Suicidal Idealations

I want to die.

I’m so tired of struggling, so tired of fighting, so tired of it being insinuated that my life is meaningless because I’m not good enough at being a minority. 

Yesterday was supposed to be a good day. It was supposed to be the beginning of the process to start my chest reconstruction surgery. Instead it ended with me wanting to wrap my car around a tree at 140 mph, and quite frankly the only reason I didn’t was because I wasn’t alone in the car on the five hour trip back home. Killing myself is one thing, taking someone else out with me is totally different, and no matter how depressed I get, or how suicidal I am it’s not something I could ever do. 

I drove over 200 miles, one way, just to have some lackey of the surgeon I was supposed to have a consultation with tell me I was too fat for them to operate on. Then she kept asking if I wanted to see pictures of their results…The surgeon couldn’t even be bothered to see me, even after these people knew I was driving from near Albany, NY to Rochester, NY. 

In 2007 I injured my back, I hurt it while I was working at Fred’s in Piggott, AR but since I didn’t realize it until the following day, the company basically told me to go fuck myself. I ended up going to the ER, where I was given multiple shots in my back and told to get some rest. I haven’t been out of pain since that day. 

When I first tried to see a medical professional about the severe pain in my lower back, I was told it was because I was overweight. None of the doctors that I saw in Arkansas wanted to even listen to the fact that I had been injured, it was all because I was overweight. 

Then I moved to Virginia, where I was told that I had nerve damage in my lower back and I was given a referral to a pain management specialist. When I went to see the pain management specialist I was then told that I would live every day for the rest of my life in pain, but because I was so young (25 years old) there was nothing that they (the pain management specialists) were going to do. I was too young to be taking pain killers. So I was sent on my way with the knowledge that each and every day I was alive from then until I died I would be hurting. 

Since then, I’ve tried to see doctors about losing weight, but now that I present as male I’ve been repeatedly told “just exercise” or “you’re just building muscle”. The latter is every doctor’s excuse for the weight gain I’ve had despite exercising to the point where I feel like I’m about to pass out and eating about a quarter of what I ate before my initial back injury some ten years ago. None of the doctors want to run any tests to find out why I’m gaining weight, it just must be all that muscle gain…

No one wants to help, or even listen and do their job. They just want me out of their office so they don’t have to deal with me anymore. This isn’t just one or two doctors though, is this nearly every doctor I’ve been to in the past five years. I stopped drinking soda, and rather than loosing weight which what one doctor proclaimed would happen, I gained weight. 

I’m not rich, in fact quiet the opposite is true. The only reason I’m living in a house right now is because a really great couple took my family in when we had no where else to go and were living in a tent. I’m not skinny, I’m damaged goods and I’m male. All of which equate to my life isn’t worth the paper my birth certificate was printed on. 

Why should I even bother to fight anymore?

I’m constantly in pain. The one thing that I was stupid enough to get my hopes up for has just been taken away because of issues that no doctor wants to deal with…my quality of life is so low it’s not even funny.

I can’t even function in society.

I’m so tired.

#depression, #discrimination-in-healthcare, #doctors, #ftm, #ftm-surgery, #shoddy-healthcare, #suicide, #transgender

Major Depressive Disorder…

For over half of my life I’ve been depressed, not just the cause kind of depression that so many people suffer, I’m not that lucky. I have had this deep rooted, dark miasma of a mental illness since I was fifteen years old. The first time I told my mom I was depressed, she said that everyone went through times in their life when they were sad. When I told her I wanted to kill myself, she told me “You know we don’t believe in that.” I was a lost, alone and depressed teenager with nothing but the hope of something better to hold on to. Well, something better has never come.

I hate the “It Gets Better” project for one simple fact, it doesn’t always get better. There is no fairytale happy ending, and the celebrities that parade their “getting better” about does nothing but give false hope. It builds up people like me only to let us down, and not gently.

The last time I checked, 47% of all transgender people end their own lives, and 80% of us contemplate suicide. I’m one of the 80% and was nearly one of the 47%. I can’t count the times that I have almost been just another statistic on a page for people to cry foul about but do nothing for.

I struggle to get out of bed, I make myself get up and move around because I don’t want my children to know how bad off I am. I have surrounded myself with rabbits so I can force myself to do something productive. These tiny creatures depend on me to survive, they trust and love me. At least that’s the lie that I tell myself. If I was gone, they wouldn’t care. Someone else would feed them and care for them.

I’m always trying to find ways to make everyone around me smile, because I don’t want anyone to feel like I do. I don’t want anyone else to feel this sadness…honestly sadness doesn’t begin to cover it, but I can’t put these feelings to paper with any degree of accuracy. Lost, hopelessness, desolation, empty, no one word or even a page of words could properly label depression.

I’m so bad off that I actually went to the doctor today to ask for help. I ended up crying in the examination room not once, but twice. Once when I found out that despite eating less than I have been I’ve managed to gain another twenty pounds. The second time was when the doctor wanted to shove me off on someone else. She didn’t listen to anything that I said, but was real quick to say that I needed to see the counselor who would then refer me to a psychiatrist. If I was really lucky, I’d be able to get some help in three months.

Three months.

I told her, “this is why people kill themselves. Because they come in to a doctor’s office needed help, and what do they get? A three month wait.”

The excuse I got was that Arkansas was way below the national average when it came to mental health.

My wife finally talked her into giving me something for depression. I think she realizes that I’m actually suicidal, but I refuse to tell that to any doctor. It’ll just be an excuse for them to lock me up away from the only support that I have. It’ll be their justification to throw me in a hospital where idiots will misgender me, abuse my patient rights and really push me to suicide. I’m a lot more creative than people think.

The first time I was put in a mental hospital I found more than thirty ways that I could kill myself before the first twenty-four hours was over. They really do make it too easy.

So now I’m thrust into the breast of Chaos, what little order and hope for stability in my life has washed away with the drowning waves of this mental illness that no one wants to talk about. It just makes me different, not evil.

I don’t know how much longer I can even hold on. I’ve been going at this alone for over seventeen years and I’m getting tired. I just want to find stability, somewhere I belong…something that everyone deserves.

#autistic-suicide, #depression, #doctors, #healthcare-2, #mental-health-issues, #mental-illness, #poor-mental-health, #suicide, #trans-suicide, #transgender-depression