Recursive Descent into Hell

I have decided to finally do something I've been meaning to do for a long time and moved all my old posts from Nyxus and Nihil to this blog. Neither blog has been updated in quite some time at this point, and I don't think it's very likely that they ever will be again, because there's really not much of a point in having all of these separate blogs. Originally, I had intended for this one to be a place where I would post stuff without putting too much effort into trying to overly polish my posts and be a perfectionist about it, but that didn't really work out, so I'm just calling it here and reconsolidating everything to this site. I like the URL better anyways, as I have said before. A separate post will follow this one talking about my experience trying to migrate all my old posts over, because that itself was a fucking experience.

Most of these old posts are, in my very unbiased opinion, kind of bad and embarrassing, but it's more content to pad out my blog that no one reads or cares about. There was once a time long ago, when I had some kind of public presence beyond a weird alternative decentralized social media network, when people cared what I had to say. At least, they acted like it. People still claim to care, I guess. They'll tell you that you made some kind of permanent mark on trans culture, created a new way of being for trannies. All these people I've never met who will say they know about me, who think about the things I've done, who still talk about how much of a fucked up person I am who should continue to be whipped and scorned for things written years ago that most people probably never even read.

They will tell you that you should continue to live even when you've never done anything in your life that has helped you continue to survive. Instead it's one long process of being slowly worn down, losing one thing after another, one failure after another, and still they will tell you how important and worthwhile you are, because of some shit you wrote on the internet. In an objective, material sense, this body that has been used to write all of this shit is worthless – valued by absolutely no one. But in my own way I still have continued to contribute things to the world, expecting nothing in return, and they continue to take and take. What else do I have left to give? What else is there left for you to take?

A few years ago, before the recursive descent into hell started, it once seemed like it actually mattered for me to give up having a public presence anywhere, trying to promote my work. I don't even post about anything I write anymore, I just throw these screeds out into the void, and yet I still put the pressure on myself to be perfect. Because the pressure has never really left of being constantly criticized by people who have made any productive discussion into a foregone conclusion. This isn't exactly an experience that is unique to trans women, but even among a class of people who is despised by almost everyone in the world, even stil I manage to be an outsider among outsiders, even more abjectly worthless garbage somehow.

Once, I had people who at least were willing to engage in good faith, and who took seriously (as seriously as you can take something like the paracademic accelerationist blogosphere) what I had to say. We didn't always agree, but I never wanted people to agree with everything I say, despite what many seem to think. They just could never stand to see a girlboss winning. Well who's winning now? Because it certainly isn't me.

But they will tell me I should stay, when I no longer have the ability to hurt. Feeling pain, emotionally or physically, is an adaptive response. It's meant to tell you that you should stop whatever is causing the pain. But if you go long enough being hurt in all sorts of different ways, you no longer have the pain, not even a single catastrophic event to point to and say "that's where it all went wrong." Everything has always been wrong, and it somehow always gets worse. There is no joy, no one left, just an all-consuming hatred for everything that exists, for everything I am and ever have been, and death is the only thing left for me to look forward to.

Really, why should I stay? For my mutuals and so-called friends, who talk shit about me behind my back while getting clout from things that I did? My worthless fans, whose appreciation of me ranges from thinking I'm just a funny internet person with nothing of value to say, to having a perverse parasocial fixation on me? My mentally ill haters, who continue to kick me while I languish in poverty and suicidal depression because I once said something mean to them and caused them to form a psychotic parasocial vendetta against me? For my former #CaveTwitter colleagues, who somehow publish books and become successful during a pandemic while I am going on five fucking years now of not finishing a single substantial piece of writing?

Who could blame me – no one! – if one day I completely lost it? I don't get through a single hour of work without stimulants, and everything else I lie about on my timesheet. I fall asleep at random hours yet always wake up at 8pm and never fall asleep before 10am. I go weeks without seeing the sun or leaving my room unless it's to chainsmoke cigarettes, my hands shaking from the cold and being starved and sleep-deprived. I scroll through fedi and after the 20th name on a screen posting their vapid take on today's insufferable discourse topic I'm barely containing the urge to slit my wrists in the bathtub.

I lay awake at night even when I'm dead tired and the horrors come to me, and everything is no longer familiar, and every sound is scary. Even when all I want more than anything in the world is to just not be conscious anymore, even something as basic as sleep doesn't come to me. Most nights I can only get myself to fall asleep by talking to my demon, and I am sorry to her that I have been such a poor vessel.

All it would take is one more bad post. The gods know it wouldn't take much to end me, just one more catastrophe, just one medical emergency, just one moderate expense and everything I have is gone. But perhaps should such a thing happen, I would have to thank the gods who so laugh at my suffering. I should have to thank them for setting me free from the burden of having anything left that they could take from me, nothing left to lose and nothing left to live for.

My life would no longer be important, but what would be important would be what I would do. After all, I just hate this whole fucking world, and the human worms feasting on its carcass. My whole life is just dysphoria and poverty, and I've always wanted to die violently. I could finally have my vengeance against the world and myself.

If I thought anyone cared, if I thought anyone would even be reading this, I'd probably make an effort to keep up appearances until the last possible moment. But no one does, and no one will.

You will read my fucking blog after my work is done. You might think I'm just some pseud with nothing of value to contribute to a fringe niche of critical theory, but when you have looked upon my work, know that I did it. I did it all, by myself, and I don't have anyone to thank for any of it. Certainly not you.

You probably even think this post is about you.

Created: 2024-01-31 Wed 06:43

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