It’s nearly 3:00am in the morning and I feel compelled to be honest. It’s been a long while since I last posted here. And for good reason. Life isn’t quite the same after you’ve been opened up like a fish and put back together again. I spent over half a year in extreme, nauseating, endless, bloody pain. My own life has been nothing short of HELLISH. Then pandemic happened. Then the riots. Seriously, I don’t know what happened. One minute I’m enduring my day job through some of the worst pain in my post-operative life, bleeding from the vaginal gash between my legs and the next minute I’m without a job, sitting on the sidelines while the rest of the world collectively loses their shit. Everything that’s been happening really puts things into perspective. Maybe being cooped up in my desert bungalow for twenty-three hours a day isn’t such a bad thing, because unlike the rest of the broken world, I have the opportunity to finally heal.
Back in late February, I remember taking a ride up to Prescott to spend some time with my brother and his wife. My six month old vagina was screaming, as per usual, rather loudly from the backseat. I was fucking LOSING IT. I began questioning everything. I went from my normal can-do, mildly optimistic “I can get through this” mentality into a full-on Arthur Fleck-style psychotic break. Pain is funny like that. We can only take so much before exiting stage left looks like a much more appropriate course of action.
The Monday after our trip, I went back to work. I went back to work smiling, still giving off the illusion that I actually gave a shit about the people who I was continually allowing to fuck me over. I went to see my psychiatrist one last time. She gave me a hefty prescription for a few different benzos. You know, so I could mix and match. Those prescriptions were an ultimatum to me. I was given a choice—become a drug addict or quit my job.
Looking back at the road that got me to that point, the onus was completely on me. I owed that shitty corporation nothing and yet I still drug my bleeding, lifeless body to work without any concern for myself. I even managed to slum my way through another thankless holiday season. Real talk—even though ALL of my superiors at work were complete imbeciles, the mere fact that I expected an ounce of compassion from any of those fucking lunatics made me an even bigger idiot than them. Herein lies one of the most difficult lessons I have ever learned: DO NOT EVER expect other people to care about anything more than their own bottom line. People are animals. Put them in a competitive, toxic, corporate environment and you’ve got a recipe for fucking death by misadventure. Thanks guys, you did me a solid. You stayed loyal to your death cult, while I learned that it wasn’t for me.
Looking back at the last four years, I can’t help to think how foolish I’ve been. Always putting other people first. Always giving the benefit of the doubt to those in power—that they’ll make the right choices. And even when my trust was wholly betrayed, even when they didn’t elect to do the right thing, I still had some small hope that they would eventually come around. My stupidity was truly beyond the pale. Let it now be known, I won’t be making the same mistake twice. I won’t continue allowing an entire generation of biggoted, nazi-worshipping assholes to keep making choices for me. I once was just a little kid with big dreams, and they once were the adults with all the answers. No longer. I am living through the final death throes of a generation that needs to GO.
I’m not entirely sure what the future holds. Truth be told, I spend the majority of my days just trying not to vomit from all the ugliness going around right now. I really wish things would get back to normal, back to the status quo. There’s a solipsistic part of me that truly wonders if I am the reason all of this bad shit in the world is happening. If before I was born I decided that it would be fascinating to live in constant psychological torment as a post-operative transexual Satanist in a cyberpunk body horror run by fascist assholes, corporate greed, and algorithms. Oh the algorithms…
Sometimes—life is stranger than fiction. I know this because my life is both strange and unusual. I can’t help but feel responsible for all of this. I mean, after all, only I can decide my own attitude—loyalty or ambivalence, obedience or rebellion, to love or to hate. I know I have the power. That I’m capable, or at least should be. But how can you learn to trust yourself through an actual crisis amidst a crisis of “faith?”