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

Outsider

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…
 

#depression, #discrimination, #outsider, #society, #suicide

Beggar

He begged for help in the darkness and despair,
Groped blindly for a savior but no one was there.
The pressure built, forcing him further down,
Isolated, and lost there was no one around.
Till the day he played the knife down his arm,
No one thought that he would self harm
The freshly fallen snow turning red
It was too late for help now, he was already dead.

#dark-poetry, #death, #depression, #poems, #poetry, #suicide

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

Hopeless Cause of Broken Dreams

(Here’s another of my poems from my darker years. It really is amazing how much my outlook has changed. )

I ripped out my heart for you
Lost my will to exist
Broken mind, nothing seems true
Everything is a hazy mist
Confusion clouds my every thought
My life has fallen apart
All your lies I always bought
Never realized you’d tear out my heart.

Drowning in the pool of my sorrow.
Don’t want to wake up tomorrow
Cut myself and bleed it all out
No need for angry shouts
You made your choice, now lay in your bed.
Never knew you wanted me dead.

The very essence of my soul is lost.
Everything I was is gone away.
Dancing with fire, this is the cost.
Guess I should have never played.
I don’t want the choices laid before me.
I don’t want to pick a bloody door.
I was blind but now I see.
You cut me deep to my very core.

#broken, #dark-poems, #dark-poetry, #depression, #literature, #poems, #poetry, #suicide

Muddled: Trying to Make Sense from All the Bullshit

I’ve been fighting depression on and off since I was thirteen years old when I tried to address the issue with my mother I was blown off and more or less ignored. When I was suicidal and tried to confide in her my thoughts I was told “you know we don’t believe in that” and was left to fend for myself. It’s a wonder that I have lived to see nearly thirty-two years, living more or less out of a stubborn dislike and distrust for the human race than anything else. I

I’ve had to put myself into a mindspace where I need to prove the world wrong, where I need to live to spite all of the people that have done nothing but try to break me. It is a tiring place to be, constantly having to fight just to pull yourself from bed, eat (or not eat), take care of yourself (or not), it’s a fight just to live. Things that most people take for granted and don’t even think about on a daily basis is for me, a uphill battle in the rain with muddy terrain and a broken leg. In short, it is hell.

I tell myself that people depend on me, my children and wife and that they need me but why do I always feel so alone? I have never found a place in society where I belong and I don’t think that I ever will. That kind of isolation and distance from acceptance and belonging can destroy a person. Humans, in a general sense, are pack creatures. They thrive when they are in a group of like company, they thrive so well that they tend to lose their sense of I and instead become We. Ah, the mob mentality.

I have lived most, if not all of my life on the fringes, like the sick lion cub desperately trying to fight for a scrap of food, attention, affection, anything that will solidify his existence or worth on this plane reality. Yet, much like the lion cub, I am different, I am odd and thus a threat, so I must be pushed as far away from everyone else as humanly possible.

The Gods made me, nature damned me, and society has crushed me.

I am autistic thus I think differently from other people, but because I have never been able to find a doctor willing to give me the “official” diagnosis I am unable to have the resources needed to prosper. I was supposed to have been diagnosed as a child, but because I was not nonverbal and my grades were excellent I was just labeled odd, weird, untouchable. All labels that excluded me from society, instead of welcoming me and giving me a place where I could flourish.

I am transgender. A recent study has actually proven that high functioning “females” with autism have a brain structure of a male their age. Previously, studies dealing with the transgender community have also found that transgender individuals have the brain structure like that of the gender they are transitioning to. Nature damned me to have a mind and body that don’t mesh without pain, torment, surgeries and a lifetime of taking medication. This is something that I have zero control over and yet people have labeled me a monster. I am evil, an abomination, something to be gunned down in the streets because I have dared to attempt to fix my medical condition.

How different the world would be if anyone that had surgery, took medications or didn’t follow the masses was gunned down in the street. There would be a lot fewer people, that’s for sure.

In the society that I live in, people like me are disposable. I have two strikes against me, and half of a lifetime of abuse has given me a third in the form of PTSD and social anxiety. The latter of the two could have been prevented had the world been kinder to someone like me. I have been crippled by the abuse that society has perpetrated upon people that aren’t “normal”.  

Doctors don’t want to deal with me because I am transgender, autistic and have mental health issues. I’m too much to deal with. I am refused the help that I need to help myself.

I am left to fend for myself in a world that hates me, in a world that wants me dead because I don’t fit the norm.

#abandonment, #autism, #autistic, #depression, #fight-to-live, #lgbt, #mental-health-2, #ptsd, #suicide, #tg, #transgender, #transman

Empty

The evening before last I had fully intended to kill myself. I was, and frankly still am, tired of the
struggle. I’m tired of nothing ever seeming to get better no matter how hard I fight. I’m tired of
seeing facebook post after facebook post of states in the US making laws that blatantly
descriminate against LGBT people, especially transgender people.

Monday was hell. I’m sure anyone that read my blog figured that out, and yet here I am. I cried
myself to sleep. I had planned to wait until my wife when to bed and then do the deed, but I was
so exhausted after my total meltdown that I cried myself to sleep and couldn’t find the strength to
pull myself from bed until well after 10:00am the next morning. Something that I odd for me
considering I’m usually up and moving about between 5:00 and 6:00am every morning.

So here I am.

I’ve been waiting for a decision on disability for months now, I applied in July of 2015 and still
have heard nothing. It took Social Security six months to decide to send me to a doctor, and
three more to acutally do it. My wife called Social Security on Monday to update my information (I
have a new cell phone number since I lost my Verizon account) and to get an update on my
case.

When I first applied back in July of last year, I submitted paperwork that give my wife permission
to call social security and speak on my behalf because of my telephone issues. My initial
telephone interview that was conducted in September of 2015 was done by my wife, and the only
other update that we’ve recieved (December of 2015) was also made via telephone conversation
with my wife.

After a thirty minute hold time, my wife tried to talk to “Matt” about my case. She was sitting on
our front porch with the phone on speaker so that I could hear everything that was being said.
This Matt fellow refused to talk to my wife and said that I had never turned in paperwork giving
her authorization to speak on my behalf and he needed to speak to me. My wife explained that I
was unable to, and that this was part of my disability.

I find it funny that my wife can make the decision to end my life if I am on life support, but these
asshole companies refuse to allow her to speak on my behalf even after I’ve given authorization
and signed paperwork stating so.

I lost it. I started crying, and I couldn’t stop. I’ve been under too much stress and had too much
happen to me in the past 14 days to be able to keep myself from going into a complete
meltdown. When I started crying and telling my wife that the people on the other end of the phone
didn’t give a damn about my disabilities, Matt stated he didn’t have to listen to “this” and hung up.

Half an hour she had waited, and for nothing because of some cocky kid that wanted me to
speak on the phone so damned badly but didn’t want to hear me crying because I couldn’t handle
all the stress of what has been going on.

When he hung up and I realized we had wasted all that time, I lost it. I broke everything that I
could get my hands on, and when there was nothing more I could break I started to hurt myself.

All I could think about was the fact that we had wasted so much time on trying to get an update
because the social security administration is so incompetent that they can’t keep their website
information up to date. If they had kept their records up to date on their servers, then I wouldn’t
have gotten a message demanding that I call them. Then of course I can’t call them, so I have to
have my wife call them instead and now they wouldn’t even talke to her. It didn’t matter if I had
signed papers allowing it, these bastards didn’t care. They don’t care because it’s not them that
has to suffer. They get to go home to their warm little beds at night and have their electricity and
running water. They don’t have to wake up every damned morning and draw water from a well,
live with a mother-­in-­law that likes to pretend they don’t exist and is nothing but a burder. They
don’t know my life and they don’t give a fuck because it isn’t them.

In that moment I hated myself more than anything else. I was the one that’s failed, I’m the broken
one that can’t take care of his family. I’m the one that doesn’t have any friends that live nearby to
hang out with. I’m the worthles waste of space that needs to die. If I died than maybe my family
would have a better shot at getting out of where they are.
In that moment, I needed to die.

As always my champion, (my wife) stepped in and stopped me, she held me while I screamed,
wailed, and cried. She held me until I was sobbing so hard that I couldn’t breathe, and had screamed myself hoarse. When I was so tired I couldn’t do anything else, my wife called my
lawyer, who understands I can’t speak on the phone, and explained what happened and asked
for them to request an update. The social security administration will speak with a lawyer, but not
my wife…

My wife thought I was calmer after a bit, and I was, but truth be told I was still planning to die. I
remembered how much attention that other people’s deaths had gotten, and thought if I did the
same maybe, just maybe, the outcome would bring light to people like me.

On Monday night as I laid in bed after writing my goodbye letter, I just started crying. I couldn’t
help it, and even now I keep crying on and off. I’m tired, I’m only thirty-­one years old and I feel like
I’ve lived three times that long.

I have faced discrimination since my teenage years, I have gone through things that no one
should have to go through. I have been abused several times, by several people. I have been
homeless many times, some with children, sometimes without. I have been shunned and
ignored by people that were suposed to be my friends and my support group. I have had my
vehicle vandalized for speaking out about being transgender and the effect it had on my birth
family. I have been told that I’m an abomination, that I’m unnatural and a predator. All this
negative overwhelms what little positive that I have.

I cried when I had a hot shower for the first time in two months. I overdrew my bank account for
that, and now I have to figure out how I’m going to pay it off.

I worry about losing my children
every single day because I have no where to go. We have our animals to care for, and on top of
that I wouldn’t be welcome in any homeless shelter where we would have running water and
electricity.

It all builds up to the point where you can’t take it.

I just want to all to end.

I don’t understand why people are filed with so much hatred towards
each other.
I can’t understand why people pretend to be your friend, but only when you can give
them something.

The last two years have been really hard for me. I’ve lost nearly every person that I considered to
be my friend. I love my wife, she means the world to me and she is my best friend, but it would
still be nice to have someone else that I could spend time with and share my interests with.

As I laid there crying in bed, my phone started making the message tone. I was honestly
surprised.

Three people from my Facebook list had written me to make sure that I was okay, or to tell me
that I was loved and cared for. It made me cry even harder.

These three people and my wife, cared enough to write me and check on me.
I still haven’t written back and I’m sure I’ve worried them, and for that I am truly sorry and I hope
that they can forgive me. This morning I received another message from a friend on twitter.

I’ve learned something from my breakdown though. I have a handful of people that care about
me, while I can’t go see them or spend time with them, they are my friends and I love each and
every one of them, and I am greatful to have them.

When I woke up on Tuesday morning, and no long had the pressing urge to end my own life I
was surprised to see how much traffic my blog got from what would be my final post. I’m not
sure if that was good, bad, or just something that was neither but it rekindled the fact that I love to
write and I love having people read my writing.

This evening I spent several hours sitting with a horde of over twenty baby bunnies ranging in
age from five to eight weeks taking pictures of them as they ran around me in their enclosure
that I built out repurposed pallets. My goal was to cheer myself up, because I love rabbits.

It
worked somewhat, especially after cuddling several of them over the course of the day. (Miyagi,
Mr. Mustache, Dionysus, and Captain Adorable)

I also spent all day yesterday wearing a shirt that was a special gift from a fellow SPN fan, and
mother, trying to remind myself to Always Keep Fighting.

While I am still depressed, there is a
light at the end of the tunnel. I just hope that I can make it to the end of the tunnel and not feel so
empty anymore.

#autistic-suicide, #death, #depressed, #depression, #disability, #disabled-people, #discrimination, #helpless, #hopelessness, #mental-illness, #suicide, #transgender-suicide