Still plodding along.

Probably goes without saying that I didn’t manage NaNoWriMo. Brain health tanked two days in, and the concept was kind of shit, anyway.

HRT dose increased again. Haven’t noticed much difference from before. Dysphoria’s still bad and I wonder how much longer I actually have to wait for top surgery. I’m drinking as much as my wallet will allow.

Wonder of wonders: I scored some plastic money. Used most of it to buy a special kind of pop-up tent via this Indiegogo campaign. The ease of assembly and breakdown should be kind to my crappy physical health, which generally puts the kibosh on outdoor activity as it is. So why this fancy tent? It’s because I’m preparing for homelessness. No, nothing’s happened to endanger my current living situation: I’m being practical and preparing for nasty curveballs. Also, the plan for the end of my life is still in effect, and this will help with the necessary travel when I get to that point.

Speaking of travel, a trip to Europe is in the works for the end of June. Dad wants to go back to his home country, and, given his advanced age and ailing health, it’ll probably be his last visit. The logistics for three are a little crazy-making and a lot expensive, mostly because I plan on going from here to there for a week (parents are going for two weeks), then flying to visit godsibling for a week — we’ve known each other something like 20 years and never got to meet — then going home. It means three separate one-way tickets for me, which, somewhat hilariously, add up to be cheaper than plotting a multi-city route on a single ticket. I hope the tent arrives before I leave so I can bring it with me, as I anticipate using it for cover from the sun while we tourist about in Dad’s home country. More importantly, I hope my health holds out for the duration.

Most importantly, I hope I actually survive his country. Things there are significantly less than ideal for someone like me, and by “significantly less than ideal” I mean “shit there is fucking terrifying”. As much as I want to see where part of my blood comes from, I almost would rather not, and if I didn’t know it’d be Dad’s last trip, I’d have declined my parents’ request to accompany them. I can only really, really hope no one with the power to fuck up lives notices me. It’s been a long time since I actively had to hide, and I’m going to be afraid for my life while hating myself even more for every second of it.

Oddly, a good thing has happened: an indoor gardening setup with full-spectrum growlights I ordered several months ago finally arrived, and my health finally managed to stay together long enough for me to assemble it. Using a 2:1 ratio of veggie/herb soil mix and compost, I planted blue mallow, chamomile, rosemary, oregano, spinach, spearmint, lettuce, green and yellow onions, tarragon and tomatoes. That happened on March 20, which I, in my perpetually brainfogged state, didn’t realise was the first day of spring. The lettuce, green onion and tomato sprouted exactly six days later, and the lettuce and tomato are already growing true leaves. Tiny oregano sprouts are also coming up. Another few weeks and I might actually have food; at the very least, I’ll have tomatoes, because I certainly didn’t expect all six seeds to sprout.

My life feels like a constant fall down a gravel hill.


Grief’s aftermath.

What’s the point in being in good health when it doesn’t mean shit in the end?

Everything feels so futile right now.

Two stumbling steps forward.

HRT dosage increased last week. I find I itch more, especially my back, and continue to be grateful for the $6 investment in a back scratcher. I just wish I didn’t have to keep using it so bloody often. Clogged pores worsening and sleep increasing. I continue to have one linnie due to said sleep making me miss the shop hours where the owner is in attendance.

Next week, I see a surgeon to consult with about top surgery. The timing is good, for the chest-related dysphoria is very, very bad. I find I really can’t look at myself anymore, not even to continue saying goodbye to that part of my life.

Attempting NaNoWriMo this year. Not sure why, as I don’t have any stories I burn to tell, let alone the idea of one. Somehow, I still made my daily word count. This confuses me.

Today’s depressive episode is very bad and the urge to withdraw from certain social circles because I no longer feel like I belong in them — if I ever did — is strong. A glass of scotch sings me to sleep tonight.

I think a reread of Seanan McGuire’s Dusk or Dark or Dawn or Day is in order.


Is it worth the trouble it takes trying to live life so that someday you get something worthwhile out of it, instead of it almost always taking worthwhile things out of you?

Carrie Fisher, The Princess Diarist 

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to answer this question in the affirmative, to be quite brutally honest, and yet I keep scraping for reasons to. It all feels so futile.

Recently, I added a linnie to my shrinking list of reasons to persist: a bird breeder to whom I’d expressed interest contacted me a few days ago, asking if I wanted one of the two unspoken-for turquoise linnies she was hand raising. Fool that I am, I said yes, and, fool that I am, find myself looking forward to meeting this bird. I’ve already caught myself thinking about where to put the cage when I’m up, looking at linnie-specific training methods, wondering how I’m going to sleep with the cage on my dresser. I already know I’m going to the bird shop come next cheque to buy a cage and toys.

I’m about to make a commitment — not just to taking care of a new little life, but to outliving its span, which is at least another ten years.

What the hell am I doing?

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.