The picture of my pain

It just struck me right now... that when I lived as a guy but was still pre-op chest wise, I never managed to imagine myself with a flat chest. Like when I tried to it just became the image of a blurry, nipple-less wall of skin with no details at all. Like a badly photoshopped photo. But now that I imagine my chest with new boobs, I can not only imagine a pair in what I think would be a reasonable density/firmness of silicone/saline implants, or a size I think I'd feel very comfy and pretty with, but also what my actual nipples could look like on them and even some random scarring under them. I do improvise with what sort of scarring I think I'd end up with though, and where my current scars could likely end up.

But not only that, I can also imagine what they could feel like in my hands, being squeezed around, their weight, and also that I think it would actually amuse me that they'd stand upright when I'd lying down on my back, which natural boobs don't do. I think I'd really love just playing with them on my own. Very carefully and gently at first, then more intensely as they'd heal from the surgery. And I think it would be very good to do that first before letting someone else touch them. To just familiarise myself with them, and see if I could figure out what sort of touch I may like or dislike, etc. Almost like masturbation! Actually, I'd definitely include boob touching into my masturbation routine then.

It's just not quite sexually satisfying for me to touch my breast forms while masturbating. Cause I just want to feel it but I don't and I can't, and that leaves me with an empty, hollow feeling. Like no matter how far I stretch my arm I simply cannot reach.

Okay I just spent an hour or so googling info and images of breast reconstruction surgery after mastectomy. I saw several pictures of women who got simply implants (and some also new nipples but that doesn't apply to me) and that was helpful for me to see where their mastectomy scars ended up. Somehow it wasn't quite what I had expected and this gives me more to think about. Also remembering that the location of my scars used to align with where my nipples formerly were. I think I would end up with one of two outcomes that I can't quite figure out which one:
1.) My nipples don't need to be relocated and end up at the peak of the boobs, then my mastectomy scars will run across the boobs but a couple cm under the nipples, visible from straight ahead but not centered on the middle.
2.) They will need to be relocated to end up at the peaks, then my mastectomy scars will run right across the boobs with the nipples at the centers of them, and the scars would be horizontal across the boobs when looking at them straight ahead.

Either way though, those mastectomy scars will also continue towards the sides under my arms. I wonder how or if they can be stretched. Because looking at the pictures online it seems those women's scars could and did stretch quite a lot. Length-wise, I mean. But also a little in width. I'd be fine with that, I guess.

As for reconstructed boobs in general, the ones with just implants put in look far better (in my opinion) than the ones made of tissue from other parts of the body. Those do look kinda... ugh I don't want to be mean, but... a little patchwork-like and awkward, to put it as kindly as I can. And that is quite off-putting for me, I have to admit. Cause if that turns out to be my only option... I'm seriously gonna have to think about it. It's pretty much for the same reason some phalloplasty dicks tend to look... kinda undesireable and not entirely dick-like. That those breasts then also, in very much the same way, also look kinda undesireable (to me) and not entirely breast-like. Like they look very obviously unnatural and hand-made.

I'm young, highly sexual, want to get new breasts to increase my confidence and reduce my intense dysphoric feelings... so if the only kinds of boobs I could get would be impeeding on my confidence and make me feel like I look like a creation of Frankenstein, especially with sex partners... my self-image would undoubtedly also suffer. Like if I would end up not wanting to take off my bra even after surgery... I wouldn't have improved my confidence much at all. So if at all possible, I definitely want to avoid having to add extra skin flaps from other parts of my body. But if I simply don't have enough skin on my chest to stretch for implants... I'm gonna have to consider getting such flaps, and really think that through.

Like would that be better than staying flat? Yeah... yeah it most likely would. Cause it's the flatness itself that bothers me the most, and not being able to show clevage with clothing, and that there's simply nothing there when I feel with my hands. So even if I could only get boobs that I'd not like the aesthetics of while bare, I'm pretty sure that the feeling of them simply being there, even if I'd always hide them in bras, would still be a lot better than how it is now. Although very far from ideal.

So, after only having thought about it for like 2 minutes... yeah, I most likely would do it even if that would be my only option to get new boobs. But I'd likely also struggle to love them. I'd like them and be happy to have them, and be relieved of much of dysphoria, but that alone is not love. An absense of feeling utterly horrible about my chest is not loving my chest. That is being okay, accepting, but not exactly extatic about it. If I'll end having to go that route, I'll likely beat myself up even more for having had that mastectomy to begin with. I think it would fill me with a very strong grief that my chest would simply never look good again, and being unable to do anything about it. And always feel broken. And that's a tragedy I'd rather not have to deal with.

Another detransitioner told me that he sees his transition surgery scars as "battle scars" and I like that sentiment. I don't know which surgeries he had, I only know that he had been on estrogen for 17 years, needs to take testosterone for his detransition and that he had some sort of gender transition surgery/-ies. I didn't want to be too prying and ask such a question. I know that can be very sensitive, but of course my mind wanders to exactly what sort of surgeries it might be that he wishes he hadn't done. But anyhow, what he said makes me want to refer to my mastectomy scars as battle scars too. It almost looks like someone tried to cut my heart out, or take the air out of my lungs, but I survived that, and the wounds healed.

And I'll always be scarred, one way or another. And scars themselves are not something I consider ugly or unsightly, or even necessarily undesireable. But sometimes they carry a lot of emotions with them, if they're reminders of a painful past, or decision. Like for every time someone who sees my self harm scars on my arms comments on them and tells me I shouldn't harm myself, that is a painful reminder that no matter how many years of not cutting myself, someone is always gonna come by and talk to me as if I was still actively creating more new wounds. It's been 3 years. Every self-inficted scar on my body is at least 3 years old. I've quit for good. But strangers don't see my past when they look at me, and they judge. And they don't trust me when I say I've quit. Having my past being interpreted as my present time, over and over again, is painful and frustrating.

And just as likely, I think people will continue to ask me about "my chest surgery" even decades from now. I know I have a picture of my pre-op chest somewhere. I've been wanting to look at it again, but also I worry that doing so would fill me with emotions too heavy to bear. So I keep postponing it. But I should, shouldn't I? I should, I know that I should. I want to, but fuck it hurts.

Fuuuck... they were beautiful. Such heavy grief hit me instantly, like a block of lead in my heart, weighing me down into my chair, as I look at that picture. That one and only picture ever taken of my bare pre-op chest. It doesn't show my face, but I know I was distressed when I took the photo. It was just a few days before the surgery. It's a little blurry but clear enough to see. They're small but not tiny, and not really saggy, still kinda round. And that's after 5 years of binding. I can't remember what they felt like. My mind has forgotten. But I want to leap into that picture and feel them again. At least for just one last, very loving goodbye. But I'll never feel them again. Oh fuck I really miss them now. Fuck, size doesn't matter now that I see what they actually looked like. I want them back. I want them back so bad...

Latent tears... Even in this moment I cannot cry, but my nose is running extra much as though I'm crying, and I can feel the pressure from within. Please, let me cry... I'm begging please... it's been 3 fucking months of needing to release tears but they just won't reach out. It has built up a pressure that is now literally causing me a headache and nausea. Or that's me being starved cause I haven't eaten today, I don't know, but this pressure of internal tears made it worse. I might need to puke soon, cause I'm not feeling too good.

If there was just one thing I could go back in time to undo, it would be that surgery. It's rare, very very rare, that I regret something so completely that I wish it entirely undone. I think this might even be the only such thing ever in my entire life. I just took a painkiller some 30 minutes ago but it's getting increasingly worse and my head literally feels several kg heavier. But this grief is nearly tearing me apart, it feels like something's shattering inside me. Like glass being crushed against my ribs. But I can't get my natural breasts back. The only thing I can do is to mourn them and the loss of them. And try my hardest to get reconstruction financially covered. And if not, beg my parents to pay for it with their retirement savings. I'll get it somehow, cause I can't continue like this forever.

Granted, it's only been 3 months and surgery is far away either way. I can't know what I'll feel in 1 or 2 years from now. Maybe most of my grieving process will be over by then, or maybe I'll cry all the way to the operation table. I suddenly feel a slight loss of control of my entire body. I can't feel it as much. My hands are slowly going numb. Am I passing out, or dissociating, or getting sick? Not that I care or even worry in the slightest, it's just a bit weird and makes writing difficult. Perhaps I'm just tired and exhausted. Or I'm coming down with a fever, or it's just my headache. Sometimes when it gets really bad, it causes nausea and loss of sensation in the rest of my body. I don't know why. I think it affects my blood flow somehow, or it's my blood flow that slows down which then in turn worsens my headache and causes nausea cause not enough blood in my brain. I've no fucking idea.

But it seems kinda likely that my blood flow has slowed down quite a lot right now, but it's happening very slowly so I don't crash quickly and I'm still conscious. Perhaps not for much longer. If my vision starts to blacken, I'm gonna lie down in my bed, cause no use trying to write at that point anyhow. I wonder if I can go out for a cigarette without crashing or if I'd just fall over halfway to my balcony. I kinda need a smoke but not sure if I can manage it physically.

It doesn't seem to be getting worse. Perhaps it is just psychological, or psychosomatic. It's hard to tell, but I seem to be getting better now, actually. My hands feel almost normal again and my head feels slightly lighter. Maybe the painkiller is working after all. Sometimes those fuckers just take half an eternity to do their damn thing. I should go to bed soon anyway. I'll post this as edited as I can manage. Mainly just tying up some loose ends. Maybe drinking som fluid replacement stuff can help a bit. Some electrolytes might be just what I'm lacking. I think I should be able to stand up and walk around by now. Just carefully. Yep, working, but my balance is fucked. Okay I got my cigarette and I didn't crash anywhere.

Yeah, I miss my boobs. More than I can even fathom it myself. Not having them anymore makes me feel like I have two holes in my chest. Like a porcelain doll that got stabbed twice. And the gaping abyss from inside the hollow doll that is staring back at me is dark, cold and heavier than a mountain. It is pain, concentrated and thick. And it's seeping out through the two holes, as though the doll is filled with fluid, and it seeps out like the tears I can't cry. And that is my mental image of exactly in what way I feel broken. Like that porcelain doll. That's the centre of my pain, just centimetres from my heart. Like someone smashed my ribs in where my boobs used to be, and I'm mentally bleeding from the impact that repeats over and over every day. And like I'm not just flat, but carved open and hollowed out. I made a terrible, utterly devastating, mistake. And I cannot call it anything other than a mistake. I betrayed myself, very very deeply. I do not know how, or even if, I can heal that mental wound.

Listen carefully if you really want to know

Maybe I did start hating myself around the age of 10, after those things happened. They ruined me, I ruined me, forever. Such wounds never really heal. I swore an oath to myself, to never tell a living soul, and sometimes I'm okay with that. Other times it's killing me. When I look at myself and what I did that one time, all I see is a monster. It was such an inhuman act, such a horrible crime. And it's eating away at me.

When I first found out what really happened, when I dug too deep into my mind during the summer of 2013, the thought of ending my life was stuck in my head. People have killed themselves for much lesser remorse. Do I even feel remorse? Sometimes, sometimes not. Because I didn't know that what I did was wrong in any sense, I was way too young to comprehend any such matters.

I've hinted at the nature of the crime, in times when I didn't care much about anyone's reactions. Not many have confronted me about what I've written about it, and I've never really spoken about it. At least, never into such detail as I tend to in my blog here. Or in poems. My poems always, always tend to go into more detail than I'm actually comfortable with.

It was a sex crime. Can I even say that much? Maybe now that I've abandoned most people who matter to me, and I guess I've in a way, also abandoned their opinions. Maybe now that I no longer care what people could think of me. I've said it was horrid, I've said I was too young to know what I was doing. 9 years old and committed a sex crime? Maybe now you can understand.

Just how fucked up I am, in that area, and how much it's been fucking me up. Perhaps, no I'm pretty sure, that is also a reason why sex is so repulsive to me now. It has ruined way too much. Way too much. It has crawled into the very essence of my soul and stained it from the inside and out. I know that the sexual assault I went through not long before led me to commit a very similar act myself, but my crime was worse. In the eyes of the beholder, or in the eyes of my victim, or in my own eyes, how can I know for sure what was worse? I can't, but it's my interpretation. They let me go almost instantly, of what I can remember, while I wasn't too fond of letting my victim go. I was stubborn for reasons unknown.

I was more fucked up right afterwards than I was able to remember for 15 years. I thought it was an innocent game up until the summer of 2013, until it revealed to me what I actually had done. How can I even live with myself? That question does pop up from time to time, to which I answer that I simply don't know, I just do. It's been by far the hardest thing I've had to deal with, worse than what I went through, worse than the rape when I was 17, worse than anything.

I'm calm right now, telling you this, although my hands are riddled with cold sweat and it's like I've got some kind of tunnel vision. It's all I can think about. Somehow I picture myself, two years ago, standing outside of my apartment, smoking a cigarette and not knowing what I should do. I remember when I desperately googled everything I could find, on if it was possible I could get imprisoned for that crime if it somehow slipped out of me what I had done.

I knew I had to take it with me to the grave, exactly what it was, and to whom. All I'm saying now is that it was of sexual nature and similar to what happened to me right before. You'll never know to whom it was, no one ever will. I suppose it's the one and only secret I'll keep no matter what, but I do know it's just to save my own skin, if anything could potentially happen if it did come out.

It doesn't keep me up at night since obviously I'm sleeping quite a lot these days, but it is gnawing at my conscience. That it took me so many years to truly remember, that it ruined me so much. Perhaps my sex life truly is permanently dead after that discovery, I don't know. I don't think I'll ever be capable of having normal sex with a normal view on it after realising what I did. Damaged to asexuality, and that's the truth. I damaged myself so completely and I can't even imagine how much I ruined that other person. Although, I do know.

All it took was a tumblr post this time and I'm drowning in the darkest corner of my mind again. How much darker can it get? Would I even want to know...? And that's why I'm sure, that if there is a Hell, other than this place, I will go there. I believe, like so many others, that sex offenders would get one of the worst spots in that place.

And it's all so fucked up, you know, cause half the time I don't know which side I'm really on. The victim, or the offender? The world is so far from being black and white, it's never fucking simple. And I go into cases of some kind of mortal fear every time I see things online related to rapists and what literally everyone thinks society should do with them. So kill me, so hang me or shoot me in the head. Cause once it comes down to it, I do want to die anyway.

And I think you should know, I think you have the right to, finally know what kind of monster has been hiding in the person you view as your friend, for all this time. And I know, that for being the offender I sure as hell am putting a lot of blame somewhere else. It was my decision, my choice to do what I did, yet it's like I blame it on something or someone else. Those that attacked me, cause I'm pretty sure it never would have happened otherwise. What a hell hole Alunda must have been, what were we kids really up to before our age had reached to double digits even?

Or maybe all schools were that horrible, what do I know, I only have that one to compare with and it's not much, but it's everything. I've heard other stories around, and maybe the ones I really should blame are the adults, the teachers, for never teaching us kids what was wrong or right? Were we just suppose to know? How?

Wasn't my victim even someone I was suppose to protect? Oh, that hurts even more. But it's true. There are no lies in this entry, it's as close to the truth as I'll ever let you, so listen carefully if you really ever wanted to know.

In my autobiography I don't include this much of what happened, but more on how fucked up I was the following years, ages 10 through 13. How I was dealing with Anna, other voices, dissociation, self harm and how I revolted against my bullies in fairly strange but effective ways. Right now, I barely understand how I even survived.

There's a diary, somewhere in my collection, I can't even remember what colour it is, where everything is written down. Everything except from who my victim was. Just in case anyone would find and read it. It's maybe obviously, written June or July 2013 when my memories came back. No, I don't even remember which month it was. I just let it be there in my book shelf, completely on display, cause why would anyone get the idea to read all of them through?

I was beyond myself, far beyond myself when I wrote that down in that diary. Just had to get it out, somehow, somewhere. I still haven't accepted it, I don't think I ever will. It's by far the most awful thing I've ever done, but not the only awful thing. I did something else, much later, but entirely different and definitely not in the same category. For some reason that's an even better kept secret of mine.

Wow, those dark corners of my mind really haunt me tonight. No rest for the wicked. So yes, I really am a criminal but I guess I just hide it well. Not so strange why I suddenly realised why being around cops has always made me feel uneasy for back then to me unknown reasons. Perhaps afraid that they would one day just look me in the eye and just know. I don't know, maybe I'm being irrational again. For crying out loud I need another cigarette...

There are so many layers of me, from dark to darker and the saint most new people see when they first meet me is just a surface that I don't know why they always see cause it's not even there. But yeah, of course there's so much more to me than this. But not really a part that would never hurt a soul. Maybe I just am one of those tragically hurt people that became an offender myself. Only once though, or technically twice but yeah.

So maybe my surface has been cracking lately, as I lie to people I really do care about and it hurts them and I try to repair it but then I lie again. Cause I can't deal with the truth, any truth, anymore. And I care less and less about other people's feelings. It's like instead of healing with time I just break more and more until there's just nothing left to break. It's the only way I can describe it, to me everything is either moving on or going under and there's nothing else. Perhaps you've noticed, I don't know.

In my world, all I see is degrees of pain and darkness, or possibly the lack of it. Cause I'm not always drowning, not always wanting to die. Just that most of the time I am, and I do often get that kind of tunnel vision. It's hard to break out of, especially when I isolate and only have my own thoughts. And it's not like I think I would feel up for discussing this either, I'd probably just state it was a one time thing and that I'll never go down here again, but knowing myself, I probably will. Some day.

But right now, it's just important that I get all of this out of me, all these thoughts and feelings that won't stop spreading like the plague inside my stressed out mind. I can't stop chain smoking, can't stop thinking. Eventually I'll have to stop this vicious circle and do something else, something safe, like playing WoW or whatever. And I'm too disgusted with myself to be able to eat even though I'm hungry as hell.

Hell... maybe I made my own hell that day when I was 9. Maybe that is my curse, defiling everything inside me. I think I'll stop now, I just have to.

The darker half

I had a meeting with that welfare officer again today, and I was pretty blunt with her. She noticed my personality change and said I was different this time. I don't know what to think of that, didn't think it was actually that noticeable.

Anyway, I finally asked her why we're having these meetings, what's her role in this whole deal. She said my doctor (who left me) wanted me to have someone to check up on me meanwhile I'm waiting for another doctor. Especially regarding self harm and suicidal thoughts. She got worried, that welfare officer, that I wasn't gonna see my shrink until August again. I told her I could just get in contact with my shrink whenever if I needed her. She still didn't want to let go of me.

Fucking cunt, I despise her. I don't need more people who think they need to look after me. My whole life is care takers and shrinks and doctors and I'm so sick of it. So sick of being treated like I'm a fragile little glass doll. I might not be able to take care of myself, but I'm very capable of making my own decisions.

I'm on a waiting list to see my new doctor, which will probably be sometime in June. I really need to see her, cause I think I need to up my Abilify, but don't know how to handle that. I need it for my psychotic tendencies, but I can't mention that. Seriously, I'm shifting personalities and seeing signs and messages everywhere. I'm on the brink again and I really don't want to fall down into that black abyss again.

So I don't know how to handle that. I finally succeeded to get antipsychotic drugs, but they're not doing shit and I can't tell doctors that I'm psychotic. Someone please kill me now... I don't know how much longer I can handle this on my own.

Shit, I'm still the dark me and I can't shift back. What if one day I get stuck like this? If I one day can never shift back? I realise that when I was reckless and didn't care about anyone, when I had thoughts of cannibalism and murder with sociopathic tendencies, when I was cold and heartless: I was the dark me. I don't want to fully become that. It scares me. Maybe I have no reason to worry, but it still scares me.

Even if I don't need to worry, I still believe there is a small chance of that to happen. I've heard about it before, in other people's cases. So I have heard about it before then? Not necessarily personality shifts as such, but of people who have been through traumas that they start to shut down eventually, gradually, until they're not themselves anymore. I'm afraid of that happening to me.

I'm just making it worse by not doing anything about it. I'm getting desperate. I'm not even sure that antipsychotic drugs can help me with that. I need to talk it out with my shrink, but first I need to survive the summer and the autumn and possibly the winter as well. Yeesh, things are going so damn slow and I'm falling so fast.

I really hoped I could meet them in Huddinge and fill out the papers for Rättsliga Rådet already this summer, but of course they're all on leave/vacation. I really hoped I could get my gender reassigned before the autumn, but no. And then things will take even longer after that. I have don't have all the time in the world, okay? Don't think they realise that, cause I won't tell them why. Just hurry the fuck up you fuckers, I don't wanna be stuck like this forever.

Open doors

I finally brought it up with my psychologist. That I wanna talk about my traumas. Only took me about eight months to muster that... I lightly (well, maybe not so lightly) write about some of those ordeals, what I'm okay with sharing, but it's a whole different thing talking about it face to face with someone. Especially when I'm sober. I might even tell her not only about what I've been put through by others (which I have shared here and in real life) but also about what I've done to other people.

I'm not such an innocent little flower, you know. Or well, I don't know what got into me exactly at those times when those things happened. Probably must have completely lost my mind for a day or two. I still don't know why I did what I did, it's beyond me. I'm kind and caring and would never harm another living creature on purpose, would I? Except that I have.

And I can't wrap my head around that. Maybe there is evil somewhere inside all of us, just that I happened to be one of those who acted out on it. There's so much I don't understand about myself, but those things... I really wonder what the hell is wrong with me when I think about it.

Maybe I shouldn't, you know, think about it. If it pains me so much and I just get nowhere when I'm trying to sort it out. I just entangle myself in it and the problem only grows bigger. The problem that I can't accept myself for the awful things I have done, and I wouldn't accept anyone else for having done the same things either. There was a time when I thought "those people" should be locked up in prison, or even be executed. Would that justify a suicide? I don't know.

But I wouldn't wanna kill myself as an excuse to society, and those I've hurt by my deeds would only become devastated if I die. That is a problem. I suppose you're figuring out that it's someone I'm still in contact with, someone who knows me. Then you're right, but I won't say more than that. There's only two people by the way, that I hurt, if that's of any consolation at all. Better than three or five or ten, I mean. Though I'm not diminishing it.

I don't want to kill myself, and especially not for something that happened several years ago. I've had reasons, millions of reasons for suicide, but this has never been it. Is that wrong of me, thinking that I don't deserve to die, but that I have in my past thought that people who have done the same things rightfully deserved to die?

I mean look a society. We have a criminal justice system, and the state or something decides who should be locked up or not. I was too young for my first deed but had I been older and gotten reported I would most likely have ended up in prison or a likewise place depending on age. But then my gender would also likely have been confusing so you never know. Cause "girls don't do that" kinda crap, not that I was a girl, but you get it. There are certain things you wouldn't accuse a girl of doing. All I know is that most sane people don't want creeps who have done such things walking around on the streets. I could do it again, right?

Isn't that what the criminal justice system is made for, to stop criminals from acting out again? I can safely say that I will never ever lose my mind like that and do something like that again. Ever. But the thing is that I have already done it and once things are done they cannot be undone. I would if I could though. Oh, I so definitely would undo it if I could...

But back to where I was going with this. I'm very divided around the subject of right and wrong because of this. Cause if I would firmly stand by my words I would go against my own deeds, if that makes any sense. My sense of right and wrong is colliding. I'm the kid in a candy store telling everyone it's wrong to steal but still has stolen candy before in that store. But now we're talking much worse things than stealing candy. Very hush hush.

It's the only things I have never ever told anyone about. That's why I'm so nervous and hesitating to tell my shrink. I don't even know if I should. Things could get worse, if she decides she needs to "save" or whatever, the persons I hurt, then it could get really complicated. Really, really complicated. Of course I'll ask her if there's any chance she would do that first. Really push it out of her if I have to, cause I just can't take that risk. It would mess things up not only for me, so I'm not completely selfish.

I know of only one other person I would possibly tell, and that would be K, if he wanted to know that is. Cause that is how much I trust him, even though I don't know him so well. Though I bet you're all dying to know what horrible crimes I've committed. Or maybe you just want me to shut the fuck up about it already. But here it is. Maybe I am revealing more about it each time, I don't know. It's like it's trying to claw its way out of me, like a crazy bird or something. I have to force myself to shut up.




Maybe why I'm always so open... what if it's compulsive? That I'm sort of forcing myself to the brink, constantly pushing it a little bit further each time. Until literally my whole life is on display. No, I won't include those things in my autobiography. I'll leave a hint in the end of the chapter about when I was in 1st to 3rd grade, but I'll also say that it's not just my story to tell. I'm still trying to control myself as much as I can. I re-read and edit all of my posts and I ask myself, "would I be okay with everyone reading this?" before I decide if I should post it. I think that's it for now. Just needed to vent a bit.

Worth living for

I wish the crew would stop complimenting my hair. Seriously, they've been doing that almost constantly from when I started bleaching it in January. Sure I like getting a compliment every so often, but this is getting ridiculous. What are they trying to achieve? Making me indescribably happy?

I started to scratch myself uncontrollably under the bandage early this morning, half not aware of what I was doing. Not supposed to do that, and I know that in an awaken state, but it's different when I'm half asleep.

I do all sorts of things that I wouldn't normally do then. It's strange, but also understandable. That I'm less inhibited in a way. But it's annoying when I do things that might interfere with the healing process.

My muscles are sore after yesterday's work out. It's annoying and the part I dislike most about exercising. Not quite enjoying it the way most people seem to do. So I'm gonna take it easy today, just gonna have a little walk soon enough. Need to buy vegetables, bread and cigarettes. Mostly it hurts in my shoulders and arms, so a walk couldn't possibly hurt. Not that it would either way though.

But despite the pain it still feels good to finally have gotten myself to the gym. Only took me about three years... Seriously, I think the last time I set my foot in such a place was in Gottsunda during 2011. But then I lived in my parents' house for a year after that, and there were no gyms or likewise facilities nearby. And then I just talked about it for almost two years.

I really hope I'll keep this up now and not get lazy again. As of now my motivation is on top, but of course it can change with time. So hoping it won't. I just won't allow myself to give up again, cause I so need to live now. More than just being alive, I need to actually live my life. It would be so pointless otherwise. Like just wasting air instead of using it, or taking up space instead of needing it.

Living without hopes must be the most painful thing I've ever experienced. What people say isn't possible, that you'd always have hopes left if you're still breathing, but it's not true. I'm living proof that isn't true. But now I have hopes, lots of hopes and dreams and goals in life. Still scared to fail them, still overly cautious about them and always watching my step so that I won't shatter them. But they keep me alive, cause now I depend on them.

When there's no escape

Let's talk about pain. It does things to you. It makes you do things you didn't think you'd ever do. As a kid I never wanted to drink or do drugs, I swore I'd never do that. I never got desperate enough to take a whole bottle of pills or get so drunk I couldn't stand on my own feet cause I couldn't deal with my headache. Because I wanted to escape.

I remember the first few months after it got chronic. I was sixteen and just wanted to lead a normal life, go to school and meet new friends. Become something, have a job that I didn't hate. Of course I still wanted to be different, that's not what I mean. It was so hard to come to terms with it and accept it. It took almost a year before I gave up on trying to understand and cure it.

Now when I take something, recommended dosage of painkillers or something more of a dangerous amount, I just try to get rid of the worst of it. It never works anymore. Not even morphine and I think it's because it isn't physical anymore. There's this thing with our brains, it remembers pain and can make you experience it even if you aren't actually in pain anymore. It's hard to explain, cause I don't fully understand it.

There is no cure, there is nothing I can do. Most days I accept it, try to work around it somehow, anyhow. Find my limits, when to stop or slow down. I can't even go to School anymore. It is that disabling, cause after one or two School days in a row it becomes so strong I have to go home and rest for a week. Aside from the other mental problems that hits the roof at about that time or even sooner. With slight social anxiety, dysphoria, psychotic symptoms and a splitting headache you just don't work in society.

It makes me nuts sometimes, all of that, but I can handle most of it, with rest and time, but not the headache. Psychotic episodes eventually fade, dysphoria goes down when I'm back at home again, social anxiety goes away when I'm away from social situations. But the headache never goes away. Ever. It doesn't matter how much I rest or whatever I do or don't do.

I wish there was something that could be done about it. My ideas have been everything from crazy to stupid. Like when I want to literally be beheaded or when I cut myself only to ease the headache. Sometimes it works a bit, the latter that is, which is kinda sad.

Right now I'm worried I'd get a fever. Cause if I do it's likely an infection and I have to go to the emergency ward. Don't want to spend my Easter that way.

Anna says: Don't be afraid of your own body.
I respond: There's nothing I am more afraid of.

Bargain

A part of me now believes that I sold my soul to the devil for a nice body and luck in love. The down side would be that I will only live for a few more years, and then I will inevitably kill myself. I accepted that (though it took some time), but it wasn't until recently that I added one plus one, so to say.

Things have gone remarkably well lately, and always when I pray to Satan he fulfils my wishes. But to what price? That's why I didn't understand it before. When I signed that contract in my own blood, things started to change.

Have I not watched Ghost Rider?! Yes, I have and a gazillion other movies that depicts just how much of a bad idea it is to sign contracts with your own blood. Stupid fuck!

I don't know what will happen after I die because of this, but I think I only sold a part of my soul, not the entire kit. I don't even carry around all of my soul. Some of it is somewhere else, and incommunicado, you know.

I couldn't just let myself get ravaged by misery until I break and kill myself because my whole life just became a horrible mistake. I'd rather be satisfied for just two years and then kill myself because I know that my time is up. Leave this world feeling that at least I had something in the end. It's worth it, damn it's worth it.

I realise that for the bargain to work I still have to pray and work my ass off to achieve what I want for the rest of my life. Then what's the point? You might ask. The point is that I will be able to reach my goals without failing. It won't be and it isn't a fairytale magic thing. Satan can't make my scars after the surgery to heal miraculously over night, for example, but what he can do is to make sure that it heals well and without complications. (If that doesn't happen we're gonna have a little chat)

The bargain is about changing two major parts of my life for the better. The trans related stuff, and mostly my dysphoria. My body, in simplicity. Then it's also about my love, K, and my feelings for him. And that's why I still get depressions, nightmares, phobias, sleep- and eating problems and such. Cause that isn't a part of the bargain.

It is much, since my life literally depends on those two things. I can get by with bad habits (especially since I'm not gonna live so much longer) and most of my problems can be helped or fixed with medication and psychotherapy. But my dysphoria, and my fucked up heart... that I really needed some help with.

But of course this could all also be a delusion. It's not normal to believe that you sold your soul to the devil...

Searing thoughts

Everything tastes like metal since I quit smoking. It's like I'm on Imovane all the time, cause when I actually do take it (it's been twice in two weeks) I don't notice any difference at all. I'm thinking myself to madness tonight. Started with thoughts about my magic abilities, moved on to Dala and Caspian, then got to anxiety and ended up in trains and suicide. In a little under two hours.

At first I thought of posting it here, but it's way beyond too much and I don't wanna go through it again. Nor do I want to put anyone else through it, come to think of it... I've had a lot of anxiety today. My days are in a neat pattern of misery of three days as of lately. Day one: anxiety. Day two: sadness. Day three: anger. Now I'm on day four, which is anxiety again.

It's like every day has its own pretty little colour! Anger should be red, and sadness should be black, right... but what about anxiety? Perhaps yellow, it sort of screams a bit, doesn't it? Sorry, you don't have to answer that.

I don't know why, but I googled my headache, the chronic tension-type. Most of it sort of made me a bit upset though. Because it was to me useless crap. Like self help stuff and about the neck and back muscles being the cause of the pain. Like the fuck? If I meant back/neck pain I would have googled for that!

No, the searing pain constantly eating at me originates from my forehead, temples, sinus and jaws. This headache... it's psychosomatic to begin with. Sometimes I even think it might be only imagined, but then other days I can actually see how tense I am when I look in a mirror.

Mostly it's mild to moderate, so I'm not crumbling beneath the pain all the time. Some days I hardly even notice it until someone asks me about it. Then I check if it's still there and then I can't think clearly cause the pain is piercing my every thought. Agony... too much agony in my life.

Make it through

I cannot torture my body enough for all the hatred I feel towards it. I couldn't find my binder as I was about to go to Visby and see my shrink earlier today. You should have seen the despair in me, I can't leave the house without it. I cried out to my mother on the phone, then she's helped me find it. I told her I simply won't go if we didn't find my binder. Then should I ask her if she still thinks the surgery won't do me any good?

It's like nothing can calm me down these last two weeks. I'm a nerve wreck, constantly on the edge. My body aches more than usually, I forget to eat more often, my sleep only seems to make me more tired, it's hard to focus, it's hard to think. Why am I supposed to have this much anxiety? There's not enough room for it inside me.

Well, the anxiety hardly only exists because I misplaced a piece of clothing. No, it's always here. Like my shadow, it's following me everywhere I go. And sometimes it attacks me with full strength, beats me to the ground and I forget how to get up again. Sometimes that happens several times a day.

I have a sensation that February is gonna be a very long month this year. Even though it's technically the shortest. I couldn't tell my shrink about tomorrow, it's just too damn private. Yeah, there's my logic, cause it's easy to write about it online and a whole different matter to sit one on one in a white office and talk about it. But I'm pretty sure she noticed something was up with me, cause it's hard to lie when you're shaking like a leaf. Didn't stop me from trying though, cause it's my life damn it, and I'm just not ready to open up about that yet.

And why isn't that in my chart by the way? I've told shrinks before. Maybe they didn't believe me. Of course they didn't believe me. Why would they? It doesn't matter if I'm shaking and crying, I have no real proof that it actually happened. It was never documented at the time, I never went to a hospital or anything after. I just tried to bury it in the past. All I've got is my words, and that's all I've ever had.

My thoughts are mostly very scattered. I can hardly finish one before the next pops up and then the third and so on. It's like I'm trying to do fifteen things at the same time and it's impossible to keep track of it all. So I just zone out and let it slip away instead. That's why I don't put up everything I write here. It's too much and too little and I don't have the attention span to read it through. Though I'm gonna try to keep you posted, at least once a day or so, especially since things are happening and such nowadays.

I've been smoke free since Friday last week, and it's Thursday now so it's already been a whole week! A little over three weeks left until the surgery, and I still don't know how the hell I'm supposed to survive that. No smokes, no pain killers, no cutting... no nothing? I'll make it, cause I just fucking have to.

But love isn't fair

It's only two days left now, and the anxiety is holding a firm grip around my throat, suffocating me. It's the "Love is in the air" thing in world of warcraft now, and all the pink hearts popping up everywhere make me feel sick. Was it always like this? I don't remember.

This just struck me, what am I gonna do without the cigarettes this time? How can I endure this without the sweet smoke? Blood, alcohol, anxiolytic drugs, chocolate, blankets and warm showers, movies, more video gaming and whatever I can think of. Whatever I can think of...

I just got a phone call, and the person on the other end said they were calling from "Socialstyrelsen" and my heart missed a beat or two. I snapped at them and didn't know what I was feeling. But after they had explained who they were, I was like "oh... it's you" suddenly feeling utterly embarrassed and unnecessarily evil. Or something. It's just the LSS people, no worries at all.

I'm a bit jumpy and freaked allover today. Hardly know what I'm doing and I think I forgot to eat too. My head is spinning and I'm trying to calm down, but it's not easy. A thousand things run through it and I can't keep up. Maybe I shouldn't even try.

At first I thought this might not go so bad at all, considering I seem to take it better every year, but then this about the cigarettes. I'm in abstinence and quite a mess mentally. This... hopefully I don't go and do something stupid that I will regret after. It's just a memory, why do I let it kill me?

I miss my blood elf priest. Gonna go and do some pointless quests now. I know I don't write here that often nowadays, but trust me I do write, I just don't post it. Well, until now that is. The title, I just thought "love is in the air, but love isn't fair". No other reason, or whatever.

Falling fast

Smoking today's first cigarette is like a kiss, gentle and deep. I will miss this so much. Will only be three today as well, so the next one won't be until 5 pm. I'm seeing my psychiatrist today, I hope she can help me somehow.

I'm so tired and nothing can make me more alert. It's hard to focus on WoW, even though I really want to play, I zone out and forget what I was doing. Killing more monsters than I need to and not realising the quest is complete, killing the wrong monsters, flying in the wrong direction and so on.

What a way to start a day. Great, now I feel miserable because of my own fucked up way to deal with anxiety. I had not cut in about two weeks now, so this was my first relapse, and perhaps for a so-so okay reason. But it still makes me feel guilty. I know my cuts take about a week to heal up completely, so if I stop before the beginning of March it should be "fine" considering the surgery.

I've gotta buy more nicotine supplements, cause this just isn't working. I'm very addicted, I realise. Very, very addicted. And wearing two or three patches of the strongest kind simultaneously barely takes the edge of it. So... need more patches and chewing gums and whatever I can possibly find at the drug store, before my meeting in Visby. I really don't know how much longer I'll be able to go through this. I mean, I'm a damn mess even with the cigarettes to rely on.

I'm starting to wake up a bit now, finally. Yes! These chewing gums combined with all those patches helps a bit. I saw an instruction advise note in the drug store, that for those smoking more than 20 cigarettes a day should de-escalate a under three months period. Well...

Seven years

Valentine's Day is coming up soon. That date is really digging a hole in the remains of my heart and it's getting worse now. The ads and commercials are starting to leak out through the media, taunting me with false hopes about love. They're celebrating the worst day of my life. Opening up that terrible wound inside me every god damn year for soon seven years now. I didn't like the holiday before that either.

When as a kid I was one of those who never got any cards or whatever you were supposed to give each other. I was destined to be alone, it felt like back then, and it still feels that way, even though I've done everything in my power to try to change that. But all I got was a broken heart.

And then that thing happened in 2007. At the moment I hadn't noticed what date it was, it wasn't until right after. Happy Valentine's Day! He said and gave me candy. Oh fuck... now that has really been a mind twister. Mostly I don't think so much about that event, cause maybe I'm over it you know. Well, I might be over it the other 364 days of the year, but when the anniversary is coming up I just sort of... wanna disappear.

Well I don't know what's gonna happen this year in particular. Last year I was doing almost okay, but I was more stable then, less fucked up in a way. But this year... I'm already at the verge of total breakdown, sick with love and hopelessness is slowly drowning me. Yeah, I'm gonna be a wreck, I can tell you that much. Why can't people allover the world stop celebrating the day I was raped!?

Yeah, I really, really wanna disappear on February the 14th. Go far away from the whole world and all the chocolate hearts, red roses and jolly little glitter sprinkled love letters. Ughh... kill me now please. I wish I had someone to be with that day, at least. Someone who would just understand and protect me, keep me safe. I don't require much. Just your full attention, a whole carton of cigarettes, perhaps some tea and lots of hugs. Watching Thelma and Louise, or some other "fuck the world" -movie.

For some reason my parents just don't do. I feel like I'm hurting them in some way. Like as if it was my fault I got hurt and in that way I also hurt them. (Now I know it wasn't my fault, it's just a lingering feeling that I think almost every rape victim carry with them). That I feel guilty to not have gotten over that incident after seven frigging years. I don't want my parents to see me shattered to pieces, no matter what the reason for it is.

I don't think I'm in shape to travel either, and I'm broke as well. I'm just too poor, can barely pay for my own food. So I can't go to Uppsala, at least not for a while. I'll have to make it on my own somehow. I've survived worse, this... it's just memories.

What I'm trying to survive

Starting to get more tired now, feeling as though I can never fully rest. All there is now is worry, nightmares, anxiety, sadness and self harm. What my lonely days and nights stand on, balancing on this rumbling foundation. Sleep and food come second, if even that. To me, survival is much more than just that, it's about surviving my own mind.

Cause no matter what you believe, the mind controls everything. It controls what you eat, when you sleep, everything you actively do, think and feel. If you have no control over your mind, you have no control over your life.

I'll try whatever means possible, and I have tried every means possible. Good, bad and those somewhere in between. Everything from music or walking, to coffee or drugs and all the other things I can't remember right now. The list is endless.

One good thing about me being suicidal and all, is that I feel as though I have nothing to lose. I can try those stupid but probably good advices and tips that will most likely only make things worse or become a disappointment, cause it doesn't matter if I fail.

I told my shrink, when I saw her yesterday, about this ticking bomb inside me. Figuratively, the "bomb" that I believe is waiting to explode, yet doing the best it can to prevent it from doing so. This lovesickness that tears me apart. I told her that I want it to explode, so that I won't have to be in this painful state anymore. When she asked me what I thought would happen if I'll let it release, I was honest and said "I'll probably die", implying suicide.

So there it is, I'd rather die than keep going on like this. But there is a part of me that thinks it's possible I could survive it when this chaos inside me breaks out and becomes real. This is the sort of survival I'm talking about, all this chaos that is controlling me like a puppet. The chaos that I know will break me beyond repair one day.

Keeping it locked in is a way of surviving, like a sort of self defence when faced with something you cannot fight. I feel a bit like my WoW character fighting that boss yesterday, only healing and trying to stay alive for as long as possible without actually standing a chance against its attacks. Just like him I'm desperately trying to heal myself while life is beating the crap out of me, unable to strike back. And I think I'm running out of mana (the power resource needed for casting healing and other spells), as another WoW reference.

I don't know if I'm even close to fall apart, it could be days, or weeks, even months or worst case scenario it could be fucking years. But I feel it somehow, that I'm running out of power resources. I'm tired in my heart and soul, tired in mind and body. All of my four entities are worn out tired of living like this. I'm always given more than I can handle...

It's not even living, I'm not actually alive, am I? More like a suicidal wreck unable to cope with even the simplest things, just barely holding on. Clutching at the last remaining hopes, but they're slipping away. They are unreasonable, too far away, too perfect. I aim too high and fall too hard.

And all the time it intensifies, grows stronger and more powerful, as if some higher power wants me to suffer. I don't know what to do, I've never known how to handle myself in a crisis. I break apart and do everything I can to escape it, running away for the sake of my life. But suicide has always been my last resort.

I cannot cope at night

Is it gonna be like this every night, or what? I get more sensitive with the darkness, and somehow my loneliness becomes more potent. As of now that is a bad thing. I hate that I'm so fucking sensitive. Toughen up, already! Crying like a little girl, I should be ashamed of myself... but this anxiety is eating at my soul, this sadness is tearing me inside out.

I fear that I might start getting afraid of sleep again. Afraid of dreams and nightmares, of waking up in distress several times a night, of not waking up at all. Afraid of losing control I jump out of bed as soon as I'm awakened by the crew in the morning. Won't allow myself to sleep the day away. I fight to stay up as late as possible and I fight to get up as early as possible. It's a viscous circle.

And this fucking lovesickness. Ripping, tearing, aching, hurting, screaming inside me. I'm out out of words for it, cause I've already explained it a thousand times. A thousand tears each for my inability to cope, for the dream that can't come true, for the painful reality that he'sd taken and lives so far away and why would he even glance in my direction the way I want him to?

A thousand words to describe what I cannot put into words. I'm full of paradoxes and ambivalence, but this is so crude, so through and through. Filling up every space in my heart until no one else matters. No one else and nothing else. I neglect my friends, I neglect my family for an impossible dream, for a guy I cannot have.

I so hoped this was all just temporary, I wish that I would have died from it much sooner. Cause then I wouldn't have to suffer. Isn't that what death is, that you no longer have to suffer? Eight months in this mess, it's like a tangled cobweb I can't get out from, I just keep entangling myself deeper and deeper. And nothing makes any sense anymore.

I don't know who I am, I don't know what sort of life this is I'm trying to live. I live in his shadow. Cautiously following him around every corner, trying to hide my true feelings, always afraid of coming off as either too cold or too creepy.

Aching for his presense, his spoken words in my ear, his gentle touch that I can never have. For him to notice and find out that we have more in common than he realised. My endless thoughts are spinning aimlessly, devoured by too strong emotions, too much of everything that I cannot handle.

I just don't know what the fuck to do. I'm so lost and I feel as though I'm just getting more and more lost every day. I just have to get out of here, just have to get out of here...

All those words

Still crying, with pauses in between. Or maybe it's just the cigarette smoke, I don't know. But I feel so unbelievably sad. I can't take any pills for sadness, and there's no use in trying any antidepressants either. I dunno what my doctor can possibly tell me that I don't already know, at our next meeting on the 28th.

I was a bit upset when I got the note that I am to see her so late into January. She was supposedly back to work on the 8th so can't blame it on that. I suppose I just wasn't a priority.

Damn, I just wanna disappear somewhere. I don't wanna talk to anyone, don't want your simple tips on what I can do, I already have lots of lists with both good and bad things to do in a crisis like this. Well, maybe it's not so much of an actual crisis, but when cutting isn't enough (like now) I usually end up doing worse things, and that would be a crisis.

I wish I could be silent forever, to never speak a word again. Words are so pointless. Language is so pointless. They say the human mind cannot grasp what words cannot tell. I don't wanna say this because I'm otherkin, but I do grasp a lot of what words cannot tell. And that's why I find it so meaningless, cause words have no longer any meaning when none of them are enough to communicate with.

But I can't. I can't just decide to stop speaking. Of course people wouldn't call me that often anymore, but they would be banging on my door just as much instead. They would become more frustrated than I would be, given only nods or head shakes, short sentences written with a trembling hand.

People think that talking could cure mental illness. How wrong they are. "People" who are supposed to be educated in psychology, who have read shit loads of books on the subject for years, practised as psychologists or therapists or whatever, talked to lots of various broken people. "People" who should by all means know better than I do. I'm a hobby counsellor reading heavy students literature for fun, and I know that words can't cure anything.

Or am I just being subjective now? Because after years of seeing several so called "specialists" on the minds of humans haven't helped me even the least bit? Well, I finally got a psychologist, for the first time someone who actually knows more than I do. That is just sad. That I know/knew more about psychology than all those various counsellors I've met up until now. But most of all, I know that knowledge hasn't give me any solace.

So what, I have Aspergers. I know about it, and I know what you're supposed to do to make living with it easier. But you know what? None of that shit works on me cause I'm also an emotionally unstable, depressive, transgendered full time self harmer with split personality, who hears voices and believes that he's a demon. What do you do to "cure" that? Nothing. There is no cure for freaks like me.

Survival without rules

I'm hiding my true feelings even to myself right now. Cause it's better that way. I don't want to feel them, know of them or deal with them. It's heavy enough as it is. Surviving... just focus on that. Eat, sleep, wake up, smoke, pop pills, cut, do whatever is necessary, escape escape escape. Into tv-shows, internet, writing, world of warcraft, anything.

By the way, I've decided to never answer my phone again if it's a secret number calling. Fucking Radiotjänst and telemarketers. Gave me so much anxiety last night, I didn't know what to do with myself. Really, really don't need more of that. In fact my phone rang so many times just a few hours after I had gotten back home yesterday, it threw me into a black hole of despair. Okay, maybe a slight exaggeration, but damn I went furious, anxious, I couldn't deal with it. Starting to hyperventilate and cold sweat after a phone call? Yeah, I guess it would depend on the conversation.

So yeah, welcome home and yada yada. Eventually I fell asleep some time in the early morning, so out of it on drugs I just couldn't keep my eyes open any longer. Falling asleep filled to the brim with anxiety is just as bad as falling asleep right after an argument. Possibly worse. I woke up at ten this morning, but I stayed in bed until three in the afternoon because I couldn't find a reason to get up. And I'm still bummed after that anxiety attack. Reasons to live, wish I had any.

Getting the message through

I feel a bit better now. The dizziness has decreased and so has the cold sweating, but I'm shaking instead and feel very weak. If I could take it more easy than usually, I would. Meaning there isn't much more calmer things to do than doing nothing, which is kinda what I always do.

I've realised that I can't really show emotions, and that has lead me to trouble all through my life. Sure I'm good at explaining what I feel, I'm good with words. But I can't show it. Well, anger is the only exception. I believe that is why things haven't exactly been successful in my processes of seeking psychiatric professional help over the years. Especially in emergency psych-wards. They don't take me seriously, they never have. I get this huge vibe that their attitude is something like "it can't be that bad, you don't look upset".

And that's usually when I resort to serious self harm or suicide attempts out of sheer desperation and hopelessness, thinking no one and nothing can help me. Cause no matter how hard I try, I can't get the message through. It shouldn't have to be that way, I shouldn't have to risk my life in order to get help to survive. My terrible communication skills has lead me give up on ever getting the help I needed, which in my past has lead me to take matters in my own hands. Literally.

Language is so insufficient, when spoken only with words. It's hard to believe someone who looks neutral but talks about how overwhelmed by emotions they are. I wouldn't go as far as to say they think I'm lying, but more as if they think I'm exaggerating. Could it have something to do with my asperger syndrome? It doesn't seem unlikely to me.

This might sound stupid, but I've seriously considered "faking" a reaction to the emotions I feel. Like when I am very sad I'll force myself to cry or snivel. Or if I'm very scared I'll force myself to hyperventilate and just apply whatever appropriate body language to the emotion I'm experiencing. A fake smile when I'm happy might not be such a good idea though. Damn, this makes me feel like a robot or something...

Another stupid idea that sometimes gets to me is that I should stop communicating with words at all. Willingly become mute, that is. I thought of that just after I unwillingly became mute that one day in late June. My thought behind that is: that way I would be forced to communicate with my body language much more, and that would in time make me better at doing so. It's a stupid idea because it would probably do more harm than good.

Wouldn't be able to talk on the phone, have a meaningful conversation with someone face to face, speak up when someone says something mean to me, wouldn't be able to explain myself really. Now that would be quite a strife, if you think about it. I would most likely either crawl in under a rock somewhere and stay there, fall into depression - or become violent. Cause what would you do if someone is mean to you and you can't defend yourself with words? I think I'll skip that idea, but it is tempting somehow...

Breaking what's already broken

Fucking cruel world this is. Just saying. Days like this I just wanna move into Azeroth and be "reborn" as a heartless Forsaken fighting for The Horde in World of Warcraft. I envy people who know how to love without ending up breaking their own hearts. I have my best friend in mind, cause she knows how to love and who. I envy that so much.

I don't even know how I manage to do that. Break my own heart. But it's so fragile nowadays, I was still torn up after that thing in 2011, already when I fell for my crush. My obsession, my everything, my one true love. Heartbroken and in love with another at the same time. And now somehow that pain has doubled, as I feel I'm about to get heartbroken again. Or maybe I already am.

How can you break an already broken heart? It's simple really, cause even the broken things can be further broken. Shards can become smaller shards, small shards can become splinter, splinter can be pulverised. It feels like what is left of my heart is only scar tissue, seams that are easily ripped up again and again and everything just seeps right through in either direction.

If I wasn't obsessed before, I sure am now. Cause I can't think of anything else than this thing that tears me to pieces a thousand times a day. That not even cutting, smoking, pain killers, sedatives, sleeping pills, anxiolytics, writing, watching movies, playing WoW, drinking tea or eating chocolate can fix. I'm dying inside and there's nothing I can do about it.

So yeah, sometimes I allow myself to wish that I was heartless or cold hearted. That that would make things easier. But you know what they say, right? That it's better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. Sometimes I doubt that. I've been through so much pain when it comes to love that I'd rather just erase it all from my memory.