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And sometimes it feels like it’ll never get better.
Staring at the ceiling of his messy bedroom, Clown knows it won’t get better. So much has changed since last year, since the year before that, since six years ago, yet he doesn’t feel any better. If anything, it’s worse now.
Maybe it’s because now he knows what is wrong, what he can do, what he wants. Maybe it’s because he knows what he wants, needs, but can’t get it. Maybe it’s because he knows, but everything seems to be set on getting in the way. Maybe it’s because he knows now, how to proceed on getting testosterone, do well, get top surgery, but he can’t find a therapist to get the indication letter for insurance coverage, knows that even if he could, there’s no way he’d actually get on T. Being insured privately through his parents makes it all so complicated. They’d never let him. He’d never find a way.
Switching insurance isn’t possible, because he doesn’t have a job and he can’t get one because school is draining the life out of him and he can’t let his performance drop even by a single point.
Even if he miraculously found a way to get past all that, his body is so fucked up in numerous ways, who’s to say that he can even be put on testosterone?
And then, if he could, how would he manage while still living with his parents who got so mad at him for changing his name, who will try to overwhelm him out of HRT?
And if he managed? Who’s to say that he’ll be actually happy? Who’s to say that anything gets better?
And it feels like it’ll never get better.
Of course it won’t. Curling up on his bed in his crammed, disorganised, uncomfortable bedroom, Clown knows it won’t get better.
He knows it won’t because even in kindergarden, he’s been alone. Ever since he was put in society, he wasn’t a part of it.
He never learned how to make friends. He knows it’s something wrong with him because it seems to come so easily to everyone else. He knows it’s something wrong with him because no one seems to care as much as he does. He knows it’s something wrong with him because all his life, he’s been alone, surrounded by people who belong with each other. He knows it’s something wrong with him because he doesn’t belong.
He just wishes he had one person. One person to like him as he likes them. One person to understand him. One person to hold him. One person to want him.
He had one person. For three long years he had one person. For three long years he had one person and his life revolved around him . For three long years he thought he had finally found his person.
It only took three short years for him to leave. It only took three short years for him to stop caring and replace him. It took only three short years off of him and took eternity off Clown.
Because Clown cares too much. Because Clown thinks too much. Because Clown always puts his heart on the line. Because Clown put the last remaining heart on the line and was left with the pieces. Because he was Clown’s sun and just disappeared one month to the next. And what’s a simple human without a sun?
Clown can’t forget. He always forgets, but he is ingrained in his memory as the sun is in the burning grass.
And Clown doesn’t know how to make friends, how to make lasting human connections. So he doesn’t. So he stays curled up on his bed, dreaming of a life where he doesn’t want to die.
And it feels like it’ll never get better.
And staring at the mess, at the mountains of useless junk, at the barely walkable floor, at the ugly graffiti from when he was thirteen, in his frankly embarrassing room, Clown knows it won’t get better.
He wants a clean and organised room. He wants a room he can be proud of. He wants an aesthetically pleasing room, one that suits him. (But he supposes the mess suits him, because that’s what he is.)
He wants to be normal so bad, but he just can’t manage. He can’t bring himself to clean his room, make space for himself.
He wants to make his room livable, but he simply does not have the energy to finish it in one go. And he can’t do it in steps because the inbetween is even worse than the initial chaos and then he doesn have the energy to start another go.
And he doesn’t know where to start because there’s just so much. So much he doesn’t need, so much he wants to keep, so much he doesn’t want to lose because he’s not ready to grow forward yet.
And he knows he won’t be able to foster the organised state anyways, so he can’t bring himself to start fruitless endeavours. So why even bother?
And then every day it just gets worse and more junk piles up and more trinkets fall off his desk and more stuff covers his windowsill and it gets more and more difficult to even imagine sitting on the couch and it gets so overwhelming that Clown puts it off another day.
And it feels like it’ll never get better.
And staring at his laptop screen through burning hot tears, Clown knows it won’t get better.
Because there’s something wrong with him. Because he can’t be normal. Because everyone seems so great and he falls flat in comparison. Because everything he does is bad because everyone else is doing it so much better. Because nothing about him is interesting in the way that others are. Because he’s just him and nothing more. Because he wants to be someone, wants to have friends, wants to be the greatest person in the world, but he’s really just average. But he’s not even average, because average people can still be happy. Because average people have friends and can be liked. Because average people aren’t supposed to exceed just to meet everyone’s expectations. Because average people didn’t fall from being considered “good” at something.
Because there is something wrong with him.
And it feels like it’ll never get better.
And staring at ten old suicide notes, putting it off for another year, Clown knows it won’t get better.
Honestly, it feels like hell.
