I had tried my best: keeping up a strong face, taking on things which I knew would break me and ignoring everything which didn't fit with this image of the perfect me. As I sunk down onto the floor of the room between the desks I could see her near me, next to the window. She reached out to me, then pulled back, clearly uncertain as I broke down in tears and said in between sobs that I simply should never have existed. That my whole existence was one big mistake.
That is where last night's dream left me. One could call it a nightmare, but I would disagree with that assessment. Real life is the nightmare. When I break down in real life there no is one nearby to help or comfort me. Every day I cannot help but curse my existence and this body. Of course I could just blame the Dutch physicians and psychologists for foregoing any sense of professionalism and torturing me physically and psychologically for a decade straight. Yet I can not shake off the feeling that they were somehow justified in doing what they did. Maybe the way I was born truly was a mistake and should have been corrected.
I am quite aware of the fact that I didn't move to Germany because I like the country so much, but purely for the medical care and to escape the horrors of the Netherlands. This also means that I do not know where my true home is or whether I'll ever find it. A place where I'll truly feel that I belong. Maybe it's true what they say about finding a home inside one's heart. Accepting oneself and feeling at ease, after which everything else will fall into place. I know I can not escape the horrors of the past decades as they are a part of my very being, permeating every memory and recollection I have. One can not feel at home in the midst of a rotting, swamp where everything smells of decay.
The end of this month I'll be going to the clinic near Munich by myself. This is okay. I may get the surgery soon after that. There won't be anyone looking after me after the surgery. This is also okay. This surgery will merely close off something for myself inside my head, locking away recollections I have come to loathe. Recollections which I am writing down in my autobiography at this point and which I hate. It's not who I am, not who I ever wanted to become or what I wanted my life to look like. Nothing else will change for me. I'm still catching up on the about twenty years of my life I have lost somehow.
When I had the bicycle accident a few weeks ago I had impressive bruises and the like. To me it was amazing how people responded to the sight of it, evoking a strong emotional response in them. This is where I wish that my intersex condition had somehow horribly deformed me in a physical manner. I feel cursed by looking like a pretty, attractive female as it obscures the gaping, bleeding wounds inside of me. It feels like all the damage done to me in the Netherlands can be brushed off by simply pointing at me and saying how pretty and healthy I look. I wish that my outside matched up with the injuries inside, including scars and never-healing wounds. Maybe that's why during PTSD episodes I try to tear off my own skin. I don't know.
I'm just trotting down this eerily moonlit path, doing what people ask and demand of me while finding enough free time to work on myself as well. I can see images, memories flash by quickly, but I can not touch or interact with any of them. They're spirits, just like the people I see. I feel trapped at the wrong side of the mirror as I wonder what happened that things became like this. I know that at some point the path will end, the moonlight will vanish and all that I'm left with will be my regrets and sadness.
Then I can weep silently in the darkness as I curse this fate that was thrust upon me through this accursed body and whisper with a broken voice that I should never have been born.
Maya
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