122022
It’s the trap for a reason.
Tonight, I got on the back BART car, as I almost always do. Never know what might be seen.
If it’s free, I sit in one of the very back corner seats of the car. I was parched after smoking a cigarette on the walk to BART, and another two waiting for the train. I was on the furthest right seat, and a man sat the opposite of me, the furthest left. I pulled out a blackberry lemonade vodka seltzer from my backpack that I had taken from my friend’s fridge and popped it open. I proceeded to jam out to the usual trash rap I adore—then—I realized this guy mirrored to me, was hitting a crack pipe. I thought about it. I had a lot to drink, at least half a dozen. I was feeling impulsive, especially when earlier in the day, I got into an argument with my ex-boyfriend over how he couldn’t handle me having a sensory overload meltdown. The decision was made. I put my AirPods into their case.
I asked him for a hit, I had no idea what it was—but I had a good idea.
“Sure.”
Towards the end of my ride back into the city, I could hear a woman, about 10 feet away, say to her partner, “They’re scaring me.” We were doing hit after hit.
I smoked meth. The last time I used was in April, 2021. It felt amazing, I feel amazing—aside from the annoying jaw movements. Which I’m still experiencing, 6 hours later.
But that is beside the point, I have shit to do, I have serious issues if I’m hitting the pipe with a random ginger bearded motherfucker on the back of BART, at midnight, on a weekday.
I might as well utilize my tweaker energy to communicate, to convey what led to me making this life decision, as well as potential plans that might lead to my success in sustaining myself in San Francisco (or, wherever) in the future.
Why do I love meth?
It calms me down. I take my time instead of being impatient, I will concentrate, I REALLY think. Free of those excess lines of thought that my sober mind is cursed with. Instead of consistently being the jester who prances around, saying anything, entertaining anyone, I focus on my interests in a special way. Which I have consistently struggled to do in my life. I speculate this positive reaction might relate to the trauma that sits on my shoulders—I know I’m pretty swole, but there are times when I cannot function due to the immense weight of what I must carry.
When I was using meth in Pennsylvania, I loved to be productive right after a line. I think that’s why he kept giving it to me. I sorted through and organized all of my boyfriend’s vintage shirts, he had thousands of dollars worth. So many graphic (gory) metal band shirts, Harley Davidson, rare Misfits stage crew shirts, and prints from local artists that were sold on a website that hasn’t existed in 20 years. I fell in love with the soft cotton, high-quality stitching, and the small flaws from wear & tear that added character. I developed a fondness for shirts that have been worn hundreds, or even thousands of times—they become something new in my point of view, despite being old and ragged. I learned clothing can possess a soul; I’ve always preferred second-hand, to be given my loved ones old clothing, but I now understand that an imprint is left that will last till dust.
Everyone in the house was using meth, and eventually, my boyfriend’s Mother caught COVID. She was still using, after all, it is a strong physical addiction. But I watched her continue to cook food for us all, and despite the psychosis growing strong in me during that time, I put every ounce of energy I had into sanitizing the kitchen. Nobody in the house caught COVID from her, not even her friend who kept swinging by to care for her. I love her, even now, because I do perceive the strength she had to persevere and cook for us is what made the home strong. It may have been a trap house, lead paint walls, asbestos loosely covered by a dusty yellowed blanket in the basement—but we looked out for each other. There was no judgment until someone was not doing what they were meant to do. Which is a reasonable expectation.
I realize I’m jumping the gun here, because I did not even mention what happened when my boyfriend first took my son and I to his family home. It was out of the blue, never met them before. A lot was going on with me that led up to this decision to move into this trap house. He was rescuing me from homelessness, I had been in a domestic violence shelter with my child for months, till the COVID restrictions they placed on us made everyone get kicked out. One of the “advocates” claimed we did not sanitize the home for an entire weekend, which was false. We all were assigned an area in the shelter to clean with bleach, twice a day, to prevent the spread of COVID. We were not allowed to leave the house, and most of us struggled to get a job at the start of the pandemic. Only the employees were actively putting us at risk of COVID, they would not allow us to be in the same room with one another, or allow our children to play together—we all felt like we were in another abusive relationship—except this time—it was a gang of white, overweight women, running our lives. One employee stole a pan I had spent several days begging for, due to the mangled condition of the cheap cooking ware being unsafe to use when I have various food sensitivities. Most of us picked up smoking cigarettes just to be able to talk to one another outside, which they eventually caught on to and started to scold us for “congregating”. I had panic attacks multiple times a day due to the isolation, I could barely be a Mother to my child. After getting evicted from there, I lived in Delaware motels for over a month (that period is a blur, at this point)—I had no friends, and no family. I relied on the kindness of people online, I had one online friend give me hundreds of dollars a week to pay for my liquor habit and to order food because there was no kitchen. I would haul bags of groceries while holding my 1-year-old over my shoulder, I would take him into the liquor store where they never carded me, and the clerk would sometimes offer my son candy. At one point I started up a conversation with one of the motel employees while I was smoking outside my room, he told me about how he had 6 kids, making me think we could do some sort of playdate. I gave him my number, then the following day I woke up to a bunch of phone calls and text messages from him, getting incredibly upset that I wasn’t responding. That I was hurting the feelings that he had for me, when I barely knew him and assumed he had a wife. I didn’t want to leave my room much after that.
I had a discord with around 100 simps from RuneScape, I didn’t get much out of it aside from around-the-clock attention. One night, there was a bad storm, I was very scared because I was not used to how loud and full of bass the storms have on the opposite end of the country from where I grew up. I requested someone talk to me to keep my mind off it, and my future boyfriend went into Discord for me, but my internet got knocked out—once it was back, we realized we were both experiencing the same storm. He was only a state over from me. His voice was quite soft, and we began talking frequently, one night he read Green Eggs & Ham to me because I couldn’t sleep. He was very paranoid that I was recording him, worried I was going to make fun of him. Maybe that should have been the first red flag, but as an e-girl, I didn’t think too much about a man being insecure.
Eventually, he came to visit me. I was wearing my favorite pastel tie-dye sweatpants, I went out to meet him at his car—I was a bit alarmed, internally, he was far skinnier than I anticipated, but I’m not particularly judgmental. He was pretty sweaty, though he was doing landscaping for hours before driving out to me. He came back to my room, I remember him touching me sensually for what felt like hours. At one point he went to the bathroom for an extended period, I didn’t think too much of it at the time.
I got rather manic, we spoke all night, and joked all night, we didn’t have sex, my son was on the other bed, but he didn’t pay us too much mind. We fell for one another, quickly. He helped move me to the next motel I had to go to, we spent some time there—he came in less than a minute, when we eventually did have sex. He was insecure regarding it, I did my best to comfort him.
He eventually offered to let me come with him, at times backtracking for hotels near him—he kept telling me couldn’t do long distance. I’m not too fond of that, either.
It was more of a transaction than I wanted to admit at the time, I was heavily drinking, my mind wasn’t right. We managed to haul everything out, and he drove me to PA.
I was drinking from the bottle on the way there. I vividly remember how beautiful the hills and trees looked, it reminded me of home, it was like driving through Oakland, which has always been a mesmerizing view for me.
I tripped on a step and fell with my son, but he was fine—I hurt my leg.
As soon as we got inside, my now boyfriend had to go work with his Step-Dad, and his Mom said she was going to take my son and I to the store. I thought she was referring to running to the grocery store, thinking maybe she did not want to leave us there alone when she had an errand to run.
No.
This woman took my son and I to one of the nicest thrift stores I had ever been to, and guided us toward the baby clothing section to buy outfits for my son. While we were checking out, she called us “Des and Des”, which I thought was a sweet way to acknowledge how my son and I are cursed with the same nickname. On the drive back to their house, I told her about what my Mom had done to me, testifying against me in court when I was attempting to retain custody of my son and obtain a protection order against my sons Father. That she defended the Father of my son, who she never met before, and would have no idea whether or not he was laying his hands on me. How my Mom would try to get me to give prescription pills to her friends when I was a minor. The extent of the physical abuse I faced growing up. This woman I had just met, wanted to see me, she cared to see me, she made no snap judgments of me. I was accepted, I had never been accepted so gracefully before, without having my background used against me. Or feeling like I was being interrogated with extremely personal and assuming questions. It has happened before. I might have not seen this woman since she dropped me off at the airport in April, 2021—but she will always be a Mother to me, I love her dearly for being the most kindhearted woman I have ever met. Her family was just as kind, they would bring my son gifts, they would take the time to talk to me, I was family. I fell in love with her Mother, my boyfriends Grandmother, who I could never meet because she had died a year prior.
This passed Grandmother, she would invite anyone to dinner, even if relationships with her children didn’t work out, if she knew their prior partner would be alone during the holidays—regardless of what kind of drama it might stir up, they all loved this woman, she brought peace to the family. They fell apart without her. She would softly touch my boyfriend with her fingertips, “tickling” the soles of his feet, the palms of his hand. I would do it sometimes for hours to comfort him, I fell in love with this soul I had never met before. I love to comfort people I care about in this way, despite the horrific implications of who I associate it with. I spoke to her ghost during the peak of my psychosis, I knew things about his other Grandmother when there was no way I could know. I felt her soul go inside me, it felt like goosebumps upon my skin, as well as within the very depths of my internal organs. She tickled me, inside, out, it felt so good I could not help feeling painfully horny.
I know she is with me, always, I am possessed to give my hand to absolutely any soul that approaches me in need, in pain, who are enduring loneliness. I am sorry to her, for not being able to bring her family back together. For being the catalyst that caused much unrest with her daughter, her beloved grandson. She could not believe the person he became, when I was speaking with her ghost.
Now, enough of my socially perceived delusions—
The accumulation of acts of good faith filled my empty chest, I was heartless before. And for the first time since discovering my food triggers when I was 19-20, somebody, my boyfriends Mother, went out of her way to make sure I could eat on Thanksgiving, on Christmas, she would frequently make food I could partake in. I never got that treatment in the past, in fact, I’ve had partners Mothers deliberately poison me and gaslight me regarding it.
I love meth because it was my home, I saw the side of meth that nobody talks about. I was shown a level of hospitality I never received before, not even from my blood family. I realized how capable and versatile I truly am by using this drug, that what I found was always there. That I could put that energy into activities with more meaning. If I could make a 1 defense pure on OldSchool RuneScape in one month that was so good, with so much end-game content that mains and even fellow 1 defense pure’s that had been doing it for years, envied me for it—then why don’t I do something more? Why limit myself to decluttering and cleaning a dangerously neglected home, when I could learn to make a home? Why make drawings with stolen gel pens when I could learn to oil paint? Why was I letting my boyfriend steal my money to gamble, why was I letting him beat me?
I would just laugh while I was being punched in the face. I was frequently a rag doll out of some sort of deluded idea of pacifism. Eventually, I started fighting back, I gave him a good head-butt to the nose with my eyes closed. I bashed his skull in with a heavy ash tray for holding me down, with the Devil in his eyes, asking me, “Do you miss your nigger-boy?” Referring to the mixed race child I gave up custody of, which I accepted I had to do after I was first punched in the jaw by him in front of my child. One of my molars chipped from that. I have a scar under my right eye from being hit in the face with a wrench—to be fair, I came at him with it first. I said I had something to fix, and clumsily hit him in the head with it (his parents were there to hold me back, I was laughing the whole time—I still think it’s funny). At one point, he pinned me up against the wall, choking me. I called him a pussy with that dead, choked-out voice, which made me laugh until I passed out. He dragged me down the stairs, tore off my thong, tried to rape me. That night I was thrown out in the snow, wearing a dress, I was so cold my body felt like it was being shred apart. I felt mangled. There was a full blood moon out. I kept running, back and forth, from the back porch, to the sunroom door. Begging to be let back in. Nobody tried to approach me, cops never showed up, nobody cared for me, this woman, with black eyes, covered in bruises, yelling to herself outside. Trying to command an awake nightmare out of existence. Nobody could see the knives being plunged into me, the gunshots, my feet torn apart by invisible lawnmowers—the invisible people kept telling me to try it for real, to make it all end, but I endured it. I could not see the injuries with my eyes, so it was not real.
I was killed, over and over, I don’t know how many times. I started to look forward to it, the only time I could ever fall asleep was when the entire world lined up to stab me, shoot me, rape me, piss on me, shit on me. They did everything to me, but it wasn’t physically real, however much it may have seemed to be upon every sense aside from visual. I was stuck in a nightmare, can you feel in your dreams like I do? I understand invisible pain to an immeasurable degree, I thought I did before this because I grew up with an invisible chronic illness—though that was only the training to work up to the armies I had to face while tweaking out in isolation.
Lead in my bloodstream, no more lines for me yet I could hallucinate the sensation of it dripping in the back of my throat. The stink of ammonia emitting from my sweat. Constant voices in my head, they all wanted me to die and play with them for eternity. They wanted me to kill myself, they wanted my boyfriend to kill me. They wanted me to kill him, and I wanted to kill him so badly. I killed him in my head, over and over again.
They wanted me to believe my child was dead. I was convinced he was dead. That everyone was talking about it, all these horrific acts that I could have prevented. That nobody had the heart to tell me he was dead. I wasn’t allowed to listen to my music, my wired earbuds snipped by my boyfriends scissors. Too scared to use my phone or laptop because he would attack me, afraid I would find out about what he was doing. Pretending to be me. Scamming people that I knew for years that trusted me. Using my body for profit. I was forced to listen to his horrible delusions, as well as my own horrible delusions, with no way to distract myself. I always have heard voices that don’t exist, my entire life, never so loud, never so clear. I started to believe it. I mourned for my child, I couldn’t say how many hours. My electronic devices eventually destroyed by him. I was nobody, with nothing, and no one.
I was made into the demon I am today. I fed upon human hearts gifted to me, into my cusped hands, when no one was looking, in dark areas generally riddled with spiderwebs. Sometimes, they would try to scare me by mimicking the sensation of spiders falling on top of me, crawling all over me. It didn’t bother me. I frequently begun meditating deeply to manifest the feeling of dirt and bugs in my lungs, I wanted to rot away. Back to the point—I would eat these manifested human hearts slowly, sometimes swallow them whole, lick the blood off my hands, feel the dried blood on my face. Nothing to be seen. Wash my face so the people in the windows couldn’t see the demon that I am. I ate Lucifer himself, his beating heart, it tasted so sweet. A mix of chocolate, blood, almost like a rich steak… I came, repeatedly and violently, in fetal position, shaking in pleasure—I could not believe such a feat possible. I experienced it. He gave me his heart to bring me back to life, I was the walking dead before he came to rescue me.
Forced into a psych ward, no words for anybody, aside from, “Could I please have a cigarette?” I became known for that.
Hand over my chest, no heartbeat to be felt, nothing made sense. It excited me, to be dead. I stripped naked, I wandered out of my shared room. They restrained me, those pussy’s aggressive with me despite the bruises upon my face and body. I spat in one mans face for pushing down the bruised side of my face, though this was in a prior ER trip.
I got my own room. They would bring me trays covered in food. I would try so hard to sleep, it was easier since the voices weren’t so loud there. Pen and paper straight to me when requested, to write down what Lucifer had to say. Scattered all over the page, incoherent, like a schizophrenic.
Some of those people in the ward, I spoke to psychically. A woman told me her name with eye contact. I saw the counselor picking favorites during the one group I went to, all I could do is smirk at this shallow woman “engaging” us.
I kept asking to leave. Eventually, I followed one nurse that psychically told me to follow her, that this was how you left. To watch and come with her. It frightened me, I did not go through the door. Once I was allowed to leave days later (I don’t recall how many days it was), they took me through those doors. I had no memory of how I got into that place, I wasn’t aware. The security that lead me out on my release, slow swagger walk she had, taking me to the locker room where my belongings were. She opened my bag, I wasn’t quite sure why.
After walking through the front door of the hospital, other fellow patients were about to get into a bus. I asked one kind face, young Indian man, for a cigarette, “Open up my bag, I have one left.” I took his last Newport, tucked the empty pack back into his bag (why did I do that?) lit it up, and walked off. I was free. I didn’t know where to go, I wanted to believe I’d be saved by anyone. As I get towards the edge of the parking lot, I fainted. Fell flat down, scraped up my shoulders, as well as my palms when trying to catch my fall. I dropped my discharge papers, scattering around the faintly snowy lot. I left them, I didn’t believe they were real.
I sat at a manhole, surrounded by snow. I played like a child, sticking twigs into the snow, I was making a new planet. A better Earth. All my imaginary friends making me believe I was really doing something. I tried to get ahold of a friend from NY, he did not answer, or even realize it was me trying to get ahold of him. I accepted fate, and called my now, ex boyfriend (his Mother sat me down before putting me into the ward, she guided me through breaking up with him during the demon wars going on in my head). He came to pick me up, right away, car full of laundry for the laundromat, but I just wanted to go home and be held on the couch. I wanted to feel loved. I wanted to rest.
On the drive home, the maps voice changed to a dead voice, that we both heard. The same voice I had when getting choked out calling him a pussy. I didn’t want to believe it. That that was possible.
Once we got home, he saw my scrapes. He accused me of getting raped. That I was withholding the fact that I clearly had rape injuries upon me, that someone pushed me down and raped me. Nothing could convince him otherwise. Another excuse to batter me. While going through my bag of stuff, I found a drivers license of a hispanic woman who looked vaguely like me. Born January 1st. I was given a fake ID by that woman from the psych ward, they must have thought I was an immigrant going through domestic violence, considering I had absolutely no identification on me when being checked in.
I tried to be independent after that, I got all dressed up, and went on a walk. The area was beautiful, I followed the stream, I hopped on rocks. I got to play. Carefully balancing myself on fallen trees. I had a bunch of blank cards to write in secretly, because he would take all my writing, hide it, burn it—I sat on large exposed tree roots sticking up out of the water, to write. I had a red leather jacket on, a knee length white skirt with a blue flower embroidered on the lower corner, vintage white leather boots, and brandishing a black eye. I saw a man across Saucon Creek, navigating the steep hill to get to the bridge. I felt fear, everyone in my head was telling me to run. I could hear chaos all around me, he eventually got across and sat right next to me. Everything in my head got more violent when I made eye contact with him. I ignored him, not a word, “you think you’re tough?” He said to me, an emaciated woman with a black eye. I felt like I was getting stabbed in the back when he eventually walked away. All the noise around me scared me, it was starting to get dark, the ghosts and demons were out to fuck with people like me. I was interrogated as soon as I got back, pushed me down to the floor, asking who I fucked, sticking his fingers inside me to find the evidence, of the cum allegedly inside me. As he was throwing me around the floor, I hoped so badly that he would not stick my head into the nearby litter box. “Oh look at that, Ed’s here, your boyfriend.” Ed being his Step-Dad, convinced that he and I were having relations together. I ran out of the house so fast, and no, he was not there, or else I would have begged to stay in the shed (where he would deal meth and nod out). I hid inside of an unlocked car at the car dealership right across the street, waiting till Ed got home. I thought I was going to be killed, I was just physically and sexually assaulted due to a delusion. I kept peeking out of the car to see if Eds car was back home. Once he was, I came to the shed, and tried to hug him, he would not even hug me back. I asked for him to please tell Lex to leave me alone. He followed me inside the house, he yelled at him from down the stairs to knock it off, and that was that.
Was it that night? Does it all blur together? He came into the room I cleaned up upstairs, that his sick Uncle previously stayed in, who was covered in holes of pus. It was a biohazard, the curtains had not been washed, possibly ever, in decades. I could not get all the yellowing out of them. I was thankful to have found a pack of his uncles BJ cigarettes under the bed. I couldn’t fall asleep unless I was smoking, inhaling in so deeply and long that it’d make me pass out to dreamland. I felt like I was dying every night. But, one night, he came into bed with me, begging for sex. He pulled out his cock to rub it, and I didn’t want to take it. I was scared to let him have that power over me. I put my hand into a fist, and smashed down on his semi-hard cock like a rock into the palm when playing rock, paper, scissors. He punched me on the side of my head, I fell to the floor, I heard ringing in my ears. It was exactly like the sirens from Kill Bill, I finally understood why I was drawn to that movie as a child. I was fighting for my life, I grabbed the small white stool that I kept an ash tray atop on the side of the bed. I attacked him with it. I smashed up his hand good, I stood guarded a foot from the doorway to the hallway, holding the stool above my head, the flat part against it. He laughed at me for having my eyes closed, but I knew his every move, I could feel him, I could see him in my head, Lucifer was my eyes. I moved towards him every time he tried to throw me off. I banged the stool against the top of my head to show that I don’t give a fuck, that only I can hurt me, now. He laughed uncomfortably. He kept trying to manipulate me into a hug, I banged the stool against the nearby bathroom door. I broke the sliding door to the room I was in, swinging the stool around. Once he finally left, I got a sharpie, and wrote on the stool, how, “I felt like this has happened before, that I have been killed over and over again.” I felt the guidance of every woman who has ever died to domestic violence fill my mind. I sat down on the side of the bed, with my eyes towards the door, the stool in my lap. I sat there for hours, I didn’t want to die. I couldn’t let him take all I have from me. I only laid my head to rest once someone got home, his parents worked graveyard shifts. Nights were sincerely nightmares, when it was only him and I.
—I could go on, but the point is, I endured so much, because I fell in love. Not only with him, but his family. All the pain he brought me could never compare to the pain my blood family had brought me. Nothing compared to the awake nightmare I had for months. I didn’t want to leave, even when I got cut off from meth, I did not want to leave. I only left after his Step-Dad evicted me. Fighting for my life felt a more viable option than facing the blood that betrayed me, who perceived me as a demon.
I have become one. I am a demon. I crave pain, I crave the freedom of death.
I love meth for showing me I could endure anything. I don’t need it anymore, I’ve been to Hell and back. I felt the Hell fires. I know how that toxic house will smell when it eventually is set aflame in the future.
How do I prevent my desire to use meth?
I need to get health insurance, obtain some diagnosis (most likely, I will receive many), and be prescribed Adderall. I need help functioning in day-to-day life when I am struggling at a disabling level a few months out of the year, it could potentially carry me out of the blackhole I have found myself consumed by my entire life.
It is not normal that the times I have worked jobs, I would have days where I had to hide in the bathroom to cry for extended periods of time due to visceral trauma consuming me to the point I cannot focus on anything. Before I even did meth, I was a dead woman walking.
Adderall is a potential replacement for the aching in my soul, I could never kill the child inside me, as much as I have tried. I killed her, over and over. I visualized that chaotic little girl, her unkempt hair, the underdeveloped body that stemmed from malnutrition and regular uncontrollable vomiting. She is immortal, I could never erase the child that I was, I might grow from her pain, but I cannot make it go away. I tried to lock her away, throw away the key, though her screams will be heard an eternity. It happened. No matter how many times I’m told it was not that bad, that they don’t remember—she does. I do.
I’ve come to this conclusion before, that I cannot have my blood in my life. I did not crave meth when I smoked it on BART last night, I thought I could handle. And you know what? I can. It has been weeks since I craved it—I only ever crave it when I’m at home with my family. I want to disassociate from them, from the deluded reality they all live in. It blunts my senses, it makes me into a vessel susceptible to psychic manipulation. I have to be on my toes if I want to keep my heart.
Why do I feel I need drugs to function?
Why was I prescribed drugs while my brain was developing and told it would help me function? Why was I on SSRIs starting at 12 when I was not depressed and having a systemic reaction to being abused? Why was I prescribed a massive monthly dose of a synthetic opioid as a teen who only recently begun menstruating? Why are we prescribed drugs if it is not a necessity?
I suppose what I’m reassuring myself, is that it is OK to need drugs to function when I am quite literally dysfunctional. I have always lived in chronic pain, and it is finally time I address the psychological pain I have been dealt, that has been denied as not real by those who caused it.
I have endured. I am entitled to tools to allow me to function within society. If I cannot be alone with myself, I have nothing.
Why didn’t I try earlier?
Last year, I suggested the potential benefits of stimulants for someone like me, to who I thought was a trusted person—my brother—who was fortunate enough to be diagnosed with ADD. He pulled the card that it is an addictive substance, and it was never to be a topic of discussion again.
Growing up, my Mom would instill unease in me when it came to psychiatry. I grew up in pain, that I know would exist whether or not I was being abused—having migraines and throwing up is, from what I know about people, is not what the average person might recall as being apart of their earliest memories.
I was scared to be told it was all in my head, because, IT WAS ALL IN MY HEAD! My head would hurt so badly I would bang my head against the wall, hoping it would bang out the agonizing migraine aura.
When I was in a massive amount of pain, unable to talk, I cannot count the amount of times I was beaten for it, for not being able to explain why I was in pain. I would lash out, regularly. I associate getting psychological help, with being unable to control my chronic pain and being told I was mentally deranged because of it. I would refuse it.
Until one day, I finally asked, when I was 18, realizing I could not function like all the other fresh adults.
My Mom laughed at me, “Oh, you want that NOW? We can’t afford that.”
As they bought. And bought. The boxes stacking in the garage, the pizza boxes stacking on the counter.
I don’t know where I have been meant to go, even now, I’m still scared to trust a doctor. But I really want to, I can see the game now, and it is looking right at me, begging me to trust myself.
“Are you literally autistic? That’s something I should know. Like wouldn’t I be taking advantage of you? I can’t be with you if you’re autistic, we need to get that checked out. I need to know. I won’t be able to live with myself if our son is autistic.”
It isn’t real if I don’t have a diagnosis, right?
What do I want to do as a career, NOW?
I want to paint. I want to write, and write… I want to make as much art as I am physically capable of creating. I want to learn to blacksmith, to make works of art that would prevent unwarranted death. I would love to work with the community, to hear about others pain, to give my patience and heart to this world.
I would like to work as much as I can.
I would like to learn as much as I can, so I may create everything trapped in my head.
I still would like to do clinical research. But this is not the time, when I, myself, am an unfinished experiment in need of completion.
Am I a woman?
No. I want to live my life as a man, without judgment, and no longer be apart of my “family”. I don’t care too much for medical transition, but I cannot take living like this anymore. I have always felt male, now I am an adult, and I am allowed to live life as I see fit.
I have been struggling to sell myself, during this active period of “sex work”, because it has been a forceful reminder, that I am female. A reminder that I am more of a man than most of these men I meet, so why not live like one? I could do it better.
It doesn’t hurt to be recognized as a confusing entity, I don’t want to be known. I want people to keep questioning. My sexual ambiguity has enabled me to get away with far more than I will ever know, I don’t need others to perceive my identity when it is not theirs to ever know intimately. This body I have been both cursed and blessed with, is only for behind closed doors.
One of the Grandmother ghosts told me before gifting me her soul, “One day, you will have to become the man.” Which scared me at first, but now I understand. Now I accept it.