Not so long ago, I was laying awake at night, wondering about the difference between an undignified death and a dignified one. I thought about people who jump from train platforms, and then I thought about the unconvincing attempts I´ve made on my own life. Unconvincing, because I´d hate to die like that.
That sounds weird, perhaps. Nobody should want to induce death. At all. But there was one question that lingered on my mind. If somebody should offer euthanasia to me right now, would I take it? Perhaps it would seem less dramatically desperate. Perhaps in that light, it would simply imply departure.
Somehow it feels more dignified. I would want a dignified death. I would not want to die alone, in a corner, bleeding and hurt. The thought of this made me wonder about living a dignified life. Whether having a dignified life is a choice, despite the circumstances. Or whether circumstances can take this choice away from you.
As a child I did not often feel dignified. I have had the snot beaten out of me, been left on the floor sobbing and bruised, been called pathetic, been made to feel worthless. It was awful. As I grew up, crippling self-loathing, combined with dysphoria and a bad concoction of hormones, made life a living hell.
It´s different now. I discovered who I am, and who I am not. And yet I still don´t feel proud of my life. Rather the opposite. I feel like an atrocity – the brain of a man and the body of a transsexual. Which in itself is fine. But it doesn´t feel like my body, and it never has; it´s always been a target and a nuisance.
I have a lingering conviction, that this isn´t my body, that it was cast on me against my will after physical rejection from my parents. There is no love. How can there be dignity when you don´t love yourself – when you think of your body as an excess, like an appendix, unnecessary and obsolete.