Dysphoria

Dysphoria sucks balls,
It blows.
I hate it.
I hate the way my chest feels on my torso, I hate the way body hair feels on my chest. I hate the shape of the body I have. It sucks, It fucking sucks. I hate the way the hair feels on my legs. I hate my face. I can’t look at myself without it hurting.

When someone calls me he, it stings, when I enter the mens bathroom, it stings. When I hear someone talking about trans people, I tense. It’s discomforting, to know that billions all over the world see you as less than human just for striving for your desires.

I want nothing more to have a body I’m happy with - I’m not even sure what that entails. Smaller, cuter, more feminine. Less… me. I mean, I’m not really me. Even though I’m out, I’m only half out. I think I’m trans, just full trans. Not non-binary, not cis, just trans.

Just trans implies that its easy, it’s inconsequential. It’s not. It’s the most agonising, paralysing, life ending fact I’ve ever come to terms with. I’m just so frustrated, all the time. Honestly, it’s the small things. They add up. I can’t imagine someone whos happy with themselves. I say I am, but I’m 100% lying.

I cant imagine a life where I’m happy. I thought I could, for a while. But I can’t. I’m beginning to lose hope that I can.

If it weren’t for the few people who respected my pronouns and treated me as I want to be treated, I think I would have given out a while ago. Nothing is keeping me going but fading hope. An idea that I’m at the end of a prison sentence. Now, I’m beginning to think I’ve just entered instead.

My body provides hormones for my brain, my brain rejects them, they make me feel the most agonising thoughts. Thoughts I’m convinced are the deepest I am capable of feeling. The happiness I feel is sporadic at best, a moment, they consist of a few short hours. I finish them, and it’s back to the deep.

My hobbies stave them off, distract me. I watch and read about trans people, ones who are happy. I try to delude myself that I could be happy too. I’m just constantly teetering on giving up. On everything. Part of me thinks its a waste, but part of me thinks its a mercy.

I feel like I’m pretending, some twisted mockery of impostor syndrome fucking my brain. I feel I’ll never make it, never meet my aspiration. I had desires, dreams, but now I simply have an objective. Survive, crawl from my problems, leave my struggles. Hope, that maybe one day I can be happy.

I can’t. Words can’t express the deepest feelings of my core. I hope for someone to understand, to share in my grief, to be sad with me, to be happy with me. Yet I feel like I struggle making connections more than ever. The more I try to be true to myself, the more I feel as though my friends are slipping away, the more I feel anxious.

Fear, anxiety, self-loathing and depression rest in my pit, in my pitiful, ugly, broken form. Fear rests within, and it doesn’t leave. Not ever, not for nothing.

After months of trying, it only seems further away. I wish others could understand, I wish I could tell and not be scared of looks, of reactions, of consequences. Maybe I’ll get there, maybe one day I’ll be happy. But today, on the 17th june - pride month of all things - I feel no pride in myself, no feeling of fitting in, no one who gets me, no one who might.

I will just have to continue. Move through life as it tries it’s best to end me, try my best to stay alive. To wake up, to sleep, to wake up again. To eat, to wash, to brush my teeth, to talk. They require such effort to do properly, to do healthily. I can’t even do them all in a single day.

I pick and choose, as I try to survive.

In the fading belief that I can.

Please end this.