whiteout

I’m narrowly coping. Too many stressors or perhaps rather sadnesses at once, and I am almost out of energy. I feel a need for comfort food but I worry about sabotaging my weight loss from even a single occasion. I don’t feel my body is overweight in a way I cannot handle, I still now feel that I can look OK so long as my bottom parts are not shown. Rather it is some desperate thought that if I only was lean, undeniably lean for my height, then more people would have at least a starting likelihood of finding me attractive. It’s shameful that this all matters to me, that I cannot simply be at peace. And probably it’s illusory, not even as a thin woman would things be that different. But at least it is something I can do. I need something I can do.

More importantly, seeking SRS is something I can do. Psychologist now at least says she will try to provide documents for applying for insurance coverage. I worry it will be rejected anyway. At which point I can still save up, I need to see if I can somehow find sources of income I am presently unaware of. I need a surgery date. My body feels like a corpse and every day of uncertain waiting without knowing when there will be release leaves me with this heavy knowledge that while my mind may be lovable, my body really isn’t.

It might not change anything. But then again it also might. If I retain sensitivity, then at least I may finally feel OK again at least touching myself, even if no-one else will. And while I actively do not want any penetration I can now receive, perhaps after surgery I can want it, and even learn to endure the touch of men; their interest at least I am sure I can attract. I do not want it now but perhaps I can come to want it. Making a trade – he will lick me if I let him fuck me, standard heterosexual script.

I should not care about any of this. But it hurts so much. I feel oceans and oceans of tears behind my eyes. It hurts.