“Their hell is inside them.” (Teresa de Lauretis)

I was reading another scholarly article for a seminar I have this week, and on reading those words, I stopped dead in my tracks. Coping with dysphoria is impossible to express most of the time, yet here I’m sat, reading the line over and over again, realising that it’s exactly how I feel.

I walk down the street of the new city I’m living in, it’s dark quite early now, and when I finish work at 10pm on a Saturday night, the city is still awake, I don’t think it’s cogs stop turning. Just like my thoughts that never stop churning in my head, even when I’m not thinking, I am.

Sometimes I dream that when I was born my parents put my in a blue baby grow, and I grow up playing rugby with the guys in a muddy field somewhere. I can feel my girlfriend’s hands run all over my chest. I can feel everything. But then I wake up, I remember that it was just a dream, and I feel nothing. At least, that’s what I try to feel.

Everything I’m typing seems random, but it’s all I’ve been thinking all day, sometimes I want to go to sleep just to have that dream again. But I know I’ll always wake up.

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