The worst feeling in the world is that of feeling hope.
My expectation for the coming weeks is that the new surgeon will not work out either and I'll be no closer to a medical resolution for my intersex condition than I was twelve years ago, and that the court will rule not in my favour in the eviction case against me, forcing me to move into another place - any place - within a month or two.
The hope of course is that the new surgeon will work out and I will finally get that resolution for my intersex condition after twelve years, and that the court will reject the eviction demand, allowing me to find that house without the added stress of an eviction deadline.
Balancing expectation and hope against each other when they're so far removed from each other is practically torture, also because if either or both of these expectations turns out to be true, it risks triggering the suicidal urges. These past weeks I'm struggling with depression, and through bouts of suicidal thoughts. At moments like earlier today I find myself questioning the wisdom of cooking dinner while upset and crying, as I have to keep myself from really considering plunging a sharp knife into my body.
I'm managing to stay stable so far because I mostly manage to ignore what's about to happen, and otherwise try to delude myself into believing that things will turn out fine. There are also the other things in my life which do make me happy, particularly at work.
This week at work I spent working on an embedded hardware (IoT) project, developing the software for it and working out the integration of the hardware. I also disassembled the Commodore 64 we have at the office and installed some heatsinks on its main chips (SID, PLA, CPU) so that they don't run so hot any more. I'm also working on a variety of other electronics projects.
These are all happy things, which help me to hang on to sanity as everything else in my life seems to be in a rather dreadful state. As I said in an earlier blog post, I would love to just destroy that part of myself: the part which has to struggle to find a home, the part which has an intersex body. The parts which are suffering so incredibly much.
Survival through ignoring reality and using happiness as a drug to escape harsh reality. I guess that's what it comes down to, still. According to the lawyer of the apartment's owner it's however all nonsense that I have PTSD, or that I am intersex and facing surgery this year. Maybe that's true. Maybe I really did not try to find a better place to live. Didn't try to find that home. Maybe I am crazy, like some Dutch psychologists told me.
I'm pretty sure at this point that I'm not crazy. That I'm a good person and do not deserve any of this which is happening to me. Also that I truly only wish the best for everyone. Yet I'm not sure that is enough. Maybe it's where I went wrong. Maybe this world is all about being mean, vicious and taking advantage of others. Maybe that's what I'm doing wrong.
Yet I'd rather be dead than turn into such a... person. My worst fear is that in the end those are my only two options. I'd much rather find that house outside of the city to move into, and get the surgery as hoped. Away from other people and finally back in my body.
I guess I'm pretty much just rambling at this point. I haven't slept properly in weeks and had countless, barely remembered nightmares. Even the stress during the day from worrying about all that I can expect is taking its toll on me. I pretty much hate having emotions and feelings at this point. I hate that people have so much power to hurt me and gleefully do so regardless of whether I have done anything to deserve it.
I only want to find that safe place, where people will finally leave me alone. Where I can do things which are actually interesting and useful. Not just survive in a dysfunctional human society.