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.


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.