One of the things which I knew would happen during my current vacation was that of having to confront a lot of things, including myself, my past and current situation. Without being able to just throw myself at my job and invest all my time and energy in it, such a thing was pretty much inevitable.
The first week of my vacation (last week), things were quite okay, with me being able to just focus on the parcels I had ordered with parts to finalise the new computer system I'm building. I also felt pretty okay about the medical progress after my first appointment with the new endocrinologist.
Yet basically since last weekend things have been on a bit of a downwards spiral. Maybe it were a number of online discussions which triggered or contributed to it, or maybe it's related to the current medical experimenting with hormones which I have undergone for two weeks by tomorrow. At any rate I have found myself wondering what I'm doing it all for, failing to see the use of bothering to create a future. In short, I'm borderline suicidally depressed once again.
Today I thought it might get better and tried to drag myself through the day, hanging out at the local hackerspace and not trying to feel sorry for myself. Yet one discussion on Twitter later and I'm completely through with things again, and I understand much better where all the discomfort comes from. One source is the entirety of intersex, with someone I thought who understood gender and intersex issues turning out to be one of those hateful Disorder of Sex Development... people. This made me realise again how I cannot escape the pain and agony associated with being intersex, and that there's no point in running as there is no escape. They will get all of us. All of intersex people.
The other thing is that I realised that another very traumatic thing for me is moving. Moving houses, to be precise. Considering my past that is actually quite logical, with me moving on average once a year to a new place during more than a decade, usually under traumatic circumstances. Yesterday I got an offer to look at an apartment which had become available in the city, which made me think a lot about moving and made me feel terrible in many ways.
One thing there is also that I have so much to deal with already, purely with the medical and psychological matters which currently play. To throw looking at random apartments and possibly moving in there as well would be too much stress. The current stress already made me picture moving to a much smaller apartment which turned out to be even worse than my current place. It made me long to live somewhere spacious. Away from people and quiet, with no external triggers beyond a squirrel bouncing through the trees and the weather.
At this point I'm definitely suffering from too many impulses, too many triggers, too many impressions, and too many stressful if not traumatic events coming up in the near future. In that state I then have to deal with constant noise at my current apartment, from hearing the upstairs neighbour walking around startling me and sending me into a near-panicked state for some reason, to the loud metallic ticking from the heating system the entire day quite literally driving me inside. Without access to headphones and earplugs there is no way I could spend more than a few hours inside my own apartment.
All of this combined makes that I feel terrified, hunted, desperate and abandoned. I am still convinced that people are out to hurt me, whether willingly or not. The sharp abdominal pains such as those I suffered last weekend again at the onset of what I presume is ovulation are driving me past my pain tolerance straight into territory I would prefer to not have to explore again.
Yet I am powerless. Except for just drifting along with all that happens around me, there is just one thing which I can control. It galls me that even nearly five years after my first proper suicide attempt I'm still basically in a state which is essentially the same, at least if regarded from a psychological point of view.
I desire a sense of peace. Sadly the only time in my adult life that I have felt such a thing was during the brief time that I readied myself for that suicide attempt. That I feel this way is just wrong. Not that I am wrong to feel that way, but that somehow I am so incredibly helpless that seemingly the only options I appear to have are to suffer on in the faint hope that things will improve, or to just opt out of life itself.
That singular fact alone depresses me even more. There has to be a reasonable way out of this, hasn't there?