it's funny because it's true

No amount of medically or socially transitioning that is currently accessible to me makes me feel fulfilled, comfortable in my body, or even just significantly less dysphoric about my body. I’ve been on T for almost 4 years now (with a few breaks due to insurance issues etc) and my dysphoria has barely improved at all. It’s starting to feel completely hopeless. On top of that, I can’t bind at all anymore, like I used to do pre T, due to my acid reflux getting significantly worse from binding in the past year to the point that I have had to completely stop binding- so in some ways my dysphoria has actually just gotten WORSE than before over time. For a very short lived moment where I was a few years on T and I could still bind I tasted hope, and then the rug was pulled out from underneath me. Sometimes I think it would have been better to have never felt a taste of hope, a taste of things being better, at all because now things just feel so much worse than they ever did before by comparison. I genuinely don’t know why I even bother at all anymore. What’s the fucking point? Is there even one? I genuinely hate being trans so much. Sometimes I really feel like I may as well just detransition like my family and most of the world wants me to, since I’m just going to be miserable either way. At least if I went back to pretending to be cis, people might treat me with some of the respect afforded to cis (or in this case “cis”) people.

Two years of friendship down the drain. I guess I wasn't worth your time.

I need to cut so badly I need to cut I need to cut I need to cut I need to see the blood I need to feel the pain I need to cut I need to cut I need to cut I need to I need more scars it's not enough the urges won't go away I need to cut so so so badly the urges won't leave me alone every time I get near a blade my hands start to twitch and my brain tells me to use it I need to cut so badly omg I literally need to cut I need to I need to cut I need to cut

I sit against the corner of my bed and wonder and whisper and ask and try and the universe seems to answer that there is hope, because the boards and nails of the universe are hope. But I am blind to all but the splintering edges of it, the bloody fingernails from clutching to it. If the universe is hope than I am elsewhere all together. A worker dismissed from site when my work was completed, not made to enjoy the world I am part of. They say they can see every name etched in the curves, adding and shifting, and impermeable. But I have smoothed over my own, worn it down in service of others’ shining more brightly.

Do you think the sacrificial lamb was let into heaven, enough though it was no longer pure? Do you think it was blamed for the red marring its wool?

I don’t think I remember being a child. Not really. I remember being on duty. I don’t think I remember letting the tension out of my shoulders in laughter. But I remember what taught me to stand up straight.