#a shame because discord is so wildly used. i feel like i miss out on a lot of stuff because of my brain bring stupid

[laugtherhyena]

What being insane over Dra does to a mf

[tiphansia]

long and negative post under the cut that’s just a giant wall of text with no breaks lmao

ah lads now i’ve really done it, accidentally left myself unmuted in the voice chat of a discord server of online friends to whom I never said a word about being trans. In fact I lied about it, when asked earlier I said I was a cis dude. I even played up being a little homophobic/transphobic as a joke to reinforce the perception of cis-ness. But now they’ve found out I’m actually trans which is the most wildly humiliating thing that could happen to me on there. This sucks ahah god now they’re going to think of me differently and accidentally misgender me sometimes like they do with the other trans people in the server which i don’t mind in principle but the big problem is that it means they aren’t perceiving me as male anymore which. Really sucks. God it’s really my fault for lying to them but all I wanted was to be treated as normal. That’s not a crime, right? All I wanted was to be one of them and not a weird outsider like how they treat the other trans dudes. I feel like I’ve betrayed my own kind in some way. I even have an irrational hatred towards everyone who heard me, which is completely stupid given that it’s my fault for leaving myself unmuted. I wish they would hate me because it would make me feel a lot better if they did, but no one is mad at me and it’s making me feel sick. Hmm. Privileged problems, right? I know people out there have it worse than me and that I don’t even deserve to feel sad about this because nothing bad has ever happened to me in my entire life but still. I can’t help but be sad, and it makes me feel better to post this into the unfeeling void. Might get hate for this, but I really wish conversion therapy actually worked and was legal, I’d be the first in line to sign myself up. To me, the thought of becoming a woman makes me absolutely scared and sick, and therefore I am scared of conversion therapy in this hypothetical scenario, but just like dying, once it’s over I won’t care anymore. So it’s the most logical thing to wish for out of all my stupid fantasies, even though it’s the most painful one. My other fantasy is to go back in time and mess with my dna so that I’d grow up a cis boy, but of course that’s impossible. I once saw a post about how any religion that touts the idea of suffering as a virtue is one to be wary of, but I subscribe to that idea myself. Even though I don’t really have much real pain in my life since it’s not like being trans is actually the worst thing in the world (to me it is the ultimate shame), the idea that my being trans (very minor pain compared to others I know) is somehow a test of my character comforts me. I don’t know what scares me more, the fact that I’ll be like this my entire life, or the idea that it’s temporary, I’ll detransition, and all this pain was just made up for nothing. I also don’t believe in god logically, but whenever I’m in pain it’s comforting to think that there’s someone I can talk to, even if no one is actually listening. I think the most use that could come out of my life would be as a murder victim of a trans hate crime, so people can use my death to advance the cause. At least I’d be doing something useful for once. I think I’d make a fine martyr, too. I feel subhuman a lot of times, like everyone around me is looking at me and speaking to me without noticing that I’m a cursed and rotten creature to be crushed under their shoes. I almost wish people would hate me more so I wouldn’t feel like such a liar all the time, even though really I’m not lying about anything. I feel though that even by attempting to pass as male, I’m deceiving people. I’m a man inside I know but it’s so hard to even say the words or even think them because of this stupid shell of perception. I look and sound like Minnie mouse, anyone I told would burst out laughing if I told them: “I’m a man.” God, it even sounds so stupid here. I get by by presenting as ambiguously as possible, and saying nothing about pronouns unless directly asked. I’m such a pussy, not strong enough to stay female-presenting, too weak to correct pronouns and perception, and not even man enough to kill myself when I should have. It’s been 3 or 4 years since I was severely suicidal, and still I think life would not have changed for those around me if I had died then. I still wish I’d killed myself then, or at least tried. It’s kind of my life motto at this point: “Too pussy to do anything”. Even now as the grand landmark age of 18 draws near, all the hopes I placed on it in years past are evaporating. I told myself, “When we’re 18 we can get on hormones, we can change are name, we can finally live a full life”. And now, life’s realities are becoming clear. Transition with what money? And how are we going to deal with the family? I’d rather die than come out, but I’d also rather die than not transition. Real sticky situation we got here. Looks like I won’t be able to transition until my late 20s, which is horrifyingly far away to me. I thought I couldn’t make it until 18, but here I (almost) am. I know I can make it until then, but it makes me so unbelievably sad, and I can already imagine the amount of suffering in my future between now and then. Plus, I was on track to have a beautiful and privileged life. Was a 4.0 student, in multiple honors societies, great standardized test scores, the works. Now I’m none of that except the test scores  due to me being a dumb piece of shit this entire school year and letting my half a decade of hard work swirl down the drain along with my life prospects. Hell, it’s starting to look like I’m gonna be a highschool dropout. Me! It’s unthinkable. I’m gonna end up working in retail or at mcdonalds or something and while all work is honorable work, I’m not going to be making enough to fucking live off of, much less transition. I was set up for greatness, man. I let everyone down cause. Well, I don’t even know what happened,w as probably depressed or something but I can’t remember most of this entire school year so I’m not sure. Being trans ruined everything for me. I wouldn’t have ever even been depressed if I wasn’t trans. I’d be in the qualifying race for the cross country junior olympics if it wasn’t for being trans. To be honest I miss track, but guess what! You’re trans, no sex-segregated sports for you. You either have to come out and do sports with your chosen gender, or stay closeted to your parents and out yourself as a tranny to your entire fucking high school. I mean sure the whole world’s probably thinking, “Boo fucking hoo tumblr user tiphansia, let me play you a song on the world’s tiniest violin, those are first world problems” and yeah they certainly are but it doesn’t make it any less upsetting to me. Just let me have my little pity party in my little corner of the internet. I miss my online friends. Normally my response to anything painful that has to do with my being trans is just denial denial denial until even I forget the event, but I’m pretty sure my brain can’t take any more forgetting. I’ve forgotten this entire year I can’t do this anymore. I have to be strong and face it and stop being a pussy. I hope it turns out well for me. and for whoever made it this far reading hope your life goes well too. Thanks for listening. Goodnight.

[beaflower77]

What Is Fate ?

“I do not believe I am making myself clear! You just do not understand Lindir!” She had been trying the entire night and much of the early morning to reconstruct for him her mindset, trying in vain attempt at convincing him how hated and dejected she felt. He sighed with her explanation.

“I have tried and tried being nice, but no one cares. They don’t care! I cannot! I just cannot do this anymore!” Beatrice cried, throwing valued books, dumping them cross the chamber, while her eyes shined like grey-blue speckled stones against horrid, steaming mists of spray. “I must somehow annoy them. I must irritate them somehow. I just..I just don’t…,” she fathomed her eternity set before her. “What’s the use.,” as she sunk wearily, pitifully toward the pristine, tiled floor.

Her heart sank deeper and deeper with each breath. And with each breath Beatrice drew, Lindir sighed with her, trying in ernest to placate, plead with her. “They do like you. They do like you very much Beatrice. You are a joy to them. You have been kind, sweet, to all.” Looking up at him from her perch on the floor, Beatrice screwed her face, “You’re just saying that to be nice.,” with snide boldness she dumped out. “It is not true. And you know it. People have all the time in the world for what they want, when they want it. And I am not what they want.” Trying to prove otherwise, knowing his attempts were futile, he sighed. Lindir just could not convince her otherwise. And in her pool of dejection and misery, Beatrice’s self loathing sank lower and lower, till she could sink no further.

“No. It is not true. People have the time for what they want.,” reiterating herself. “I am not a joy to them. They talk to me, only out of obligation to you, Lindir. Not because they want to. Truly.,” Beatrice said, hurt, disillusionment slapping against her, and realization dawning on him. “They say I am cute or I am silly, funny. I am neither of those. I am not cute! I am not silly. I am intelligent. I am kind and thoughtful. And I sincerely mean well. I have never, never said anything hurtful, or unkind to anyone here. I have always been kind, sincerely kind. And honest. I’ve only said anything which was to uphold, defend another. But somehow, something happened. I annoy them! I know I do!” Sitting amid her grey and burgundy gown, pooling against the floor, starting to wrinkle, picking at a loose threading, Beatrice dejected, “I am annoying.,” hanging her head in sorrow, and terrible grief.

Crumpled on the floor in a heap, not being able to hold herself up to more scrutiny, emotional abuse, Beatrice’s will to survive destroyed, ripped from her heart. With each tear that seamlessly slid down, stole, crept from her swollen, reddened eyes, Beatrice’s heart and worth grew in loss and abandonment. And the deeper she fell, the more her anxiety, anguish expanded, filling her being with tremendous loss. “Beatrice.,” Lindir tried, standing over her, his arms, hands outstretched, feeling a loss of words or actions. A little out of his element this time. “Beatrice.” Once more Lindir sighed, his own sorrow and loss too apparent to bear. “Beatrice.,” determined to solidify this argument, “You were sent here for a purpose. Just because one person does not like you, does not mean others do not as well. Pleeaase.,” he begged, supplicated.

Her eyes pooled over, slips of tears, like torrential rain, slid, spilled forth, curved round her checks, not bothered at being wiped away. Down her cheeks, streaming cross her chin, the wetness issued forth as Beatrice sniffed, snuffed and felt useless, alone in her immediate, destitute woe. She didn’t care, she let it rain and happen. She couldn’t stop the pain, the hurt, the disregard, neglect. “I do not know why. I don’t know. I don’t know.,” she continued on about. “I just. I just. I just want them to see I am not insignificant. I am not. I am so lonely right now. I miss them. I miss them. I miss...I miss the camaraderie. I miss the easiness. I only wanted to be friends. What happened? What happened Lindir? I do not know what I did or said. I don’t know. I don’t know.,” and she continued to wail, much to Lindir’s turmoil and anguish for her loss of emotional self control.

Then, saying the words he did not wish to hear, “I want to go. I want to go … home.”  Standing there, not knowing what to say, what to do anymore than he already could, Lindir widened his mouth, his eyes, and looked down at Beatrice in empathy. “You are home Beatrice. This is your home now.”  Closing her eyes, hanging her head in deep beckoning sorrow, Beatrice moved her head side to side, as inside, inside her heart, her being, she emotionally collapsed, and withdrew. Valor, Lindir wished. Is there no mercy for such a one as she? She has a heart of gold, she is a joy. Pure joy. Can she not see this? Can she not feel it? His heart swelled and he wept inside for her. Wanting to shake her, desiring her to see this goodness, this magnitude of love, joy, charm, her solace which she held, bestowed, gave willingly to others, but also knowing some would not partake of. Knowing that was what was destroying her. And not knowing exactly how to pull her out.

The door to their chamber was tightly shut. Lindir had been listening to Beatrice for better half of the night, trying in desperation to placate her, to reason. He understood her upset, her trial, but still he was getting no where with convincing Beatrice that which she needed to hear. To believe she was loved, wanted, worth a fight, and cherished by the elves. The specific ones she wanted to impress, to be loving friends with, would perhaps never happen, and so, Lindir himself, hung his heart in kind. Repeated his mantra to Beatrice, as well as himself, “It will pass, it will pass. All will be well again. It will pass.” And in dejection and neglect, she disintegrated further inside.

He heard the commotion before even coming nearer. Turning down the corridor, he could feel the heat, the passion, the turmoil rising from their chambers, from their words, their nuances. Standing a moment longer than necessary, Elrond closed his eyes in peace and supplication. Why so much agony? So much pain? What is happening to her? Usually he would not have intruded, but the closer Elrond placed his feet, the closer his being came to their door, the stronger wave upon wave upon wave of her desperation, her sadness, dejection, pierced his heart. He would never have intruded, never dare open their chambers’ door, never invade the privacy of their union, but this, this moment…was causing his own grief, his own private purgatory to stir, causing restlessness to fill him solidly. And it drew him near. Quietly, so quietly, opening the door, standing inside their entrance, Elrond looked upon this discordant sight. As Lindir looked at him with need, as Beatrice’s back was turned, as Elrond gazed upon her, sitting in a lump, likened to spoiled sugar, Elrond stepped up.

“I want to go back.,” Beatrice placed before Lindir, as he once again sighed, twisted his mouth in turmoil.  “At least there, I knew why I was unwanted. Here, pausing, filling her arms with the chamber’s sights, “I don’t understand.,” she reiterated over and over. Kneeling, placing a small, tentative hand under her chin, “Beatrice. No.,“ he calmly said. “This is your home. There is no where you can go..back..to. You must make your peace here, now. It will pass, Sweetheart.,” trying once again to convince her.

Wordlessly, quietly walking, placing himself closer to Beatrice’s crumpled body, letting her absorb his presence, spy his darker than pitch, solid boots next to her soiling, wrinkling gown, Elrond spoke down at her. “Come with me.,” was all he said, awakening Beatrice to her own cacophony of melancholy. Slightly turning, twisting her body round, landing her eyes only on the tips of splendid, well cared for boots, Beatrice started, and let her burdened heart sink, sink deeper than a lost ship heading toward the brink of disaster, and righted herself.

Assisting Beatrice up, helping her to a standing position, straightening, rearranging her skirts, slightly embarrassed, Lindir started after them, pursuing them to the room’s end. Keeping a hand on Beatrice’s elbow, lifting a hand before Lindir’s eyes, Elrond quietly, calmly produced, “No.,”, stopping Lindir from further movement. Watching Elrond lead Beatrice away from their chambers, Lindir stood silent, hoped and dumped his exhausted frame into a chair, exasperated. ‘Valor.,” as his own tears pooled.

Following Elrond further down the corridor, toward his study, they entered, Elrond gesturing for Beatrice to sit before his fire. Sitting himself across from her, Elrond let his darkened eyes drift to the fire, and momentarily closed them in private contemplation and supplication. Folding his fingers, hands, “Do you really wish to leave?,” he calmly asked. Beatrice hung her head in shame, her eyes downcast. And wept. And sniveled. And wept some more and wiped and blew. And when she thought she had gotten it out, her wordless, soundless weeping, began again, causing Elrond to gaze more at the licking, thrashing flames instead. And lamented. What has gripped this woman so? Elrond mused, beckoning visions of pain, sadness and loss. How tightly wired is she?

Standing, lifting himself, Elrond unobtrusively stretched, arched his back. Reaching a small, rounded table, he poured, gently placed before her a small goblet of freshly chilled fruited water, sat, settling himself once more into his chair across from hers. The fire crackled, spreading warmth throughout the room. The rain pelted and all remained quiet. Except for the tiny, normal ticks and tocks of the room, not a sound was uttered. Only her sniffling, making Elrond wish for a box of handkerchiefs.

Beatrice was emotionally exhausted, spent. Her mind numb, blank, however her breathing labored, her heart wildly beat. Her sorrow enveloped her fully, snuffing all else out. Forlornly placing her head, her heart in her hands, while her endless tears made lines, streaks, trails down her face, making a mess of her face, her minutely applied mascara, Beatrice could not speak, feel, or listen to reason. And so curling her feet under her, pulling her knees up onto his richly upholstered chair, Beatrice continued to weep and Elrond sat and watched and waited. And as Elrond watched her, he slowly caressed his finger across his upper lip, determining what he should, if anything, do or say to her. What assistance at this point would make any difference? If her current course of action was so determined, what responsible, meager action could stop fate from concluding it’s final end? What should he do, as a protector, for her? Let her cry it out, he thought. To let her cry and wail and grieve until all forms of loss are extinguished from her being, he felt useful. Let her stay and grieve away from the privacy of their chambers. Here on neutral ground, neutral territory, she can somewhat come to terms, calm herself, plead her case before him. Ask his wisdom, assistance. But what should he, could he say to bring necessary calmness, purposeful resolution to her anguish?

What Beatrice did not see, was not aware of anymore, was how Elrond let her cry, let her weep, sniff, blow, and place her dirty slippered feet onto the seat of that chair, let her rock back and forth as wetness touched her face, let her cry herself into oblivion, as she wiped at her lashes, making smudges of what little mascara she had carelessly applied. What seemed like an infinitude rested between them. Semi elf and semi human, sitting like lumps of wet, dissolving sugar. Finally trying to pull herself out just a bit, “How do you do it?,” she laid before him. “How do you get by? For so many years?” 

Looking toward the fire, how indeed Elrond thought, his breath deepening. It had been so, so many years. How did he survive through it all? Asking again, “You have children, you have a family, you must have had a wife. Or a lover.,” she sought out. “How do you survive this long without.., cracking? Breaking entirely? How? Without giving up?”  Beginning to open up, come out of her self doubts, she continued to question Elrond. “Knowing some truly like you, truly wish to follow your lead, your counsel, advice. But others do not. Others may not agree with you, or want to obey you. How do you accept it? It hurts so much. This pain inside, this loss of hope. I am not strong enough.” 

Looking down at his hands resting comfortably on either side of the chair, Elrond thought, questioned his own self. It had been many years since someone, anyone addressed him in this way, candidly. A breath taken, expelled, as he sat staring at the fire. It hurt, burdened him to hear these thoughts, these questions raised. He was not opposed to this scrutiny, this anguish, it was more, he did not want to have to deal with it. More silence while yet hearing, listening to the beating of the flames, the roar and hiss of the fire competing with the howling of the wind outside, as his study filled with stifling heat. Tears still silently fell, dripped, sadness filled Beatrice, not being able to decide if she was truly broken, if there was any recovery for herself.

Elrond, not looking at Beatrice, deciding instead to gaze upon, contemplate the hot, licking flames. And in that stifling heated chamber, listening to silence yet somewhere past the silence, he listened, heard the hissing, the roaring, the crackling, and decided. And finally gave in. “It is hard. Difficult.,” Elrond agreed, shaking his head affirmative. “Sometimes I wish to give up. Many times even. The years have been long. Some good, beneficial, beautiful even. Some, some have been most horrific, so much sorrow, pain. I will not deny this to you.,” as he evenly, steadily looked over Beatrice, verbally leveling, exposing ultimate feelings with her, bearing himself open to her visions. “Then, I think of all the people here in this city. This city which I created. Which was my doing. Mine alone. All whom I am responsible for. All whom I care for, deeply care for. And I cannot. I cannot give them up. I will not. Therefore,” he concluded, staring her down for emphasis, “Even though, the many years have taken their toll, cost me dearly, causing me even bitterness and sorrow, I will not give them up. I will not give up Beatrice. And I will not give you up. Beatrice.” Standing, placing himself before the fire, keeping his back turned, warming his hands, Elrond thought past his own hurts, anguish, his own solitude and lamentations. And let Beatrice think a bit longer on her own. Coming out of herself, she thought on his words, but remained herself in silent contemplation, while hugging her knees in her own consumption and fatigue.

Regaining his seat, placing his arms, hands upon his knees, Elrond truly leveled with Beatrice, placing all cards upon the table. “Sometimes,” confided Elrond, “sometimes I wish I could leave for an extended…what do you call it? An extended leave of absence?,“ a small, tiny corner of his mouth rising. With that statement, that answer, Beatrice could accept.  Delivering home yet another message, “You must find a way Beatrice.,” Elrond placed before her. “I cannot tell you to do this thing or that thing. It is not up to me. You must decide your own counsel, you own course of action Beatrice.” Calmly, stoically Elrond spoke, laying this gravely upon her. He thought that would bring Beatrice back from her sorrow, bring her to her senses. He thought. Well, he thought.

“I cannot. I cannot.,” as Beatrice silently shook her head, rocked her body back, forth. “I feel..I feel..as if..I have nothing left.”  Quickly, so quickly, Elrond pounced upon that one word. “Feel. Beatrice.,” he gave her. “You feel as if you have nothing left. But is that really, what is? Is that truly your reality? I do not believe so. We all play a role here. We all play a part in this world. For my part, I choose to remain. I choose to remain an Elf. So, in that sense, my part, my role, was ordained because of what I chose. My choices, some for good, some mistaken, I have made. And will continue to make on behalf of myself and others. Your role is a bit different, but not. You were sent here. You were given a second chance. Did you choose this life? Probably not. But, here you are. You were sent for a specific purpose Beatrice, therefore your role has somewhat been designed for you. However, you must also choose which path you take. Will you wallow in pity, sadness and despair? Even if you are deserving of it? Or will you accept that which is tearing you apart and continue despite your setback?” 

In that moment of awful truth, hurtful explanation, Elrond delivered Beatrice just one more tiny bit of a statement. “Love gives and receives naught but itself.” 

Putting it like that, Beatrice stilled, her heart coming to a full beated stop. I am not wallowing, she thought. How dare you say I am wallowing. I only wish to be loved, and adored, and admired, and respected. From all. From everyone. I wish to be a joy to everyone. I wish to bring joy to all. Why does not everyone accept me? she thought. And that is when Beatrice thought a little more, a little harder. Taking herself, her hurts, her deserved self pity out of the equation for once. 

Not everyone did like her, admire her. No. No, not everyone will, she concluded to herself, and I guess, Beatrice thought, she would have to accept that and decide to move on, move forward, continue having hope, or just give in to hopelessness. What was the alternative? Did she really, truly want to give up? Or did Beatrice want to be what the elves thought she was, what she truly was, could and would aspire to become. A kind, caring, intelligent, deserving being. One who was capable and deserving of self worth, of love, and was lovable to them. At least most of them. And was capable of giving love without it being given back to her, even if it could be, should be. Was she weak? Or was she strong? Capable of handling emotional setbacks? Of experiencing pain, hurt, without giving in to humiliation, desperation and self destruction? 

Beatrice did not wish to look at Elrond more, but sat and stared at her pretty, dark twilight, seamless slippered shoes peeking out from beneath her crumpled, now more dirtied gown. A gown she should have taken more consideration of and let her mind cease its’ rampant turmoil. Giving Beatrice time to toss dramatic thoughts back, forth throughout her being, Elrond, standing, offering his hand, “Come with me.,” he lent her a second time.

Guiding her back to her chambers, a desperate and concerned, lean elf, waited her arrival with an anxious, debilitated look. Beatrice, looking up at Elrond, while still he held her elbow, “Go lay down. Sleep. You will find peace Beatrice. Do not think more on this subject tonight, for your mind needs to settle its’ turmoil.” He let Beatrice loose. As she lay, curling up, trying to calm her breaths, her anxiousness, Elrond took Lindir aside. “You must not let her go to those particular elves Lindir. They will not accept her. It grieves her to no end. Have her keep her distance. Soothe her, keep her close.” 

Wishing to speak freely with his Lord, Lindir advanced, “She is...she feels, deeply. Beatrice sees magic, light, emotions, colors everywhere, in everything. At the same time, this tires her so, because she feels everything so deepy.,” explaining her trials away.  

Contemplation grew on Elrond as he marveled, yet felt concern for her. “Beatrice is strong Lindir. However, I feel she senses she must be strong at all times. It is not until someone comes along, that makes her acutely aware of her feelings, desires, that have been concealed, are just below the surface. This makes her too aware of her calling, crushing her spirit. But only momentary, and only if it is allowable.” A comforting, reasuring hand, placed on Lindir’s shoulder, “She will mend Lindir. You must give her time. You care deeply for her, as I do. Give her time. And much love.”

Dismissing himself, Elrond walked alone, back toward his own chambers, contemplating his own life’s sorrows, setbacks, joys and future goals. If only she knew, believed how much a joy she was, he thought. How much a joy she is. How much she is capable of giving, receiving unconditionally. And he thought of Beatrice as a puzzle. A puzzle one puts together, interlocking one piece, one tiny, bitty angled piece at a time, and knew eventually Beatrice would fit her life together once more. And become much more capable, astute for it. 

As Lindir softly, deftly crawled, laid himself next to Beatrice, he reached out, enfolded her into himself, soothing, petting her down, murmuring sweet nothings against her face, her neck, her hair. Accepting Beatrice eventually would be alright, would survive, if not resurface bruised, Lindir knew her needs would never be that of an elf. She would always need, she would always doubt, would always turn to him, to others for reassurance, acceptance. Accepting Lindir’s touch, his murmurs, his show of love, respect, appreciation, of kindness, of want, Beatrice relaxed, closed her eyes against the day, and slept. 

It would only take time. And what did she have there but time, but an eternity. 

And in letting herself be loved, be soothed to sleep, Beatrice contemplated Elrond’s words. “Love gives and requires naught but itself.”