the floor. At other times I feel like I am the floor, with somebodies cat constantly shitting on me.
I dread conversations about the future, I feel like any conversation about the future always evolves into conversation either about why trans people are awful, or why medical technology should evolve to the point where where trans people are no longer a factor in society as a whole. It would always bring back triggers about the cult leader I evacuated from that wanting trans and gay people to be bred out of existence. I feel like despite my room mates generally good nature, she has wildly different unrealistic ideas about society. And yet I can never correct her about these viewpoints. I disagree that trans people should be bred out of existence. But that doesn't necessarily mean that tucutes are right about what they propose either. I'm so tired of life being depicted as this black and white dichotomy.
It used to be I was to unmotivated to do anything like kill myself. And yet these days I am stronger now; I can clean myself, dress myself. And yet I don't even have the option to do this. I am reverting to an early point in childhood where I could have taken care of myself but simply didn't have the opportunity to.
I'll see how the future goes. But I'm not holding onto hope anymore.
I need to be my own hope.
A story about a chronic cult survivor and a lamb named peaches.