she's gonna eat me

I don’t know how I feel, other than that.

My ears are ringing, my skin feels static, my eyes do not want to close. I feel like I’ve been battered by high winds, but I don’t know how to describe the where of the high winds.

It’s too many people, and none of them are friendly.

I see some of my family, and the shrinks, and some people I newly know here. All pull my strings in a disastrous way.

I have to be on guard to give my family the ol’ razzle dazzle, I’m uptight among the new people I know because I don’t know how to be a normal converser, and shrinkage is shrinkage things.

I’m high strung, vibrating. I’m alone right now, and that should help with recuperation, right? But..I wish I had some company where I didn’t have to work so hard to be normal. I think that would help.


What is self pity and what is grief?

I am suffering from sob constipation. I’m holding so much in, but there’s not a safe place to let it go. I let one tear out today, but I have nowhere to put it entirely. I’ve been wanting to call my sister for weeks and try there, (fat chance) but keep making excuses to not to do it, so I don’t.

I don’t know what is self pity, and what is grief.

I constantly grieve the loss of my family. Sometimes that coagulates into self pity, but mostly it’s a constant stream of grief. There are people who have done stupid things, and their families held onto them, and were there and didn’t let them go. I did NOTHING. I transitioned. And they let me go.

The rest of this is probably only self pity:

At BEST I am in a laundry at the fountain square scenario, one of the girls in their gossip circle, and I have to suffer in silence.

That’s at best.

With family all I’m seeing it as, is I’m a thirsty man, but am drinking poison. Is that really any better?

I don’t have any friends to move forwards to instead. There, I am a starving man. With any interaction at all, I can’t handle too much of it. I sip at it. And that water turns sour because of a nonexistent reaction time. I am looking through a rolodex to find something to say or share, and by the time I think of something, it’s too late. If I try to say anything at all, it’s a naked dumbledore move. If I do hit on something, The inability to keep up causes overstimulation and then it crumbles. And if the overstimulation occurs, my hackles are up and I’m useless after that.

Now What?

I have read a bit into Bear’s book, (go me!) and came across ‘glitter family’.

I miss them.. and here, when the veil is thinnest, (they’re not dead, just gone), I want to reach out to all those who have passed through my life, old friends that I wanted to call family.

But I know that’s really not a good idea.


One of the bars here is holding a halloween party. Takes an hour to walk down there. I’m debating on whether I should go, and try. But, ‘and then what?’ is the question. I don’t have a drinking problem, per se. I’m not an alcoholic.

…but I am a former psychotic. And alcohol makes me feel like I’m losing it.

It’s really hard for me to feel safe anywhere, and alcohol just magnifies that sense tenfold. it’s like my core flickers wildly, and my shields are pulled outwards like cobwebs. As my insides roar, it’s hard to keep my tongue in my mouth, to keep ‘seated’ in a sense. I feel like I have to work hard to stay here.

Smoking, I can’t breathe, and that sends my anxiety everywhere. Smoking something else *ahem* if I smoke to much of it, I really feel like I’m close to losing it, and I have to sit there, and work hard to keep myself whole. Painkillers, I hate taking them. They do it too.


‘Just get a soda!’ you say. Ah, but there’s the rub – I actually do have a soda problem. I’m trying to quit, it’s been five days. I’m dying.

so, now what? It’s a ‘tradition’/stereotype, that queers have met in bars.. and for 20 somethings to drink. And, now what?? I’m socially graceless in general. If I have no ‘habitat’ in which to pretend to know what I’m doing.. now what?

I believe in stories.

Some people have religion, have faith. Some people don’t.

I am neither of these things.

I believe in stories, ties that create strong roots and ropes that can anchor us home. I believe in the unshakable myths that have been carefully folded again and again. Tales passed down as a way to explain things, but also as a way to drive back the dark.

But more than this, I believe in the stories of family. Through stories, the deep sigh of tired soil smiles warmly as the tree grows there, again and again, stronger than before. Past, present, and future splash freely, catching the sun, and we laugh as we drink it all in.

And we are loved.

How to be Social?

I’m working on boundaries. I’m working really hard.

-I don’t want to. I don’t want to be the person who has to work hard. I don’t want to be the person who is called ‘brave’.. I want to have a normal life where I don’t have to be, where I’ve never had to be. Being called ‘brave’… just the undercurrent of that seems to be ‘I can see your life sucks hardcore, I’m glad it’s not me!’-

The ‘car’ is in the shop, I’m working so hard on it. I wish someone would look my way and take me for what I am, and what I’m trying to be.

I grew up with no boundaries. None. Not in a close knit family hug everyone way, but one in that they were so run over I didn’t know what they even were or that I was allowed to have them. I’m trying to learn that now. Further, I’m trying to learn what other people’s boundaries are. I’ve spent so long just careening everywhere, I didn’t know when or if I was crossing other peoples’. I try now, to listen really hard and straight lace myself. To not fuck it up.


I grew up where, at school, no boundaries. I ate alone. At home it was loud too, the last wheel at the kitchen table every night. Not even my room was safe. I was told that basically, it was my parent’s house, I was just living in it. If my room got too dirty, dad had no problem going in and cleaning it to his standards. If one of my belongings didn’t match my mom’s standards, she gave it away.

I don’t know the etiquette of social media, either. (oh hey! This counts, right?) I want to have somewhat of a life online too, because in real life it always seems like I can’t do it. But I don’t know how to start.

Following old friends on facebook, for example. If they post interesting things, I want to say something, and contribute, even though I know that logically it’s a very, very bad idea. Not because they say mean things back. In fact most of the time they say nothing, and my contributions are dead air. It hurts to go onto the ‘acquaintances’ tab on facebook, because there’s the whole scroll, of what I’ve lost. So what can I post, and where, do you think?

A Shot of Nostalgia

I’m still sleeping a lot.

Partly this is that I’m legitimately tired, my sleep schedule is extremely messed up with staying up late and staying in bed late, not wanting to miss anything. Part of it is meds making me tired, I think. But part of it, a part that’s hard to admit, is that I’m at the bar of memory and bitterness, night after night. ‘Bartender, I’ll take another shot of nostalgia’.

I dream of my long gone grandmother, of chosen family, of people who I would have called parents if I could. Of friends that took me free and easy and I didn’t have to explain why. Places where I used to laugh and walk tall.

This way of sleeping is, on the bright side, not as bad as it was this winter, where I’d only be awake for a few hours in the day. I’d get up, eat breakfast, and immediately after that, start swaying with exhaustion, both of a literal kind, and also of a ‘I just can’t face being alive’ kind. I’d fall asleep, wake up briefly in the afternoon maybe, but only get going when the sun went down, where I’d be morbidly relieved, in the back of my mind, that the day was done. It was then I could be productive, and I could creep around. I felt like Batman and Joker’s lovechild.

So, this way of not being able to sleep in a healthy way is not entirely malicious. Not healthy, obviously, but not malicious.

I have been sitting around a lot as well. I’ve paid for it. My back is in dire pain. I don’t know what to do to fix it. I have the want to eat healthy and to exercise healthy, but it’s that eyeballing a huge pile of homework (full of calculus problems) I don’t know where to start, I don’t know what to do. I have tried yoga, but (I know it’s stupid) it makes me dysphoric as hell. I want rugby. I want a gym.

I have felt more like my mind belongs to me again. The gel is receding more. The positive side to that is that I can know more of what I’m doing when playing with my cousins. I am still not jumping from thing to thing, I have to think about it, but I am fully within it, and it’s completely natural. Before I’d be a little dissociated. I loved and love my cousins to the moon and back, but before I was mentally all elbows and high strung. Now, if I don’t know what to do next, I can say calmly, ‘I don’t know’ rather than my throat being blocked and ashamed that my brain didn’t work anymore. I still wish it was easy, that I had all the answers (I felt like I used to, and I used to be a whirlwind around kids) but now at least I feel human, which is an improvement.

The negative side to that is that it’s like my brain is spluttering. Completely cold before, now there’s some warmth in the engine as I try to kick start it. I mean, that’s a positive in that it’s better than being cold, but the spluttering is embarrassing! I wish I were smooth, and cool and svelte, and handsome! – well, okay, I am handsome =P – As a result of this spluttering business, it’s like all of what I’ve wanted to say that I’ve been storing for months is coming out at once. For months, for one thing, the only people I’ve been talking to are therapists. I’ve been talking to some normal people lately. And it’s like, the basement is where you store your horrors, right, and the attic is where you store your pretty things? Well it’s true my ‘basement’ has some nasty things down there, but my attic has some lovely things too! And I haven’t been able to help it, I’ve been like dragging all these normal people up to my ‘attic’ and showing them all my pretty things that have been dusty for so long, and I dig through all the suitcases and boxes. Hats, scarves, necklaces. Ideas, thoughts, memories. But they’re coming out all spluttery and fast, because I’m excited to show someone else the attic (months, mind you!) It’s like I’m going ‘look at this! No, wait, look at this!’ It’s so embarrassing. And I think I’ve completely overwhelmed them.

It’s hard learning how to human.

The silence leaves sorrow in my mouth, now
I taste woodsmoke, and my mom’s lasagna
A memory made out of something that
never came home, in the end

A stuttered pause
I went below the surface
too long, too much again
they couldn’t breathe around me

The silence leaves heartache in my mouth, now
I taste herbal tea, and sprite as it runs through my fingers
I carefully went along, ever watchful
for a safe place to build a den
But there was no room, in the end

So, I packed my truth tightly
my flag of the wild
hastily folded
as my eyes dimmed
treasures swept aside