Death for a better body

Who ever wants to gain weight? I ask myself sometimes. Cause to me, I just can't understand it, how anyone would want to become bigger or curvier. I suppose what I don't understand is super, ultra femininity and masculinity.

I want to be somewhere in between. I don't want curves, I don't want muscles. Just skin and bones. Well, a dick would be nice too though. But I can't have everything. I don't understand the ideal of curvy women and muscular men. Not when it's to an exaggeration, how people can strive for that. Sure I like women with nice curves and sure a little muscles on men can be really hot, but come on. There's gotta be a limit to it!

I'm not sure what I'm getting it. What I find attractive on others isn't necessarily what I find attractive on myself. Just because I don't want to look like Brad Pitt doesn't mean I don't find him attractive. I've always had that hammering in my mind though, because I'm pansexual and transgender, gender has just been one big chaotic confusion to me ever since I was little.

Somehow I still look at girls, as I did long before as a child and young teenager, to see if I could be alright with looking like them, minus their breasts. Because it's easier to find a boyish looking girl and imagine having her body, than a really handsome man because he would obviously have what I envy so much, what I can literally never have.

And that hurts, what I can't have. Longing for it, wishing I had it, yearning for it, dying to have that. It can even make me cry myself to sleep because my body is so fucked up I literally can't stand it. I think I look like a hairy woman without breasts and I can't fucking deal with it. What I want to see is a man without a dick, it's basically the same thing now, but I can't even see that. If I could, I think that would have been more than enough.

But I can't. All I see is errors and failure, ugliness and fat. All I want to see is a man in the mirror. A slender man, he doesn't even have to be that handsome, just... it's these fucking hips and thighs. They ruin everything. Everything.
And I'm just so very scared that they will never go away with this weight loss. That I'll sit here in two or three months close to 40 kg, crying myself to sleep because the dream was a failure, my body is still disgusting and there's literally nothing that I can do about it.

Could I end up committing suicide for a body that I can not obtain? It's possible. It is actually possible that my transsexualism will be the reason that I will end my life. That's just too damn sad I can't find words for it. That no matter what the state and I myself could ever do to help me live with myself, it was never enough. That it didn't improve my life enough to make it endurable.

Anorexia can't destroy my life, it was already destroyed. It can make it even worse, but you see, that's where I don't care anymore. Cause it's always gonna become worse in one aspect or another. It never ends.

Harm

I get that weird feeling sometimes, or more like an instinct of sorts. That I want to destroy things that I love, or things that others love. And then I ask myself, why the hell would I want to do that? It's a horrible feeling really. But I don't think it's rare. I think a lot of people have felt the same way, though I don't quite understand why. But I do, on some level. As when I before cut my face, to destroy something that I liked, my face. Like the only part of my body that I don't hate.

If you look really really close you can still see the scar, but it blends in with the scars from my acne. I hate that. I don't want it to blend in, I want it to stand out. I just didn't fucking cut deep enough. Afraid to do too much damage. Always when I cut I was afraid to press down. I hated myself for my lack of courage which led me to cut even more. Pathetic, isn't it?

And still I want to cut. I want it almost every day. When I look down on my scarred arms and it triggers me to create more scars. To fill in the blanks. Go deeper than ever, press down harder. But I'm always so afraid of messing things up, and mostly I'm afraid of nerve damage.

It's my hands, you see. I don't want to risk losing sensation or mobility in them, so when I did self harm, it was only superficial, like scratches almost. Though I hated it when other people said it was scratches. I used a fucking blade, not my finger nails. I felt bad, like I failed and didn't cut deep enough for it to count.

I know that is just sad, but it's the truth. It's not uncommon for self harmers to compare wounds/scars and it can become a dangerous competition. To diminish my self harm wounds made me want to harm myself even more. I didn't do it right, I couldn't do it right, so I just did more instead. Maybe I could "win" with the most scars instead of the biggest?

I know it's wrong of me to think that way, and I'm not saying I'm proud of it. But that has been and is on my mind. That I'm a failure to self harm as with much else. I never understood that the only failure was my eagerness in getting worse instead of better. How can I not see that scratches are way better than deep lacerations?

I'm gonna try to stay "clean" over the summer at least, but from then on I don't know. The cravings have been extra strong this last week, and I suppose I've come across more triggers as well. Everything from reading about it (though I avoid such websites) to seeing a gif of someone playing with a scalpel.

Okay, this entry is becoming very long now. What do I even want to say? That I'm fighting to not fall back again, and now I seriously start to wonder for how long I can abstain from it. I can't even remember how my body looked like without the scars. If or when I start again I'll probably hide it, ashamed to have given in for it again.

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.