Tag Archives: love

Untitled Ache

I raced to the door, not having heard the quiet tapping. My headphones dangled from my desk and I was crushed beneath guilt as I helped her inside, the heavy items in her hands causing her, seemingly, great distress. I didn’t know. I rarely knew.

Why did she never tell me she needed help?

Why did she choose to put herself through misery?

I dropped a heavy twenty-four pack of soda on the floor and turned to her. “Sit down and rest. You should have told me you were on your way. I said I would help you carry all of this.” She dropped onto the sofa, short of breath, and all I could think about was her poor health. Had she eaten yet? She had a horrible habit of putting off food to do things. “Did you eat today?”

She sighed with a forlorn look. “I didn’t have a chance.”

“You can eat before you come over. You don’t have to rush over here.” I rustled through my cupboards as she shrugged and I handed her a few cookies until I figured out something more fulfilling. I pointed to the box dinner she’d brought. “Want some of that? I can make it for you.”

She nodded without making eye contact, and I knew then what to expect for the weekend. It was in her body language and the way she shifted her eyes. Her curvy form slumped over as if she were utterly exhausted, her mood clear in her posture. Her histrionic tendencies were surfacing and it brought forth the anxiety I often felt when we made plans. Which version of her would it be that weekend?

I took the meal she brought with her to prepare on the stove. I had so little, myself, in my small apartment that told of my equally small wallet, and there were just as many cobwebs in my home as in my checking account. I was down to pasta and peanut butter and bread, and embarrassment washed over me.

“Do you want to work on our book tonight?” She sounded better. 

My anxiety doubled and clenched in my chest. “Sure, I can do my best.” Her silence caused me to glance over, and she’d pulled out her large phone to scroll through Facebook. I sighed as my nerves finally calmed to be replaced with depression. It was that version of her this time.

I sat in my office chair as she ate and watched on with YouTube playing in the background. She didn’t look at me or speak, and I glanced at the awful device beside her that often stole her away from me. The Thing that was more important than anyone and anything.


The beautiful poetry coming from the TV captivated me. A rush of passionate inspiration caused me to smile, and I turned to look for her reaction as I played the spoken-word piece for her. Of everyone I knew, she would get it. We could have such wonderful discussions about art and writing and–

Sudden laughter and a loud comedy show made me jump as she stared at the Thing. A powerful sadness gave my happiness whiplash that sent it plummeting to the pit of my stomach. Sickness. Embarrassment. My breath caught as my heart leaped across the room.

Pain. The sound of laughter through a small speaker was deafening as it drowned out the passionate inspiration still spinning beautiful words behind me. The beautiful art I’d asked to share with her. The Thing had robbed that moment, but I was beginning to realize that it wasn’t the Thing that was the problem.

Just because I let someone in, doesn’t mean I actually need them,’ she’d said. ‘I’m done with mentally ill people. I don’t want that around my kids, but I’ll keep the crazy I got,’ she’d pointed to me. ‘We write better sex than we have.’ ‘Just because you fuck ‘em doesn’t mean you have to keep ‘em.’ ‘You’re just pushing everything aside you don’t feel is important to focus on your own work.’

Her words from over the years became a skipping record and a weight fell over me — crushing me. Why did I love her so much? My heart wanted her, and I’d thought hers wanted me. I now see that the only person in her heart was herself.

The histrionic behavior. The eye rolls. The cold shoulders. The cruel words. Yet I felt the pull toward her stronger than ever. I cared too much and worried too much, and I wished she’d stay gone or stop talking to me entirely. It was easier that way. It was always easier that way.

After all, as I’d failed to learn over and over again, a narcissist was nothing more than a trap — a glimpse of a dream that shifted into a nightmare if you dared to trust the moment of peace.

©2020 Shane Blackheart

Ramblings to a Dead Tree

This bit of writing is from an entry I made in my newest journal. I tend to have a bad habit of buying new journals even though I haven’t filled the last, but I also do the same things with books – I haven’t finished half of the ones I own but I MUST have that new book I just found! An antique book? Rare or out of print? Hard to find? Give them all to me. I just add them to the stack of things ‘to do’ that I never get around to. Such is the life of a bibliophile. Being obsessed with antiques makes it worse.

So, I made a commitment to this journal that I have yet to stick to. I haven’t written in it again, but at least I made an effort to start. The cover reads ‘Fucking Brilliant’ anyway, so I figured it would be best for things I thought were… well… fucking brilliant. As is expected of something like that, what I wrote at first did not live up to this goal. It’s an entry from a few weeks ago, but I wanted to share it here regardless, mostly because I managed to weave senseless rambling with flowery words.


From May 17, 2018

I got this notebook to jot down genius ideas or stories – to dedicate one notebook to a single subject – yet here I am sitting outside my counselor’s office waiting for my appointment. The sun is out, the weather is hot, and the breeze feels nice in contrast to the sun’s warm rays. I’ve had a rough couple of days so it is welcome. I lost a friend, but I think it was a long time coming. ‘Exes for a reason’ comes to mind. I think I’m just done with people using me for money – using me in general. But that’s not what I wanted to write about. No. I’d intended to draw.

While on the bus, I felt inspired emotionally by a few things that I can’t put words to. I know, how can you be inspired by something that escapes you? Maybe I’m manic or maybe I’m going insane from being perpetually broke the moment my SSI check goes into my account. Maybe I just grip my pencil too god damned hard when I write and the pain distracts me. No matter the reason, here I am, writing drabbles of senseless mind-clusterings. (Is that a word? My word processor didn’t mark it as an error, so a word it is!) Such is the consequence of being a manic erratic creator. I bet this all sounds cringey and stereotypically embarrassing too.

But at least I am writing. Not in pen, but in pencil. Mistakes are my forte’ after all, as is senseless rambling, but I’m becoming self-deprecating. I’m good at that too. And again. Is there even a point to this rambling or is it a way to communicate with a faceless listener due to my loneliness? Although I do have Lestan, Byleth, Daro, and the others – my alters, others, or whatever you’d like to call them – I am physically lonely. All I’ve ever wanted is a physical companion; that hopeless romantic notion of a soul mate for true love. As a transman, I feel that’s impossible, so I converse through graphite with a dead tree.

But I am lonely. I can’t drive and I’m stuck in life with very little – at least I have that little, though. Unfortunately, being a transman who doesn’t look like a lovechild of the Hulk and Chris Evans, along with mental illness and being on disability, as well as having no car, is the recipe for loneliness. No one is interested in who you are anymore. Everyone just wants an easy ticket to romance with no effort and no baggage without realizing that everyone has baggage. Some are just better at hiding it than others.

But it’s time to see my counselor now. Hopefully, good news for top surgery is to follow within the next month or two, and progress with my projects.

[End of entry]


I’m never really alone to be truthful. I do have my alters or others (I haven’t yet found a good enough word for them that feels ‘right’, although the medical term would be ‘alters’) to keep me company and provide me with companionship. They even give me a nudge and ask to take over when things get to be too much, and usually, I let them. But the physical companionship of another person is often lost with me. I’ve been single for quite a few years now and am still trying to find a date despite my looming failure of it. Life gets lonely no matter how many friends you have and no matter how big your support system is. It’s no replacement for that special kind of relationship that only is shared with one special person – your person (or persons if you are polyamorous).

All of my attempts to confess to people I’ve liked has ended in me never hearing from them again, or them disappearing shortly after. It has made me feel pretty undesirable and unloveable, and I know that it’s popular to say: ‘If you can’t love yourself, how the hell you gonna love somebody else?!’ (thank you, RuPaul), but I don’t think that’s necessarily true. Sometimes a special person is all you need to learn to love yourself, especially when you’ve had a life of others convincing you of how worthless of a person you are and believing it.

I’d like to think I am capable of being loved in that way. I’d like to believe I am desirable and that someone is out there for me, but I’ve given up again. I’m overweight, my teeth are a bit messed up because I broke my jaw when I was thirteen, I’m dysphoric on the best of days and don’t pass as a cisgender man yet, I have mental illness, and I’m on a fixed income due to disability and unable to safely operate a car even though I do have my license.

But I take care of myself. I live on my own and have two awesome cats. I pay my own bills and do my own grocery shopping. I get by. I make art in several different mediums by either sketching or drawing digitally. I have a Youtube channel and I make animations and voice act them, as well as organize everything and write the scripts. I am a writer above all of that and have aspirations of being published one day to be able to have accomplished my dream I’ve had since I was a child.

I love video games, anime, and long conversations about deeper subjects. I have an entire family who also comes along for the ride, although I can only show you them through drawings and voice recordings they’ve come to the forefront to do and not physically. While it seems overwhelming, they’re an awesome bunch who just want to see me live and strive to be the best I can be and to, of course, find what makes me happy. 

I’ve repeated a few times now in this blog that there is so much more to me than my illnesses and my financial situation, as well as the shortcomings in general. But no one wants to get far enough romantically to see any of it. No one sees that as any value compared to the small things that are out of my control. I just wish I could get lucky someday and meet someone and we can have a mutual interest in each other, and the shortcomings will seem so much smaller than the greater things that make us who we really are.