I think I have an allergy to cool. There's something very off-putting about someone who is constantly trying to be stylish, but at the same time, someone who is generous and kind is bound to be well-liked, invited to parties, etc. This is the main trouble with visible people, discovering if they are nice or just cool. I'm sure I'm projecting a lot onto it, I'm sure that this is all sour grapes. I bet cool people love being cool, and live their lives in beautiful sexy limelight smoking fancy cigarettes with drugs that are too cool for me, while I'm stuck in this bullshit college campus eating a city, having some shaggy loser wave his crusty cock at me through my front door as God's punishment for me having the gall to be looking like a little bit too much of a faggot singing with the windows open.
I think truthfully, I want the fancy laced cigarettes, I want the shiny designer clothes, or at least what those things represent. I want to be well-liked. And I do try, but I'm afraid that the time and place where I exist and have existed aren't conducive to it. Still, this is a lie, there are plenty of people here who somewhat resemble the kind of person that I want to be. I don't think anything's wrong with them really. When I'm at my best, I try to avoid the thought that I've fucked up beyond repair, and just need to try again in the next life, but it's a difficult thought to avoid very often. Another thing, after the pandemic, life just isn't the same. I always felt so alienated from myself before, though, maybe it's a blessing in disguise, the apocalypse. Maybe through the chaos, I can somewhat see myself, but it seems like other people have trouble seeing me, too.
I think, in order for me to not 🤡, I have to believe that there is some point that I can reach where people see me as I see myself. Some actionable path that I can take, in order to become me. Anyone telling me I'm good enough or those regular affirmations about loving myself do not understand that I'm not who they think I am. I don't know if I could ever really express that as something so succinct as "woman," though. I often wonder if I should ask someone if this is the feeling of gender dysphoria, but I have learned to describe this feeling with the language one uses to describe gender dysphoria. Sort of like the magic eye things, once you know where to look, it's hard to un-see it. I think the "dysphoria" part makes sense, the gender part is where the question is. If you're reading this, you probably have some sort of investment in me knowing the answer, and I promise to credit you in a later blog and maybe a song if you provide that nugget of existential wisdom. You can take me in front of Judge Steve Harvey and sue me for all I'm worth if I don't. God bless.
addendum: This one was much longer than what I've put up before, although still possibly too personal. We'll see.
addendum2: The more I think about it, there's probably something else wrong additionally. Maybe the particular agony of gender dysphoria exists somewhere in the heap of general agonies that life has given to me as myself. I know I seek out this narrative because there's something that's incredibly powerful about knowing that someone else understands the suffering that you know, and the scary answer that I've been refusing to believe is that I'm the only one who really understands this suffering. Still, I feel like I could never be happy as "(birthname)," and that something else needs to emerge, that I need to be born again, in a sense. Maybe that just means finding God and becoming an insufferable crank that only speaks in platitudes. At least those people seem jolly enough, until their lives end in whatever inevitable tragedy that the Holy Spirit covered up for them. Maybe I'm the type of person that will suffer no matter what, and things could get a little better, but never feel entirely complete. If I knew I wouldn't be writing this type of pathetic blog post.