And All My Light Has Faded

Things have been a little strange over the last few weeks and months. The brain-assassin, that annoying part of my mind that seems determined to lead me to destruction, has been working overtime recently, and to put it bluntly the effort required to ignore her is wearing me out.

Before Christmas I wrote off to the hospital in London where I’m supposed to be having my gender reassignment surgery to find out if I’ve yet been rescheduled for surgery; the health issues that held things up last time have now been dealt with and by all rights things should now be moving forward. By the end of February I still hadn’t heard anything, so I wrote again, and still I haven’t heard anything. This whole debacle is typical of the treatment I seem to have received from the NHS at every step of the way, and it’s really beginning to get to me.

I started my treatment officially in 2006. That’s when I had my first appointment at the local gender identity clinic. That’s nine years ago. I know other trans- individuals who’ve gone through the entire process from start to finish in three years, so why the fuck has it taking three times as long for me to get this far? I feel like I’m stuck in limbo, unable to move forward and not wanting to move backwards. It’s bad enough that I’m starting to feel like it’s no longer worth the effort.

Anyway, as a result of these internal problems I’m currently doing fuck all with my life. I get up, I go to work, I work*, I come home, I stare at the internet and/or read books, I go to sleep. Rinse and repeat. My word count for the last month is somewhere south of two thousand, which I know is atrocious. I’ve done a little more of my bookkeeping course, but nowhere near enough to count as useful. I even got off my ass and ventured out to the Sheffield SF&F Social, but then the Social Anxiety Monster teamed up with the brain-assassin and convinced me that I had to leave early. I’m slowly losing the will to fight, and the worst part is I know I have to try but simply don’t have the strength of will to do so. So where do I go from here?

Well, sometime this week I need to call up that damned hospital and find out what the hell is going on. Depending on the outcome of that call, I then need to grab myself by the scruff of the neck and give myself a damned good shake. I need to convince myself that there is a reason to fight. I need to get out more and do things no matter how scary they might seem.

To help with that I’ve already made a commitment to go to the York Pubmeet in May (another SF/F social event), and have bought my tickets for FantasyCon in October. I’m also toying with the idea of going to Edge-Lit in July and BristolCon in September.

I need to make myself do stuff. I need to ignore the brain-assassin and get on with my life, no matter how difficult it might at first seem. I need to make an effort to socialise, to get out more, to be around other people instead of hiding away from the world. And once I have all of that under control, hopefully the brain-assassin will just shut the fuck up and let me get on with some writing for a change.

*For a given value of work. This normally consists of staring at the internet while pretending to work and trying in vain to find some sort of motivation to actually do the job I’m getting paid for.

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