Poly

For once, my radio silence wasn't just because I had nothing to say. I have poured way too many words into poems and slam and angry tirades at God and the air around me. I just haven't been able to type any of them. Everything has been by pen or by voice.

Before I went to Italy for a month to try to salvage some kind of relationship with my father (which, while a story for another day, unsurprisingly failed), I met a person who I quickly fell for. She was the most handsome boi I think I may have ever seen, and we spent two whirlwind nights together up until the hour before I left for the airport. She was, since I came out as trans, the first person who ever gave me the hope that I would never have to settle on a partner. She was everything that I would have ever described as my "type" before I had the luxury of thinking someone like me could be choosy enough to have one. Significantly older than me, a stereotypical stone butch, chivalrous with a huge queer identity, passionately invested against oppression of all sorts, a stunning interpreter, polyamorous, and spiritual. She told me spoken words poems that I made her think of; I wrote poetry for the first time in far too long because of her: I just couldn't help it. She lives on the opposite end of the state from me, but she was already making plans to come visit before we even parted. We spent my month abroad writing each other like teenagers in their first romance. I was foolish enough to let myself fall head over heels for her. It only got better once I got back to the States, with phone calls for hours or even just minutes so she could hear my voice before work. I still couldn't stop writing poetry because of her.

Just a couple of weeks after I got back from my trip, with next to no warning, she called things off. In her texts to me, she told me she was so sorry. That she loved me. That she wished she hadn't dragged me into her shit but would love to be allowed to contact me again in the future. In the email she sent a day later, she formally told me she wasn't poly and that, as her friendliness could often be mistaken for flirting, she shouldn't have taken it to the next level. My gut says she told her partner a very different story than the truth, but I have no power over that. I'm not sure which part of making love for three days, plans for a stay at my home, and over a month of relationship was the "next level," but it didn't make me hurt any less. Losing her, along with the reassurance that I didn't have to settle for a one-sided attraction in my relationship, hurt more than it had any right to after such a short time. The lack of reason didn't make it rock my foundation any less severely.

I've spent the time since growing and being mindful and grateful. I miss her still. Of course I do. But, I think I'm grateful most of all. I was given an opportunity to realize I could have a partner I was in awe of, who I was smitten with, who turned my thoughts into poetry. Who could even be attracted to me as I am. A trans*guy. A queer. A Christian. Someone who is both at least a little poly and ace. She let me realize how valuable people perceive me as, and that maybe I should learn to perceive myself like that too. That I base too much of my happiness on situations and people rather than turning inwards and upwards, taking my joy from God and His sport and the energy of the Earth around me. She taught me to ground myself with big trees and old rocks and even my shadow of a dog. I'm grateful and more open, even if that than gratefulness is still a little sore around the edges. I'm a little wary of having an open heart, and more than a little wary of polyamory without talking to the primary partner first, but mostly, I'm healing.

Will you love the parts of me
that are unloveable? There are
monsters in the shadows of my heart,
and there are times when I cannot
make it out from under the covers
to face them in the light of day.
Will you be scared of my darkness,
or will you bring pillows and
flashlights and help me build it
into a blanket fortress?
The nights when I do not want
to see the dawn, will you kiss
my scars and hold me until sun
kisses the Earth, just so I can say,
"I'm glad I didn't die before I met you"?
When I am a building ablaze with
no fire escapes, will you escape
with me on the rising smoke like
phoenixes from the ashes of the arson
of my memories?
With as little of yesterday's self
that remains in me today,
will you love me as I grow into
the me that will exist tomorrow?
More still, will you love the
parts of me that remain unloveable?

Foreigner

     In the States, people stare at me constantly. It has become so second-nature that I can almost convince myself I don't notice the up and down examinations.

    Here in Italy, though, in the meager 11 days I have been here, I've been nearly able to forget the feeling of being an interesting specimen behind a wall of glass. Maybe it's because I look like every other pierced punk with a mohawk, or because there's no queer culture here for them to fear my belonging in, or maybe Italians just care less about the weird trans*dyke walking past them. It's a nice change, but it makes it all the more noticeable when I see the discomfited man glancing warily in my direction the entire time I wait in the queue.

     Men used to look me up and down like I was a cut of meat they were eager to gnaw on, striking fear into me. Now, though, their eyes deflect skittishly away, as though I were the frightening one.

As I sit here with the sun beginning to kiss the horizon,
I write you a poem because dreams of you
still dance through my head.

Watching the foreign sky turn pink,
I finally admit that I am writing you a love poem.
I was never supposed to love you.

I wish I could say that I regret this,
but imagining the next time I can be wrapped in your arms
forces me to admit that's a lie.

With an energy that draws me in,
an interpreter's expressions and a smile that holds me there,
I love you.

Grace

The part that perhaps hurts the most in my expulsion from my former home church is the lack of grace. They showed grace to both my former abusers. One of those abusers, after raping and sexually assaulting several high school aged girls, some while he was over 18, was welcomed back into working in the high school ministry. The Ex, who also abused me, is welcomed back as an employee. Yet, I've never been shown grace by the leadership. While that doesn't absolve me from my responsibility to show them grace in light of this rejection, it doesn't make the pain any less heart wrenching.

When the prodigal son returned home, having sinned and squandered his inheritance, his father rejoiced and loved him still. When His disciples denied Him and turned Him over for His crucifixion, Jesus loved them. When the dying criminal on a cross beside my Saviour begged for forgiveness and mercy, He granted it instantly. That is the gospel's idea of grace. I'm not sure when I became less deserving of grace than others, but all it means is that I can learn how I submit to God's plan for me more gracefully and willingly. I will praise Him for that, even in the storm. God is good. God is good. God is good.

Thoughts for Today

• God is good. 
• God is sovereign. 
• Everything works out for His glory. 
• It also apparently works out for my good. 
• In submitting to Him, I can praise Him. 
• He gives and takes away and my praise should not be dependent on being blessed. 
• When He slams doors resolutely shut, He has a perfect purpose behind it. 
• I have His grace in me that I need to show, even when it's not shown to me. 
• He has blessed me with so many people to love me and support me. 
• He manipulates my plans in beautiful perfect ways. 
• God is good. God is good. God is good. 

Prodigal Son

     I met with my pastor today, from my home church. This was the church I was saved and baptized at, and the only church that has ever made me feel like home. Over the 6 years since I started attending there, I've been through several growing pains with the church, the leaders, and my fellow attendees, but I never stopped seeing it as my home. When The Ex, who volunteered heavily there at the time, outed us, it didn't go smoothly. We were looking for affirmation and love and support; we were met with the reality of a church (nationwide, really) that wasn't ready for that. They loved us, but no one involved handled it with aplomb and feelings were hurt all around. The Ex and I left the church after the first service of 2012. We were heartbroken and hurting and couldn't gain anything by attending there. I don't regret that decision, as much as hurt. It was what we both needed.

     Towards the end of our relationship, I desperately wanted to try returning to the church. I missed it and my pastor desperately. I missed learning and growing and attending. The Ex said she wasn't ready, so I held off. Once the relationship ended, she returned to the church. I wanted to go back, but I was too forlorn over losing her to risk seeing her.

     Two weeks ago, I finally bit the bullet and emailed my pastor, asking for his blessing in returning to my church. While I don't want to see The Ex or run into her, the pain of missing my home finally far outweighs the risk of encountering her. My pastor and I met today regarding it and I, for one, was terrified. I prayed desperately for God to give them grace and forgiveness and mercy, and begged for acceptance and submission on my part for their decision.

     He accepted me as a transguy, even if he still cared for the girl he had met me as, and respected me enough to use my chosen name. We discussed the hurt that had taken place when I left the church and the fact that I've matured enough that I can recognize that, even if I disagree with someone, we can love each other anyway. I confirmed that I am willing and wanting to submit to my church's spiritual authority by calling it my home church even though I disagree with their stance on queers. He grieved my rape and need for a service dog, and was shocked to hear about what had transpired with the best friend who had sexually abused me being allowed to remain working with high schoolers. We talked about his joy at seeing me again, thriving in spite of my brain injuries and mental illness.

     We discussed the real impediment to my returning to the church: my history with The Ex. He mentioned that, from what he's seen, she's doing so well on her spiritual walk and fellowship and I couldn't be happier for her. The concern is, of course, if I return and disrupt that. I do think that's a valid concern, if not an entirely fair one. She returned first to the church so she gets priority in staying there? Considering that I had two of my abusers be allowed to stay at the church unquestioned, that doesn't seem quite right to me. Regardless, it's their decision to make. They plan on talking to her about it to see if she could cope with me being there. I'm praying desperately that she says she can deal with it. I already told my pastor how much I'm willing to work to mitigate any negative effects, in the sense that I'm not asking to go back to the college group or any of the church events that she would typically attend and even sitting places that wouldn't impact her working there. I hope that gets relayed to her.

     I know whatever God wants will happen, but I'm still selfishly praying that that might be me being able to return to my church. Either way, prayers for acceptance and submission on my part and grace and mercy on everyone else's would be so appreciated.

Wedding Day

     There is something very surreal about having planned a wedding that, on its scheduled day, never comes to pass.

Standard Responses

     One thing that I've noticed lately is that, when I'm talking to someone and we're discussing things I can't process quickly - emotions, reactions, etc. - that I tend to have really standard responses. My friend pointed out to me that I can say the same exact thing two or three times in a row without even realizing it. It's not that I don't have an internal differing response to things, because I do, but I can't figure out how to output those. So, in order to cope over the years, I've developed scripted responses that work well. Unfortunately, when I fall back into using those, I apparently overuse them without even realizing it. I don't do it as much when I'm comfortable with someone and they know I'm an Aspie, since they tend to expect slightly unusual responses from me in emotional situations, but when I'm talking to someone new, apparently all of that goes out the window in my efforts to pass as neurotypical Whoops!

Honors

     Today is our Honors Convocation, a celebration for everyone who is graduating Cum Laude or higher. After six long years, I'm attending as a Magna Cum Laude at 3.75. I wasn't sure I would live to see this day, let alone at Magna Cum Laude, and I couldn't be more proud. Even my father told me he was proud of me.

20

     I spent a wonderful birthday finishing a paper, cleaning my apartment, going to work, and giving a history presentation. I feel like a real adult. My best friend made it special though, and we came back to my apartment to find my mother and little sister! They had driven up to decorate my apartment and come to dinner with us. It was a sweet surprise and I was so blessed to spend my first day as not-a-teenager with the people I love most. My father even remembered to call me, which I was happily surprised by.

Growing Up

     In less than an hour and a half, I'll be 20. It's a very weird feeling to not be a teenager any longer. As much as I've grown and changed, in a lot of ways, I still feel like that 14 year old going to their first day of college. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not...

     Coincidentally, thanks to it being finals week, this will be the first birthday I haven't seen my mother on. Instead, we'll be celebrating it this weekend at The Melting Pot (gluten for a day, whoo!) and I'll spend tomorrow pretending to be the adult I'm becoming: cleaning my apartment, going to work, and giving my final presentation for The Professor. My best friend and I are going to have a great night though, with some gluten free pasta at The Spaghetti Factory and then a sleepover so we can spend the evening watching movies and drinking wine. This will be the first time I will celebrate my birthday as Jay; that feels like the biggest milestone of all.

     Happy birthday to the real me!

I wonder if she thinks that it's karma for her suffering that got me raped and broken. If she thinks I deserve the flashbacks and pain and terror because I caused her that hurt. Mostly, I wonder if she's right.

40

We swore that, if we were 40 and alone, we would marry each other and retire to Julian to raise horses and gorge on apple pie and sunshine. We were only joking, but I would have waited for you in a heartbeat. You used me and cheated on her and ruined them and never spoke to me again. Even when I said I hated you, I would have waited still. And now you're married to someone who doesn't care that you destroyed lives. I wonder what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night. Or what you told her to make it seem like our fault. What you told the church home to be welcomed back, the prodigal. You preached to me about His redemption. Swore to show me His light, but you damned me instead.

Thesis

     I officially have finished my senior thesis presentation. That marked the first time, since my rape, I have successfully presented in front of people. I was collected and composed and people were legitimately fascinated by my research. The Professor was proud of me. I had the support of dozens of people online, many of whom I haven't seen in person in quite a while, and the support of even more on campus. I had countless friends endure my practicing repeatedly, calm me down when I was panicking, and distract me with shoulder rubs before I went up. I had more prayers and positive energy sent my way at 4 o'clock than I can even imagine. I could feel Him with me, loving me and holding me as I presented. I couldn't feel more proud of having reclaimed this thing from my rapist and done what I used to love doing.

Blocked off

That awkward moment when your parents are trying desperately to remember why they have a day on their calendars blocked off for no apparent reason until you remind them that that was supposed to be your wedding day. Whoops!

Fanfare

When I got my first iPhone,
I changed your text tone to Fanfare
because it sounded almost as magnificent as I knew you to be.
I have not heard that text tone
since before dawn on the twelfth of September.
In the lifetime that has passed since then,
I thought I forgot the thrill that a
simple sound could instantly send up my spine.
But the rest of the world did not end when we did,
and that favored ring has not disappeared with you.
So when it blared today from the phone of a classmate,
those 8 months seemed to vanish in an instant
as I nearly checked my phone to see your name
appear with a purple heart beside it.
But of course you didn't appear.
I knew you wouldn't, not really,
but that instant of hope and expectation flared regardless.
I hope, whomever she was texting,
is as deserving of the Fanfare
as you used to be to me.

Aspie-ness

     I had another appointment with The Shrink this morning. Funnily enough, she definitely thinks I have Asperger's. It's nice to hear that from a professional that actually knows what she's doing; I didn't especially trust the therapist who had originally suggested it, even if I did agree with the diagnosis. Ironically, when I first told The Shrink about the likelihood that I'm an Aspie, back during our first meeting, she dismissed it because I can pass as neurotypical so well.

     Today, though, she finally got a glimpse into why I was diagnosed with that. I don't have a natural ability to read people's facial expressions to know their emotions. To make up for that, I learned them like you would learn a foreign language. Keep in mind, until only recently, I didn't realize that was out of the norm; I though everyone had to learn to read emotions like that and I was just worse at learning it than they were. I'm great at reading embarrassment and I can tell positive emotions from negative ones. Outside of that, though, it's hard for me because the tells for each emotion are so similar and vary between people. (Ironically, this has made people think I'm good at knowing when something's up, because I'm very prone to asking what they're thinking to mask my inability to actually /know/ when they're feeling an emotion.) That happened today during the appointment; I'm supposed to email The Shrink daily so she doesn't worry that I've done something. I didn't keep in touch with her this past week because I was too overwhelmed. When I saw her today, it was clear she was something-negative at me; I assumed she was upset when, in reality, she said she was worried. We got into a discussion about how I had to learn to understand people's emotions like that; she brought up the Asperger's at that point, commenting that she understood why a previous shrink had suggested it and agreed that it was likely I have it. Now, if only she could see me stim when /I'm/ feeling emotion; there'd be no doubt left then!

Visibility

     Perhaps one of the biggest, visible changes since I've started accepting and embracing the fact that, regardless of the label of my diagnosis, is that I've stopped working so hard to hide it. I rock in public more than ever and I stim, though still in predominantly socially acceptable ways, in public now. I'm learning that areas that I struggle in are actually because of my neurotype, not because everyone else just learned it more efficiently and skillfully than I managed to. Funnily enough, that actually took a lot of shame away from that for me. I'm a lot more open with asking questions or putting information out there. I'm terrible with accurately perceiving sarcasm, so I've started asking to make sure I don't end up spending hours later trying to analyze things. I'm paranoid that I'm bothering people and forcing them to hang out with me, so I've figured out that I can unobtrusively make sure I'm not "keeping someone." I'm open about the fact that I'm terrible with texting people first, but very committed to texting you back. It was also great to realize that my inability to innately grasp idioms is actually pretty common with others like me, because we end up picturing it literally. I always thought it was a personal failing that I worked desperately to cover up. Now, even just yesterday, I actually clarified with The Professor on two English idioms that he used that I was lost on. (Funnily, I'm great with ASL idioms, because they've actually been taught to me so I've memorized them as part of my vernacular.)

     I'm not sure this has necessarily made me more likeable or easy to hang around with (how many people really like the trans*guy with a service dog who makes weird facial expressions and spews out random information), but goodness has it made me significantly better at living now that a lot less of my energy is devoted to passing as completely normal. I can recognize those bizarre traits that I was ashamed of as not personal shortcomings, but markers of membership in a community of neurodiverse people. And, really, that's not so bad, even when I'm a little different than the norm.

PCOS

     As part of my diagnostic process, I went to an endocrinologist to get my hormones checked, since hormones can always be a possible cause for some of my personal brand of crazy. Full disclosure, after being on birth control since I was 13 thanks to insane menstrual cycles, I stopped them in December simply out of laziness. Back to my natural hormones, I haven't had a cycle since mid January. Combined with some other factors (whoo uncontrollable weight gain!), she's assuming I have PCOS. If that's true, that likely means I'm infertile.

     Obviously, as a trans*guy, I'm planning on having a hysterectomy. Additionally, I have no plans of breeding, thanks to my craziness and a selfish outlook on life. Ironically, though, I was planning on keeping my ovaries in the event I ever decided to harvest my eggs. It's oddly saddening to lose that choice, even though I should never breed anyways. Huh.

More relapsing

     When your entire world feels like it's crumbling down around you, and you reach the point where you're past caring about recovery, it's all too easy to relapse. When you're disgusted by the form you see in the mirror, both by its sex and its weight, it's all too easy to relapse. When you know what sweet relief hunger and purging brings, it's all too easy to relapse.

     Over two years of recovery are now, very literally, down the toilet. Honestly? It's never felt better.

"Are you a boy or a girl?"

"What do you think?"

"I don't know, I think maybe a girl."

"Why do you think I'm a girl?"

"Cuz your voice. And your earrings. But they're not sparkly like my earrings..."

"Does it matter if I'm a boy or a girl?"

"...No."

She called me "he" the rest of the night.

Anger

     My homework from my shrink for the week is to write letters to my rapist. I'm, apparently, supposed to be able to be angry at him; in the 6.5 months since the rape, I've never once felt angry. Hurt, betrayed, depressed, lonely, broken, filthy, yes. Angry? No. Apparently not only is that not normal, but it's not healthy. Hence the letters to him to try to be angry. It should really come as no surprise that I'm failing miserably at those letters; they read more like a manifesto to a desperately missed ex-lover.

     Don't misunderstand me, I'm terrifically skilled at unjustified rage. I can fly off the handle at the drop of a hat accidentally about inconsequential things. I'm good with righteous white anger, the kind that simmers inside but appears politely questioning, when it comes to social justice issues. But I've spent so long honing the latter skill and learning to ignore the first natural tendency that it's left me with no normal anger. I grew up learning that real anger got me no where; my daddy still wouldn't come home more often no matter how much I got angry. Apparently, that combined with some lovely TBIs, turned me into a pressure cooker of rage. I'm great at accidentally flying off the handle when the straw finally breaks my back. I'm completely inept, though, at having healthy anger towards my rapist. Damn.

     Well, onto the next letter to see if it's angrier yet.

Poor shrink

     So, I'm not sure what it is about me, but I have a tendency to upset my shrinks. I'm never quite sure why that is; my assumption is that, with as many people as they end up seeing, surely they shouldn't be surprised by what I tell them. Without fail, though, I manage to say things that make them tear up and look like the want to hug me.

     Lo and behold, apparently my current shrink is no different. I had my appointment with her this morning, and she definitely got the "let me hug you" look. If I can pick up on that kind of look, it should tell you how obvious it is.

     She was frustrated that it seems like I don't trust her. Obviously, if she's supposed to help me, me being able to open up to her is paramount. She finally realized that it isn't that I don't trust her; I mean, Christ, I've only seen her 4 times and she already knows more about me than any other shrink I've seen. What I finally made her realize, though, is there's obviously limits to what I can tell her because she's a mandated reporter. If I actually confirm with her that I'm actively suicidal and have a plan, rather than just suicidal ideation, that is then legally out of her hands. That's not her fault, it's just a fact of her profession. Needless to say, between telling her that and refusing to answer specific questions, I now have to email her daily to tell her I'm still breathing. Whoops.

     On the gallows humour side of things, though, I'm not sure if she was impressed or horrified when I corrected her that modern cars don't produce the right exhaust toxins to kill someone like they used to.

Relapse

     I'm dreading my shrink appointment Thursday morning. I actually like her, and am desperate to get better, so I'm working really hard not to work the system by telling her what she wants to hear. Not to mention, I found out that I can actually see her in private practice after the semester ends, which really makes me want to try to be at least mostly honest with her. For me, whenever I was suicidal before, I effectively hid it from whatever pdoc I was seeing at the time. I'd rather not lie to her. The problem that presents me is that, if I don't lie to her, things could go very badly for me. She's a mandated reporter, meaning that if she realizes just how much of a risk I am to myself, I can easily be put into a 72 mandatory hold. While I do want help, I don't think an involuntary 3 day hold will do anything other than stress me out more.

     Unfortunately, being honest with her also means admitting to her that I relapsed pretty badly with self injury over the past week or so, after over 6 months being clean. It's frustrating losing that progress, but it's scarier to have to think about telling her that.

     In... better(?) news, I had a great heart to heart with a good friend of mine. Admittedly, I felt terrible telling him most things, since his fiancée is my best friend who is currently in the behavioural hospital, but he swears he doesn't mind. He thinks I should commit myself to getting intense help now, whatever that means for me, even if it means having to take a sabbatical from school. He's convinced that I'm worth that and that, really, my degree would be useless if I end up not being able to make it to graduation day anyways. He's supporting my decision that I need to wait until after graduation, though; he's been making such a huge effort to check in with me pretty frequently. Bastard even has me going to the gym daily again; I'm already to the point I can jog a quarter mile without stopping, which is monumental for someone like me. I love seeing how much God has blessed me in this season, and how clear He's made it that, even with all He's allowing me to struggle with, He's given me support systems too. It makes me feel that much more selfish for being so suicidal, admittedly, but I still couldn't be more grateful to how much effort my friend is investing in me.

     On a sadly funny note, he has PTSD from his time in the military, so it's rather amusing when we go out together because our mannerisms mirror each other quite a lot. I actually trust his PTSD enough to let him sit facing the door, which he says he thinks he should be grateful for.

Self admitting

     One of my best friends self-admitted to a behavioural hospital on Wednesday evening. She's a recovering alcoholic with several severe psychiatric diagnoses; recently, she's fallen back into abusing pills, chain smoking, and her eating disorder. She was also recently diagnosed with RSD after being hit by a car; all of this combines to mean that she will be disabled and (according to the state) unemployable. She's in the middle of her last semester, like I am; even though she's taking fewer classes than I am, she certainly is busy. She decided to self-admit to a behavioural hospital to try to save herself before she goes back to rock bottom. Over the course of my life, she's one of a very small handful of people that I've actually made the effort to keep as a friend. For most people, I'm just not able to make an effort, but for her, it's different. I'm monumentally proud of her for doing what she needs to do to get better, even when it's hard and scary and a lot of work.

     Selfishly, though? I'm so incredibly jealous that she can just get up and walk away from the end of the semester just as a preventative measure to work on her mental health. I don't get to have the luxury of doing that, even knowing it's what I may need to save my life. Realistically, I'm in a darker place than I have been in years. I'm not entirely sure why; I didn't even go this low when The Ex left. Whatever the cause, it's left me struggling to literally just survive from day to day. I hate how melodramatic I sound saying it, but I'm so close to giving up. I can't just walk away from my last semester just a month and a half before I graduate, but I would give nearly anything to be able to get the kind of help my best friend is right now. That horrible awkward moment when you're so mentally ill that you're jealous that your friend got to go to a psych ward.

Awkward?

     I've recently started playing DrawSomething again; since the last time I'd played it, they've added the ability to message the user you're playing with. As I play predominantly with strangers, save for apologizing for a stupid guess, I don't use the option frequently.

    I just started a game with a new partner; lo and behold, she decided to send me a message, saying "Hey sexy mann ;)." Slightly awkward, but at least my profile pic makes me pass as a guy?

Culture Shock

     According to all of the people I know who are familiar area, I live in "the nice part of the ghetto." Ignoring the racial connotations that are put with the negative interpretation of ghetto, what they're saying is true. While there aren't typically murders, rapes, or violent crimes in my immediate neighborhood, property theft and gang activity abounds. The population is a mix of races, but we're all lower middle class or below. I've lived here since I transferred to school; for a very long time, I was very comfortable here.

     Then, two things happened in very quick succession. My mother's car was broken into in the middle of the day while she was here visiting me. Maybe a week later, I was talking to my neighbor who said a group of young hoodlums had tried to jump and rob him in the alleyway by our parking. Needless to say, I feel less secure here now. (As part of the backstory, understand two things: I grew up in white, middle-upper-class suburbia where crime was unheard of. Also, my car is having software problems and requires between 20 and 40 clicks of the fob before the boot locks; as my MINI is a hatchback, if I don't lock my trunk, someone could access my entire car.) I arrived home tonight, fairly early but still after dark and general bedtimes. When I went to get out of my car, two large young men walked up near my car and stood for a while. Naturally, I didn't get out. It took several minutes for them to walk away, but they paused a short block away. I started fidgeting in my car to waste time until they actually left. Even after I could no longer see them, my PTSD had set in too badly to be able to get out of the car, so I started doing homework. In the hour and a half that I remained stuck in my car, I watched the same crappy white hatchback circling through the area numerous times as well as two separate pairs of men wandering up and down the streets continuously. Needless to say, if it wasn't midnight by that point, I would have called a friend and begged to stay there. As it was, I waited until the car passed again and headed down several blocks before daring to take the minute to be able to unload my dog, backpack, and lock the damn boot and run to our complex gate.

     Needless to say, even with several hours having passed, I'm too keyed up and nervous to sleep. I hate being reminded of the kind of area that I live in sometimes. As privileged as I know I am to be able to say this, I wish I could just go home to San Diego and live comfortably again.

He is Risen

     I was blessed enough to watch the sun rise as thousands of us gathered at the beach to bask in the glory of God's creation and worship him. I got to do it again tonight, learning why, in reality, when we discuss His hugeness or the "cuteness" of Easter, we're making Him so much more minute than He really is.

     What a blessing is that? That our God is so much bigger than even the enormity we assign to Him?

     To all my brothers, sisters, and siblings in Christ, God bless. He is risen, indeed. For those of you from other faiths, God bless you, too; no one can have too many happy thoughts going their way!

Well, fuck

     So I had the second appointment with the counselor at school today. I wish we met for more than just an hour; it always seems like, just when things get interesting, time is up.

     Today, we started out by simply troubleshooting possible reasons behind my new inability to present in front of people and ways to fix that.      It led to a discussion about my rape and the relationship with my rapist because, really, all roads lead to Rome in the end. One of her suggestions is that, because I'm stressed about school things, my brain is equating the stress of school and the stress of rape and responding the same to both. Even though it's unwarranted and fairly inconsequential, my brain is treating a presentation with the same amount of alarm as it did a dangerous situation. She commented that really, my rapist, my ex-best friend that he is, took away my confidence. She then asked me where my anger at my rapist was for doing that.

     That drew me up completely flat. I'm not angry at him. I never have been. I'm too busy grieving the loss of our friendship to even grieve my rape, let alone actually become angry. Understand, I don't mean I'm not angry because I'm being righteous or trying to show Christ's love or because I've moved past it into forgiveness or acceptance. I just... haven't felt angry; apparently, that's not only abnormal but unhealthy. I mentioned to her that, over the nearly 6 months since I was raped, I've repeatedly been tempted to reach out to my rapist to rekindle a friendship. I feel like, if I minimize the rape enough and press it down again, I could just have my best friend back and it would be worth it. Obviously, my logic has won out and I haven't; Christ, have I wanted to though. One of my friends pointed out that it was a pattern I'm used to with my father; no matter how many times he's left, I've always reached out and worked to draw him back. I did the same with other boys throughout my life, and now I'm trying to avoid doing it with my rapist. She suggested that, subconsciously, I'm working so hard to salvage ruined relationships because, if I can't, I'm acknowledging that I can't actually salvage my relationship with my dad. She noticed too that I'm used to the fact that the anger I've had with my father has accomplished nothing; no matter how much I yell or scream or tell him he's hurt me, nothing changes. I've brought the same thinking into processing my rapist; I'm so used to anger accomplishing nothing that I haven't felt it towards him; I've just sunk into the depression that I'm masking with schoolwork.

     What my therapist then pointed out, which left me literally speechless (well, sign-less, really, as she's Deaf) was that, when I was defending my father's neglect based on the fact that it was out of immaturity and he still loved me, the same may be true for my rapist. He may very well feel love for me, even if it's been perverted and twisted and poisonous. She was curious as to why I could so easily defend my father, who has continually neglected and emotionally abused me for nearly 20 years, but not my rapist. Needless to say, I've got lots to chew on before our appointment next Thursday. I'd love to hear all y'all's thoughts on this.

The Professor

     All y'all know how much I adore The Professor. I idolize him. I'm torn between wanting to cuddle him and wanting to be him. I'd be content with some mixture of the two, really. When I graduate in May, I'm going to grieve not seeing him anymore.

     But, oh my golly, can I please have just one week that doesn't have me spending at least 3 hours in his office? Just one? It's only Tuesday, and I've already been there for two hours today. Next week, I've got a mandatory meeting on Thursday plus all the other time I'm sure I'll be stuck in there. It's gotten to the point that Shadow has his preferred spot to chill in there now!

SCOTUS

     Today, as most people have already noticed, the Supreme Court of the United States has began hearing arguments for and against marriage equality and DOMA. I read an article on it yesterday and made the mistake of reading the comments. Seeing such a demonstration of outright hatred was heartbreaking and demoralizing. There's nothing like reading hundreds of people advocating for you and people like you to be murdered.

As a show of support for queers and equality, we've started a movement of wearing red today. Across the board, I've seen Facebook, queers and allies alike, become a sea of red. I could not be more proud of the people in my life for taking this stand. I'm truly inspired and grateful for the overwhelming show of love.

Growing up Christian

     I've been watching a new series about pastors' teen girls. It's fascinating to see the way that the girls are raised to save themselves for marriage. For some of the girls, it's easy to see that they think it's all a load of hogwash. For one of the girls, though, who has 4 older sisters, you can see how much she values it. Even as she protests to her mouth and demands the right to date, I love seeing the commitment she has in her heart to purity. She and the boy she wanted to date had, of their own volition, a discussion on boundaries and desiring purity together. When her eldest sister, who is 30 and married with a child, revealed that she was wasn't a virgin when she got married (she hadn't had premarital sex with her now-husband, just one other man), she broke down in tears because she was so heartbroken for her. She couldn't even imagine the pain that her sister had gone through after she made that decision, and later had to tell her husband and now her family.

     On the one hand, the feminist in me just cringes at the thought that we're educating young woman to not make their own decisions in their sex lives. (In that specific family, while the eldest few girls had grown up with no other message than that sex is "bad," in the interim, their mother actually became a sex-educator who taught the ins and outs while still promoting abstinence, so her younger girls got the whole message.) The other part of me, though, is so incredibly envious. While my mother is Christian, she made no effort to raise me with Christian values or in the church. She never monitored what I was doing or watching or what I was talking about with who. For the majority of my middle and early high school years, I was a staunch atheist. While part of me entertained the notion of saving myself for marriage just as a sentimental novelty, I never gave it much thought. When my best friend, who I was head over heels for, offered me the opportunity, I took it without a second thought. While I wouldn't say I regret that, I can certainly see how easy it made it for me to become so sexually open. Pairing that with a desperate desire to be validated by men as a straight heterosexual girl plus a lackadaisical mother, and it's no wonder I became so promiscuous so young.

     I'm so curious how that would have changed if I'd been raised to see the value of my purity. To see myself as a child of Christ, someone who has so much intrinsic value outside that of attention from men. If I had had a mom who, rather than just befriending me, actually made the effort to be a mom and know what I was doing. If I'd actually followed Christ throughout my life. I vividly remember, for the first almost two months of dating The Ex, I prayed very literally every time I looked at her. I begged God, without ceasing, for the ability to love her right and to stay pure in my love for her. Obviously, in a wide variety of ways, I failed terribly at that. I think that has to be one of my biggest regrets in our relationship; when I combined a lack of constant commitment to prayer with my past promiscuity, it was a failure from the start.

     I keep feeling God place this one my heart lately. How much I want to be pure. One friend hypothesized it was because of my rape in October that I want to avoid sex. Really, though, I feel it going so much deeper than that. I'm not sure what to do with it, at this point, other than keep praying for clarity on it. It's terrifying, because, other than those months with The Ex, I've never tried to stay pure. I suppose this is where I fall back on knowing I never have more than I can handle without a way out, right?

Wish me luck

&nsbp;&nsbp;&nsbp;&nsbp;&nsbp;My chair has been pressing me to see this specific (signing) counselor here on campus about the PTSD and inability to function normally. The nights have been getting worse and worse for me, so I finally emailed the woman last night. She responded this morning, saying she had a random opening from a cancellation at 1500. Lo and behold, I took it. Wish me luck.

Drrrrrracula

Now that my trip to Italy this summer is definitely on, I'm back into trying to learn Italian. Back in my three years of Spanish in middle school, I could barely roll my Rs. That problem certainly hasn't abated in my Italian studies. So, me being the researcher that I am, I'm trying to find tricks to learn to roll my Rs.

One suggestion was to try to roll "Dracula." Well, years of a stutter had me rolling my D instead. Whoops!

To the 16 year old girl in Ohio,

     I can't imagine, every time I turned on the TV, hearing how badly I ruined the lives of my rapists. Of enduring the glares and hatred in a small-town you once called home. Of having imbeciles the nation over saying you deserved it or it wasn't really rape. You were strong for reporting it, and you're stronger still for enduring this every day. I know that being strong is all an act, but from one survivor to another, thank you. You've become the voice for those of us who couldn't prosecute, who couldn't see our attackers behind bars. Even though the time they'll serve is nothing compared to the time they sentenced you to that night, thank you for facing all of this anyways. By fighting and having them labelled as sex offenders, you've saved countless other people from being victims at their hands. Even if it seems like there's a nation against you, know that you have a family of us here supporting you, as well.

Hrmph

     The cat rescue I foster through recently hired a new foster coordinator. That is, admittedly, a huge blessing for our organization; we have far too many fosters and foster cats to be managed by a volunteer.

     Being the creeper that I am, I found our new staffer on Facebook. She's a lovely lady, recently married, and a great supporter of our rescue. I looked a bit further down her page, seeing where she was trying to figure out how to change to her new surname. She then proceeded to post a blurb from California's court page, explaining how to change your name and gender together or separately, laughing at how "crazy" California is. Because, you know, there's so much hilarity about people who are born in the wrong body and spend inordinate amounts of time, money, and heartache to be able to be comfortable as the person they really are. Count your blessings that this isn't something you have to endure rather than mocking those of us who do.

     And people wonder why queers don't like hanging out with cishets. Just when you think you can like someone, they show how ignorant and bigoted they are. Well then.

They say that

           Just when the caterpillar
             thought his world was over,
                he became a

                                      butterfly.


              So when you left,
       I pulled your clothing
               tightly in around
                         me
    to cocoon myself in the
       last pieces I had of us.


                   I waited for the pain
                      to sprout wings
               from my shoulder blades.


                                          But all I am left with
                                          are the moth eaten remains
                                                               of our future.

Dear Cis Scum,

     Yes, I'm transgender. (No, by the way, it's not a noun; you can't call me "a transgender.") Yes, I'm calling you cis scum because, hey, might as well call a spade a spade. No, I'm not subhuman, a freak, or perverted. No, this isn't some sexual fetish; trust me, there's a fuckton of things I would rather get my rocks off with than going through the bullshit of changing my gender. Making me and people like me out to be some sort of freak says a lot more about you than it does about us. Good try, cis scum.

One Upping

     My step-father and I joke that, whenever one does something awful, the other has to one-up them. If I do less than great on a homework assignment, his report will flop at work. If he sprains his wrist, I'll break something. When I scratched the car trying to park (because both my neighbors are assholes, just for the record), he'll back his truck into his trailer and scrunch both.

     I managed to one up his truck, now though, having rear ended an H3. He had to replace his tailgate after his trailer smash, I have to replace our BMW's hood. Motherfucker.

Food Hipster

     As I'm sitting here drinking chocolate almond milk, eating gluten-free cookies and toast, and emailing Domino's to complain that their GF crusts only come in small (that means that, unlike medium pizzas, I can't use coupons; I can get two medium pizzas for the price of one small with coupon), I've realized I'm becoming one of those people.

As a side note, Christ do I miss bread. Gluten-free bread, even toasted with garlic salt, is... lacking.

Still not funny

I, for obvious reasons, fail to find rape jokes funny. When I tell that to you, as a heterosexual male with no history of sexual assault, if you respond with, "Then you're not listening to the right people," I take no responsibility for any violent reaction on my part. Asshole.

Gluten

     I've been feeling great from cutting out most of the gluten in my diet. On the downside of that is, now if I eat anything with gluten, I curl up in gastrointestinal agony. I miss wheat!

Scarification

     I have over 300 self injury scars on my thigh. I'm not ashamed of them, but they're not something I particularly like to show off, either. Many are small and white, but many are several inches long, raised, and stay fairly pink. There is a large burn mark from when I was 14, and a whole host of words; most of the awful things I've thought about myself are carved there so I can never forget them. When I had the physical exam after my rape, the nurse there commented on how the words are even neater than her cross-stich patterns.

     For maybe 5 years now, I've been planning on getting a tattoo there someday. I was ashamed of them, wanted to cover them up and pretend they never existed. Once I turned 18, the plan was to wait until I was 2-5 years clean, since you can't tattoo over scars that hadn't settled. I no longer wanted to hide them, just make them less of a focus. With the exception of my relapse on October 6th, the night of my rape, I've been clean since summer. I was well on my way to the tattoo.

     I'd been contemplating scarification on my thigh instead; a symbolic cutting over all the harm I'd done to myself. There's few scarification artists who advertise, though, even in a metropolitan area like this; even then, I feel awkward finding a random new person for something like this. Just the other day, though, I found out my piercer does scarification, branding, and hand-done dotwork tattoos. I've been being pierced by him since I was 14; he's done all but a couple of my piercings, including my VCH. I couldn't be more comfortable with him; that seems to happen once you've been naked from the waist down with someone. I spoke to him on Friday when I went to get my septum jewelry changed. I talked to him and showed him my scars; he agreed that a large, geometric type design would do well. We're now texting ideas back and forth; he said he's excited for the project, since he has near complete artistic freedom.

     I can't believe it's actually happening. I'm looking forward to looking into the mirror and seeing something more beautiful than a lifetime of hurt.

Calling me home

     I'm currently in my home town (well, home county, really, but potato potahto) working a large conference interpreting for Deafblind people. This is the third year running that I've volunteered at this conference; this year, I was actually specifically asked by the coordinator if I would be willing to give my time again. I love tactile interpreting and, while this isn't always the easiest or most enjoyable of conferences to work at, it's certainly a great experience to put on a resumé and helps foster a network with an organization I certainly wouldn't mind working for in the future. Not to mention, it gives me a great excuse to skive off of school for a few days under the excuse that I'm really working for the school (my university is the hosting organization for the conference; why they choose to host it nearly four hours away from the school continues to baffle me).

     Today, after a very long day of working there, though, I really felt God laying San Diego on my heart. As graduation looms, I've become oddly sentimental about my new county. I'm vaguely loathe to leave it, to the point I'm seriously considering applying for jobs around there so I can remain there. For a while, it actually seemed like God was opening doors up there for me to stay longer term. Yet, as I worked down here and interacted with an old professor and professional contacts, I feel like God is really pushing me back down here. That's an odd feeling to have. I know He'll open the doors to where ever I'm supposed to end up, no matter what county that happens to be in. I just wasn't expecting for Him to push so hard for me to come back down here. I suppose we'll see where He puts me in just a few short months' time!

On the plus side...

     Well, on the plus side, I'm at 2-4 weeks ahead in all of my classes. I'm looking to be done with everything, other than my Capstone thesis, by the end of March. I'm slowly but surely losing weight despite my repetitive injuries (I may have fallen during a run with my dog and severely reinjured an old ankle injury, ahem...). I'm interacting with friends, classmates, and professors. I'm training my dog and getting a handle on going out in public again. I'm showing my foster cats every weekend. I'm continuing to build networking in my hometown. I'm even planning on presenting my Capstone project in front of the class.

     On the flip side of all of this, my OCD/BPD/Asperger's/who-the-fuck-know's-what has taken over. My life is scheduled down to the half-hour (excluding Capstone interviews) through the end of March. I've cut out nearly all unhealthy food as my pantry empties. I've cut out nearly all gluten in non-crucial meals (I still eat it in microwaved meals, because when I have five minutes to cook and eat, my options become limited). I've put off all non-educational needs (therapy, an official mental illness diagnosis, any medical attention that doesn't involve my ability to walk/sign, etc) until May 24th, the day after graduation. I refuse to make any emotional/romantic entanglements. I've stopped reading for pleasure because I read nearly 100 pages a day for classes. I've stopped sleeping more than maybe 5-6 hours a night.

     Part of me loves this and wishes I'd managed to do this the past three semesters. The other part of me is more than vaguely worried about the crash that's inevitable come the evening of May 23rd, my graduation day. As I told my mother, I can sleep on May 24th.

Google

     I have a habit of Google-stalking people. I do it to nearly everyone in my life and my past, including myself. I get to find interesting things that way. I found that one professor of mine actually invented the ASL skills test that has become the gold standard in our industry. Another played water polo in several Deaflympics (and has the Speedo pictures to match!). There's a transwoman with my exact (birth)name and surname. Most of my friends have really awkward Myspace photos.

     I discovered the best tonight, though, even better than The Professor's Speedo pix. I used to be in love with a best friend; he used me and broke my heart several times over. He, once, told me a story of him trying to hook up with a mutual friend; though he desperately wanted her, other parts of his anatomy had different plans. Now, if you Google his full name, a post on my friend's Tumblr pops up, pointing out that he has... "performance problems," shall we say. Maybe it's childish on my part, but I definitely don't mind that Googling that bastard's name will tell people that he couldn't get it up. His poor fiancée... ;)

Two Years

     It's been two years today since my grandma passed away. They say time heals all wounds, but I haven't found that to be true. All these two years have done is added more events that she should have been that made me miss her more.

Bullet Points

• Why do people think rape jokes are funny? A good friend and I were talking about her wanting a foursome; I jokingly suggested a mutual acquaintance who we both dislike but who screams about her pansexuality and willingness to fuck everything. My friend then made a joke that she would totally include her to be able to sit back and laugh while she got raped. Welp then.
• A new tenant moved into #6 recently; that's the apartment right by my parking space. I've encountered the actual tenant once, but I've seen his friend Chris numerous times. Like, every time he's over there and I get home, he comes out to chat me up. I think he's trying to get in my pants. Not sure there's anything to say about that other than LOLWTFBBQ NO.
• I'm officially at least two weeks ahead in all of my classes. I haven't been this motivated and dedicated since my sophomore year of high school. I just desperately want to know I can commit all my time in the near future to Capstone. Oye.
• All of my readings for one class is based on -isms and discrimination. It's fascinating to me (it's not uncommon for me to spend a good 5-6 hours with the 70 pages of reading because I'm highlighting and note-taking so much), but Christ does it get my blood boiling. 6+ hours of reading plus 3 hours of class of annoyance or outright rage is a lot to handle.

Welp

     Well, on the plus side, I'm succeeding in my goal of not only staying on top of my homework rather than procrastinating, but I'm actually 2-3 weeks ahead of schedule in several classes. My goal, in this insanity, is to have plenty of uninterrupted time to do my capstone project up to my (apparently MA to PhD level, according to The Professor) standards.

     On the downside, this has apparently convinced The Professor that I'm neurotic and made him actually audibly laugh at me when I explained that my goal was to have my term project for our other class turned in by the end of March. I'd never heard him laugh before. Ass.

New class

     Well, sitting in my new history class. Everyone is, of course, infatuated with my dog. Everyone, that is, except for my psuedo-ex. He refuses to look at me and is glaring at his friend for commenting on how cute Shadow is. Sorry, dude, maybe you shouldn't be a dick to everyone around you and then you'd have friends who stick around.

     In other news, The Professor now calls me by my chosen name for roll call without a hesitation. I adore him.

Pragmatics

     There is a study of language called pragmatics. This refers to the idea that, in different settings, language may mean different things. The example my teacher gave is that, early at a get together, if someone asks me if I'm leaving, they may be hinting for a ride, whereas if a boss asked me why I was leaving early, they would be implying I should stay. Apparently, out of the 30 people in the class, I was the only person to not pick up on the implications behind these sentences. I took them at face value.

     This shows two things. One, I should never study pragmatic linguistics. Two, if I keep fitting into autism stereotypes, there may be something to this whole possible diagnosis thing.

More yays and boos

Yay: The chair agreed to let me transfer to Tuesday's class and do my existing Tuesday class on an independent study basis. That means no more problematic classmate! Boo: This means I'll have to introduce my service dog to a whole new class AND I'll be in class with the trans*guy I dated for a like two weeks before cutting off all contact. Yay: My chair still refers to me with my chosen name. Boo: She still uses female pronouns AND now I have to come out to The Professor because I'm sure he's confused when the chair tells him "Jay will be in your class." Yay: One of my foster kitties got adopted and I'll be taking her to her new home tonight! Boo: It's the foster kitty that I am absolutely desperate to keep. Yay: I've been slowly but surely cutting gluten from my diet. Boo: I now feel like crap when I DO eat gluten.

Blessed

     So, it's 0300 and I just got home from a wonderful night, hyped up on 5 cups of IHOP coffee and good conversation. I haven't seen this friend in over a year, when our lives seemed to take us on different paths. We reconnected tonight, though, for a good five hours. It was wonderful to catch up on her life and catch her up on mine. Several interesting things came up. The first of those is how strongly she thought that I have Asperger's/autism. Her sister is autistic and she's worked with autistic kids and adults for years. She was shocked to find out that my diagnosis in that has been iffy and debated (not due to symptoms, but because I have no knowledge of how I behaved when I was little since my mom is convinced I'm perfectly healthy and ASD relies on childhood symptoms for diagnosis); since I really do think I'm autistic, it's always validating when others who have experience in it agree with me.

     The other really interesting point she brought up was related to how I always end up missing people who hurt me. I don't mean like missing exes or friends who I haven't seen, but rather people who have intensely hurt me, like an old best friend who groomed me to have sex with me and my rapist. Without fail, I not only grieve the harm they did to me, but I grieve losing them. I mourn losing them so much that I consider reconnecting with them. That ex best friend and I had a tumultuous relationship; I had intense feelings for him, which he took advantage of. He groomed me in order to have sex with me, while he did it to other people simultaneously. I lost that friendship the summer of 2011; while I know, logically, that it's better to cut ties with him, I still often think of him and wish I could reconnect. I still think of my rapist often and am saddened by the loss of our friendship; a huge part of me wishes I could just pretend it was all okay, take it back, and get my friend back. When I explained this to my friend, she pointed out that it's because that's the kind of cycle I had with my father. I would mourn him leaving, then have to stuff that aside when he'd come back to my life; lather, rinse, repeat and repeat and repeat. I still do that to this day, which has conditioned me into expecting that, even once someone breaks my heart, I'll eventually let them back into my life. While that's a decision that is worth it for my father, it's clearly one that wouldn't benefit me with that ex best friend or my rapist. I'd honestly never even considered the connection between all of that before she pointed it out tonight, but now that's definitely a dynamic, a feeling, a habit, that I really want to learn how to change. It's definitely a fascinating realization.

     I'm so blessed by the people God brings into my life, and I never fail to be awed by His timing. I'm looking to go to church in the morning for the first time since summer. I'm really excited for this, and for the ways God is really starting to move in my life.

Meeting

     Remember the issue with the classmate who pestered me about my service dog? I explained what happened to The Professor (my goal in that was him knowing the background of the issue and why I'm uncomfortable explaining my rape-caused PTSD to someone who tried to hook up with me at 14 so he would be aware if something happened again), and he wanted to transfer me to his other history class. It conflicts with a one-unit class I take on Tuesdays, but he wanted us to meet with the chair to try to arrange something else for the one unit class (hence the awkward, nameless emails yesterday). Needless to say, the three of us met yesterday; what should have been a 15-minute get-together turned into a 2 hour long, panic-attack filled saga.

     Ironically, the chair completely supports me transferring classes and is talking to the guidance counselor on Monday to see what we can do. She then started making comments about how I needed to be more clear with my professors when asking for accommodations and making sure they're cleared with the University's disability resources (DRES), which had me completely lost. I have all my accommodations automatically submitted and approved at the start of the semester. I talked to the professors who teach the classes I needed those accommodations in. Apparently, her issue is that I have a gentleman's agreement with The Professor and her husband (she and her husband co-teach one of my classes this semester; I had him as a professor last semester) that, for their two classes, I can listen to music because the silence triggers auditory flashbacks. Neither The Professor or her husband had issues with it, even though I never went through DRES to approve that accommodation (I'm unable to register with them for PTSD because I don't have a shrink to fill out their paperwork with my diagnosis; I refuse to go to a shrink because I've had nothing but bad experiences and am too emotionally busy to delve into it until after graduation). I explained all this to the chair, at which point she pretty much chewed me out for not approving all my accommodations with her. I apologized profusely, explaining that I assumed if there were problems, she would either have asked her co-teacher, who knew what was going on, or approached me directly about it, rather than waiting until we were in a meeting with a different professor about a completely different issue. She tried to force me into counseling with someone for the sole purpose of filling out the DRES paperwork to ask for this accommodation; she refused to accept the fact that not only is this not accommodation that DRES can grant, it's solely one that I need for two classes that had already been approved by the professors involved. After I had a massive panic attack in her office and The Professor stuck up for me, she made a huge deal about being willing to grant me an "exception," even though she was breaking policy to do it.

     Two-and-a-half-hour-long story short, I ended up in The Professor's office for a while, trying to calm down while explaining way too much to him. He agreed with me that the chair, though she agreed to the music, wasn't pleased with how things went, and he said he understood why I wasn't happy just leaving it like that. He understood why I wasn't able to explain things like that to the chair (both The Professor and the chair's husband know nearly everything, but that's because I have that kind of relationship with them. I've only met with the chair three times, none positive, and gone to three classes under her. To me, she's still the boss, not a friend.), but he couldn't get why I didn't just go to DRES and see what they said. Needless to say, he ended up dragging me to DRES and setting up an appointment for Monday, that he agreed to go to with me, to see if they're willing to grant the accommodation without me relating it to PTSD. He and I talked ourselves in circles for a while figuring out if he would go with me to DRES on Monday; his autism and my litany of issues don't work well together sometimes. He was trying to make clear that he was totally okay with going to support me and didn't think it was a waste of his time, but that he didn't want me to become dependent on him doing it for me. I was taking it as him doing the hearing thing where people try to say no without actually using "no" to avoid hurt feelings while still not becoming committed, and I didn't want to process it wrong and either end up going without him for no reason or forcing him to do something he didn't want to do. After a rather snarky response on his part when I told him I see things black or white, he finally just asked what time I'd be available to go on Monday and invited himself along.

     Now I get to spend all this time dreading Monday, all because I just wanted to keep my professor informed as to what is happening in class. So frustrating.

More split identities

     Like I've mentioned before, I'm out to all of my professors, with the exception of The Professor. That means that all of my professors, save for him, call me by my chosen name while he only knows of my birth name. I needed to set up a meeting between me, him, and our department chair (who is also one of my professors this semester and knows me by my chosen name). He sent out the email to "[Chair] and Kali." She promptly responded to "[The Professor] and Jay." As our schedules conflict, we've sent a total of 10ish emails; throughout all of them, both of them have continued to refer to me by different names (I'm not sure if The Professor has ever heard me called by my chosen name before these emails, poor guy). I, meanwhile, have just stopped signing my emails with any name. I swear, I can see the two parts of me splitting apart slowly but surely. ;P

Rude much?

     There's a man here at campus who went to my community college with me; I've known him for nearly 6 years now. We've never been friends, as I prefer not to socialize with people who tried to get in my pants when I was 14. I've managed to pretty much avoid him here, but we finally have a class together this semester.

     Yesterday, I posted on Facebook complaining about a random person who was so intent on petting my service dog that he nearly grabbed my crotch as we walked past. My classmate commented on the post asking why I had a service dog. I answered with my typical evasiveness about "medical reasons" and left it at that. Just now in class, though, he came up to me and asked again why I have a dog. I answered, again, that he's a service dog for medical reasons. When he persisted in asking, I said that he's a service dog for disability. "But you're not disabled!" When I assured him that I am disabled, hence the service dog, he immediately challenged, "Well, what's your disability?" Really? I never socialize with you, and you're going to ask my disability? He seemed rather offended when I told him that it wasn't his business. Sorry, ass, but I don't exist to tell people I don't like about my disability.

Who am I again?

     In half of my classes, I'm out as trans*. I go by my chosen name (or some horrible derivative of it. People insist on calling me JJ, because clearly three letters is much more difficult to fingerspell than two.), I have a name sign for it, and all of my papers are turned in under it. In the other half, I'm not out (my poor teachers have dealt with so much from me, I'm always loathe to make them deal with more. Seriously, The Professor dealt with my rape, my PTSD, redid his testing schedule for me, worked with me to start my capstone thesis early, got me notetakers, has dealt with my service dog, and now postponed my final projects and capstone thesis by two weeks thanks to my most recent horse accident. Trans* issues are a bit much to add on!), I answer to my birth name, and turn in papers under said birth name. I can never remember who I'm supposed to answer to which name to.

     I swear, I'm lucky split personalities aren't part of my many issues. At this rate, though, they will be!

Only a matter of time

     I started horseback riding when I was 8. Thanks to me being... accident prone, it is not uncommon for me to come away from riding adventures in more than a little pain. At my community college, I gained the nickname and name sign of "gimp," and there was always a running bet of how long it would be before the next injury. When asked to list broken bones, it numbers at over 20. The most recent was in September of 2010, with a fall from my draft gelding left me with a broken nose and three broken vertebrae. Needless to say, I was forced to take a hiatus.

     As I mentioned here, back in November, I started riding a sweet, retired jumper up here. As bombproof and calm as he is, he has two vices: peacocks and the sound of Harley-type bikes. On Thursday, I went with a friend on a trail ride for a good two hours. He was perfectly behaved, and the scenery was beyond stunning. We ran across a dunebuggy a couple of times, but the two drivers were extremely well behaved and powered down until we were well past. We were hacking down the bridlepath back to her house (Harmony is boarded in her back yard), when I heard the ominous pop-pop-pop of the damn dunebuggy. I think you can guess where this is going from here... Thanks to my friend's horse crowding mine, my foot got stuck when I was trying to emergency dismount. Harmony bolted and I managed to end up flat on the ground. After a day spent chasing the horse (still massive kudos to the 60-something year old woman who got out of her car to stop him as he trotted down the road) and trying to "cowboy up" at school, I finally let my friend drive me to the ER. Five hours and some Percocet later, I was declared to have a concussion, whiplash, a bone bruise in my elbow, and a new strain in my lower back; I was discharged with more Percocet, a sling, and a soft neck collar. My concussion is still a bit of a fiasco, and now I've managed to come down with the flu on top of it all.

     I suppose it was only a matter of time, right? Horse people are crazy, yo.

Coming Out

     I've been so blessed as of late. My five year anniversary of becoming a Christian was on Sunday, and it's been so beautiful to see Him working in my life lately. The service dog thing has been wonderful; my trainer has already found me a dog who, through no fault of his own, washed out of a service dog training organization up north after completely nearly the entire program. As of Thursday night, he will be officially mine. His name is Shadow, he'll turn 3 in May, and he's a Golden Retriever/Lab mix. He's the cutest thing to ever walk the Earth (no, seriously, he is; I'm not even a dog person and he's freaking precious!) and apparently is already very well trained. I can't wait to meet him.

    Not only has all of the service dog things worked out crazily well, but my trans*ness hasn't awful lately. I've been coming out in my classes (why do college professors insist on making us introduce ourselves and tell something interesting?) and it's gone well. I've got 6 classes this semester and I'm out in three and working on coming out in the fourth (ironically, the only classes I'm not out in are the two taught by The Professor; I figure he's got enough to deal with from me with all of my disability accommodations and rape issues, poor guy). It hasn't been a problem at all; while I wasn't expecting it to be, it never becomes less scary. This is the first time I've ever introduced myself by my chosen name, which was definitely a trip. The first time I did it was in the class that is taught by the professor who really supported me through a lot of this; the look of pride he had on his face when I was brave enough to do it made it worth it. The last class I came out to is taught by a brand-new emergency hire; when he realized that I'm trans* and he wouldn't find me on the roster by my name, he asked me for my last name rather than my birth name. While it doesn't seem like that big a deal, especially given that I knew many people in my class when I still went by my birth name, it was a really sweet and much appreciate gesture.

There's another trans* guy (not, thankfully, the one I tried to date for a couple of weeks; I very purposefully ignore him now) in my Monday class. I had to make a concerted effort not to stare and be creepy; there's just that feeling of instant community, you know? I desperately want to befriend him now, hopefully sans the creepy staring.

I love God's timing!

Oh my goodness, I love when God just makes it so obvious how perfect His timing is! He just lays everything out for me right in my lap, making it as simple as following breadcrumbs. It's glorious to see His work so clearly like that.

Since developing PTSD after my rape, as most of you know, I've been on the hunt for a service dog. The service dog candidate that I tried didn't work out for several reasons. There are precious few service dog organizations willing to train PTSD dogs for non-vets. Most cost 30-40k. The only one near me that is low-to-no cost and feasible to go to has a long waiting list and, though I'd interviewed with them, I just hadn't moved forward with a commitment yet. Nothing has been right yet.

Tonight, I went to my final class of the night, where I ran into a friend who I haven't seen since early last semester. She and I have lots in common thanks to our similar mental illnesses. Lo and behold, tonight, she had a lovely Golden Retriever curled up beneath her seat; she'd gotten a service dog for her PTSD! We got to talking, and I found out that she actually had her dog trained by a trainer just a county away who, as a service dog owner herself, offers low cost psych service dog training! My friend called her trainer after our class and passed along my information. The trainer and I just got off the phone. My guess is that, within the next two weeks, I will be becoming the proud mommy (yes, as a trans*guy I still call myself mommy, don't ask) of a service dog in training! I could not be more grateful for the way that God just lined everything up so clearly that even I couldn't miss it.

I think...

...that I'm actually going out on a date next week. What the actual fuck? I haven't been on a /date/ since I was like 15. We're going to go to a food truck (because, bee tee dubz, there is a freaking sushi burrito food truck in LA and how can you /not/ go to that?!) and then hang out. Like, how do I even go on a date? I'm excited. I think.

Talk about feeling old

     Two friends from my old church, one my age and one a year younger, were married a few months back. I was rather surprised, but they'd always been impetuous and I had no doubts they'd make it work. They're a wonderful pair. Now, thanks to Facebook, I found out it was a shotgun wedding. They just welcomed their beautiful daughter into the world. More than slightly shocked to find that out, but between the two of them and their wonderful families, that little girl is lucky.

     I swear, though, I feel older by the minute! So many of my friends are getting engaged, married, or now, popping out babies, all while I'm just trying to get my life back together and graduate college. Holy cow...

Notes from today

1. Cleaning litterboxes really isn't that bad. The Fiancée, I'm sorry I didn't realize this sooner. Cleaning crap off the rug because the cat was too scared to go all the way to the box, however, is that bad. Welcome to fostership, I guess.

2. Lady on the street with your kid on a leash and your Chihuahua running free, you're doing it wrong.

3. Receptionist at my work, trust me, the enmity you feel towards me is more than mutual. However, I have the professionalism to not glare at you and roll my eyes. I have done nothing other than ask you to do your job these past two weeks in contacting my students; it's not my problem you're too busy listening to crappy podcasts to do so. Please believe me when I say I would not regret whapping you upside the head with my textbook.

4. Local library, your hours suck. Your cart giving away free books, however, does not.

5. It's nice to have friends that you hang out with when you don't have the ability to make an effort. Knowing the feeling is mutual is even nicer. Getting dragged to the grocery store isn't quite so nice.

6. It's when I want to drink that I know I shouldn't. As that feeling is becoming constant, I think that means abstaining from liquor for perpetuity. I wish I wasn't too responsible to become an alcoholic.

7. Cat... I don't even know what you are. You are not a cat. You are some weird alien pretending to be a cat, a lá Gir in Invader Zim. No other beast comes when called, coos like a dove, and lays in my arms while maintaining eye contact and purring. Someone will be very very lucky to have you.

Missing Her

     Sometimes I wonder what she would do if I called her. Would she answer? Would she respond if I left a voicemail? Is she hoping to talk to me and have a friendship again someday? Is it supposed to be on my end to reach out for that? I know she wouldn't answer, in the same way she hasn't responded to the gifts I've sent her or the texts on holidays. So I won't; I ruined enough with her without intruding now where I'm not welcome. Sometimes I wonder anyway though...

     One of the biggest things I wonder is what her thoughts on me now are. Between this and my Tumblr for her, if she reads them, she's still up to date on my life. Does she see everything that went wrong as reasons we'll never have a friendship? Does she look at whatever she's doing now and think she can only do them without me in her life? I'm well aware that her leaving me was the catalyst for all her changes and I'm glad for her that she can make them. Sometimes I'm terrified, though, that the only image of me that she keeps in her head is the one where I was so scared to lose her that I turned into a monster to try to make her stay. I wonder if she realizes that that was never who I wanted to be and someone I wouldn't turn into again if we start a friendship someday.

     Sometimes I wonder if she knows how much she hurt me with her lies, even if it was often my fault she lied. After we broke up, she promised that our cats would live with both of us again someday. She said that, if same sex marriage really becomes legal here, she knew we'd do it. I spend hours at night now wondering just what was a lie. Was she really not in love with me anymore or was that a lie she told so she could be strong and brave enough to leave? Was she ever in love with me? How much of me did she resent? Does she still love me now in some way? Does she know how sorry I am? That I'm glad she left because all I want is her to be happy? How desperately I hope we can learn how to be friends someday?

     I wonder, too, about how cold she can be. If she reads this, I want to know how she could ignore me after I was raped by a good friend, after I begged her for even just a text because I didn't know how to survive that. I needed to know someone didn't think I deserved it, that I wasn't filthy for it, that someone could love me in a way that didn't end up destroying parts of me. I wonder if she thinks I deserved to hurt for it, deserved to be alone, and that's why she never contacted me. I'm not sure I would disagree with her.

Bittersweet

I'm sitting here with two new foster kitties (pictures to come!), but I can't help but think how bittersweet it is. I adore them and I'm so happy to have saved their lives and ensured they'll have great new homes. After all, here in LA, 2/3 of shelter cats don't make it out of the shelters alive and, as friendly as these two are, at a year old each and one "just" an orange tabby, their chances weren't great. I'm happy, I really am... But Christ, does this make me ache for The Fiancée and our kittens. They're 9 months old now, and I haven't seen them since the end of August when they were still so little. Even more than I miss my babies, I miss my ex. I'm glad she left because this is so much happier and healthier for her and that's what I want above anything for her, but I hate that I made her make that decision. I hate that I'm too sick to show her that I love her and treat her how I should have. I hate that it was mostly my fault we couldn't manage a healthy relationship or friendship. I miss her, and I hate that too because I feel selfish for it when I know how much beter off she is without me in her life. I wish I could tell her how sincerely sorry I am. I only write to her once a month now; I was too dependent on writing her the daily letters so I cut them off after the first month or so. I ended up posting to Facebook a lot more with the ridiculous tidbits from my day, but it was healthier that way. I never sent her letters save for holidays, because I wanted to respect her request that I not talk to her anymore, but I hope she reads my blog to her. Mainly, like I said above, I just desperately want her to know how sorry I am and that, someday if she'll allow it, I'd love to create a friendship with her. Outside of having been deeply in love with her, I cherished, and still cherish, her as a person. I know it's difficult and hard and frustrating and sometimes hurtful to make a friendship with someone after a relationship ends, but, if she ever wanted a friendship with me, she'd be worth it a million times over. Sometimes, I'm more tempted than I care to admit to try to contact her. Send her an email or a text or a message or something; just extend that thought in some way. But that's not fair to her because, no matter how broken hearted I've been sine she left, it's inconsequential compared to the pain I caused her. If she ever wants me back in her life, she knows just where to find me and I need to wait for that time. I may not be in love with her the way I was, but I pray that she knows I still love her unconditionally and literally nothing can change that. I told her once that one of my (admittedly many) favourite things about her is what an intrinsically good person she is and I know that, whatever lies were told, that could never change. Maybe I'm selfish but I hope her penchant for forgiving people and loving them again applies to me too.

Four Months

     It's been four months since The Fiancée cut off contact. I could never have imagined surviving this long without her. I never fail to be amazed that I made it through this. I hope her life is becoming everything she could wish for, and that someday she'll realize how incredibly sorry I am that I was such a monster.

Disconnected

As proud of my father as I am, our relationship has been strained and tenuous my whole life. When I was a toddler and my parents were together, he preferred to spend his time at work or paintballing and clubbing with his friends instead of spending time with me. Once my mother and I left, he frequently missed visits while he was drunk or high; if he was home, he would lay hungover on his couch while I listened to his country music that made me cry ("Who's That Man?" anyone? He sent it to me years later when we were fighting, once). Like I said in my previous post about him, I can count the number of weeks I've seen him in the 12 years of his Army career on my fingers and toes with some to spare.

For much of my life, I struggled to believe that he loved me. I saw his failings as a father as meaning that I failed to be worth his love and attention. I thought that, since he placed his work and his hobbies and his friends and now his new family above me, it meant that I was too broken, too unwanted to be loved. (Some psychologist have, unsurprisingly, hypothesized that the lack of love from my father was the impetus behind my promiscuity with boys, but that's neither here nor here). It's taken me all of my 19 years to come to the point that, with effort, I can believe that he really does love me in the ways he's capable of.

Earlier this week, I spent the day with my step-father running errands. I joked how much easier it was for him to come into my life when I was 5 (and absurdly well behaved, clearly a trait I outgrew) than having to now raise his daughter from birth onwards. He began a discussion how much more challenging it was to deal with my father. According to my step-father, the scarce few times I managed times my father managed to be sober enough to see me, his only motivation was attempting to reconcile with my mother. As my step-father so delicately put it, "He didn't care about you at all. You were just the tool he used to see the person he really cared about, your mom."

I'm not sure many things have managed to devastate me more than having a father-figure confirm to me just how little my father cared for me. When I later told my mom, she denied it vehemently. My logical side believes her. I know my daddy loves me as best as he is capable of and shows it in the ways he can. Emotionally, though, I can't help but be ever more convinced that it really is my fault I wasn't worth my father sticking around.

That awkward trans moment...

...when you're actually intensely disappointed when you realize that your riding boots are rubbing your leg hair off. It takes months for my testosterone-deprived body to accomplish that!

Aching

     I work as a part-time secretary at the school where I teach. Most of the time here, I alternate between wanting to hide from humanity entirely or just throw my bosses off a cliff. Today, though, it aches. I just got a call from the mother of one of our young students; they won't be able to come to the next two classes because her brother was just killed in Afghanistan. Her quiet composure was torturous to listen to.

     As both the child of a soldier and someone who lives near a military base, hearing of soldier deaths isn't a rare occurrence for me; even when it's one of my dad's men, I have very little reaction to it. This time, though, the death of an unknown brother to a woman I've only met in passing has me feeling as though someone took a sledgehammer to my chest. The amount of grief I feel for a life ended too soon and the loved ones he left behind has brought me to my knees, crying out to God to love on this family so hard. Whether you pray or not, keep this family and our fallen soldier in your thoughts. The road they are facing is one no one should have to journey down.

Army Brat

     My father enlisted in the US Army on 23 April 2000. I vividly remember going to the recruiter with him; the recruiter was a ginger and desperately tried to talk to me while I cried behind my mother. I was 6. He moved to Fort Benning on 13 September 2000 for basic, transferred to Fort Bragg on 27 April 2001, and PCSed to Italy on 28 August 2002. It's hard to believe he has been there for over a decade now. He deployed for the first time to Iraq on 28 March 2003; he's shipped out to Afghanistan three times since, in 2005, 2007, and 2009. He has spent 43 months of his life downrange at war. His battalion is currently back in Afghanistan; as a First Sergeant fulfilling the role of Rear D company commander, though, he has remained on post in Italy. He's been pulled for promotion, likely by end of the year, at which point he will be a sergeant major. Since his enlistment, I've seen him typically every other year; my guesstimate is that I've seen him for a grand total of 14 weeks. I could not be prouder to be a soldier's child and my father is an exemplary soldier.

     Throughout my life, he and I have had a strained relationship. When I was toddler, while my parents were together, my mother has video of me screaming for him while he was out paintballing and boozing with friends. His first deployment was, for me, wonderful: I constantly received letters from him and phone calls whenever he had the opportunity, even if it was at 0200 my time. Once he returned to Caserma Ederle, his home base, that stopped. I have every email we've ever exchanged saved; it is not uncommon to see a gap of at least a month, if not several, between his emails. Phone calls were rare and on his time schedule. Our visit in 2007 culminated in a screaming match in my driveway when he threatened to leave and, finally, a promise to keep in contact with a weekly email. We exploded over email a year later, with accusations flying and blame getting put on both of us. Nothing changed. Nothing ever changed, except I grew in my ability to accept him, as my father, for who he is and not who I wished he was.

     The week after I was raped and I told him, he flew out and ended up on my doorstep as a surprise. The visit was intensely appreciated and, though rocky like always, I really enjoyed getting to spend a whole week with him. Since then, he's been pretty good about keeping contact with me; it's vaguely shocking but I'm enjoying it while it lasts. He's said multiple times what a good teacher I am. Our last phone conversation, on Christmas, he told me how proud he was of how well I've done in school and that he was especially impressed by how well I've done in spite of everything that happened this semester. I've very literally never heard that before from him.

     There was a point to this post, though. I've started watching "Married to the Army: Alaska" on TLC. I see these wives and kids with deployed soldiers, and the soldiers make a point to call and Skype once or even twice a day. Obviously, when black outs occur or they're on missions, things are different, but the soldiers make such an effort. There's one woman who, like me, hears from her soldier less often; she got maybe 5 Skype sessions in 7 months of deployment and a call every couple of weeks. Another wife commented on how ridiculous (and pathetic, really) that is. Watching the show, I try so hard to justify why my father, even when he's now on Rear D and not downrange, contacts me still so rarely. He's not an officer, like some of the soldiers on the show, so he can't easily delegate tasks to make time for himself. He's a SFC, so he has so much more responsibility than the lower ranking soldiers. He's in charge of his entire battalion while they're downrange, and it's several full-time jobs rolled into one. I really want to believe he contacts me whenever he can. Even with this recent improvement, though, I'm just not so sure that's true.