Dear Diary… I am drunk.
I’ve started this blog because… Well a lot of reasons. First, I’m drunk. What a great time to write! But there’s more to it. Get ya hats on, sit yaself down… Let me tell ya a story… Gather ’round, children. Daddy’s gon’ tell ya a storee.
I’m not gonna tell ya the fruity version—the long one that requires a lot of thoughtfulness and careful planning to write down. I am not in the mood for that. I’m inebriated. I don’t know if I’ve made that clear enough. I am drunk off my rocker. I can’t even feel my face. When I touch it, it’s like mushing into raw dough with my clammy hands… It’s marvelous, and it makes me giggle.
Did you have a nice July 4th? Sitting with your lover watching the fireworks? I bet it was grand…
I didn’t. My lover broke my heart. But let me be candid with you: he was actually very cool about it, as far as heartbreaks go. He even told me there was a chance we’d get back together. He said he still loved me, and kissed me on the cheek. Isn’t that sweet… Well, I don’t know if that actually meant anything. You just can’t know when someone leaves you. They’ll say anything just to get you out of their hair so they can sit back and think their lives over. But let me just say that when I was with this man, it was the best time of my life. I mean, I had some issues still going on, but the moments we had together, our dates? Best time I’ve ever had with another human being. And, being stupid and young, I fucking took him for granted. This man was my damn dream (fuck, he still is), and I wasn’t what he needed. It stabs right in the feels. It stabs real deep, and I feel bitter as all fuck that I can’t have him because I’m a hot mess. It’s really, really sucks ass.
The night he left me, my world had come undone. It’s changed me forever. I’ve been a special kind of broken since then, and I’m trying to put the pieces back together with my trembling hands.
That night, I walked in the ocean, waist deep. I wanted it to freeze me to death, or the salt to suck the moisture out of my body like that alien in the first episode of Star Trek after the pilot, or aliens to come up and suck my skeleton out of a random, unsuspecting orifice, leaving an empty, rubbery shell of human behind. I wanted anything to happen but to go back and see him. I was embarrassed, ashamed, and drifting out of reality. I walked in that water shivering, seaweed tangled on my legs and I wanted riptide to carry me out to sea. Maybe I’d wash up on some island and learn the language of the People there. I wanted anything but to go back to my old life. It was dark, I was freezing my balls off, and I saw other couples sitting on the sand. All I wanted was to watch the goddamn fireworks with him. HIM.
When it comes to pleasing me, I’m a simple man… VERY simple. It would have made my world to just watch the fireworks with him. I’d been looking immensely forward to that shit. Stupid, arbitrary explosions in the sky. A huge waste of money for a simple display. Pollution sucking the life out of our beloved Mother Earth. But it would have made me fucking happy, because I’m a cheap date, and it would have been with him, damn it.
The fireworks going off over the pier is a memory embedded in my mind. They are associated with my greatest loss and heartbreak, a huge sense of loss and grieving. Fantastic… I will probably always hide indoors when they go off now. Don’t mind me, just skedaddling away since the New Year’s fireworks are going off. Don’t you DARE show me the fireworks—I will punch a midget with flaming Hulk fists. Just… don’t even. I am not interested.
To be frankly honest with you, I’ve been a wreck ever since then, and weird shit has happened between us. I can’t even fully piece shit together. I try to think it through and my mind gets scattered, I get super upset, and then I get really drunk and write stupid shit on my Facebook. People told him about it (out of context, no doubt) so he’s distanced himself from me even more. I just keep running my stupid mouth, and it gets worse and worse. He doesn’t know me. And frankly, I probably don’t even know him. But I love him. Love is this weird thing. It has to do with the person’s heart, not how well you know them. But it doesn’t really matter. We can’t know each other, because it’s gotten too intense for him to handle. He’s just protecting himself, I guess…
This whole thing has me so bloody scattered. I wonder if it makes any more sense to him, because to me, none of this shit makes any sense. I just don’t get it. I know I’m not stupid… but something about emotions makes me incredibly dense. I just don’t get shit. I’m working so hard to get my damn self together, and every time it feels like I have a handle on it, my emotions sneak up on me and I freak out and get really drunk. I just don’t know anymore. Then I wake up and it’s like all of my progress has been lost. I’m in a really bizarre mental paradox, like the clock keeps resetting. It’s like Groundhog Day, except unlike Bill Murray, I don’t wake up with the knowledge of the previous days. I keep starting over, over and over.
I’ve had anxiety/depression since I was about 14 or so. I’m 23 now. Before that, I was a carefree kid, but still kind of a weirdo. I looked/acted weird and was never terribly popular. This ate at my self-esteem as a teenager. I got absorbed in art. I became SO good at it, that people worshiped my work. Even my ex loved my work… Everyone told me to do it for a living, but honestly, that was never where my heart was. Sure, I liked drawing, but I think my heart is still looking for where it belongs. Anyway… I’ve had my fair share of issues. This man leaving me… I loved this man with my everything. Holy shit did I love him. And a stupid part of me still does. Stupid! Everyone has advised me to get over him. That ship has sailed. I can’t have him. But my stupid, stupid heart still believes we can work it out someday. It’s stupid. He’s already decided I am not what he wants. Why do I keep insisting otherwise?
I am very intuitive. Usually, my gut feeling is right. But in this damn situation, I’m so confused. I don’t know how to deal with it. Usually something like this would fascinate me—I’d consider it a psychological puzzle and rise to the challenge! But because my emotions are at play, and I’m the one that’s heartbroken, it’s no longer fun and interesting. My judgment is clouded, and I just don’t know what the fuck. I’m so distraught it’s ridiculous.
I had depression and anxiety so bad that I’d have meltdowns. I’d throw adult tantrums, and only realise it afterward. I don’t have them the same way I did before he left me. I’d cry, freak out, and refuse to speak. Now? I don’t have those… but instead, I just drink until I can barely stand and run my mouth. It’s embarrassing, and I say a lot of shit I don’t really mean. Sure, I’m saying shit I feel, but it doesn’t agree with my mind. There is an emotional and rational side to my entire person. If just one side is speaking—emotional or rational—you aren’t getting the whole picture. A part of me is being silenced by some sort of intensity. That’s just reality. When I’m healthy, I can use both aspects of myself.
Two days after he left me, I was in the E.R. for a suicide attempt. A lot of it had to do with him, but more of it had to do with unaddressed issues I’ve had going on for years. Years before I met him, I stabbed myself in the neck, aiming for the jugular (however, it was a superficial wound). I also tried to OD on several occasions. I do my research, and I know these methods don’t work. When I want to die, a part of me still wants to live, and that’s why I’m still alive today. If I was sure about it, I’d hang myself, because that has a much higher success rate. Or get a bloody gun. The single reason I haven’t jumped in front of a train is because there’s a 1 in 5 chance I’d live to regret the decision, crippled. I’ve never really wanted to die. I just wanted the people who were hurting me to freaking talk to me. But when I felt suicidal… I really did want to die. It’s just another part of me said, “No, you idiot. Keep fighting!”
This man has been reasonably afraid of being around me. I look like a complete nutjob, and it got far worse after he left me. Though to be fair, he has his own fair share of issues, and has gone through shit similar to what I am going through, so I think it sucks that he is acting like it’s so alien to him. Regardless, he kind of met me at a bad time, honestly. And I met him at a bad time. The right people at the wrong time; just a sad fact of life. We’re totally compatible, and we’re totally good for each other, but not right now. And if we’ll ever be good for each other, it will probably be too late. He’s unbearably attractive, and has people swooning over him constantly. He has dozens of potential mates trying to jump on his jock constantly, even if he doesn’t realise it. All he has to do is simply pick one. I’m no competition. He loved me, and he stopped loving me. Missed my chance, and blew it like a freaking moron because we weren’t ready. Because i didn’t fix my bullshit first. I knew if I wanted to be with this man for life, I’d have to fix my bullshit. I didn’t know I’d have to lose him in order to do that. If I knew that, I wouldn’t have been so damn hopeful. Hindsight is fucking 20-20.
After that suicide attempt, I had another episode. He blocked me online. It got worse. I was so close to cutting my damn self, even though he’d gotten me to quit. I was craving the blade, and let me tell you—it’s an addiction. Self-mutilation becomes self-gratifying once you hate yourself enough. But I refused it. I called the National Crisis Hotline and they helped me. They gave me a local clinic to go to that accepted walk-ins and had a sliding-scale for low income. No excuses. So I went in, saw a psychiatrist, and got on mood medication.
Let me tell you, that medication really worked… for a few weeks. Then I started flipping balls again. It usually goes like this: In the morning, I wake up, still groggy. Sometimes, I dreamed about him. Whether I did or not, I wake up, expecting him to be there next to me. He’s not, I realise I’m in my bed and not HIS, and a part of me just freaks out inside. Sometimes I just fucking start freaking shaking… because emotions are stupid. So every morning, I wake up on the wrong side of the bed.
Then, usually I brush it off at some point, and get focused on my obsessive eating routine. I am trying to gain weight as quickly as possible so that I can enter the Army. Usually the day goes pretty well—until I go to work.
I love making pizzas, but when someone orders a pizza with diced tomatoes on it? I lose my shit. My ex hates tomatoes. And no matter what, seeing tomatoes makes me think of him. So even if I didn’t think about him all day, I stick my hand in the cold, wet tomatoes and I remember how much he is disgusted by that texture. I’m momentarily amused—because I love him—then I get really pissed, because FUCK! I thought about him again. I’m supposed to stop doing that. I swear, one of these days I’m going to go to a shooting range and shoot the living FUCK out of some goddamn tomatoes…
Then I go home. Sometimes shit on my Facebook feed comes up that makes me think of him, and I’ve considered removing everyone from my friendslist that makes me think of him, but that really isn’t fair to them… and I want to be “mature” and handle this shit like an adult. By doing that, I burden myself more. Trying to have “willpower” when you’re unstable just makes shit harder.
If I manage to go the whole day without thinking about him at all, it usually still hits me when I go to bed. When you’re alone, staring at the ceiling trying to sleep, that’s when all of that shit that bothers you starts to come up. I know you know what I’m talking about… That late-night bullshit when you brain wants to question your place in the universe, think about how big space is, how many atoms are in your big toe and about all of the goddamn mistakes you’ve made in your forsaken life…
If I’m super lucky and not even that happens, it gets me with my subconscious. Freud would love this shit. I’ll be drifting to sleep, and be in that place between reality and dreamland, and I’ll fucking see him. Or smell him. Or feel his embrace and his breath on my neck. I’ll hear his voice. He’ll say my damn name. I’ll start feeling nostalgic, remembering how much I love and miss him—and then wake up with a sudden jolt. I’ll be perspiring and grinding my teeth, realising that the past is no longer real, that he is no longer my man, and my head will just start spinning. This is generally when I start drinking gin and tonic profusely—it’s his favourite, so it’s become my poison of choice—to try to knock myself out and forget, write some stupid bullshit on Facebook before I go to bed, and regret it later.
Alcohol has two primary effects: it’s a depressant and has amnestic properties. In layman’s terms, it slows your brain down and makes you forget shit. So if I drink enough, I forget how sad I am about losing him. I get really boisterous and goofy, and just joke about how much it sucks that he left me. I’ll say he’s a big dummy and a dork and silly for leaving me, and joke about how he’ll “come around”. It’s all bullshit and I know it. He’s going through real shit right now and doesn’t want me to be a part of it. And the reality of that? It hurts. Like all hell. Gin has become so central to my life that I don’t go anywhere without a flask. There are now many situations in my everyday life where I do not feel comfortable being sober.
I’ve said some really unkind shit about him, and I regret it, because people on Facebook told him about it. Out of context, of course. It feels unfair, but reality is… The truth is the truth. I really felt that shit. Sure, I felt it temporarily when I was really mad, but I still felt it. I don’t feel like he should have known about it, nor do I feel people should have meddled and told him about it, but that is the reality of the Social Network. And besides, people fucking gossip. I hope they didn’t tell him anything untrue, or paraphrase things so badly or give him their version of things. But in the end, none of that matters. He wrote me off when he left me, and I should have realised that then and there.
My heart has been totally broken over this. I don’t care if it was a “short” relationship. That has nothing to do with the impact. Say someone dies right in front of you. A complete stranger. That event may have transpired only a few hours, but it will impact you for life. I made love with this man, and he made some pretty hefty commitments with me. He came out to his parents and gay, and told me to move in with him. He was head-over-heels in love with me, just as I was with him. Then, out of the blue, he took it all back. That had a huge effect on my psyche, especially since I doubted someone like him loving someone like me, and he reassured me that I was good enough for him and that I was everything he wanted. It all blew up in my damn face… It makes me never want to trust people again, and I feel like I can’t love ever again, because I’m trapped loving a man who doesn’t love me at all. I can’t explain it. I shouldn’t love someone who blows me off and doesn’t believe in me. But I do. And I hate it. I want to stop feeling love.
After mulling it over a bit, I decided to join the Army. My ex is a pretty high ranking Officer in the Army, and I hope I don’t run into him in my work. I probably won’t since he’s Reserves, and I intend to be Active Duty, because it is my ambition to be deployed as much as possible. I want to be deployed so bad that I thought about joining Marines, but decided against it because I think I’m better suited for the Army.
I wanted to join years ago, but gave it up to transition. After being dumped, I’ve decided that I want to join again, despite the transgender ban. One of my primary reasons is because the training they put you through reprograms your brain. They essentially program you to disassociate from pain and fear, which is what I need. I need to be able to think about him, even see him in person, and feel nothing. Not a single emotion. The military breaks your spirit, because it is necessary in order to be a solider. I want this. It is permanent and I want it. I want to be a man made of stone inside and out. I want to be a iron monk.
I’ve always wanted to be a trauma surgeon or mortician, but being a combat medic would suffice, and when I enlist, I intend to tell them that I wish to join the AMEDD program, and I’m an ideal candidate. I have a great brain for medicine. I know I will excel when that job is put in my hands. I was born to be a doctor, I just don’t come from money… Fuck money.
I want to see the worst of the worst, and help people who are in the agony of war. I want to be able to keep my cool in the scariest situations imaginable. I want suppress the adrenaline rush of combat, or use it to my advantage to act quickly and efficiently, I want to be in on the world’s most intense suffering, and help keep my unit together. And I want to be a part of the world’s best Armed Forces. I want to wear that uniform. I want to earn that uniform. I want that to be my identity. I want to be a number and in Service to my county. I don’t want to be a civilian. I want to focus on reducing the suffering in the most intense parts of the world. I am willing to risk and even sacrifice my own life for this cause. After all, civilian life has simply stopped having meaning for me. My only path as a civilian was with him, and since that ship has sailed, I am over civilian life. I want to be a modern warrior.
And in truth, I want to see people die. This isn’t a sadistic desire; I just want to have the experience. I want to grow as a human being from seeing it. And I want to help with the aftermath. I want to be the guy that keeps his cool when shit’s getting hairy. And I know I can.
The one time I mentioned it to him, he said it simply: “You don’t want to join the Army.” He meant it with ever fiber of his being. I could tell. He knows the horrors that happen there, and whether he openly accepts it or not, has PTSD from his experiences. Frankly, I’d rather have PTSD than deal with this. At least he can bury his emotions, move on, have fun with his friends. I can’t do that. I tried, damn it. I want that skill, because I’m tired of feeling it in agony everyday. And want something to hurt more than him leaving me. Something has to hurt more than this.
Another aspect of enlisting is that it could change me for the better. I will get a whole new perspective on life from this training and the job, and might leave a much stronger person. The training and experiences will definitely help me feel more capable and more in control of my own life and identity. I want to sell my soul to the Army, so they can break it and so I can be a whole new human being. I am willing to be completely ripped apart. If they want to wipe my memory and make me whatever they want, I am completely open to it. I will surrender completely to the authority that is my Command.
So that is where I’m at… crusading for transgender rights in the military, because I can’t enlist as a woman. I’m too male to pass off as a woman. I mean I could physically, but I’m legally a man. It’s in my records. I can’t fudge it. I can’t lie about it. If I find a recruiter who’s willing to slip me in, I’ll take it, but that isn’t likely.
This has become my life’s calling. To get transgender people in the Armed Forces and to train my body and mind so that when trans people can get in, I will pass all tests with excelling scores. I may also on the side take up a martial art and some other practices. I need to fill my schedule so full that I don’t have a second to think about him. His dog tags are a reminder of why I am willing to die for this country. Why I am willing to die, period. I am willing to die. And I want to live. I am tired of dying inside everyday. He can move on like I was a single, thoughtless breath in his life, but he completely turned MY life upside-down. I am scrambling to start my life over from what feels like scratch now…
I’m supposed to just get over this shit. Everyone tells me to stop thinking about it, but I don’t know how to choose to stop thinking about something. Especially when it rapes your subconscious. I don’t know how to fight that shit. Believe me, I’m trying. I’d love to fucking forget him completely after the bullshit that happened, because thinking about him doesn’t do anything good for me, except give me the occasional good feeling before I feel like complete shit. I’d love to forget him and see that there are other men in the world, but I just can’t. This is going to take a long fucking time to get over.
I saw a psychic after he left me. She told me to have fun, follow my passions, and that everything will fall into place. She also said he’d open up to me again. I don’t know if I should believe her, but these damn psychics… They usually hit the nail on the head. They usually get it right. So maybe he will. But I might not be open anymore. I might be a soldier, and he might run into a stone wall. I hope he’ll be wearing a helmet.
I don’t want a man ever again. The man I want, I can’t have. I’ve scared him off with my wild emotions. What can I say? I’m a passionate man. When I hurt, I hurt like hell. And when I love, I love you more than anyone will ever fucking love you. I’ll ALWAYS remember our first kiss. We were in his car, we had just run through the pouring rain, we were soaking wet, and he turned to me and said, “I’d like to kiss you now if that’s okay!” His smile was precious. I melted completely, and it was the fucking happiest moment of my life. That fucking moment. Kissing him. I felt so damn alive. I want to remember him for that, and nothing more.
I thought he was the wild animal, but I was just projecting. He’s the sheep. I’m the wolf. The lone wolf.