Today, I was reading the church bulletin board when I read an article about how the Maryville PFLAG was formed. One of the primary impetuses was when one of the founder's sons came out to her and told her he hated himself for being gay, and, after some brief struggles herself, she realized how terrible it is to hate yourself because your society tells you to and wanted to do something about it.
I almost started crying on the spot. I'm almost crying right now. And it's not because his mother wanted to become an advocate to help him. I truly think it's because I was written on that page, plain as day, and it was just one straw too many.
I hate myself. I don't know if I'll ever stop hating myself. And it is a terrifying realization to find that I cannot feel the love of anyone else [with one notable exception]. It is terrifying to look at myself and see how thoroughly protected and distant I am. How lackluster and wretched I am. How inadequate and useless I am. How I have so many gifts but lack the ambition to give back in kind. I am weak. I am lazy. I am beaten, broken, and bruised and the bleeding continues beneath my skin whether it seeps through to the surface or not.
And I know this will pass. And I know that I have never been better than I am now. And I know that I see Juliet in my mirror just as often as I see Dylan, perhaps more. But he's still there. I see pictures of myself and whatever delusions I have when I see my reflection are dashed. I am not him anymore, thank God. But to say I am fully female, to say I am who I want to be... that sounds like nothing but utter folly.
And I wonder what, exactly, triggers my fits of depression. And honestly? Honestly, what I think really shatters me into all of these desolate pieces, yet again? Is when I believe people care about me. Is when I believe people like me. Or at least appreciate what I'm doing. I'm crying right now, even typing those words. Because it means I'll fail them. It means I'll disappoint them. It means that I can't believe they are apathetic or just going through the motions or just saying what's expected for them to say. I believe them. And it hurts. It hurts so so much.
I think to the last time I cried [or almost did] when my father apologized after yelling at me over the phone. And it was as if, after so much careful preparation and protection, after planning how to mitigate his anger, after trying to decide to defend myself or defer and evade as I always should do, he unexpectedly seemed to feel bad about possibly hurting me. And I almost broke apart. Like I am now. Like I did on the last day of GSSE when they all left, these people I believed cared about me as I cared about them. And the losing hurts so so much. But the caring, *believing* that someone actually cares? That's what destroys me.
And I'm not entirely sure why. With my father, it was almost as if it was now safe to be hurt and to feel, as if the pain I was just going to sweep into the closet where the rest of my untold volumes of rage dwell was allowed to exist. And then, when people complimented my speech Friday, I warmly said thank you [a huge improvement over even a few years ago when I would have not even said thank you but proceeded to describe how inadequate what they heard actually was] without agreeing. But one person, who's really a wonderfully committed straight ally and a really loving person, was so adamant about how good he thought it was and how I needed to share it...
I didn't cry then. I didn't cry until I started writing this. But I think that's what made me so depressed. I actually started reading the hateful comments about trans people on an article someone posted on facebook to help me feel better, because I at least know what to do with hate. I know what to do with intolerance and hurt and fear and insecurity. I know what to do when I'm not safe. But when I'm safe? When I know someone cares about me? When I *believe* them? I have no idea. I have no idea at all. And so I shatter.
I almost started crying on the spot. I'm almost crying right now. And it's not because his mother wanted to become an advocate to help him. I truly think it's because I was written on that page, plain as day, and it was just one straw too many.
I hate myself. I don't know if I'll ever stop hating myself. And it is a terrifying realization to find that I cannot feel the love of anyone else [with one notable exception]. It is terrifying to look at myself and see how thoroughly protected and distant I am. How lackluster and wretched I am. How inadequate and useless I am. How I have so many gifts but lack the ambition to give back in kind. I am weak. I am lazy. I am beaten, broken, and bruised and the bleeding continues beneath my skin whether it seeps through to the surface or not.
And I know this will pass. And I know that I have never been better than I am now. And I know that I see Juliet in my mirror just as often as I see Dylan, perhaps more. But he's still there. I see pictures of myself and whatever delusions I have when I see my reflection are dashed. I am not him anymore, thank God. But to say I am fully female, to say I am who I want to be... that sounds like nothing but utter folly.
And I wonder what, exactly, triggers my fits of depression. And honestly? Honestly, what I think really shatters me into all of these desolate pieces, yet again? Is when I believe people care about me. Is when I believe people like me. Or at least appreciate what I'm doing. I'm crying right now, even typing those words. Because it means I'll fail them. It means I'll disappoint them. It means that I can't believe they are apathetic or just going through the motions or just saying what's expected for them to say. I believe them. And it hurts. It hurts so so much.
I think to the last time I cried [or almost did] when my father apologized after yelling at me over the phone. And it was as if, after so much careful preparation and protection, after planning how to mitigate his anger, after trying to decide to defend myself or defer and evade as I always should do, he unexpectedly seemed to feel bad about possibly hurting me. And I almost broke apart. Like I am now. Like I did on the last day of GSSE when they all left, these people I believed cared about me as I cared about them. And the losing hurts so so much. But the caring, *believing* that someone actually cares? That's what destroys me.
And I'm not entirely sure why. With my father, it was almost as if it was now safe to be hurt and to feel, as if the pain I was just going to sweep into the closet where the rest of my untold volumes of rage dwell was allowed to exist. And then, when people complimented my speech Friday, I warmly said thank you [a huge improvement over even a few years ago when I would have not even said thank you but proceeded to describe how inadequate what they heard actually was] without agreeing. But one person, who's really a wonderfully committed straight ally and a really loving person, was so adamant about how good he thought it was and how I needed to share it...
I didn't cry then. I didn't cry until I started writing this. But I think that's what made me so depressed. I actually started reading the hateful comments about trans people on an article someone posted on facebook to help me feel better, because I at least know what to do with hate. I know what to do with intolerance and hurt and fear and insecurity. I know what to do when I'm not safe. But when I'm safe? When I know someone cares about me? When I *believe* them? I have no idea. I have no idea at all. And so I shatter.
Ihateyousogoddamnedmuch...
Better? ;)