No, I'm not talking about laryngitis here. I'm talking about the inability to express yourself properly, which is among the worst feelings that this life has to offer.
I reconnected with a favorite teacher of mine very recently, one who I hadn't spoken to in multiple years, despite intending to for as long. She was the first supporter of my writing; she'd read whatever I had to offer, no matter how horrible it was. (For example: she slogged her way through a story in which the main character yelled "Lucy likes pot!" She said I should rephrase it. I was talking about glassware.) Anyway, I figured that the best way I could explain to her how much I'd grown over the past few years would be through my writing, which she immediately upon seeing me demanded a sample of. I got home, searched through my computer, and realized that I only had one measly single-page story on it since I last rage-wiped everything, which was last December. Yeah. Completely unacceptable. I still have several notebooks to go through, but I don't remember anything particularly stunning within any of them.
I have a cast of characters that I've developed far beyond any other group I've ever had, but I can never seem to put their respective miseries on paper regardless of how hard I try. I have dedicated entire evenings to writing, yet always seem to wind up on Buzzfeed instead. This is a fact that I deeply regret, but can never seem to move past it. There is always something more pressing, something more exciting. I have long believed that I could be the voice of a generation, that I could inspire a mass awakening. Alas, I shall never be that great, no matter how I wish to be. Thus is the sad reality of life.
I have lost my voice. I do not possess nearly the command of the English language that I once did. It is regrettable, but it is the inescapable truth. I do not know if I have it in me to try anymore when there is so little gratification for me. Perhaps I will, but I will fail anyway. For I believe that there is no such thing as success; for each battle that is won, there is another that drags itself out for days, months, years until lost. Sometimes the battles do not seem to come quite as quickly, but they will always be there, reminding you that somehow, there still may be worse to come. I fear the day that it does.
Friday 29 August 2014
Tuesday 26 August 2014
Hallucinations, My Will to Live, and Some Anxiety
Well, until I can get a legitimate psychiatrist, I'm going to treat you, my audience, as a substitute. So prepare yourselves for potential incoherence beyond belief!
I don't remember if I've talked about hallucinations here in the past, but if I have, well, stinks to be you, because you get to hear about them again. Fun! Anyhow, for the last year or so, I have only been able to go to bed with the assistance of YouTube because I'm too scared to be in my room "alone" in the dark due to the figures I see around me. Sounds childish, right? It might be, because I've had the feeling of someone watching me before bed since I was probably around four, except back then, it'd manifest itself in the form of a large animal outside, not a human with me. If left alone with these figures, I will have an immediate panic attack and generally be petrified. My solution to this was to allow so-called ASMRtists to whisper me to sleep. For those curious, I do not actually experience the phenomenon known as ASMR, which is generally described as a pleasurable tingling in the back of the head or neck. However, I do find that listening to these people can be immensely reassuring to me.
Last night I was discussing these figures with a friend of mine, when she suggested something that sounded ludicrous at first: sympathize with them. Maybe even talk aloud to them; have a conversation. Imagine being feared simply because you exist. I thought I might as well try it out, and wow, it helped tremendously. I was able to get a decent night's sleep for the first time in months! Later on in that initial conversation, though, she said something else that hit me hard: a simple mention of the afterlife. And it was in that moment that I finally realized that I DO want to live. I used to think that I had a duty to life, to improve others' condition. And yes, I do still feel that way, but I am actually excited to! I want to make a difference. But apart from that, I discovered that I have friends. Friends that I enjoy talking with. Friends that will help me through the difficult times. Friends that support me not because they necessarily feel obligated to, but because maybe they like me. And that is a damn good feeling to have. And yet - I'm scared of death again. I fear that I will not achieve what I must; that I will die in my current miserable state. I have to get somewhere in this life first, but I'm not sure that I'll be permitted to.
However, before I can achieve anything, I have to make it through five more years of public school as well as however many are necessarily of college/grad school. And I tell you, just going into school to set up my locker today gave me no fewer than three panic attacks, which I dealt with by uttering the phrase "fuck it" over and over as well as exaggeratedly chewing gum. Yes, I know that sounds obnoxious, but hey, it was a coping mechanism.
I decided yesterday that I want, nay, need, to be out at school this year. I cannot deal with the pain of staying in the closet. I fired off an email to my counselor from last year, asking that he please explain name/pronouns to my teachers if at all possible. And guess what? I got an automated response saying that he's on paternity leave until the first day back and won't be reading mail regularly. I'll wait to see if I get any response, but if I don't by say, Thursday, I'll mail my new teachers myself and explain it. It'll be tremendously uncomfortable, but it's better than having to explain in front of the whole class, I suppose.
I made it through twenty minutes of being at school today by doing two things that are prohibited in it and still had multiple anxiety attacks, likely caused by studiously avoiding my classmates. I saw probably ten that I considered to be casual acquaintances (no, I don't call them friends, because I trust friends). None recognized me, even having looked at my face, which is a relief, because I sure as hell didn't want to explain transitioning in front of my father, who accompanied me.
As always, we'll see what happens.
Monday 25 August 2014
What I Did Today & How I Deal With Anxiety Attacks
Sorry for the mediocre title, it was the best thing I could think of off the top of my head.
My parents decided that I should attend "Cope Sessions" with the pediatrician, where they basically do talk therapy for mild-to-moderate anxiety and/or depression, as well as getting kids on the appropriate meds. I will admit that the prospect of attending the session gave me several separate anxiety attacks over the course of the past 24 hours, but I believe that I handled them fairly well.
Anyway, I was quite nervous to potentially be going on meds, because while what goes on inside my head is crazy, it still seems to be who I am. I do know people who have been positively impacted by beginning meds, so I wasn't completely upset about it, but I was still apprehensive.
Luckily enough, they did not begin me on meds yet. They wanted to after I scored "off the chart" on the anxiety test, but then they realized that they probably were dealing with bipolar disorder as well, and decided that a psychiatrist would be a better fit in terms of knowing what would keep both in check. They also had trouble distinguishing what were psychological disorders and what was gender dysphoria. In other words, I have too many issues for them to deal with appropriately.
They did tell my mother that the only thing I really need from her now is acceptance and support, so I hope that both she and my father can learn to deal with it in the near future. I managed to have an anxiety attack while they were explaining this to her, but focused on breathing and no one noticed.
The pediatrician did say that they'd find me a trans-positive psychiatrist that could help me through this and hopefully talk some sense into my parents.
I'm sorry for the short, fairly boring post, but I've had a lot on my mind that I need to get off my chest. In order to compensate, I'm adding a second part to the post, which is how I deal with anxiety attacks so far.
The first step for me is recognizing which type of attack it is. I've noticed two main types so far, though there can be a bit of overlap:
In the first type, and the one I have more often, I stop automatically breathing. When this happens, I open my mouth as wide as I comfortably can and take deep, loud breaths. This ensures that I get maximum amounts of air, because if I don't, I begin to feel lightheaded and dizzy. If it doesn't cease within a few minutes, I open YouTube and listen to this video (JustAWhisperingGuy's Watch this if you are having a panic attack). I've found it to be immensely helpful and can't recommend it enough, although obviously its effects will vary from person to person.
In the second type, my heart rate speeds up and I hyperventilate. I find that it's best to just let this type end on its own, which generally takes between one and five minutes. If it doesn't end, it's the beginning of a manic episode, which can be taken care of through exercise and managing the underlying problem*.
Something that I've found helps with both types, though, is music. The music itself depends on what mood I'm in, but I can generally count on either Blue Öyster Cult, Cracker, the Eagles, or fun. to help. Sometimes I'm not in a position where I'm able to listen to anything, and then I really just have to focus on breathing. I've heard that meditation can also help with stress, so I'm going to begin practicing in hopes of one day being able to end an attack by using it. It has to be worth a shot, right?
After the attack is over, I try to reflect on why it happened, how I handled it, and how effective my response was. I believe that I've been dealing with anxiety attacks for years, though I wasn't able to recognize them up until these past few days. I've only consciously dealt with about ten so far, though, so my methods will probably evolve further. My current system is working for now, though, and that's what matters.
* - although sometimes, manic episodes of mine aren't caused by problems, but by victories, so then I have to find a constructive way to use all the energy, whether it be exercise, writing about it, or something else.
My parents decided that I should attend "Cope Sessions" with the pediatrician, where they basically do talk therapy for mild-to-moderate anxiety and/or depression, as well as getting kids on the appropriate meds. I will admit that the prospect of attending the session gave me several separate anxiety attacks over the course of the past 24 hours, but I believe that I handled them fairly well.
Anyway, I was quite nervous to potentially be going on meds, because while what goes on inside my head is crazy, it still seems to be who I am. I do know people who have been positively impacted by beginning meds, so I wasn't completely upset about it, but I was still apprehensive.
Luckily enough, they did not begin me on meds yet. They wanted to after I scored "off the chart" on the anxiety test, but then they realized that they probably were dealing with bipolar disorder as well, and decided that a psychiatrist would be a better fit in terms of knowing what would keep both in check. They also had trouble distinguishing what were psychological disorders and what was gender dysphoria. In other words, I have too many issues for them to deal with appropriately.
They did tell my mother that the only thing I really need from her now is acceptance and support, so I hope that both she and my father can learn to deal with it in the near future. I managed to have an anxiety attack while they were explaining this to her, but focused on breathing and no one noticed.
The pediatrician did say that they'd find me a trans-positive psychiatrist that could help me through this and hopefully talk some sense into my parents.
I'm sorry for the short, fairly boring post, but I've had a lot on my mind that I need to get off my chest. In order to compensate, I'm adding a second part to the post, which is how I deal with anxiety attacks so far.
The first step for me is recognizing which type of attack it is. I've noticed two main types so far, though there can be a bit of overlap:
In the first type, and the one I have more often, I stop automatically breathing. When this happens, I open my mouth as wide as I comfortably can and take deep, loud breaths. This ensures that I get maximum amounts of air, because if I don't, I begin to feel lightheaded and dizzy. If it doesn't cease within a few minutes, I open YouTube and listen to this video (JustAWhisperingGuy's Watch this if you are having a panic attack). I've found it to be immensely helpful and can't recommend it enough, although obviously its effects will vary from person to person.
In the second type, my heart rate speeds up and I hyperventilate. I find that it's best to just let this type end on its own, which generally takes between one and five minutes. If it doesn't end, it's the beginning of a manic episode, which can be taken care of through exercise and managing the underlying problem*.
Something that I've found helps with both types, though, is music. The music itself depends on what mood I'm in, but I can generally count on either Blue Öyster Cult, Cracker, the Eagles, or fun. to help. Sometimes I'm not in a position where I'm able to listen to anything, and then I really just have to focus on breathing. I've heard that meditation can also help with stress, so I'm going to begin practicing in hopes of one day being able to end an attack by using it. It has to be worth a shot, right?
After the attack is over, I try to reflect on why it happened, how I handled it, and how effective my response was. I believe that I've been dealing with anxiety attacks for years, though I wasn't able to recognize them up until these past few days. I've only consciously dealt with about ten so far, though, so my methods will probably evolve further. My current system is working for now, though, and that's what matters.
* - although sometimes, manic episodes of mine aren't caused by problems, but by victories, so then I have to find a constructive way to use all the energy, whether it be exercise, writing about it, or something else.
Saturday 23 August 2014
On Self-Diagnoses
Having read several posts on this blog, it is probably fairly obvious to you that I have at least one personality disorder. However, I am not sure what that disorder may be, seeing as I've never had a professional diagnose me with anything.The doctor says (based on some surveys they made me take) that I probably had some sort of anxiety disorder, which makes plenty of sense to me, but that's the most I've ever heard on the subject.
In this world of labels, it is imperative sometimes to find an identity that works for you. Me? I have no idea what I am in any way, except that I'm white. I say I'm a trans dude because it's what's easiest, as I do feel like a man at least 95% of the time, but sometimes I feel feminine and pretty. I labelled myself as genderqueer in the past, and that more or less worked for me, but it was easier to conform to a binary. I still "genderfuck" quite often, but I act like a guy as much as I possibly can while in public. I used to think I was a lesbian, because my first very strong crushes were on girls. Then I realized how hot Benedict Cumberbatch is (I'm sorry, that'll be the only time he's mentioned here) and started to question how I'd thought of myself before. This led me to just saying I'm pansexual, because it covers all bases. I also realized in the seventh grade that I was polyamorous after I fell for two women at the same time, and then felt the resulting depressions simultaneously as well, which I can assure you is no fun at all.
This all leads me to the way I've labelled my mind. For twelve years, I simply didn't think of it at all. Thinking back, I probably could've figured a lot more out at ten had I been presented with the necessary information. That is to say that I exhibited anti-social tendencies coupled with many dark thoughts, as well as a general discontentment with life. I didn't have the words to describe that, though, so I didn't. I was well aware of being an outsider, but I thought it was simply because I was quite mature for my age and didn't fit in well with other kids. I think it can all be summed up, though, in a sentence by ten year old me written in a time capsule letter that I received this summer. The question was, "Where do you think you'll be in three years' time?" or something along those lines. I responded with "I'll be hardcore emo/goth or I'll be dead." It was quite a shock for me to see that and finally recognize, yes, I did have issues as a kid; no, I can't blame all of them on one woman I met at twelve!
Last summer, I definitively said that I had depression. Nearly every symptom of it I saw online applied to me, and I did feel awful most of the time. I had little energy, nearly no will to live, and what you might describe as chronic boredom. I was convinced that it would fade away come the beginning of the school year, and I appeared at first to be correct, but it came back in full force around the holidays (which will probably be featured in its own Stressor Talk post come December). I could no longer avoid it, and I was becoming despondent and broken. There was one day that I believed I couldn't live past that afternoon, and tried all night to kill myself, but was met with failure each time. My answer to that was to switch schools so that I could have better access to my best friend. In the long run, that was probably a good move; he's all that's kept me going on multiple occasions now. But anyway, back on topic. That distraction only lasted about a month before I was hit in the face with dysphoria for the first time. Mind you, I've never exactly been gender-conforming; in elementary school, my best friends were almost all boys, and I won many a belching contest. I curse like a sailor, and usually got in the first "fuck" of the day as well.
I'd long accepted by that point that I had depression, and the dysphoria only served as a stressor for it, making it much worse than before. I was engulfed by near-constant pain as well as a desire to just end it already. I did not. I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing; only time will tell.
This lasted for months, until July of this year, when the doctor told me it was likely that I had some sort of anxiety disorder. I denied it for a healthy seven weeks, then finally looked up the symptoms of one. And yes, I embodied basically all of them. Even better, I self-diagnosed myself with bipolar disorder today as well - I was having a manic episode when I realized that hey, that's not really an anxious thing, and it all kind of "clicked." I don't get manic often - the only times I can remember it happening recently were when I got an A in algebra, the time my chorus teacher let me switch to the tenor part, and basically whenever I get a message from one of my favorite board members, who I will not name here. So that's probably about five, six times tops.
I have no idea what's going on, as I do have most of the symptoms (as in, over 80%) for all three disorders. However, the internet seems to believe that you can only have one of depression, anxiety, or bipolar. I might try to see someone about it, but I also have trust issues that generally prevent that. (I believe these issues stem from the time in sixth grade when I wrote a lesbian flick in class and the teacher outed me to my parents. Writing is an incredibly personal outlet for me, and for her to break that trust seriously fucked it up for me - I can no longer share writing with anyone because I'm scared they'll betray me. I'll probably write a post about self-expression later in the week, as I have a lot of thoughts on it. But that's a subject for another day.)
In this world of labels, it is imperative sometimes to find an identity that works for you. Me? I have no idea what I am in any way, except that I'm white. I say I'm a trans dude because it's what's easiest, as I do feel like a man at least 95% of the time, but sometimes I feel feminine and pretty. I labelled myself as genderqueer in the past, and that more or less worked for me, but it was easier to conform to a binary. I still "genderfuck" quite often, but I act like a guy as much as I possibly can while in public. I used to think I was a lesbian, because my first very strong crushes were on girls. Then I realized how hot Benedict Cumberbatch is (I'm sorry, that'll be the only time he's mentioned here) and started to question how I'd thought of myself before. This led me to just saying I'm pansexual, because it covers all bases. I also realized in the seventh grade that I was polyamorous after I fell for two women at the same time, and then felt the resulting depressions simultaneously as well, which I can assure you is no fun at all.
This all leads me to the way I've labelled my mind. For twelve years, I simply didn't think of it at all. Thinking back, I probably could've figured a lot more out at ten had I been presented with the necessary information. That is to say that I exhibited anti-social tendencies coupled with many dark thoughts, as well as a general discontentment with life. I didn't have the words to describe that, though, so I didn't. I was well aware of being an outsider, but I thought it was simply because I was quite mature for my age and didn't fit in well with other kids. I think it can all be summed up, though, in a sentence by ten year old me written in a time capsule letter that I received this summer. The question was, "Where do you think you'll be in three years' time?" or something along those lines. I responded with "I'll be hardcore emo/goth or I'll be dead." It was quite a shock for me to see that and finally recognize, yes, I did have issues as a kid; no, I can't blame all of them on one woman I met at twelve!
Last summer, I definitively said that I had depression. Nearly every symptom of it I saw online applied to me, and I did feel awful most of the time. I had little energy, nearly no will to live, and what you might describe as chronic boredom. I was convinced that it would fade away come the beginning of the school year, and I appeared at first to be correct, but it came back in full force around the holidays (which will probably be featured in its own Stressor Talk post come December). I could no longer avoid it, and I was becoming despondent and broken. There was one day that I believed I couldn't live past that afternoon, and tried all night to kill myself, but was met with failure each time. My answer to that was to switch schools so that I could have better access to my best friend. In the long run, that was probably a good move; he's all that's kept me going on multiple occasions now. But anyway, back on topic. That distraction only lasted about a month before I was hit in the face with dysphoria for the first time. Mind you, I've never exactly been gender-conforming; in elementary school, my best friends were almost all boys, and I won many a belching contest. I curse like a sailor, and usually got in the first "fuck" of the day as well.
I'd long accepted by that point that I had depression, and the dysphoria only served as a stressor for it, making it much worse than before. I was engulfed by near-constant pain as well as a desire to just end it already. I did not. I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing; only time will tell.
This lasted for months, until July of this year, when the doctor told me it was likely that I had some sort of anxiety disorder. I denied it for a healthy seven weeks, then finally looked up the symptoms of one. And yes, I embodied basically all of them. Even better, I self-diagnosed myself with bipolar disorder today as well - I was having a manic episode when I realized that hey, that's not really an anxious thing, and it all kind of "clicked." I don't get manic often - the only times I can remember it happening recently were when I got an A in algebra, the time my chorus teacher let me switch to the tenor part, and basically whenever I get a message from one of my favorite board members, who I will not name here. So that's probably about five, six times tops.
I have no idea what's going on, as I do have most of the symptoms (as in, over 80%) for all three disorders. However, the internet seems to believe that you can only have one of depression, anxiety, or bipolar. I might try to see someone about it, but I also have trust issues that generally prevent that. (I believe these issues stem from the time in sixth grade when I wrote a lesbian flick in class and the teacher outed me to my parents. Writing is an incredibly personal outlet for me, and for her to break that trust seriously fucked it up for me - I can no longer share writing with anyone because I'm scared they'll betray me. I'll probably write a post about self-expression later in the week, as I have a lot of thoughts on it. But that's a subject for another day.)
Wednesday 20 August 2014
On Overwhelming and Stressful Hobbies
Now, many of you have probably been clued into the fact that I am an 18" doll collector by now. I happen to think that these dolls (specifically American Girl dolls) are freaking adorable, and I demonstrate no self-restraint whatsoever in purchasing them. In fact, in the past six years, I have amassed an army of 29 of them. 29. I shit you not. And 29, while that may be acceptable to some, is the breaking point for me. I can't look at some of them without stressing myself out. How did I manage to waste so much of my money on them? I need to be saving that money! There are binders to buy and testosterone and surgeries to save for, after all.
Hobbies are meant to take the mind away from whatever lame things are happening in one's life. However, I can barely look at those dolls without feeling guilty, which pretty much overrides any point to collecting them. I believe this is for four main reasons:
So I will be selling half the dolls and putting all the money from them into savings; between you and me, I'm anticipating about $2,000, maybe even more, because that estimate's based on summer slump pricing. To a naïve teenaged mind, that's a shit ton of money. I'm sure it'll come in handy at some point, though. That'll leave me with three white dolls, four if you're counting the Russian Ashkenazi Jewish one. Three will be black, one will be Indian, one will be Middle Eastern, three will be Asian, one will be Polynesian-Japanese, two will be Latina, one will be Native American. I think that'll work just fine. And then I'll have the space to buy one more if I absolutely have to.
After all, nothing is really written in stone, and if I'm becoming emotionally disconnected from these dolls, there's no reason not to sell them.
Hobbies are meant to take the mind away from whatever lame things are happening in one's life. However, I can barely look at those dolls without feeling guilty, which pretty much overrides any point to collecting them. I believe this is for four main reasons:
- those dolls are hella expensive. How will I pay for my future if I keep spending all my money on them?
- half of them are white. Five are blond, while three are black. To some, that's a good balance. To me, it's nowhere near balanced, and I feel bad just thinking about how many white dolls there are, as well as how similar many of them look.
- some of them are in not-the-best condition. Yes, there's no mold, and a pretty minimal amount of marks. But a few have wigs that are absolutely trashed.
- I don't have time for them anymore. I used to be able to pull out a few each weekend and give them "styling time," where I'd change their clothes, do their hair, and kind of play with them, in a sense. Now? I'm lucky if I change one! A vital part of collecting for me is being able to spend a decent amount of time with each one.
So I will be selling half the dolls and putting all the money from them into savings; between you and me, I'm anticipating about $2,000, maybe even more, because that estimate's based on summer slump pricing. To a naïve teenaged mind, that's a shit ton of money. I'm sure it'll come in handy at some point, though. That'll leave me with three white dolls, four if you're counting the Russian Ashkenazi Jewish one. Three will be black, one will be Indian, one will be Middle Eastern, three will be Asian, one will be Polynesian-Japanese, two will be Latina, one will be Native American. I think that'll work just fine. And then I'll have the space to buy one more if I absolutely have to.
After all, nothing is really written in stone, and if I'm becoming emotionally disconnected from these dolls, there's no reason not to sell them.
Tuesday 19 August 2014
Stressor Talk 1: Birthdays
(Note: I was going to call this "Trigger Talk" and make it alliterate perfectly, but it seems that I actually did not know the difference between a trigger and a stressor. Here are the definitions I'm going by, please feel free to correct if I'm wrong: trigger = something that will cue a flashback to a specific traumatic event; stressor = something that will activate the internal stress response)
I have a handful of stressors, some of which make sense to me and some of which don't. Unfortunately, I'm very bad at handling stress, so I figured this could perhaps be a way for me to figure out how my mind works.
Today's topic is my birthday. I used to love it when I was a child; it always coincided with the first week of school, so it was two of my favorite things rolled into one! It made me feel special, especially because I was nearly always the oldest in the grade. I could never wait for it; I'd mark down the days in eager anticipation of getting attention.
I think my attitude toward it really changed in fourth grade, when it fell on the first day of school. My teacher that year was just plain mean* and let us know it that day. There was a lot of yelling and a lot of falsified expressions on my part (you know, where you have to look like you fucked up and you're sorry when in reality, you don't give a damn and you just want to get back to reading your book under the table). Now, I don't do well with yelling; it makes me shut down and do nothing other than play 2048 or read or listen to metal music way too loudly. So you can imagine that this was not a fun year, and I knew it wouldn't be on the one day out of 365 that mattered.
Fifth grade was better, because it was three days into the year and already I adored my teacher. She's still my favorite, because she was witty and sarcastic and supported my writing. I got to go to the American Girl store and pick out new things for myself (because I also hate surprises) and play dolls. Life seemed good.
I believe the reason I dislike my birthday so much is because of an event that happened in sixth grade. It sounds incredibly petty, but the first day (a Tuesday), one of my best friends announced to the class, "Hey, [Matt's] birthday is on Friday, you guys should make [him] a card." No one did. No one remembered at all. I had even put in the right birthday on a social media profile (the kind with the feature that tells you to wish your friend a happy birthday). I'd checked my friends' birthdays all year and always wrote them positive messages, but no one could do the same for me. It happened nearly the exact same way in seventh grade, and will probably happen again in eighth.
I also have a track record of horrible birthday parties that I won't even get into; I've been working on blocking those memories for the past seven years and am to the point where I barely even think about them anymore, except for this time of the year.
My idea of a good birthday this year? Being allowed to keep to myself the entire day, absolutely unperturbed by the outside world. I'd read a good book or two, work on a chapter in the novel, and stay up till daybreak. There's no way that'll happen, but it's a dream of mine for the future.
* - no, I don't mean strict; all my favorite teachers have been pretty strict, but this woman just was not nice. She'd chew you out in front of the class if you messed anything up, loudly; she'd slam doors and throw temper tantrums all the time; just overall unpleasant to be in a classroom with.
I have a handful of stressors, some of which make sense to me and some of which don't. Unfortunately, I'm very bad at handling stress, so I figured this could perhaps be a way for me to figure out how my mind works.
Today's topic is my birthday. I used to love it when I was a child; it always coincided with the first week of school, so it was two of my favorite things rolled into one! It made me feel special, especially because I was nearly always the oldest in the grade. I could never wait for it; I'd mark down the days in eager anticipation of getting attention.
I think my attitude toward it really changed in fourth grade, when it fell on the first day of school. My teacher that year was just plain mean* and let us know it that day. There was a lot of yelling and a lot of falsified expressions on my part (you know, where you have to look like you fucked up and you're sorry when in reality, you don't give a damn and you just want to get back to reading your book under the table). Now, I don't do well with yelling; it makes me shut down and do nothing other than play 2048 or read or listen to metal music way too loudly. So you can imagine that this was not a fun year, and I knew it wouldn't be on the one day out of 365 that mattered.
Fifth grade was better, because it was three days into the year and already I adored my teacher. She's still my favorite, because she was witty and sarcastic and supported my writing. I got to go to the American Girl store and pick out new things for myself (because I also hate surprises) and play dolls. Life seemed good.
I believe the reason I dislike my birthday so much is because of an event that happened in sixth grade. It sounds incredibly petty, but the first day (a Tuesday), one of my best friends announced to the class, "Hey, [Matt's] birthday is on Friday, you guys should make [him] a card." No one did. No one remembered at all. I had even put in the right birthday on a social media profile (the kind with the feature that tells you to wish your friend a happy birthday). I'd checked my friends' birthdays all year and always wrote them positive messages, but no one could do the same for me. It happened nearly the exact same way in seventh grade, and will probably happen again in eighth.
I also have a track record of horrible birthday parties that I won't even get into; I've been working on blocking those memories for the past seven years and am to the point where I barely even think about them anymore, except for this time of the year.
My idea of a good birthday this year? Being allowed to keep to myself the entire day, absolutely unperturbed by the outside world. I'd read a good book or two, work on a chapter in the novel, and stay up till daybreak. There's no way that'll happen, but it's a dream of mine for the future.
* - no, I don't mean strict; all my favorite teachers have been pretty strict, but this woman just was not nice. She'd chew you out in front of the class if you messed anything up, loudly; she'd slam doors and throw temper tantrums all the time; just overall unpleasant to be in a classroom with.
Monday 18 August 2014
A Quick Breakdown of My Issues
I gotta get some of this off my chest, so here goes: I have issues. A lot of 'em. I'm very fortunate to be white and able-bodied, but I also deal with a fair amount of crap.
For example, if I start eating chocolate, I can't stop. One mini Ritter Sport becomes two becomes a full size becomes whatever ice cream's in the freezer. I don't have any self-restraint whenever I'm alone. This has caused me to gain about 20 pounds in the last two months. This isn't very bad; I used to be dangerously skinny because I had no motivation to eat due to depression. However, if the trend continues, bad things could happen. So I'm working on watching myself, but my relationship with food isn't even close where I'd like it to be, which would be the stage in which I was comfortable being around chocolate.
That aside, I've also had problems with simply not being able to get out of bed. I have spent entire days just lying around, pausing occasionally to eat. I'd drift in and out of sleep, and if questioned, just say I was behind on sleep (I believe that this is a common teenage tactic). This is often accompanied by either Tetris or 2048, which is another problem completely.
In summer 2013, my favorite (and read favorite as being the only thing I could find the energy to do, yet derived no pleasure from) thing was lying in bed in the dark playing Tetris and listening to the same Eagles song over and over. I couldn't stop and I wouldn't stop until I got to a score of 100,000. I thought that once I achieved it everything would be back to normal. But no, then I had to get to 200,000, which I never managed to do. I began to see Tetriminos wherever I went, and I manipulated them with my mind while completely zoned-out to whatever else was going on.
This summer, my pastime is playing 2048, listening to Sting's greatest hits or Blue Öyster Cult's discography and occasionally the very best of the Eagles. I check my favorite forum, AGC, every few minutes to make sure nothing happens. (Off to check right now just thinking about it. Alas, nothing new since I was there ten minutes ago.) Sometimes I'll be able to write a paragraph or two of fiction, but I don't usually have the inspiration to continue beyond that. The issue now is that I have the system to beating 2048 down, and I have beat it many, many times - but I never seem to create an elusive 4096 tile. Yet I will try, playing probably at least 70 games a day. Maybe one day I'll keep track. (Edited: I actually just made a coveted 4096, but there's no end to the madness in sight.) I recently discovered the niche genre of trans fiction, and currently have nine books in the queue on my desk. It's therapeutic in a way, but books are also said to be good for transporting one to another world - these books only reinforce my struggles, so there is no escape to be found. It can also be amusing how outdated some of the language is, but I don't fixate upon that.
On top of the dysphoria and depression (which are bad enough on their own), my doctor also thinks it quite likely that I have an anxiety disorder. Although I'm not sure, it does seem consistent with my behaviors. We'll see what happens on that front.
Edited 11:30 pm - I totally forgot the anger management issues! If someone says something that seriously pisses me off, I have no problem handing their ass to them, which is not always the best idea. I have gotten in big trouble at school for talking back to teachers while raging and have made some terrible decisions regarding my classmates as well. For some reason, I can't let incidents that humiliated me (no matter how long ago) go, and the anger episodes are among my most embarrassing moments. So I will not be posting about them, though if you're really curious, you can email as I have been told that some of them can be seen as pretty humorous.
I've probably forgotten something. Oh well, if I remember more I can certainly make a Part 2 later on!
-Matt
For example, if I start eating chocolate, I can't stop. One mini Ritter Sport becomes two becomes a full size becomes whatever ice cream's in the freezer. I don't have any self-restraint whenever I'm alone. This has caused me to gain about 20 pounds in the last two months. This isn't very bad; I used to be dangerously skinny because I had no motivation to eat due to depression. However, if the trend continues, bad things could happen. So I'm working on watching myself, but my relationship with food isn't even close where I'd like it to be, which would be the stage in which I was comfortable being around chocolate.
That aside, I've also had problems with simply not being able to get out of bed. I have spent entire days just lying around, pausing occasionally to eat. I'd drift in and out of sleep, and if questioned, just say I was behind on sleep (I believe that this is a common teenage tactic). This is often accompanied by either Tetris or 2048, which is another problem completely.
In summer 2013, my favorite (and read favorite as being the only thing I could find the energy to do, yet derived no pleasure from) thing was lying in bed in the dark playing Tetris and listening to the same Eagles song over and over. I couldn't stop and I wouldn't stop until I got to a score of 100,000. I thought that once I achieved it everything would be back to normal. But no, then I had to get to 200,000, which I never managed to do. I began to see Tetriminos wherever I went, and I manipulated them with my mind while completely zoned-out to whatever else was going on.
This summer, my pastime is playing 2048, listening to Sting's greatest hits or Blue Öyster Cult's discography and occasionally the very best of the Eagles. I check my favorite forum, AGC, every few minutes to make sure nothing happens. (Off to check right now just thinking about it. Alas, nothing new since I was there ten minutes ago.) Sometimes I'll be able to write a paragraph or two of fiction, but I don't usually have the inspiration to continue beyond that. The issue now is that I have the system to beating 2048 down, and I have beat it many, many times - but I never seem to create an elusive 4096 tile. Yet I will try, playing probably at least 70 games a day. Maybe one day I'll keep track. (Edited: I actually just made a coveted 4096, but there's no end to the madness in sight.) I recently discovered the niche genre of trans fiction, and currently have nine books in the queue on my desk. It's therapeutic in a way, but books are also said to be good for transporting one to another world - these books only reinforce my struggles, so there is no escape to be found. It can also be amusing how outdated some of the language is, but I don't fixate upon that.
On top of the dysphoria and depression (which are bad enough on their own), my doctor also thinks it quite likely that I have an anxiety disorder. Although I'm not sure, it does seem consistent with my behaviors. We'll see what happens on that front.
Edited 11:30 pm - I totally forgot the anger management issues! If someone says something that seriously pisses me off, I have no problem handing their ass to them, which is not always the best idea. I have gotten in big trouble at school for talking back to teachers while raging and have made some terrible decisions regarding my classmates as well. For some reason, I can't let incidents that humiliated me (no matter how long ago) go, and the anger episodes are among my most embarrassing moments. So I will not be posting about them, though if you're really curious, you can email as I have been told that some of them can be seen as pretty humorous.
I've probably forgotten something. Oh well, if I remember more I can certainly make a Part 2 later on!
-Matt
Saturday 16 August 2014
Welcome to Metamorfauxsis
This is where I shall detail my attempts at transition from female to male (FtM), as well as whatever else I feel like including. It's going to be a long, tedious process, and I don't blame you one bit if you get bored and quit reading.
Anyway, I figure I should give you about a novel's length of background before I attempt any more posts. I am nearing 14 years of age, 12.5 of which I lived fairly happily as a queer white girl in the suburbs.
You might be wondering what happened around the 12.5 mark. To make it short, sweet, and harder for you to think about long enough to judge me, I fell for my sixth grade homeroom teacher. I won't post the details, because I'm sure they're absolutely nauseating - heaven knows I almost threw up looking through my notebooks a year later! After I graduated elementary school, so to speak, I was left with a void in my life. Crushing on her the whole year had given me energy, enough even to come out of the closet as inexplicably queer to nearly everyone in my life. There were positives to come out of that summer, such as my first ever murder mystery, but also many, many negatives, including a general distaste for life that haunts me no matter how hard I try to shake it.
I thought that middle school would keep me busy enough to take my mind off of things. Alas, it was far too easy, enough so that I had the time to research for and develop a global peace plan for 10+ minutes at the end of each period. Finally, seeking a challenge, I transferred back to AAP (the Advanced Academics Program, the local gifted program) at the beginning of the second semester.
Thankfully, I quickly developed a good relationship with the team counselor, due to the amount of times I was sent to his office for ending all my short stories in dramatic suicides. This would come in handy from February onwards, when I discovered my true identity and plan for life: to live as a man.
For the first few months afterwards, I was so deeply closeted and depressed that I lost my voice. No, not physically; I simply could no longer write nor sing, and those were the only two ways that I had engaged myself before that. They were my coping mechanisms for lighter depression, but they were gone, and with them my creativity. There was very little to distract me after that; for a while, I was able to channel all my energy to a thesis for school on LGBT+ rights, which I may post here at some point, but once that was gone, I only had my mind to keep me company, and that was more dangerous than anything else.
That is leaving out one vital location, however: my favorite doll collecting forum, AG Collectors, where I was accepted with open arms. (If y'all are reading this, thanks so much, because you delayed my foray into madness for months!) Dolls on their own do not engage me much anymore, except for when I am in the mood for making a lesbian photostory, but the fine folks over there are truly what kept me sane.
I eventually worked up the courage to come out to my parents, who rejected it completely and said we'd revisit the topic in a year, after giving me a lovely lecture about the subject that culminated in the sentence "But you used to LIKE painting your nails!" Also, my father then asked, many times, if it was because I thought he treats my younger brother better than me. (Yes, because who wouldn't want to be trans solely for the male privilege?)
He now believes that by wearing baggy clothes and letting my leg hair grow out (and it's now longer than the hair on my head), I am "self-sabotaging."
I wanted to die before, because I felt useless and like nobody liked nor appreciated me. But over this summer, I began to contemplate existence more and more, until I came to the conclusion that death would be good for the environment. I felt such guilt over my being, for I was a waste of resources. There was no justification for me using the wondrous Earth! So I scratched, and punched, and bit, until bruises formed on my stomach. Thank God my best friend emailed at that moment, because I don't know what would've happened otherwise. As was, he talked me down and eventually persuaded me to chat with the folks at the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (1-800-273-8255). And so it was alright for the day (mind you, my arm still hurts, but it'll heal).
I have ambition. I will work for the United Nations some day, hopefully become the High Commissioner for Human Rights. It's my duty to humanity to work to make others' lives better, and I will do the absolute best I can to get there. And when I do, well, I'll have a flat chest and the perfect amount of stubble and life will be birds chirping and children playing and happiness. Until then, though, I resign myself to a corner of the internet and a promise that it will eventually be okay.
-Matt
Anyway, I figure I should give you about a novel's length of background before I attempt any more posts. I am nearing 14 years of age, 12.5 of which I lived fairly happily as a queer white girl in the suburbs.
You might be wondering what happened around the 12.5 mark. To make it short, sweet, and harder for you to think about long enough to judge me, I fell for my sixth grade homeroom teacher. I won't post the details, because I'm sure they're absolutely nauseating - heaven knows I almost threw up looking through my notebooks a year later! After I graduated elementary school, so to speak, I was left with a void in my life. Crushing on her the whole year had given me energy, enough even to come out of the closet as inexplicably queer to nearly everyone in my life. There were positives to come out of that summer, such as my first ever murder mystery, but also many, many negatives, including a general distaste for life that haunts me no matter how hard I try to shake it.
I thought that middle school would keep me busy enough to take my mind off of things. Alas, it was far too easy, enough so that I had the time to research for and develop a global peace plan for 10+ minutes at the end of each period. Finally, seeking a challenge, I transferred back to AAP (the Advanced Academics Program, the local gifted program) at the beginning of the second semester.
Thankfully, I quickly developed a good relationship with the team counselor, due to the amount of times I was sent to his office for ending all my short stories in dramatic suicides. This would come in handy from February onwards, when I discovered my true identity and plan for life: to live as a man.
For the first few months afterwards, I was so deeply closeted and depressed that I lost my voice. No, not physically; I simply could no longer write nor sing, and those were the only two ways that I had engaged myself before that. They were my coping mechanisms for lighter depression, but they were gone, and with them my creativity. There was very little to distract me after that; for a while, I was able to channel all my energy to a thesis for school on LGBT+ rights, which I may post here at some point, but once that was gone, I only had my mind to keep me company, and that was more dangerous than anything else.
That is leaving out one vital location, however: my favorite doll collecting forum, AG Collectors, where I was accepted with open arms. (If y'all are reading this, thanks so much, because you delayed my foray into madness for months!) Dolls on their own do not engage me much anymore, except for when I am in the mood for making a lesbian photostory, but the fine folks over there are truly what kept me sane.
I eventually worked up the courage to come out to my parents, who rejected it completely and said we'd revisit the topic in a year, after giving me a lovely lecture about the subject that culminated in the sentence "But you used to LIKE painting your nails!" Also, my father then asked, many times, if it was because I thought he treats my younger brother better than me. (Yes, because who wouldn't want to be trans solely for the male privilege?)
He now believes that by wearing baggy clothes and letting my leg hair grow out (and it's now longer than the hair on my head), I am "self-sabotaging."
I wanted to die before, because I felt useless and like nobody liked nor appreciated me. But over this summer, I began to contemplate existence more and more, until I came to the conclusion that death would be good for the environment. I felt such guilt over my being, for I was a waste of resources. There was no justification for me using the wondrous Earth! So I scratched, and punched, and bit, until bruises formed on my stomach. Thank God my best friend emailed at that moment, because I don't know what would've happened otherwise. As was, he talked me down and eventually persuaded me to chat with the folks at the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (1-800-273-8255). And so it was alright for the day (mind you, my arm still hurts, but it'll heal).
I have ambition. I will work for the United Nations some day, hopefully become the High Commissioner for Human Rights. It's my duty to humanity to work to make others' lives better, and I will do the absolute best I can to get there. And when I do, well, I'll have a flat chest and the perfect amount of stubble and life will be birds chirping and children playing and happiness. Until then, though, I resign myself to a corner of the internet and a promise that it will eventually be okay.
-Matt
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