There isn’t a word in the English language to describe how awful I feel 

Naturally, I hardly slept last night. I spent several hours either staring at the ceiling or pacing around the apartment, tormented by my thoughts.

Being told by my mum that I have an assessment that I can’t go to for the surgery I’ve wanted since I was a teenager is too much to take.  Not only that, but she has closed the door on me returning to the UK by flat out refusing to help.  I gave her the opportunity to help me several times, but she’d rather I stayed here with no friends, a male name and a no chance of getting SES.  There’s no one else I can ask, not even my dad, who once told me that he considers such surgery “mutilation” and would rather believe that drug abuse in my early 20’s made me believe that I was a woman, rather than accept my identity and accept me as his daughter.

I was leaning towards leaving the United States anyway, because it seems like I’ll never be able to change my name in time (or perhaps not at all).  I simply can’t live here and move forward, stuck with a male name after all this time. If I could get back to the UK and find a place to stay, my legal name and gender are correct and I wouldn’t have the complete and utter dread of a male name ever popping up.  I wouldn’t get the level of help that I get here, but I wouldn’t have as much of a need for it.  If she would have let me stay for a little bit, I would definitely go back as soon as possible, before the assessment on April 11.

You have no idea what this has done to me.  Things were awful even before she told me about the assessment, now I know that there’s only one way out of this.  I feel angry at her, angry at myself and desperate.  I specifically told her a few weeks ago not to open any mail that might come for me.  If I’d have just stayed in the UK and not worried about Brexit and hadn’t listened to a certain former friend, my mental health may have improved rather than declined and I’d have something to finally live for.

She doesn’t even remotely understand what that surgery means to me and how much of a difference it would make.  All the pills and therapy in the world won’t make up for SRS.  It’s like she still blames me and wants to punish me for leaving the UK again and coming back to the US, even though I admitted that it was a huge mistake and that I was misled and misinformed  by several people that I don’t care to mention.   Also, I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of borrowing money from her for the security deposit on a flat in Grantham that I was set to move into last August, because it was her retirement savings.  I didn’t want to be in her debt, but apparently she doesn’t understand that either.  I had to block her messages, as she triggered the shit out of me yesterday when I broke down at the clinic, with people around.


I don’t have a family, they are just people biologically related to me by blood.  I’m nothing but a burden to my parents and only one of my many half siblings know me and none of them talk to me.  But that’s fine, because I no longer feel guilty for doing what I’m going to have to do to end this, as I finally have the green light.  I’m too upset to even talk about this anymore, because talking is pointless beyond what I’ve alteady said.  

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Author: Becca

Dead to the world, dead inside.

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