If there is a hell…

I’m sure that’s where I’m going to go.  I know that all the lines I was fed growing up about god and heaven and hell are total bullshit, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling like I do.

I know what I did tonight was wrong, and not on a small level.  I’m not sure how else this could have ended, though, because when I can’t speak, don’t speak, won’t speak about shit that’s going on, it will eventually explode, like tonight.  Screaming, in-your-face and if she hadn’t stepped between us I’m afraid I would have harmed another person.  That’s not okay.  That’s never okay, and I don’t want to ever be in an emotional space where I feel the desire or capability to harm someone.

In yet another of life’s great damned-if-you-do-and-damned-if-you-don’t jokes, I’d love to stay here, to make a home and finally put down some fucking roots instead of moving and running away again… but even if I decide to go anywhere else, there’s absolutely nothing that I can afford in northern california, and I’ve got occasional assistance with food and money and other things where I am — I’d have none of that if I tried to leave.

She’s a little child.  I have to remember that, keep it in mind when the wealthy, pampered brat shines through the mask she works so hard to keep up, the mask of a mature and responsible adult.  She’s not — she’s often pretty damn clueless, blind to the most glaring things around her, and I wonder sometimes how much of that is willful ignorance, otherwise known as “stupid on purpose.”  I’ve been repeating to myself lately that “you can lead a fool to knowledge, but you can’t make them think” and when she remains so oblivious so often, I have to remind myself to be patient, to be the mature woman I can be instead of turning loose a toddler’s tantrum like I did tonight.

I tried calling my mom’s cellphone just after everything exploded, but she was already asleep, and I know how she sleeps — with earplugs, a pillow on top, and a fan to make white noise by her bedside.  She’ll probably see the dozen or more calls and hear my one barely-coherent message sometime tomorrow morning, long after there’s any chance for her to help me.  I also tried sending a text message to someone else I trust, but he’s either asleep or not near his phone, and I’ll probably get a call tomorrow from him too… again, far too late to be any real help.

I don’t have anyone that I can reach out to, anyone I trust or feel at all comfortable with, anyone I can call in an emergency like this and get any sort of help.  I’ve learned from repeatedly bashing my head against the idiocy of the public mental health system that I cannot get help from them, that in fact I am more likely to suffer more trauma from attempting that kind of call for help than what I am already handling on my own… but it really pisses me off that I don’t have any emergency support system.

I can’t do a “crisis line,” because even if I have their number handy, even if I get someone whose voice doesn’t make me want to scream, I won’t have anyone who can do more than be a disembodied voice in my ear with a script to follow.  I can’t call a psych hospital… last time was the worst night I’ve had in years, being assaulted by a large black man while staff paid no attention, being told that I was suicidal and forced to take drugs because “how else can we calm you down?” and spending an unknown amount of time barely conscious, in a panicked and drugged haze.  I can’t go to any sort of walk-in facility — I’m transgender.  If that’s not “enough said,” then I can’t explain for you.  Ask someone to pass you the clue-stick.

I’ve gone far too long without any sleep, and as much as I hate to do it, I’m going to have to turn back on some noise to block out the rest of the shit here… and maybe I’ll be lucky this time.  Maybe I’ll get enough sleep to be functional tomorrow.

See you all in hell…

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