My depression is coming back feirce after the fight I had with a friend on Tuesday. (Well, not so much fight as she said something disgusting and unconcionable and wouldn’t take it back, and I yelled at her before leaving the house.) I haven’t heard from her, or the other friends who were there at all since. I think I have been excommunicated.
I thought I was over it. I am not. My thoughts keep returning again and again to that night, and when I’m not replaying it in my head I’m mulling over how disgusting and wortheless I am so of course they’d take her side even though she was in the wrong because how could anybody want to back up a pile of shit like me.
I don’t hate myself. I hate being myself. I want to be someone else. Someone valued, and useful, and confident, and beautiful. And when I say beautiful, what I mean is cis and conventionally attractive. Nobody escapes the beauty standard, I guess. I can’t look myself in the mirror with my shirt off anymore. My face isn’t too bad, for a boy’s, but my torso is hideous and makes me sick. My hair, which I’ve grown out to look more femme is gross and lank and I don’t know how to wear it. My voice is…hopeless.
Every little demon and bug I’ve hidden away and thought I’d defeated is coming back stronger, and hungrier, now that I’m alone again. Mostly these problems aren’t related to what happened. Mostly it’s just a Greatest Hits compliation from last year.
I try to remind myself that professionally, things might be looking up for me next year. I have real prospects coming up. And my writing is going well, too. When I write, I can forget who I am for a while. I need to write more. I always need to write more.
But there is only so much that this can help me. I think I’m just going to have to fight through this one. I’m never done fighting. I never get to win.