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Cis friends telling me they are so glad I’m finally happy is the most painful fucking thing in the world.

I cry every single day when I’m alone in the house. It’s like I can feel nothing but loneliness and despair. And, yeah, this is better than before.

Because before, I was just acting in the way I was supposed to. I knew what happy was supposed to look like and played that part. But I didn’t even feel despair. I felt nothing. I was empty. I existed on the edge of suicide not from pain but from emptiness.

So now, yeah, it’s better. At least now I can feel something, even if it’s only despair. Even that is better than feeling empty.

But the picture of me being happy is a projection of the Trans story cis people need to make themselves feel better. I’m “happy” now in much the same way as I was “happy” before—in the way they need to see me as happy.