Monday, December 31, 2012
ETA
I, apparently, cannot sing when I'm drunk. And I gesture like Johnny Depp a la Captain Jack. At least I can still type? Mr Earrings has to use the voice-to-type on his iPad to be able to function, and I've had a lot more vodka than him. Ha!
Happy New Years!
Good news: Mr Earrings man toy thing didn't come. He isn't even messaging Mr Earrings on Grindr. While that sucks for Mr Earrings (well, in his opinion. I think it's a good thing, personally.), I'm quite pleased that no icky old men have shown up at my home.
PLUS! We're drunk, watching The Big Bang Theory (which, as much as I love, I normally don't find funny once I actually think about it since it mocks autistic people), waiting for the NBC New Years thing (I won't watch the other one, because Jenny McCarthy is hosting and she's an anti-autistic allistic cow), and trying to remember not to drunk-message people.
HAPPY NEW YEARS 2012, EVERYONE! I hope your 2013 is much better than your 2012.
PLUS! We're drunk, watching The Big Bang Theory (which, as much as I love, I normally don't find funny once I actually think about it since it mocks autistic people), waiting for the NBC New Years thing (I won't watch the other one, because Jenny McCarthy is hosting and she's an anti-autistic allistic cow), and trying to remember not to drunk-message people.
HAPPY NEW YEARS 2012, EVERYONE! I hope your 2013 is much better than your 2012.
Oh dear
Tonight, Mr Earrings and I will be driving up to my apartment in the Valley with the sole goal of getting absolutely trashed as we watch the ball drop. Honestly, I'm not incredibly fond of being drunk (I drink socially with my family, but that's the extent of that, really), but as I'd much rather be spending my New Years Eve sharing a midnight kiss with The Fiancée, at least this is a way to spend my evening that won't result in me being lonely and miserable.
The one hang up I encountered is that Mr Earrings decided to invite his current... well, I would call him boytoy, but that would be inaccurate. While my dear friend is only 20, his current thing of interest is (wait for it!) 48 years of age. I won't lie: the fact that my good friend is interested in someone older than his parents goes towards the squick level for me. Not only is nearly a 30 year age difference a bit much in my opinion, but I have to wonder what's going on in a nearly 50-year-old man's head that he thinks trying to hook up with someone only 6 years older than his own son is a wise plan of actions. Not to mention, the old man and Mr Earrings have yet to meet and Mr Earrings can't even get his paramour's phone number (they met on Grindr and the old perv refuses to give out his number; can we agree that this is incredibly sketch?). Needless to say, I rescinded Mr Earrings invitation; older, unknown, overly secretive men from Grindr are not welcome in my home.
I can certainly commiserate with Mr Earrings' desperation to be in a relationship though. Not only was I head over heels with The Fiancée and absolutely ecstatic over the idea of being allowed to spend the rest of my life with her, there's a certain level of comfort and stability I felt from knowing how that part of my future would play out. Even at my age, I loved knowing I was going to be settling down and forging a new domestic life with the woman I loved. To lose that, in addition to the heartbreak, was deeply unsettling. To know that not many people would want to date a transguy, especially one who is still pre-everything, only exacerbated the feeling. Mr Earrings feels the same way; he wants to be wanted and loved and settle down with someone. That's why, he admitted, he regularly turns to trying to be with older men. I get that, I really, deeply do. Somehow, though, I doubt finding men nearly three decades your senior on a sketchy iPad app is the way to find your future husband...
The one hang up I encountered is that Mr Earrings decided to invite his current... well, I would call him boytoy, but that would be inaccurate. While my dear friend is only 20, his current thing of interest is (wait for it!) 48 years of age. I won't lie: the fact that my good friend is interested in someone older than his parents goes towards the squick level for me. Not only is nearly a 30 year age difference a bit much in my opinion, but I have to wonder what's going on in a nearly 50-year-old man's head that he thinks trying to hook up with someone only 6 years older than his own son is a wise plan of actions. Not to mention, the old man and Mr Earrings have yet to meet and Mr Earrings can't even get his paramour's phone number (they met on Grindr and the old perv refuses to give out his number; can we agree that this is incredibly sketch?). Needless to say, I rescinded Mr Earrings invitation; older, unknown, overly secretive men from Grindr are not welcome in my home.
I can certainly commiserate with Mr Earrings' desperation to be in a relationship though. Not only was I head over heels with The Fiancée and absolutely ecstatic over the idea of being allowed to spend the rest of my life with her, there's a certain level of comfort and stability I felt from knowing how that part of my future would play out. Even at my age, I loved knowing I was going to be settling down and forging a new domestic life with the woman I loved. To lose that, in addition to the heartbreak, was deeply unsettling. To know that not many people would want to date a transguy, especially one who is still pre-everything, only exacerbated the feeling. Mr Earrings feels the same way; he wants to be wanted and loved and settle down with someone. That's why, he admitted, he regularly turns to trying to be with older men. I get that, I really, deeply do. Somehow, though, I doubt finding men nearly three decades your senior on a sketchy iPad app is the way to find your future husband...
Monday, December 24, 2012
Thankful
I think the "thankful" posts were supposed to center around Thanksgiving, but this just seems more appropriate for me now.
Recently, I've been reconnecting with a good friend (R-on-the-eye, after her name sign) who was in my year in the interpreting program and a friend who was in one of the classes I TA-ed for who's in the interpreting program now. The other week, we went to SeaWorld since R-on-the-eye had won tickets to an after-hour party. Our friend, Mr Earrings, and R-on-the-eye have season tickets there anyways and are really rather addicted. Going with them was intensely fun and I played with the manta rays for much longer than could be considered manly (my grin couldn't have been bigger if I was trying; the rays kept nibbling on my fingers!). At the same point, though, it was nervewracking: I knew I was planning on coming out to them as trans*. Mr Earrings is gay himself and I know R-on-the-eye is extremely accepting. Still, though, nothing like telling your friends you're really a guy to test a friendship.
As Mr Earrings and I rode the coaster there alone, I came out to him first. He told me he'd had a gut feeling that I might be and he loved me no matter what. He loved the first name my mom and I chose. I came out to R-on-the-eye afterwards; just like Mr Earrings, she had no issues with me. He called me "Jay" several times throughout the evening, which made me grin even bigger than the manta rays did.
The part I'm thankful for, though? I've seen them both since that night, and literally nothing has changed in the way they treat me. Even better, they constantly make the same little jokes to me as they do for other male friends; they behave just like I'd always been a guy in their eyes. Dealing with the constant struggles with my mother and the awful reactions of people when I only came out as gay, the unwavering love and acceptance I'm getting from these two when something as drastic as my gender changes seemingly over night makes me nearly tear up. Moreso than ever, I'm intensely grateful to have friends like these in my life.
Recently, I've been reconnecting with a good friend (R-on-the-eye, after her name sign) who was in my year in the interpreting program and a friend who was in one of the classes I TA-ed for who's in the interpreting program now. The other week, we went to SeaWorld since R-on-the-eye had won tickets to an after-hour party. Our friend, Mr Earrings, and R-on-the-eye have season tickets there anyways and are really rather addicted. Going with them was intensely fun and I played with the manta rays for much longer than could be considered manly (my grin couldn't have been bigger if I was trying; the rays kept nibbling on my fingers!). At the same point, though, it was nervewracking: I knew I was planning on coming out to them as trans*. Mr Earrings is gay himself and I know R-on-the-eye is extremely accepting. Still, though, nothing like telling your friends you're really a guy to test a friendship.
As Mr Earrings and I rode the coaster there alone, I came out to him first. He told me he'd had a gut feeling that I might be and he loved me no matter what. He loved the first name my mom and I chose. I came out to R-on-the-eye afterwards; just like Mr Earrings, she had no issues with me. He called me "Jay" several times throughout the evening, which made me grin even bigger than the manta rays did.
The part I'm thankful for, though? I've seen them both since that night, and literally nothing has changed in the way they treat me. Even better, they constantly make the same little jokes to me as they do for other male friends; they behave just like I'd always been a guy in their eyes. Dealing with the constant struggles with my mother and the awful reactions of people when I only came out as gay, the unwavering love and acceptance I'm getting from these two when something as drastic as my gender changes seemingly over night makes me nearly tear up. Moreso than ever, I'm intensely grateful to have friends like these in my life.
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Not solely my fault
Whenever I look back on the relationship with The Fiancée, my habit is to think every failing, struggle, and shortcoming should rest solely on my shoulders. I struggle to find any fault with her; the same was true about her while we were together. As much as I often became frustrated and took it out on her in cruel ways, I was never able to, in a moment of calm rationality, find a fault with her. By being so smitten with her and so clear on my issues, I often viewed her as perfect.
This isn't to say that my issues weren't typically at the heart of our problems. I can't and won't deny that. I'm finally starting to realize, though, that her issues came into play too. It wasn't only me. Having now met many other people who are very similar to me in my issues and disabilities (whoo Internet for making the world such a small place!), I've seen relationships work where mine failed. I can see how, when problems and scary things come up, their partners handle things very different than how things got handled between The Fiancée and I. I see where their partners stood up for themselves, even when it hurt, and told the truth even when it was hard. Those were things that didn't happen in my relationship.
I was the whirlwind, the overbearing force of nature that, unopposed, left destruction and devastation behind me. As much as the responsibility for that lies solely on my shoulders, it's unexpected, from my end, to realize that our relationship didn't fail only because of that. We both brought shortcomings in. We both handled things poorly. We both did things that we shouldn't have, said things we shouldn't have, and failed to do or say things that we should have. It wasn't that I was a uncurable monster or am incapable of ever learning how to be in a healthy relationship. It's just that The Fiancée was not the person, as much I love her, that I could do that with. We just weren't meant to be.
This isn't to say that my issues weren't typically at the heart of our problems. I can't and won't deny that. I'm finally starting to realize, though, that her issues came into play too. It wasn't only me. Having now met many other people who are very similar to me in my issues and disabilities (whoo Internet for making the world such a small place!), I've seen relationships work where mine failed. I can see how, when problems and scary things come up, their partners handle things very different than how things got handled between The Fiancée and I. I see where their partners stood up for themselves, even when it hurt, and told the truth even when it was hard. Those were things that didn't happen in my relationship.
I was the whirlwind, the overbearing force of nature that, unopposed, left destruction and devastation behind me. As much as the responsibility for that lies solely on my shoulders, it's unexpected, from my end, to realize that our relationship didn't fail only because of that. We both brought shortcomings in. We both handled things poorly. We both did things that we shouldn't have, said things we shouldn't have, and failed to do or say things that we should have. It wasn't that I was a uncurable monster or am incapable of ever learning how to be in a healthy relationship. It's just that The Fiancée was not the person, as much I love her, that I could do that with. We just weren't meant to be.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Both ends of the spectrum
I lived 18 years presenting solely as female. Starting at maybe 12, I learned to fear men. They would catcall me on the streets, harassing me wherever I went. I was 15 when I got into my first relationship; he emotionally, physically, and sexually abused me. That was the trauma that triggered my development of BPD. My 16th birthday was the first time I had sex with an adult male, in his car parked on some dark street; that same man raped me when I was 17. This recent October, at 19, I was raped again by a male friend of four years.
I know what it's like to have that deep-seated, gut-instinct fear of a man. The terror when you've stayed late on campus and now you're alone and your phone is dead, with a man following you from the shadows, knowing that, if you're attacked, no one will hear you scream. The fear of a man walking near you on the sidewalk, even in the sunlight of mid afternoon, because that's never stopped people before. The feeling of betrayal when someone you thought was a friend turns out to want more of you; that betrayal that happens whether it's a classmate you thought was just being friendly or your online friend of years because, in the end, they always ignore your "no." That instant panic when you're closing at work, the only one on your entire floor, and two men step off the elevator when no one else is supposed to coming in. The frustration you feel when you realize just how little you trust men now.
Now, though, as I'm being read as male with increasing frequency, I'm starting to experience the other end of the spectrum. I find myself having to watch how closely I walk behind or next to women; what was read as innocuous when I presented as female now appears frightening from a shaved headed teenage boy. I try not to be hurt when women cross away from me; even with knowing what the fear feels like, it's still a hard pill to swallow. Likewise, I'm not trusted near children when people read me as male. No longer is it acceptable for me to interact with the little girls who I encounter in a store; where once talking with a munchkin who wandered over was expected, now parents give me a side eye and hustle their child away. I make sure not to touch women without warning now like I might have before; the threat of coming off as overly flirtatious or harassing is omnipresent.
It's a switch I'm not sure how to handle. Truthfully, I'm not sure I like it. While I cherish nearly every time I'm read as male, these ones throw me for an unpleasant loop. In some ways, by gaining some modicum of male privilege, I feel like I'm losing the "privileges" associated with being read as female. Sometimes, it's hurtful. I had a friend tell me, when she found out I'm a guy, that she couldn't be alone with me anymore because her boyfriend might not approve. As miserable as I was as a girl, I miss the benefits of it.
I know what it's like to have that deep-seated, gut-instinct fear of a man. The terror when you've stayed late on campus and now you're alone and your phone is dead, with a man following you from the shadows, knowing that, if you're attacked, no one will hear you scream. The fear of a man walking near you on the sidewalk, even in the sunlight of mid afternoon, because that's never stopped people before. The feeling of betrayal when someone you thought was a friend turns out to want more of you; that betrayal that happens whether it's a classmate you thought was just being friendly or your online friend of years because, in the end, they always ignore your "no." That instant panic when you're closing at work, the only one on your entire floor, and two men step off the elevator when no one else is supposed to coming in. The frustration you feel when you realize just how little you trust men now.
Now, though, as I'm being read as male with increasing frequency, I'm starting to experience the other end of the spectrum. I find myself having to watch how closely I walk behind or next to women; what was read as innocuous when I presented as female now appears frightening from a shaved headed teenage boy. I try not to be hurt when women cross away from me; even with knowing what the fear feels like, it's still a hard pill to swallow. Likewise, I'm not trusted near children when people read me as male. No longer is it acceptable for me to interact with the little girls who I encounter in a store; where once talking with a munchkin who wandered over was expected, now parents give me a side eye and hustle their child away. I make sure not to touch women without warning now like I might have before; the threat of coming off as overly flirtatious or harassing is omnipresent.
It's a switch I'm not sure how to handle. Truthfully, I'm not sure I like it. While I cherish nearly every time I'm read as male, these ones throw me for an unpleasant loop. In some ways, by gaining some modicum of male privilege, I feel like I'm losing the "privileges" associated with being read as female. Sometimes, it's hurtful. I had a friend tell me, when she found out I'm a guy, that she couldn't be alone with me anymore because her boyfriend might not approve. As miserable as I was as a girl, I miss the benefits of it.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Triggers
My rapist messaged me again on Facebook tonight. I haven't been brave enough to block him. I keep just hoping he'll go away, but apparently he's persistent. Maybe part of me is a masochist; I feel like, after four years of friendship, I owe him the ability to contact me.
"honestly, I'm confused by our one and only meeting. I didn't make that happen..."
"you clearly regret it."
I'm not sure what world he lives in that he didn't make my rape happen; perhaps he's just delusional enough to think me laying there, eyes closed and unable to move while begging for him to stop, was me asking for it.
"honestly, I'm confused by our one and only meeting. I didn't make that happen..."
"you clearly regret it."
I'm not sure what world he lives in that he didn't make my rape happen; perhaps he's just delusional enough to think me laying there, eyes closed and unable to move while begging for him to stop, was me asking for it.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
It is done!
Today has been a crazy day. I've officially finished all three of the classes for the semester and all the work for the fourth class that was due to make the Incomplete official. With that, I am officially on winter break!
As a perfectly timed reward, I got to ride the gelding I mentioned before today. His name is Harmony (which, other Potter fans, please tell me I'm not the only one who automatically thinks of Harry/Hermione shippers at that!) and he's a sweetheart. Not much of a looker, but a heart of gold. Today was the first time in two years and three months that I've been on a horse. Not only that, but I got to jump too. My legs are now tired to the point I can't actually pick them up to move from the gas pedal to the brake, but oh boy was it worth it. Now just to get the leg strength back to keep my legs in a better position and lose all the weight I've gained since I stopped riding (even with which, by the way, I still managed to fit into the same breeches that I wore back then!)...
In other news, I think my mother and I have decided on what I will legally change my name too. As I want to keep my initials the same, Jay, which I still plan to use in daily life, will become my middle name. We found and agreed upon a name that is actually fairly similar to my birth name. (Ironically, according to Wikipedia, this name is also the name of an important figure in Hinduism. Apparently I'm destined to be related to Hinduism somehow, though this will be a demotion from a head Goddess to a mythical hero.) As much as I detested my mother's original suggestion for a first name, I really felt she deserved to be a part of me finding a name. I know it's hard for her to watch her child transition and to lose the connection to the name she gave me at birth; I want to mitigate that as much as possible for her.
As a perfectly timed reward, I got to ride the gelding I mentioned before today. His name is Harmony (which, other Potter fans, please tell me I'm not the only one who automatically thinks of Harry/Hermione shippers at that!) and he's a sweetheart. Not much of a looker, but a heart of gold. Today was the first time in two years and three months that I've been on a horse. Not only that, but I got to jump too. My legs are now tired to the point I can't actually pick them up to move from the gas pedal to the brake, but oh boy was it worth it. Now just to get the leg strength back to keep my legs in a better position and lose all the weight I've gained since I stopped riding (even with which, by the way, I still managed to fit into the same breeches that I wore back then!)...
In other news, I think my mother and I have decided on what I will legally change my name too. As I want to keep my initials the same, Jay, which I still plan to use in daily life, will become my middle name. We found and agreed upon a name that is actually fairly similar to my birth name. (Ironically, according to Wikipedia, this name is also the name of an important figure in Hinduism. Apparently I'm destined to be related to Hinduism somehow, though this will be a demotion from a head Goddess to a mythical hero.) As much as I detested my mother's original suggestion for a first name, I really felt she deserved to be a part of me finding a name. I know it's hard for her to watch her child transition and to lose the connection to the name she gave me at birth; I want to mitigate that as much as possible for her.
Crossing Lines
Anyone who knows me in real life knows I have no filter. There are very few questions that I find offensive or won't answer. I'll willingly tell you about my sexual exploits, my recent rape, my mental illnesses, my political and religious views, why The Fiancée left me, everything. (ETA: The reason why I make a point of being okay with explaining why The Fiancée left is because it's my fault and I own up to it, not because she did something.) Even if I'm not totally comfortable with a question, most of the time, I'll answer it anyways; I think I owe that to some bizarre mixture of pride at being so open and a deep need to be polite and not embarrass someone for asking intrusive questions.
Lately, though, I've been struggling with this openness. Ignoring the fact it tends to get me into trouble (I've yet to learn how to have a filter... ever...), I feel like it's detrimental to me (and my brothers, sisters, and siblings) as a trans* person. While I, whenever possible, make the effort to educate ignorant people, I end up often answering questions that are absurdly personal and rude (I mean, really, would you ask a cis guy about his penis? No, so why are you asking me about my bits? The same goes for asking how I had sex with The Fiancée. I fail to see how that is anyone's business other than ours...). I don't know how to tell a person that their question is unwanted in a polite way. While I understand that my transition brings up natural curiosity, there's still a line people need to respect. I constantly find I feel the need to emphasize to people that most trans*people aren't as open as I am, and I'm plagued by the worry that, because I've been so (albeit unwillingly) open in answering questions, I've set up a precedent in people's minds that other trans* people need to be willing to do the same. I'm not sure how to fix that.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Seriously?!
I managed to legitimately break my fucking nose with my laptop this morning. I've broken it maybe 5 times before and have a permanently severely deviated septum after having had a failed septoplasty when I was 15 after my boyfriend at the time broke it the first time. Of course I managed to drop the laptop on my nose in the same direction it's already broken; I couldn't have been lucky enough to drop it on the other side and break it straight again! Oye.
Monday, December 10, 2012
I swear to God...
If one more person around me gets fucking engaged, I take absolutely no responsibility for my actions. If they find it necessary to gloat to me and tell me their wonderful proposal story, I won't even be sorry when I murder them.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Back in the Saddle Again
I spent the evening dancing with my best friend at her work Christmas party. (As much as I have a reputation for not dancing, it's only because I have absolutely no coordination and am loathe to embarrass myself in front of people I know. Tonight, when the only person I really knew was the hot girl grinding on me, it's hard to say no.) I'm fairly sure, even with her introducing me as her best friend, most of her work now things we're dating. The wonderful thing about tonight, though, was that literally everyone there knew me by my preferred name. Jaka introduced me as Jay and he; the only one of her coworkers who knew me by my birth name switched instantly to my new name. It was a wonderful, albeit still very foreign, feeling to just be accepted as Jay.
In other amazing news, I found one (possibly even two!) horses to ride up in the city I live now. My horse, whom I haven't ridden since I broke my back in a bad fall two years ago, lives two counties down on my parents' property. There's a lady looking for someone to exercise her 22 year old ex-Grand Prix jumper. He's arthritic, but can still jump most days and does trail on the days he's too sore for jumping. I'm more excited than I have words for. I crave being back in the saddle. I'd planned to bring my horse up here to ride, but those plans fell through once The Fiancée left since I don't know if I'll stay in this area after I graduate in May. I spent part of the day getting my boots and such ready; it is such a heady feeling to prepare for riding again! I may end up riding her friend's younger Haflinger pony too; that would be so much fun since the pony still needs training and work; I haven't gotten to train a horse in years now! I'll go ride the gelding on Thursday. It's a wonderful reward for how hard I've been working to finish up my semester.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Blocking
I have a friend who I was really close to once. She and I had a lot of similarities, having both been in love with girls, Christian, and about as socially awkward as you can get. She and I drifted apart, but stayed in touch randomly. We're pretty different now, as she's happily married and devoted to God and we live a few counties apart (which, in SoCal, is a much bigger difference apparently than in many parts of the country). I still considered her a friend though; it was the type of friendship that you could go months without talking and go to lunch and still be chatty.
She blocked me on Facebook. I have no idea why. She wasn't close to The Fiancée when things ended in September, so I assume, though that may have changed, it isn't why? I'm not sure. Most of The Fiancée's friends have deleted me on Facebook and The Fiancée outright blocked me, which makes me wonder if that's why this friend did as well. We haven't talked in an incredibly long time, but this actually hurts a lot more than I would expect. Losing more and more ties to my hometown, as tenuous as they might have been, while I have no solid connections here makes me feel kind of homeless.
She blocked me on Facebook. I have no idea why. She wasn't close to The Fiancée when things ended in September, so I assume, though that may have changed, it isn't why? I'm not sure. Most of The Fiancée's friends have deleted me on Facebook and The Fiancée outright blocked me, which makes me wonder if that's why this friend did as well. We haven't talked in an incredibly long time, but this actually hurts a lot more than I would expect. Losing more and more ties to my hometown, as tenuous as they might have been, while I have no solid connections here makes me feel kind of homeless.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Yays and Boos
Stealing this format from Mama because there's really just no other succinct way to sum up today (because, as evidenced by my previous posts, I clearly strive for succinctness... Right...)
- Yay Gap! Their "Love Comes in All Shades" holiday advert series is seriously precious and includes queer people and people of color in it and includes Rufus Wainwright and his hubby, both of whom I'd like to cuddle.
- Boo new coworker. When you're talking to a coworker whom you've only met in passing, you really should put on your filter. When they awkwardly stumble over calling The Fiancée their ex, going on for 20 minutes about how clearly the relationship ended because The Fiancée began seeing someone else is not a way to befriend me. Telling me I'm lying when I say that, no matter how heartbroken I was, I'm legitimately happy about the prospect of her being happy is also not the way to endear yourself to me. Telling me how you, as a straight person, love hanging out with gay guys does not make me like you and will bring you damn close to faghag territory with how stupid you are. Furthermore, when we've discussed two different pronunciations of my birth name that I accept, mispronouncing it a third way is ridiculous. Finally, when I present as very masculine and say I date women, now is probably not a good time to start mocking transgender people and how bizarre they are and laughing like we're the funniest freaks in all the world because hey I AM ONE YOU DUMB BITCH.
- Yay The Professor telling me he likes to nitpick my work because the points he brings up are things he can focus on because I "have a higher ceiling of possibility than most other students" and he'd like to see me working at that level. Not to mention, while the average grades of the class for his two tests are 76% and a C-, mine were 92% and 96% respectively.
- Boo to all of the above information, because it means I have to redo my freaking term video (our equivalent of a term paper) that I spent numerous hours on because of the little nitpicked things. Granted, according to The Professor, I don't have to redo it, and it would mean only a slight loss of points for formatting issues, but, as he said, "I know you better than that and I know you'd like your work to be as best as possible, so...". Remind me why I'm so desperate to impress him again?!
- Yay for Christmas carols!
- Boo for still having the Chicken Dance stuck in my head for (yes, literally) 6 weeks straight.
- Yay for being able to finally see the end of the semester, even with the fact I have to redo my term video and take an incomplete.
- Boo for the fact that I was running late today because my stupid snake decided to go to the bathroom all down my (one and only) bra, so I spent the day feeling like I smelled like digested mouse bits.
- (Brevity is clearly not my strong point, even in bullet points.)
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
One sentence summary of the day:
I got up early enough to make myself coffee, ended up running late and leaving the full cup in the Keurig, and forgot about it until I just arrived home now.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Expanding and Contracting
Expansions and contractions are supposed to be effortless.
Like breathing.
Like the tide pulled and pushed by the moon.
Like my fingers spreading to grasp yours.
My heart effortlessly expanded to make room for you.
For your perfections, your flaws, your idiosyncrasies.
The way you drool on your pillow and never know what you're thinking.
For my soulmate, my other half, my perfect match.
My home expanded to squeeze you in.
A tiny space instead became cozy.
Filled to the brim but a perfect fit.
Inhabited by lovers and their cats.
My future grew in unbelievable ways,
Incorporating you into every turn.
My plans expanded into ours,
Our intertwined fates leading to happily ever after.
Some things are not meant to contract again.
Happily ever after could not shrink small enough for just me,
Dreams for our someday house were too large for one,
Minus my lover and our someday family.
Our home was not designed to have to
Dwindle down to just my lonely contours.
To have an empty space where your dresser lived,
With your half of our bed left empty.
My heart never learned how to contract.
Instead you have left gaping fissures where you used to fill me up.
The miles between my fingers longer still without
Yours there to bridge the gaps.
The same way that attempting to cut you out of pictures
Leaves a perfectly you-shaped crater in its wake,
My memory is the worst of all at returning to its original state.
How long before my you-shaped hole refills?
Like breathing.
Like the tide pulled and pushed by the moon.
Like my fingers spreading to grasp yours.
My heart effortlessly expanded to make room for you.
For your perfections, your flaws, your idiosyncrasies.
The way you drool on your pillow and never know what you're thinking.
For my soulmate, my other half, my perfect match.
My home expanded to squeeze you in.
A tiny space instead became cozy.
Filled to the brim but a perfect fit.
Inhabited by lovers and their cats.
My future grew in unbelievable ways,
Incorporating you into every turn.
My plans expanded into ours,
Our intertwined fates leading to happily ever after.
Some things are not meant to contract again.
Happily ever after could not shrink small enough for just me,
Dreams for our someday house were too large for one,
Minus my lover and our someday family.
Our home was not designed to have to
Dwindle down to just my lonely contours.
To have an empty space where your dresser lived,
With your half of our bed left empty.
My heart never learned how to contract.
Instead you have left gaping fissures where you used to fill me up.
The miles between my fingers longer still without
Yours there to bridge the gaps.
The same way that attempting to cut you out of pictures
Leaves a perfectly you-shaped crater in its wake,
My memory is the worst of all at returning to its original state.
How long before my you-shaped hole refills?
Worried
For as impossible as I find it to keep friends for more than perhaps a month, I've had my Best Friend since I was 12. We went to middle school together and, as is obligatory in (what used to be) opposite-sex friendships, I was in love with him for a good 3 or 4 years. We lost our virginity to each other, have gone climbing on rooftops in our hometown, and even broken into my church to play strip poker (he's the only person I've ever been so rebellious with!). I still absolutely adore the kid, and have been so blessed to get to watch him mature from the sweet homeschooler I met through his very very cruel and hurt stage to the wonderful man he is now. He speaks in riddles and sarcasm and I love him for exactly who he is. I'd reckon that, even with as little as he tells me, I know more about him than just about anyone. He recently randomly moved to Oklahoma for school, and, even though I hadn't seen him in probably a year, I feel his absence now a lot more acutely.
He grew up in a very redneck family. His father is an abusive ass, and his mother, whom I adore, keeps her mouth shut and lies low. He's nearly as racist as his father, and I'm sure homophobia ran rampant in the household. Yet, he never once batted an eye when I came out as a dyke, got engaged to a girl, and cut off all my hair. He never stopped treating me like his best friend; I'm not sure I have words for how much I value that.
He's coming back home for the holidays, and we've made plans for him to come up north to my apartment for a few days to sightsee and catch up. I'm ecstatic to see him. But good Lord am I beyond petrified. I haven't come out to him as trans. He and I, even though I'm only physically attracted to women, have always had the flirty friendship that comes with being so close to someone and having hooked up before. I'm not extraordinarily eager to change that, but how will my coming out affect it? Will this be the time his closed-minded upbringing rears its ugly head? He still very much views me as his female best friend who he flirts and cuddles with and complains about girl problems to. How do I tell him that I'm becoming some sort of a guy, who still wouldn't mind cuddling with him? I can't not come out; it's a bit obvious with my male clothes, refusal to shave, and attempting to switch to a new name. I don't see him really /getting/ it, which I suppose shouldn't seem so bad, but it's like salt in a wound every time he says "Hey girly!" I guess it comes down to whether I value his friendship or my gender identity more at this point. I can't help but feel, even if he can sweep it under the rug for now though, that it's a ticking timebomb. What will he make of me after surgery and testosterone have undeniably made me male like him? Will I still be his best friend? It terrifies me to look forward into the future without being able to guarantee he'll still be there with me.
He grew up in a very redneck family. His father is an abusive ass, and his mother, whom I adore, keeps her mouth shut and lies low. He's nearly as racist as his father, and I'm sure homophobia ran rampant in the household. Yet, he never once batted an eye when I came out as a dyke, got engaged to a girl, and cut off all my hair. He never stopped treating me like his best friend; I'm not sure I have words for how much I value that.
He's coming back home for the holidays, and we've made plans for him to come up north to my apartment for a few days to sightsee and catch up. I'm ecstatic to see him. But good Lord am I beyond petrified. I haven't come out to him as trans. He and I, even though I'm only physically attracted to women, have always had the flirty friendship that comes with being so close to someone and having hooked up before. I'm not extraordinarily eager to change that, but how will my coming out affect it? Will this be the time his closed-minded upbringing rears its ugly head? He still very much views me as his female best friend who he flirts and cuddles with and complains about girl problems to. How do I tell him that I'm becoming some sort of a guy, who still wouldn't mind cuddling with him? I can't not come out; it's a bit obvious with my male clothes, refusal to shave, and attempting to switch to a new name. I don't see him really /getting/ it, which I suppose shouldn't seem so bad, but it's like salt in a wound every time he says "Hey girly!" I guess it comes down to whether I value his friendship or my gender identity more at this point. I can't help but feel, even if he can sweep it under the rug for now though, that it's a ticking timebomb. What will he make of me after surgery and testosterone have undeniably made me male like him? Will I still be his best friend? It terrifies me to look forward into the future without being able to guarantee he'll still be there with me.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Week before finals week curse
We now interrupt our regularly scheduled complaining for technology-induced complaining.
I swear to the freaking Flying Spaghetti Monster that the week before finals in the Fall has a curse. This time last year, my hard drive crashed, losing my final papers along with all my pictures from Italy and the screenshots I'd taken of The Fiancée while we Skyped over night. Now, this semester, last week my laptop charger died, my backup 4.5 year old charger died tonight, and the Apple Store sold me the wrong freaking charger (at what point, when I tell you my laptop is 1.5 old, does that tell you to sell me a MagSafe 2?!) and I didn't discover that until I got home with only 7 minutes until their store closed. On the less technological front, my apartment complex's plumbing essentially exploded and filled my bathroom with black sludge, my wall is torn apart to install a heater after mine had three separate gas leaks, and my car door handle is broken (though my windows work now!).
Let's just that these past two weeks can't go die in a hole.
I swear to the freaking Flying Spaghetti Monster that the week before finals in the Fall has a curse. This time last year, my hard drive crashed, losing my final papers along with all my pictures from Italy and the screenshots I'd taken of The Fiancée while we Skyped over night. Now, this semester, last week my laptop charger died, my backup 4.5 year old charger died tonight, and the Apple Store sold me the wrong freaking charger (at what point, when I tell you my laptop is 1.5 old, does that tell you to sell me a MagSafe 2?!) and I didn't discover that until I got home with only 7 minutes until their store closed. On the less technological front, my apartment complex's plumbing essentially exploded and filled my bathroom with black sludge, my wall is torn apart to install a heater after mine had three separate gas leaks, and my car door handle is broken (though my windows work now!).
Let's just that these past two weeks can't go die in a hole.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Maybe not only misery loves company
This semester, I have a professor who, if I were at all attracted to men, I would totally have the stereotypical crush on. As it is, I'm left with a maddening desire to keep him in my pocket and pat his head while having abstract discussions on Deaf culture.
As seems to be common with most of the professors I end up adoring, The Professor is almost universally disliked amongst my peers. There are a few other students who greatly admire him, while the rest attempt to avoid taking his classes and complain endlessly about his strict rules and no nonsense attitude. Admittedly, his rules are sometimes slightly pedantic (if we elect to do a paper for our Capstone (BA thesis, essentially) class, it has to end on the 10th page, no more or no less). People have often accused him of being too strict and unbending; I think this has more to do with him having a great bullshit meter and knowing when students are trying to get away with things, as I've asked for some very inconvenient accommodations for very valid problems and he's bent over backwards to make things work fairly for me. He's rearranged his entire schedule for our test days so I can have my time and a half, and completely modified my final project and presentation so I would be able to actually share my knowledge rather than having a panic attack in front of the class. I've enrolled in his Capstone class for the next semester and I've decided I want to do interviews for the research, so he and I have spent already maybe 5 hours together to complete and turn in the approval paperwork for the interviews.
During these ridiculously long meetings, I've learned a lot about The Professor. He's the one I mentioned in my last post who I can nearly always make at least a few moments of eye contact with now that we've spent so much time together. He crosses his legs like a woman (woman cross their legs at the knee, while men typically cross at the ankle, sit with their legs apart, or put one ankle on the opposing knee), and has very delicate finger. He plays with his tongue when he thinks and chews on his lower lip. He has a tendency to think, well not aloud, but think on his hands, and he can always tell when I'm nervous. I would be willing to guess that he falls into the genius levels on the IQ scale, and definitely would not be surprised if he is on the autism spectrum somewhere. He doesn't seem offended that I end up staring at his nose most of the time to make a facsimile of eye contact, and he only seems to own six shirts (tan, purple, burgundy, hunter green, light blue, and navy) which never coordinate with his black slacks and brown shoes. He has very strong preferences for both capitalizing Capstone when we write it and using his preferred sign for it (the student-used sign is based on the fact it strangles us while his is the equivalent of conclusion), but I think it's adorable. He was obsessively worried about me the time I had a full blown panic attack in his class, and extended the break to over 20 minutes so he could make sure I wasn't alone while we waited for someone to come sit with me. He's a Christian and, according to another professor of mine who actually despises The Professor, he's gone to seminary. He also happens to be fluent in British Sign Language and knows the ASL sign for just about every country. His small talk skills are very much totally nonexistent, which leads to a lot of awkward pauses (because God only knows that I can't continue a conversation well), but he goes out of his way to start conversations with me now that he actually likes me. I feel safe in assuming he can continue to be a favorite professor of mine without ending up asking me to be in a threesome as a young teenager (true story), which is always reassuring.
I'm not sure why I'm bothering to write all this down, other than the fact it's so nice to finally have a truly wonderful professor. He and I get along really well, even if we're solely on a collegial level (I'd love to actually befriend him, but something tells me telling him that I have a man crush on him and want to cuddle him in my pocket just isn't the way to go about that...), and it's nice to be around someone who actually realizes I'm intelligent instead of getting hung up on the fact that, when my PTSD gets bad, I end up looking and acting like I am severely developmentally disabled (which, admittedly, in that moment, I essentially am since all my higher thinking ceases). I've got two of his classes this coming semester and, although I'm dreading the topic of my non-Capstone course, I'm really looking forward to getting to learn all the personal anecdotes he apparently typically tells in that class.
During these ridiculously long meetings, I've learned a lot about The Professor. He's the one I mentioned in my last post who I can nearly always make at least a few moments of eye contact with now that we've spent so much time together. He crosses his legs like a woman (woman cross their legs at the knee, while men typically cross at the ankle, sit with their legs apart, or put one ankle on the opposing knee), and has very delicate finger. He plays with his tongue when he thinks and chews on his lower lip. He has a tendency to think, well not aloud, but think on his hands, and he can always tell when I'm nervous. I would be willing to guess that he falls into the genius levels on the IQ scale, and definitely would not be surprised if he is on the autism spectrum somewhere. He doesn't seem offended that I end up staring at his nose most of the time to make a facsimile of eye contact, and he only seems to own six shirts (tan, purple, burgundy, hunter green, light blue, and navy) which never coordinate with his black slacks and brown shoes. He has very strong preferences for both capitalizing Capstone when we write it and using his preferred sign for it (the student-used sign is based on the fact it strangles us while his is the equivalent of conclusion), but I think it's adorable. He was obsessively worried about me the time I had a full blown panic attack in his class, and extended the break to over 20 minutes so he could make sure I wasn't alone while we waited for someone to come sit with me. He's a Christian and, according to another professor of mine who actually despises The Professor, he's gone to seminary. He also happens to be fluent in British Sign Language and knows the ASL sign for just about every country. His small talk skills are very much totally nonexistent, which leads to a lot of awkward pauses (because God only knows that I can't continue a conversation well), but he goes out of his way to start conversations with me now that he actually likes me. I feel safe in assuming he can continue to be a favorite professor of mine without ending up asking me to be in a threesome as a young teenager (true story), which is always reassuring.
I'm not sure why I'm bothering to write all this down, other than the fact it's so nice to finally have a truly wonderful professor. He and I get along really well, even if we're solely on a collegial level (I'd love to actually befriend him, but something tells me telling him that I have a man crush on him and want to cuddle him in my pocket just isn't the way to go about that...), and it's nice to be around someone who actually realizes I'm intelligent instead of getting hung up on the fact that, when my PTSD gets bad, I end up looking and acting like I am severely developmentally disabled (which, admittedly, in that moment, I essentially am since all my higher thinking ceases). I've got two of his classes this coming semester and, although I'm dreading the topic of my non-Capstone course, I'm really looking forward to getting to learn all the personal anecdotes he apparently typically tells in that class.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Winding Down
My semester is winding down at long last. I finally made a schedule to attempt to get it all under control. I've turned in my permission form to perform interviews for my Capstone project next semester for a project I'm intensely excited about. I'm slated to graduate magna cum laude. I'm trying not to think too much about next May. I can't imagine graduating without The Fiancée there to watch and cheer me on. She played such a vital role in helping me to stay at university and actually succeed. I owe so much of my success here to her. Graduating also means moving back to my home town... and out of the apartment that she and I shared. I'm contemplating looking for a full time job up here instead.
A select few people are starting to call me by my chosen name. My mother is not one of them; she doesn't like it, though it's based on my middle and last initial. She says she doesn't feel an emotional attachment to it. It seems to matter less to her that my emotional connection to my birth name is solely painful and a reminder of what I was born as. It's bizarre for my peers to ask me what my preferred name is and to use it. They're even mostly making the effort to use my preferred pronouns and apologizing for when they misgender me.
My father and my's relationship has randomly changed. After he found out that I was raped, he showed up on my doorstep two days later. We spent a week together, which was filled with the challenges I've become used to from our tumultuous relationship. He was just the same as he always has been. Since he's been back in Italy, though, he's made such an effort to stay in contact with me. He has, for the most part, even contacted me when he said we would. When I told him I had to return my service dog candidate Abbey, he legitimately sympathized with me. He's told me multiple times how proud he is of my skill at teaching. This is the first time in my 19 and a half years that I've actually felt loved by him. It's a bizarre change and I'm frightened it won't last, but I'm certainly enjoying it while I can.
I've made the decision to rehome my rats. I have my 6 little ones who I adore much more than I thought you could like a rodent. The Fiancée and I got them all together. As much as they were very much my pets, I was only able to have them because she worked so hard to help me with them. Alone, I simply can't do it. I'm broken hearted to lose them, especially after my beloved kittens went with The Fiancée when she left, but it's not fair to them for them to be stuck in their cage so constantly without the human interaction they love. I've found a lovely woman who runs a rescue who often ends up keeping the rats she takes in as pets and she's chuffed to get them. I know it's the right decision, even if it's not the best for me.
I'm in contact with an organization for service dogs. It seems to be going well, so I suppose we'll see what comes from that. I've managed to figure out ways to control the outward and acute signs of my PTSD. I've controlled about half of the stimming, and can at least feel the panic and anxiety attacks coming on. I no longer visibly flinch when people touch me, though I've still asked most people not to. I can actually hold eye contact with my family again, and I'm starting to regain that skill with people I trust, even with a male professor. (As an interesting side note, my ability to establish eye contact with a specific person seems to correlate with how much time I've spent with someone since the rape as opposed to on a whole. One of my male professors, who I'd spent insane amount of hours with and actually went to when The Fiancée left and spent days just sitting in his office, I can't make eye contact with because I haven't seen him much since the rape. Another male professor, who I only met this semester but have spent countless hours with for my interview approval and for getting accommodations, I can make eye contact with maybe 40-50% of the time now.) Now, it seems the PTSD has settled into what it will be for the long term. That constant, underlying deepseated fear and terror. The dark terrifies me. I keep my apartment lights on nearly constantly and can't shut doors. At my family's two story home, I have to have someone walk me upstairs. I still can't have my back to doors and windows, though I can almost control the need to look at someone who passes behind me. My fear for elevators is only getting worse, but now I can use them if it's physically necessary (my legs become numb if it's more than three stories up). I'm proud of my progress, even if it's something I never wanted to have had to make progress in in the first place.
A select few people are starting to call me by my chosen name. My mother is not one of them; she doesn't like it, though it's based on my middle and last initial. She says she doesn't feel an emotional attachment to it. It seems to matter less to her that my emotional connection to my birth name is solely painful and a reminder of what I was born as. It's bizarre for my peers to ask me what my preferred name is and to use it. They're even mostly making the effort to use my preferred pronouns and apologizing for when they misgender me.
My father and my's relationship has randomly changed. After he found out that I was raped, he showed up on my doorstep two days later. We spent a week together, which was filled with the challenges I've become used to from our tumultuous relationship. He was just the same as he always has been. Since he's been back in Italy, though, he's made such an effort to stay in contact with me. He has, for the most part, even contacted me when he said we would. When I told him I had to return my service dog candidate Abbey, he legitimately sympathized with me. He's told me multiple times how proud he is of my skill at teaching. This is the first time in my 19 and a half years that I've actually felt loved by him. It's a bizarre change and I'm frightened it won't last, but I'm certainly enjoying it while I can.
I've made the decision to rehome my rats. I have my 6 little ones who I adore much more than I thought you could like a rodent. The Fiancée and I got them all together. As much as they were very much my pets, I was only able to have them because she worked so hard to help me with them. Alone, I simply can't do it. I'm broken hearted to lose them, especially after my beloved kittens went with The Fiancée when she left, but it's not fair to them for them to be stuck in their cage so constantly without the human interaction they love. I've found a lovely woman who runs a rescue who often ends up keeping the rats she takes in as pets and she's chuffed to get them. I know it's the right decision, even if it's not the best for me.
I'm in contact with an organization for service dogs. It seems to be going well, so I suppose we'll see what comes from that. I've managed to figure out ways to control the outward and acute signs of my PTSD. I've controlled about half of the stimming, and can at least feel the panic and anxiety attacks coming on. I no longer visibly flinch when people touch me, though I've still asked most people not to. I can actually hold eye contact with my family again, and I'm starting to regain that skill with people I trust, even with a male professor. (As an interesting side note, my ability to establish eye contact with a specific person seems to correlate with how much time I've spent with someone since the rape as opposed to on a whole. One of my male professors, who I'd spent insane amount of hours with and actually went to when The Fiancée left and spent days just sitting in his office, I can't make eye contact with because I haven't seen him much since the rape. Another male professor, who I only met this semester but have spent countless hours with for my interview approval and for getting accommodations, I can make eye contact with maybe 40-50% of the time now.) Now, it seems the PTSD has settled into what it will be for the long term. That constant, underlying deepseated fear and terror. The dark terrifies me. I keep my apartment lights on nearly constantly and can't shut doors. At my family's two story home, I have to have someone walk me upstairs. I still can't have my back to doors and windows, though I can almost control the need to look at someone who passes behind me. My fear for elevators is only getting worse, but now I can use them if it's physically necessary (my legs become numb if it's more than three stories up). I'm proud of my progress, even if it's something I never wanted to have had to make progress in in the first place.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Coward
I am too much of a coward to block him.
Was that okay?
Are we not friends anymore?
I hope you're okay, I saw your lonely post.
I am too much of a coward to lock him out, push him away from my cyber self. Instead, I sit here screaming, instantly locked back in that filthy studio, feeling his caress of my hair, his five fingered hold around my gasping neck, hearing my name moaned over and over as my body betrays me and makes noises with every thrust. Feeling the slime that I am left covered in when there is no toilet paper to clean myself before I drive away in hysteria, forcing myself to sing along to his songs because maybe then I will remember who he was supposed to be and not who he became. Burning in the shame of that interview afterwards, closing my eyes against the forensic flash, staring at teeth marks on my bicep because of course the one time I bruise is from him.
I am too pitiful to make him go away. You are supposed to label yourself a survivor. You are supposed to triumph over the trauma, ignore the PTSD, and piece yourself together again. Instead I am a victim, defined by the violence and trapped within those smudged walls, bare floors, and lines left by his drugs from the night before. I am the weak one, who is confined to their house because there might be another man lurking on any corner, behind every bush, waiting to do it again. Who drowns out the flashbacks with Christmas music but hears him cumming anyway. Who knows how filthy they are. Whose identity as a transgender person has taken a back seat to those touches of my chest, the statement that I will be the closest to gay that he will ever come. Whose stone identity was erased in an instant, who lost their desire for touch because every other pair of hands petting my newly shaved head feels like his. The one who won over The Fiancée with their hugs runs from embraces now because they feel like that last embrace I endured from him before I managed to escape. Who hides in corners to watch the doors and can't let people behind them any more. Who rocks back and forth and back and forth and screams to please not touch them even when they are alone because I am never alone anymore, not really.
I am too much of a coward to block him.
Was that okay?
Are we not friends anymore?
I hope you're okay, I saw your lonely post.
I am too much of a coward to lock him out, push him away from my cyber self. Instead, I sit here screaming, instantly locked back in that filthy studio, feeling his caress of my hair, his five fingered hold around my gasping neck, hearing my name moaned over and over as my body betrays me and makes noises with every thrust. Feeling the slime that I am left covered in when there is no toilet paper to clean myself before I drive away in hysteria, forcing myself to sing along to his songs because maybe then I will remember who he was supposed to be and not who he became. Burning in the shame of that interview afterwards, closing my eyes against the forensic flash, staring at teeth marks on my bicep because of course the one time I bruise is from him.
I am too pitiful to make him go away. You are supposed to label yourself a survivor. You are supposed to triumph over the trauma, ignore the PTSD, and piece yourself together again. Instead I am a victim, defined by the violence and trapped within those smudged walls, bare floors, and lines left by his drugs from the night before. I am the weak one, who is confined to their house because there might be another man lurking on any corner, behind every bush, waiting to do it again. Who drowns out the flashbacks with Christmas music but hears him cumming anyway. Who knows how filthy they are. Whose identity as a transgender person has taken a back seat to those touches of my chest, the statement that I will be the closest to gay that he will ever come. Whose stone identity was erased in an instant, who lost their desire for touch because every other pair of hands petting my newly shaved head feels like his. The one who won over The Fiancée with their hugs runs from embraces now because they feel like that last embrace I endured from him before I managed to escape. Who hides in corners to watch the doors and can't let people behind them any more. Who rocks back and forth and back and forth and screams to please not touch them even when they are alone because I am never alone anymore, not really.
I am too much of a coward to block him.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Not "We"
My first semester at my university I encountered a professor whom I couldn't stand. He proudly announced his ally status for any and all minority communities, bragging about how young he was when he started marching and protesting. He made the comment that he and his wife (our department chair) didn't want to get married until it was legal for everyone but they "needed the legal protections marriage offered." This cemented my dislike of him. I would never have though anything of him being married until he brings queer issues into it; I don't know about other people in same-sex relationships but DAMN would I like some legal protections in my someday marriage. His ally-ness to my queer community meant little to me if his attitude was so poor.
Thanks to my BPD splitting, the next semester, I ended up really coming to respect and idolize him. I could see his commitment to the work that he'd done and was still doing. I could see the dedication and the empathy he had for minority groups. I overlooked the red flags that had repeatedly eaten at me the semester before. When he told me that he didn't like my choice of pronouns and didn't want to use them, I looked the other way.
Now, that brings us to the current semester. We're finishing up the 12th week of it, so I've been in my third class of his for a bit now. I will preface this by saying my perception may or may not be skewed by him due to splitting and an inability to decide to stay on meds or not. That aside, I keep seeing more and more problematic behaviours from him. On one occasion, when discussing education of Deaf children, he repeatedly said that you'd never find someone more invested than him in schools for the Deaf. On another, when talking about experiences that Deaf people face, he repeatedly said "we" although he is hearing. When he was talking to Mitten and I about trans* and queer issues, he repeatedly said "we" although is cisgendered and straight. Many of the minority group members I've talked to have found issue with his gratuitous use of "we" and the like. Yet, because we're all so starved for people who accept us and want to be allies, we stay silent and fail to call him out on it.
My two cents on the whole thing is that I think his heart is in the right place. At the same time, I think his ego has become so overinflated and self-focused that he can't find his own identity outside of being an ally. Perhaps he feels less special, as he is a majority member in every area outside of religion; even then, his atheism is certainly not indicative of a powerless minority (he frequently mocks my beliefs and identity as a Christian). To me, his problematic views make him more energy than he's worth.
I'm curious as to your experiences and views with allies and ally-related problems, especially readers who are a minority. Any thoughts?
Thanks to my BPD splitting, the next semester, I ended up really coming to respect and idolize him. I could see his commitment to the work that he'd done and was still doing. I could see the dedication and the empathy he had for minority groups. I overlooked the red flags that had repeatedly eaten at me the semester before. When he told me that he didn't like my choice of pronouns and didn't want to use them, I looked the other way.
Now, that brings us to the current semester. We're finishing up the 12th week of it, so I've been in my third class of his for a bit now. I will preface this by saying my perception may or may not be skewed by him due to splitting and an inability to decide to stay on meds or not. That aside, I keep seeing more and more problematic behaviours from him. On one occasion, when discussing education of Deaf children, he repeatedly said that you'd never find someone more invested than him in schools for the Deaf. On another, when talking about experiences that Deaf people face, he repeatedly said "we" although he is hearing. When he was talking to Mitten and I about trans* and queer issues, he repeatedly said "we" although is cisgendered and straight. Many of the minority group members I've talked to have found issue with his gratuitous use of "we" and the like. Yet, because we're all so starved for people who accept us and want to be allies, we stay silent and fail to call him out on it.
My two cents on the whole thing is that I think his heart is in the right place. At the same time, I think his ego has become so overinflated and self-focused that he can't find his own identity outside of being an ally. Perhaps he feels less special, as he is a majority member in every area outside of religion; even then, his atheism is certainly not indicative of a powerless minority (he frequently mocks my beliefs and identity as a Christian). To me, his problematic views make him more energy than he's worth.
I'm curious as to your experiences and views with allies and ally-related problems, especially readers who are a minority. Any thoughts?
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Time Passing
It has been 1 month, 3 weeks, and 1 day since The Fiancée ended things. On the 12th, it will mark 2 months (time moves so oddly when we measure days and weeks versus months...).
It has been 1 month and 2 days since I was raped.
It has been 3 days since I got my potential Service Dog in Training. (Her name is Abundiz; she typically gets called Abbey. Things seem to be going well in terms of her capabilities as a service dog. She's somewhat exceedingly protective of my house and tried to eat The Mitten when he came to visit, but apparently has no desire to eat my rats.)
I feel like my life has changed more in these past 58 days than in my 19 1/2 years before that. I'm not sure really what that means for me, other than this is apparently a season of trials in my life. Frankly, I'm ready for the next season.
It has been 1 month and 2 days since I was raped.
It has been 3 days since I got my potential Service Dog in Training. (Her name is Abundiz; she typically gets called Abbey. Things seem to be going well in terms of her capabilities as a service dog. She's somewhat exceedingly protective of my house and tried to eat The Mitten when he came to visit, but apparently has no desire to eat my rats.)
I feel like my life has changed more in these past 58 days than in my 19 1/2 years before that. I'm not sure really what that means for me, other than this is apparently a season of trials in my life. Frankly, I'm ready for the next season.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Reasons the Cycle Stays Unbroken
Have you ever noticed that, with all the guides for victims about how to get out of an abusive relationship, there's nothing for the abusers? As someone who has been the victim, I understand the need for that literature. A lot of the times, victims don't know how to get free. I've been there, I get it.
At the same point though, I think we need similar literature and resources for the abusers. Granted, I can't talk for anyone else, but, in my situation, I was desperate to change. I hated knowing what I was doing to The Fiancée. I loved her more than life itself; knowing the amount of pain I was causing and damage I was doing was sickening to me. I was tempted to kill myself so many times, even when she begged me not to, because I thought, at least that way, she would be free of me and the pain I was causing. I looked many times for help. I found little in way of published help, and none of the local programs would take me. They all only accepted those who were court ordered into treatment. (Can I take a second to say how foolish that is?! Why not help stop the issue before it ends up in court?!)
While I would never go so far to say that my abusing The Fiancée made me a victim as well, I was stuck in the cycle of abuse as much as she was. I couldn't figure out how to get free. I wanted resources that weren't there. I don't see how we can expect things to change in abusive situations if we don't offer the person causing the problems avenues to pursue change.
At the same point though, I think we need similar literature and resources for the abusers. Granted, I can't talk for anyone else, but, in my situation, I was desperate to change. I hated knowing what I was doing to The Fiancée. I loved her more than life itself; knowing the amount of pain I was causing and damage I was doing was sickening to me. I was tempted to kill myself so many times, even when she begged me not to, because I thought, at least that way, she would be free of me and the pain I was causing. I looked many times for help. I found little in way of published help, and none of the local programs would take me. They all only accepted those who were court ordered into treatment. (Can I take a second to say how foolish that is?! Why not help stop the issue before it ends up in court?!)
While I would never go so far to say that my abusing The Fiancée made me a victim as well, I was stuck in the cycle of abuse as much as she was. I couldn't figure out how to get free. I wanted resources that weren't there. I don't see how we can expect things to change in abusive situations if we don't offer the person causing the problems avenues to pursue change.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Learning to Grow
It has been one month and two weeks since The Fiancée cut off contact. I can't lie and say I don't hurt. Last weekend was the first time I went to our home town since the last time I saw her. That was 2 months ago now. I cried driving past our landmarks; the favorite eateries, the place we bought our wedding gowns, the freeway sign that was my idol last school year driving home because it was the first to say her street name. Sleeping alone in my bed, filled again with stuffed animals instead of her warm presence, made a fresh wound where the scabs of the hurts from my college town were healing. Writing this even brings tears. Sometimes the pain brings me to my knees. Music remains nearly off limits, because an inordinate amount of pop songs seem to be far too focused on marriage. I'm not sure the girl I thought existed ever really did, but I love her, whoever she is now, unconditionally all the same. I can't decide if all the facts in that last sentence make it easier or harder, but it is what it is. Some days, I think I might even miss my cats more than I miss her, even if only in my head.
Yet, at the same moment, there have been points of growth. I can wear the clothes she gave me now. My bed, once her's, feels mine now and is no longer a shrine to our past. I no longer end up on the floor sobbing. Her food in my freezer makes me smile now. I ate a Cookies and Cream chocolate bar for the first time on Tuesday. Only two pictures remain out. I can call her my ex. I can feel how much healthier things are this way. I haven't flown into a rage or a tantrum since she's been gone. Even after my rape, my emotions feel predominantly controllable. I've gotten both a piercing and tattoo without her. She feels more like a very very happy but far away memory than a real life experience. Like with the last paragraph, I can't decide if that makes it better or worse.
That suitor I mentioned back on the fourth? I'll call him Mitten. I still can't say what I make of him. It feels like I've known him for a lot more lives than just this one. He's a boy the same way I am, and gets what it's like to use a chosen name and figure out the perils of restrooms. He was the first to use my chosen name. He understands when my voice goes away and signs remain. He knows what it's like to be trapped in a flashback so real you swear you're back in that forsaken room again. He's a better Christian than I hope to be. I don't want anything to come of it, not for years at the least, but it's wonderful to have a friend. I have another friend, a queer girl, who actually hugs me tight. My PTSD doesn't let most people touch me, not even Mitten, but goodness do her hugs make me feel safe (she's maybe 5'3", but does MMA and broke a girl's elbow with her thighs). I enjoy this friendship thing, as odd as it is.
Yet, at the same moment, there have been points of growth. I can wear the clothes she gave me now. My bed, once her's, feels mine now and is no longer a shrine to our past. I no longer end up on the floor sobbing. Her food in my freezer makes me smile now. I ate a Cookies and Cream chocolate bar for the first time on Tuesday. Only two pictures remain out. I can call her my ex. I can feel how much healthier things are this way. I haven't flown into a rage or a tantrum since she's been gone. Even after my rape, my emotions feel predominantly controllable. I've gotten both a piercing and tattoo without her. She feels more like a very very happy but far away memory than a real life experience. Like with the last paragraph, I can't decide if that makes it better or worse.
That suitor I mentioned back on the fourth? I'll call him Mitten. I still can't say what I make of him. It feels like I've known him for a lot more lives than just this one. He's a boy the same way I am, and gets what it's like to use a chosen name and figure out the perils of restrooms. He was the first to use my chosen name. He understands when my voice goes away and signs remain. He knows what it's like to be trapped in a flashback so real you swear you're back in that forsaken room again. He's a better Christian than I hope to be. I don't want anything to come of it, not for years at the least, but it's wonderful to have a friend. I have another friend, a queer girl, who actually hugs me tight. My PTSD doesn't let most people touch me, not even Mitten, but goodness do her hugs make me feel safe (she's maybe 5'3", but does MMA and broke a girl's elbow with her thighs). I enjoy this friendship thing, as odd as it is.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
PTSD is a BITCH, y'all
I never knew that PTSD could occur immediately after a traumatic event. I pictured it like you see with our vets, setting in over the months as they return home from the battle field. I thought it to be a slow-onset disease, seeping slowly into someone's mind like small repeated doses of arsenic. It had to have been the only psychiatric disease I hadn't researched; it had no bearing on my life. That is, until it did.
I now have sudden onset PTSD, thanks to my rapist and what he did to me. I'm in constant fear for my safety. Entering an empty room or building sends me into a panic attack. I am perpetually convinced something bad will happen to me. Elevators aren't useable. Dark is paralyzing. I can't make eye contact, even with women, and I can't even look at men's faces. Not my step dad's, not my favorite professors, not even my dad over Skype. I stare somewhere over their shoulder and hope they know it's not because of them. I made my mom sob when I freaked out after my step father hugged me. I have to sit in corner's now, so nothing is out of my peripheral vision. Crowded places are nearly unbearable. An hour in public is exhausting, now, because I'm so on guard all the time. Even getting up in front of the class to ask a question is a monumental task.
I've finally seemed to figure out my (hopeful) solution for this. I'm getting a psychiatric service dog, because between the PTSD, the BPD, and the Generalized Anxiety Disorder/social anxiety, it counts as a disability under the ADA. This means that, once reasonably trained, I will have full public access with my service dog. I am getting a letter from my therapist, have run it by my landlord (I live in a dog friendly complex anyways), and have sent in my application to three dog rescues. I'm planning on getting a German Shepherd Dog. I was wavering between a Golden Retriever and the GSDs, since they're typically so successful as service dogs, but the friendly reputation for the Goldens isn't something I want. I'm nervously awaiting a response from the rescues, so we'll see where we go from here. It's funny, really, since I'm not much of a dog person. Still, the idea of a dog who can help me with the things I just can't accomplish anymore and will be with me always is reassuring. Any name suggestions yet? My dad says I've got to go with Fritz... yeah, not so much.
I now have sudden onset PTSD, thanks to my rapist and what he did to me. I'm in constant fear for my safety. Entering an empty room or building sends me into a panic attack. I am perpetually convinced something bad will happen to me. Elevators aren't useable. Dark is paralyzing. I can't make eye contact, even with women, and I can't even look at men's faces. Not my step dad's, not my favorite professors, not even my dad over Skype. I stare somewhere over their shoulder and hope they know it's not because of them. I made my mom sob when I freaked out after my step father hugged me. I have to sit in corner's now, so nothing is out of my peripheral vision. Crowded places are nearly unbearable. An hour in public is exhausting, now, because I'm so on guard all the time. Even getting up in front of the class to ask a question is a monumental task.
I've finally seemed to figure out my (hopeful) solution for this. I'm getting a psychiatric service dog, because between the PTSD, the BPD, and the Generalized Anxiety Disorder/social anxiety, it counts as a disability under the ADA. This means that, once reasonably trained, I will have full public access with my service dog. I am getting a letter from my therapist, have run it by my landlord (I live in a dog friendly complex anyways), and have sent in my application to three dog rescues. I'm planning on getting a German Shepherd Dog. I was wavering between a Golden Retriever and the GSDs, since they're typically so successful as service dogs, but the friendly reputation for the Goldens isn't something I want. I'm nervously awaiting a response from the rescues, so we'll see where we go from here. It's funny, really, since I'm not much of a dog person. Still, the idea of a dog who can help me with the things I just can't accomplish anymore and will be with me always is reassuring. Any name suggestions yet? My dad says I've got to go with Fritz... yeah, not so much.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Trauma
Just when the rain seems to have stopped for a bit, a new storm appears.
I attempted to seek counseling at our local rape trauma center, as I was advised to do when I underwent the rape exam. I kept most of my issues from them; I know I'm frequently considered too much of a liability to less experienced counselors. They didn't need to know about the BPD, the bipolar, the past passive nor current active suicidality, the apparently different way I view the world due to my uncommonly high IQ and the fact it makes me act like an Aspie sometimes, none of it. To them, I could be the perfect, hurting rape victim.
The one mistake I made? I told them that, the evening when I was raped and was left alone after, I hurt myself. I didn't even tell them how bad and deep and numerous it was. Just a little slip up in my recovery after a traumatic event, yes sir.
After several meetings with her supervisor, my counselor told me I was too much of a risk, a danger to myself, a liability to their program, and they were unable and unfit to help me. She gave me a list of useless referrals.
All I heard? "You are too fucked up to be helped, even by those who are trained in helping. You are not welcome here, either."
Welcome to my life.
ETA: Apparently the one person who believes me welcome? My rapist, who attempted to add me on Facebook. I feel so worthwhile.
I attempted to seek counseling at our local rape trauma center, as I was advised to do when I underwent the rape exam. I kept most of my issues from them; I know I'm frequently considered too much of a liability to less experienced counselors. They didn't need to know about the BPD, the bipolar, the past passive nor current active suicidality, the apparently different way I view the world due to my uncommonly high IQ and the fact it makes me act like an Aspie sometimes, none of it. To them, I could be the perfect, hurting rape victim.
The one mistake I made? I told them that, the evening when I was raped and was left alone after, I hurt myself. I didn't even tell them how bad and deep and numerous it was. Just a little slip up in my recovery after a traumatic event, yes sir.
After several meetings with her supervisor, my counselor told me I was too much of a risk, a danger to myself, a liability to their program, and they were unable and unfit to help me. She gave me a list of useless referrals.
All I heard? "You are too fucked up to be helped, even by those who are trained in helping. You are not welcome here, either."
Welcome to my life.
ETA: Apparently the one person who believes me welcome? My rapist, who attempted to add me on Facebook. I feel so worthwhile.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
No Such Thing as Evil People
There's no such thing as a bad person.
There are people who make terrible, horrible, heinous decisions.
But those decisions do not define them as a person.
The man who raped me on Saturday? Made a decision that has ruined this part of my life. I detest him right now. The thought of him very literally makes me physically ill. Yet, somewhere in me, I know he isn't evil nor terrible. No matter how bad someone's actions are, they do not define their personhood or their soul.
The first person who ever abused me and triggered the start of my BPD? Many terrible, hurtful decisions were made that hurt me and still affect me years later. Yet, I don't think he's a bad a person. I can see how hard he tried. I could see how so many decisions made by those around him affected who he grew up to be and the decisions he made. It did not make him evil; it made him hurt and wounded. It doesn't excuse his actions. He should have grown past them and known better. But, at some level, it makes his actions easier to grasp and understand. He made wrong choices, but his choices weren't made in a vacuum. They were made as the culmination, at that point in time, of exactly who he was, even if it meant he was more than a little broken.
At some level, I hope that applies to me, though the thoughts that run through my head do think I am evil and terrible and, yes, that dehumanizing "monster." I can see the decisions and influences and hurts that influenced me. I can see the mental illness that wreaks havoc on my mind, even when heavily medicated. I can see the contributing factors that I hope make me a person with a severe mental illness who makes bad terrible decisions, rather than just a bad terrible person.
I had a therapist tell me that, no matter how seemingly horrific or illogical a decision we make may seem, in reality, that decision, at that moment in time, for that person, makes perfect sense for our experiences and in our mind. I'd like to believe that it's true. Even if it's not, though, I don't believe a person can be evil.
There are people who make terrible, horrible, heinous decisions.
But those decisions do not define them as a person.
The man who raped me on Saturday? Made a decision that has ruined this part of my life. I detest him right now. The thought of him very literally makes me physically ill. Yet, somewhere in me, I know he isn't evil nor terrible. No matter how bad someone's actions are, they do not define their personhood or their soul.
The first person who ever abused me and triggered the start of my BPD? Many terrible, hurtful decisions were made that hurt me and still affect me years later. Yet, I don't think he's a bad a person. I can see how hard he tried. I could see how so many decisions made by those around him affected who he grew up to be and the decisions he made. It did not make him evil; it made him hurt and wounded. It doesn't excuse his actions. He should have grown past them and known better. But, at some level, it makes his actions easier to grasp and understand. He made wrong choices, but his choices weren't made in a vacuum. They were made as the culmination, at that point in time, of exactly who he was, even if it meant he was more than a little broken.
At some level, I hope that applies to me, though the thoughts that run through my head do think I am evil and terrible and, yes, that dehumanizing "monster." I can see the decisions and influences and hurts that influenced me. I can see the mental illness that wreaks havoc on my mind, even when heavily medicated. I can see the contributing factors that I hope make me a person with a severe mental illness who makes bad terrible decisions, rather than just a bad terrible person.
I had a therapist tell me that, no matter how seemingly horrific or illogical a decision we make may seem, in reality, that decision, at that moment in time, for that person, makes perfect sense for our experiences and in our mind. I'd like to believe that it's true. Even if it's not, though, I don't believe a person can be evil.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Mania
"Have you ever experienced periods of feeling you could do anything? Conquer the world? Fly?"
The doctors ask this repeatedly. Every doctor. Every time.
"No." The sardonic head shake because who is crazy enough to feel that? To feel invincible. To feel... mania. That is a concept even my BPD-addled brain can't seem to wrap itself around.
My skill is staying grounded, both feet firmly planted on the solid earth beneath me, terra firma, planet earth. I excel at walking the knife's edge borderline between sane and.. something else.
Yet, tonight, my head is a thousand feet up, consorting with the bluebirds somewhere over the rainbow. I am swaying to the beat of my own drummer and my senses are gone with the wind. Tonight? I could fly just as easily as walk, riding the clouds like waves beneath my questionably anchored feet. Tonight I could pretend to be a poorly proportioned lab mouse and succeed in taking over the world. I have dived from the knife's edge, impaling myself fully in the world of the manic.
My black and white world has been doused in colors created by insanity and tainted with caffeine. The rainbow is dripping like wax melted from crayons, so pretty and so messy, leaving behind a stain of oily thoughts.
Even now, rainbow colored mania discolors quickly with logic. Sanity's reappearance is undeterred by triple shots or poetic justice or even the lust for continued flight. It returns with a vengeance, panic attacked punishment for deviating from our norm. But just this once, a fucked up flight path, my pulled up anchors, and a high better than any synthetic means was the adventure of a lifetime.
The doctors ask this repeatedly. Every doctor. Every time.
"No." The sardonic head shake because who is crazy enough to feel that? To feel invincible. To feel... mania. That is a concept even my BPD-addled brain can't seem to wrap itself around.
My skill is staying grounded, both feet firmly planted on the solid earth beneath me, terra firma, planet earth. I excel at walking the knife's edge borderline between sane and.. something else.
Yet, tonight, my head is a thousand feet up, consorting with the bluebirds somewhere over the rainbow. I am swaying to the beat of my own drummer and my senses are gone with the wind. Tonight? I could fly just as easily as walk, riding the clouds like waves beneath my questionably anchored feet. Tonight I could pretend to be a poorly proportioned lab mouse and succeed in taking over the world. I have dived from the knife's edge, impaling myself fully in the world of the manic.
My black and white world has been doused in colors created by insanity and tainted with caffeine. The rainbow is dripping like wax melted from crayons, so pretty and so messy, leaving behind a stain of oily thoughts.
Even now, rainbow colored mania discolors quickly with logic. Sanity's reappearance is undeterred by triple shots or poetic justice or even the lust for continued flight. It returns with a vengeance, panic attacked punishment for deviating from our norm. But just this once, a fucked up flight path, my pulled up anchors, and a high better than any synthetic means was the adventure of a lifetime.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
I Refuse to be Shamed
Imagine someone very close to you was violently mugged. They were terrified and physically injured, not to mention something precious to them had been stolen. When they told you, what would you say? That it's their own fault? That they shouldn't be telling people this because it's not appropriate? That it's so shameful that they were weak enough to let it happen to them? No, of course you wouldn't. You would have sympathy and possibly empathy towards them. You would hurt over your friend's pain. You may possibly feel anger towards the mugger. You would never think to blame someone for being a victim in this situation.
Yet, if I confide in someone that I was recently raped, I don't get that positive support. I get just those comments. I've been told I shouldn't be telling people this. That it's shameful. That I allowed it to happen. That talking about it so much is needless, and it should be hidden away. When people ask me why I've been so off at school this week, I shouldn't tell them the truth because it's too private.
For me, I don't think it's too private to talk about. I refuse to be ashamed that I am a rape victim. If someone asks me what is wrong, I see nothing wrong with telling them. I have been hurt in ways that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I refuse to further that hurt by hiding my pain and not talking to people about it. I refuse to abide by YOUR beliefs on what should be private and hidden and shameful because MY being raped makes you uncomfortable. I am entirely sick of victim blaming, and I refuse to let it control my path to healing.
Yet, if I confide in someone that I was recently raped, I don't get that positive support. I get just those comments. I've been told I shouldn't be telling people this. That it's shameful. That I allowed it to happen. That talking about it so much is needless, and it should be hidden away. When people ask me why I've been so off at school this week, I shouldn't tell them the truth because it's too private.
For me, I don't think it's too private to talk about. I refuse to be ashamed that I am a rape victim. If someone asks me what is wrong, I see nothing wrong with telling them. I have been hurt in ways that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I refuse to further that hurt by hiding my pain and not talking to people about it. I refuse to abide by YOUR beliefs on what should be private and hidden and shameful because MY being raped makes you uncomfortable. I am entirely sick of victim blaming, and I refuse to let it control my path to healing.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Love in Unexpected Places
I tried to get an STD test done today. All I wanted was the hopeful proof that I'm still clean. I assumed my student health services could do that for me.
Unbeknownst to me, they're mandated reporters. Apparently, even if you're not planning on killing yourself or someone else, they still step in for this, even when you're not a minor and you don't really want them to.
I was required to meet with the member of our campus PD who specializes in sexual assault. She was incredibly nice, and told me from the start that her goal would be to persuade me to file a report, even if I didn't wish to prosecute. We talked for a bit, as I was adamant that I was against filing the report. I had valid reasons; she acknowledged that. Finally, she told me that if he ever raped a girl again, and that girl decided to prosecute, me having filed a report and undergone a full rape kit now would provide more ammunition against him in the future. So I said yes.
We drove to the place where I would be interviewed and examined. There was only one nurse working, and she was saving someone else, so we sat. And we waited. And we waited. She and I talked a lot. She is trying to be vegan. She has two daughters. She crochets. She doesn't watch movies often, but has a soft spot for Disney. She has two little dogs. We bonded. Eventually, my advocate showed up. She was very nice as well, but I've never bonded as well with younger people. She crochets too. She does MMA and Muay Thai. She is a student at my school and lives a city over from me. She is learning to become a counselor.
My officer was supposed to get off work 80 minutes from when she met me. She said that, since my rape happened off campus, if she stayed, it would technically be a courtesy report on her end and it would be given to the LAPD. She asked me, quickly and quietly and under the table, if she should say in her report that she stayed at the victim's request, rather than turning me over to the mercy of some unknown LAPD officer; I looked at her eyes and nodded. She stayed, in the uncomfortable chairs, with me; never once did she disappear in the waiting room saved for officers. Never once did she complain that I'm keeping her at work til the wee hours of the morning.
We went into the interview room. I warned my advocate I may have a panic attack, and begged her to breathe so I could hear her if that happened. Instead, she breathed big and loud and slow for my whole interview, like a metronome I could sync with. The forensic nurse said my officer would watch and listen and take notes from the room across the hall. I begged for her to be let in; the nurse said the uniform could influence me. I begged anyways, and I got the biggest smile from my officer when she was let in, having been waiting at the door after hearing my begging over the TV. She squeezed my shoulder hard, and sat right behind me the whole time.
I explained and explained and explained, hiding my grief in big words and my torment in pretty sentences. Only a few bits were marred by stutters; they were the reminder to sync my breathing to my human metronome again. The camera was unobtrusive, hidden in the wall, but it burned more than any stare should. I watched my advocate-turned-metronome and listened to my officer's rushing pen. I kept breathing.
When my interview was over, my advocate told me how lucky I was to have such an officer. It was rare. My advocate said they weren't supposed to be emotional, but she wiped the tear out of her eye anyways. Even my nurse was glassy eyed. My officer just looked at me and smiled, laughing when I told her look what she'd made me do when all I wanted was an STD test.
I brought my advocate and my officer in for my exam. There was such a secure feeling not being alone; being naked in front of them was secondary. There may be nearly as much shame in the exam as in the rape, as you are examined and photographed and measured. I watched my officer and my advocate and we talked while pretending there was no nurse and my legs weren't spread. I was told I was ovulating. I was given Plan B and other pills that I have no name for. The nurse joked she was ready for her wine; my other two agreed, but I told them that they weren't allowed to drink when the victim was too young to. My officer read the words carved into my thigh; my nurse marveled that the razor's marks are neater than her needle point.
My officer and I waited while things were finished up, bonding over Keurig and whispered advice over who I should contact and who to avoid. I am to avoid PET, because they will declare me 51/50. She said she should be doing that now, and begged me not to hurt myself with that burden on her shoulders. She said she could lose her job for not committing me now, but she thought I was worth it.
I was done. My advocate finally went away, in her white gas guzzler that she bought because it was cheaper monthly payments. I drove back to school with my officer. I was the first victim to ever ask her to come in for either part of my hell. She smiled when she told me that. We talked about the trauma of seeing the first person literally die in front of her, a 26 year old male who overdosed and couldn't be saved. She collected my clothes from my house, meeting my snake and playing with my rats. She hugged me when I said goodbye. I may see her again at my ASL classes I teach; I hope so.
I'm alone now, and it's weird to be without my advocate, but even weirder to be without the officer who spent 8 hours making my hell a little more friendly. There's a void left by those you bond to in a time like this, even when you know the relationship is very temporary. It's never expected, but love grows fast in desolate places.
Unbeknownst to me, they're mandated reporters. Apparently, even if you're not planning on killing yourself or someone else, they still step in for this, even when you're not a minor and you don't really want them to.
I was required to meet with the member of our campus PD who specializes in sexual assault. She was incredibly nice, and told me from the start that her goal would be to persuade me to file a report, even if I didn't wish to prosecute. We talked for a bit, as I was adamant that I was against filing the report. I had valid reasons; she acknowledged that. Finally, she told me that if he ever raped a girl again, and that girl decided to prosecute, me having filed a report and undergone a full rape kit now would provide more ammunition against him in the future. So I said yes.
We drove to the place where I would be interviewed and examined. There was only one nurse working, and she was saving someone else, so we sat. And we waited. And we waited. She and I talked a lot. She is trying to be vegan. She has two daughters. She crochets. She doesn't watch movies often, but has a soft spot for Disney. She has two little dogs. We bonded. Eventually, my advocate showed up. She was very nice as well, but I've never bonded as well with younger people. She crochets too. She does MMA and Muay Thai. She is a student at my school and lives a city over from me. She is learning to become a counselor.
My officer was supposed to get off work 80 minutes from when she met me. She said that, since my rape happened off campus, if she stayed, it would technically be a courtesy report on her end and it would be given to the LAPD. She asked me, quickly and quietly and under the table, if she should say in her report that she stayed at the victim's request, rather than turning me over to the mercy of some unknown LAPD officer; I looked at her eyes and nodded. She stayed, in the uncomfortable chairs, with me; never once did she disappear in the waiting room saved for officers. Never once did she complain that I'm keeping her at work til the wee hours of the morning.
We went into the interview room. I warned my advocate I may have a panic attack, and begged her to breathe so I could hear her if that happened. Instead, she breathed big and loud and slow for my whole interview, like a metronome I could sync with. The forensic nurse said my officer would watch and listen and take notes from the room across the hall. I begged for her to be let in; the nurse said the uniform could influence me. I begged anyways, and I got the biggest smile from my officer when she was let in, having been waiting at the door after hearing my begging over the TV. She squeezed my shoulder hard, and sat right behind me the whole time.
I explained and explained and explained, hiding my grief in big words and my torment in pretty sentences. Only a few bits were marred by stutters; they were the reminder to sync my breathing to my human metronome again. The camera was unobtrusive, hidden in the wall, but it burned more than any stare should. I watched my advocate-turned-metronome and listened to my officer's rushing pen. I kept breathing.
When my interview was over, my advocate told me how lucky I was to have such an officer. It was rare. My advocate said they weren't supposed to be emotional, but she wiped the tear out of her eye anyways. Even my nurse was glassy eyed. My officer just looked at me and smiled, laughing when I told her look what she'd made me do when all I wanted was an STD test.
I brought my advocate and my officer in for my exam. There was such a secure feeling not being alone; being naked in front of them was secondary. There may be nearly as much shame in the exam as in the rape, as you are examined and photographed and measured. I watched my officer and my advocate and we talked while pretending there was no nurse and my legs weren't spread. I was told I was ovulating. I was given Plan B and other pills that I have no name for. The nurse joked she was ready for her wine; my other two agreed, but I told them that they weren't allowed to drink when the victim was too young to. My officer read the words carved into my thigh; my nurse marveled that the razor's marks are neater than her needle point.
My officer and I waited while things were finished up, bonding over Keurig and whispered advice over who I should contact and who to avoid. I am to avoid PET, because they will declare me 51/50. She said she should be doing that now, and begged me not to hurt myself with that burden on her shoulders. She said she could lose her job for not committing me now, but she thought I was worth it.
I was done. My advocate finally went away, in her white gas guzzler that she bought because it was cheaper monthly payments. I drove back to school with my officer. I was the first victim to ever ask her to come in for either part of my hell. She smiled when she told me that. We talked about the trauma of seeing the first person literally die in front of her, a 26 year old male who overdosed and couldn't be saved. She collected my clothes from my house, meeting my snake and playing with my rats. She hugged me when I said goodbye. I may see her again at my ASL classes I teach; I hope so.
I'm alone now, and it's weird to be without my advocate, but even weirder to be without the officer who spent 8 hours making my hell a little more friendly. There's a void left by those you bond to in a time like this, even when you know the relationship is very temporary. It's never expected, but love grows fast in desolate places.
Saturday, October 6, 2012
Transphobia
You want to know what transphobia is to me?
It's the guy who's 12 years older than you and who has wanted you since you were still a girl refusing to acknowledge that you're not a girl.
It's him taking advantage of when you say you feel safe with him and like things were less complicated than they are now.
It's him touching your chest, repeatedly, against your will.
It's his teeth marks left as bruises in your neck.
It's him saying that, since you think you're a boy, this is the closest to gay he'll ever get.
It's him taking advantage of the fact that your still female body betrays you with gasps and moans.
It's him asking, afterwards, if you're remembering why you're a lesbian.
It's him hugging you too long when you plaster on a smile and pretend it wasn't rape so you can leave.
It's him messaging you afterwards that, if you ever want a proper cuddle, you know where to find him.
It's knowing it's your fault for being a monster.
That is what, today, transphobia is to me.
It's the guy who's 12 years older than you and who has wanted you since you were still a girl refusing to acknowledge that you're not a girl.
It's him taking advantage of when you say you feel safe with him and like things were less complicated than they are now.
It's him touching your chest, repeatedly, against your will.
It's his teeth marks left as bruises in your neck.
It's him saying that, since you think you're a boy, this is the closest to gay he'll ever get.
It's him taking advantage of the fact that your still female body betrays you with gasps and moans.
It's him asking, afterwards, if you're remembering why you're a lesbian.
It's him hugging you too long when you plaster on a smile and pretend it wasn't rape so you can leave.
It's him messaging you afterwards that, if you ever want a proper cuddle, you know where to find him.
It's knowing it's your fault for being a monster.
That is what, today, transphobia is to me.
Friday, October 5, 2012
Too soon...
In lighter news, I have a new suitor... I'm not sure how I feel about that. (They, like me, are genderqueer, and prefer to use either masculine or neutral pronouns). They're a total sweetheart, and we connect on so many levels. I could see them being amazing for me down the road. They're actually attracted to my intelligence and alarmingly large vocabulary rather than being intimidated by me, and we share an unhealthy fascination with documentaries. They understand my gender identity and my mental health issues and our friendship is so easy. I would like to like them someday far down the road. I could see a happy relationship, once I've, you know, stopped crying over The Fiancée and our lost future and figured out more of my issues. But I just want a friendship, and now I don't know how to do that with them. I'm so frustrated. Plus, it was so helpful to have someone to talk to about getting over The Fiancée, and now I feel too guilty to do that. I have a bad feeling that I'm either going to lose someone who could have been a wonderful and life long friend or fall into a relationship that I can't handle and shouldn't be in. Too much, too soon.Oye.
How are all of YOU doing?
How are all of YOU doing?
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Birthday Wishes
Today is The Fiancée's 21st birthday. According to USPS, she got her gift yesterday, and I texted her at midnight to be the first to wish her the best of birthdays. As I expected, she didn't respond, but I'm glad I did it nonetheless. As much as I did wrong in our relationship, I did and do mean it when I say I love her unconditionally. I hope she knows that.
Last night, I was talking with a new friend of mine and we were talking about what went wrong within the relationship with The Fiancée. They pointed out that it wasn't healthy for me to blame myself so intensely for what went wrong and to view myself as such a monster. They said that just because I didn't view myself as a bad person or accepted the fact that my BPD had a large role to play in the lack of control for my behaviour doesn't mean that I'm not taking responsibility for it. A comment on here said things along the same line. That's hard for me to make sense of. I understand their meaning and can grasp it intellectually, but I feel like if I don't feel the way that I do, that I'm making light of what I did to The Fiancée or making it out to be like I don't accept responsibility because I'm blaming it on my mental illness. I am attempting to enter therapy, which I'm sure will help me figure things out, but scheduling is difficult.
I'm curious for all of y'all's opinion on this. How do your opinions of someone change when you find out something about them that would oft be considered shameful? I'm not speaking of things where one has no control, like if I told you I had been raped or had a mental illness. I don't believe those should be considered shameful at all. More along the lines of if you had known me a decent amount and liked me, and then found out I had been verbally and physically abusive to my loved one? How does that change your perception of a person? Does it at all? Does it make them someone you would no longer associate with? I'm so often too scared to tell someone I've abused The Fiancée because it scares me to think that people's opinions of me would change because of it.
Last night, I was talking with a new friend of mine and we were talking about what went wrong within the relationship with The Fiancée. They pointed out that it wasn't healthy for me to blame myself so intensely for what went wrong and to view myself as such a monster. They said that just because I didn't view myself as a bad person or accepted the fact that my BPD had a large role to play in the lack of control for my behaviour doesn't mean that I'm not taking responsibility for it. A comment on here said things along the same line. That's hard for me to make sense of. I understand their meaning and can grasp it intellectually, but I feel like if I don't feel the way that I do, that I'm making light of what I did to The Fiancée or making it out to be like I don't accept responsibility because I'm blaming it on my mental illness. I am attempting to enter therapy, which I'm sure will help me figure things out, but scheduling is difficult.
I'm curious for all of y'all's opinion on this. How do your opinions of someone change when you find out something about them that would oft be considered shameful? I'm not speaking of things where one has no control, like if I told you I had been raped or had a mental illness. I don't believe those should be considered shameful at all. More along the lines of if you had known me a decent amount and liked me, and then found out I had been verbally and physically abusive to my loved one? How does that change your perception of a person? Does it at all? Does it make them someone you would no longer associate with? I'm so often too scared to tell someone I've abused The Fiancée because it scares me to think that people's opinions of me would change because of it.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Why?
I'm always curious about the motivations behind abusers' actions. I would make the argument that I don't necessarily fit in with most of them (I'm not denying that my actions were wrong, just that they have a different causation). I've never done it intentionally. I've never done it while I was in sound mind. I've never wanted to do it. Many times, with verbal and emotional abuse, I never realized I did it because I was so accustomed to being treated like that. I've been accused of enjoying it, of liking the control, of feeling powerful for doing it, and being an arrogant dick. I'm curious why others do it. Is it for those reasons? Different ones? Do they enjoy it? Do they mean to do it? Do they want to stop? Could they stop if they tried? I tried to stop for my entire relationship, and yet I never succeeded. I'd love to hear input from all of you guys on this, from either side, abuser or victim.
Tying back into yesterday's post on prejudice, I'm curious what y'all's perception of it is, in regards to those who perpetuate domestic violence? Is our prejudice based on the common idea of what we think DV is? The strong man getting joy out of hurting a defenseless woman? Is our perception different when it's female on male? Any other combination of genders? Do people lack the same amount of sympathy when the victim finally fights back? Is it better or worse when the abuser loses control because of a mental illness they don't have power over? What do people think or feel when it's someone they know and respect and love who turns out to be an abuser? Like when Mama said that, after reading my first post and already having "known" and liked me, she really had to stop and think. Again, I lack answers and, as both a victim and an abuser, I lack the ability to analyze it at this point. I'd love to hear your opinions in the comments.
Tying back into yesterday's post on prejudice, I'm curious what y'all's perception of it is, in regards to those who perpetuate domestic violence? Is our prejudice based on the common idea of what we think DV is? The strong man getting joy out of hurting a defenseless woman? Is our perception different when it's female on male? Any other combination of genders? Do people lack the same amount of sympathy when the victim finally fights back? Is it better or worse when the abuser loses control because of a mental illness they don't have power over? What do people think or feel when it's someone they know and respect and love who turns out to be an abuser? Like when Mama said that, after reading my first post and already having "known" and liked me, she really had to stop and think. Again, I lack answers and, as both a victim and an abuser, I lack the ability to analyze it at this point. I'd love to hear your opinions in the comments.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Wow...
First, let me say a real hello to everyone here. 117 of you came to visit, essentially all thanks to MFA Mama. I would love to get to know all of you, though I can see why you would hesitate to talk to me based solely on my first post. Although I would certainly like to think there are positive parts of me, and other people seem to think so as well, I think it's more important for me, at this point, to be very open with the negatives before the positives. I also want to apologize to anyone who came over not expecting that, especially Mama; I should have included a warning.
I want to talk about a couple of things that Mama's post about this blog made me think about. The first is prejudices. In general, I think most of us fight against them. No one wants to be prejudiced, to unfairly label or group people. It's the impetus behind the fight for an equitable society and the demolition of discrimination. Yet, against somethings, the prejudice is considered valid. No one wants to think well of people who hurt children or animals. No one wants to think well of people who are racist or sexist or homophobic. Similarly, no one wants to think well of people who abuse their partners or their family members, whether that be verbally or physically. As someone who has been abused by multiple people in various forms over the course of their life time, I understand that. I empathize with that. Yet, as someone who has been the abuser, I see the other side of it. That it hurts to be lumped in with those who do this and enjoy it, with those who plan this out and groom their victims into staying, with those who have no desires to or plans of changing. Yet, I have no right to ask, especially of abuse victims, to not be grouped in with them. I have no right to be angered if you're prejudiced against me. I can only hope that you're willing to see the other parts of me as well.
The other thing that her post really made me think about, albeit on a less concrete level, was the concept of eugenics and those we force to be a part of our world. I decided long ago that I could never have children, even if the idea of them makes me feel like some part of heart is missing them already. I couldn't force children to deal with me, no matter how well controlled or medicated I am. But, what about the other people forced to be in my life? I know that no one is as trapped as a minor child, but what about my baby sister who sees me a few times a month? My mother? The Fiancée? Friends who try to stick around? At what point do they need to walk away? At what point should I walk away to save them from what I know I'm capable of? I don't have an answer to this one, but it's something I mull over a lot.
I promise not all of my posts will be this intense, but this is what I'm mulling over now. I suppose what I ask from all of you is that you're willing to look past what I've done and see, at the very least, what goes on in my head and who I am behind that.
I want to talk about a couple of things that Mama's post about this blog made me think about. The first is prejudices. In general, I think most of us fight against them. No one wants to be prejudiced, to unfairly label or group people. It's the impetus behind the fight for an equitable society and the demolition of discrimination. Yet, against somethings, the prejudice is considered valid. No one wants to think well of people who hurt children or animals. No one wants to think well of people who are racist or sexist or homophobic. Similarly, no one wants to think well of people who abuse their partners or their family members, whether that be verbally or physically. As someone who has been abused by multiple people in various forms over the course of their life time, I understand that. I empathize with that. Yet, as someone who has been the abuser, I see the other side of it. That it hurts to be lumped in with those who do this and enjoy it, with those who plan this out and groom their victims into staying, with those who have no desires to or plans of changing. Yet, I have no right to ask, especially of abuse victims, to not be grouped in with them. I have no right to be angered if you're prejudiced against me. I can only hope that you're willing to see the other parts of me as well.
The other thing that her post really made me think about, albeit on a less concrete level, was the concept of eugenics and those we force to be a part of our world. I decided long ago that I could never have children, even if the idea of them makes me feel like some part of heart is missing them already. I couldn't force children to deal with me, no matter how well controlled or medicated I am. But, what about the other people forced to be in my life? I know that no one is as trapped as a minor child, but what about my baby sister who sees me a few times a month? My mother? The Fiancée? Friends who try to stick around? At what point do they need to walk away? At what point should I walk away to save them from what I know I'm capable of? I don't have an answer to this one, but it's something I mull over a lot.
I promise not all of my posts will be this intense, but this is what I'm mulling over now. I suppose what I ask from all of you is that you're willing to look past what I've done and see, at the very least, what goes on in my head and who I am behind that.
Hello There
I’ve been meaning to start a blog for a long while now. I’ve got several reasons why I never have. I suppose most of them seem foolish. I was overwhelmed by typical blogging sites. The meds are making my word salad worse, and typing has become a lot of effort. I didn’t know what to say. I figured no one would want to read it. Really, though, the biggest reason I haven’t blogged isn’t so foolish. It’s valid. I’m scared that people will see what I write and think less of me for it. They would have the right too. As much as I’ve lately been making the effort to not be shamed for who I am or what is wrong with me, I’m rightfully shamed of this. Even AA, though, seems to think we should willingly admit where we were wrong to another person. Christianity vouches accountability. I suppose this is my version of both, with some personal catharsis thrown in.
I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder and various eating disorders shortly before I started my first serious relationship at 15. I fell head over heels for The Boy, and he said he felt the same for me. I never knew how to be in a relationship; my parents had divorced when I was 5 and my mother’s remarriage, though successful, was filled with squabbles. I learned from The Boy how to fight, screaming insults and tearing down the other’s self worth with insults. He taught me that, when you’re so overcome by anger, the appropriate reaction is striking back physically. He broke my nose that way, terrified me back into submission. I guess I didn’t know there was another way to be.
I began showing signs of BPD shortly after, though I couldn’t be formally diagnosed until 18. I started dating the Fiancée when I had just turned 18. I loved her instantly, had liked her for years. I swore I wouldn’t do to her what The Boy had done to me. For a long while, that was true. We planned our lives around each other, with her applying to my college. She knew of my BPD, my issues, but loved me anyways. We fell, accidentally, into codependency, our friends having left after we came out. Then the insults started. I never meant to say them or to hurt her, but I did. She always forgave me. It escalated into me screaming at her and losing myself in tantrums. She, still, always forgave me. Finally, it escalated into me hitting her, shoving her, scaring her. Her temper finally got the best of her; she learned how to fight back. I never wanted to do it; I can remember thinking thoughts of love and adoration as my body and my mouth kept going without my permission. She forgave me for all of that too. She eventually left, just a month ago, to get her life back on track. I’m heartbroken and not functional, but I’m even more proud of her for being strong enough and brave enough to leave.
This is the start of my healing and, hopefully, my real apology: I abused the love of my life, verbally, emotionally, and physically. They say abusers never change, but I refuse to be a statistic. Even if it takes me showing this to the world to keep me accountable for changing, then so be it.
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