Memorial Day weekend = hell


The coffee shop closed early for Memorial Day yesterday, which put me in a dreadful mood.  I had to leave there around 5, back to my internet-less apartment or back to randomly pacing around the apartment building and parking lot.  I sat in the lobby for what must’ve been 2 hours and buried my head in my hands, listening to ‘Gypsy’ by Fleetwood Mac on repeat. E approached me and I told her I wasn’t feeling good, then as she left, I said “leave, just like everyone else” and she did.  

I went up to my apartment and then came the tears. I took my meds around 7:30pm and fell asleep relatively quickly because I took more than the prescribed dosage.  I didn’t eat, even though several people have lectured me on how I need disgusting protein.  I woke up throughout the night, then when back to sleep.   I know I had several dreams, but I can’t remember them.

I woke up feeling depressed and lethargic. I ate half an apple and made a strong cup of coffee to counter the effects of the medication.   I looked in the mirror and saw that there is still little sign of the disgusting arm muscles wasting away, although my belly fat has and my ribcage is becoming visible.  I don’t even miss food now or need it as a coping mechanism. I am simply not coping.

My mum sent me a long email, but she’s still convinced that I hate her and blame her.  There’s no point in harboring any grudge.  I can’t go back to the UK anyway and even if it were financially feasible, I wouldn’t have the energy to face the journey again and deal with whatever perils I’d face when I arrive.  Brexit has also crushed any desire to ever return there.  Bigots, racists and xenophobes have robbed me of my EU citizenship, which I was very proud of and grateful for, because I believed in the EU, even though it wasn’t perfect.   I don’t belong in the “new UK”.   

As I explained to her in my reply, “happy” is just a word with 5 letters.  It applies to other people, not this ugly, lonely freak and fuckup.  She’s right though…it’s out of her control and not even money would fix it.

I’m fixated on death and dying and this is close to how I envisage my own death, only replace the “he” with “she” and type of vehicle and speed at which it is traveling.  Even though this is just fiction )from the book Nightwalker),  I wish I could trade places with the victim. He was good looking, he had a child and a future. I imagine the instant release of all of my pain and having no time for my mind to torment me with a single dying thought.  I imagine this disgusting body being smashed and crushed beyond recognition as my soul is set free from it.  I don’t need to write a suicide note, because those who truly know me will understand and this blog has all of the answers.  It won’t be because of “haters” – it will be my choice and because I see no other way out. I am tired….tired of being ugly, tired of being transgender, tired of being marginalized and tired of being alone and afraid.  I’m getting help, but it’s not the help I need.   I’m no closer to being able to cope and survive in rhe outside world than o was a year ago.  If anything, I’ve gotten worse.  

I’m certainly not going to die as a result of my eating disorder.   Someone will notice when I become visibly gaunt and I run the risk of being hospitalized.   It would be a very slow and very painful death anyway.   I already know how I’m going to go and where.   I’ve done plenty of research.  

I don’t feel well, but I have to throw on some clothes and makeup so I can go to the clinic to use their wifi.   I can’t be in this internet-less apartment, but I really don’t feel up to dealing with the outside world.   


Author: Becca

Dead to the world, dead inside.

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