Those of you with a nervous disposition or who have no truck with…. personal sh**…. look away now.
Can’t say you weren’t warned.
There’s a rush of thoughts pulsing in my head right now; a flock of black shadowy creatures that swirl around. Mad fluttering with yours truly, The Queen of Drama, at the epicentre.
At the mo, I’m just not with it. As I type I am both simmering with anger and on the edge of tears. Trouble has been brewing for a few days; no, weeks if I’m honest, and each time I’ve pushed it aside hoping a good day at work, some family fun or even…
( Now my fingers hang over the keyboard because my heart swills with the acid of guilt. )
…. dressing up will help dispel the bad thoughts.
But none of it does. I wake up feeling tired or, or… just numb. If not numb, then angry. I don’t know where the f**k I’m going any more. Work bores me; I just can’t seem to engage. The kid’s get on my wick and I have zero patience. It’s not them, they’re not badly behaved, but I blow up and then feel bad at making them feel bad. The anger has nowhere to go. It spits and bubbles inside and corrodes the vessel it’s in.
I had such a good time at Chameleons I fear that I’ll end up ‘full time’. But the little voice of optimism that exists says: no, it’s not that. That time is time outside of the normal world. It’s a stressless place, who wouldn’t want that? I want that to be true. I can’t be full time and be a husband or a dad. That’s not how it works and in my heart, I know it’s all just fantasy. Just a f***ing stupid pipe dream. A man in drag. A bloke piling on the slap and a wig in order to flick a switch in his head.
Sometimes, I hate being this way. These are the times when I wonder about cures. But that’s BS too. There’s no such thing. I can no more ‘go straight’ than I can fly. Hmmm… flight. No, the analogy works: you start off free and unencumbered, but after a while you find out it’s not flying, but an uncontrolled descent. What was once a step off into clear skies is in fact a crash back to reality.
I want to cry out, to break things. To punch the walls. Something to get the rage out of me, but I don’t. I sit and I fold in on myself, lost in my own emotions.
Heh, and I thought it was going so well too. F**k.
Now my finger hovers over the Publish Post button. Do you deserve this dear reader? To wade through a sh**storm of my own making? Is this the point of a trans blog: warts and all of it. The good, the bad and the f*** ugly?
I don’t know. I just want to feel okay.
See you Friday.