This is not a chapter update. Not that anyone reads this to actually care, but there you have it. To be honest, I'm not sure how much fiction I'll put up on this page in future. I thought I could write serial fiction but I just found myself feeling obligated instead of excited, which left me hating the story and the characters, and that's not good for anyone. So this page kind of sat here doing nothing but costing me money that I can't afford.
I'm not likely to take it down though. I like that pariah silver is a URL, even if I don't do anything with it. Like I actually exist.
So I recently began the process of my transition. I had my initial paperwork session for counseling, and they'll point me in the direction of doctors soon enough. I also got stupid and came out to everyone who knows me. Which means, of course, that my doubts about the entire thing are more powerful and stomach-turning than ever. Before, if I was wrong, it would have been bad enough; I'd have to accept that the only solution I've figured for everything that's wrong with me wasn't actually a solution at all. Of course now if I'm wrong I'll have to go through that and tell everyone in my life just how wrong and fucking stupid I am. So that's fun. No pressure.
My job is going well, and horribly. I'm being promoted to assistant manager, and at the same time our work staff is being reduced to three of us who actually show up and do our jobs. Hopefully we'll get some more people soon, but that can't happen until the nonworking folks get fired. Which corporate management won't allow, because they don't want to pay unemployment. So we have to continue working like this, reducing the hours of the nonworkers so they'll feel pinched enough to quit on their own. The corporate world at its most passive-aggressive.
An apartment, of sorts, is on the horizon so I guess that's good. A little one-room thing that doesn't even technically qualify as a studio. Tiny and singular, with a bathroom shared by two other places. Oh well. It's in Capitol Hill, and it will be only mine. I can sleep in privacy, have time to myself, and cry whenever I need to.
This post shouldn't be so depressive. I wanted to write it to cheer myself up, but that isn't working. Today is a low day of low fucking days. I'm at risk of sinking back into not just my self-loathing, but hatred of everyone and everything. I can feel it around me, like I'm standing in the center of a maelstrom of my own darkness, and it wants to envelop me. Not that I dislike the idea of it, and that's the problem. I know how it feels. When you're not in the midst of a phase like that, obviously it sounds awful and destructive, and it is. But not when you're in it.
I know full well that it will feel amazing. All I have to do is let it come in, let the maelstrom close in on me, and I'll be back in that place. The anger and the hate feel so good when I'm in a place like that. They really do. They give me energy when I can't bring myself to move, and they give me a kind of drive that I don't have even when I'm in a good place. I've always been disconnected from my self and my emotions, but when I'm in a place like that I can feel my hate and my anger full well. It's like being deprived of food your whole life, then someone gives you rotten meat; it's amazing just because you're eating. I don't really miss being in that place, but I can feel it pulling at me and I know the thrill of feeling my own emotions without the disconnect, the distance always there as a buffer.
I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that I'm so near this point again. It was inevitable. I've been too happy lately. At a time when I should be fully stressed--brand new job, increasing responsibility, two-to-eight-hour commute, no privacy, no autonomy--I have been happy. In a disconnected way, don't get me wrong; rarely do I ever feel anything without that fog. But I knew damn well I was happy, and I liked it. Love, and joy, and delight, and pleasure, and fun, and laughter. I came as close as I have in a long while to actually touching these emotions; they were there, and I could reach for them, closer than ever.
Then, of course, I fucked it up. It isn't gone, but I feel it slipping. I can feel this new joyous place that felt so perfect is now suddenly precarious. If I'm not careful, if I'm not at my best, I can destroy it all like I always seem to do. Which sends me into a panic of doubt and self-loathing. So I overreact, and I overreach, pushing too fast and trying too hard, just making things worse. I collapse.
Now I feel a distance again. A separation from my joy, but worse a separation from the place I found this great happiness. Unintentional, inevitable, and something I feel I can't fight. It feels like if I try, I'll just be pushing more, and it will all float away out of reach. My love, on a boat, drifting away from me as I stand helplessly on an empty dock. Because I pushed.
I don't want to take anything over. But I don't want to be just another one of many. I want to be someone who can be counted on, someone who can be turned to, someone who isn't just another. I'd never ask for that, I'd never expect it or demand it. I just hope for it. I hope that, if I don't push, the tide won't pull everything away from me.