My entire life has been characterized by a kind of inescapable interstitiality. Stuck between places, alone, without a place of my own. The slow erosion of my sanity as a consequence is finally starting to mount to a breaking point, and I have no reason to believe the inevitable shatter will prove anything but devastating.

I've never found a group where I actually belong - Whether it's the stifling heteronormativity of work, where I must fake being the expected and engage with cisnormative premises constantly, or whether it is my attempt to peer into queer spaces, where I am regularly regarded with skepticism and mistrust (and rightly so).

It extends even to the more mundane. I swore off joing group chats long ago. There was a special kind of pain associated with waking up in the morning and finding 5,000 missed messages - evidence enough that group interaction (and thus, group identity) were not only thriving, but clearly did so without me. How could I participate where most people were interacting while I was either asleep or at work? And how could I even begin to interact with any group like that, when my voice would be a reviled shock, an unwelcome intrusion?

How could I ever Garner any response beyond "Who the fuck is this, and what right do they have to butt into our conversation? I've never seen her before."

So such chats always became nothing more than a mirror to hold up to my flaws, a constant reminder that, no, I'm not a part of this. That I remain isolated and alone, even in such circumstances.

And so it is for so many other events and opportunities. Pride is for other people, because I'm the asshole that the discourse is constantly saying doesn't belong there. My experiences with conventions remain that they are the most lonesome and isolated events for me, despite being in a crowd. Off to the side, not a part of anything, never actually even acknowledged.

Fuck, there are even groups for genie inclined folks, and I don't fit in there.

I'm so sick of it. I'm so tired, so frayed at the edges. I'm out of energy, out of resources, out of things to try.

My only option that makes sense is to throw myself into work redoubled. To grind away what's left of my soul in order to advance programs that will enrich some asshole shareholder I've never met, and who considers me expendable. At least doing that will put food on my table and fill the void.

If I work hard enough, I won't notice how broken I am. I can't be trans if I spend all my effort working, and to work, needing to appear cis.

Though on the other hand, I would prefer the embrace of oblivion. The release of death is a sweet promise.