Z's Grimoire

This is an open letter of sorts. And will likely be a tad more raw than much of what I post. CW Include mental health, suicide, substance use, sexual assault, violence.

It purposefully isn’t addressed to any particular person or party, as the anger, frustration and pain I will share is beholden to none but me. But here are some of the things that were between me and my therapist… Until now.

Do you know how many times I’ve been raped? If you classify it by penetration-twice. Do you know how many times I’ve experienced sexual assault short of that line? Five distinct memories. Do you know how many times since I began my transition I’ve been physically battered for my identity? Three. Assaulted? Well, stopped counting, as it served no good given police weren’t interested unless physical harm was caused (So why have the distinction between assault and battery? But I digress…).

Too raw of an opening? How about something more recent? Do you know that despite having what is still considered one of the best insurance plans in my State (thanks to our union) my health care expenses this year have more than quadrupled? Not due to premiums, not due to a change in the plan I’m enrolled in, but because I’m transgender and ANYTHING gender affirming related is no longer covered and is 100% out of pocket? Do you know that I’ve gone without healthcare to cover my bills, gone without food to cover medications? I could go on a LONG rant about how absolutely fucked healthcare in America is, but I’ll just say-I work full time, have one of the best private insurance plans available… Yet I’m priced out of essential care exclusively because I refuse to be the “good little boy” society desires.

Back to more lasting struggles:

Do you know the monster that lived in my house for years? Do you know the great efforts the creature expended to crush my spirit, isolate my person and break me body and soul? Do you know what the champion of the beast did when I finally stood up for myself?

Actually, you may actually know parts of that last one- as when confronted, she ran howling about the monster I was. While their narrative was shared, I focused on reassembling the shattered fragments of me. Hoping in the end I would not be the monster she claimed.

Hoping the monster was the glaring issues we both willfully ignored in hopes they might go away. Both of us simultaneously responsible for the carnage and victims of our hubris.

I acknowledged my many faults, my many failures, the pain I’d caused in my “existing but not living” state I’ve written extensively about… and placed the blame on myself. Despite my therapist’s urging to think objectively on “me and my experience” to reconcile the truth found between my and their accounts- I hated me more than anything, so my own words were meaningless to me.

But I wasn’t a monster. I was a person who did the best she could with the experience she had, just like (almost) everyone else. So we focused on “my” problems, and ending the despair of trying to solve problems outside of my control, which had lead to apathy and eventually a deep depression.

Passive suicidal ideation. I’ll let the topic speak for itself, but my experience certainly included the increased anxiety, isolation and substance use struggles.

Oh, did you not know I struggled with alcohol and weed addictions? Then you probably also don’t know how fucking hard I had to fight to get and stay sober. Because by the time I was ready to ask for help- you had already proven yourself an untrustworthy “friend” or “ally” for much lesser problems. I refused to give you yet another vulnerability to exploit.

So I leaned on my true friends and family, I protected my peace, and began healing from the inside out.

I wear my heart on my sleeve, as anyone who has spent anytime with me recently would know. When something is biting my ass, I’ll share it. When I’m hurting, I make it known. But I ALWAYS keep my perspective fixed on the whole and not the moment.

As one of my providers recently quipped, after a particularly dark, but honest, summary of the shitstorm that was the last few months of my exisitance: “You know thats what I love about you, all of that, and you’re still finding the positivity and gratitude.”

“I’m still breathing. I survived my darkest days. Even when days are bad now, I still see I’m not where I was years ago. It’s easy for me to find gratitude in that.” or something along those lines was my response.

I wish I could say it was still that easy for me to find gratitude in every moment. To be sure I still find it near daily, but somedays it is a struggle, and others, it feels impossible once again.

Impossible, until I remember that in my tattered, battered and nearly broken state… I didn’t give up. I kept showing up daily, I kept fighting (even if silent) and I did not let myself become a victim to myself or anyone else.

And in that fractured state I found friends, I found family, I found a space where I can be my ever imperfect yet always striving to improve and grow self. Accompanied by others who are trying the same.

While I can’t say I have forgiven all that others have done, I can say without hesitation that I have been and remain ready to extend them the same grace we all deserve. But I will not grant forgiveness at the expense of my peace.

Appeasement is how I ended up nearly dead countless times. Sacrificing my peace of mind and happiness for others in a sea of apathy, I prayed to drown. Now, standing on solid, though constantly shifting, land: I pray that they can find their own peace, and hope they’ll respect the steps I’ve found necessary to protect mine.

For when I tell stories, I do not shy away from sharing my regrets, my mistakes, or my feelings. I’m not bothered admitting when I’m in the wrong. It is not my place to define what another person thinks or feels, it is only my responsibility to be mindful of my own actions and the impacts they have.

And when, not if, I make a mistake or I’m in the wrong: I acknowledge it, learn from it. Grow from it and move forward better for the experience.

Those who tell stories with an aim to pin their regrets, their mistakes and their unprocessed emotions on others have a name. I was raised by them, so of course my relationships were plagued by them, eventually I married one. I’ve spent countless hours in therapy needing to be convinced I was not one myself.

Saying “I’m not a narcissist” feels incredibly hollow. Pointing to evidence that those who question if they are or not tends to indicate they are not doesn’t help to stop my constant introspection and analysis of behaviors I recognize in myself that I seek to change. Reviewing old journals and following my progress, I’m still left questioning if any of it is true, or if I’m a good enough actress to fool myself and I’ve simply slapped a mask over the person I don’t want to be again.

So I won’t say I’m not. Maybe because I am. Maybe because I still place too much weight on the past. Maybe because saying so would end my introspection and awareness and unveil an unmasked propensity.

Maybe because I’m not, I will never stop asking “am I?”. Maybe, someday, I’ll believe that. Today? I’m trying to thrive instead of just survive (not sponsored-legit a life changing and SAVING book for those with CPTSD/PTSD).

And that you would prefer the version of me that was barely hanging on by a thread, but always played the dutiful dog-speaks volumes about you.

Stay Magickal