still alive
Part of the problem is that i have been dreading this year for a long time. Turning 30 was just by the by. What i was really dreading was the five year anniversary of fucking up the best relationship i ever had and the ten year anniversary of a few other major fuck-ups, culminating in sex reassignment surgery at the end of the year. Renewing my passport now reminds me of 10 years ago when i was about to start living full-time as a woman; i needed to get my passport changed first, because once that was "F" everything else would follow.
I think my flatmate moved out sometime around then. He was gay and wasn't comfortable with the idea of living with a girl. He was also the only person i was still in contact with from a year earlier. Losing him was cutting that final cord - no going back.
I had a couple of new friends in the trans scene all about as far into their transition as me; none of us had a clue how to pass properly. I guess there's no secret technique, it's just something that happens over time as you learn to give less of a shit what people think and relax into the new role. I remember going in to the photographer... because God forbid i get a drugstore photo for my first piece of female ID, right? I went to a photographer and i was all dolled up wearing a turtleneck to cover my tracheal scar and a skirt and heels. Heels, i kid you not! I must've been about 7 feet tall. I remember i actually felt sick, i was drowning in anxiety, fear that someone would find me out. It was like two currents swirling together - half of me was so thrilled. I know that now as the familiar rush of (hypo?) mania where it's almost like you feel like you're getting away with something you shouldn't be, you're so excited to be doing all these things that you "always" wanted to do, you're finally being yourself and wow how wonderful is that? The other half of me was ill and terrified. Caught in a whirlpool, i think that was the last day i ever wore a skirt in public. I never had a problem dressing in women's pants, a fitted t-shirt, but the skirt thing... i never got over feeling sick. Perhaps that should've been a hint. Perhaps not - plenty of natural born women hate wearing dresses and skirts too. Whatever.
From that point on i was forever the curiosity. They seemed fascinated with me at my next job interview. Paranoia led me to guessing i'd been read, but more likely they were just bemused at this very tall woman dressed all in black who talked geek like the nerdliest male applicant. My first experience of tits getting me hired? Maybe. I'll never know. My brain likes to create things. I didn't find out till several years later that everyone in the office thought i was a goth due to my dark humor, pasty white ass and refusal to wear anything lighter than charcoal. Heh.
Fuckin May 2000... I wonder how many cuts i made across my wrists that month? I read stuff i wrote back then and things were so black, alternating between hating myself and hating everyone else. Ten years on and i'm still alive, still writing. I need to, because if i don't keep my mind occupied...
The last two days i've eaten so poorly i think the last couple pounds of remaining body fat dropped off my stomach. My abs are ridiculous - i can barely believe it's me - but i hate to look at myself because of what the hormones, the surgery did. When i'm at the gym i skip as close to the mirror as possible so i don't see my face, so i can imagine it's someone else's body. Hitting the bags i still imagine my opponent is me. I still hate myself. I don't hate everyone else now, but it's hardly an improvement. Instead i feel like a burden, like all my self-absorbed bullshit is annoying them, like i'm never going to be able to be a good friend or partner.
I am trying to make appointments, dates, things i have to do today, tomorrow, a week down the track. Commitments i need to stick around for. I don't have anything else. Just keep going, keep fighting.
I think my flatmate moved out sometime around then. He was gay and wasn't comfortable with the idea of living with a girl. He was also the only person i was still in contact with from a year earlier. Losing him was cutting that final cord - no going back.
I had a couple of new friends in the trans scene all about as far into their transition as me; none of us had a clue how to pass properly. I guess there's no secret technique, it's just something that happens over time as you learn to give less of a shit what people think and relax into the new role. I remember going in to the photographer... because God forbid i get a drugstore photo for my first piece of female ID, right? I went to a photographer and i was all dolled up wearing a turtleneck to cover my tracheal scar and a skirt and heels. Heels, i kid you not! I must've been about 7 feet tall. I remember i actually felt sick, i was drowning in anxiety, fear that someone would find me out. It was like two currents swirling together - half of me was so thrilled. I know that now as the familiar rush of (hypo?) mania where it's almost like you feel like you're getting away with something you shouldn't be, you're so excited to be doing all these things that you "always" wanted to do, you're finally being yourself and wow how wonderful is that? The other half of me was ill and terrified. Caught in a whirlpool, i think that was the last day i ever wore a skirt in public. I never had a problem dressing in women's pants, a fitted t-shirt, but the skirt thing... i never got over feeling sick. Perhaps that should've been a hint. Perhaps not - plenty of natural born women hate wearing dresses and skirts too. Whatever.
From that point on i was forever the curiosity. They seemed fascinated with me at my next job interview. Paranoia led me to guessing i'd been read, but more likely they were just bemused at this very tall woman dressed all in black who talked geek like the nerdliest male applicant. My first experience of tits getting me hired? Maybe. I'll never know. My brain likes to create things. I didn't find out till several years later that everyone in the office thought i was a goth due to my dark humor, pasty white ass and refusal to wear anything lighter than charcoal. Heh.
Fuckin May 2000... I wonder how many cuts i made across my wrists that month? I read stuff i wrote back then and things were so black, alternating between hating myself and hating everyone else. Ten years on and i'm still alive, still writing. I need to, because if i don't keep my mind occupied...
The last two days i've eaten so poorly i think the last couple pounds of remaining body fat dropped off my stomach. My abs are ridiculous - i can barely believe it's me - but i hate to look at myself because of what the hormones, the surgery did. When i'm at the gym i skip as close to the mirror as possible so i don't see my face, so i can imagine it's someone else's body. Hitting the bags i still imagine my opponent is me. I still hate myself. I don't hate everyone else now, but it's hardly an improvement. Instead i feel like a burden, like all my self-absorbed bullshit is annoying them, like i'm never going to be able to be a good friend or partner.
I am trying to make appointments, dates, things i have to do today, tomorrow, a week down the track. Commitments i need to stick around for. I don't have anything else. Just keep going, keep fighting.