I don’t have access to my old posts anymore. I kind of wish that I hadn’t deleted them. They were all on Instagram at this point. Actually, wait no. I had switched over to my actual blog I think. I still miss it. Anyway, a year ago, I had written a list of things that I was supremely thankful for on Thanksgiving eve. I remember Trevor being the first thing on that list, but I wrote a few things down before putting his name, because I of course couldn’t show my affection THAT much. He was still the first person. But there were a multitude of others in various spots on that list.
I’m not going to make one of those this year. Half because I’m not really in a place that I need to (my doom and gloom blog is more obscured this year. My mom is the only website reader, and I think of the seven or so people on my close friends story, only Ella and Maddie actually read these things anyway), and half because I would simply be sad about the lack of crossover between these two years.
Maddie and I called for a while. We talked about YWAM, what else. I talked most of the time. It’s sad maybe, that our friendship revolves around DTS so much. We did talk about her college, and I guess since I’m in it right now, it makes sense that YWAM is on my brain.
Milana called me up out of the blue, which is honestly wild. Out of everyone in my DTS, she and I never really clicked. I’m not sure whose fault it was, or if it was even really someone’s fault. But I haven’t called most people from my DTS ever, so the fact that she has been added to that short list is cool. (That list being: Maddie, Trevor, Ashlin, Mama Sarah, Drew, and now Milana).
I miss my DTS still, and I think a piece of me always will. Especially with how I am. I cling to nostalgia like an old lover, tinted rose and grey with time and distortion. The days were glowy, or at least that’s how they seem now. I’m not leaving on outreach in a week. That is me from a year ago. I haven’t seen those people in almost nine months, for the most part.
It’s sickening to hear this DTS promise to always stay in touch, even now, and to sit and see how we must have been. Maybe they’ll do it better. I doubt it. It’s not my place to say. But it will always fade.
Trevor liked a few posts on the YWAM North Cascades page. Which I run. I think it may be obvious that I run it, though I did assume that it was obvious that I liked him this summer, and look where that assumption got me. You know what they say about assumptions… (thanks old choir teacher). That of all things was a trigger.
I think everything is a trigger.
But the triggers come fewer and fewer.
It’s strange. This doesn’t feel like healing. This feels like putting a bandaid on gangrene and thinking to myself that if I can’t see it, I don’t have to worry about it.
Every once in a while, I feel the infection festering.
I use metaphor too much.
I don’t think about Trevor, but not in a healing way. In a “my hand has been forced. I have no choice.)
It’s better than thinking about him all the time in a not healing way I guess.
I don’t know. I was so hopeful that the last little “breakthrough” would have actually been a breakthrough I think.
And it was in a way. My hopes of him coming back are dashed. Not dead, but bleeding out slowly. (Another metaphor.)
I either flip from wishing desperately that a text or call from an unknown number would flash on my screen. (I deleted his contact). Or being terrified of walking into the dorm someday and seeing him standing at the counter talking to Daniel. That exact picture.
He responded to me in the DTS group chat this week. A dramatic switch up from a few weeks ago where I was the only one he didn’t acknowledge.
That hurt too.
I think everything hurts.
Another metaphor, because I am abysmal at actually spelling things out.
It’s like I’ve taken ibuprofen. The pain is gone, but not really. If I focus on it, it’s still there, waiting for the ibuprofen to wear off so it can lash out again.
Ok I’m done, I swear. With the metaphors at least.
Seattle hurt. Pike Place hurt real bad. Seeing places that I had experienced all of one time, with him and Joyelle. Both of whom are out of my life now. I had pictures of him popping into my mind as we walked past places where I had chosen to document.
Back to the him liking the social media posts. Getting a notification on my phone “trevorwantsaprivateaccount liked your post” “trevordoesntknowwherehesgoing liked your post”. I hoped. Story of my life. Should get it tattooed somewhere. “I hoped”.
I had blocked his accounts on that page, but then decided that it wasn’t my place to do so and unblocked him. (Though, on one of his THREE accounts, he had blocked the page. So I don’t actually feel that bad). He doesn’t exactly follow the account on any page though, so. Whatever. Realistically it’s not a big deal. Realistically, none of it is a big deal. Realistically i shouldn’t still be crying ever night or two. The day time is safe though. But there isn’t much of that to go around.
I do think it would have been better for ME if he had died. Which is sick and stupid and sad. I don’t think I can expand on that without sounding like a terrible person, so forgive me if my image in your mind is broken. Him dead would mean that I wouldn’t be stuck in a place of limbo for the remainder of his or my life, even if I pretend that I’m not. Him dead would mean that I could have a tangible place to hurt, and people who would hurt WITH me, and not look at me with pity. Him dead would mean that I would still get to write letters to Maeve. Him dead would mean that I wouldn’t be scared every time I see a black Audi. Or every time I text the group chat. Or every time I walk into the dorm. Him dead would mean that my grief would have one singular starting point, and that setbacks due to his visible aliveness wouldn’t happen.
I don’t want him to be dead. My healing process would have been much. Easier. In ways. It would have been difficult in others, I know that.
I think that if he hadn’t had his accident this summer, it wouldn’t have happened this way. I don’t have any evidence whatsoever to back this up, but I am almost positive that I am right. I was a factor of his life he could control (I did put up no fight at first, and when I finally did, I was met with “could not send message”) as opposed to if that man he hit dies, or if the law decides that he is at fault and he loses his livelihood (drivers license), or if he gets charged some exuberant amount of money. I don’t know if that specific reason is why, but I don’t think this would have happened if he hadn’t been in that stupid accident.
Charlie would have been a lot gentler about this. Ethan doesn’t seem to understand. Those two were both friends with him, and as far as I know, still talk to him. Ethan likes to bring it up. Though, he wouldn’t know any better because I haven’t said any better. I don’t really want to say any better.
I wrote a whole damn song about him. When I started writing, I told myself, he was the one topic I do not get to broach.
It’s a good song too.
And based on recent events, if he heard it, I don’t think he would know it’s about him.
But it still feels too raw to share.
Ok enough about him.
I don’t have a lot of notes app notes. Just two.
Days seem less. Full. I noticed this when I was journaling a few days ago. I still have a few journal entries from DTS stashed away, and they were at least twice as long as what I’m writing now, even on the “boring” days. I’m not doing as much. But that’s not all of it. In trying not to be that weird “not actually a part of this” girl to the DTS, I haven’t really participated in any of the things they do during the evenings. Evenings were the MOST active for me last year. Maybe it’s better this way, for my sleep if nothing else, but it still is sad. Evenings don’t account for half of a journal entry.
Men gay women trans-written last night at 3 in the morning. I don’t remember how I articulated it in my mind while I was thinking, but basically. A feminine man gets told that he is gay. Hardly ever does he get told that he is a trans woman, or trans in any way. A masculine woman gets told that she is trans, or at the very least, non binary (this stemmed from a video of someone saying that all 12 amab nonbinary people should start a book club, then that got me to thinking). This for me took a “the patriarchy, or erasing women” turn, but thinking about it now, I’m not sure that was the turn I should have taken with that. The other part of that thought train was that most trans afab people are neurodivergent in some way. And by most, I mean every single one that I have ever met, myself in that era included. On the flip of that, most (slightly less of a most percentage) amab trans people are NOT. I posed this theory to Maddi and Reese, and Maddi said something that fit with that second train. The diagnosis for ADHD and autism was built for little boys (hence the emphasis on hyperactivity). So during childhood, neurodivergent boys are told that they are “off” because of a different way that their mind works, and that part of themself gets absorbed into his identity very early on, integrated smoothly. Neurodivergent girls have a much harder time getting a diagnosis, so when they hit puberty and everything familiar changes, on top of all of the different mind things (which ALSO change and shift during puberty, fun fact. Hormonal things make certain symptoms worse), they don’t have a diagnosis to blame things on. They then blame the visible things changing, namely chest and the discomfort around change (which is a STRONG symptom of ADHD and autism) and blame that one symptom, thinking that transitioning can help relive that discomfort (dysphoria), when in reality, their mind won’t process the changes normally. If the girl had a diagnosis to fall back on, those symptoms being exacerbated during puberty would be expected, and steps could be taken. Without a diagnosis, the leading symptom (dysphoria) gets turned into the disease.
Ohh now I want to write a paper on that. I shouldn’t though.
Ok good night.
Rainy Ramblings 