On Choice, pt. 2

This post was originally written and uploaded the night before leaving for the trip written about in my “On My BFF” posts, the night before I finally came out to Naomi. It is, to date, the only post of mine that I ever unpublished. I present it here, in its original form, despite the fact that it is about as low a point as I ever reached. I’m glad I’m not there anymore, and it’s hard to look back now, but I guess it’s pretty important, so here it is.

Also, just try and shove more conjunctions into a single sentence. I dare you.

Originally Posted 6/08/2018

This will be my last update for tonight. Perhaps it will be my last for a while.

I have spent the last hour or two sitting in my computer chair, blankly scrolling through Facebook, not stopping on anything long enough to read it. At times, I have curled up, and put my head between my legs.

When it comes to it, I really don’t know how to cope with this life I’ve been given. I read, and read, and read about others who have gone through what I am going through, and I’ve read the perspectives of their spouses, family, and friends.

I am no less lost now than I was before.

Truly, this condition that I have–the dysphoria, the self-loathing, the depression–is not a choice. No one would choose to feel this way, to deal with such horrible emotions, every single day of their existence. Every single hour. Every single minute.

My inner self is not a choice. Whether or not I accept it is.

I want to accept it. I really, really do. I want to put this all behind me. To exorcise myself of these demons that I have held within me for so, so long. To really, truly, actually love myself.

But there is nothing for me out there if I do. I will destroy the one person in this world that I love more than any other. The woman I know is truly my soulmate. The answer to my prayers, the light of my world.

And that is who this post is about. That is why I want it to be my last one for now. Because I want her to know the truth about me. A truth she already knows, which we both know, but we both refuse to accept or speak about openly.

You called me as I was typing that last line. I answered like there was absolutely nothing wrong. The same way I always answer. But there was something wrong. I am in a darker place than I have been in, well…a year or so.

And so now here I am, an hour later, finishing this post in the bathroom on my phone. My resolve weakened, my darkness somewhat abated. But I can’t let myself do that. I have to finish this.

You asked me last weekend if I had ever thought about being a woman. I evaded the question, and you knew. I think you still know. But it became such a terrible issue, that by the end of the day, I lied to you, emphatically, that I had not thought about that. I even added, voluntarily, that I did not think I was trans. That I had no interest in transitioning.

It was a lie, all of it, as this blog no doubt confirms. I did not mean to base our relationship on a lie. Unfortunately, it was one that I believed myself, that I made myself believe.

I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I loathe the thought of ever hurting you at all, but this goes beyond hurt. It’s murder.

And so yes, I do have suicidal thoughts all the time. I have them because I can’t help but think of how much easier for everybody, for you, my family, and everyone I’ve known, if I was dead. Because that is a sudden shock that will eventually fade. Revealing myself to you and them? That is a terrible burn that I will curse you with for the rest of your days.

So I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. For whatever reason, this is who I am. I’m not strong enough, nor mean enough, to keep this hidden any longer. And I’m sorry I have let it go on for along as I have.

In my first post, I said no one could hate me as much as I do. I still mean that, now more than ever.