So, as you might imagine, having viewed my activities over the past ~3 years, I've had a lot of time to figure out what the fuck is wrong with me. In summary, I think it's some combination of/somewhere in the triangle of depression, body dysmorphia, and gender dysphoria.
Now, in further dissection, the depression is possibly asymptotic. Honestly, I don't know which of these things is oldest. On the gender dysphoria end of things, I played with Barbie dolls when I was little, I would wear my mother's clothing, and the whole gay thing does make me jealous of the ease with which women, with ~5x the dating pool, are able to make romantic and sexual company of men. Whether or not these things count as gender dysphoric, I don't know, but I'm inclined to say they are when combined with the type of body dysmorphia I feel.
As I've mentioned before, I don't consider myself ugly, per se, and I've been told that I'm somewhat attractive on more than one occasion. I've also been solicited for both sexual and romantic activities by something resembling my desired target audience before, but have always declined (when sober) due to feelings of inadequacy, both on my part and in the reflection of it in myself in the caliber of men who've asked (so shallow and superficial). However, I'm torn between it being either an inability to deny that or sudden realization of the way that I'm just not comfortable in this body. I don't feel right being a 6'5", hairy-chested male. It feels...offensive when people do things as benign as ask me how tall I am, or mention my relative size. And I say those comments are offensive specifically because they aren't just annoying; they truly hurt my feelings to hear. This is where the whole body dysmorphia/gender dysphoria gets all swirled together, from my own perspective.
I've come to realize for myself (I don't think I've said this here before) that beauty is a gendered word. A man can be handsome, but he can never be beautiful, and I've always loved beautiful things (or things I've been programmed to believe are beautiful, in any case; happy now?), and take that whole beauty-is-sublime-in-the-philosophical-sense thing to heart. So if a woman can, practically speaking, do anything a man can do and she can be beautiful and she has a much larger population of mates to choose from and the size of a woman's body feels more like what I'd like to have (in the imaginary scenario wherein I can shrink down a foot and be proportionately-sized for a slender woman of that height because sexism/lookism/etc.), does that mean I'm transgendered? Or am I just jealous of some aspects of my (outsider's) view of womanhood and also body dysmorphic? I'm inclined to feel the former, because unless I'm feeling confident in my masculinity--feels weird even typing that--I will use gender neutral pronouns for myself and always feel funny if others don't do the same for me, as well. I could really use a gender therapist to help sort all this out.
So long story short, I feel as though some portion of my failures is attributable to the fact that, even in the most successful version of the life of a person in the body I inhabit, I still won't have things the way I really want, and therefore wonder why I'm bothering, all the while being constantly reminded by everyone around me--by anyone who mentions my physicality or even comes into physical contact--of my internal sense of mismatch between interior and exterior. But is this all just an excuse for other, unrelated personal failings? I'm I really just whining about a problem that others may not even have the luxury of discovering they have? Am I wasting mental and emotional energy worrying about a problem whose full resolution is (at minimum, presently) impossible?
Do you see where my depression might have its genesis? Or have I got it all backwards? These are the weights tied to my ankles which keep dragging me down, despite occasional success in the fight against my psychological drowning. I have, however, been able to assemble something while swimming through this too-deep pool. My life will take one of two paths:
1. I accept the existence of these irreparable feelings of misfit, and move on, trying to make the best of things in my current physical self. That means not giving up on finding a life partner, learning languages, playing music, travel, maybe even helping to raise a needy child, while maintaining some kind of social life and (hopefully) pleasing material conditions. This has the added bonus of alleviating the worries of those who say they care about my well-being--people to whom I shall always owe a great deal.
2. I accept the existence of these irreparable feelings of misfit, and decide not to bother with making the best of things. Being an optimist in the face of your own pessimism is exhausting, and in accepting that I can't fully self-actualize due to these feelings, I'll admit to admitting to myself that sometimes, it's better to live like the rest of those poor souls who haven't the luxury of discovering their higher strengths and weakness. To live like an animal, subsisting on physical sustenance and simply distracting from the knowledge of these higher-order problems. I've come to realize that this is the kind of death I mentioned that I find appealing--not the death of a physical state, but the death of the idea of a human life, specifically my human life, as anything special or rewarding.
I don't know which I'll end up choosing, but at least I know that a choice will have to be made once I've got the financial means to do so. At this point, this exact moment, I'm ambivalent.
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