I'm a little incoherent right now, but I'm going to type this up before I lose the feeling I have right now.
I'm crying and laughing at the same time... I can't remember the last time I was this happy or upset. It's one of those thing you can try to describe but it doesn't make any sense to other people. It doesn't even feel real after it's over but you know it was real at the time.
I read this
about an hour ago. I managed to submit a critique with some of my feelings about it (not yet visible as I type this) and ever since I hit submit I've been something of a wreck. It's just so simple, sad, and true that I can't really even express how it actually makes me feel. All I know is that it's making me remember the reason I ever started any of this craziness in the first place.
To any of my fans who have never struggled with transgender issues, I apologize. It may be hard to follow some of what I'm saying. It's a painful thing when you can't be the person you want to be. Can't say the things you want to say or do the things you want to do. Can't have the friends you want, tell the people you love how you feel, or even simple things like wearing the clothing you want to wear. Sometimes you can overcome your insecurity, throw caution to the wind, and do what you want despite what other people think. But what if you were born physically incapable of being the person you want to be?
I've never been completely happy with my body; I sometimes wish that I could have been born female because there are so many things I feel I am unable to do and experience as a man. It seems so stupid and senseless sometimes; how many people are honestly happy with their bodies? Everybody wants to be something they're not. Too short, too skinny, too tall, to fat. Not strong enough, not shapely enough, too plain or too weird. What makes me any different? WHAT MAKES ME THINK I'M SO SPECIAL THAT I CAN COMPLAIN ABOUT STUPID IMAGE PROBLEMS WHEN SO MANY PEOPLE HAVE REAL PROBLEMS LIKE FUCKING STARVING TO DEATH?
But somehow it never goes away. Everybody has their problems, and it's hard to compare suffering. Maybe it really is stupid and senseless, but does that make the pain any less real? Shouldn't everybody have a chance to be happy somehow? Isn't that what compassion is about? I don't know.
The tears soak into the front of my shirt and dry into a salty residue on my glasses. I don't even know what I want for myself. Long hours of despair led to the conclusion that had I been born a woman I would long to be a man. I'm just a dreamer, wishing for things that can never happen. Wishing for experience and understanding beyond my reach. Years of uncertainty and confusion piled on my shoulders and still searching for an answer. Some final idea that can relieve the pain forever and let me rest.
I don't know if I can ever find that answer and the only thing I can do to ease the pain is scream my stupid story at the top of my lungs to anybody who will listen. In my shame I disguise it behind layers of fiction and symbolism, afraid of what would happen if I were ever too honest. Praying that somebody who feels the same way will understand the meaning hidden behind the lines and words. That somehow we can both feel better knowing at least that we don't suffer alone. Hoping that maybe when I'm dead and gone, my questions unanswered, someone someday will figure out how to fix whatever is wrong with people and the world they live in. In my limitless vanity I imagine that maybe my story will be one small calculation in the margin of the impossibly complicated solution to human suffering.
It's been the anthem of artists all over the world and for all of human history. Trying to express ideas we don't understand and solve problems that may not have solutions. Crying out in both defiance and remorse. Fighting against oppression and begging for forgiveness. No clear direction or goal, but with a raging storm inside that won't allow for peace or rest. Clinging desperately to life while wishing for death's release, putting one foot in front of the other, walking the line between right and wrong in strange spaces where time has no meaning.
Then you wake up the next day and do it again because you don't know what else to do.
Because that's what it means to be alive.
I don't know why I feel the way I do. I don't know why I do the things I do. Maybe there are no reasons. Today I felt like somebody understood that struggle. A one-sided assumption on my part, but it still reminded me of the feeling I had at the beginning. Some days I wonder why I decided to pick a fight against the world. I'm sure those days will come again, but at this moment on this day I can remember. I can remember why I started this fight, and I'm glad that I did.
=== Commission Info ===Commissions are no longer available. Sorry.