Starting a new journal to take time and maybe make some sense of life. Major TMI, and an awful lot of TW. With that in mind For The Love Of God, Please Do Not Repost, Reblog, Link, or any such connecting.
This won't be nice or fun or uplifting.
I'll need to talk about... gender identity, rape, (a)sexuality, drugs, self abuse, self neglect, suicide, escapism, nightmares, gaming, stuffed animals, and um... furries? There's little point in trying to explain any of these alone, but chronological story telling requires too many multiple narratives, and reverse-chrono would just start as a mish-mash.
Much of my present mental chaos is the result of many of my secrets selves melding into my conscious identity. Realizing that I don't have to be someone else to make others comfortable has brought parts of my life together, like puzzle pieces laid out waiting to be joined. This should be wonderful, should add a taste of Miracle to everything, It's supposed to make me happy? Not happening. Every wound, everything carefully forgotten, all the ragged moments of just letting the world tell me what can't ever be for me, they all want to fit together, join.
The tremendous, wondrous, and amazing person that is my wife, and all that she does to/for me, and means to me is going to have to be it's own post. On a day I'm feeling up to the task of examining something that bright and clever.
Sept 23rd 2013. My transition began, while wife and I were home for the evening, relaxing and reading out favorite Blogs (thank you GT and Kyosuke). We enjoyed discussing various viewpoints espoused and what those choices might look like in our lives. Despite my living with myself pretty much 24/7, my wife noticed the signs, connected the dots, and questioned me until it clicked. In that moment, so many crazy bits of nonsense became my life of hiding, denying, and ignoring something I'd known as a child. There had been a mistake, nothing about being a boy was right. The face I had shown the world was a lie, a script I learned from an older brother. Any deviation from the script brought disappointment, scorn, shame. Everything my brother did was met with approval, and so then would I. Now, in my 30s, suddenly there is a 5-year old part of myself to deal with, full of boundless joy, but so very atrophied.
Accepting my whole self offers a queer freedom, but also a curse. My medical future was going to eventually include familial patterns of heart disease, stroke, diabetes... now I can expect to die violently, or worse be vanished, if I can keep from ending it myself. Where once I could see myself looking back and wishing I had eaten healthier, now I simply hope that, should I fall victim to a hate crime, my life insurance pays out and that it wasn't done by a relative.
Looking back, all the points of my personality seem like gender red flags that would be impossible to miss. While the other boys wanted G.I. Joes I collected Stuffed animals (the softer the better). When we played with Transformers, I wanted to be the cassettes. When games let us choose our heroes/parties, they always showed everyone who I was (FF1 is hella tough with 4 white mages, just saying). When I slid into rampant escapism, it was reading books filled with women I wanted to be, it was MMOs that gave me a woman's face to wear. My body was just a husk, and I cared for it less than my digital representative. Dressed my body in tired rags, minimal personal upkeep, synced my caffeine and my online time to feel alive.
In my youth, I simply acted in the footprints of my brother, ready to be a girl whenever the world righted itself. Things got dark for me when puberty came. I was changing in every way I didn't want to, and was forever marked with the trappings of my failing. In my desperation I decided I would become a musician, and look like a Glam rock icon. I would keep my hair long and beautiful, I would wear whatever makeup I pleased, I would be accepted. Then Grunge landed, and things got worse and worse... Flannels and jeans everywhere. Suddenly, no one wanted to look teased, sculpted, painted, flashy, feminine. A dirty androgyny had covered the land in a shapeless mass of neutral tones, and puberty had torn a schism between me and all access to femininity.
That's when the cocaine started. Luckily, I was never caught, but I certainly came away from it with varied scars. Besides the asymmetrical erosion of my inner septum, I have memories of saying things, doing things that were shameful, degrading, and over-the-top hedonistic. The very worst was to be bad enough to keep me off the stuff for good. It wasn't getting raped, I had only been drunk for that. It was almost raping someone. It was the first time I tried to use coke to block a feeling, instead of using it to fill a void.
I had a friend circle of other hedonists, and we couldn't go out and about enjoying ourselves. Every day was a party we would throw in our homes, often traveling en mass for food or on a drink run, heading to someone else's place if they needed a hit. If people got too drunk/high they'd often just drop onto a couch/bed and the party would move on. Losing control was the goal. This night's party was in the apartment shared but 2 lovely friends, Melissa and Michelle. I'll not deny that I rather hoped to end up in bed with Melissa, and was quite ready to enjoy whatever came my way. I don't specifically know if anyone helped Michelle get me passed out drunk, or helped get my body up the stairs, or helped tie me to her bedframe. I know that I woke up slowly, rather intrigued by the turn of events. At first everything was fun, she talked about taking pleasure in my helplessness, and had I not been gagged, I would have been quite enthusiastic. Then she was holding the knife, "my blood dagger." She assured me she had read up on the anatomy, and I shouldn't worry. She had to really work to get me stiff again, but I couldn't stop the body reaction. She sat on my legs, and I thought my kneecaps would snap. That my hands would wrench completely off my wrists, but my legs didn't break, and my hands didn't pop free. She wasn't a good vampire, and had to cut me 3 times, twice on my penis, but it simply deflated. The third time was just above and slightly left of the base, and she sucked on the wound. I remember looking at the window, how the curtains were open slightly, how the sunlight angled in sharply. It was late morning. Before she cut me free of the braided twine she complained that she felt entirely unfulfilled by the whole scenario, but she wasn't close to being undead. I don't know why that bothered me so much, my failure...
Hospital staff didn't believe me (self-inflicted), my friends didn't believe me (you aren't that lucky, bro) (girls don't do that stuff). I couldn't let people see me with giant bandages on my crotch, so I hid at home. I couldn't deal with it, I didn't deal with it. I asked my only clean high school friend to pick up my stash from the bank (no joke, safety deposit box worked well to store drugs back then as long as they were sealed air-tight). She came through for me, but wouldn't leave me alone. I got angry at her, and I got high. I wanted her to leave and she wouldn't... then I wanted her to hurt. I wanted her to hurt worse than I hurt. I tried to push her to the floor, to pin her. She grabbed a phone of a nightstand and smashed me in the head with it. Rotary phones were big and heavy. She should have walked out, she should have kept hitting me till I was gone gone gone. She called an ambulance.
The head trauma was enough to get a hospital bed, and finally my cuts were worth looking at. Everyone wanted me to drop names, but I can't. I stayed quiet, crawled through Withdrawal, went home, and decided I would never feel attracted again.