I remember reading something to this effect in a story about a trans egg. It crushed me inside in a way that nothing else had. I’ve read stories of doubt and uncertainty, but nothing else had captured how attainable experiences can get blacklisted from your imagination. When you go so many years hating yourself, too scared and uncertain in your own identity to ever even try, you stop believing that love will ever happen.

I’ve worked through a lot of my self hatred, but I still struggle to believe that anyone will ever want me. I’m the one who wants; not an object of want. It hurts less if I give up hope, but rejecting the possibility only makes it less likely. I could ignore relationships for a longer time than other things I craved, but it’s probably time to finally teardown this latest shield of false apathy.