In my world, the idea of the binary became the ghost. The very split between darkness and the light, good and evil, man and woman. The explicit divide. A sacred concept among the populace and the niche, the very device that separates what is intrinsic and devisive. Because what I always believed to be the true and righteous was only anathema to the ideals and emotions to those I held most dear. They only believed in the opposite, and I could do nothing to convince them otherwise, despite my dearest attempts, my most painful cries. I tried, with my greatest abilities, but they chose to burn my ideas to the darkness. Wether it be that my words caused too much pain, or because their ignorance exceeds my bounds, it does not matter. I am in the dark, and my words mean nothing to them. I speak only because words are all that are left to me, and they are all that I have left.
I am a writer, and all that I have are the devices that I was raised with, as inadequate as they may be for expressing the pain and anger I feel for the ignorance that silences me...

I've debated with myself for a week or two on whether or not to write this at all. I'm a very private person, and my first instinct in any sort of interaction is to hide myself. In addition, my ongoing struggle with depression makes it difficult for me to reconcile revealing such a deeply personal change in my life to people who are essentially strangers. If you're reading this, you're likely someone who is at least acquainted with me, and I earnestly hope that you don't take this personally; but, I only consider one person my real friend.

And this is a symptom of a deeper problem that I've identified long ago, but never really bothered to confront directly. I've taken half measures for a decade in coping with an immense burden that has always ridden a fine edge between healthy mental care and utter collapse. I've always dealt with it internally, allowing myself to believe the lie that I had no choice but to do so alone, and for the past two years or so I've felt it overwhelming me. Always arguing with a voice inside that I know is only there to bring me down, and letting it win again, and again. My opinion in myself has never been high, and I still struggle intensely with allowing myself to feel worthy of the few good things I can still see in my life, but I can't let this cycle continue to perpetuate.

In August of 2018 I committed to writing a novel. After spending months researching and motivating myself, I formed a plan to tackle such a large project, and the first step was writing a letter, or rather a statement to myself. Something I hadn't done in years, and something that I was in desperate need of. I made the promise of committing to my dream and holding myself to the standard that such a dream demands. The most important part of that being to finally confront that immense, burning hatred of myself. I promised to no longer fight it off alone, and to ask for help when I needed it, even if I felt that there was only one person that I could truly be honest with.
And for awhile, things were good. As I outlined and scribbled in my notebooks, I felt that weight lessen, and when it came back, I didn't let it drive me back to solitude. I felt... Not happy, but I felt... Real. I felt like a person, and not just a seething void of self-loathing in the shape of a person. I was finally acknowledging myself as a creature with a purpose, and not just a brief and painful memory to ultimately fade to nothing. I wanted to be me, for the first time since I could ever remember in my entire life...

But, that's when I realized I don't really know who I am; or rather, I've been purposefully stopping myself from figuring it out. In confronting my depression, and allowing it to no longer define my identity and self worth, I had to allow myself to ask incredibly difficult and painful questions. Questions that I've unconsciously avoided or buried. About who I am, and what I'm still learning about myself.

For about a year, maybe more, I felt a nagging, worrying notion nibbling now and then, and I didn't really understand it. It never really presented itself upfront, and at times I would simply dismiss it, not giving any value to its implications or impetus to my life. I felt that the notion was so ridiculous that it couldn't possibly be real. So I did what I had always done and buried it. But it kept coming back. And as I began the process of writing my novel, and following through with my promises of not fighting alone, it was becoming increasingly present, and exponentially more distressing.

I recognized it as something that I needed help with, but I still held back, thinking I could put it off until I could get a professional that could help me comprehend and process what was quickly becoming a monumental epiphany. Unfortunately, such help has alluded me, even until the writing of this journal, and it nearly overwhelmed me, and still does at times. I gathered up the courage to confide in my dear, close friend  Nuallan about this distressing and painful revelation, and through him, I've gathered the courage to truly begin accepting and understanding this new, and utterly foreign territory. I have to begin understanding it, because I can't continue in my life without being honest to myself. I've spent my entire life either lying to myself, or ignoring myself, and whether I did it deliberately or without even realizing, it cannot be allowed to continue.

This has been an extremely long winded, and probably boring way of psyching myself up to come out and just plainly say, that I am a transgender woman.

I've struggled with depression and anxiety since the age of 8, throughout my teenage years, and all to present day. But I was simultaneously struggling with something that I didn't actively notice. It all seems clear in retrospect, but for so many years I was passively struggling and consistently losing to the expectations of something I took for granted. I've always espoused that I was comfortable in my identity and secure in my sexuality as a heterosexual male, but in uncovering and understanding my identity suppressed by years of intensely unhealthy mental habits, I came to realize that I don't identify as a male. I don't think I ever have. I've always felt disconnected from myself, like a shallow presentation of the outside world's expectations of me. It's taken me so long to contextualize why I've felt such intense loathing toward myself, partly because I simply didn't have the perspective or vocabulary to express it, even to myself. The concept of being anything other than what the world told me I was supposed to be all my life was completely outside of my realm of understanding.

But now, as I move forward with my life, I want to take the steps toward understanding it. I want to be honest with myself, even if it's frightening and daunting. I want to understand myself, and really start being who and what I really am.

I want to be real...