More and more I am feeling fractured.
The child of my parents is facing the challenge of family that has other priorities than being there for me, who find just the thought of being with me stressful.
We are coming on the one year anniversary of all the shit; my mother’s diagnosis with lung cancer, my father’s undiagnosed broken back and all the shit that came with it.
I am weak and out of shape from being in the basement alone way too much. Often, I just want to lie down and not get up.
But sometimes, I still do my work as a transwoman. And in that work, I can find some strength, but what I can’t find is family, neighbourhood.
These two pieces leave me feeling split, broken, fractured.
I can be wounded or I can be healer, but whenever I am one, the other one weighs on me. It’s a fissure that runs deep through my soul, cleaving my heart.
Neither one nor the other is real. Neither one nor the other is good. Neither one nor the other is me.
The line between depression and self-supression has always been a close run thing for me. When you feel obligated to tamp yourself down, it can look a lot like depression.
But now, today, isolated except for when I channel my duty, my work, well, I feel fractured.
It’s going to be a long summer, I fear.