I Should Have Stopped in Tennessee

Living is not hard.
It hurts
And it's exhausting
And I hate it
But it's not hard

On the other hand
Is that living?
Because I think
Maybe that's just
Breathing

I can breathe forever
I can eat
And sleep
And go through
All the motions
And my body will
Survive

But living?
Living involves things like
Peace
And purpose
And love
And hope
And at least one reason
To keep breathing

Dying is hard
Or maybe I haven't been
Trying hard enough

I drove through at least
Two different states
Last weekend
Where I could have
Walked right in
And purchased a firearm
I even had money, for once

But I didn't
Why didn't I
I regret not doing that

I have many bladed objects
And I'm sure I could stab
Myself to death
But I feel like a gun would be
A little easier
Take a little less effort
Be a little more sure

None of this nonsense
Where I might fail
Where I might just end up
Paralyzed, because I landed wrong
I was lucky to avoid that
Once already
I doubt I'd be so lucky again

If I had a gun
I could just put it to my head
And pull the trigger
And be done

That's all I want
I want to be done
I'm so tired
I can't do this
Why do I have to do this?

Breathing is not hard
I can breathe forever
But I'm so tired
Of not being alive

Demons Run

Demons run
When a good man goes to war

Well then

Start running
I am going to war
I will fight

I will fight you,
Depression.
Even when you leave me
No weapons I can lift
I will fight tooth and nail
And claw and fucking
Blade, if that
Is what it takes

I will fight you,
Suicide.
I will live
And breathe
Yes, and learn
To do even more
You are the easiest
And the hardest
To fight
Because just being
Is a middle finger to you
But just being
Is so, so hard

But I will
I will fight
I will go to war

And
I
Will
Win

So start running

Choices

I can't get my best friend's point out of my head. I'm not very good at killing myself, as evidenced by the fact that I'm still alive. And at this point in my life, it's starting to cost me things that I really want. Working with my therapist. Transitioning. Being a friend to my best friend. Getting to know my new friend. Hanging out with my old friend. So. I think at this point...I should stop.

"That's easy to say," I thought to myself. "Not so easy to do." But the truth is it isn't easy to say, either. I love having options. Like, my therapist asked me why I smuggled razor blades into the hospital last time, when I took myself there. And the answer was that I refuse to be without choice. But. It was my choice to go to the hospital. Why did I think I needed more choices? If I commit to therapy with him, it will be my choice. If I make a promise to my best friend, it will be my choice. If I make a promise to MYSELF, it will be my choice. What I really seem to want is the ability to have things both ways...safety that's not really safe, commitments that won't hold me, promises that I can wiggle out of. That's a child's way of looking at the world (or a lawyer's, I guess). I am an adult, and don't you think it's about time I put away childish things?

But it won't be easy. At this point, the option, the idea of suicide has been in my head for...almost ten years. It hasn't always been a valid option; there have been lots of times since then that I wouldn't have tried to kill myself for any reason at all. But I could have. It was there. It was my option, my decision, my choice. Always. Getting myself to where it isn't always hanging in the back of my mind will be difficult, to say the least. I mentioned this way of always having a way out of every promise is childish, and it is. But I haven't learned yet how to be an adult about it. I don't know HOW to be an adult without it. What does that look like? How does it feel?

I used words like "bind" and "cage" and "imprison" when I wrote that poem the other day about those promises. And I don't like feeling caged or imprisoned. Who does? But, really, we all bind ourselves in little ways every day. And I would much rather be bound by my own word than an external power.

I told my therapist that I can do this. I can make this commitment, and I can keep it. It's never been a question of ability, though I may have told myself a time or two it was. It's a question of desire, of whether I want to do it or not, even when it's hard, even when I would rather give up, even when I doubt whether anything will ever change, ever get better, ever seem like something more than pointless. I used to be bound by my word, and I didn't think it a hardship then. No. I was proud of it. I used to say that I had never lied to someone who was trying to help me, and it used to be true. It's not true anymore. I can't make it retroactively true. But I can make sure I'm honest from here on out, that if I make a promise, I will keep it.

So really only one question remains: will I commit, or won't I? Will I commit to therapy, to change, to getting better even if I don't feel like I'm getting better...or never do? To learning to live in this world, in my body, in my head, instead of constantly trying to leave?

Will I commit to staying alive to do the things I want to do anyway? Put that way, it seems pretty obvious.

An Occupational Therapist's answer to For the Fifth Time

For the eternal burning flame
For relief on days untold
For passion, love and life
For delight of being bold

For taking subtle risks
For mountains, lakes and streams
For loved ones that I meet
For joy not what it seems

For the unknown dreams to come
For the calm within the storm
For relaxing into safety
For the sun that always warms

For all these I now accept
For all these I do exist
For all my changing choices
For my choice to no resist

Vocabulary

"How are you?" "Eh, I'm alive." I know you accept that and move on. Perhaps you think that "I'm alive" is in some way preferable to "I'm suicidal" or perhaps "I'm dying." Perhaps it is. But when you ask me how I am and all I can say is "I'm alive," it isn't a good thing. It means I continue to breathe but that is all that can be said for my existence. I'm not happy. I'm not fine. I'm not anything even remotely approaching those things. I am alive, and that is all.

"How are you?" "Not doing so great, honestly." This is the most honest I will be with you. And it's an extreme understatement. "Not doing so great" is how I say "there is nothing left for me but death." And while maybe that isn't obvious, it's still simply stunning to me how many people will just leave it there. Do you think you've done your friendly duty by simply asking? I can't be too upset, I guess. By my understatement, I've given you the out you so desperately desire.

"How are you?" "I'm really depressed and suicidal." I don't say this much. Why not? It gets the exact same response as if I said "I'm fine," or "I'm alive," or "not doing so great." Which is to say, it doesn't get a response at all. Or if it does, the response goes something like "I'm sorry to hear that." You know what? If that's all your response is, an indication of how my depression affects you, it is better that you don't ask at all. At least then I could delude myself into thinking maybe someone would care if I opened up, instead of the hopeless realization I've opened myself up again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and it makes no difference.

"I want to die." The translation here is, "I want to die."

"There is no hope for me." I will never get better. I've come to accept that, intellectually. I've looked at the past and the present and made a reasonable prediction about the future. I expect that when it sinks its way into my ever-hoping heart, I won't be around to scream pointlessly into the void anymore.

"What can I do to help?" "I don't know. Nothing." Although I may feel like that's true, and in the long run, it really is, there are things I wish you would do even after I've said it won't help. Here they are: talk to me. Just talk. Tell me all the things I don't believe about myself and the world. Not religious things. But tell me it gets better, even when I tell you it won't. Tell me I am worth fighting for. Tell me I mean something, to you. Tell me even if it never gets better for me, that I've made a difference, to you, to someone. Tell me that even if I died right now, today, I wouldn't be forgotten. Tell me I'd be missed. Talk to me. Tell me that sometimes life just isn't fair. Tell me I'm allowed to be sad. Tell me you know I can't help it, but you also know I'm strong and I'll survive. I won't believe you, but tell me anyway.

"<a sad post about depression>" Translation: I'm screaming into the void, hoping it will answer, hoping it will care. Be the void.

Updates, I guess

It appears that I have not written on this blog in a while. I think I started tapering off when people started using my posts to justify being assholes to me. But anyway, there have been a lot of changes recently. As you can see from my poem "Five Sons," I have fairly recently come to the conclusion that I am in fact a man. Well, I say recently. Those of you who are allowed to read my other blog know that my gender identity is something I have been struggling with for a year or so. And possibly longer than that, although I was not willing to admit it. Certainly my mother and I always had struggles because she desired me to be more girly, to help with the housework, etc, while I just wanted to do all the things my brothers did. That and other, similar instances throughout my childhood, while they did not make me realize it at the time, are yet another thing that makes me say that I am not wrong in my identity.

But along with being transgender comes gender dysphoria. I have always disliked my body, especially since puberty. I don't think one can self-injure without that requirement, but I could be wrong. I have only my own experiences to aid me. But when I finally admitted to myself that I was a man, it was as if a switch flipped. Suddenly I went from passively disliking my body to actively hating it. "This body betrayed me. This body is wrong. This body makes people think I am a woman. This body...is responsible for me getting abused."

At the same time, I was already spiraling down to a very deep depression, although to be honest, that happens pretty much all the time. But when combined with body hatred, it very quickly went from deep depression to actively suicidal. I did everything I could to stop it. I talked with my therapist. I talked with the person who prescribes my meds. I reached out to friends. I bled. I even went back to Harper's Place willingly, just after the first of the year. I knew I needed help, and I was trying my hardest to get it. Five days in Harper's Place was not enough. I left, and immediately crashed again. Not a week later I moved on to actually attempting suicide. I ended up in a psych ward for three days, then I was back at Harper's. I got removed from Harper's Place for helping a friend make a run for it, and spent over a week in another crisis center, in Madison.

I actually started getting better. I felt happiness like I have not felt in years, like I cannot remember ever feeling. I was so excited. I knew that this euphoria likely would not last, but still, I rejoiced. So I came home. And now we come to the present. Not a week ago I got back from that crisis center. Things were good for the first day. The second day, I started to feel a little sad. But I knew I was not going to stay ecstatically happy forever, so I just assumed I was having a bad day. Then the next day, it got worse. And the next, worse again. And now I find myself back in the apathy of depression. Not in the deep blackness that I was at the start of the year, more of my normal day to day depression for the last dozen years or so. But it is quickly becoming apparent that I need to do something about this body, this body that should never have been mine. The problem is that my state is one of those who do not think transgender therapy and hormones and surgery are a legitimate problem that should be paid for with the state healthcare I'm eligible for, even though the statistics show that going without those things greatly decreases my life expectancy. Did you know that 41% of transgender people have attempted suicide? But I must pay for these things myself, and I do not have the money.

But something has to change, and quickly. I do not need the darkest depths of depression to be suicidal. Indeed, I am now, again. Not so much in a "I want greatly to die" sort of way, but in a "I want this body to be punished, and if I have to greatly harm it and I end up dying, well, that won't be so bad of an outcome." The county thinks it has left me safer by only giving me medication for a few days at a time, but after two overdoses I think I am done with that sort of thing. There are still bridges to jump off and razor blades to slice and many things that could cause me some level of harm. I am not "safe." The only helpful thing to come out of this month of treatment is the knowledge that maybe I can be happy for a few days once in a while. And that is a good thing to know. But it doesn't stop the depression. It does not stop me from wanting to harm this body. That will not stop until I more closely match what I should have always been, and perhaps it will not stop even then.

I do not know if I have hope for the future. I only know that the present cannot continue for very long.

For Yet Again

For the beating of my heart
For the failure of each start
For the leaves entwined in ink
For the depths to which I sink

For the losing of control
For the void within my soul
For the words that gave their life
For the love that turned to strife

For the lips that form false smiles
For the dark untrodden miles
For the mask I once more wear
For the pain that lives in care

For the waking of my eyes
For the breaking of torn ties
For the thoughts that never sleep
For the vows I meant to keep

For the friendships now in shreds
For the selfish tears I shed
For the son almost unknown
For the wild oats I’ve sown

For the friends in need of cheer
For the enemies that jeer
For the break of each new day
For the truths that strangers say

For the last glimpse of the stars
For the locking of the bars
For the losing of my fate
For the help that hopes too late

For the pain of getting well
For the half-truths that I tell
For the fear of the unknown
For the path I walk alone

For the tears they made me weep
For the anger that I keep
For the hopes at once betrayed
For the wrath confinement made

For the tears I cannot bring
For the songs I dare not sing
For the years forever gone
For the years still yet to come

For the words I cannot write
For the dark that ne’er sees light
For the formless pain I bear
For the emptiness I fear

for all these for help I sought
for all these answers I seek
for all these my chains were wrought
for all these…I am not weak

Shall I?

Shall I live forever past,
Let old shadows their dark cast?
Shall I pass years child-young,
Let old demons curb my tongue?

Shall I scream and block my ears,
Let my eyes drip out old tears?
Shall I speak what once was said,
Let loves live that should be dead?

Shall I always close my eyes,
Let old falls forbid me rise?
Shall I lie here unconsoled
Let old faiths entrap my soul?

or

Shall I see what’s seen by few,
Let my dreams rise up anew?
Shall I rise to meet the sun,
Let my hopes their own way run?

Shall I open my heart wide,
Let those worthy come inside?
Shall I live for life itself,
Let old words stay on the shelf?

Shall I tear down my old fears,
Let rejoicing dry my tears?
Shall I live forever free,
Let myself be only me?