Rough draft (really, really, /really/ rough draft)

There's been a lull of activity on here lately, I know... especially from me. I made, what? two random, slightly chaotic posts and was never heard from again? Haven't felt inclined to write but this is a story I wanted to share. And while I don't want the positivity in it to be overlooked, I don't want the negativity and the effects they're having on me right now overlooked either. Both matter.

In March of 2014 I was living in Southern Illinois, which is not a very helpful place in any way, definitely not when you're transgender. I had plans to move here in June but I wanted to make progress, I couldn't stand still and wait for things, I knew if I wanted progress I had to push. I set up a ridiculous and dangerous way to get to and from St. Louis to see a doctor willing to do informed consent on HRT there. She was incredibly nice, and I left that appointment with the answer, "if all your labs come back fine, there's no reason you can't start your next appointment", Being rather healthy overall, I heard the word, "YES." Yes, I was starting testosterone. I remember documenting it at as the first time I felt genuine happiness. Sure, I thought I had before, but that moment changed my perspective on what happiness, at it's purest, truest form, felt like. It was easy and free and I didn't know I hadn't been breathing for twenty-two years until the moment I got that "yes".

I got a letter not long after that saying something in my levels was off - something hormone related - and I needed to return for more tests. It hurt and it threw me off of my high of that "yes" but it still was a "no". So I returned to the neutral emptiness I had felt in the first place, all my life really, and made a follow-up appointment, which was again, ridiculous and dangerous to get to. My doctor informed me my prolactin level was too high and she wanted to redo the test, and if it came up high again, she'd said me for an MRI, worried I might have a cyst in my head affecting the level. Yes, my level came back high again so yes, I went for an MRI, and waited for the her to call me with the results. I got the call while working (at a gas station at the time) and since I didn't care much about the consequences of taking the call on the clock and there was also someone also (my best friend in fact) on the shift with me, I ducked outside to answer it.

What I was told did take my freeing, blissful "yes" to a world-shattering "no". My doctor said, yes, I did in fact have a cyst pressing on my pituitary gland and in her opinion I needed to follow up with an endocrinologist before starting HRT. My next question was something along the lines of it still being possible to start though, right? That this /wasn't/ a no, just a setback probably? That if I got the okay from the endo I could just come back to her office and start hormones? And her answer was... no, probably not. That it looked bad from her diagnosis but it was out of her hands and following up with an endo and having them take care of the HRT, if I /could/ start, was the way to go.

I had already started sobbing before we ended the call. When I could pull myself together enough to speak, I went back inside, tracked down my boss, who's first question is why I wasn't at the register helping my coworker (friend) and I told him our supervisor had just gotten up there to help as I was coming to speak with him and then told him I was leaving for the day because I got bad medical news. He was confused, and the awkward type, but didn't argue. I was crying and logging out (or trying to with shaky hands and a muddled brain) and he didn't know what to do or say so he just let me leave.

My best friend left her register as soon as I resurfaced and followed me outside and I sobbed, for the first time to her, about what I was told and how I couldn't live the rest of my life like I currently was at that point. I knew I couldn't. I /needed/ that yes and it had been taken away from me. I saw a future, for the first time in twenty-two years and it was pitch black again. There was nothing but emptiness. She hugged me and comforted me the best she could and I told her she'd get in trouble and she said something like I was a million times more important than her crappy minimum wage gas station job - that's the kind of thing she would say. That's the kind of amazing best friend I have. She brought me back inside, me being a little calmer now, while I waited on a taxi to come pick me up.

From there on I went into a downward spiral  for three months - I drank myself to the point of blacking out, I started smoking cigarettes and weed, and I relapsed on self-harm. Once the weed came into play, the other stuff stopped mostly. There were a few cigarettes here and there socially, there was a club night I got so drunk I fell a lot, peed in the parking lot, and lost the debit card that had all the money I saved up for moving on it. But I calmed down. I packed up my shit, and I moved to Chicago.

My first month was spent in overwhelming depression and relapsing on self-harm again. But then I got a job at a dog daycare and it made me happy. A different kind of happy that the purest, truest form of it I mentioned earlier but I loved that place with my heart and soul. I wanted to be there more than anywhere else. I used to stay and hang around off the clock. I spent a lot of my lunch breaks napping in a play area with any of my favorite dogs that were there that day.

That gave me motivation to try again - and I went to see an informed consent doctor in the city at the Howard Brown Health Center, which is well known for it's LGBT+ care. He also wanted me to see an endocrinologist and I had very little money and time was ticking to me, on how much longer I'd survive in my depressed state of having the wrong body that I decided to asked, can I choose to start anyway, being fully aware of the potential risk? He. Said. Yes.

I am happy to inform you all I am eight months in on HRT now. No complications, my current doctor is keeping an eye on my prolactin level just in case, but that has all been going very well.


Now we start over, with a different situation. There's even one I'm skipping in the list of "things I need to do as a transgender individual to feel comfortable with myself" that the same yes-wait-no thing happened with but that one got sorted out, too, and I now legally have the right name and gender marker on my driver's license and am working on getting it updated everywhere else. The one I want to relate to the previous story is my battle for top surgery.

I decided it was time to get that taken care of. It's not a matter of being ready - I am ready for all of the changes to take place right now this very moment, to step out of this body, shed this skin, and be the person I was supposed to - and it's not a matter of having the money, because I don't, still. But there comes a point where I realize, as I do try to save and fail because I don't even make enough to pay an actual share of rent in a place with three people, that I won't survive much longer unless this change is made. That's when, no matter the circumstances, I make a move. I try to be patient, I try to do it what people would consider "correctly", but survival instinct is much stronger and when I feel myself fading, I decide I burn out or I relight the fire.

I scheduled a consultation with a well-known Chicago surgeon for transgender individuals and thanks to my dad, I have great insurance. So after a horrifying intake where I had to undress and have photos taken of my current body that horrifies me, what they actually called "the easy part", I had to get a letter from my physician and psychologist to submit to my insurance for approval of the surgery.

It's been a month and a half since the intake, a month since my letters were submitted to my insurance, and this morning I woke up to my phone vibrating but missing the call. It was the surgeon's office, and I assumed it was to give me my "yes" or my "no". This was around 9AM and I something in me said, don't call them back... not yet, So I went back to sleep.

I never dream as the current me... I always dream as the me I "see" myself as. A cis-male, I suppose, or maybe just what I wish I'd look like "fully transitioned". This dream was as the current me. This is the only dream I remember having like this. Set in reality, with even me being the real me, just as I look and exist now. The dream was me returning their call and getting the approval for the surgery but them being scheduled all the way out to December and me being incredibly upset about having to wait so long. I keep imagining what summer would be like, if I could get this surgery done relatively soon. I keep imagining being able to be as active as I crave to be, because I wouldn't have the restraint of a binder holding me back. (If you don't know, a binder is the term for what a lot of transmasc individuals wear in order to give the appearance of a flat chest. They are relatively safe if you buy the right kind but always have negative affects, such as breathing problems, movement limitations, pain and soreness, and long-term affects on your chest/ribs/torso.) That is what was so painful in the dream... missing another summer of my life. Being in what has become almost unbearable pain at this point, for six more months. It was a yes, but it was a yes, after six more months of agony. Better than a lifetime of it, better than seeing the pitch black emptiness ahead of me again, but still painful nonetheless.

I woke up from that dream not too pleased of course and figured, it's time to call because, it'll be a yes or a no and I can move on from there. What I got was... neither. My insurance company did approve the procedure (so a yes then!?) /but/ not in the specific wording and accordance with my surgeon's request. On the insurance side, this is how the handle things and everything looks right to me them. On the surgeon's side, they need more guarantee from the insurance that I am, in fact, covered on all the expenses. Insurance says that's what the letter says. Surgeon says it does, but not forcefully enough. I called my insurance and the surgeon's office back and forth from 1PM when I woke up again until 5PM when they closed and it ended with no answers.

I have a yes, and a no this time. I have a yes, that I can't do anything with. I have exactly what I need, but no way to execute it.

I was frustrated and drained and broken and... had errands to run. I own three binders - one relatively safe and comfortable, one pretty harmful and uncomfortable but just as effective, and the other is the most comfortable because it's adjustable but the least effective so I only wear around the house or for exercising. However, I was preparing for a trip this weekend and my other two were in the wash. So I wore the adjustable one and tightened it up and took my trip to the store, which is half bus and half walking. The walking distance is a mile there, and a mile back to the stop once I was finished. Plus some walking around the store. Not too bad, right? In the first store (I had two to stop in) I started to feel the normal tightness in my chest, the trouble breathing... used to it, it comes with wearing the binder. I ignore it and get my things and check out. The second store I start to feel a bit ill, I'm pretty overheated, and this is also rather normal. On my way out, I shed my hoodie, and it's a rather nice cool temperature out so I figure I'll cool down enough. I do, but my chest is hurting more and more and my breaths are getting shorter as I make the trek back to the bus stop - I tightened the binder too much. I overdid it, with the fear it wouldn't flatten my chest enough to fit the affirmed look of being male. I got dizzy and incredibly nauseous and knew I had to duck somewhere to fix the problem, which was a dark alleyway because where else was I going to be able to adjust something covering my chest? I velcroed it closed slightly less tight and continued on to the bus stop, the damage already done for the time being and my chest throbbing, my pulse racing, and now crying.

Putting the binder on in the first place today was mortifying. My insurance said /yes/... how much longer am I going to have to put myself through this? Is this the rest of my life? Am I looking at the pitch black emptiness again? It is all I see. A yes, stolen from my grasp. A yes, I cannot act on. A yes, that still leaves me in dysphoric-ridden emotional and physical pain every day. I slipped it on over my shoulders today and before even velcroing thought, today could have been the day I thought, "soon I'll never have to do this again". Instead, it was a reassurance that I will continue to suffer in this way until further notice.

I am always told yes before I am told no... always given hope and having it taken away... and it's true, in most cases, at least the ones that turned out to matter, I end up getting the yes back. I end up with yes as the answer and I survive. But the time between having the hope given and ripped away to having the actual, real, freeing "yes" nearly kills me each time. One of these days I'm afraid it might. I'd always rather be told no from the start than given hope and having it ripped away. I start with no, so being told no can't hurt. But being told yes, changing my perspective, giving me hope, and having it /then/ be a no, reverting back to the hopeless, empty, pitch black, is the most painful thing I've ever experienced. Hope should never be taken away - only given.

So I continue, to try and sort this one out, to try and get the yes to align with the other side of it, but I only have so much fight in me, my chest being compressed and barely being able to breathe. I can only throw a couple more punches before I hit the ground, gasping for breath. How much time is there? How much time to fight, how much time to suffer? I /hope/ there is very little time of both. I hope there isn't a lot of time /needed/ to fight, and the time of suffering is over soon enough for me to have my first adventurous, pain-free, dysphoric-less summer.

I think about how happy I was last night
and how unhappy I am tonight
and how the source is the same

and I wonder if love is different than what I've been doing all along anyway

I know my jealousy is irrational
but I long for the day when you write about me

Home is whenever I'm with you

I find it funny I thought you were out of reach, when
you were always so close I never had to move a muscle

I hate not wearing the necklace or the bracelet or
carrying half your heart in my pocket
even though it's in my chest as well

I sleep worse away from you now but
still better than how I slept before I had you
(something I never thought possible)

I love how many songs we share
I love how we listened to her new album together for the first time
I love that I shared her with you and you
fell in love

I will never forget each and every time you go
and how much it hurts but
I will never forget you will come back this time
and I will be waiting (asleep or not)

I will always remember the first time you walked
into the room and I laid eyes on you
my wall went up so fast because I knew
something remarkable was happening
and it was terrifying

Most days of the year are unremarkable. 
They begin, and they end, with no lasting memories made in between. 
Most days have no impact on the course of a life.
June 16th was a Tuesday.


I will never understand how I believe
but I do

We are superheroes, not only saving the world
but more importantly each other, pulling one another out of
the deepest holes and breaking down the most durable walls

We will watch our movie again, one day
when the time is right
and there are so many movies we will watch
so many places we will go
so many things we will do
but all that matters
is that you are there for all of it, no matter what it is

You have an endless supply of bandages and I am lucky enough
to not need anymore because you yourself
are a bandage for all my wounds

How did I get lucky enough
to be able to brush your hair from your face a hundred times a day
to know what you look like as you fall asleep
to feel the softness of your skin against mine
warmth and protection and /home/


Alabama, Arkansas
I do love my ma and pa
Not the way that I do love you

Well, holy moly me oh my
You're the apple of my eye
Girl, I've never loved one like you

Man oh man, you're my best friend
I scream it to the nothingness
There ain't nothing that I need

Hot and heavy pumpkin pie
Chocolate candy, Jesus Christ
Ain't nothing please me more than you

I'll follow you into the park
Through the jungle, through the dark
Girl, I've never loved one like you

Moats and boats and waterfalls
Alleyways and payphone calls
I've been everywhere with you

Laugh until we think we'll die
Barefoot on that summer night
Never could be sweeter than with you

And in the streets we run afree
Like it's only you and me
Geez you're something to see


Home is when I'm alone with you.

Then again, my heart has been broken. I feel as if I'm sinking....drowning....can't breathe...

I will never be able to read my favorite poem or see my favorite piece of art again without crying.

I found it funny you thought you were the one chasing, instead of being chased, when you first read it... that you were not the one burning brilliantly (and maybe always just a little out of reach).

I can't wear those socks or that t-shirt or the necklace or the bag anymore without feeling like any of them weigh two of me. (maybe it's our weight combined, like I now carry in my heart)

My first night in a long time waking up with a migraine and this is what's going on from the part of my head that can still manage to put together thoughts (will I ever sleep more than three hours again)

I'll never be able to listen to that song I dedicated to you, even if you didn't know I did so (it only applies even more since I had)

and she will also always be tears since I shared her with you... (my favorite song...... gone....)

I will never forget the first time, and me calling my mom after I watched you go, and asking her "why am I in so much pain right now?" (....she didn't answer, because she knew I already knew.)

Or years ago before I even met you when my friend passed me a story, about us, and said you'll love this and I said why would you think that, it's about reincarnation (and she said, /exactly/)

That /she/ will also be gone because I will always have to pass her up on the shelf without a second thought (that's a lie... there will be so many thoughts, and memories, I might collapse right there on the floor of the comic book store)

How will I ever be able to watch the movie about us again? (did I want to anyway) (yes... only with you at my side, though)

That I was supposedly your purpose, and you patched up a hole I didn't think could be patched, then ripped away the bandaging (to patch up someone else)

How do I see you and be able to look at you anymore (then again, would I be able to help it anyway?), or swallow down all the urges to brush your hair from your face (it was so hard in the first place)....

"What I'd say about you"

Did you really leave me again?

After all the seasons I spent waiting. 

Watching out the window. 

Listening at the door.

Waiting for the news of your return.

For the news that you realized someone important was waiting for you.

A whole lifetime I've been waiting.

I can't believe you're not coming back.

I can't believe I'm supposed to stop waiting.

I can't believe you left me again.

You didn't tell me to stop waiting. In fact, you said the opposite. But I can only think, what happens.... when you do?

A bit melodramatic, I guess.

someone......
please...

get

me


bleach


so

i
can stop


having
to see



all the blood
lines


on my mattress

each time


i change

a
goddamn
sheet

..............

I just want to see my dog again. Then I'd like to go.

"Come on , Dick, they're going to split us up eventually. You didn't think they were going to send us to the prison together, did you?"

"Sure I did."

"No, I doubt it."

"I never thought about that... Isn't that funny? I never thought they might break us up. Guess that makes me a dope.

If they hang us---would they do that together? At the same time?" 

"Probably. They have two gallows here, side by side."

"Then I hope they hang us."

"Sick and twisted and very, very sad."

"I want Billowy too. And the espadrilles. And the sunglasses. And you,"
On the train I told him about the day we thought he'd drowned and how I was determined to ask my father to round up as many fishermen as he could to go look for him, and when they found him, to light a pyre on our shore, while I grabbed Mafalda's knife from the kitchen and ripped out his heart, because that's all I'd ever have to show for my life. A heart and a shirt. His heart wrapped in a damp shirt

billowy

it's from one of my favorite books. the quote. i remember. yet..... i won't be able to go through the book and find it either. ol' billowy....... leave me billowy. and you..........wow i'm so much pain today

Finish your food. finish it. you have no money. don't waste it. you've lost twelve pounds in two weeks. who cares if it fucking hurts. you're in pain anyway. twelve pounds. twelve pounds, which puts you now twenty-seven to thirty-two off goal weight, if you decide to survive and thrive.


eat.

I failed today, at everything I tried. Did I even try?

I really feel I need to be inpatient for a long duration of time. Yet I know it won't change my feelings. (How do you /know/?) Because I tried it. It also won't help those around me, that care, which is the only thing I care about, even if my mind has a barrier surrounding that. So what's the point exactly of me going into a full time care facility then. I cause the people I love pain in a different way. I don't get help I need (can't get) and they don't get to connect with me, as they have voiced they want to do so much. 

The rest of my day will be spent unwillingly organizing the paper piles in my room to find all my pay stubs from my last job to get my unemployment paperwork fixed tomorrow. 

And then going through my old blogs to find a quote I know is in one of my writings but not sure which. This involves going through about five hundred posts/drafts throughout fifteen different blogs I've had.

Selfish, and chaotic, and so very, very tired.

*sleeps uncomfortably in jeans and rest of outfit from today to avoid dysphoria and triggering the dermatillomania*

I need nothing, to travel the sea

black water, take over

"The good moments will be rare, but they will be worth the bad, and you'll get there" ....something I hear in different variations over and over again from different people as they try to convince me to survive this world.

There's something (eating at me) wrong with me. I am not okay with being alone. Maybe it's the pain I am in and it scares me to have time alone with my own thoughts and space that I am able to hurt myself in. Or maybe it's as simple as I like connecting with people. But it's something I've never realized before. That I don't like being alone. When connections are broken, when I am by myself, there's no escape and I revert back to the child I am. Maybe I get too attached. Maybe I'm too needy. Maybe I talk too much. Maybe my anxiety and depression will push anyone in my life away, always. (Maybe) I am not good enough.

swallowed by a vicious vengeful sea, darker days are raining over me

I have no job. I have no motivation to get a job. I was starving myself. I was tearing and slicing my skin off. I was setting myself on fire. I am still doing some of these things, I want to destroy myself, and I already have emotionally, but my body remains as an illusion so that the people that love me will not be hurt by my absence. But it's why I still disappoint them. I am already gone and they will not accept it. They keep throwing life vests to someone who has already sunk to the bottom of the ocean.

in the deepest depths I lost myself, I see myself through someone else

Inevitably, I will be gone. Am I torturing them by prolonging it? By giving them false hope? Do I rid myself of my pain and the mistake of a body I was given now, or do I wait it out. Do /I/ hope someone drags me from the bottom of the ocean, something I cannot ask anyone to risk their own life for. I see them, diving down into the depths, but they never quite reach me.
Do I stay, or do I go?

but I am ready, to suffer the sea

I need nothing, I need nothing

The stairs creak as you sleep it's keeping me awake

Some days I can't even dress myself

My face is clearer than it's even been, which to me is clear. Scars from years of dermatillomania but I don't see a single blemish. Which is ironic, considering I'm on testosterone and also have the dermatillomania.
But it's like my teeth. Regardless of the TMJ disorder and an open bite I take really good care of them. I found the best way possible to keep the "inevitable" cavities and gingivitis away and I do it.



Even more ironic,...because right now I look in the mirror and I am covered from chest to ankles in slashes. I did to myself.

I counted my scars today...or started to. I can guarantee 75% of them are self-inflicted. Or made worse by my own hands. I can also guarantee that percentage is higher but went with the "safe" guess. There's over a hundred. Not including the new ones. And not including the reinjuries because how can I remember how many times I've burned my knuckles by now or broken my own fingers. I guess all of that's expected for ten years of this?

This excludes the dozens upon dozens of scars I "made go away" (with time, and breaking open liquid vitamin E tablets and rubbing on the ointment for years and years, mostly on the ones that littered my forearms).

New ones total in at sixty-three. Five of which have been stitched to avoid a trip to the emergency room, I guess. Sixty-three over the course of two "relapses" in the span of three days. It's getting worse. I've never targeted my entire body. I've never done so much damage at once. I've never been fine with people seeing them, only hitting places I could easily hide. But I'm "an adult" this time, what is anyone going to do to me if they see them, besides probably not sit next to me? Which they do see them, frequently (and avoid sitting next to me).

I get to destroy myself without any consequences besides that I /am/ destroying myself. And the me that's here, is okay with that. But I will cover my mirror in my bathroom tomorrow, in hope it will help.


The vitamin E trick doesn't work anymore.

If I can't self sabotage one way I will do it another
If I have to stay in this body I will destroy it

you better you better you better you better make me me better me better you better make me better

they keep adding up

fsdaxcjhvkbln;m'

you know what doesn't fix slicing yourself open? rubberbands

but thanks anyway hospital for trying

Waking up begins with saying "am" and "now"

Today I woke up and felt like I couldn't move my legs. There was intense shooting pains through them and my biceps, as well as along the outline of my chest and my waistline, and downward. My forearms burned. I'm sure this pain would've come sooner, interrupted my sleep, except that I took twice the amount of my anxiety meds I was supposed to in order to sleep in the first place, not at all concerned about the result of that. It took a minute, to realize, why this was happening. and that I did it to myself. but reality set in as grogginess went away. and I knew.

I was immediately able to "turn off" the pain - which really means just suffer through it, as soon as I remembered, I caused it. so I went back to sleep.
My sister-in-law woke me up later to ask if it would be helpful for her and my brother to drop me in a central location to job hunt today since they were headed out. "When?" "In an hour." "Let me think on it." Translation: let me find out if I can get out of bed, not have a panic attack, and be ready in an hour.

The answer was no.


I felt all the physical pain again but remembered this time so I sat up. Once I sat up, I saw. The blood all over the wood floor. Where I laid last night. Blood on the floor, bloody handprints on the the white boxes that were next to me that I've been working on unpacking. (That need to be repacked. I need to go home.)
I put on my "wake up monologue"...



After I saw that movie, I used to listen to that every morning. It might be dark but it helped. Sometimes other darkness can help your own. It just depends on how it's channeled. "Just get through the goddamn day." It was written on my mirror. I would look at myself in that mirror and (straighten my tie) and read it, then say it to myself, and then head to high school.... some days.


My relapses get worse and worse, I've never woken up to blood all over the floor. I've never woke up without having cleaned up my wounds the night before. My arms are scorched from the space heater I pressed myself against and ever other place is slashed open. Thirty-six new wounds if you count the burns. I have spent so much effort to /not/ hurt myself anywhere near my genatalia in fear it would somehow interfere with future transition surgeries (that I will never be able to afford). But, last night I failed.

And my relapses are being triggered by something very specific. Something I realized today after my brother and sister-in-law left without me, frustrated I wasn't coming but holding it in. It's not their /fault/ but it's /them/. Well, it's /me/. I am the problem. But they trigger /me/. Every time we "talk", any time they sit me down to discuss what I'm doing and why I'm doing it and end up not understanding any of my side of it, I want to destroy myself.

I've been doing this since I was a kid. And other people and things have been the triggers of my own self destruction and self sabotaging. But I realized today, the only time I wasn't doing this, was living with my oldest brother. I need to go home. That's home. I'm safe there. I thought I wasn't, I thought he'd never accept who I really was... turns out he's my biggest fan. And he worries about me all the time, I feel it. And can tell from a text message. Because his texts are like hearing his voice. I don't know why that is. It doesn't happen with anyone else. But when he texts and says "hey, what's up" I know it's "I'm so worried about you, I feel like something is wrong, are you okay, do I need to come rescue you, I will I will /I will/"

he will.


I was emotionally manipulated last night. I know this as well because I can't get out of my head how certain things were phrased over and over and /over/ again. Like one of those tests, where they repeat the questions  in slightly different ways to try to trick you and see if you're answering honestly, or if your brain even can. Maybe I needed it. Maybe they did it as a kick in the ass. They insisted they didn't do it at all. Maybe that's also part of it. I don't know. I don't know how to think outside of myself or as someone even near emotional stability. All I know is it happened, whether they acknowledge it or not. But apparently I'm doing it to them, too. And not aware of it even though they won't believe that either. So maybe none of us are aware but I was "called out" on my emotional manipulation last night so I believe that they are aware of theirs, if they are aware enough to call out mine.

I am wearing my binder and each breath would normally be a little rough because of the compression but today each breath pushes the binder into the wounds and I hold back a scream. every. time. Yet if I don't wear the binder... the number of wounds will increase. They will continue. They will not stop. I have broken the seal. The dysphoria I feel while not having it on will corrupt me. Will destroy me. But I can feel the blood seeping through as I breathe.

My "plan" for the day was partially mine. I have to get up, I have to clean my wounds, and wash my hair (because showering is too much to do daily for the dysphoria), and my face, and brush my teeth, and eat something, anything, to take my meds for the day. Then it was "their" plan. Do the apps. Do them even though you will have a panic attack every time you have to type out your legal name ("copy and paste"), see* your legal name. And then back to me, do some laundry to break up your time and breathe and have clean clothes and bedding because that makes you happy. So I stripped my bed.

I have black bedding. and a white mattress. I took off the sheet. and there was blood. all over it. Cue a panic attack, that I got through by /tearing/ everything off my bed to wash. And then it's me standing there with the blood stained mattress, frozen by not only being reminded (not like I forgot with the searing pain) what I did to myself, and want to do to myself again but also...... by "being" a girl. sometimes. when you have your period, overnight you'll have accidents. a blood spot here or there on the sheet, soaked through to the mattress. A whole new trigger to start off my day. looking at the blood spots, the reminder of when this used to happen. the dysphoria.

Not something I want to get into though. I did my laundry. I put a new sheet on my bed. I stitched up my two deepest wounds that needed it. I wrote this post and I listened to a song on repeat for hours and continued to deal with the rest of my wounds continually reopening as I moved throughout my day....still have not cleaned the floor. should get rid of that box. have to do job apps. it's already 5pm. have group in the morning. can't be late. /won't/ be late. have to do job apps. have to type my legal name over and over and over until I relapse again. but I'm stronger than this. in the wise words or Josie, "dysphoria can be beat".

My bright is too slight to hold back all my dark...but I have people helping. So I'm going to put the past twelve hours behind me, get some apps done, go for a walk, and relax so I get sleep and get up in the morning.

am i going to survive? i doubt it

This is the sharpest blade I've ever had and it's glorious