“If you lay me down in concrete fields will I dream of grass and opera? This is the sound and how it feels to be dead.” – Fearless (Matthew Good)
I haven’t written anything in a while.
I’m tired…of it all.
I’m being crushed. The weight of…everything. It’s too much.
It’s terminal…or so I tell myself. This dark fatigue of the soul. My light dimming…
“How did you sleep?”
I want to lie. To tell her that I slept okay so she won’t worry or feel sad. Instead I tell her the truth.
“I woke up around 1:30 AM and didn’t get back to sleep I don’t think.”
“Anything on your mind?”
This pain only gets worse. My soul is rejecting my body. It is no longer compatible and has become poisonous. It is making me sick.
“Just the usual. Stuck in the wrong body…blah, blah, blah…” How can I keep laying this trip on my beautiful girlfriend? She deserves so much better.
I can’t. To be this weak link. This source of worry. This source of instability when she already deals with life in general on a nearly heroic level.
She asked me if some of my urgency to transition was possibly related to my single-minded impulsiveness (seen most clearly in my irresponsible shopping habits).
This line of questioning would be an insult if not for her love and understanding.
“No” I responded. “I can honestly say it is nothing like that at all.”
This is the pain of a dying animal. A soul being extinguished.
My girlfriend is an ER nurse. I recalled her telling me of some poor girl that had come into Emergency. She couldn’t bear her dysphoria and had disfigured herself horribly to try and make the pain go away.
My dysphoria is only getting worse. I resent the blessings I have clearly been given. It’s because of them that I can’t take the easy way out.
No matter what, this ends in tears.
I have to be courageous (and for how long?) when I have only known fear.
I must be strong (and for how long?) when I am only weak and tired.
I have to persevere (and for how long?) when I am spent…I have nothing left.
Gravity pulls me down and I want to fall. To succumb to it.
I imagine there is no way that God brought me this far so that I can end it all by my own hand.
I can even see reason for hope still.
Although this dark fatigue of the soul…I’m tired now. It’s too late.
I’m sorry. Words can’t express how I am dying.
I want to be so much. I want to be together with the most wonderful woman I have ever known. I want to do all the things we talk about…
…but it’s too late.
This is unbearable.
How much more can I take? 6 months? 2 years? More?
I have no idea how I’ll even make it through the night.
I lack the everything for all of this…
I’m so tired. I wish I wasn’t.
I wish I could end this pain somehow. It hurts so much, this savage business of being ripped apart from within. This turning against oneself.
Instead I’ll die a little more every hour of every day until I am eventually no longer.
A fake smile…
A fine art.