sc0urge: (ditto)
I got a call today from the hospital, and now I have an appointment booked for a psych evaluation. Whoo. Thursday after this. And the eating disorder clinic told me they'd put me on a waitlist for group therapy.

Yeah. A waitlist. For group. What the hell? Um, okay, healthcare system. You have utterly convinced me of your efficacy and efficiency. (If they were as disorganised and unsuccessful with treatment for any other life-threatening ailment, would people care then? No? Maybe? I'm not sure which way is more disheartening.)

It's kind of something I think about - treatment for GID and for eating disorders seems... opposed, somehow. The one says 'your mind is right and your body wrong; we need to change the body from its automatic settings so the brain accepts it' and the other says 'your mind is wrong and your body right; we need to change your head so it accepts the body's automatic config.' I know that the adage about never really recovering from an eating disorder is true as far as my anecdata can carry it. I know that GID is treated the way it is because this is the only way that seems to work. But then, I guess with gender dysphoria, the trans individual isn't also dealing with an addiction and obsessive-compulsion. There are probably those who would quite happily get behind the idea that gender dysphoria is rather a body dysmorphia, and all trans people delusional. Ugh. I don't even know.

I wish I wasn't so distrustful of the psychiatric establishment. Especially since I have no reason to feel as such, given a rather scant body of experience on which to base judgement. Maybe I'm burned out on psychologists and family doctors. Maybe I just need to ask, as my first question, why a psychiatrist reading the DSM and listening to my self-reported symptoms is so different from me reading the DSM and evaluating my self-felt symptoms.

I'm also grumpy because the way this lab course is being conducted (online assignments, rushed labs, minimal human teaching) is making me really aggravated, and kind of poisoning my love affair with chemistry. I feel like this isn't a challenging course - it's just Nintendo Hard. Sub out depth for shaky controls. Instant difficulty! Except not in the fun way. Argh.

Fffff

Feb. 17th, 2011 06:25 pm
sc0urge: (Default)
I should go swim. It would be good for me. It's not going to mess up my knee, but it might make my weenie little lungs a mite less pathetic. But that involves swimming. And that involves... swimming in a swimming costume in a pool with other people. And, like, changing in the gendered change rooms. Urgh... I used to really like swimming, too. Dear ignorance: can I please have you back for a bit? I really liked not caring.

Oh, and while I'm whining: I had a midterm today, and completely fucked up using quadratic equations. You know that giant square root sign? That really glaringly obvious one, written right in the equation that I copied out multiple times in each question that used it? How the hell did I miss that?! What the hell-arse-balls, self?
sc0urge: (Default)
YES.

That is all.
sc0urge: (Default)
Everything hurts. My bones ache, my hands are stiff, and my throat is throbbing. And still, still, I have this wonderful, soft, womanly body. No. No. No. Somebody said I had "the most wonderfully womanly, soft, rounded body" and I slumped over crying and moaning "no" into the tile floor. And still it's not enough.

This is wrong. This is somebody else's life. One of these days I'll just drop down dead and wake up in another world. This can't be my life. This waste, this uselessness, this stupidity, this ugliness. I can't believe this is real.

I'm so heartbroken. It's funny. I've never felt like I had anything to lose.

I'm out of my depth.

I need help. Nothing I've ever done before has done any good. Nothing, ever. It always hurts. Anything else is only forgetting, anything else is a distraction to make it hurt more when I remember. It always hurts. Always.

Sometimes hope is really fucking hard.

I have work tomorrow.
sc0urge: (later)
• I used to be able to do 50 push-ups in one go without pause. Today I managed five before I had to put my knees down. FML.

• You know how sometimes your fingernail separates from the finger just a wee bit and you end up with this tiny little open wound under the tip of your fingernail? I gave myself one of those last night peeling a lemon - ouch - and just now as I was taking out the compost and turning it in the bin, I got decomposing vegetable matter in it - ouch again.

• The other day I downloaded a parody bingo sheet of "feminist" discussion about transpeople. I was colouring it in all garish and eye-searing when Kate walked by, took a glance to see what I was doing, and gave a little hurt-puppy sort of whimper. Maybe she didn't see the massive sarcasm quotes?

• Apparently, on TVTropes there's a page dedicated to Men Of A Thousand Voices. I didn't know this was particularly uncommon/special. I mean, Basch and Bloo? Hakoda and Bumi? Serah and Lust? Heck, I'm no master, and even I've been cast as everything from crazy old men to Misa-impersonating lovestruck teenage girls to Cambridge-accented owls and everything in between. I guess I thought it was par for the course that unless you had an extremely marketable voice (why hello there, Vic Mignogna) you just had to be able to do anything and everything. Or that could just be my stage-brain talking, because of course I know next-to-nothing of the inner workings of anything for screen. Or of anything big-budget, really. I suppose in The Real World of People Who Made It, they can afford to pick and chose one-trick ponies?

• So, as much as I've ranted and raved and foamed at the mouth that under no circumstances would I EVER get a kanji tattoo… I now want both kanji AND hanzi tattoos. Wtf, self. The Chinese one is a real, honest-to-god proverb that actually means what it says it does - "better three days without food than one day without tea" and I swear it's just to provide a focal point for a tattoo of a cup of tea with swirly steam and a couple camellia (Sinensis, naturally) branches and flowers. The Japanese is 'kishi kaisei' which apparently is a yojijukugo - a four-character idiom. Heathen that I am, I knew of it first from Ajikan lyrics. *shame* But it a) sounds pretty to say (What's that you say? Song lyrics? Sound pretty? Who would ever have thought of that?) b) looks pretty written out, having been created by people wiser than I, and c) means basically bringing something back from the dead. Which is kind of appropriate for the number of times such things have happened to me. I might get it as a scarification, though, just so I can get away on the technicality that it's not actually a kanji tattoo. I'd have a tattoo… that is hanzi and I'd have kanji… that is not a tattoo. We might also give me a slap upside the head because really, these hangups are pretty fucking stupid since I actually know what they mean and this isn't a case of me asking the Korean girl behind me in class to translate my crush's name into 'Chinese letters' or whateverthefuck it is that causes awful word-salad tattoos. (Like these) And in case anyone's wondering (of course you are) the tea one goes on the left side of my ribcage, and the yojijukugo goes on the inside of my left upper arm. Putting them right next to each other, so if they decide to reenact history, they don't have very far to go to start killing each other.

• While we're on the subject of body modification, I know I want a conch and a rook on opposite sides. I just can't decide which goes where. Oh, and the second piercing in my right lobe just magically decided to double in size yesterday. I had a 4mm talon in it, which was starting to bug me, so I swapped it for one of my black-and-white plugs. Which fell out. So I'm now wearing the Patriotic Frenchman plugs Emily gave me when I was stretching the lower ones. Don't ask me how this happened. I guess I just have rubber ears.

• Is it terribly vain to read through my old work and laugh at my own quips? I don't care, I'm doing it anyway - especially when my old NaNo stories contain such gems as: '...still trying in vain to rearrange her hair in such a manner that she did not look quite so much like she had just been dragged through a hedge backwards - or through a bordello both ways.'
sc0urge: (solidor)

Say what you like about Jennifer Diane Reitz, she hit the nail on the head with this:

"A transsexual is raised as a gender opposite to their inner gender. The cultural training, and reinforcement of gender specific behaviors, confuses and torments them. By the time they have the opportunity to change their physical sex to agree with their true gender, they are faced with a triple cultural problem. The transsexual must not only unlearn a lifetime of enforced gender role behavior, make up almost overnight for the loss of a lifetime of gender role training culturally appropriate to their true inner gender, but must also find a way to comfortably express their unique personality honestly through that new gender role."

I know a lot of people think she's a crackpot, and some even go so far as to shoot off at the mouth about how she's not a 'real' transsexual. Fuck that. I know she writes some interestingly unfounded statements, but when she's writing about the unquantifiable aspects of human experience; everything personal, everything individual and thus frustratingly intangible... something about what she says is just right.

I found out, to my surprise and dismay, that in order for any form of SRS to be covered by the MSP, I'd need two years of RLE. Because the relatively tolerable two years of being - of being, well, me, followed by the soul-crushing despair of the two years that followed, in which I was forced back into all the biting and snapping little boxes from which it had taken so much triple-distilled Essence of Brass Ones to extricate myself? Those don't count. The years of knowing, but not quite knowing what? Well, of course those don't count. You don't get an employer to write you a note for those, silly. The Year of The Starveling - you know, the one where an electrocardiogram told me to my face I ought to be dead, and all because I was trying to be what I thought I ought to be? That doesn't count, and neither does the brief reprise that followed, when I was surrounded by tights and skirts and gendered bathrooms and people who called me demeaning things like 'Miss.'

 No, I have to wait until all those years of adolescence, of growing up and learning how to be a human being, have passed me by. Even if I start clawing my way up out of the abyss right this second, I'll still be drinking in California before I'll be getting Michael Brownstein to perform surgery on me there. I will have spent ten fucking years railing against a body that pulled my earth out from under my feet. Hiding behind a persona I constructed to take the flak while I tried and failed to find a foothold on a frothing swell. Lying to everyone I knew and everyone I loved, because I didn't know what else I could possibly do. I'm a fossilized schoolboy, only the war that frosted over my soul was one that took place without anyone else ever really knowing.

 And then those same people, the ones who love me so much it makes them stupid and careless and insensitive - they have the gall to tell me that two years isn't that long, as if they know some trick that eludes me, some magic or drug that makes 75686400 beats of a broken heart pass quickly. Seventy five million, six hundred eighty-six thousand four hundred heartbeats, and each one of them an exercise in despair.

sc0urge: (solidor)
I just fucking love having these conversations with my dad.

ETA
Addendum: And while I'm perfectly aware that drinking won't make the two years RLE go away, it's starting to feel like it might make it pass at a slightly more tolerable pace.

Second Addendum: Fuck this noise, it's probably faster to just sell myself on the streets and pay for surgery out of pocket. WHO NEEDS POST-SECONDARY EDUCATION ANYWAY, RIGHT.
sc0urge: (Default)
I hate showering. I hate having to see my own naked body. It's just an exercise in self-esteem destruction. Like, every single time I take a shower, I go into my room, stare despondently at all the clothes I know all too well will ALL look absolutely terrible on me, give up and flop on my bed in despair... and then notice that my thighs touch and just wonder why I even bother.
sc0urge: (Default)
I just wrote an email to a therapist basically saying, "I'm trans, diagnose me and give me a letter for surgery."

Fuck yeah, self. Fuck yeah.

That is not something I expected I could ever do. I'm as much bemused as I am chuffed.
sc0urge: (kesenai)
You want to know something really really embarrassing, that I hate to admit to myself? Well, I'm going to come right on out and post it publicly. If I can't inch out of my comfort zone, I'll rip the bloody thing to shreds and douse it in ice water.

I'm absolutely petrified of this one little thing, almost above all others: I'm terrified that my stomach looks like I'm pregnant.

My fingers tingled with revulsion as I typed the word. Pregnant. P-r-e-g-n-a-n-t. With child. As though a parasitic organism is living and growing within my flesh. As though there were two haploid cells which fused and made a little zygote which grew into a full-blown foetus complete with legs and kidneys and hair. That is what scares me.

It's an obsessive fear - anytime I pass a mirror, I look at my abdomen in profile - tensing my muscles, sucking in, breathing out. I take side-on photographs of myself and scrutinize the angles and lines and curves. I've been known to lurk on boards dedicated to expectant mothers, checking to see if the precise shape of my abdomen was more in line with ten weeks or twelve, or maybe eight, depending on the frame of the woman with whom I compared myself.

The thing is, I know how vastly stupid this is. I know I'm not pregnant, I'm reasonably sure nobody thinks I am, I don't have any particular reason why it should upset me if someone did think I was carrying an infant than it does when people look at me in school uniform or with my hair long or wearing a tight shirt or walking into gender-segregated toilets or calls me by my given name. But for some reason the idea does upset me more. Hell, it even narrowly edges out the distaste I have for admitting in spoken discourse that I have run out of sanitary products and need to purchase products from the 'feminine care' aisle. And that's no small feat.

Years ago, I had kind of a similar, but opposing fear. I was obsessively self-conscious about the fly of my jeans. Invariably, because humans are not usually made of perfect straight lines and flat planes, the zipper on the front of a pair of jeans will buckle and curve with the bend in the hips of the wearer. Often, especially, apparently, on someone built like I was at twelve years of age, this will result in the fabric forming a folded protrusion somewhere in the general area of the groin. I'm not sure I even know how long I spent fretting over this one, but it was a comparable fear: I was certain that somebody was going to stroll up, take a look at my crotch, and think I looked like I had a penis.

Yeah. How perfectly logical. That is totally what goes through anybody's mind when they're staring (you know, as any respectable person does) at a twelve-year-old girl's pants.

(Of course, don't start thinking the stomach loathing and crotch paranoia were mutually exclusive - I still wanted to remove my organs so I could have a flatter stomach when I was a kid. I mean, I asked my dad how old I'd have to be to get a hysterectomy. Yes, child-me knew how to spell 'hysterectomy,' had looked it up in the library, and become enamoured of the idea of uterus-free living.)

But I'm pretty much over that autocockophobia, to be egregiously neologistic. I don't know what triggered it, but for some reason, at some point, I decided I didn't need to search for the elusive 'jeans with a 2" zip' or take an iron to my groin in the morning or invest in a steel busk and never bend at the waist. It probably had something to do with realising, or deciding, or whatever, at the ripe old age of fourteen - hey wait, I want to be a guy. So maybe I only got over the penis-jeans-thing because it turned into wishful thinking. Or maybe it was the extended period of gypsy-skirt wearing that happened to fall around the same time, precluding the whole jeans thing. Or that I developed anorexia and the jeans pretty much looked the same on me as they did laid out in the shops anyway. Or that I'd come to dislike my appearance so much that it didn't matter whether one particular bit of me sucked any more. Or I'd become so obsessed with 'improving' what parts of me were salvageable that I'd just cut my losses and forgotten those failing. Whatever it was… autocockophobia gone.

But watermelon-baby-gut-fear? Lives on. And honestly, I don't really want to decide that I do want to be pregnant after all, so it's okay to look it. Or develop another eating disorder. Or continue my current habit of never ever ever wearing anything that could possibly reveal the outline of my figure. Or get into that same depth of self-loathing. So I don't know what to do. At the very heart of it, I don't want to accept the way my body is, because I 'know' it's sub-standard. I can't swallow my pride and accept that it's okay to not be perfect, that it really shouldn't matter if I have the best body in the world. Why do I envy supermodels and athletes and diet gurus? Why do I feel compelled to emulate and exceed them when doing so really doesn't help me achieve anything I really want to do?

It's frustrating, to know I'm being irrational, and to see the smooth symmetry of reason right in front of me but find myself too hot-headed and fickle to reach out and grasp it. It kind of makes me want to simultaneously curl up in a ball and hit my head repeatedly against a solid, flat surface.

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