An abyss separates the dysphoric from those strange beings who function. We may as well be from different planets. They can never understand us. They may judge us, patronise us, whatever, but they will always view us as some inferior form of life. And so every encounter carries with it the unspoken baggage of unworth. To know that one is seen as lesser is to fuel the absence of self-worth. It’s a cycle, a positive feedback loop that forever reinforces the belief that one is nothing. I have always wanted to disappear, which is difficult if you’re tall and broad and clumsy. Ironically the camouflage jackets that should fade me into the physical background make me stand out more like a large bear walking down a quiet suburban street. For the life of me I can never feel comfortable in shell-suits or whatever the fuck it is that people wear round here; football tops, GAA tops. I would wear a Sullivan Upper rugby top, but that would be making a statement, and I have other things to say with my clothing; “I don’t want to be here” being one of them. So I always default to the scruffiest, most inert things, usually so old they’re falling apart. Primark stuff used to last. Those were the days. I still have clothing that’s twenty years old, or more. I never throw anything out. It’s like losing a part of myself.