September 23rd, 2024
Things were rough for me this time last year, but I didn't think the feelings would start so early.
Just thinking about the upcoming October is enough to make me want to die and I hate it. The abuse anniversary is creeping up on me no matter where I go like some sort of foul, abstract ambush predator.
Three fucking years. Feels like some sort of nightmare. I feel like I'm in the middle of a timeskip to something greater that I wish I could dissociate for the rest of. Instead I count down the days like an advent calendar.
There's not even anything to say. It feels like it doesn't matter how well I can articulate that what I went through was abuse or transmisogyny.
If I died, right now, everything I had ever tried to make for myself would be in the hands of my parents. If anyone on the internet did care about me, I doubt they'd ever find out. I'd just disappear.
I used to think about disappearing. The idea that I could leave some sort of heartache in people for the rest of their lives at least seemed like some short term relief. I even had a place in mind to do it, just wander into the bush far from where anyone would recognise me and hope my body got eaten alive.
I haven't thought about that plan in a long time, but something about the way I feel right now, makes me feel like I really did go there. Like a took a long journey to where the path ends and now I've come back, and that just by looking in my eyes you could see that I came back to the brink of death with a shameful desire to live a fulfilling life.