Decrying Gravity

I tell myself this is a cocoon to make myself feel as if it's part of a natural growth.  But really I'm just biding my time.  While others progress with their lives or, at the very least, sustain them with income, I'm the pinnacle of privilege and failure: living with my mother, sleeping 10-12 hours a day, and playing World of Warcraft when I'm awake.  There are a few things I do that have implications of productivity: I'm increasingly active with the high school students at church.  There are some LGBT things I do on campus.  And there's "research" I volunteer for.  But they may as well just be reasons to get me to wake up before 4p each day.  For all intents and purposes, I'm  worthless.

Of course, I'm not entirely sure how to change.  The only immediately viable option is employment and while I could risk prejudice and daily terror if I needed to, I don't.  And I really think that's what I'd be in for.  This early, I'm still not very confident about passing.  So that fear (and the possibility of situations arising) combined with the soulcrushing nature of retail/food service (what other jobs could I get?) makes the experience sound terrible.  The couple hundred dollars a week I'd make from working just aren't worth it.  I still have most of my money from undergrad saved and while WoW may be a lot of things, expensive it is not.

So I'm waiting.  Waiting to hopefully hear back from graduate schools.  Waiting to grow into Juliet more.  Waiting for S to claw her way out of hell.  None of this is new.  But I don't feel like I have ever really had a period of my life *wasted.*  Up until now, I have always been making progress, always been inching forward.  And now?  Now I'm not.  And I can't wait until I am again.

That is true.  Partially.  But as I've been able to, essentially, fall apart without consequence, I've found myself increasingly afraid to leave home.  I don't know what I'm afraid of, exactly.  But I feel safe and ok here.  And out there?  Out there has become a constant exercise in vulnerability.  And while it's one I can face, I don't really want to if I don't have to.

The safety, within my self and without, that I've found in my cocoon has led me to be more open, I think.  I cry a lot more often, now.  Some folks on the trans forums have said they do too, and they often attribute it to the estrogen.  But I think it's also a comfort within myself to access those hurt parts of me and let them out.  I've cried more since June than I think I cried in the previous... 11 years combined.  And I'm kind of glad I can and do.  I'd feel better if it was crying too someone instead of just alone and vulnerable.  But even then, it's nice not to feel so protected all the time.  So twisted and wrenched and wrong.  Now, I'm fluid.  I'm easing into myself.  And while it's difficult, it's wonderful at the same time.  For just as I often burst into tears, I also find myself sitting and feeling like Juliet, feeling female, and I'm so glad to simply *be.*  I'm becoming me.  I'm becoming real.  And that's as terrifying as it is exhilarating.

It's puberty, really.  And as much as I don't like the wait, I think it'll be worthwhile.  I just have to keep telling myself that and have the patience to endure while I wait.

[Small note:  I'm still engaging in escapism, but I don't *need* it as much as I used to.  I love my female avatars.  And I love being called "Juliet" and "she" in our voicechats.  I've been playing with a few gay guys I found via another game/online forum, and it's nice to have a close group of friends I just kind of... hang out with every day.  Outside of gaming, I doubt we'd have much in common.  But, to them, I'm female.  And the "escape" isn't nearly as necessary as it used to be.  I'm biding my time, certainly.  But how I don't need to completely detach from reality anymore.  And while I envy my avatar to an extent, I also feel like she's a representation of me instead of some fantasy ideal.

Related voice notes: My voice isn't perfect, but it's passable.  When the nurse at the clinic asked if I wanted my "yearly pap smear," I knew I'd made it.  It's also fun for folks to come into our voice chat room and say "Who's the girl?" after they hear my voice.  I'm the girl!  And, listening to me, that's what they think I am!  It's *real!*  And most of you have no idea how wonderful it is.]

[I cannot emphasize this trigger warning enough.  This is violent, explicit, and very possibly triggering for those who have experienced sexual assault, rape, and other abuse.  Please read cautiously, if at all.]

When I was six, I used to use my action figures to fight each other.  Because that's what they did.  They fought.  So they'd punch and kick and presumably go "pewpew" or whatever and then make dying noises.

Except the girls.  My Hexadecimal, my Dot Matrix, my April O'Neill.  They were the sympathetic protagonists.  Who got punched and kicked in their cunts, in their breasts, aching in pain.  The only ones whose pain was real.  But I didn't show any signs of being trans.

When I was nine, I used to be fascinated by fighting games like Mortal Kombat, Killer Instinct and Street Fighter.  Mortal Kombat, especially, was notoriously bloody.  And Sonya Blade, and later Kitana, were the token females.  I used to be terrified of the game, but always peek.  Hoping to see them.  Hoping to see the move where Johnny Cage punched someone in the crotch, hoping to see it happen to Sonya.  And then they'd get killed.  Their hearts pulled out, their heads cut off, their bodies mutilated to the sound of their screams.  And I'd want to throw up.  And I'd hate myself for watching.  And it was so sickeningly sweet.  But I chose to be trans.

When I was ten, eleven, whatever, I started dreaming of Black Orchid from Killer Instinct.  She was the whose "finisher" was to open up her shirt and flash the opponent who would have a heart attack.  Maybe it was fantasizing, but I'm fairly sure it started as a dream.  I'd follow her, fighting her way against the wolfman or the raptor.  And as she fought, her clothes would be torn.  It started with her breasts being exposed, bursting forth to her humiliation.  And then her cunt, and fear filled her as the men and animals she was facing howled with blood and lust.  And after a long period where she'd merely be attacked in her cunt and breasts, eventually it turned to rape.  I was a twelve year old with a rape fetish.  But I just "need a change" in my life.

When I was fourteen, fifteen, seventeen, I started looking for pictures of them online.  "Hentai" was the word used for "erotic art."  Cartoon porn.  I'd use all kinds of rationalizations, going in through backdoors via hyperlink so I wouldn't have to lie and say I was 18 to get in.  Because lying, because being dishonest was horrible.  Because these were just drawings, not real women being hurt.  And then, once in, there were all these women I'd fantasized about.  Naked, often.  The better pictures were ones where they were being penetrated.  There was titillation in that act of penetration.  But it was the facial expression that made the effect, that sealed the deal, something few "actresses" could truthfully accomplish.  Their surprise, their pain, their fear, that's what resonated.  I didn't masturbate.  I just looked.  And felt terrible all the while.  But I am pervert.

I had wet dreams.  I didn't know what they were the first few times; I thought I'd just had to go to the restroom and had been in too deep a sleep to wake myself up.  But when I dreamed of Chun-Li being raped right before my penis started violently pulsing and I woke up to another grizzly mess, it became clear they were connected.  It'd be years until I figured out that it was so messy because it was semen.  Because I was ejaculating while I slept.  Because even if I had no interest in orgasm, my body did.  And because it was so dreadful to have these fits, I resolved to try and masturbate just so it wouldn't happen anymore.  It took a long time to figure out how.  To figure out the feelings.  Because the act was not pleasurable.  The trick, though, was in the screams.  When Samus screamed as she was hurting, it opened me up.  And I finally let go, a month before I turned nineteen.  But I am a deviant.

It took me a few more years to look at "real people" pornography, and most of it still didn't interest me.  Sometimes the moans and screams were nice; I could imagine women I was attracted to making them while I imagined having sex.  And it wasn't in my hand on my cock.  It was in their sounds.  Their pleasure.  Their desire.  Soon, that was boring.  I'd never been remotely interested in blow jobs.  But I ended up watching one where the woman looked like she was having such a bad time, where her smile was fake, her enthusiasm was so fake, her entire behavior seemed to say "I hate having to do this."  And we he came upon her?  She smiled.  With a frown.  And the humiliation was enough.  But I'm sick.

In therapy, I can barely even say "I want to be female."  Because that's sick, insane, impossible.  Even admitting it makes me insane.  "When can you imagine being happy, with yourself?" Caroline asks.  And I feel bad.  Because I feel like she's saying I should have.  Because I feel like she's saying I'm lying when I can't remember it.  When I can't ever remember feeling anything other than this deadness to myself.  And she eases me out of that shell.  Gradually.  And finally I  have to tell her.  I have to tell her of this horribleness.  I'm so afraid she'll be terrified of me.  Leaving me wouldn't be as bad as me hurting her with my immense perversion.  I'm a feminist.  With a rape fetish.  And I walk her through it.

A woman is raped.  She's screaming.  She's in pain.  Every thrust another violation, every tear another defeat. And she's laughed at.  Cum upon.  And left.  Alone.  Alive.  Very alive.  No blood, no bruises, beautiful still.  But used.  So utterly used and hurt and hollowed.  And I am not the ones who leave her.  I am not those callous, unfeeling men with their shrinking dicks, hurting her and walking away.  I am her.  Or I want to be.

The female action figure, the female video game character were my avatars.  Able to feel when I could not.  And part jealousy, part envy, part identification, part empathy coupled with immense self-hate and a fierce desire to be abused, for it is what I deserve, makes me feel so terrible for them.  Makes me wish that *I* could be raped, that I could be penetrated, that I could be so hurt.  That I could feel.  And sometimes I am them.  Or as close as I can (hah) come.  And sometimes I'm watching them, crying for them, wishing I could help them.  But I am them.  Which is why no one finds these broken and violated women and tells them they're good, they're safe, they've been unjustifiably hurt but now someone will love them, someone won't leave them again.

No, they're alone.  And I'm alone.  Wishing I could be so raw.  Wishing I could be so used.  Wishing I could *feel* it.  Because if I was to feel anything, it would be that utter violation, that dehumanization, that pain.  Because there is so much pain I just can't feel.

 But unlike them, alive and crying, I'm dead.  I was born dead, a stillbirth.  From the moment of my mother's first surprised words "It's a boy?!"  From the moment whatever development in my incubation led to an anomaly sprouting between my legs.  From the moment everyone saw it and knew I was a boy.  A perfectly healthy, sane little boy who, out of the blue, decided to be a lady.

But then, you understand what it's like, right?  You know I'm choosing to sin against God.  You know I'm a pervert, a deviant, a monster.  You know that if only I tried *just* *a* *little* *harder,* I could beat this thing.   You know that it's best to humor me.  You know that I'm exaggerating.  You know that it's because I hate my father.  You know that people make this stuff up for attention.  You know that this is really hard on you.  You know that I'm a gay man who couldn't handle the pressure.  You know that it's just a passing phase, one of my bad days.  You know that I can never be a real woman.  You know that I'm choosing this.

You know me.  Better than I know myself.

I've briefly mentioned before that I read threads of comments about transsexual people to center myself, if I find myself growing too complacent or feeling safe.  That action's problematic, in and of itself, but it's not really what I'm thinking about now.  What I am wondering about is what, exactly, I'll say when someone challenges my identity.  Thus far, such challenges have been relegated to when I've come out to family members who have cast it as a "youthful indiscretion" and tried to talk me out of it or otherwise stressed that I am too young to be making/taking this seriously.  As is this case in pretty much every "argument" about myself[or maybe "discussion" would be more apt], I've a plethora of reasons and well-thought out rebuttals that, at the very least, leave me having answered every concern (even if it can never be to their satisfaction).  In short, I know why I'm transitioning.  I've exhausted my alternatives.  And what every argument boils down to is whether someone knows me better than I know myself.

A person thinking they understood another person better than that person knows themself is an almost surprisingly common attitude.  Certainly the scores of people who think even homosexuality is "a choice" are guilty of such thoughts when so many homosexual people tell them otherwise.  But it can be as innocuous as presuming someone's motives to thinking you know what another person wants.  It's the logic behind "no means yes" and "I'm doing this for your own good."  And although I'll grant that it may be occasionally accurate, I think in the long run it's bound to do more harm than good.

I'm guilty of this, too, but predominantly just with my father (and I'm getting better about the few others).  His paranoia and depression seem so clear to me, stemming from various traumatic events in his past, and he fits one of the profiles I've seen developing of abusers: mainly by making your victims believe that they are the ones who are hurting you and never stop accusing them, even when they call you on it.   That's how, I think, my father can believe that I'm transitioning because I hate him so much.

He's done it his whole life.  When I was six and told him "I love you" and he said "No you don't" with no way for me to convince him.  When my parents were divorcing and he called me a "traitor."  When I've been one of if not the only person who has never stopped talking to him or visiting him no matter how afraid I've been, I still hate him.  I can't not believe that he hates himself and could never believe anyone cares about him regardless of what they did and remain sane in the face of everything he says.

But otherwise?  Like so much else, I've tried to learn from his example, remember how what it felt like when he did it to me, and not to do the same to others.  For some people, it's quite hard to do.  But if transsexuality has taught me anything, it's that no one knows you like you do yourself.  And, ultimately, no one deserves an explanation for things you do with yourself (that don't hurt others).  Whether that will be enough... I have no idea.

When it counts, I have always been able to keep it together.  Even while teaching, even the weeks after Laura broke up with me when I was just starting and I was filled with terror, when I couldn't eat or sleep, I never missed a day, I never failed to do what needed to be done.  I might not have done it particularly well, but it was not for lack of trying [at least, as far as I "try" at most anything].  In high school and undergrad, I did not miss days.  I missed class to work the 2006 and 2008 elections, and I may have skipped one or two classes after all nighters.

Apparently, though, things no longer "count" because I am feel I am falling apart.  That's melodramatic, naturally.  But I find myself nervous to whole new extents around people I don't trust, recently.  To wit, this morning I was helping my mom with volunteer work she does every December in connection with church and all of the new people there really got to me.  Someone asked me to buy them donuts, and I was acutely aware that (1) I do what I'm told and (2) I hate being told to do things because that just gives me an opportunity to disappoint someone else.  I weathered *that* storm, and went to my grandfather's to watch football.  That was alright; he feels obligated to make more small talk now that I'm transitioned, probably because I make him nervous.  But when my aunt, uncle, and great aunt unexpectedly arrived, I was terrified.  I practically started crying on the way home.  Not because they said anything [other than calling me "Dylan"], but because I am so convinced that I make them uncomfortable and feel compelled to leave lest I ruin more for them.

And I leave and part of me feels angry, coming up with various arguments and rationales for why what I'm doing is *not* something that should make others uncomfortable etc etc, but I know as soon as I am with any of them that I will go back to giving them every benefit of a doubt and being calm and quiet.

And I think the biggest change, really, is that I *feel* as if people are noticing me more.  I can't evade like I used to, can't be invisible because my very presence asserts itself by virtue of who I am [or was].  And partly that's the spotlight effect, it's paranoia, but partly?  Partly, it's true.  They do talk.  They are uneasy.  Whereas in my teenage years my monstrousness was largely a figment of my abused imagination, now it is reflected in their eyes.

Of course, it's also because they sense *I'm* nervous, so they get nervous too.  It's a self-fulfilling prophecy: I think they don't want to be around me so I get uncomfortable and visibly shaken and they get uncomfortable by my discomfort and and and.  *But it's not just that*.  Even if I could act and fake it like I used to, they *are* thinking and talking and judging and-

And I dash home.  Leaving home, now, is so draining.  This constant hypersensitivity.  And I admire more and more those who transition without any kind of "break" [often because you can keep your job if you transition while you're on it, but it's more difficult to get hired anew; hence, one of the many reasons I haven't even bothered looking for employment].  And I worry, I wonder how I'll handle school.  And working.  And.... life.  And I know that I do what needs to be done.  I cram the fears and insecurities and anxieties somewhere inside me and I press forth.  But right now?  Right now, without that exigence, I'm not.  I'm scared.  I'm lonely.  I'm angry.  I'm tired.  And I'm so many horrible things.  Because I have the freedom to be this way.

Lucky me.

Today, I was reading the church bulletin board when I read an article about how the Maryville PFLAG was formed.  One of the primary impetuses was when one of the founder's sons came out to her and told her he hated himself for being gay, and, after some brief struggles herself, she realized how terrible it is to hate yourself because your society tells you to and wanted to do something about it.

I almost started crying on the spot.  I'm almost crying right now.  And it's not because his mother wanted to become an advocate to help him.  I truly think it's because I was written on that page, plain as day, and it was just one straw too many.

I hate myself.  I don't know if I'll ever stop hating myself.  And it is a terrifying realization to find that I cannot feel the love of anyone else [with one notable exception].  It is terrifying to look at myself and see how thoroughly protected and distant I am.  How lackluster and wretched I am.  How inadequate and useless I am.  How I have so many gifts but lack the ambition to give back in kind.  I am weak.  I am lazy.  I am beaten, broken, and bruised and the bleeding continues beneath my skin whether it seeps through to the surface or not.

And I know this will pass.  And I know that I have never been better than I am now.  And I know that I see Juliet in my mirror just as often as I see Dylan, perhaps more.  But he's still there.  I see pictures of myself and whatever delusions I have when I see my reflection are dashed.  I am not him anymore, thank God.  But to say I am fully female, to say I am who I want to be... that sounds like nothing but utter folly.

And I wonder what, exactly, triggers my fits of depression.  And honestly?  Honestly, what I think really shatters me into all of these desolate pieces, yet again?  Is when I believe people care about me.  Is when I believe people like me.  Or at least appreciate what I'm doing.  I'm crying right now, even typing those words.  Because it means I'll fail them.  It means I'll disappoint them.  It means that I can't believe they are apathetic or just going through the motions or just saying what's expected for them to say.  I believe them.  And it hurts.  It hurts so so much.

I think to the last time I cried [or almost did] when my father apologized after yelling at me over the phone.  And it was as if, after so much careful preparation and protection, after planning how to mitigate his anger, after trying to decide to defend myself or defer and evade as I always should do, he unexpectedly seemed to feel bad about possibly hurting me.  And I almost broke apart.  Like I am now.  Like I did on the last day of GSSE when they all left, these people I believed cared about me as I cared about them.  And the losing hurts so so much.  But the caring, *believing* that someone actually cares?  That's what destroys me.

And I'm not entirely sure why.  With my father, it was almost as if it was now safe to be hurt and to feel, as if the pain I was just going to sweep into the closet where the rest of my untold volumes of rage dwell was allowed to exist.  And then, when people complimented my speech Friday, I warmly said thank you [a huge improvement over even a few years ago when I would have not even said thank you but  proceeded to describe how inadequate what they heard actually was] without agreeing.  But one person, who's really a wonderfully committed straight ally and a really loving person, was so adamant about how good he thought it was and how I needed to share it...

I didn't cry then.  I didn't cry until I started writing this.  But I think that's what made me so depressed.  I actually started reading the hateful comments about trans people on an article someone posted on facebook to help me feel better, because I at least know what to do with hate.  I know what to do with intolerance and hurt and fear and insecurity.  I know what to do when I'm not safe.  But when I'm safe?  When I know someone cares about me?  When I *believe* them?  I have no idea.  I have no idea at all.  And so I shatter.

I'm tired.  In the "earned" kind of way.  Drove 8 hours at night to place to stay, got there at 1a [thanks again LB].  Went to Rally.  Stood for a few hours.  Couldn't hear or see much.  Left.  Left LB's at 6p.  Drove or was at exit from 6p-5a.  And it's starting to catch up with me.

Transitioning has made me paranoid.  Paranoid in the way that illustrates how nice it is to be white, male, TAB, cis, neurotypical, straight etc.  Paranoid in the "They kill transsexuals when they're not laughing at them or talking behind their backs, true story" kind of way.  Paranoid in the "even around my well-intentioned and mostly supportive friends/family, it only takes one slip for me to be outed and irrevocably changed for the people around me."   "He's" are contagious.

I was driving through Pennsylvanian backroads [like, bright-lights on, OMGWHEREAMI roads], and I thought: if I break down, I'm more vulnerable in this situation as a female.  I'm more vulnerable because a police officer just has to see the "M" on my ID for things to get tense.  I'm more vulnerable because I'm not normative.  And it's a feeling that really is difficult to understand [or understand the lack of fear] unless you transition between the two.

Nothing happened.  Nothing happened at the gas stations.  Nothing happened in the women's rooms.  Nothing happened at Subway.  Nothing happened at the Rally.  Nothing happened at the toll booths.  Nothing happened today on the train.  Nothing happened at the vegetarian event.  Nothing happened walking around Harvard.  Nothing happened at the restaurant.  Nothing happened.

Can it really be this easy?  Do I pass?  Are people just polite?  My biggest problems, so far, have mainly been with people who have known me having a difficult time with pronouns/my name.  Sometimes they slip up and it's clear they've been trying.  Sometimes it just doesn't seem important to them to change unless I ask.  My sister's particularly egregious about the latter.  Perhaps it'll come.  It's unfortunate, but it'll take time too.  But if that's the worst thing I'm dealing with...  I presented as female across the country, in hordes of people, in rural conservative areas, in the middle of the night.  I'm sure prejudice will come up with jobs and if I'm outed in more interpersonal relationships.  But honestly?  I did not expect this.

I have been so afraid, for so long.  And to have everything just... work out?  Hell, I had a full beard a bit over five months ago!  I only came up with my name in August!  I went outside at UTK mid-September!  I came out on facebook two weeks ago!  It's all so fast.  And relatively... painless.

And it feels right.  When I feel like Juliet, when I see female, when others see female, when I *am* female, it feels so so good.  Relieving, like a giant weight is gone.  I might get SRS surgery.  But, honestly?  I can feel female without.  It's in my face.  And sometimes it's there.  And sometimes it's not.  And I'm growing into it.  But when I do feel it?  I feel wonderful.  Alive.  Excited just to be.

I'm actually making it.  I don't know how well.  And I am still afraid.  Nothing happens, and I'm afraid. It comes with knowing that I am the butt of so many jokes, that I am a deceiver less than human, that I am bringing all of the wrath and isolation upon myself.  It comes with knowing that Trans Remembrance day is coming, and all it takes is the wrong person at the wrong moment and I'm on there, too.  It comes with knowing that I am a freak, even if people are polite about it to my face.  It comes with knowing people talk and stare.  Nothing happens.  But it is so real a possibility that it could.  That it does, and I don't even know it.

But I'm making it.  I am.  And, for one of the first times in my life, my hopes are being made real.  So much promise.  And the promises, at least for now, are coming true.