(tw depression and self-harm)

It’s been long, hard, all of those adjectives that are supposed to apply when one returns to something they left behind. Today, my great feeling is that I dislike myself, and much of what’s around me, but I stubbornly like and have hope in life. Hope and courage amid plumes of idealism that lead me on.

I’m stuck in a place where opportunity reigns, fear and confusion cripple, and annoyance is rampant in the everyday. I am frustrated with the workings of my job, but have few ideas as to where else I might feel comfortable and happy; besides, I have a twinge that I wouldn’t be up to these places’ par. I am annoyed with the brain patterns of my lovely lovely friends, which lead me to confusion and a compulsion to hide. I sense that I am grating to others, fear that this detracts from good favour at work, and from closeness in friendship. I feel so much love, spilling and expanding me; so many ideas, growing like flora in me; so much fear, cropping and twisting me; and so much displeasure, draping me with melancholy and lethargy.

I used to be unable to conceive of anger, but now I never don’t want to punch things, never stop biting or letting slip cold words, never feel peace. When I walk, I always want to stretch out my arms to my sides and tilt my head back and spread my fingers to feel the wind on my hands (like the Titanic, maybe, if that love were singular). Today I am wearing white because I want to feel new & bright, and my hair is flipping against my face and I don’t feel full or spirited, but I feel like I am part of this sun-hot world. Like I am moving on its current.

Almost all of the time, I find it so hard to breathe deeply. Sometimes I find it hard to breathe at all. But I do not know if this is because my scoliosis is causing muscles to wrap around my spine and lungs like alien vines, or if my heart has expanded too much, or if my binder warped my organs, or if I have forgotten how to be a human and alive, or if I am having placebo effects from cigarette smoke, or just general anxiety / anxiety based on [redacted], or why…

Now that I have fallen off the initial manic glee I had three weeks into antidepressants, I am far less afraid that they will make me happy, cause me to lose control, be mean, and release chaos into the world. Now I’m afraid they will not work – instead I will continue on these warped sine curves between hyper gladness and an inch away from death, with no solution. Now that I have fallen off, the simulation of happiness I recently felt appears a lie. All the connections, feelings, friends, choices I encountered in that space have snapped away.

Most of the time I want to die, but no one takes notice because we all want to die, and because I also want to live, and because I have not actually tried to die. I’m often too afraid to bring up this thought I have, swaddled in a sheet at night; I have talked excessively all day, I’ve tripped through rude words & cried across the back of my skull, and we all want to be alone and have nothing that will help me.

I fear I will not have enough money. I fear I will not have enough motivation. I fear I will not have enough patience or resistance (only the future will tell which it ends up as) for this person I now call and need as friend. I fear living in a space with him and loving him will be far harder than seeing him in confined times. I loved a boy once, and clung to him, and I silently clawed myself apart in the moments he was not there, for his sake (I’m more like Jenny “for-you-my-heart-ripped-from-my-chest” Schecter than I ever would have liked); I’m afraid I’ll do it again, for someone much kinder and far less deserving of insanity’s touch.

I fear few people care for me, or have the will to walk with me through my characteristic waves of depression & impulse & rolling emotion. I fear that my mental illness make me a good friend from across a cliff face, not often closer. Never intimate love. I’m afraid I create and ensure that distance sometimes. Not lastly, really, but last for now, I fear the emotions of anyone who does not straight up tell me what & how they feel.

Now that it has been some time, I realize how much I could have loved Lydia in a different context, and how much I couldn’t in the context we had. Today I walked all over the city because I wanted to be somewhere warm, dark, and cozy, but I couldn’t think of anywhere. I just kept going, following the walk signs at street corners, moving fast because I didn’t want to be anywhere and maybe if I went quick enough I could do that? But after a while I felt like I was everywhere, like I was a slug and there was a trace of me everywhere I walked, and eventually I slowed down & looped back & finally I stopped in Tim Hortons, where the music was calmer & less painful than most repeat pop, and the woman who served me was vaguely motherly, and I felt maybe okay.

Once, my father told me a short story he’d read, about a man who wanted to see an orchestra play strongly enough that he booked a concert ticket and a train to a different city. He went all the way there, arranged everything, only to realize outside the concert hall that he didn’t want to go in. Instead, he went to a park & sat there & watched the sunset. I don’t know why my dad told me this story – he told it to me like it was an especially wonderful taste on his tongue, but it reminded me that when he goes to other cities & writes me morsels of poetry describing these cities, he’s said he does it because he knows that I will read poetry where I may not read a letter from my father… I don’t know what it meant to him, but when he relayed this story to me, it felt like the closest thing to what I needed.

Having walked with my indecision and held its hand as we decided I was firmly ready to stay in Winnipeg, now I want so much to leave. I know this is fear. Even if I did not know I could pretty well guess, since everything is fear. I know that when I booked a plane ticket to Winnipeg after exams finished in Nanaimo last year, it was because I didn’t want insecurity. There were so many things I would have had to sort out and I left because that overwhelmed me.

I know this is the same. The only locked in choices I have are my job and my school, each in a different province, and the only one I still feel gratified by is my school. I know I just want to placate the tinnitus in my head, and the images of silver blades & skin & the blood of strangers that come to me, unannounced. I want to still the anger & sadness & itching discomfort. I want to lose the constant urge to cut. I want to not be alone, I want not to be without money, I want not to depend on my parents. I want to be responsible. I want to be young. I want to be smart. I want to create. I want to move & learn & feel & grow. I want to be responsible. I want to be young. I want to stop hurting.


It’s hard to pinpoint anything about my life.                                                                                                              It’s hard to say if any of these things are really “about my life”.                                                     Everything I say lines up with a moment, a particular, that I am                                           when I say it.

Now though, when I go back, to agree or disagree, to say it louder, as though that is what I am, so often I find that it seems like a lie.

While I know that I only ever say things if I think they are true, I become confused, and do not at all times know who I am, or what to trust, because if I am not what I said I was, then what was I when I said it? What am I, if what I once said and what I now say, regarding who I am-  isn’t right? What if the best answers I can think of do not fit with what is inside me on more than a surface level?


I either love people too much or not at all; I thought this yesterday. The same people, often. I want for them, to hear of their lives, and more often, to balance conversation about my own life off of theirs- to hear them agreeing, connecting, caring, and being made of the same flesh as I [seem to be].

That is one side, and the other is not feeling that anything I say is expressed in the same human words as they can hear, and feeling that my own knowledge is separate, because my connections in the world are not in other people. They are in life,  god, the spirit, myself, but not in human beings.

I don’t believe this is a wish to distance, I think it comes to me as the only way. But again, there is a second distancing; this is when people don’t interest me, and I feel that I need to be away from them… I don’t know what I want anymore, and the only thing I can truly decide is that I am alone, that my state of being is with myself and as myself- that I’ll never be accompanied by anyone. To look at it in a real way, I’ve always had more acquaintances than friends, have only known a few real close friends.

I don’t think this is because I don’t know who I am, but rather, that it is who I am. I have people on some sides of me- friends, I suppose, are there, and they offer something; but so often what it is they offer is a way to go outside of myself, and be something there, enjoyable, real, but not full.

Often I look at what I have just said, because I repeat it often to myself, and sometimes aloud into the world, and I hope that one day I will find a balance between the solitude of my own mind and soul, and the worldly fun and happiness of friendship. Between introversion and extraversion, to simplify it.

See, at the same time as I feel essentially alone, I want that to be proven wrong. I believe in soul mates. I believe in the thick ties of friendship. I believe in the happiness I feel when laughing, in groups, in the flow of conversation. Conversation with two lives that connect and have much in common and feel good [with each other] – myself, and another whole person. There is one friend whom I have, a best friend, it seems. At this moment I would say he could be in my life for its whole foreseeable future, knowing everything of me, both of us creating energy from the other. I would say so, except that every day there is a stronger wall of hopelessness surrounding him. I would say so except that I don’t know who he is sometimes, and I don’t know what to do. I would say so, except that I want to be happy, and much as I love him, I do not want to fall after him. [I have been there].


This kind of thing- do I need therapy or not? I have days- weeks, ages, it seems- where I’m high, but it isn’t high in a ‘manic’, out-of-control way, is the thing- it seems natural. In that time, those periods, I feel as though I know my purpose. I feel connected to god, and more than that, I feel connected to myself, like I am all I need, and being in my alone state feels right. I am myself, everything is right in me. I am my own god- the world is going through me [as a vessel] and coming out in my way, my coloring. That is what is right. I feel blessed. The infinite world, the universe, and its soul have given me so much- understanding, strength, the ability to hear what it is saying and use it. I don’t feel I am god, or a god, or God, but I’m thankful to god, for what god is, what that makes me, and for having him inside me. Giving me this and blessing me in this way. God, to me, is an essence, an element, a being both larger than the universe and a piece intricately twined into it. Looking at myself as well, I am a miniscule piece of the universe; and yet, the entire universe is embodied inside me- breathing through me- possible within me.

I lose sight of that sometimes, but it is always true, and it always comes back, falls into place as the right part of me. Makes everything right. It always comes back… I’ve been told that my sadness comes from not being able to hold on to my happiness. Not having a grasp of that feeling.

Or I feel as though I am called to something: to pursuing gender studies, and pushing towards a more openly possible world gender-wise; towards the kind of equality that is doing what you want. There was a period when I was drawn, forcefully, completely, towards police work, towards service in the field- and to think that now, I’m shy to admit that, as though shameful- because it isn’t a part of me, of a large enough part of me, anymore. I feel like I can’t make decisions about anything, anything in my life, because I don’t know if by the time the decision becomes reality, I’ll still want it. Some things make me anxious- things that I once wanted to do become uncomfortable, things I can’t go into because they aren’t me, they aren’t what I want. I wonder, then, whom I’m letting make my decisions. This is why I feel like no one knows me, as well- because I don’t know myself, because I am not anything, or because I can’t remain as anything I am; I’m not one thing, and nor am I anything I was in the past, and nor does who I am now giving any indication at all of whom I’ll be in the future.

I’m not female. I could tell you that at any hour of any day. There are some things like that, like how I know that love is being glad someone exists. When we die, we exist inside a manifestation of our souls, age backwards, and then reincarnate with a stripped down version of the same infinite soul. Everything, every possibility in the universe, is inside a person’s soul. Every person is a tiny piece of the universe, and each action contributes to it. Consciousness came into being to fire a higher form of energy, to power the universe and all existence in a meaningful way, [a way with choice]. Irony is a kind of human beauty fashioned after natural life, that never ceases to be beautiful. These, things that I know, that a squared plus b squared equals c squared.

Most of what I know in a true way takes place in a scope and measure of the world that most do not have the same awareness of- that doesn’t affect working and breathing or the access of money, food, health, shelter, water, comfort, and love.  Most of the things I know take place in a world that I want to be a part of, but that I currently am not familiar enough with. Most of the things I know take me away from the world… and often leave me breathless.

There are many fragments of myself. Divided firstly into the four quadrants of any human being, there are the mind, heart, body, and soul. Divided then, forevermore, inside me, in ways that manifest outside me. That is my way of saying, I am here. I am real. I exist. I connect and react. I think, I feel. I go on.

That is my way of saying hello, if I am ever able to do so from the bottom and the peak of who I am.


15.03.28 Dream

I had a dream last night, reminiscent of other dreams that I think but am not certain I’ve had, as though I’ve been dreaming dreams beyond my dreams. In them, there are multiple dimensions, and people can move into a different dimension where they steal into a new body, and they move with this new body back into my world, and act as this new person. In this dream, there was a house, an old relative’s, and my family and two close friends were with me in this house. The two friends and I had discovered that people were doing this, taking over other people; there was a second Adam to the one I knew, and could have been many others infiltrating the world around me. We were rushing this mystery, clawing through it to sort it out. We pulled a board game out from under the dresser in the neatly made up patchwork bedroom, dusty and decrepit, and what it told us was haunting. At the end, once the issue that been dealt out, settled, there was only one Adam, thank god, and I loved him, my family sat for pictures and the photographer asked, how many of you are Great Aunt, and both my parents and my only brother raised their hands. I was surrounded by people who weren’t my family, and I felt betrayed by them for being not them. This doesn’t mean anything to me, but I want it to.

This fever hasn’t broken yet

Thinking about how if this were then there’d be ants swarmed in the sticky dregs of ice cream and I might be standing on my bed right now yelling because the roaches were fucking everywhere

But it’s one of those things that’s been magnified through time, like the acidic gasoline rainbow heaves of us and the way the calm tastes as sweet as lucky charm marshmallows, which have never failed to burn my teeth and make me feel like too much sugar was the way to kill kids’ brain cells and have them like it

And I’m sitting here like I did once last year, and the year before, on those days I always seem to forget, that come back like pH paper the same shade as before and I’d never know except in the beating of this cold room with my legs cramped up in failure yoga and my ears zinging in that way that makes me feel like the world is still turning even though this morning my heart was ticking, it was more like the sound of cogs turning and far less like the easy thunk of a drum where the dancers gyrate and my heart goes out to orgasmic bodies and I decide I’m a lesbian, a thought which I will refuse when I become my real gender and one which I will refuse again when my past self tries to feel it because, as I will tell this urgent and well-meaning past, I do not think that was what I meant, because the way her body shook a month ago did not fit into my own world and was not intricate and sensual and I didn’t need it in the way I have needed the eyes of men in my fantasies and have spread my body wide and released it like money in a bank transfer for the use of veined arms and deep voices and thick cocks that whisper forcefully into the their blood

I see you waiting at the window and you watch the slick pane as I wander away down the path to the trees, through the trees to the river into the river downstream huffing water and choking as I reel myself back to the surface and my weight is flip-flopped and I’m like oh, that’s what that warning was but I will, I swear, grab onto the rust metal railing that will tear my skin and I will hiss and drag myself ashore and smile and tell myself I’m a fucking idiot

But no one could be me but myself, and I’m glad I am my own owner my own charge the miscreant who has to deal with the blood I will lap from my hand and the why? feeling clogged in my water-logged heart as I sit there and smile and know I better go back soon because there are people who love me whom I will tell the story, even though the magnitude will be lost to the zing of the instinct moment, and they will only have warmth and big eyes to let me know: they want me in this world, even if (though) I’m not made for it.


testosterone / injection

testosterone / injection

Here, with my veins
coiled in skin
muscles pulsing
      slow, slick ricochet beat
these cluttered rat-pack cavities
pipelines hoarding
tissue, blood, and juicy hormones
this surface form,
a smooth pale carving
illustrations, scars roaming skin
penned through weeds of hair.

This movement, motion, trau-
matic difference
this skittering substance,
this drug a worm
blue light, blinding blood
      a serious, vital act.

Magniscopic clarity
familiar reality,
startled white legs, wrinkly dark briefs
this bottle,
its red safe container stacked
      Social Deviance and poetry.
20– 23– needles
      3mm syringe.

Incense colours my room,
its breaths, of a soul
and I’ll sleep here tonight
      patience running, my heart
not knowing which way’s up
there, with thrusts through compact ribcage
‘til I hush it to our sleep.
Rain, one kind of tingling
there’s another that strums
      capillaries, inches
and fires in my brain.

Swabs of cool alcohol
air sucked up plunger
tip the bottle, liquid bubbles down
insert, press
needle drinks in this week’s dose
      alcohol circles
rub that bite, instinctive fear
suck in strength, for
silver lightning at my thigh.
Bring it close
rear back, and breathe
press down, shot
through warm flesh.

Here, needle, liquid
easy knock at body’s door
sword straight from mount of leg
pulse the plunger back,

      Molten in my muscles
thickness through my leg
      satisfaction in my blood.
Nerves shake, rear up and numb
soothed like fluorescent light hum
fingers splay, tender,
cold press,
and pull the silver out.

I’ll sleep here tonight
      patience running, my heart
not knowing which way’s up
there, with thrusts through compact ribcage
‘til I hush it to our sleep.

Rain, one kind of tingling
there’s another that strums
      capillaries, inches
and fires in my brain.

coursing through a river now
      becoming mine.

(15.02.09-10) (15.03.04)

Dawn [Message to Adam]

[Message to Adam]

I haven’t been good to anyone I care about, and I don’t even feel truly wanting of communication about this right now, but I wanted to let you know many things have been doing downhill in recent times – as in, the last 2-4 days. I’m needing time, at least another two weeks, to look back into the last few months and pick out what’s been going on. As well, I’ve decided to look more thoroughly into my personality and mentality, because the relationships I’ve started this semester (Lydia) have led me to believe it would be beneficial to gain feedback and assistance with social and relational aspects of myself. I don’t know where we’re at, you and I – by which I mean, I don’t know where I’m at personally, and am unable to envision and clarify the relationships I have before I deal with myself. Lydia has reached a point at which she needs feedback and evidence of my emotional investment in her, and given that I am mainly unavailable to give that currently, I fear our relationship may end; following this subtle realization, I’ve fallen into a place of numbed pain, assuming the reaction of this possible end. My last emotional action, following the excitements of Lydia, alone time, and time with extended family on various levels both negative and positive, has been to cut my skin in five places, with depth and breadth across my body. Again, this is to give you an overview of my state for the last while, though I feel unable to offer anything that may symbolize a relationship between us. I’m sorry – for what, I’m uncertain, but I offer this to the world affected by me, and very deeply for myself, comprehensively over the last four months.


Figments (reflection on the imagined future created in the past, brushed off by the actual present)

last year, I glanced her with tucked shirt, saluting, sauntering, cacophony sounds

yesterday, unbeknownst to
figments of the past
blurry mem’ry cold,
she lay
wound around me
lacing with me

first bright hazy hazy sighting
greeting, turning away,
startled, swallowing
the thought of her, down my throat

coming up now,
to the present, to the air
arms round ridges, body senses
written universe
sculpture scene
our lines, our body twined,
synesthetic entanglements
then forgotten
soothing, hair stirring passion
and gone

not each other
outside each other
without each other,
pressed to–
begging sighing warmth, folding blankets of –each other,
rising, pressing
clock tick heart,
minutes turning over

structures non-existent ’til I met her, that existed nonetheless

hands on handles, handles turned,
before they came to be,
before my knowing
with I, to need
to give them purpose

now here, now aching, now
witness to her vibrancy
brushing silt sand skin, my foil
colour definition
window eye frame
raveling, drawing me

aligning, drinking
drunk now

once realities
undone by reality
red wash thick paint
o’er clever made up fantasy
weaving unwoven diluted refigured

cloud choking, airless heights
blinking unreality, impossible, unfathomable
shrinking views, the breath of your name
mystic marrow madness

cacophony sounds