Summary

The content describes the personal journey of a trans man who has struggled with mental illness, drug addiction, and suicide attempts, ultimately finding self-identity and recovery.

Abstract

The author shares a deeply personal narrative about their battle with mental health issues and substance abuse, detailing multiple suicide attempts and hospitalizations. They reflect on their time spent using drugs as a way to escape their reality and how it led to a loss of self. The author, who is a trans man, discusses the complexity of their gender identity journey, including the challenges faced due to a transphobic environment and the discomfort of dysphoria. Despite these hardships, they express gratitude for their survival, which has allowed them to discover their passion for writing, embrace their identity, and live independently with their pets. The author concludes by affirming their newfound sense of self and the end of their disappearing act.

Opinions

The author views their past drug use as a means of escape that ultimately resulted in a loss of personality and a sense of disappearing.
They hold the opinion that their mental illness and addiction have dominated their life, making it difficult to establish other identities.
The author expresses a love-hate relationship with their time in active addiction, recognizing the allure of romanticizing the good times while acknowledging the reality of the associated struggles.
They convey a sense of conflict as a trans man, feeling both more comfortable in their skin and constantly plagued by dysphoria.
The author believes that recovery from addiction has been crucial in discovering their true self and embracing their identity as a trans man.
They express gratitude for the life they have now, which includes personal achievements like writing and living authentically, and they recognize the importance of surviving to become who they truly are.

Who Am I?

I’m the disappearing girl

I have spent a lifetime disappearing. I was sinking further and further into nothingness until I was a zombie. Whether I was trying to disappear from the trauma of childhood abuse or trying to disappear from my suicidal mind — I managed to become nothing.

I’ve attempted suicide six (or seven?) times, and I’ve been committed to mental hospitals nine times. Every time I tried to take my own life, it felt like I was taking a little piece of myself with me. It was like I was disappearing slowly attempt after attempt.

When I found drugs, I thought that I had found my personality. From the ages of 20–24, I was perpetually high. That’s really when I truly began to disappear. Every puff of weed, ever benzodiazepine I snorted, every line of coke or hit of ketamine, I disappeared. Not just to everyone around me, but myself as well. I had no personality. I just existed. I went through the motions of life without ever really being there. I fell further and further away from humanity and closer and closer to nothingness.

I always want to write about my time during active addiction, but whether I did so many drugs I just can’t remember or whether I’m repressing traumatic memories (addiction can be a trauma), either way, I have very few memories of my early twenties.

I know that I only hung out exclusively with people who did drugs or drank pretty hard.

I know I loved and hated using drugs at the same time.

I can remember going to a gay bar with my friends, and my one friend tried so hard to keep up with my drinking that while I was getting free fries from a guy who thought I was cute, she was busy throwing up in a trash can in the bathroom. I remember smoking weed with my ex and playing Star Wars Battlefront for hours and feeling like I was having the best time of my life. Or the time I got so high with my best friend (who I was in love with) that we went to Starbucks at 5 am and just sat there drinking our frappucinos laughing hysterically at everything.

But those were the good times. And like every addict knows, it’s easy to romanticize them. But so much of my time in active addiction was pure hell. Constantly worrying when I was going to run out and how I was going to get my next one — tormenting my Mother, losing friends, losing relationships.

Disappearing.

Sometimes I feel like my mental illness and drug addiction are the only two things that define me. They’ve taken up so much space in my life that it’s genuinely a process to try and find other things that can identify you. I’m in recovery now, which has left a massive hole inside of me. Without drugs, who am I?

I’m a writer. I’m a dreamer. I’m a student, and I could listen to Billie Eilish forever. I take Star Wars exceptionally seriously, and I might get a little too emotionally invested in anime. I’m a damn fine pet parent.

I’m also a trans man.

It was fall of 2019 that I decided I wanted to use he/him pronouns. I began to live my life not as Ames or Amy, but Elliot. I was clean, and without drugs in my system to hide my gender identity, I could finally confront it. Between my transphobic father and a hospitalization where I was continuously deadnamed, in December, I decided I was going to go by Ames again and use she/her pronouns. That lasted until about April 2020, when the Big Trans Feelings™ came back. I sat on my feelings until the final day of May when I came out as Elliot again. I haven’t looked back since.

It’s strange, I’ve both never been so comfortable in my skin, yet dysphoria plagues me constantly. That’s the paradox of being trans — you’re more comfortable living as the gender you identify with, but at the same time, if your body doesn’t match how you perceive yourself, you have to deal with dysphoria regularly.

Recovery from addiction allowed me to discover my true self. If I were still using every day like I used to, I’d be okay with being cis because I wouldn’t even think twice about my gender. Nothing matters when you’re disappearing.

Right now, I’m just grateful to be alive. I’m glad my suicide attempts all failed because if they hadn’t, I would never have lived to see myself get an apartment by myself and two unbelievable pets. As dumb as it sounds, I wouldn’t have lived to see the Star Wars sequel trilogy. I wouldn’t have lived to see myself become a writer for multiple Medium publications. I wouldn’t have lived long enough for people to tell me they like my writing. But most importantly, I wouldn’t have lived to become me.

Because I was never me. I was a ghost. I was just an empty shell of a person who had no concept of who they were. But because of recovery, I lived long enough to figure out who I am.

So who am I? I’m a survivor. I’m a recovering addict. I’m a proud trans man.

I’m finally a person rather than a shadow of a person.

I’m not disappearing anymore.