dclarion: (Default)
I'm still exhausted.  My crying often tends toward screaming.  The neighbors must think that I'm having some really great sex.  I wish.

Marie, your question is not at all rude.  Over the last 23 years, I've been on nortriptyline, amytriptyline, trazodone, Zoloft, Paxil, and currently Prozac.  All I really need is a friend.

Please

Feb. 16th, 2012 05:47 pm
dclarion: (Default)
Would someone please visit me and pretend that you like me?  I can't afford to pay you, but perhaps I have something here that could constitute a meal that you would deign to eat.  I have no television -- I just don't like it, I'm sorry to say, and can't afford it, anyway -- but I could connect to some radio station's Internet feed for some heavy metal or something.  You don't have to converse with me; you could just occasionally nod your head while I babble on about the different sizes of infinity.

I know that it is a lot to ask, but I just need some human company.
dclarion: (Default)
I must have cried myself into total exhaustion last night, because I just woke up.  I remember the pain in my diaphragm, like a hand gripping and crushing my torso.  I remember the feeling of total vacuum, of a universe consisting of absolutely nothing.  I remember wishing that I could die, and I remember my disappointment at seeing the light of day.

Another day.  There are dishes to wash, cans of food bank fare to put away.  Why?  What does it matter?  There is only emptiness; even emptiness that is pretty is still empty.

Why do I continue?  Why am I such a coward?
dclarion: (Default)
It is, perhaps, a good thing that my Abit-based machine crapped out on me, a couple of days ago (I believe that the CPU died).  Perhaps, it is time to begin consolidating things, to begin scaling down.  It is not that I want to do less, but perhaps I can use less to do more, or even rearrange my priorities.

There are things that I'd like to do: I still want to learn how the standard UNIX job scheduler (cron, for those of you who know it) works; I might be able to use the core code for another, somewhat similar, purpose.  There are things that I need to do: I've had sketches of a trio sonata laying around for at least twenty-five years; the piece is wanting a dedication, but before I can dedicate it, I have to finish it and be satisfied with it.  Most of all, I have to finish myself, and be satisfied with that.

Throughout my life, most of what I have tried to do, I tried to do in order to be acceptable to someone; when I would be reminded that I can be acceptable to no-one, everything would fall to pieces, and I would ultimately do nothing, and even be nothing.  It is difficult for me to do and be for myself.  My world-view requires that life be shared to have value; consider that an ingot of the purest gold is worthless unless someone wants it.  What I am and what I can do are not considered desirable; how, then, do I imbue them with value?

The Studio is finally becoming reasonably pretty, but what good is that unless another can find beauty and warmth here?  I have had to live my life in barest isolation.  I can continue to do so, and cry for want of more; pictures on the walls and music in the air are not necessary for that.  Where is the mind of the scientist and soul of the artist who might find a place here?  Where is the tongue that might taste the bread, find it pleasing, and make it worth the baking?

How long will it be before this collapses in on itself once more, and I scale down to nothing?

dclarion: (Default)
I've taken some so-called "family" off of my Facebook list.  One cares only about her Amway-type home business; another has no idea of who I am or what I'm about, and has no desire to learn, and a third was collateral damage.  To some, this may not seem to be very much, but it only shows me just how isolated I am.

Last Night

Feb. 6th, 2012 09:41 pm
dclarion: (Default)
Last night, as I lay in bed, I cuddled with Celia.  She lay on my chest, her head nestled under my chin, my arms around her.

And I cried.

Celia, I love you dearly, but how I long to feel another human's touch, hear another human's voice, know another human's presence.  To exchange ideas, to share experiences.  But it cannot be.  I am Wrong.  Hyperintelligent, deeply sensitive, gender-variant, Wrong.

To those who will surely claim that "It will come," and "To be loved, one must first love oneself," realize that these are merely ways of saying "There, but for the grace of God. go I!" without uttering the words.  Know this crushing isolation, then speak!
dclarion: (Default)
I remember.  I was in the ICU, having undergone cranial surgery the previous day.  I knew what the place was, I knew why I was there, but that wasn't the point.  Around me, there was nothing.  There was only the hospital bed with me in it, in the midst of a dark, silent vacuum.  I curled my arm on the pillow, trying to find a way to lay my head upon it such that the pain might be a little less.  It wasn't the searing pain of a burn or a stab wound; it was hollow, it was crushing.  It was the most intense pain I had ever known, yet it was nothing.  How could nothing hurt so much?  I heard the sounds around me.  They were distant, light-years away.  I knew that, periodically, I was receiving codeine injections.  I also knew that the codeine might as well have stayed in the vial, for all the good it was doing me.  Nothing.  There was only nothing, the most painful nothing I had ever known.

I remember it.  That is what my spirit feels today.
dclarion: (Default)
I want to love and be loved.  Why is that so much to ask?
dclarion: (Default)
About a week ago, I was chatting online with my cousin-in-law; she had told me that my father would be having cataract surgery, that she thought the surgery would be performed the following week, and that I perhaps should take the opportunity to talk to my mother.  Against my better judgment, I called a few minutes ago.

My mother answered the phone.  When I asked how it was going for my father, she replied that he had not yet had the surgery, that he was going in next week.  Then she told me that if this -- my transition -- is what I wanted, that I should go ahead and do it, and that maybe she'd call once and a while.  I don't know whether she listened or just heard my voice when I told her that, to obtain my diagnosis, I had sat before a panel of medical professionals, that I was under a physician's care.  She only said that she didn't know who was going to take care of her and my father now.  She told me that only God is going to take care of me now, that I had better say some prayers.  Incidentally, she knows very well that my philosophy is atheist.  As she closed the call, I told her that I love her.  Her reply was "Goodbye."

What we transfolk endure is not pretty.  We are presented with the choice between the pain of living a lie in order to have people around us and the pain of isolation for living our lives as the people we know ourselves to be.  Most of us hide ourselves for years in order to avoid rejection; and when we finally come out because we can take no more, we are castigated for not having said anything earlier, and are rejected anyway.  I lose count of the number of times that my mother has told me that friends are useless, that family is all one can count on.  I have learned the true meaning of that statement, I have learned that it contains a tacit element.  I have learned that the full statement is
Friends are useless; you can count only on family as long as you are what we want.
Outside, it is a cold December day, as I write this.  I am, in a way, grateful for the infernal hot water heat I have in this apartment, even if I have to sleep with my bedroom windows open.  Even so, I am cold.  I once stated that, in coming out to my parents, I gambled everything and lost.  As I sit here, I realize that the cold feeling comes of never having had anything to gamble in the first place.

This is probably the last time I will speak to either of my parents; I will probably never see them again.  I think back upon my adolescent days, when I knew that I had all of the answers, when I knew that my parents were wrong about everything.  I think back upon the years I spent in hiding because I felt that I could count upon my parents' total rejection, were they to know about me.  I think back upon what my mother told me so many times, that family was all I could count on.

As much as it pains me to say it, my mother was right.

dclarion: (Default)
I've had some leftover turkey and dished out a cup of chocolate ice cream.  Perhaps, I should install my dentures and make a sandwich with some of the Thanksgiving bread I baked.  I'm still cleaning up; most of that is the dishes.  I love cooking; washing dishes is another matter.  Still, washing dishes is one of those things grownups have to do, even those who never really grew up.

Raien and PJ, I hope that you won't take this out of context, but one of the consequences of an absolutely awesome Thanksgiving with you is being reminded of how abjectly lonely I am, the rest of the time.  It is being reminded of my status as Homo segregatum, "Isolated man".  Even as it is painful, though, it is a good and necessary thing to be reminded of this; I need to learn how to deal with it, as this loneliness is a consequence of the person I am.  By "the person I am", incidentally, I do not exclusively refer to my status as a transwoman, though that is surely a part of me.  I refer, instead, to all of the things listed on the bill of materials that describes this entity called Diana Athena Clarion, not the least of which is my hyperintelligence.

I am remembering a scene I once envisioned, about forty years ago.  Shortly after Xmas, my mother had just finished informing me of what a rotten piece of shit I was, at a volume approaching that of a Saturn V launch as heard from the press site.  Part of her tirade consisted of "You can just take that fruitcake you gave me and have it yourself!"  I did not do that, of course, but into my mind came the scene: me alone, siting on my bedroom floor, fruitcake in hand, crying inconsolably while I took bites from it.  I am crying now as I remember, as I write this.  This is what I have to learn to deal with.

Raien, PJ, this is why I did what I did on Thanksgiving Day.  I had to relieve the loneliness and isolation, I had to reach out, I had to share.  This surely does not mean that you were mere tools; I think that I somehow knew that you were the good and honorable people you showed yourselves to be, and I hoped that I could be good company to you.  I hope that I was, and can continue to be.  This is where the learning begins, learning how to drive Homo segregatum into extinction.
dclarion: (Default)
Well, I already know the general answer to that question, but my specific point is this:

I'm seriously considering advertising for someone to share my Thanksgiving table.  This will be my third Thanksgiving alone since the ex- took me to the curb, and I'm honestly not sure that I'm going to be able to take this one, what with the events of the last few weeks.  I don't have very much, but I am happy to share what I do have.  The place is a picture of abject chaos, but I suppose that I could clear a few square feet to fit a person or two.

Yes, there is the annual "slice of turkey and spoonful of mashed potatoes" dinner at the local Salivation Army (it's just a block down the street), but that would only serve to underscore my position.  I'd rather pull the covers over my head and sleep through the day, if that's all that I could have.  I know that opening my home to some strange person(s) might also remind me of my position and place me at risk besides, but I'm willing to take to take that chance.

I just don't want to be alone, not on that day.  I just want to share.

May 2013

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