Dysphoria.

Triggers: Transgender dysphoria/suicide.






She goes deathly calm. Then, in a almost imperceptible monotone she speaks. " I'll take a
rope from the cupboard..."

She uses the phrase "it hurts" and " I can't go on." so many times I lose track. Her eyes beg me to tell her it's OK to die. I can't bring myself to accept that, but I feel cruel and selfish for it.

"All I can do is keep going, fueled by the desperation of ending this pain. It's like a sharp ache...that never dulls."

She looks at me for minutes on end, never breaking eye contact. Tears roll silently down her face, too dignified for snot or puffy eyes they just leak out. I hold her hands and she crushes them but says "Don't touch me" when I try to hug her. I take my chances and rest an arm over her anyway. I wipe the tears from her face with slow precise exacting gentleness.

"I have to go on. I take care of you because I must. I work when I can find a breath in the agony on only those things that might save me.

But we both know nothing can save me. We can't get surgery. Nobody will pay for it. "

Her face forms shapes I've never seen. I hold myself in stasis, gently smiling and holding her eye contact as my eyes brim. I hold this space for her, even though my mind is losing it's shit with horror and fear.

Her eyes are dull. Vacant. She is everywhere in the eyes of torture victims I've seen in photographs - the ones who lived.

We've had a quarter bottle of jack just to get her defenses down this far.

She's been alone so long, before I came, with nobody to care how she feels, that she has no idea how to tell me what she's feeling. I say "It's like a story".

At the end,both of us fading into sleep, we just stare at each other, filled with quiet desperation, like lovers in a car crash saying goodbye because you already know one of you might not make it to morning if the other can't stay awake and find help. I must find help. But where? She is a nameless face in a crowd. The surplus people.

I'm scared to sleep. If I hide the rope...who am I kidding. She built hydrogen gas bombs as a kid in the well on their farm. How can I stop her. I must live with what she lives with.

Is today the end of my willpower?

Is today my last moment?
There is no help. We've been through therapy and drugs. Now it is surgery or death.
I have always known this
I've known this for two years - she was dying.
Every moment was cherished
I may only have so few.

I have always accepted she may not make it. 45% suicide rate.

That statistic haunts me like a taunting spectre when we make plans to go to South America one day, or climb a mountain when I've mastered my physio.

45%.

She will not be alone when this suffering is all she knows.

She will not be alone at the end after a life like like hers

Your body is a spaceship

A post about body-love (read while visualising Jewel Taite and listening to the theme of Firefly)

Your body is a space ship. It's getting you through space and time. Maybe it's dinged up,  a bit dodgy in the mainframe, and she's on the heavy side... but this baby takes you to all the coolest places you've ever been.

She's been with you since day one. She never bitches too loudly, even when you throw cane spirits in the gas tank and you don't change her oil for two years. 

She breaks down a lot...but each morning she's there, ready to get you where you need to go.

Love her.

Sure, try your best to look after her, but don't beat yourself up if you're not able to get the best bodywork or run the high octane fuel. She's not nearly as fussy as you are about her performance.... she does what she needs to with what's at hand.

Life's too short to spend it feeling crappy about your space ship. We get what we get in the genetic lottery, and we can cry about that for the rest of our lives, or we can just bond with our baby and do our best by her.

And just remember: any halfway decent person is not going to give us shit about our spaceship.

If you want to insult my spaceship or how I run her,  you'd best be ready for a fight. I live here, she's mine and you don't get an opinion.

If I want advice on the care of my ship, I'll visit a mechanic thanks. You're not qualified to mess with her wiring!

So love your spaceship.

*hugs* sorry that you feel so bad about your spaceship. It's's not your fault. You've been brainfucked by the world to tie up all that stuff with who you are. But you are not your spaceship. That's just your transport and equipment. You're the spark of life behind your eyes...and you're always beautiful.

PS. Don't trust all the mechanics either. Some of them are assholes.

Come over to the dark side - we have cookies, we're overweight and we don't care.