Three-ish months later.

The days have gone by in an amorphous haze. Every one is a blob filed under “existing.”

I’ve kept up with the testosterone shots in a timely fashion; my next one is later this week. Some of the physical changes were noticeable within the first week, particularly clitoral growth and sensitivity — that was interesting (read: uncomfortable) for a while — and existing body hair in a few places has gotten longer, but not thicker. Body weight distribution is beginning to shift to encompass more of my midsection. Some breast sensitivity showed up a week ago. My voice is beginning to crack at the higher registers and deepen at the lower ones, if inconsistently. Most notable and annoying is my skin drying out, my scalp being the worst spot, and a sudden abundance of small pimples on my face along my hairlines. I find I have to shower more often.

Psychologically, well. The airheadedness faded, thank fuck, and I’ve had several bouts of impostor syndrome while struggling to figure out more of my personal identity. Executive dysfunction has worsened. The worst things right now are the anhedonia and complete blankness of inner emotion. There’s just nothing there. I’d be worried about it if I could be. I’ll tell my psychiatrist about it when I see her next week.

The body dysphoria waxes and wanes, and I no longer leave the house without wearing a binder. Assuming I wake in time, tomorrow I’ll call the trans doc to get on the top surgery list for the surgeon I’ve chosen. I’ve been spending a lot of time saying goodbye to my breasts, looking at them in the mirror and remembering how much I wanted them when I still identified as female and hadn’t hit puberty yet. Now, they’re in the way, inconvenient and distressing to see, yet they’ve been such a fixture of my body over the last 30 years that I know I’m going to miss them for a while.

In other news, this is Sofia.

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She’s a Salvi Mia harp, and something of a mixed blessing because, in a nutshell (non-nutshell version here on Pillowfort, a site I hope will replace Tumblr soon), she represents a bribe from my parents (mostly my dad) for my affection after I stopped accepting anything from them over the last year due to their emotional abuse. She’s also about 20 years too late, since that was the last time I played a harp with any regularity, and my situation at that point in my life effectively killed any passion I had for creating anything related to fine arts. My pain levels and deteriorating brainmeats are now the biggest obstacles to just sitting and playing.

And so my existence plods along on its alcohol crutches.

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Drifting towards oblivion.

Vaping ceaselessly, each inhaled breath taken from the mod, each exhaled breath a rolling cloud of vapour. Drinking one hard liquor after another, everything from fruit creams to amaretto to scotch. Eating heavily flavoured, rich foods, drowning my tongue in a wealth of tastes and textures. Scraping holes in my flesh with my fingernails, leaving patches and furrows of discoloured, seeping skin, yet the pain is distant through dissociation fog.

I try to oversaturate what senses still work in vain attempts to stay connected to the world, but passive suicide covers me in its gentle smother, and I find I just don’t care anymore. I know my life will be ending soon, and it will end in a quiet, dark, pathetic corner, remote enough that only I will know the true extent of my utter failure. I have no future. All the things I wanted to do were stolen by executive dysfunction and depression, with ravaged health hammering in the coffin’s final nails.

All that stops me is the tiny black and white face of my cat tucked with complete love and trust into the crook of my elbow. She doesn’t know. She can’t know. Nor do I know who would take care of her and her sister should they outlive me. For their sake, I attempt to endure, but I won’t lie: holding on is getting harder and harder. Finding things strong enough to stave off the void becomes an increasingly fruitless task. Everything becomes disposable.

One day, I’m going to slip, and I may breathe my last with my two four-footed girls curled and sleeping in my arms, tucked against my face.

One day, sooner or later.

Rollercoaster brain.

Had a really bad downswing tonight. How bad, you ask? Put it this way: I went out into the dark of night around 10:30 pm to get alcohol from the liquor store. The entire 750 mL bottle of “Trois Pistoles” is gone, drank mostly with a “dinner” that consisted solely of a can of beans in maple syrup, followed later by a few slices of toast with margarine and more maple syrup. As I type, I’m drinking from a brandy glass consisting of about 1/3 peach-flavoured vodka topped off with mango juice.

I hate my brain. Hate it, hate it, hate it. I don’t know how else to deal with it other than numbing it the fuck out. Worse, I don’t care what happens to me as a result of this.

Help.

By the fingernails.

The calendar recently flipped years for me. I spent it playing video games with long-distance friends, drinking amaretto, eating the lemon meringue pie I’d chosen for the occasion, and vaping on a new mod I bought myself as a gift. Yay, I guess.

I originally bought a small, pen-shaped device to begin vaping with, mostly in the hopes of keeping my hands busy and drinking less. It’s sort of worked.

On the other hand, the bigass bottle of amaretto I got is now half empty as of two days later, and the craving for it didn’t go away with the vaping mods. I guess this means I’m an alcoholic, and I don’t care. My gender/body dysphoria has gotten worse, as has the passive suicidal tendency, and damn but my tinnitus is loud when I’m tired. My sleep pattern hasn’t really changed since the last time I wrote on it.

Still no word on the disability application. Not so yay.

I don’t know what to do anymore.