Why did you come to New York just to be homeless?
This really should have been the first clue that the people who are supposed to help people like those in my family didn’t want to waste their time on someone like us. It’s the same everywhere you go though I suppose, especially now with the political climate. The word outsider has never been more foul of a word when you’re desperate and looking for a light among the darkness of your life. An outsider is someone else, not one of the community and needs to be pushed as far away as possible. An outsider can be left to fend for themselves, even to die, it doesn’t matter, they aren’t from “around here”.
This is the path that fear, ignorance, isolation, and bigotry has lead us down this path. The path that in fact leads to far more deaths and far more pain than anyone realizes. In one breath we proclaim that we love our neighbors, and care for one another. Then in the next we curse those who are not like ourselves. We exile those who need the help to most into an abyss of desperation and destitution that leave them wondering if their lives even matter…
Does my life even matter?
I am, after all no one.
I am an outsider, and I always have been. I watch the world pass by me as if I was nothing more than a ghost in the mists of time. I’m just a bystander in my own life, watching it move by me slowly with a sense of lost despondency stuck in my chest like a rock that’s ever crushing the life from me.
I pretend well.
I do a good job of making people think I’m something when I need to be, but at the end of the day I’m alone, empty and lost.
I started writing this post to speak out against the way outsiders are treated, but now I’ve gone off on a different tangent. I’m so damned tired of fighting, of being nothing, being just another tranny freak that is so inept at dealing with the world that I should just go kill myself…
But that’s really what it comes down to in the end. Should I or shouldn’t I? I can name hundreds of reasons why I should just do it. Most of which are selfish, but some not so much. I mean, seriously, if I’m dead my family will actually get the help that they need. Because, you know, gender stereotypes and all, the “man” should take care of the family or he’s a worthless piece of shit. Isn’t that how it goes? Of course you have the ideal that a family with a man in it shouldn’t need help in the first place.
On the other hand, my reasons are selfish. I am tired of fighting. I am tired of hurting. I’m tired of watching people laugh, smile, talk, enjoy being together and only be able to fake those emotions. I’m a fraud really, I don’t understand it. I portray them because it’s expected of me. I’m -supposed- to care if someone is hurt, I’m supposed to display these facial features, or those words. It’s all an act. Someone like me could never find a place to belong. I’m too broken to fit into the picture of society.
Wasn’t high school enough for me…all the acting, all the pretend games that I cared about the meat suits that walked around me, it was all for nothing in the end. I haven’t talked to any of them in years. I’ve only talked to two since graduating, one of which is now dead. Why shouldn’t I join him? He was the nicest one of the bunch…
I tell the truth about what goes on in my fucked up head and I’m told I’m a hypochondriac and that no one with my level of IQ could possibly have as many problems that I do. Once more, they rely on stereotypes to try to make sense of me, and ignore everything else. My own pain, perhaps the only tangible emotion I feel means nothing to them. They simply don’t care, and why should they? I don’t neatly fit into their molds.
They slapped the label of bi-polar on me, but I never abused any substances like so many other people that are bi-polar, after all they don’t count an adrenaline junkie as a real junkie. I was just a kid that liked to do “stupid kid things” like street racing. The faster, the better, but there was always that voice of caution in the back of my mind. “Best not get caught. They’ll lock you up.”
That’s been the motivation for anything really. Not to get caught. Because in the end, even death is better than some cell surrounded by other people stupid enough to get caught.
The next label was depressed…well fucking duh. I’ve been depressed since I was a teenager. I even told my mother about it once, her answer “Oh you know we don’t believe in killing yourself.” So I started cutting. It felt good, it felt as good as the high I would get from speed. But once more that tiny voice would whisper, “regulate yourself. Best not get caught, they’ll lock you up.”
My reason for never getting beyond control was simply not wanting to be locked up. The thought of the smell of those kinds of places is enough to make my stomach turn. I hate it. Of course they wouldn’t understand anything about me, and they wouldn’t care. That’s been made perfectly clear by the last time I was “locked up”.
And why was I locked up? That’s a story for another time, if there is in fact another time.
The point is, people don’t give a fuck about each other, on average. Even those holier-than-thou asshats that are PAID to help people, they don’t care.
Their family isn’t struggling to find food for the rest of the week. Their family isn’t going outside in freezing weather without shoes because they have sensory issues and their ONLY FUCKING PAIR OF SHOES won’t work for the day, but they still have to leave the house to run errands. Their children aren’t DENIED the RIGHT to public education even though they are McKinney Vento students (homeless).
They don’t care because they aren’t an outsider…