Livin On A Thin Line Pt 3

I'm cold. I haven't been cold in the longest time. I feel like everything I'm working on is going to fail. I have this kind of sinking feeling that my art and design won't be enough...that I won't be enough. I wrestle with my self-loathing and former failures at night as I grow closer to releasing my new work. A month and a half tops until it's out and I don't know what to do with myself. I should be upbeat and proud, I mean, I am proud of the drawing, but I'm not drawing for me. I'm drawing for an audience. I want to draw people in with my art, make them feel something. Nothing seems to be happening. I've been generating pieces and putting them out almost every day. No reblog, no sharing, few people engaging in it. I don't know why I thought this was going to be something special. Maybe it was my mania running rampent; Now that I've been on a new mood stablier for a month, things have kind of levelled out or should I say the depression is back in full swing? I don't really think it has anything to do with the medication. It's been 15 years of medications and talk therapy and nothing is better. No one helped me through these crisis, I did. Myself. Alone. With whatever means I had. I want to cut. I want to hurt myself so fucking badly. I want to get out all this anger, frustration, hurt and sadness. I don't know what else I can do. Talking doesn't help because no on listens. They're all wrapped up in their own meladramatics. My therapist doesn't seem to understand or care that I'm trapped in an impossible spot with no one helping me and all she had to offer was "Why don't you leave?" My job, my house and a career that are all bound together? No job = no house, no business start up. Is she that fucking stupid or does she just not listen like the other one didn't? I've tried to get help. I've asked for help and once again have gotten nowhere. What's the point in asking for help? What's the point of therapy? Talking doesn't do anything for me. It's never changed anything and it never will. These people are inept failures hiding behind the masks of therapists and social workers. Snuggling down into bed is the only sanctuary that I have. Layers of soft blankets and half a dozen pillows make me a safe haven. I'm safe from yelling, turmoil, failure, stress, everything. I curl up and close my eyes and it all fades away. I've not had a place of safe, comfort and warmth longterm for a while now. I feel like there is so much that I have to keep inside to keep the peace and in return it makes me feel like an asshole. And to some degree, not the person who I'm supposed to be. I swallow my anger, hide my pride behind a vacent smile and attempt to mute my anxiety-and for what? It doesn't get me anywhere. It doesn't make me feel better. It doesn't help me to advance in the ways that I wish to, and let's be honest, deserve. I feel like I'm treated half-assed most of the time because I'm not seen as anyone important. Eventually all of my mates leave me. This is the time of year that I long Anja and I just wonder what would have been. What could have been. I can't even talk about it. I feel like people think that I'm disgusting and wrong for loving her. That the gay aspect of things overshadows the romance of it all. I miss her. I could never be angry over what happened, I just long for answers I know that I will never get. Was I undeserving and that's why she didn't tell me? Or couldn't tell me? Maybe she didn't want me to dwell on the memories we shared, but it is so hard not to when she was my world for those years. Everything encompassed her. I didn't care she was older, I loved her and she loved me. Now I sit and stare off into the horizon wondering why she couldn't even leave a note. She had nothing to be sorry for; I understand suidice, God do I, having had my own attempts. I think that I pushed away a co-worker, perhaps even friend, the other day when she asked me about my mangled wrist. She thought it was a burn, but I told her the truth. She saw the rash that has been bothering me for 2 months now, it comes and goes (if anyone has any suggestions I'm open to them as 4 doctor visits have come up with nothing so far.) and asked me if my wrist was pink from the rash. I turned it over and said no, it's like that from a suicide attempt. I didn't allaborate farther, judging by the look of shock on her face, if I went any further she would have been more uncomfortable. I said it like it was no big deal, but I remember the moment clearly. I sliced quickly with a blade and then just let it bleed. It oozed for a while. I didn't know if I was going to die or wanted to die after it had been oozing an hour. I didn't know what to do with it. Doing anything else would make things real. I had forced myself into a choice that I wasn't ready to make. I wanted the pain to end, but I didn't want it to end that way. It just didn't hit me the way that I thought that it would when I sliced myself. But now? What can I do now? I have very few places to hide cut, but even if I could, why would I hide them? I'm a grown adult and it's not like anyone actually cares what happens to me. I have "friends" who belittle transpeople on the internet, others who leave me out of their furutre plans-yet I always think of others when I make mine, and last, those who are just trying to use me to service their own needs/wants. I'm sick of this shit. No need to wonder why I go alone most places, why I stop asking people to come. I'm not just some object for people to enjoy and then throw away when they get bored. I've been treated like this my entire life and I don't know why. Other mates have just stopped talking to me, claming to be too busy, but never too busy for twitter or instagram or whatever the fuck platform that's more important. I'm sorry that I'm not one of those social media influences or models or whatever people are so obsessed with being these days. I feel the social media only deepens feelings of iscolation and worthlessness, that's why now I only really post my art to it, not my life. Then again, no one really cares about either thing-