Is it insane that the reasons why I’ve been ready to kill myself for the last 15 years are the very reasons why I’ve never been able to bring myself to do so. Even now as I type this, I have that cloud looming over me, around me. And why? Because of a random sequence of pretty standard events (at this point) left me in a pool of tears next to a crying toddler whom I’m sure I’ve scared when I finally hit my limit and screamed out in frustration.
I hate how it feels that everyone in my world needs me, some for very stupid reasons, but I can’t find anyone that I can depend on. That I can have those closest to me rattle off a list of things they ‘need’ me to do, but when I ask for something in return, I’m all but berated for not being able to take care of myself.
I hate how it feels that my first unrepentant act of self-care may very likely be my last act period. And that I have been waiting, hopelessly and likely psychotically, on someone to finally look over here, see where I’m at, and say, “Wait, that’s not right. Let me help.”
…like I’ve always done. For everyone that I hold dear. Even though I never got back anywhere near what I’ve given…
All those people that will be disappointed in me if I ever did give in to that desperation. Those that already have demonstrated how lost they are when I so much as go and take a walk around the block, let alone just up and disappear (and I’m not even talking about my kids…)
Lesser people would have pulled the trigger by now… or saner people… I don’t even know where I stand anymore except that it’s still here. Alive and dreading the next moment where I need help and I have no one to turn to…
Story idea: pre-op trans-sexual man and woman meet. They are both pretty gung-ho about the change, playing their desired gender roles hard. They become really good friends. They eventually fall deeply in love with each other and have sex, then they begin questioning their reality.