Writing a Suicide Note to Myself

I think I deeply underestimate the effect of pain on my mental health.

Oftentimes that pain will lead me to seek out medical care.

That medical care will fall short in myriad ways.

The most damage is done when I am treated like I do not know what I am talking about(which I do, it’s my body and I’m a smart cookie).

They go on to not listen or ignore symptoms.

Systemic misgendering.

Ultimately, ineffective treatments and I have wasted hours, expending myself mentally and physically, with nothing new tried, no answers, no treatments, no referrals, no belief that it would improve, a whole mess of micro aggressions, and worsening pain.

I was writing my suicide note in my head while driving home.

I wasn’t worth listening to. I wasn’t worth respecting. I wasn’t worth treating. I was a drain on the system.

 

A creature of pure torture and it wasn’t going to get better.

Because I will always be the person that writes “LOL” when a form leaves 8 spaces for you to put your medication list.

Because I will need multiple specialists who for some reason can never coordinate their blood work requests.

Because the combined costs for the surgeries I will need to no longer squirm like a child at a funeral just at the idea of being in my body exceeds that of most suburban homes.

Because I have wanted to die as long as I can remember, and only regular therapy, medication monitoring, inpatient hospitalizations, and the occasional emergency interventions keep it from happening.

 

There’s so many stories lately about resuscitating addicts. Someone mentioned a “three strike rule,” where they’d no longer administer emergency medication.

So where does that come in with suicide? How many times do you wake someone up with a smile and tell them they aren’t worthless and sit beside them coloring and chatting as they stare off in to space and beg the universe that JUST ONCE someone would have thrown up their hands and said “well I guess they weren’t worth saving after all.” How many times do you say hello and goodbye to the staff that all knew you anyway before the EMT blacklists your house?How many interventions does it take until when a patient says “I’m worthless,” the reply is, “Well, you’ve met your mental health value quota so, yeah, you’ll have to find some worth somewhere else in life. ”

The mental health system is slow, toxically still full of stigma, and prey to every -ism.

But here I am still.

I was past three strikes years ago, folks.

I thought a line should go in my suicide note- “In lieu of flowers, please send letters to local hospitals and your congressmen.”

 

I came up with some clever lines. Even some stuff about the selfishness of suicide.
Because it’s not. It’s not about you, and you’re being arrogant if you think that. If anything, it’s selfish of you for wanting to keep someone who is suffering that much around, just so you can feel marginally better.

Things like that mindset guarantee I’m not pleasant to be around, I’m pretty sure I don’t have all that many friends, mostly acquaintances.

Profound mental illness, it turns out, is uncomfortable.

I hide behind biting sarcasm a lot. It’s actually the shield that bites back.

 

Then I got to thinking about family. Ain’t that a can of worms.

I thought about the funeral. It’d probably be at the church I grew up in and was chronically awkward in. The one that was 400 people that met in a pole barn when I was 2 and vomited on someone’s shoes and will never live down. I was there as it expanded. As it moved. As it kept rejecting me socially. I was there for the newest addition, millions upon millions of dollars raised. I toured it it when it was scaffolding, sheets of plastic and exposed concrete. I watched as it stretched a video outreach across the globe and my father would occasionally do some paint touch up work on the pastor’s massive boat.

Somehow non-denominational is its own particular denomination. Whodathunkit, it has some very traditional and conservative mindsets.

I knew that without a legally changed name and gender marker, I would be deadnamed among my family until we were all dirt.

And when I came out as pansexual I was told that “a line has been crossed in the eyes of God” if I would ever touch a woman.

And when I came out as transgender I was told that “this was an exploration” and “I will find a revelation.”

“God loves her more than we love her.”

You can change if it’s supposed to cut or be supportive depending on what you emphasize.

My dad had said in the session with my therapist that I have an “emotionally built feminine psyche” and that “guys don’t deal with these emotions.” He figured that a part of my transition goal was to get over trauma through that reasoning. He also said he has nothing but compassion for those that are internally conflicted, which I have been for a very long time.

He challenged me to find one person who was truly happy having done this, 10 years out, figuring that anyone who was transgender would just be so conflicted that they’d never really improve their lives.

Months later my mother was teary eyed when she asked me if I thought I was still saved.

She said “I have to hold onto the thought that you might still be in heaven.”

I wondered at the hellfire that was currently eating her alive, fresh and meaty and ripe, right on this plane of existence.

I thought of all this while I plotted my suicide note. The idea I could be so wrong, so broken that I would be cursed to brimstone and damnation had such a hold on her heart. I fumed.

I spewed. You know, in my head.

Then I craved. I wanted someone to read the note at my funeral. Read the note at the church I was raised in.

I wanted someone to tell them that this is not the gospel. Christ’s blood was spilled so no more has to be.

 

I got home.

I took some medication.

I pet fuzzy animals.

I relaxed on the bed.

I felt a little bit better.

 

Then I got angry.

Angry enough to do some good.

When you are low enough that you’ve almost stopped feeling bad, stopped feeling anything, you can find angry.

You can tap into it.

 

I realized that no one is going to do my advocacy for me.

I may already be fighting hard.

I will have to fight every damn day.

And it will keep hurting.

But I can’t give up and leave my mantle for another, they must carry their own.

I have to be vulnerable.

I have to do it myself.

I have to tell my story myself.

I have to live long enough to improve MY life myself.

To show who I am.

To prove it.

Maybe only to myself.

And still…

There was an incredibly powerful exercise that I did once in a group session with other alcoholics and addicts. It was about the first step-admitting you are powerless. It was recommended by one of our peers, who said his sponsor guided him through it. He gave us all an index card and told us to number one through ten, leaving two lines for each number.

Then he said “I want you to think of ten of the worst things you did while you were drinking, and write them down. Leave an empty line.”

Our leader, Bob, was feeling sassy, so he timed people. The first person completed his in 27 seconds. Others needed to think a little harder. I was in the middle of the pack.

Then he gave us the key for the exercise.

After every statement, we had to write “and still I kept drinking.”

We had to confront the fact that not only did we facilitate these terrible experiences, we chose our demon again. And again. And again.

So for me it would start out a bit like:

I broke a goddamn toilet, and still I kept drinking.
I was sleepwalking naked, and still I kept drinking.
I let the horses out in the middle of the night, and still I kept drinking.
And so on.

It occurred to me recently that this same method could be modified a bit for other situations. I thought of my parents, the spiritual abuse they put me through, and how I’d keep crawling back to them.

So here’s another list. Yeah, it’s different, because the first reflects more personal choice rather than something being done to or with you. It was still a key moment for me to process this list, though. I think it’ll help give me strength.

1. They taught me how to tie a noose when I was really young*, and still I gave them more chances.
2. They told me I was getting fat, and still I gave them more chances.
3. They had me work for the family business in a shop from an incredibly young age, and still I gave them more chances.
4. They made me write pages from the Bible every day to improve my handwriting, until I developed carpal tunnel, and still I gave them more chances.
5. They held me to such high standards that it was impossible to ever succeed or feel like I could be good enough, and still I gave them more chances.
6. They stayed close with my exes even though it made me uncomfortable, and still I gave them more chances.
7. They put down my perfectly healthy dog unexpectedly without telling me while I was away in the hospital, and still I gave them more chances.
8. They left bible pages open about raising godly children after finding a dildo at age 16, and still I gave them more chances.
9. They guilt tripped me for how I was making them feel by choosing to live in my car rather than with them during a complicated time, and later gave me a mattress shoved behind a couch as a bedroom, and still I gave them more chances.
10. They refused to let me see a therapist or get medication for my depression, then insisted on a Christian counselor when it became court mandated after my first institutionalization, and had him perform an exorcism on me, and still I gave them more chances.

It was a pretty frequent pattern that I’d get sick of them and run off, or end up in a mental institution. But I always crawled back, and was always made to feel broken and wrong.

The last couple weeks, I kept getting little barbs from my Mom that indicated that she knew about the transition although I hadn’t had the guts to come out directly to them. Things like telling me how I was the feminine version of my dad, or how girly looking my hair was coming along to be, or how “a girl can dress up pretty and wear makeup and heels and have fun but when a boy does it it’s weird.”

It got to the point that I just walked out the door and left their property after she said something like that. Stopped talking to her. I texted her and said if she wanted to talk, I was meeting with my therapist and she could join, so she did.

She claimed she didn’t have a clue about the transition. She said that when she looks at me she sees “a very confused young person.” When my therapist gave me a chance to express how I was feeling, all I could come up with for a minute was “tense,” and she jumped in saying “And I’m devastated.” Not only did she continue to deadname and misgender me after we explained my wishes, she actively tried to correct my therapist and fiance when they were using the right ones. She asked my fiancé if he was okay with this, and after contorting her face in disgust when he said yes, asked “WHY?!?!” When he explained that his love had nothing to do with my gender, she said “Wow, so anybody can do what they want if they love ‘em.”

There’s another therapy session scheduled.

I added to the list number 11. They invalidated my choices about my gender and sexuality.

Any chances from here on out are to be supervised by a professional.

*It actually wasn’t until very recently that I realized this was fucked up. I mentioned something about it in passing on Facebook and a number of friends jumped in saying how gross that it was. I had been under the impression it was fairly normal, like a Boy Scout thing or whatnot.

The Day I Lost My Husband

I had a few friends come out as transgender in the last five years. When I saw this piece posted by my friend, about their own processing in the relationship, my eyes welled up. I couldn’t help it. I later read it to my boy, who didn’t respond to it emotionally on the same level I did, but still listened intently and nodded along. I don’t know what he saw in it, where it met him. I do know that it made me feel a little less like I was betraying a promise of who he signed up to be with, and made me feel a little less alone.

 

The Day I Lost My Husband

Two years, not long to be married, practically still newly-weds, but then it happened. He had been sitting there in front of me. There was a deep fear in his eyes, his hands were clutching mine as though to let go would mean our last parting, then he was gone. I mourned him then, and sometimes I mourn him still. Never again would I be held by manly arms or protected by his masculine presence as I walked. There would be no strong pecs to rest my head upon as we watched TV at night, no strong square chin speaking my name in whispers of love. No deep voice would ever again tell me how much I was loved, protected, and cared for. There would be no deep flirtatious whispers, no manly romantic gestures, no masculine presence to wake up to and fall asleep in the comfort of. In the space of a moment, it was gone, he was gone, and I mourned. Sometimes I still do. This is not what was supposed to be, this was not our male and female union we promised to be, forever, until death do we part. He was gone, but hands still held mine in their frantic grasp. My eyes still met dark, beautiful, exotic eyes. And I asked the only thing that I could think to ask, “Are you leaving me?”. She replied, “Of course not!” and then I kissed my wife. I held my wife. My wife held and comforted me. We talked, as we had always talked. We joked and laughed, as we always had. We even told the same jokes. The soul in front of me said, “I love you.” And my soul responded with every ounce of it, “I love you too.” I realized I couldn’t lose my husband, I had never had one. I didn’t mourn for a husband lost, but for a trip Mammoth Caves that went to Virginia Beach instead, for the vanilla ice cream cone I ordered, though they gave me cookie dough instead. I mourned for the loss of the beauty of Earth’s second moon, the boat I never sailed nor moored. I mourned for the husband that I, for a moment, thought I could have had. Truth be told, there were never any manly romantic gestures or well defined pecs. No deep voice had ever passed her lips, and it wasn’t a masculine presence that comforted me as I went to sleep or woke. These things only existed in that moment of loss when my mind turned to the what if’s, the “this is how it’s supposed to work,” and “this was not the plan”. Love called me back to myself, my soulmate still spoke to my soul. And if there is some discomfort as I wonder if my friends will abandon me, or if a public kiss will be met with disgust, it is worth it. My soulmate let me see her true soul. My wife upheld her vows that day. Together, we will be our true selves, together our souls will journey, we will be there for sick or well, for time and trials. And, most importantly, we will tell the same dumb jokes, comfort each other as we always did. We will cuddle and hold hands and if anything has changed, it is this: Today as I look in beautiful, loving eyes and hold soft, gentle hands, I know that she is my wife, and always has been. One day, in one moment, I lost a husband, but truth be told, I never really had one.

-Jennifer Bennett Plowman

 

Band-Aids

I’ve been up since 5:37 am. My partner is snoring beside me. I can’t get back to sleep. Why?

Today is the day.

Today I get my instructional session on injecting Testosterone. Today I get my first dose.

It marks a huge milestone quite early on in a long journey. I’m excited and nervous and completely unable to shut my brain off.

“Will my snoring get manlier? I’m not sure that my snoring isn’t already manly. Must consult friends and family.”

“Will it be worth it?”

“Ooh, my belly hair will be socially acceptable!”

“When will I pass?”

“What a great opportunity to bring my Iron Man band-aids into the world of adult endocrinology.”

“I wonder if I’m gonna get beat up.”

“I think my voice just cracked!”

“Should I go into sex work to afford my transition?”

“My toe twitched, I wonder if it’s getting stronger, oh god what if the muscles come in asymmetrical and I end up walking lopsided or upside down or something.”

“Maybe self defense classes are cheaper for women, I should jump on that.”

“I’m kinda horny. I wonder if that’s, like, regular horny or T horny. I bet my genitals are gonna start finishing before my brain gets the chance to, and then roll over and go to sleep. Typical…”

“How much will they have to slice apart my body to sculpt something tolerable?”

“I’m on my period. Can a uterus have a testosterone seizure? Would that be any different than regular cramps?”

“When will I feel like myself?”

“My beard is coming in so PATCHY. Wait, I think that one has been there for awhile.”

“This isn’t going to make the pain of growing up go away.”

“Nevermind on the horny thing, I think it might have just been gas.”

“I’m driving up costs in every insurance pool I’ll ever be in.”

“I’m kinda hungry. Well, I’m essentially a teenage boy now, so…”

“One of these days you’ll have to talk to your parents.”

“How fast does facial hair grow anyways? *SPROING*?”

“Living authentically is hard. Wouldn’t it have been so much easier if one of those suicide attempts had worked?”

There, right there at the intersection of mental illness and dysphoria, my frontal cortex quivers. I grow ever more hopeful as I pass these milestones, or when people who haven’t seen me since my haircut do a double take. That doesn’t stop a lifetime of self loathing from caressing the smooth edges as it slithers knowingly down into the grooves it has worn into my thinking.

I take another step in my journey, knowing there’s a hundred thousand more.

I might get blisters.

But I packed Iron Man band-aids.

It’s not supposed to be this easy.

I have been positively blown away by how lucky I’ve been and how good that the system has been to me. I called my PCP’s office to see if I could get in earlier than my next med check to discuss the potential of starting hormones at some point after my bariatric surgery. They had an appointment available the next day. He was absolutely awesome, and referred me to an endocrinologist, saying that it’ll probably take me two-three months to get in.

 

The endocrinologist’s office called me that day, and THEY had an appointment available the next day. Absolutely unreal… I feel so blessed.
So I went to that endocrinologist that morning, picked up the vial from the pharmacy at like 11, and on Thursday I have my instructional session.
They said I can start before the bariatric as long as I skip the injection a week or two directly before it.
This way might be a little harder. I don’t really know.

I’ve never been more excited for a shot in my life.

 

Also, today I got a haircut. Witness!

 

I’m very much afraid.

There are plans in place to move to Arizona next year. I was going to do it secretly. I was going to cut ties with everyone I knew back home, but for a select few. I was going to start over. I was going to give up on people that I’ve known for ages, on the chance that they will reject me. That’s borderline personality talking, if you’ve ever heard it whisper.

There are plans in place for me to get bariatric surgery. In a couple months, my body will begin to change rapidly. I was going to start hormones then. I was going to try to be sly.

The truth of the matter is that I will be rejected by some. I will be found out. And this is not the authentic way to live my life. I will regret it.

So I’m going to make the brave choice.

I’m going to choose the words that will baffle, will hurt, will likely come back around to show me pain in the face of a deeply conservative community.

I am not what I was made to be.

I am transgender.

I have had these feelings for a long, long time. Not feelings, really. Knowledge. A soul scab that never quite heals right ’cause it keeps getting torn.

I push it away. Again. And again. And again.

“It’s not natural. I’m just a tomboy. There’s not enough women in manufacturing, you might be an oddball but you’re an important one.”

“They’ll hate you forever.”

“They’ll think their kid is gonna go to hell.”

Probably a dozen psychiatric hospitalizations. Maybe half that many semi-serious suicide attempts(I say semi about the results, not the intent).

I’m on about $1600 dollars worth of medications each month and I still can’t work through the anxiety of going to a goddamn second-run theater.

I was already in hell. I’ve been there a long time. I was in second grade the first time I told someone I wanted to kill myself and I didn’t get any kind of therapy or medication until I was 19.

This is the chokehold, the silencing factor, that a belief system can have.

Maybe I won’t be accepted.

But the time has come.

And I’ll run it if I have to. To Arizona or anywhere else.

But today I declare my journey.

Today I take the first step.

 

 

 

 

 

Please consider donating to the costs of transition here:

https://www.gofundme.com/lets-just-get-rid-of-those

Here you are…

That story you’ve been waiting for, the one I hinted at before! I know the two people in Russia that have looked at this blog must have just been on the edge of their seats.

Here it is: Youtube Story Time!

Sorry you have to put up with my human form being in there.

Astral projection is harder than they make it out to be.

What is this?

Blog number 5? Damn you WordPress.

Like I really needed five distinct blogs to catalog all the nothing I do.

In any case, it’s time for a whole new identity. I’m reinventing myself!

I don’t think I invented my last self, but whatevs.

A part of me is lurking in the back of my head, telling me to make a sperm joke. That part of me is skeeving the rest of me out. Another part of me is calling for me to build a wall between that part of me and the rest of me.

Diplomacy is hard, y’all.

I’ve been struggling lately. There have been a few dreams about gender transition that have really shaken me. I’ve always had the thought. For as long as I can remember. I’m also hyper aware of how much easier my life would have been had I been born a boy. How much more natural it would have felt. How much better I would have fit in. Maybe I wouldn’t have all the mental health struggles that I do. I don’t know.

I don’t really wanna play those games. It only leads to pain.

The truth of the matter is that I have pushed away these thoughts for the 27 years I’ve been on this planet, because of my upbringing. My parents, who are great people, are not great parents. At least not for me. Hyper Conservative Christian Evangelicals.

HCCE’s?

I can’t pronounce that. It’s like coughing up phlegm at the back of your throat.

I think I’ll tell a little story in a bit.