ghost

[my thoughts and/or interpretation]

another text from the dystopic horror zine

for the zine, my friend and i wrote an introductionary greeting and a disclaimer, which you can find [here].

Content Notes: depression, isolation, unreality, derealization, dysmorphia, eating disorder, mentions of dysphoria, suicidal ideation, dissociation

You are a ghost in your own home. You wander the halls quietly and without leaving a trace. Neither the kitchen nor the bathroom show any signs of your existence. Everything you own, everything you are is contained in the ten square meters that make up your room. You don't know your neighbors, only hear their muffled sounds through the thin walls. You do your best to make them forget that you live there too and it seems to work. They don't know you.

You stopped going out in the daylight. Your diet consists of whatever you can buy in the local kiosk - the only store nearby that is open 24/7. The assortment is small and mostly consists of alcohol, but they carry instant noodle cups, so you buy those. Before everything, you would have bought caffeinated drinks as well but there is no need for that anymore. Not because you’re well rested or have enough energy on your own, no. You simply no longer wish to be awake. Since your medication ran out you can no longer sleep anyway which leaves you in a constant haze that you learned to love. After a certain level of sleep-deprivation your brain stops working properly and you can spend your time in a half-lucid state of dreams, dissociation and delusions. Conscious enough to take care of basic needs, like going to the bathroom and getting food, but not much more.

There has always been a strong disconnect between yourself and what you saw in the mirror. Gender dysphoria, your therapist called it, before he was kicked out of the insurance system. He still took private clients for a while, but you didn't have the money. You dimly recall that you talked about how much you hated your shape and your voice. Now you barely remember what you even sounded like. You haven't talked to anyone in months and when you try to form a word, nothing comes out except a raspy, painful noise. It sounds neither feminine nor masculine, it doesn't even sound human. For a second the thought fills you with a distant, grim satisfaction, but then it disappears again, lost in the fog that permeates every corner of your brain.

The lack of nutrients, sleep and exercise left you looking as hollow and dead as you feel. When you first noticed your hair getting brittle and it started to fall out in chunks, you shaved it all off. Made it easier to maintain as well. You lost almost all your muscle mass and most of your fat, so all that remained was translucent and sickly pale skin that stretched over sharp bones. If you look now, you don't see the hated attributes anymore. You don't see someone who fits your deadname. You don't even see a trans person, trying so desperately to pass. You see a broken creature and finally, you recognize yourself.

Sometimes you go for a walk, only in the dead of night of course and only if you have a rare spurt of restlessness. You dress in all black, put on an oversized hoodie and headphones. You disappear into the fabric, just a silhouette blending into the darkness. You’re not worried about your lack of awareness and the dangers that could bring - cars, robbers, rapists, killers - you simply don't care enough. You are not even sure you would notice them hurting you - you’re lost in unreality.

The streets are deserted but never completely empty. All the good citizens are in their houses and make space for you and your kind, the shadows and ghosts and creatures. You stretch your legs and haunt the city, passing over stones and under lamps that are normally reserved for them and their supporters. It's a fragile pact of coexistence, of toleration but not acceptance, and you intend to use it as long as you can. You stare at storefronts and try to imagine yourself in the clothes on display, you peer into offices and try to see yourself working there alongside others, you glance at the university buildings and try to remember the time you spent in the lecture halls and libraries.

Your head starts to hurt from the strain of trying to look through the fog, from trying to think and you collapse on a nearby bench. The energy that sometimes comes with sleeplessness leaves you and is replaced by an overwhelming heaviness. You feel every single one of the 441 newton that pulls you towards the center of the earth. All you can do is lay down and hope it won't crush you. Unable to move, you listen to music until your playlist ends, bathing you in silence, watching the lights of the city and the shapes that move in it. Most of them are slow, almost dreamlike, and you can't be sure if you’re imagining them or not. It doesn't really matter, none hold your attention or interest longer than a couple of seconds.

Only when one shadow comes closer and sits down on the bench next to you, does Schroedinger’s box open, revealing that the person is real. They are tall and thin, but not as skeletal as you are, and wear some kind of uniform. Cleaning or sanitary crew maybe. Their skin looks rough and weathered but their eyes are kind when they look at you. "Do you mind if I sit here?" they ask in a quiet but melodic voice. You don’t have the energy to answer, so you just shake your head. Even this minimal movement makes you dizzy. They smile and for a while you exist next to each other in silent recognition.

There is a strange camaraderie between people like you. You're all different, fucked up and ostracized in your own way and for your own reasons. You don't share yours and you don’t know theirs and neither of you ask. Whatever it is, it's not annoying or visible enough for them to put you away, but not assimilated or wanted enough for them to care either. Most live and die in this gray twilight zone. Some manage to get out and lead whatever passes as a normal life in this regime, others fall off, get too disruptive, become visible. No one knows exactly where they end up, but it's not good.

You feel your own death encroaching, some days it feels closer than others, and you numbly wonder if anyone would care. Your neighbors would probably notice at some point, even if it's just because of the smell. Maybe you should die outside, in front of a government building, so the people who are responsible have to deal with your body. That would be fitting. You hope you'll remember the idea when it's time.

But it won't be tonight, so when you feel a bit of strength, you force yourself to get up. With what you hope is a smile you wave goodbye to the person still sitting on the bench. "Until next time." they say and you slowly start to make your way back home.