Why I Need Help
Something I Know
There’s a lot of writing that comes out of me. Mythologies about how fucked up I am—trying to understand what happens within my creative spaces when I’m writing—unmasking my subconscious and integrating trauma—having fun getting my anger out.
I also have an empathy capacity I have yet to fully understand. It’s very internal and reflective but had long convinced me I get receptions from outside myself as well. Regardless, I’m super traumatized. It’s not just interpersonal and lonely horniness like my creative writing often implies. In October-December last year I had a series of panic attacks and manic episodes after years of stress in gender transition which have become an elongated period of trauma I now conflate into mythologies that slap.
I also unmasked and I’m thinking pretty differently these days. It spins up into something really hard to handle, but I can ride it if I’m not working, juggling an impossible life’s workload, and being pinned by weight of unhealed trauma on top of that. I could move with it all much better if I wasn’t riddled by anxiety.
Right after an incident of abuse and months of mania in October and November last year I was highly aware I needed a place to chill. I was quickly put on the wrong medication because there was delusion involved at that point. I’ve sought help in that arena and it leads me back to healing with people, finding friends, and having others around. I could try more medication or maybe not too—I explore that and it ruins my writing and makes me miserable and lethargic—it takes away my presence with my daughter. Right after I came off the first medication they gave me and then spent time with her I literally cried for the time lost. It felt like I hadn’t really seen her in a month.
The problem isn’t me—it’s the trauma. I’m being blamed for society at large.
I’m extraordinarily fucking traumatized. It’s the whole world. Everything’s flipped on me since coming out and owning who I am. It’s illuminated true reflections in the eyes of my fellows. Nobody around me seems to have true respect for me, witnessed through my subconscious and intelligent deciphering of the many queues provided by most people I connect with on a regular basis.
I’m just messed up by having no one and turn it all into stories. I need help but I am the brokest bitch in the world and every support I’ve reached out to has no true solution for my situation. There’s just no option for someone who needs to be taken care of for a while when there’s not family involved, or wealth, or some form of luck—at least, when they’re incapable of lobbying politically within broken systems for that help.
I haven’t found a way to get financial help since my family has abandoned me over principles of their own regarding gender and the right one has to emotionally manipulate others because they are sociopaths. I have a nice place to stay for me, but barely keep rent with no back up plan and have been forced into working continually while I don’t have time to process my shit and handle personal business. It feels impossible sometimes with the way my mind works to focus on the practical things I don’t agree with existing in society, or play along with the rules of a civilization which has literally forsaken me to a dictator who ran on a platform espousing my specific subgroup of queerness and gender being those who’d need to be taken down a peg or two—after only being allowed off the ground recently, battered and bruised from the history of the world beating us to pulp.
I’m so pending bankruptcy it’s ridiculous after a cruel separation from my ex and struggle to keep up at work while riding the stress, or communicate with others in ways that don’t get me into trouble from the projected transphobia of bigoted cis women who would blame me as a perpetrator because I falsely assumed them a friend and shared things which allowed them to intuit notions of sexuality existing within me from subtext—ignoring the fact I’m the biggest advocate for protecting women in our workplace—choosing to see me as some deviant society made me—getting that formalized through the prejudicial mechanisms of a corporate machine who would rather me just gone and not have to parse the transphobia latent in the accusation.
Extra long, definitely read; I have a sexual harassment write up from a female colleague, and someone I formerly believed a friend, because they understood my subtext which slipped out in jest relating to a song and it triggered them that I am a sexual person. So, they made it about them and took every single petty thing they could think of through the entire history of our working together then tried to get me fired—even that I asked them to hang out once, and to borrow ten dollars so I could buy my daughter milk the night before a payday. Additionally, the company came very close to letting me go. They see me as someone to watch now—it’s the worst feeling in the world for an advocate of anti-misogyny such as myself. There is no fiercer protector of women in our workplace than me and this person walks around with a sense of power now that I am silenced in my closed-door office and unable to open my mouth without fear of retribution atop my ‘final warning.’
The environment there is challenging for my anxiety in the first place—with the added stresses I face and the way my mind and mouth works I’m in trouble.
I know my writing is amazing though, that I’m a wonderful mother and super competent human being and friend who just loves really hard and is incredibly sad and angry. I’m trying to sell this pot of gold I’m sitting on and know I can earn my keep back in this way.
I need help and friends and simple support. I also want people to read my writing and tell me what they think. Anything helps.