It seems, I need a blog much more than a gallery. This is a personal entry and may not discuss art and may and will contain negative thoughts. You've been warned.
Let's write about how fun it is to be me. First, the bad. Let me recall recent days. Day 1, I feel okay. Day 2, I feel okay if a little down, I go climbing. Cannot bring myself to actually climb; there is a lot of people in the climbing hall that day, including lots of people I know. I leave rather quickly. Right out of the door, feeling bad. Suicidal bad. Really.
It started with that new quality more than a half year ago, when for a whole month I had to live with this calm but threatening background second voice constantly on, somewhere in my head, impossible to get rid of for no price of claiming, promising or admitting anything. I'd had bad periods before that month, but never before had I imagined anything that tiresome, and at the end of it I was sure I wouldn't live through another one like that. So I've started seeking help. And still, now is the first time I'm admitting it directly. I brought myself to hint only one friend and one professional of any such thoughts at all. Anyway, I suffer a suicidal morning here and a suicidal afternoon there scattered through my calendar ever since then. It is scary (afterwards; I don't understand it after it goes away).
Day three, I go rollerskating with friends. It is straining my nerves a bit, rather than relaxing. Afterwards I go to my friends' home, drink with them a little alcohol, lie down, leave for their kitchen and cry there a little. And I know it is good for me; it would be much worse if I didn't (usually I cannot, I just carry until I break). I was already beginning to suspect another hard month; but now, day 4, I'm feeling quite okay if a little down.
Then happens something new and important. For the first time in my life, I feel like stuffing myself with antiandrogens and estrogen or whatever could make me feel good, or at least be a much nicer mean of escaping than cutting myself. I'm not feeling fully "gender-compliant" anyway, but I've never felt the urge before. So, it is probably worth noting down.
Day 5, I'm drawing happily. Today, I cannot wait to get home to continue. Then I go to my psychiatrist - yeah, somebody gives me these antidepressants, even thou I admitted only depressed moods - and I sit quiet, not telling her about any of the above. I cannot trust you, sorry, you are talking indirectly, insincerely and I can see what is going through your mind and I don't like it, the way you're talking and asking shows we won't be able to communicate. You don't know what to ask, you haven't checked my last name before calling me in and needed to be reminded. I pay.
Still, the good. In the meantime, every sunny morning I am happy and love the world, every jumpy song I dance and I miss sharing that, and today I bought ice cream served by the cutest girl I've seen in a long time, the-kind-that-makes-your-day cute. And I feel every now and then I have so much to see, learn, do, say, shout, sing, express.
So, let's try again. Shout.