A Confession

I need to confess.

And, somewhat, I wish I’ve had the guts to say it sooner.

It’s been tough. Generally, in life. I’ve been up and down and I dragged myself until now.

But I don’t regret it.

I cannot regret it.

For years I’ve hide and pretended that I was being dramatic. Oh, well, I am. But not in the way I used to believe I was.

Well… Here comes the worst part, but I want to get over with it.

I am transgender. Well, now I guess I am not. I suffer from anxiety and I take antidepressants. I am a university student and I am older than my classmates. I am older than I should be in order to deal with things I am dealing with. I’ve been in a relationship with a narcissist and got scarred by it. I am afraid of love. I am afraid of relationships. I’ve been afraid since my parents told me I should be.

And I can’t afford my life. I can’t afford to stop either.

I can’t rest.

I can’t wait.

I can’t resist the temptation to believe that it matters.

That all of this matters.

That it will change anything.

I hope it will change something one day.

I’ve never been honest. Not like this. Not like this. Not black on white. Not publicly. Not in front of someone that might see.

I am the child of immigrants. I emigrated from the country my parents immigrated to but not back to where I started from. I am an immigrant, and I believe in love in all the forms, and I believe in distress, and evil and I believe in pain.

My friend took antidepressants as well. They made them sick. They were different but now they’ve just accepted the way the things are.

And this is not a short story anymore, I am sorry.

And it is not a poem.

I wish it could be.

I wish I could afford myself. And I wish I could breath. And at least my medications made me stop drinking. So now I have one problem less.

I’ve seen myself in the mirror today and my eyes are a different shade. Or maybe I never watched carefully. Maybe I just ran away every time I tried to check.

It feels different than I thought it would. In a good way. In a bad way. In a good bad way that makes me think of sweet and sour, and pineapples and kiwis. It hurts, immensely.

I just want to get it off my chest.

Because, don’t misunderstand me, I am glad.

I am here.

I am afraid. And I am lost. And I don’t know how it’s going to end.

But I am here.

I am here to see and feel, even if sometimes I wish I didn’t.

All I know is that I want to write. I want to write and breath and sleep and see tomorrow, even if it’s gray. Even if it’ll fall apart. Even if it’s going to be hard and maybe even harder than now. Maybe harder than it was. Maybe not. Maybe I’ll meet someone who will make me believe again. Maybe I won’t and I will still start to believe again.

It doesn’t matter, really.

I am.

I am recovering. And it will take time. It always takes time.

And patience. A lot of patience. And will.

The willingness to get up every morning and turn on the light. And come back. Move and start once again.

It’s taking time.

Maybe all of the time that I have left.

But, at least, I’ll know that, at some point, I started to live again.