Closet Intellectual

coming out

life is a journey. I myself have made the longest one and to think how far ive come its just amazing. Ive waited a long time for this and I wish it wasnt true because it would make life so much easier. I dont know I think sometimes I ask myself who cares ? Will the people who matter to me most care ?. Ive been through hell. My mental health went south because of it I lost friends family loved ones and it hurts because people hate when your fake yet they cant take it when your being real. After so much confusion I can finally say it. And with great apprehension I can say that I am transgender and it feels good to let out yet im afraid of what may come my way. I always tried to cover up but the truth is ive always felt like this. Always known that ive been a boy all along. Crying every day when having to face a body that I feel doesnt belong to me. I… I hate myself. Just got out of hospital but part of me still wants to die. But im also happy because now I cant be fake anymore I want the world to know that im done hiding. So where do I go from here ?. Therapy, testosterone ?… I will conquer this. On my own if I have to. Ive always said that if I ever became sure of myself and told others then id have to die. So… call me Leonard

How do you feel (4/7/14)

I feel like impurity. I’m no longer innocent, I’m lost without a cause. I’m liar and a cheat and I am disobedient. For reasons I’m too ignorant to recollect; for reasons I’m not worth to even check. an empty abyss, there is ground in an abyss, though my heart and brain feels like they have a gaping hole, making me feel less than whole. I’m an incompetent complication, to get love I must feel love and be willing to accept love but I couldn’t detect love if it had bitten me on the nose or stabbed me in the chest. I feel like a car that’s run out of fuel but keeps going. I feel like my body is being eating alive and I’m dying, continuously but still living. When I don’t feel I feel like assisted suicide is worth it. Why would you let someone suffer until death as if a jump of a bridge or a bungee jump with broken equipment due to emotional setback wouldn’t be graceful?. When I don’t feel, I feel unfaithful. its my fault, I’m sorry, forgive me, I’m not stable. when I don’t feel, I’m high; I’m confused, I’m delirious, hysterical, unfathomable and no more technical than a layman’s as possible because my level of everything depreciated and was destructible. I feel like a bomb that’s gone 5, 4, 3, 2, and kept choking on one. I feel like 20mins of sex and the climax ? there is none. Pause. Has an unfamiliar hand ever touched you ? When I don’t feel, I know I don’t do it on purpose and fuck what you say I’m dirt and I’m worthless. When I did feel, it felt pointless, I’m not selfish or self centred but its too much, I don’t deserve this. I shook in fear at the words “I love you”. My body radiated disgust at the themes I wasn’t used to.

One made the attempt to die – suicide because one decided to decipher the meaning of life. one had a relatively okay life; a family, no more dysfunctional than thy neighbours, had frequent cognitive examinations until one had honours and certificates to prove such procedures, and free will. Genuine happiness would have made it an idyllic life. one discovered that genuine happiness can only be achieved by manipulation of the brain. This is why such a prominence is said emotion is frowned upon by society. One cried for days in a psychiatric institute because one “suffered” from a mental disorder to which one called an excuse to take pills and put one back on the systematic course of life and deviate one from uniqueness and individuality. One made an attempt to die; suicide – and succeeded.


The suicide discrepancy

How do you kill what’s already dead ?
Do I kill the demons inside my head,

Or scar the surface to scare them instead ?

Today I felt that I needed to embellish
My canvas wasn’t good enough
It was too plain
The sight was quiet and it drove me insane
So I took my instrument
It was pristine and sharp
And with precision
I made all my deep incisions
Inevitably, my mind was elusive
I couldn’t fathom the meaning of the activity
But my canvas was looking better
It was looking better
It looked better
I was sure of it now
And as I paused to view and as I waited
My genital regions throbbed and pulsated.

To my therapist.

Do you mind taking a trip of intense interrogation in an atempt to address my obvious appeared sadness? What would you ask first? Am i’m okay today? Could I spare a smile, or has my happiness decayed ? Am I on pills? Prozac you presume. To that I reply: prozac? I refuse. I’d go on to describe that I would lose in a race to survive, that I would lose my drive just before the finish line and I’d realise that no one was cheering me on from behind or at the side line and I couldn’t recall an optimistic, nostalgic memory from any sector of  my miniscule mind… and I’d run out of breath, hyperventilate then cry and spend 10 minutes being the submissive guy. A slave to my own mind, a slave to my own kind. a slave to the unknown, pending secrets to be told and unfold. I realise I’ve gone too far. I’m out now. I’m in the car – mentally. I freeze. You sneeze. I smile because I knew your action wasn’t legit. Your excuse to break the awkward silence was… shit. I’m neutral again. You ask how im feeling as if you couldn’t decipher.

I drifted off into the unknown
And told my conscious mind to go home
Told my demons I’m done fighting,
My soul is here
My body is hiding.

At 10:00pm

I often imagine what it be like if I understood ‘normal’ people. You would think someone of my apparent intelligence would be able to. What is weird or not comprehensible is that the way I cope with the unfortunate things in life perils my health in such drastic ways. Herein lies the most indecipherable paradox. I  wish i wasn’t a thinker. I have so much knowledge for the wrong things it leaves me in fathomless levels of complexity. You really don’t know how it feels to be captivated by your own mind. As I’ve mentioned before my subconscious mind is a right crafty bastard.I am obliged; or think I am obliged to do unconventional things to have some sort of connection to reality. Half the eccentric things I do is gratuitous and I know this and im never one to fight spontaneous urges of utter insanity.

Explain this.

Writer’s block: the return of the late night mental strain.

For some odd, ambitious reason when I decide that I would like to come out of my must-have-a-perfect-draft-before-i-publish shell, I have the slightest tendency to pick my brain for the greatest sounding vocabulary, phrases and witty puns to get the readers going. That tendency however, may come off as pretentious and my whole hours work is plainly grandiloquent garbage awaiting the virtual trash can if I don’t get the comments or sufficient likes I planned to endeavor. Well what do you know ey ? Trying to enlighten people you don’t know. How daring.

So what if it is 12am or thereabouts and in 8 hours time I’d be trying not to doze off due to the soporific effect that most teachers have when they do their job. Writer’s block, mental block, mind fuck. What ever you want to call it; it will always come out on top of every list. Most writers are as articulate as a fourteen year old girl five minutes after a three year hostage ordeal. My point being; writers are writers because the English language makes more sense to them in black and white text. Not to mention that most are loners by choice and their speech is inaudible babble that can’t seem to decipher between what they think and what they feel.

Keeling over my beechwood desk with my only source of light being a lamp with way to much voltage, has made me slither slowly into oblivion

This is the end of the road I guess. My eyes are twitching now as my brain flickers, reminiscent of my previous writer’s block post. I now continue to write because I have another tiring tendency to finish an A4 side of paper if I am close to it. Bloody writers block for fuc

Does a clean wrist still exist ?
If it does then surely a clean arm does not.
Are you brave enough,
To pull the sleeve up and reveal 
16 years of belittlement,
A teenagers experiment ?.


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