“This body sucks. I suck. Goddamn it—everything sucks.”
This is about my LOVELY doctor, Let’s rewind—months ago, when I was still in college.
Still very much voluntarily concussed and on the edge of deciding whether I should have rat poison or rotisserie chicken for dinner.
“No. No, two months? That’s too long. I don’t think I can make it.”
“There’s nothing I can do. See you in two months.”
“No, wait. My body will be too far gone by then. Please—do something now. It’s my only shot.”
“You’re about eighteen. Even if you look like a child, believe it or not, your body won’t change. Now, I have another patient—”
“Please. I know what I’m doing. Or—do I look like I know what I’m doing?”
What she said next? I don’t remember. It was a blur. Everything was blindingly blurred.
I understand why she seems so unimpressed, my head was buzzing and thoughts from the last 17 years were all rushing to get heard.i was laughing, then crying,then a random 30 seconds of highly confused eye contect.I don't know which one made me lost her,maybe everything.
But I’m certain of one thing:
I was left to rot. To die alone.
Days passed—nothing but hopeless disappointment and rage. Why did she treat me like that?I waited too long for this.
I was sitting in class. Marcus hadn’t arrived yet.
(He said and did some things so vile they’d be legally actionable if I ever bothered to care. But I don’t. I’d rather not talk about him. Not again. Not here.)
Focus, Daniel. FOCUS.
I stopped breathing.
Why? Did I say something wrong?
Stop it.
Was I too confused? Too rude? Too immature?
GOD—WOULD YOU JUST STOP IT.
There was an unbearable pain in my left wrist. A cheap plastic ruler—fifty cents, see-through, fifteen centimeters—twisting in all directions, missing the veins. My fist was too well-formed to slice through.
I held my breath and kept going, my eyes locked on the swelling red worms under my skin—duplicating, dancing in my vibrating vision.
My phone buzzed.
“Next psych med appointment: June 18.”
I slammed it on the desk. Bloody hell. Fabulous timing.
Why am I here?
There was a funny sensation—itching, burning. Like something mocking me. Laughing while I sank deeper and deeper.
“I can just quit.”
To my surprise, they assigned me a psychiatrist somewhere in that agonizing void between appointments. Apparently, I was “mentally unstable”—too unstable to provide useful information about my own condition. So, evaluation time.
The process was... predictable. Obsessive questions about my parents. Some surveys. That’s it.
And guess what? I’m fine.
Yeah—maybe on some spectrums here and there—but I’m still very much sane. That’s good news, right?
Right?
Honestly, I’d rather go insane. At least then I wouldn’t have to afford all these pointless appointments with my crusty, dusty job.
When almost anyone can take control over my life and death,decides if I "deserve " to get any medical attention,anyone but myself...
So,sometimes I steal my Dad's bear in the middle of the night,tried to get drunk,I took one sip and the rest were in the sink.
My mom always said i have a good alcohol tolerance,but I rather not risk being the Joker.Who knows what kind of crazy shit I would do or say,who knows if I will strip naked and dance on the table top.
Sometimes I look down at my hips—see the extra-wide bones, the way they jut out like butterfly wings. I try to push them back in. They won’t budge. Just like the doctor wouldn’t listen.
Sometimes I wish I could scoop my brain out and slap it into her hands. Here. Feel it. Do you feel that? That’s what I was trying to tell you.
But that’s not possible, is it?
I smashed the showerhead against my hips. The skin warped over the bone, turned purple. Then green. Then yellow. A broken disco ball—that dont shine .
They didn’t go back in. I don’t think they stopped growing either.
As much as I’d love to believe the doctor—bones don’t lie.
Sometimes I collapse in the middle of a grass field when I pass one.
Let the bugs crawl. Let the sun burn.
Let the dried blades and little spiky sticks jab at me from every angle.
That’s when I feel like nothing. But beautifully so.
Like I exist in some odd vacuum—insignificant, yet not in a sad way. However that works.
That feeling—it’s beyond my usual mood swings.
But maybe it’s good. Better that than using a plastic ruler to mutilate myself like some deranged arts-and-crafts accident.
Before my next appointment, I jot everything down.
Every weird change. Every physical sign that I’m still developing.
Every cry for help my body makes.
I rehearse the “right” words. Make sure I say them properly.
So I won’t be left to rot again.
Yeah. What a dream.
I didn’t even get a chance to bring it up before being rushed out.
“Okay, see you in two months.”
“I don’t have two months.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I think it’s obvious.”
“You’re gonna kill yourself—is that it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know when I’ll be alive and I don’t know when I won’t.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“Do you think I know what I’m doing?”
“Well... you are really uninformed.”
Right. That was my line. I guess I just got Uno-reversed. How poetic.
Getting help shouldn’t feel like playing a game of chess while bleeding out on the floor.
I shouldn’t have to prove myself.
Shouldn’t have to meet some textbook standard.
But what choice do I have?
My mom always said i have a good alcohol tolerance,but I rather not risk being the Joker.Who knows what kind of crazy shit I would do or say,who knows if I will strip naked and dance on the table top.
Sometimes I look down at my hips—see the extra-wide bones, the way they jut out like butterfly wings. I try to push them back in. They won’t budge. Just like the doctor wouldn’t listen.
Sometimes I wish I could scoop my brain out and slap it into her hands. Here. Feel it. Do you feel that? That’s what I was trying to tell you.
But that’s not possible, is it?
I smashed the showerhead against my hips. The skin warped over the bone, turned purple. Then green. Then yellow. A broken disco ball—that dont shine .
They didn’t go back in. I don’t think they stopped growing either.
As much as I’d love to believe the doctor—bones don’t lie.
Sometimes I collapse in the middle of a grass field when I pass one.
Let the bugs crawl. Let the sun burn.
Let the dried blades and little spiky sticks jab at me from every angle.
That’s when I feel like nothing. But beautifully so.
Like I exist in some odd vacuum—insignificant, yet not in a sad way. However that works.
That feeling—it’s beyond my usual mood swings.
But maybe it’s good. Better that than using a plastic ruler to mutilate myself like some deranged arts-and-crafts accident.
Before my next appointment, I jot everything down.
Every weird change. Every physical sign that I’m still developing.
Every cry for help my body makes.
I rehearse the “right” words. Make sure I say them properly.
So I won’t be left to rot again.
Yeah. What a dream.
I didn’t even get a chance to bring it up before being rushed out.
“Okay, see you in two months.”
“I don’t have two months.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I think it’s obvious.”
“You’re gonna kill yourself—is that it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know when I’ll be alive and I don’t know when I won’t.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“Do you think I know what I’m doing?”
“Well... you are really uninformed.”
Right. That was my line. I guess I just got Uno-reversed. How poetic.
Getting help shouldn’t feel like playing a game of chess while bleeding out on the floor.
I shouldn’t have to prove myself.
Shouldn’t have to meet some textbook standard.
But what choice do I have?
She told me I “lack knowledge” of my own kind. Supposedly, she wouldn’t take a minor’s word—only the parents'.
So now I have a “task”:
• Study trans people (who’ve already transitioned)
• Get my parents involved
But I wasn’t uninformed. She just,didn’t ask.
All those nights. Those years.
Researching. Searching.
Trying to figure out what’s wrong with me—from the very first to the very now—
And all it amounts to is:
“You’re uninformed.”
Strange, isn't it? What “strange” even means. What we are.just strangers.
I never wanted to associate with my “kind.”
What kind? People? I’m a kind?
I’ve observed myself. I know what I am.
What not to associate.
And I feel this… this anger.
The kind of anger you get when someone bumps into you on purpose and doesn’t apologize.
The kind of rage where you want to tear them apart like a Labrador with a duck toy—bite down, shake, and rip until it stops moving.
That’s what I feel when I see others with the same defects as me.
Just as pathetic.
I am a transphobe,cause what eles can that be?
When I’m well,that’s the word,how?
So now I have a “task”:
• Study trans people (who’ve already transitioned)
• Get my parents involved
But I wasn’t uninformed. She just,didn’t ask.
All those nights. Those years.
Researching. Searching.
Trying to figure out what’s wrong with me—from the very first to the very now—
And all it amounts to is:
“You’re uninformed.”
Strange, isn't it? What “strange” even means. What we are.just strangers.
I never wanted to associate with my “kind.”
What kind? People? I’m a kind?
I’ve observed myself. I know what I am.
What not to associate.
And I feel this… this anger.
The kind of anger you get when someone bumps into you on purpose and doesn’t apologize.
The kind of rage where you want to tear them apart like a Labrador with a duck toy—bite down, shake, and rip until it stops moving.
That’s what I feel when I see others with the same defects as me.
Just as pathetic.
I am a transphobe,cause what eles can that be?
When I’m well,that’s the word,how?
Chapter Gap
“Larry.”
I question myself, staring—judging, really—at the two adults hogging the swing chair like they rented it for a honeymoon package. All the kissing. The under-the-shirt action.
Ugh. I don’t care about that.
They’ve been at it for hours,if they can't rub one out for each other then I'll help them.
I want to play with the swing.
What? But that’s not like you, Daniel.
Yeah, no kidding. Even I was surprised. Me? Wanting to swing? Rejuvenation, maybe. A second childhood for the old crank? Who knows.
They noticed me. Did they care? Not a chance. They didn’t move until the sun decided to start barbecuing.
Eventually—they left.
I got on. Almost tripped like a dumbass because I rushed.
The sun was cooking me. Frying me like a side of depression.
But I didn’t mind. I had the swing now. All to myself.
Now… how do I make it move?
Let me think...
It needs two people.
Of course it does. Stupid swing.
"I loved you. How could you betray me like this?"
But I didn’t leave. Not yet. Not until I played.
I tossed my bag to the other side—empty seat.
Used all the energy in both legs. Even my pasty knees were powering up like knockoff thrusters.
And somehow—I made this swing my bitch.
It wasn’t even a bad feeling. My heart beat a little faster, my face got warmer, and for once, I felt lighter.
Literally.
Same strange feeling I get when I was in grass fields and let the ants crawl over me. That beautiful-nothing feeling.
My bag was burning up—crispy, medium rare. I pulled out my umbrella, popped it open, and tucked it into the side pocket like some weird sunshield. Gave it glasses too, balanced on the top strap like a little nerd.
Ridiculous.
Which is probably why I loved it.
That’s Larry. We just met. He’s playing swing with me.
Me and him started chatting. I won’t lie—he’s a remarkable listener. Supa.
I question myself, staring—judging, really—at the two adults hogging the swing chair like they rented it for a honeymoon package. All the kissing. The under-the-shirt action.
Ugh. I don’t care about that.
They’ve been at it for hours,if they can't rub one out for each other then I'll help them.
I want to play with the swing.
What? But that’s not like you, Daniel.
Yeah, no kidding. Even I was surprised. Me? Wanting to swing? Rejuvenation, maybe. A second childhood for the old crank? Who knows.
They noticed me. Did they care? Not a chance. They didn’t move until the sun decided to start barbecuing.
Eventually—they left.
I got on. Almost tripped like a dumbass because I rushed.
The sun was cooking me. Frying me like a side of depression.
But I didn’t mind. I had the swing now. All to myself.
Now… how do I make it move?
Let me think...
It needs two people.
Of course it does. Stupid swing.
"I loved you. How could you betray me like this?"
But I didn’t leave. Not yet. Not until I played.
I tossed my bag to the other side—empty seat.
Used all the energy in both legs. Even my pasty knees were powering up like knockoff thrusters.
And somehow—I made this swing my bitch.
It wasn’t even a bad feeling. My heart beat a little faster, my face got warmer, and for once, I felt lighter.
Literally.
Same strange feeling I get when I was in grass fields and let the ants crawl over me. That beautiful-nothing feeling.
My bag was burning up—crispy, medium rare. I pulled out my umbrella, popped it open, and tucked it into the side pocket like some weird sunshield. Gave it glasses too, balanced on the top strap like a little nerd.
Ridiculous.
Which is probably why I loved it.
That’s Larry. We just met. He’s playing swing with me.
Me and him started chatting. I won’t lie—he’s a remarkable listener. Supa.
"Hey Larry,do you know I wasn't alone because no one is around?Everyone is around,that's why I'm alone."
"do you follow?"
Then I woke up.
Okay. At least I was still on the swing. Not in a trash bin. Or the ocean.
The way I was sitting was mildly concerning, but whatever—I was grateful.
Larry sat patiently across from me. Same spot. Same pose. Still listening.
There were people with kids staring from a distance. My eyes suck, but I could still tell. All of them were facing me.
I dusted Larry off. Got off the swing. Legs numb, knees wobbly, walking like a stunned deer.i must’ve ate too much for lunch,I almost trew up.
What’s their business?
Of course—I knew.
A boy talking to a bag dressed up like a person, swinging under the 38°C sun for hours, going in and out of consciousness?
Yeah. That’ll do it.
But I swear—I’m A-OK.
“Hey, rooster? If I were a ham, I’d be so attracted to your tail.”
“Hey, don’t go! That’s the best compliment I could think of for a chicken!”
“Okay, guess even a bird doesn’t want to talk to me.”
Still feels like the world’s going up and down,my knees resembles the wonders of the stary night sky,those mosquitos sucked me dried.some say they are more attracted to children, am I a child?or an adult?
Do I have a choice?
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