16-2-25, Sunday

In a world where misery is eternal, there is nothing better to do than to use it.

My chest rises and falls, my heart plays in quarter time. I don’t need to look in the mirror anymore, I can feel my pupils get large - the light burns them more. The light of my screen bothers me.

I don’t feel like I’m acting rationally, thinking rationally. Saying this feels right, but I question if it’s genuine. Do I like it? Is this what feels right to say? Because I think not. But I can’t tell, I just move through life, and that’s how I know that something is wrong.

My blood sugar has not been lower than 125 for 3 days now. My fingers grow cold every time I take another bite of a cinnamon roll. My arms fall asleep more every time. My glucose-feeding infection grows noticeably. Slowly, lovingly, gently, I kill myself, but soon it won’t be so gentle anymore.

I quickly run out of food suitable for my prediabetes. We no longer have cheese, I had finished my daily dose of the eggs, and the pecans are getting old. 

I have deep, vivid dreams, of adventures and joy and familial love. I talk to my aunt, and we have a blast. She supports my goal of getting HRT - surprising for a cishet russian Tajik woman. I like her a lot, she’s a little over the top in her love but she’s cool.

I add patches to my pants. I listen to music. I eat. I waste all my time at the screen. I come into a social interaction with the graciousness and sharpness of a drunk man. And I stumble on out and write about it on an online blog space. I feel like one of those adult losers, that live in their parent’s basement, eat chips, play video games, and fart while watching my little pony all day. I think i dug so deep into myself that I lost it. I lost myself, if I ever did have him. I defined myself too closely and it killed me. I used to be sharp and witty. I used to be distant and detached. What am I now? I don’t know. It never grew. It’s still re-setting itself, leaving me a no one. Leaving me in my pure form. Leaving me naked, even - I look back at the things that helped me survive. At the things I learned to do. And I lost it. I can’t naturally pick what I know I don’t do out of outside control or pressure - because now all of it has been defined. I don’t want to only wear green because that’s how everyone defines me. But I don’t want to avoid things that define me because avoiding things defining me is now defining me. It’s a simile feeling to the end of 1984. I just want to smile and submit, because I feel so lost and trapped. What have I done?

Lord have mercy,

Arthur.

20:02.

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[After hours of mild psychological games on myself]

Can I just be someone’s baby bird?

Can I sleep in someone else’s room, in a corner of a room that I feel safe in? Somewhere that they’re not too worried about me, but I am safe and well. Treat me like a scared shelter dog. Don’t make eye contact with me. Don’t pressure me to eat from your hand. Don’t react when I take it. 

Let me sleep with a nice blanket that I picked myself from your collection. Leave me a tea and a snack but don’t let me see you bring it, and don’t be there to hear my thank you. Just know that I’m the most grateful I’ll ever be, even if I don’t want to admit it. 

Let me not admit it. Am I allowed to do that? Please?

Don’t question when I go outside. Don’t even look my way. Just kinda.. ..love me, but be detached. Be far away from me, where I’m safe from you. Don’t give me a deadline to leave. I’ll be out soon, but I won’t tell you so. You’ll never know. I’ll re-develop like a new bird from an egg, making up for the warmth I missed from my mother’s carelessness. Take me back and don’t be there to watch me grow. Be my father, my mother, and absolutely no one at all. Don’t let me know your name unless I tell you I want to hear it. Don’t give me any reactions for anything until I’m ready. Maybe a smile if I want it. And never feed me fruit or sugar or carbs. Never ever.

Don’t shake me. Don’t love me outwardly. Be my life and ask for nothing back, and when I grow and inevitably take off, I might come back with a trinket and a treat for you. 

I picture my space as very nice, lots of sun, lots of trees to look into. Lots of locks on the door, only for me. All my things are wherever I need them to be, but I don’t have a lot. How about that?

Meow.

21:42