For my Abnormal Psychology class, I'm reading a memoir of a woman with bipolar disorder. She's also a renowned psychiatrist. Her book is very sterile; I empathize with her, but mostly just on a cognitive level. Ironically, a book about roller coaster emotions is rather unemotive. So I want to share with you a glimpse of major depression. I hope that by the end, you'll be able to *feel* it as well as just know it.
Allow me to set the mood. Turn out all the lights in your bedroom and put a heavy blanket or drapes over the windows. Only whispers of light should enter the room. Crawl into bed and pull the blanket up to your chin. Curl up into fetal position. Pick a spot on the wall, and stare at it. You're really too lazy to look away anyway. It's about 9:30 in the morning, a lazy Saturday or Sunday. Or maybe it's a Tuesday and you decided that you simply cannot pull yourself out of bed to go to work or class. So you stare at your place on the wall. You're extremely thirsty, and decide to get out of bed for a glass of juice, but then your mind starts going through the motions of what you'll need to do: it's exhausting. In your mind, you pull back the covers and brace yourself against the cool air rushing onto your skin (your apartment is just warm enough to keep the pipes from freezing, but not much more.) Then you have to uncurl yourself and slide your legs out of bed. Already you feel out of breath from the exertion, and here comes the worst part. You will have to pull your head from the indentation on your pillow and actually sit upright. There's a slight melancholic tugging on your heart; you want a drink, but are having second thoughts whether it's worth the effort. Stand up and immediately start walking before, in one motion, you lose momentum and fall back into the respite of fetal position under the comforter. You drag your legs, which feel more like fins, across the carpet. It's only about 10 feet from your bed to the kitchen, but the distance seems to stretch indefinitely. You pour the juice, and as you sip, are vaguely aware of the smell of trash you haven't taken out in close to two weeks. Your former pristine place has now become the host of large amounts of decaying matter and possibly biological weapons grade bacteria growing on the counter tops. You can't even remember when the last time was you did the dishes; but you see a slight film on the water of the bowls sitting in the sink. The cold, dark apartment with its musty smells of rot only depresses you further (is that possible?) and you seek refuge in the only place you know. Before you can think it, you're back under the covers.
Of course, none of this really happens. Remember, this is all in your mind--you figuring out the steps required to attain this much coveted glass of juice. Your tongue is sticking to the sides of your mouth. You contemplate calling your mother, who lives 20 minutes away, to come over with the spare key and pouring the juice for you. Sadly, it's not the inconvenience to her that stops you from calling, but the fact that she just had major back surgery and can, in fact, barely walk for more than 3 minutes at a time, much less climb stairs, drive, or completely dress herself. So you set in bed, staring at the wall. Another thought comes to you: maybe you don't really want juice anyway. You want a latte. In your mind, you fast forward past the getting out of bed, putting a coat over your pajamas, walking down the two flights of stairs and across the quarter mile of parking lot to your car, to where you actually pull into a parking spot at the local coffee shop. You envision yourself standing in line, your armpits slightly moist and forcing your to remember when you last took a shower. You apologize silently to the people around you for your surely offensive smell and just pray that the baristas are quick with making your beverage. In your mind, it's your turn to tell the cashier your order. You look into her earnest, cheerful eyes and open your mouth to speak. You choke on the words. In bed, your eyes well up with tears, which quickly begin to spill over onto your pillow already warm and slightly damp with sweat. You're embarrassed and you pull the covers over your head to hide your shame from the shadows of your room. In the dark, you cry freely for a minute when, just as inexplicably as they begin, the tears stop. Deep breath.
You wonder what time it is, but then, it doesn't really matter. Whatever you're supposed to be doing, you're not. Whomever you're supposed to be meeting will be neglected. Where ever you're supposed to be, you're not going to. You've given yourself freedom to hide in your cave indefinitely. Your face itches. When did you last wash it? Are you breaking out? Who cares, no one will see you. Now you have to go to the bathroom. How could you be so dehydrated and still have to pee, you ask yourself. You hold it. The warmth and carbon dioxide from your breath under the covers is unbearable, and you peek your eyes and nose out for not fresh, but slightly less stale, air. While you've moved this much, you decide that maybe you should just go to the bathroom and get it over with. This time, you actually get out of bed for real and try not to think about how cool the apartment is. You walk into the bathroom and turn on the lights. Only one of the eight lightbulbs is actually screwed all the way in, allowing for the least amount of light possible. You still look away from the brightness. Pee, and done. There's the scale. You step on and realize you've lost a pound since yesterday morning. For a fleeting moment, you're happy to have lost weight, but then you realize that you're not actually losing weight so much as wasting away. You're not getting thinner, you're decaying into nothing. Your eyes sting with tears again, and the choking feeling returns to your throat.
Back in bed, you stare at your favorite place on the wall. This eternity has actually only lasted about 8 minutes.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Saturday, February 13, 2010
I miss my binder
I might be one of the only post-op FTMs to say this (grrr, I hate the label "FTM", but at least you know what I'm talking about) anyway, I miss my binder.
Don't misread. I don't miss having to bind when there was something to bind. Rather, I miss that deep pressure, that security, I felt when binding. I think it's the same sensation that many children with autism experience and appreciate when they're feeling out of sorts. I didn't realize that I missed it until a few days ago. I found my binder in my undershirt drawer (yes, my underwears are separated by briefs/boxers, undershirts, and socks!) and was wondering if it still fit and what it would feel like to wear it now. Then this morning I was rebandaging up my tattoo (oh yeah, so, for anyone who didn't know, my top surgery, while it healed very fast and painlessly, also left a hideous scar more pronounced than many I've seen. So I got a tribal tattoo over it to hide most of the horror--the last part was done last night.) Hok, so I was rebandaging my tattoo and since the towel covers the left side of my chest, tiny bandages wouldn't have made sense to hold it, I just rolled some painting tape (relatively low adhesion) over the entire thing. It's holding pretty well--it isn't too tight or too loose. Anyway, I noticed that it's applying pressure to my chest in the same way the binder used to. And I also noticed that the pressure creates a very secure feeling. If I wasn't so squeamish about people touching me, I'd go for a deep tissue massage...
Don't misread. I don't miss having to bind when there was something to bind. Rather, I miss that deep pressure, that security, I felt when binding. I think it's the same sensation that many children with autism experience and appreciate when they're feeling out of sorts. I didn't realize that I missed it until a few days ago. I found my binder in my undershirt drawer (yes, my underwears are separated by briefs/boxers, undershirts, and socks!) and was wondering if it still fit and what it would feel like to wear it now. Then this morning I was rebandaging up my tattoo (oh yeah, so, for anyone who didn't know, my top surgery, while it healed very fast and painlessly, also left a hideous scar more pronounced than many I've seen. So I got a tribal tattoo over it to hide most of the horror--the last part was done last night.) Hok, so I was rebandaging my tattoo and since the towel covers the left side of my chest, tiny bandages wouldn't have made sense to hold it, I just rolled some painting tape (relatively low adhesion) over the entire thing. It's holding pretty well--it isn't too tight or too loose. Anyway, I noticed that it's applying pressure to my chest in the same way the binder used to. And I also noticed that the pressure creates a very secure feeling. If I wasn't so squeamish about people touching me, I'd go for a deep tissue massage...
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Another dream (maybe I should just start numbering them?)
I had this dream two nights ago (okay, so not last night or the night before, but the night before *that*.)
Because this dream was further back, my memory has a few more gaps. Well, my accessible memory does. Anyway, I was a mentor or a Big Brother or something in my dream, and I was working with various children. Some of the kids were from where I work, but others were from out in the community. Anyway, in the first part of my dream, I was working with two incredibly overweight women who would just sit in chairs and eat and gossip, even though they were supposed to be helping me watch all these kids. (Please don't hate me for judging these women... they were in my dream and I don't think my conscious self would ever intentionally criticize or judge a woman's weight or eating habits. I know how hard it is...) For some reason, we were watching all of them at my parents house (I have no clue where my parents were) and the two women were sitting in lawn chairs on the deck. The kids were just running around and I was really worried about any of them getting lost since we have a dense wood behind our house. So I'm running upstairs, downstairs, inside, outside, all around trying to keep the kids happy and occupied. Fortunately, the weather is beautiful (summertime!) outside.
I guess something went wrong, despite my efforts. I was back in Manassas near my own apartment and I had just bought a kid an ice cream or something before I was to take them back to their parents. The kid seemed really happy and I didn't say/do anything wrong... but then he (or she?) suddenly turns and shoots me in the stomach. I fell to the ground and the kid ran away. I knew I wouldn't die, but as I lay there curled up in a ball, my first thought was covering up the wound so no one could see it. Now, this isn't really easy to do when you're just wearing a t-shirt and jeans cause it's summertime (as opposed to the billion of layers in the winter) but I think I managed for a little bit. I walked some more, past a group of youngish boys playing near the road. As I passed, one of them shot me too, but this time in the chest. Both core shots (think target practice outlines) and the loss of blood should have killed me (maybe the caliber was too small?) but it didn't. I wasn't even particularly afraid of dying. I was just embarassed of being shot and didn't want anyone to know about it. I ran the rest of the way home, clutching my chest and stomach so no one would see me bleeding to death.
Because this dream was further back, my memory has a few more gaps. Well, my accessible memory does. Anyway, I was a mentor or a Big Brother or something in my dream, and I was working with various children. Some of the kids were from where I work, but others were from out in the community. Anyway, in the first part of my dream, I was working with two incredibly overweight women who would just sit in chairs and eat and gossip, even though they were supposed to be helping me watch all these kids. (Please don't hate me for judging these women... they were in my dream and I don't think my conscious self would ever intentionally criticize or judge a woman's weight or eating habits. I know how hard it is...) For some reason, we were watching all of them at my parents house (I have no clue where my parents were) and the two women were sitting in lawn chairs on the deck. The kids were just running around and I was really worried about any of them getting lost since we have a dense wood behind our house. So I'm running upstairs, downstairs, inside, outside, all around trying to keep the kids happy and occupied. Fortunately, the weather is beautiful (summertime!) outside.
I guess something went wrong, despite my efforts. I was back in Manassas near my own apartment and I had just bought a kid an ice cream or something before I was to take them back to their parents. The kid seemed really happy and I didn't say/do anything wrong... but then he (or she?) suddenly turns and shoots me in the stomach. I fell to the ground and the kid ran away. I knew I wouldn't die, but as I lay there curled up in a ball, my first thought was covering up the wound so no one could see it. Now, this isn't really easy to do when you're just wearing a t-shirt and jeans cause it's summertime (as opposed to the billion of layers in the winter) but I think I managed for a little bit. I walked some more, past a group of youngish boys playing near the road. As I passed, one of them shot me too, but this time in the chest. Both core shots (think target practice outlines) and the loss of blood should have killed me (maybe the caliber was too small?) but it didn't. I wasn't even particularly afraid of dying. I was just embarassed of being shot and didn't want anyone to know about it. I ran the rest of the way home, clutching my chest and stomach so no one would see me bleeding to death.
Dreams again
I wrote the last post this morning about a dream I had last night. This post is about a dream I had the night before.
I don't typically dream that I'm floating anywhere (some people do, but in a more abstract way. My dreams tend to be very detailed and realistic.) Anyway, in this dream, I'm in the ocean. The water is very blue and clear and quiet. I'm probably about 15-20 feet down... deep enough that it's starting to get dark, but not so deep that I can't still see the sun rays refracting through the surface. I'm swimming around and I look to my left and I see my friend (whose name I will leave out for her sake) swimming next to me. I didn't notice at first, but come to realize that she is completely naked. (Think art, not eroticism, please.) She is completely genderless--her body is not male or female (though I keep using the female pronoun because, in real life, she's still a girl.) She has an intensely serious expression on her face and I get the idea that there's something I'm supposed to know, but I don't. I start to get really scared... not because I'm afraid of drowning, but because of the darkness that so closely surrounds me and that there's something I'm meant to know but I can't understand it. I feel afraid and also a bit like a failure for not knowing.
I told my friend (the one from this dream) about it and she gave a few possible meanings, but mostly she asked me what I felt. I told her that I mostly felt afraid and ashamed. Then she asked me what I looked like. To my surprise, I didn't know. I hadn't thought of it, but in my dream, I didn't have a gender either. But more than that, I didn't have a race, ethnicity, religion, height, weight, or maybe even a physical body. Mostly, I didn't have an identity. I was just an existence, swimming in this ocean near where the darkness begins, feeling afraid and ashamed of something I didn't know.
I don't typically dream that I'm floating anywhere (some people do, but in a more abstract way. My dreams tend to be very detailed and realistic.) Anyway, in this dream, I'm in the ocean. The water is very blue and clear and quiet. I'm probably about 15-20 feet down... deep enough that it's starting to get dark, but not so deep that I can't still see the sun rays refracting through the surface. I'm swimming around and I look to my left and I see my friend (whose name I will leave out for her sake) swimming next to me. I didn't notice at first, but come to realize that she is completely naked. (Think art, not eroticism, please.) She is completely genderless--her body is not male or female (though I keep using the female pronoun because, in real life, she's still a girl.) She has an intensely serious expression on her face and I get the idea that there's something I'm supposed to know, but I don't. I start to get really scared... not because I'm afraid of drowning, but because of the darkness that so closely surrounds me and that there's something I'm meant to know but I can't understand it. I feel afraid and also a bit like a failure for not knowing.
I told my friend (the one from this dream) about it and she gave a few possible meanings, but mostly she asked me what I felt. I told her that I mostly felt afraid and ashamed. Then she asked me what I looked like. To my surprise, I didn't know. I hadn't thought of it, but in my dream, I didn't have a gender either. But more than that, I didn't have a race, ethnicity, religion, height, weight, or maybe even a physical body. Mostly, I didn't have an identity. I was just an existence, swimming in this ocean near where the darkness begins, feeling afraid and ashamed of something I didn't know.
Dreams
I haven't posted in a while, and I'm sorry to just sorta jump into a topic without explaining my prolonged absence. Really, I've just been too lazy to write. Lazy and uninspiration are a lethal combination for the scribically inclined. (Scribically? Did I make that up? That's fucken awesome...)
I am somewhere between narcolepsy and insomnia right now. I sleep, but only because I drug myself into doing so, and I wake up frequently in the night due to a combination of highly psychologically intense, mellow, or straight up scary-as-shit nightmares (those are usually the times when I've stopped breathing while sleeping... yes, sleep apnea. No, I haven't been to a doc about it. Give me $25 copay and I'll get back to you.)
Last night I had a dream that I was in an academic building, and whenever the professor of the classroom I happened to be in said something disturbing, I would get up (like a ghost) and wander the halls and stairs of the school. I say like I ghost because, while I don't remember being able to go through walls, I had an inexplicable feeling of being invisible... and probably intangible. Finally, I wandered to the mental health clinic because one professor had implied that I should go. Again, my physical (conscious) body wanted nothing to do with this, so it was up to ghost body (or, perhaps another personality?) to take me there. The mental health clinic was in the basement of the building. I tried to be as discreet as possible when entering; fortunately, people politely did NOT stare at me and play Guess-the-Psychosis with me when I stood at the reception desk getting the forms I needed. I sat down near a few guys (because I just absolutely DO NOT sit next to females in an otherwise empty room anymore.) I noticed that the guys I was sitting next to were actually young, emotionally disturbed boys between the ages of 14 and 22. Chronologically they were much younger than me, but I'm not sure that that's relevant since physically (and probably emotionally/psychologically) we probably weren't that far apart. I think that the reason these boys were there wasn't so much that they needed help (they did) but because they needed to learn to ask for help... to identify when areas of their life were impaired by their mental health and to be able to do something about it before they hurt themselves or others. (Shit... and I hadn't even read my psychology book in weeks!) Then, there was one guy who looked about my age (24) who was apparently leading this sharing session. I hadn't realized that actually all the boys of this group had to read what they were feeling and experiencing to the group. Everyone was scared about being judged by the other boys, but somehow, they all knew this would happen so they just sucked it up and were honest (I think) with the group about what was going on with them. I didn't share mine because, like with the professors before, I turned back into a ghost and listened to, but did not interact with, the group for a few minutes. Then I started to leave. But one of the doctors or nurses yelled for me to come. How did she see me?!? I pretended not to hear, but she told me that I had manic depression and, if I didn't stay and get help, that it would morph into the most severe kind of depression (implied: the kind were the only 'recovery' is usually suicide...) Damn.
I woke up as I pushed open the doorway to the stairs... ignoring the nurse's warnings.
I am somewhere between narcolepsy and insomnia right now. I sleep, but only because I drug myself into doing so, and I wake up frequently in the night due to a combination of highly psychologically intense, mellow, or straight up scary-as-shit nightmares (those are usually the times when I've stopped breathing while sleeping... yes, sleep apnea. No, I haven't been to a doc about it. Give me $25 copay and I'll get back to you.)
Last night I had a dream that I was in an academic building, and whenever the professor of the classroom I happened to be in said something disturbing, I would get up (like a ghost) and wander the halls and stairs of the school. I say like I ghost because, while I don't remember being able to go through walls, I had an inexplicable feeling of being invisible... and probably intangible. Finally, I wandered to the mental health clinic because one professor had implied that I should go. Again, my physical (conscious) body wanted nothing to do with this, so it was up to ghost body (or, perhaps another personality?) to take me there. The mental health clinic was in the basement of the building. I tried to be as discreet as possible when entering; fortunately, people politely did NOT stare at me and play Guess-the-Psychosis with me when I stood at the reception desk getting the forms I needed. I sat down near a few guys (because I just absolutely DO NOT sit next to females in an otherwise empty room anymore.) I noticed that the guys I was sitting next to were actually young, emotionally disturbed boys between the ages of 14 and 22. Chronologically they were much younger than me, but I'm not sure that that's relevant since physically (and probably emotionally/psychologically) we probably weren't that far apart. I think that the reason these boys were there wasn't so much that they needed help (they did) but because they needed to learn to ask for help... to identify when areas of their life were impaired by their mental health and to be able to do something about it before they hurt themselves or others. (Shit... and I hadn't even read my psychology book in weeks!) Then, there was one guy who looked about my age (24) who was apparently leading this sharing session. I hadn't realized that actually all the boys of this group had to read what they were feeling and experiencing to the group. Everyone was scared about being judged by the other boys, but somehow, they all knew this would happen so they just sucked it up and were honest (I think) with the group about what was going on with them. I didn't share mine because, like with the professors before, I turned back into a ghost and listened to, but did not interact with, the group for a few minutes. Then I started to leave. But one of the doctors or nurses yelled for me to come. How did she see me?!? I pretended not to hear, but she told me that I had manic depression and, if I didn't stay and get help, that it would morph into the most severe kind of depression (implied: the kind were the only 'recovery' is usually suicide...) Damn.
I woke up as I pushed open the doorway to the stairs... ignoring the nurse's warnings.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Chilly. It's Chili.
Yo!
It's been a long time... 4 1/2 months, to be exact. I didn't have Internet in my apartment and I left my job where I used to spend most of my Wednesday nights killing time on someone else's Internet... And let's be honest: the only reason I've even remembered that I have a blog to write in is because I am reading the blog of a new friend. It's not because today, of all days, I have something to write about. But I figured that while I'm hear, I'll update anyone who wants to know on everything that's happened from August 5, 2009 until now.
I began classes at George Mason at the end of August. I am trying to finish my stupid Bachelor's degree, but having decided years ago that I hate the political science major and will chew of my own foot before I sit through another political science class, I switched my major to biology. My classes for the semester were Biology w/ Lab, Organic Chemistry I w/ Lab, and Iraqi Arabic (because I took Arabic before and didn't want to lose any of it... too late.) The classes were alright, but then in October I got promoted to the lead teaching assistant in the classroom I work in and my obligations to work increased. And I lost motivation to continue putting in the effort in classes that were way over my head and that I wouldn't end up doing anything with anyway. So, with the advice and help of a friend (who doesn't even go to the school, but it a lot better at solving problems than I am!) I applied for the Bachelor's of Individualized Study program and got accepted into that. Yay! So what does this mean? For one, a reevaluation of my transfer credits, which should bring me to over 100 transfer credits and mean that I will be graduating in 2-3 semesters! It also means that I get to create my major. The tentative title for what I want is Health and Nutrition for Developmentally Disabled Children. We'll see. I'll give more details about it next semester once I really shape up the plan for it.
What else? Hmmm... well, I came out (officially) at work. Maybe I wrote about this before? But my name change was official as of August 25th, so I did the process of changing my name over on all my legal/employment stuff. Now I have a driver's license that says M for gender and my new name, James Ethan, on it. :D yay!
Wow, another reason I don't write blogs: so hard to stay focused! Currently, I am making chili (yum!) taking online tests, trying to buy a game online (Diablo?) and talking on facebook, in addition to writing here. Oh, and occassionally (I know that's spelled wrong...) I have to stop and sing/dance to whatever song is on the radio. "Well I'm not paralyzed, But I seem to be struck by you, I want to make you move Because you're standing still. If your body matches what your eyes can do, You'll probably move right through Me on my way to you!"
Right now, I'm trapped in my apartment. We didn't have a blizzard, but we're drama queens when it comes to the weather in Northern Virginia. That people panic when it's simply cloudy out during the summer should indicate the state of driving when it's rainy/snowy/icy/windy/dark outside. We have notoriously bad drivers in the beltway area. :( I'm not one of them, but I have to share the road with them. I walked to the store today because I didn't feel like digging my car out of 30 cubic feet of snow, only to get stuck feet away from the parking spot. Having a rear-wheel drive sports car is just ASKING for trouble in the winter. It's a good thing I live walking distance to both the shopping center and to my work (and to the library, I guess, but it's always closed anyway.) Actually, there are two shopping centers within walking distance... one is about 1/3 mile away... the other is about a mile.
Hmmm... wow, I didn't realize that I really don't have anything going on in my life. No hobbies... friends all too far away to walk to... really the only things I care about in my life right now are work (have I mentioned I LOVE my job? Hehehe) and... well, that's about it. Work is the only thing that energizes me and makes me smile. So, I guess it's not really 'work', is it?
What's new on the transition front? Absolutely nothing. I had been on 50mg/week for a year with almost NO change. I have ZERO facial or body hair after 12 months. My voice has changed only minimally. I'm SO disappointed. I feel like the whole thing is a big joke and my endocrinologist one day is gonna be like, "Haha, just kidding. That wasn't *really* testosterone. That was just the cottonseed oil. Good one, right?" Anyway, I increased my dose to 75mg/week last week. And I'm going to a new doctor after Christmas. That's all I can do, I guess. I'm either called "she/her" or people assume I'm 14 years old. (Of course, given the choice, I'd choose the latter.)
I don't even want to think how long I've been working on writing this stupid post. I don't handle distractions well... or I handle them really well: I give attention to every little thing and get NOTHING finished! Oh well. I am going to try to do something productive. Plan for the evening: watch Yentil, make holiday cookies, and go to sleep. :)
It's been a long time... 4 1/2 months, to be exact. I didn't have Internet in my apartment and I left my job where I used to spend most of my Wednesday nights killing time on someone else's Internet... And let's be honest: the only reason I've even remembered that I have a blog to write in is because I am reading the blog of a new friend. It's not because today, of all days, I have something to write about. But I figured that while I'm hear, I'll update anyone who wants to know on everything that's happened from August 5, 2009 until now.
I began classes at George Mason at the end of August. I am trying to finish my stupid Bachelor's degree, but having decided years ago that I hate the political science major and will chew of my own foot before I sit through another political science class, I switched my major to biology. My classes for the semester were Biology w/ Lab, Organic Chemistry I w/ Lab, and Iraqi Arabic (because I took Arabic before and didn't want to lose any of it... too late.) The classes were alright, but then in October I got promoted to the lead teaching assistant in the classroom I work in and my obligations to work increased. And I lost motivation to continue putting in the effort in classes that were way over my head and that I wouldn't end up doing anything with anyway. So, with the advice and help of a friend (who doesn't even go to the school, but it a lot better at solving problems than I am!) I applied for the Bachelor's of Individualized Study program and got accepted into that. Yay! So what does this mean? For one, a reevaluation of my transfer credits, which should bring me to over 100 transfer credits and mean that I will be graduating in 2-3 semesters! It also means that I get to create my major. The tentative title for what I want is Health and Nutrition for Developmentally Disabled Children. We'll see. I'll give more details about it next semester once I really shape up the plan for it.
What else? Hmmm... well, I came out (officially) at work. Maybe I wrote about this before? But my name change was official as of August 25th, so I did the process of changing my name over on all my legal/employment stuff. Now I have a driver's license that says M for gender and my new name, James Ethan, on it. :D yay!
Wow, another reason I don't write blogs: so hard to stay focused! Currently, I am making chili (yum!) taking online tests, trying to buy a game online (Diablo?) and talking on facebook, in addition to writing here. Oh, and occassionally (I know that's spelled wrong...) I have to stop and sing/dance to whatever song is on the radio. "Well I'm not paralyzed, But I seem to be struck by you, I want to make you move Because you're standing still. If your body matches what your eyes can do, You'll probably move right through Me on my way to you!"
Right now, I'm trapped in my apartment. We didn't have a blizzard, but we're drama queens when it comes to the weather in Northern Virginia. That people panic when it's simply cloudy out during the summer should indicate the state of driving when it's rainy/snowy/icy/windy/dark outside. We have notoriously bad drivers in the beltway area. :( I'm not one of them, but I have to share the road with them. I walked to the store today because I didn't feel like digging my car out of 30 cubic feet of snow, only to get stuck feet away from the parking spot. Having a rear-wheel drive sports car is just ASKING for trouble in the winter. It's a good thing I live walking distance to both the shopping center and to my work (and to the library, I guess, but it's always closed anyway.) Actually, there are two shopping centers within walking distance... one is about 1/3 mile away... the other is about a mile.
Hmmm... wow, I didn't realize that I really don't have anything going on in my life. No hobbies... friends all too far away to walk to... really the only things I care about in my life right now are work (have I mentioned I LOVE my job? Hehehe) and... well, that's about it. Work is the only thing that energizes me and makes me smile. So, I guess it's not really 'work', is it?
What's new on the transition front? Absolutely nothing. I had been on 50mg/week for a year with almost NO change. I have ZERO facial or body hair after 12 months. My voice has changed only minimally. I'm SO disappointed. I feel like the whole thing is a big joke and my endocrinologist one day is gonna be like, "Haha, just kidding. That wasn't *really* testosterone. That was just the cottonseed oil. Good one, right?" Anyway, I increased my dose to 75mg/week last week. And I'm going to a new doctor after Christmas. That's all I can do, I guess. I'm either called "she/her" or people assume I'm 14 years old. (Of course, given the choice, I'd choose the latter.)
I don't even want to think how long I've been working on writing this stupid post. I don't handle distractions well... or I handle them really well: I give attention to every little thing and get NOTHING finished! Oh well. I am going to try to do something productive. Plan for the evening: watch Yentil, make holiday cookies, and go to sleep. :)
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Club Men
At least one good thing has come from me coming out to my friends about being trans: guys who were already buddy-buddy with me have given me an open invite into the boy’s club. This invitation is complete with crude, immature comments, rougher-than-necessary slaps on the back, farts (and their accompanying jokes), and the 100% awkwardness that comes with straddling the line of male-bonding and homosexual tendencies. Nice. It almost seems as if the behavior was somehow these male friends mocking their own maleness to make me feel comfortable, which is nice in a very strange sort of way. I think it’s also a reflection of how some are subconsciously forced to redefine their own maleness as they assess mine. Recently, I have learned many things, but the foremost lessons to learn is: there will always be someone who knows more about being a man than you. At least, he thinks he does. Almost everyday at work, one of the guys I work with comes up with some dumbass rule that I must learn, insisting that he will teach me how to be a proper guy. “You’re not supposed to remember birthdays. That’s just not what us guys do,” or “Guys don’t eat veggies. They eat steak!” or “No, really, guys are supposed to slap each other on the ass!” or my favorite, “What the hell are you doing?!? You’re not supposed to be braiding So-and-So’s hair! That’s not what guys DO!!!!” (I actually was French braiding my co-worker’s hair during down time… cause we were that bored. LOL.)
But going from girls to guys, the conversations I have with friends really hasn’t changed too much. The guys pick their body fat and pull clothes in different places, swearing off this food or that, promising to start this or that workout or diet… the concern with body image doesn’t change. Just the willingness to expose said vulnerability changes. Then there’s crushes. There’s still that same reluctance to reach out to members of the opposite sex (or same sex, depending on the individual) that people find attractive. Girl’s checking out guy, guy’s checking out girl, both are too afraid to say anything so nothing gets said. ARGH, people! Let’s see, what else… driving. Girls aren’t better or worse drivers. Of my dearest friends, I would say everyone either sucks or is decent in a very non-gendered sort of way. Girls’ overall hygiene tends to be better (or, some guys just need to change up their routines cause their present ones aren’t working! And what’s the deal with not shaving or having horrible haircuts?!? Guys, take pride in yourselves. You owe it to yourselves and the girl you hope to approach to look and smell nice!)
I’ve only had one guy ask me about surgery… and it wasn’t so much casual ‘asking’ as it was a CIA interrogation. I was expecting water boarding if I didn’t provide more detail! I let him connect many of the dots (since we were standing in the parking lot of a bar and I didn’t exactly have my PowerPoint slides to provide graphic support.) A couple of weeks later, we were at the mall and I kept complaining that I wanted to leave because I had to go to the bathroom (which I would have preferred to do in the privacy of my apartment, and not in a public bathroom.) But, it got to the point that once he left me to go, I felt stupid holding it anymore. I followed him in a few seconds later. We were the only two in the bathroom (thank God!) and he was already standing at the urinal when I walked in. To my complete surprise, he just kind of laughed at my reluctance to come inside, and proceeded to pee as I entered the stall to do the same. So how does that feel hanging out with a female-bodied dude who’s sitting down to pee in a stall next to where you, a male-bodied dude, are standing to pee? I don’t know, and I didn’t really ask. But as we both went to wash our hands, he probably noticed how surprised I was with how cool he was about it. He made some kind of joke like, “It’s really not a big deal. This isn’t Boys Don’t Cry, you know.” But I didn’t know. Sure, there are lots of douche bag men out there. But as far as I’m concerned, there are just as many uncool ladies out there too. So at least if I have good, open-minded (and open-hearted!) friends, I feel like I can pee in peace.
And with all it alienness, I’m happy to be a novice in Club Men.
Author’s side note: I was at the mall with my baby sister and our mom the other weekend. They were looking at shoes and I was alternating between trying to claw my own face off as a means to escape and suggesting different shoes, seeking that delicate balance that ‘real men’ apparently have when shoe shopping with their lady friends. As I felt more comfortable, I stopped caring what other people around me were thinking (only the true egotistical even think that others are even concerned with what they’re doing…) and I forgot the image I was trying to present. She held up a pair of high, pearl-colored heels and I was like, “Hey. I used to have a pair of shoes just like those. Remember?” and the lady standing only a couple of feet from us looked at me with the most innocent, confused (trying to be subtle) face, looked down at her own shoe in deep thought, and walked away. We cracked up laughing as soon as she left. “Yes, there are some things I need to be more mindful before mentioning.”
But going from girls to guys, the conversations I have with friends really hasn’t changed too much. The guys pick their body fat and pull clothes in different places, swearing off this food or that, promising to start this or that workout or diet… the concern with body image doesn’t change. Just the willingness to expose said vulnerability changes. Then there’s crushes. There’s still that same reluctance to reach out to members of the opposite sex (or same sex, depending on the individual) that people find attractive. Girl’s checking out guy, guy’s checking out girl, both are too afraid to say anything so nothing gets said. ARGH, people! Let’s see, what else… driving. Girls aren’t better or worse drivers. Of my dearest friends, I would say everyone either sucks or is decent in a very non-gendered sort of way. Girls’ overall hygiene tends to be better (or, some guys just need to change up their routines cause their present ones aren’t working! And what’s the deal with not shaving or having horrible haircuts?!? Guys, take pride in yourselves. You owe it to yourselves and the girl you hope to approach to look and smell nice!)
I’ve only had one guy ask me about surgery… and it wasn’t so much casual ‘asking’ as it was a CIA interrogation. I was expecting water boarding if I didn’t provide more detail! I let him connect many of the dots (since we were standing in the parking lot of a bar and I didn’t exactly have my PowerPoint slides to provide graphic support.) A couple of weeks later, we were at the mall and I kept complaining that I wanted to leave because I had to go to the bathroom (which I would have preferred to do in the privacy of my apartment, and not in a public bathroom.) But, it got to the point that once he left me to go, I felt stupid holding it anymore. I followed him in a few seconds later. We were the only two in the bathroom (thank God!) and he was already standing at the urinal when I walked in. To my complete surprise, he just kind of laughed at my reluctance to come inside, and proceeded to pee as I entered the stall to do the same. So how does that feel hanging out with a female-bodied dude who’s sitting down to pee in a stall next to where you, a male-bodied dude, are standing to pee? I don’t know, and I didn’t really ask. But as we both went to wash our hands, he probably noticed how surprised I was with how cool he was about it. He made some kind of joke like, “It’s really not a big deal. This isn’t Boys Don’t Cry, you know.” But I didn’t know. Sure, there are lots of douche bag men out there. But as far as I’m concerned, there are just as many uncool ladies out there too. So at least if I have good, open-minded (and open-hearted!) friends, I feel like I can pee in peace.
And with all it alienness, I’m happy to be a novice in Club Men.
Author’s side note: I was at the mall with my baby sister and our mom the other weekend. They were looking at shoes and I was alternating between trying to claw my own face off as a means to escape and suggesting different shoes, seeking that delicate balance that ‘real men’ apparently have when shoe shopping with their lady friends. As I felt more comfortable, I stopped caring what other people around me were thinking (only the true egotistical even think that others are even concerned with what they’re doing…) and I forgot the image I was trying to present. She held up a pair of high, pearl-colored heels and I was like, “Hey. I used to have a pair of shoes just like those. Remember?” and the lady standing only a couple of feet from us looked at me with the most innocent, confused (trying to be subtle) face, looked down at her own shoe in deep thought, and walked away. We cracked up laughing as soon as she left. “Yes, there are some things I need to be more mindful before mentioning.”
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