December 8th, 2024
Talking about it here doesn't make it easier. It just persists, it's why I keep feeling like I'm repeating myself whenever I come to write here.
I've stopped being proud about being a trans woman. Or maybe I never was. I really feel like I'm just gonna get killed.
I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. And I can't even do anything. I'm more like a deer in headlights than a human.
Break me. Lacerate me where it matters. Make me feel like I'm just sand falling away into a ditch. My thoughts of self harm have always been abstract, wishing something metal and blunt would just fly into my chest like a bird divebombing a fish. So where the fuck are all the people who want to hurt me. I know they're out there, and that they look pathetic with how needy they need to take their anger out on someone. They have nothing to die for but they don't fear death.
You could have such a fun time killing me, watching me weigh the options between crawling away and fighting back. You could get a crowd going. You could get people so bored at the sight of bruising my face. I can't even bring myself to write anything disgusting being done to me, so I must really want this. I must REALLY want this.
There is nothing the government could give me that they would not take away. Fact is no matter what piddly rights I have, there's no community looking out for me here. There must've been hundreds of thousands who died out in the suburbs just like me. Plenty would've lacerated themselves but no way there weren't a couple beaten to death. I wonder if any of their words are hanging around out there.
Self harm conceptually feels like smoking. For some people, it's the only chance to feel like something's "right". Like it could do something for me like I drug that's otherwise out of reach. Sometimes it even feels like something I'd have to take up, a habit like touch typing, to help me not struggle in the workplace. But then I remember. I remember the one time I saw someone cut themselves for real. Suddenly the thought of doing it felt a world away from me, I was sure it would never be a problem for me because escalating to killing myself seemed much more appealing. Memories of what lies beneath the skin are the few that my brain suppresses. But god, if my only objection to lacerations is "it's icky" it's not going to stop me forever.
Nothing is really worth living for. Not when I'm this isolated. The psychological abuse... it never really stopped, and one day it will happen again. Layers upon layers of social agony all blurring with eachother. No loneliness is new loneliness, it's all the same. I don't even need to be bashed to die. Stress will damage to my heart and brain on a cellular level, won't it. It'll all radiate outwards through this disgusting body. Day by day I will evolve into something that looks easy to abuse, rape, and kill.