Does anyone understand that asking me to die more, to gut it out more, even to do something that is supposed to be “good for me,”  by manning up, is a request bound for failure?

The only thing that might turn the tide is a taste of life, of embrace rather than denial.  But life for trannies is almost always a process of defense rather than one of the kind of following bliss, negotiating the fears of others.

It astounds me that people around me don’t choose to speak to my possibilities, but rather to where I can get even tougher to do what they think I need to do.  It’s not about “yes,” but rather about “have to.”

But hell, my possibilities scare them, so instead they think I should be able to toughen up, be a man and just do it.

And that is the most disempowering idea that I have ever heard, that the only way out is more denial, at which I am my limits. It means that the only way to claim my own power over my own life is to end it, push the play again button and take the chance of going straight to another hell.

Oh, well.

Everything Pisses On Me

My sister wrote an e-mail at 5:10 that the powerwasher I packed for her wasn’t working.  She told me that her friend, the abusive one, wouldn’t be there tonight, so after I served my parents supper,  I went to her house, carrying a sack of food.

She wasn’t there, which was fine, but when I tried to find the powerwasher to work on it, the trigger assembly wasn’t there.  I called her cell and she told me it was in the car with her, and she wouldn’t be back until 8:00, after yoga.

Fine, fine, fine, fine.  I go back to my parents house and see the note that bitch friend sent to me years after I ceased contact with her, a joke about a husband who demands too much with a punchline where the wife tells him she will kill him in a witty way — “the undertaker will dress you.”

The abuser shows up in the morning, so I have to work tonight, no matter how bad my teeth are.

I’m back just after 8, and she finally pulls in about 8:30.  I grab the handle out of her car and go to set up the machine in pitch blackness, slipping on the clay and being soaked. 

Finally I get it together and see the problem.  I pull it apart, and the machine squirts water all over me.

“It’s pissing on you,” she laughs.

“Everything pisses on me,” I reply.

It’s at that point she wants to tell me what the procedure is for bankrupcy.  I’m not listening, I don’t have the emotional strength, as I told her two weeks ago as we waited for her friend to arrive with the junk scooter I had to manage for my mother.

She sees this, so I ask her “Do you really think this is the best time to talk about this?”

It’s the best time for her so she goes on, and I get more and more boiling.

Doesn’t she understand what I clearly have told her?  I don’t need help doing the paperwork, I need help getting by my emotions.  I have accepted my life as being over, and that’s easier and better for me.  Droning on with no hope is worse than dying, at least to me.

But no, no, no.  She sees I am upset and stressed and goes ahead, and then when I don’t act nice, I am blamed for not accepting help.  She doesn’t remember what I said, because she can’t hear it.

Same when I get back to parents.  I am just an asshole for rejecting help.  They have no need to deal with my emotions, to help with that, I have to suck it up.

Everything pisses on me.   I tell that to my sister, and then I feel her piss on me again, and when I don’t take it like manna, I am seen as ungrateful shit.

“My death will be pleasant and appropriate.”  I find myself saying that often.

I can’t figure out a way to bloom, to return the gift, and I am way too frayed from a half-century trying.

But damnit, just be normal and do what we want.