#absolutely insane that my therapist asks me “does it matter?” after i aired all this to her

[alibonbonn]

Of all mythological characters, Thetis' grief resonates the most with me. The loss of her son is so final, more final than mortals losing each other- mortals might still meet each other in the land of the dead when all comes to pass. Somehow her sorrow feels the most like grieving a loved one who was of a different religion, you know what I mean? Like...we're not going to the same place! and I hope they've made peace with that before their time.

[honeypiehotchner]

Deception (John Watson x OFC) -- part fifteen

Alright, the idea I have in mind for this story’s ending is insane and you’re going to hate me for a second when it happens, but it’ll work out fine, I swear. Anyway, enjoy this fluff.

One morning – or rather, afternoon, because John and I accidentally stayed up until the early hours of the morning doing…things. We sleep well past morning.

           Not the point. John wakes me by kissing every place he can. My nose, my cheeks, my forehead, my ears, my collarbones, my hands, and of course, my lips.

           “There’s one way to wake a woman up,” I mumble, giggling when he pulls me closer, attacking my face with more of his kisses. “What’s got you in such a good mood?”

           “Waking up next to you,” John replies smoothly, as if it needed absolutely no thought at all, and it scares me because it probably didn’t.

           I keep my expression calm, though, not wanting to give anything away. He doesn’t know that in about two months time, his best friend will be returning to London. And by returning to London, I mean Sherlock Holmes will be reuniting with John presumably to go back to the way things were before he jumped ship. I’m not sure where I will be in that equation.

           But I’m choosing not to worry about it right now. I want to spend my last few weeks with John completely in the present moment. We can cross the other bridge when we get to it. Or burn it. However it plays out.

           “I want to take you somewhere today,” John says suddenly, steering me away from anymore bad thoughts.

           I raise my eyebrows. “Where?”

           John hesistates, taking a deep breath and taking one of my hands in his before he replies. “To see Sherlock.”

           For a fleeting moment, panic settles into my bones. But then I remember the reality of it all, and sadness covers me instead.

           He means…Sherlock’s gravesite. Of course.

           “John…” I whisper, my free hand reaching up to hold his face gently. “Are you sure?” I don’t know how long it’s been since he’s gone back there. When he was in therapy with me, he said he visited every week, but that’s been months ago now. I’m not sure he’s been back since then.

           “I’m sure,” John says quietly. “Please.”

           “Okay.” I brush some of his hair back, earning a small smile. “Okay. I’ll go.”

           It takes some time to get John out of bed and moving around after that. I wonder briefly if he even expected me to agree to go see Sherlock. Well, to see Sherlock’s grave. Because the real Sherlock is very much alive and miles away. Scotland, last I checked. Far too close for my liking, but he’s going to be much closer soon enough.

           I shove the thoughts away and get dressed as John does the same. He doesn’t live here, of course, but he’s spent so much time that he might as well. He has clothes that he’s left here, and I have clothes left at his place as well. I catch one of his shirts in my pile of dirty laundry probably as often as he washes some of my things, too. He has a toothbrush here, just as I have one there. I even bought snacks that I know he likes after he did the same for me.

           Domesticity is one hell of a drug.

           After getting ready, John is practically bouncing off the walls with nerves. You would think I was taking him home to meet my parents

           “Hey.” I put my hand on his arm, his nerves melting away enough for him to calm and look me in my eyes. “Let’s get lunch.”

           “Now?” John asks. “Or after?”

           I smooth my hand down his arm, squeezing his fingers in mine. “What do you want to do?”

           “I don’t know,” John shakes his head. “Choose for me.”

           “Let’s do it first,” I decide. “You need something to eat. And it’ll calm you down.”

           John furrows his eyebrows, deflecting. “I’m plenty calm.”

           I take John’s other hand, tugging on them both to make him step closer, and when he does, I press a kiss to his nose. “You’re nervous.” When he tries protesting, I shake my head. “It’s okay. Let’s go get lunch.”

           He accepts his defeat and opens the front door for me. We take my car, with John driving because it’ll give him something else to focus on. We go back to the fish and chip shop that we ate at on our first date. I didn’t ask, John just drove there.

           It’s a nice surprise. Full of memories and the atomosphere does do wonders at calming John’s nerves. I’m not sure what he’s so nervous for, anyway. We’re going to Sherlock’s gravesite, not to actually see Sherlock.

           On the drive to the cemetery, I have a fleeting thought of what if Sherlock is standing there. But I like to think he knows better. He wouldn’t do that to John. Or me, if he cares about me at all, though I’m wondering if he does because of John and I’s relationship.

           I place my hand on top of John’s as he drives, the touch as reassuring for him as it is for me. What we have together…it’s nothing I’ve ever felt before. I’ve had relationships before, but none like this.

           None that have made me wish so badly that I wasn’t an undercover agent. All relationships before, they knew who I was, they were agents themselves. It wasn’t a secret. But now that it is—I don’t want it to be. Now I desperately wish I was normal. A therapist, even. Something mundane. If this was different, if I was an actual therapist and John and I had met the way we did, exactly as it was, but without Sherlock and without Mycroft.

           No one has ever made me feel so loved, so cared for, but John doesn’t know the real me. I’d like to fool myself and say that he does, that being an agent doesn’t define me, but it does, whether I like it or not. I’ll have to tell him someday I’m sure, but if I could, I’d keep what Mycroft assigned me to do a complete secret. I’d tell John I’m a retired agent, and that I’m sorry for keeping it from him, but nothing about Sherlock or Mycroft. None of that matters.

           John pulls the car around to park on the curb. He takes in a deep breath as he turns off the engine, looking over at me. “We’re here.”

           “Alright.” I squeeze his hand again. “Are you ready?”

           John nods, steadies himself, and says, “Yeah.”

           It didn’t sound convincing, but now isn’t the time to tease him, so I don’t. Instead, I hold tight onto his hand as we walk through the grass.

           Cemeteries always have this certain air about them. I’ve never been one to entertain the idea of the paranormal, but I can feel it especially when I step foot in a cemetery. I think anyone can.

           “It’s just over here,” John speaks idly, nodding toward a tree. “Sherlock always stood underneath this tree when he was thinking. I guess it only seemed right for him to be buried here.”

           The pain in John’s voice is unmistakable. I wrap myself around his arm, holding him close. “It’s what he would’ve wanted, then.”

           John chuckles, shaking his head and pressing a kiss to my hair. “I don’t think anyone really knows what Sherlock wanted. Not even Sherlock.”

           “That might very well be true,” I murmur thoughfully.

           Sherlock’s grave is, quite honestly, what you’d expect. Sleek and black with his name – SHERLOCK HOLMES – written in gold letters. No birth or death date. I almost laugh to myself, and would have if John weren’t stood next to me.

I lean my head on John’s shoulder. “What do you think he’d say? If he saw us?” I probably shouldn’t wonder aloud about it, especially not to John of all people, but I can’t help it.

“Sherlock never liked any of my girlfriends—or maybe it was the other way around,” John almost lets out a real laugh, which I wasn’t expecting at all. Maybe he really is beginning to move on. “Regardless, I wish you could’ve met him. I think he would’ve liked you.”

I smile. I know John means that.

Still, it pains me to stand here knowing Sherlock is alive, not underneath us. Knowing that he’ll be returning soon, much sooner than I’d like, when John is finally healed from it all. Of course, recovering from something that traumatic is a uphill battle, and John does still have his days. But the man I am standing next to now is no longer the shattered shell of what once was a brilliant doctor. Now, those cracks have been sealed. John Watson is once again the brilliant doctor and the bravest soldier I’ve ever known. He went through literal war, came home and fought another alongside his best friend, and fought another all alone and he won.

“You’re so strong, you know that?” I lift my head, turning my head to look at John, waiting for him to look back at me. When he does, he smiling, but he’s got a funny expression on his face. “John…don’t argue with me.”

“I didn’t say anything!” He protests.

“Yes, you did.” I squeeze him closer. “With your eyes.”

He makes a noise between a scoff and a laugh, shaking his head. “I love you.”

My breath catches in my throat. I love you. We haven’t said that yet. Hard to believe, I know, because it’s been almost a year since we began dating, but…we’ve taken our time. I’m not one to love easily and I know John isn’t either, so I never felt like we needed to say it.

But now…now it’s all clear.

John turns his head again, offering a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry—”

“I love you, too,” I interrupt, squeezing his hand. “How long have you been waiting to say that?” I tease.

“Since the first day I met you,” John confesses, pressing a kiss to my surprised mouth.

“What? You hated me!”

“I did not.”

“Well, you certainly acted like it. I was sure you wouldn’t be coming back after the first session.”

“And thank God I did,” John murmurs, pulling me close.

“Yes,” I agree, craning my neck so our noses brush against one another’s. “Thank God.”

[watchtheblog]

petty cache

thank you for coming to read my diary which masquerades as a blog but is actually just a vessel for disseminating my birthday wishlists. it’s like an event you show up to where the host tries to sell you a timeshare 25 minutes after some requisite, mindless song and dance.

welcome! if you’d like purchase a timeshare, scroll to the bottom. for the song and dance, look no further:

the other day i zoned out on zoom therapy and when my therapist asked where i “went” i had to lie because i had gone to the part of my brain that holds all the things i need to think about forever for no reason (i call it the petty cache — this is an umbrella term for the space that also houses my attitude cabinet) and dusted off a memory of a comment i saw on a stranger’s facebook three weeks ago that said “message me. i lost my password and i have good news to share”.

i don’t know either person, and that’s what i was thinking about. i spend $[redacted] a month on therapy and instead of focusing on one of my numerous unsolved mysteries, i was thinking about the nuances of this comment - like why they wouldn’t just share the news or message the person directly? or what losing their password had to do with anything? or why they would comment on facebook instead of texting or calling the person. did they not have their number? imagine not knowing someone well enough to have their phone number, but still wanting to share your good news with them!

all i want (for my birthday) is to know what the news is that this stranger has to share, and i’ll never know so i have to put that comment in my minutiae repository with all the other things that will plague me until i die from texting and driving, smoke inhalation as a result of purposely leaving a candle lit in my home overnight almost every night, consuming half a dozen hot dogs a week, or a now unnamed disease that will posthumously be attributed to my chronic inability to mind my own business.

i’m constantly concerning myself with things that are none of my concern - no matter how insignificant - because my brain is a commune of sentient pepperoni running instagram polls among themselves to discern if something is worth spending an inordinate amount of time thinking about. and guess what? it turns out absolutely everything that has ever offended, confused, bothered, intrigued, slightly inconvenienced, or merely happened to me is worth spending an inordinate amount of time thinking about.

because i devote so much energy to nonsense, i can often be found persecuting strangers for insulting me on the internet (and for other miscellaneous bad behavior). the information superhighway is my home so i have to protect myself (and my friends) here, and if that means spending 45 minutes to 48 hours trying to find every misstep you’ve made in your life until i have enough ammunition to spray a dozen simulated retaliatory bullets at your virtual head because you called me a “stupid bitch” on instagram, well… so be it!

i am relentless in my pursuit of wasting time, so if that doesn’t work, i will find the cold stone creamery you frequent, seek employment there, be hired on the spot, learn the craft, be promoted to manager, poison you on your birthday, gain access to your funeral, and tarnish your reputation by reading your shitty DM in front of the few family and friends whom i haven’t already made aware of the abhorrent way you conducted yourself online!

there are so many different ways strangers will try to hurt your feelings — an interesting genre of which come from men who (like me) have definitely never had sex before, and mistakenly think i care about the ways in which my body does not make them horny.

“no tits” one will say. and i’m like, how do you want me to respond to that? my boobs are indeed small, yes. did you come here to shoot facts back and forth all day? ok: you’re going to start balding way sooner than you’re prepared for, i bet your childhood dog is dead, your time on the internet should be supervised, your closet is full of vests, and you wait on line at nightclubs… good day?!

while i will obviously engage with anyone if they want to fight, i prefer when the unsolicited criticism is personalized, and not just thoughtless, lazily devised tripe.

a year and a half ago, a man who looked like he exhales smog DMed me to let me know - among other things in a paragraph long rant - he’d “lost brain cells” watching my story. knowing he had likely never had an adequate amount to begin with, it seemed like an emergency, so i started a group DM with his wife. because his message had come just three days after a “fuckkk [heart eye emoji]” response to a photo of my ass, i included a screenshot as evidence of his devolving mental state.

being - presumably - gainfully employed, neither of them responded.

luckily, the consolation prize for insulting me is that you gain residency in my brain and stay in my thoughts and prayers for all eternity, so i checked in on them a few days ago. they’d unfollowed and wiped their feeds clean of each other!!

because i’ve never “moved on” in my entire life, i fired up our long dormant group chat, and sent my condolences: “aw. sorry your trip to positano - where you were going to attempt to repair your ramshackle marriage - got cancelled because of covid and so you just got divorced instead :(” i wrote before being blocked by both of them. 

then i headed right over to my therapist’s facebook and commented “message me. i lost my password and i have good news to share”

i spent an entire therapy session detailing this monomania before my therapist thoughtfully suggested i “pick [my] battles”.

to which i thoughtfully responded: yeah, babe. i pick every single one.

                                                        ***

timeshare time! it’s the same list as this post, with a few additions (at top) (and edits based on availability).

places to donate food education fund pretty brown girl the okra project

some furniture stuff a side table  a pointless, laughably tiny little thing this website is calling a “drink table” a lamp one of these benches i do not want this but it’s important to me that at least 2 other people know it exists

this plant that obviously does not need to cost $165 but idk how to shop economically

air pods

gifts from the previous post - all still v much in play!

a pair of shoes (size 8 or 38) one pair, another pair, yet another, these are on sale, these are not, and a final pair

a specific clutch with three color choices they allege this color is called sand but it looks white to me, pink, green for those who do not know what malachite means (it couldn’t be me. i learned it 3 hours ago when i began compiling this cursed list)

something everyone with money to waste needs this

dresses i’ll never be able to wear until there’s a vaccine because unlike someone tacky who knows me, i won’t be having a birthday party in the middle of a global pandemic (hi, you fool) white polka dot, not white polka dot, also not polka dot, a red dress, a skirt (aka half a dress), a black dress

this sweatsuit xs in this, small in this

is sephora cancelled? i want this hair dryer which i’m sure you can buy elsewhere if sephora is cancelled, which it v well may be

this item which you may think is cheap but actually it’s not soooo a hairpin

earrings one pair, another pair, and another

this dress which i’ll never wear anywhere even when there is a vaccine because… what?! but maybe. you never know. size 34. lol when i get this far into the list i’m always blown away by how insane it is that i do this every year to no audience. so i’m just laughing alone at that. :) i am v funny to myself. another dress i’ll never wear ;)

the nicest weighted blanket you know of i’m depressed!!!!! if you can’t tell!!!!!!!

every year i have asked for a weekend bag and every year i have not received one, so alas, we try again this is not a weekend bag actually but it will do. this is!

a peloton but just venmo me the cash (@merce212) because i have a hookup

an assortment of ridiculous things a $500 body scarf a $580 beach towel with an octopus on it for no reason besides “art” i cannot tell analog time but it’s never too late to start!! how mad would you be if someone bought you a roulette table for your wrist? be honest. (THIS WATCH IS FOUR YEARS RENT!!!!!!) they won’t say how much this costs :( i’m losing my mind and must be gifted a chanel watch or else i will perish. to put my salami on when i am eating salami in my bed “24k gold crocodile [?!!) teddy bear”. the website says there’s only one left, which begs the question “why did someone buy one of these rather than buying me a chanel watch?!!” *real ‘billionaires shouldn’t exist [unless they’re buying me a watch]’ energy* to put my new watch in this is ugly but it’s on sale :) idk wtf “secret box pendant” means but i wish this necklace was also a USB with every season and spinoff of 90 day fiancé on it hi yes i’m stupid but i draw the line at $1500 connect four…

[thisisthebratpack]

I wrote a little short story after watching the ‘Let It Be’ movie this morning.

“I don’t understand” I said softly, not once looking up from my tea. “I don’t either, that’s the point.” He stirred his coffee gently, trying hard not to make any noise. “These last three weeks have been insane Lorelai; I just can’t live like this.” “That’s not fair.” I mumbled. “What’s not fair? That I never know how you’re going to act when you come home? That you change your mood and your mind every twenty minutes? Is it fair that some days you’ll come home and be all over me, and other days you won’t let me touch you at all, and there’s absolutely no warning at all?”

 I knew this was coming. It had been coming for a while. What I didn’t realise was today would be the day. I was buzzing, really excited, when James called me at the office and asked if I’d like to meet him at a little café on Savile Row in our lunch break, but as soon as I saw his face when I walked in, my stomach dropped and my throat turned to cold stone. It was his eyes that gave it away.

 “It’s not fair James. I can’t control it. I don’t even know what’s going on half the time. It’s exhausting! I’m not in control of this!” “How long have you been seeing that therapist for?” “Does it matter?” I finally look up from my cup, a single tear rolling down my flustered cheek. “Yes it does. You really should have a hold of it by now.” His eyes met mine. They flamed with frustration. “Have you deliberately stopped taking the medication or something?” “You know I haven’t.” I crossed my arms, the anger in my chest rising and bubbling in my throat. “You know I take the damn things every day even though they make me ill.” “Don’t make a scene.” He sighed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. “Make a scene? Jesus, James. Did you really think you could drop this bombshell on me in a public place and expect me not to react?” “Any other person would be able to hold themselves together” I sat back in my chair and wiped my cheek, biting my lip so hard I started to taste that familiar metallic tang. “Where am I supposed to go?” “I don’t know Lore. Go back to your parents. They’ll take you back in.” “Oh great, so you’ve really thought this through. What about work? How am I supposed to work in the middle of London and live with my parents in Aberdeen?” “Well maybe you’ll have to find your own place then?” “With what money? James, the last pay check I got, I spent mostly on fixing up our kitchen!” “My kitchen.” “Sorry?” “Well it’s my kitchen isn’t it? It’s my apartment.” He shrugged.

 My arms fell limply by my side, I just stared at him. There were so many things I wanted to say. I wanted to scream at him, to explain that he didn’t understand how hard things were for me. He could never understand what its like to not be in control of yourself, to be so aware of your every move, every breath, wondering if you’re talking and acting normally, if you’re thinking is logical and reasonable, never being sure. Not knowing the difference between happy and manic. Not being able to tell if the sadness you’re feeling is proportionate to the situation. People constantly telling you ‘you’re overreacting’ but not being able to moderate your own behaviour. The years and years of therapy, the countless medications, the hospital visits. The literal blood, sweat and tears. I also wanted to beg. To promise that I would change and that I would try harder. Anything to stay with him. Anything to not be alone.

 “James, please.” My voice was smaller than I remember it ever being. “Please don’t give up on me.” He closed his eyes and his eyebrows furrowed. “Please, James. You know I’m trying to be better.” I placed my hand out open on the table top. “I’m trying, please don’t give up on me now.” After a silent eternity, he dug his hand into his pocket, pulled out a £5 note and put it on the table next to my open hand. “I’m staying at a friends place for the next few days. Don’t call me.”

 I watched, wide eyed and breathless as he stood up, put his coat on and walked out into the busy street. I was to in shock to cry, to confused to breathe, all I could do was sit and stare at the lunchtime crowd outside the café door. Eventually I stood up, still numb and in a daze. I wiped my eyes, pulled down my skirt and put on my coat. It was only when I opened the door and the cold January air hit my face that I took a breath. People swarmed around me as I spun around trying to find James in the crowd. I was a rock in the stream, being pushed and knocked by the flood of people around me. I quickly forced myself against the wall and stood there, trying to fade into the stonework.

 Suddenly from above, a distant guitar chord rang out, followed by another. It seemed to get louder and louder, and sounded somewhat familiar. I looked around, trying to see where the noise was coming from. An upbeat song started playing on the distant breeze. Other people on the street were also looking around confused, trying to locate the source of the noise. A businessman with glasses and a briefcase on the other side of the road shaded his eyes as he looked up towards the rooftops, the smiled and nudged his friend next to him. They both squinted up at the roof of the building and started smiling and tapping their feet. A group of three fashionably dressed girls also stopped and looked up, then dissolved into frantic whispers and gasps. “Could it be?” “Surely not.” “It sounds like them though, doesn’t it?” “Yes, I suppose so, it could be. I thought they broke up though! That’s what it said in the magazines.”

 I crossed the street and stood next to the slowly but steadily forming cluster of people, all looking and pointing at the skyline with a mixture of joy and confusion. “Do you think maybe it’s a new album?” “Maybe! How groovy would that be! A brand-new Beatles album!” My eyes widened and I stood on my toes, desperately wishing I was taller, or that I had access to a rooftop. I’d been a fan of The Beatles ever since my mother bought me the ‘With The Beatles’ album for Christmas in 1964 when I was 17. Actually, to call myself a fan would be a lie; to call me a Beatlemanic was probably more accurate. I had spent my late teenage years and my early adulthood listening to them, buying all the albums, plastering my walls with posters and memorabilia; much to my father’s disgust. Their music had been the soundtrack to my early adult life. James and I had danced to ‘Rock And Roll Music’ at one of the first dance halls that we went to together, I had cried to ‘Yesterday’ when my beloved terrier passed away, I had begged my parents for money to go and see the ‘Help’ movie when it finally came out in theatres in my hometown, ‘Norwegian Wood’ was playing softly in the background when James and I had our first drink after moving in together, my best friend Lillian and I drunkenly sung along with Ringo to ‘Yellow Submarine’ in the back of my father’s car on the way home from a party; The Beatles and their music was interwoven with some of the most important events of my life. They seemed to be able to express the emotions that I couldn’t, say the words that I couldn’t bring myself to say, they were a joy and a comfort in good times and bad.

 Only when the music stopped did I realise I was smiling. For the length of one song I had forgotten that my life felt like it was falling apart. For the briefest of moments, I was snapped back in a wave of happy nostalgia, and everything seemed okay. The crowd was spilling out onto the road now causing motorists to sound their horns in frustration and peer out of their windows trying to see what all the fuss was about. People seemed bewildered, but clapped and smiled, looked up to the rooftop and tapped their feet when the music started up once more. I didn’t know what the future held for me. I didn’t know what I was going to do. My life was up in the air and made no sense. There was only one thing I did know. I knew that whatever happened, I had my music to turn to. This impromptu jam session atop a roof in London didn’t change anything, but it altered everything.

 The police started ushering everyone away and dispersing the crowd. I looked at my watch and realised that my lunch break was all but over and I’d need to run to get back to my office on time, but the small glowing ball of excitement inside of me didn’t extinguish. I had witnessed history, and I knew that with a little help from my friends, I could make it through.

[soupsandwichpizza]

My Mistake

“You know you’re going to make a really ugly woman, right?”

 The cold of the mountain air combined with the speed of my Harley was making it difficult to move my fingers on the levers for the clutch and brake. One of the first curves I’d encountered on my way up this mountain had shown me gravel strewn across the middle yellow line as my headlight illuminated it in the curve and now, I was being cautious. But it was only getting colder and I knew from experience on this mountain that if I didn’t want to spend the night up here, I’d better get back down to warmer weather, fast! When the car in front of me got out of the way, it was time to open the throttle. I knew that I was pushing myself to the extreme when my boot heels were scraping the asphalt and I was barely able to hold my bike in my lane. Now, finally, I was being forced to concentrate to the exclusion of everything else. My troubled mind was forced to think about my survival instead of the pain. Until I made it off the mountain at least. The air was warmer, thicker with oxygen, heavy with moisture. But it seemed like no matter how much I challenged myself, a voice in my head just wouldn’t shut up.

 “You know you’re going to make a really ugly woman, right?”

 Earlier…

Pride. I wasn’t feeling it this year. Too many fucked up things had happened to me recently, things that made it difficult for me to have any pride in being transgender, in being a member of the LGBT+ community. I’d been considering letting the event pass while I was home with a bottle of whiskey in my hand like I’d done last year. But I went because I had a friend to go with me and because I knew some other friends would be there, and, well shit… I didn’t have anything else to do. It actually ended up being a pretty good day, and I had worked out of my funk a bit. I was having fun and enjoying the event. And that’s when I saw something that I absolutely fell in love with, a bikini top done in “scale mail” (small metal plates), in the colors of the transgender flag. I REALLY wanted it! I got the impression that the seller REALLY wanted to sell it, I didn’t realize until much later that it was probably a white elephant to them.

I hemmed and hawed a lot, I knew I shouldn’t be buying it. I knew that this was going to be an impulse purchase and given that I’d maxed out almost all of my credit recently, this WAS NOT a good idea. My friends weren’t helping, egging me on because they knew that I really loved it. In the end, I caved like an old wild west movie’s mine explosion and tunnel collapse scene. And because they knew they had a sucker on the line, they threw in a pair of matching earrings. I was hot in my shirt, I had a bra on underneath, and well, this was Pride dammit! I took off my shirt right there and put it on! I should have known my mistake when the saleswoman helping me started telling me what I should buy to extend the ties in back. It didn’t click. Thankfully, I didn’t walk around that way for long, it was pretty much the end of the day for me and my friends.

 “You know you’re going to make a really ugly woman, right?”

 I got back to my apartment and as soon as my ex/roommate saw me with this metal on my chest, she started in with the requests to show her what I’d bought. I’d put my jacket back on for the trip home, so I proceeded to put my things down, take off the jacket, and show her my new bikini top. She laughed. I said something about it, and she told me that she was laughing at the fact that I bought something like it, not about how I looked.

I know better.

One of the things that people can’t seem to realize is that I am FAR more sensitive to the subtleties of human behavior than you could possibly imagine! I KNOW when someone disapproves of me or my behavior. I KNOW when someone is uncomfortable around me. I KNOW when you use words to cover your initial reaction to me. I KNOW when I’m not accepted. I KNOW when you laugh AT me. I KNOW when you’re making fun of me.

I KNOW. EVERYTHING. YOU. THINK. ABOUT. ME. …and quite a few things that have nothing to do with me. Your body language is like reading a book.

I had to develop this ability to sense your true emotions. It’s a survival trait for me. Not knowing if someone accepts me or not, was a life and death situation when I was growing up. If I trusted the wrong person, or was in the wrong crowd, well, getting beaten down was the least of my worries. I was afraid of dying. I was afraid of being murdered. When you are THAT afraid, every day, all the time, you develop some skills to help you with that. So, I can read you like a book, it’s like I look inside you and you can’t hide from me. I know what you feel, when you feel it, and why. Even when you don’t. When you think you are hiding your emotions from me? Ha. Yeah, right. Let me tell you what you’re feeling, how you’re going to react, and what you’re planning to do next. …no, I’m not kidding. If I don’t know you as well, yeah, you get a pass on some things. But if we’ve known each other and spent time together more than a dozen times over a year? I probably got your number….

��SHE. LAUGHED.

 She laughed at me. Not with me. Not because of something I’d done.

 SHE. LAUGHED. AT. ME.

 My ex. My roommate.

 “You know you’re going to make a really ugly woman, right?”

 Those words, that sentence, sealed the fate of my marriage. This was spoken to me when I’d only ever come out to one person, my ex. She said them to me in a moment of weakness I’m sure. She was, after all, losing her husband. But I’m Demisexual and without a connection, trying to be intimate with someone is like offering myself up to a molester or a rapist. So, when she uttered those words to me, when she betrayed my trust in her acceptance of me as a trans woman, that’s when my connection to her was severed.

I tried to not let that be true. I desperately wanted it to not be true. The agony of what I was going through and how I felt like I was losing her was a regular occurrence when I went to my therapist. And I begged my ex to get into therapy as well, either with me or without me. But no matter how many times I asked, no matter how much I begged, she never did. Even now, years later, she won’t do it. She wouldn’t do it for me, she wouldn’t do it for our relationship, and she won’t do it for herself. So, our connection remained severed. And “we” ceased to be.

In that moment of laughter, I saw it in her yet again. Whether she sees me as a woman or not is irrelevant. Because what she sees is laughable, ridiculous, and worthy of being mocked.

I went into my bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror, yup, I looked like shit! But I thought, maybe it was because I was wearing my bra up underneath it? I took it off and, in the process, realized that the straps to tie it in the back were so short, they almost wouldn’t reach enough to tie it. I persisted though. I’d just paid a small fortune for this piece and by all the gods above and below, I was going to look halfway decent in the damn thing!

Once I had my bra off, the bikini top on and adjusted, it did look better on me. But, as they say in the south, “If you put a dress on a pig, it’s still a pig.” You see, I’d gotten to feeling so good that I’d forgotten one of the cardinal rules for being a trans woman who started transition late in life. NEVER wear anything that shows more than legs, arms, and MAYBE belly, if you’re skinny. But wearing a bikini top? It’s the worst of the worst things for someone like me to wear. My chest is at least ten inches wider than it should be. Even if you ignore the shoulders like a linebacker, the width of my chest causes the blessing of my B cup breasts to look more like A cup, probably less. So, what does that look like? Yup, it looks like a man wearing a bikini top and makeup.

That’s probably why she laughed at me.

I’ve learned that there are some things that I have an instinct for and that I should just do them when the mood strikes me. In that moment I knew that I had to leave, I had to clear my mind, I had to get away. If I didn’t, my depression would overtake me, and I’d be in crisis again. I changed quickly, putting on my riding gear, checking the weather to be sure the thunderstorms had passed, and grabbing my cold weather stuff. As fast as I could, I was out the door and firing up my bike. Having no particular destination in mind, I set my GPS for a favorite spot in the mountains that didn’t get much traffic. I’d been there many times, but I’d never taken my Harley up there and I knew the road was insanely curvy. I knew it was getting late, but I’d ridden in the dark and cold many times before.

What I hadn’t done was ride in the dark and cold to the top of a mountain in the Rockies. But I didn’t care, I often don’t these days, because I really don’t have many reasons to care.

 “You know you’re going to make a really ugly woman, right?”

 I used to hate every aspect of my body and I never wore anything less than a tee shirt and jeans outside my home. With transition, with HRT, with surgeries, I’d begun to be okay with how I look. I’d started to want to show myself off a bit more, even if I was overweight and needing to lose thirty or forty pounds. So, my expensive, impulse purchase of a metal bikini top was my attempt to feel… feminine, cute, desirable, and maybe, just a little more comfortable in my own skin. And now it’s hanging in my closet, I expect it will stay there until the day that I get sick of looking at it and I throw it out. Because I can’t see any of my friends wanting to wear it either. There are limits to modern medical science, and they don’t have a surgery that can fix this one. So, yet again I’m reminded that I’m never going to look right, I had forgotten that.

My mistake.

[tony-is-writing-today-blog]

Letter To Anna

this was a writing piece i did as some venting a few weeks back. i have not written anything in first person in, uh, a few years, so this was a bit of a challenge to get back to. it’s got some rough themes to it, so please be aware of this. 

((cw: discussions of r*pe, self harm, addiction, self destructive tendencies, sexual themes, drug use))

A Letter To Anna

Dear Anna, 

My therapist told me to write this letter to you as a way to “unload” my problems, a way to try and “identify” the root of my struggles, find some sort of “closure” between us, or some other bullshit like that. I figured that for maybe just a second I could stop being an asshole and listen to her for once.

So, hi Anna.

I’m an addict.

I really hate thinking about myself like that, but it’s true.

I am an addict. 

I have an obsessive personality. 

Since I was a child, I would become hyper-fixated on certain subjects or some work of fiction to let my mind escape from everything else that supposedly mattered. When I got older, I found it addicting to be an asshole to people—mostly breaking the hearts of those closest to me. After some of that nonsense, I got addicted to alcohol, which, as it turns out, is a bit more serious than any of the things I listed above.

(It might sound bad, but the reality is that I truly don’t care about that addiction.)

(Why?)

(Because I don’t care about what happens to me.)

Following my on going sinful love affair with the devil’s poison, I did something foolishly impulsive one night and made a small one inch cut on my forearm. At first, I was shocked at what I had just done, not really knowing what came over me. 

But in reality, when I try to think back to the first time I cut myself, I don’t remember much. 

I must have been too drunk.

What I do remember of the aftermath: I was at school with a cruel hangover and wearing my NYU sweater even though it was a typical scorching hot Floridian day. I hid because I was horrified at what insanity I had done to my body. My 17-year-old self was already perpetually miserable at the thought of simply being alive and having to go to a school I hated, but now I had to attempt to hide my dramatics from everyone when I was already paranoid enough that the world hated me. 

(Junior and senior year of high school were my infamous debut years as an enormous disappointment to my family and friends.)

Just when I got into the real groove of things (drinking like it was my favorite hobby, because it was), my mother caught me with alcohol (I’m not going to elaborate further on the incident), and I got thrown back into therapy. It helped a bit with trying to figure out how to stop being such a gigantic fucking heartless asshole to the people I loved, but not much with my addictions.

When my therapist would ask about self-harming or drinking, I would immediately become furious.

My most iconic moments in therapy were when he asked me why I was cutting and I stayed silent for the full hour session. He would say, “Look at me,” and I would shoot the most loathing glare I could muster. The other moment was when I showed up to a session already fabulously drunk and almost fell asleep on the couch in his office. I distinctly remember telling him to Fuck Off. 

(I think I had a bad day at school.)

I was sober for almost a little bit over a year, but by no means was I happy. I began to cut more to compensate for the lack of alcohol and to try and calm the withdrawal effects of going cold turkey (and it didn’t really work). 

My depression got worse, but then I was having a weird few days or around a week where I would feel like I was on top of the world, ready to conquer everything and do the absolute best I could because nothing could stop me. Then, I would crash into the lowest of lows I had ever experienced. I learned to live with the self-harm, the very High Highs and the very Low Lows, the failing grades that did not reflect my actual intelligence, and calmly enjoying the new scars on my skin.

For a little while, I became addicted to toxic relationships. I thought that being emotionally abused was normal and that consent was irrelevant because all that mattered was my boyfriend getting pleasure and I had to lie there and take it, even if I said no. I accepted it as a punishment to myself for past sins I committed against others.

My therapist doesn’t think that’s a good way to look at rape. 

Even through all that, by some God given miracle, I actually managed to graduate high school. The only memorable thing about graduation was the overwhelming relief knowing that I would never have to step foot on my high school campus ever again if I didn’t want to. Graduation day was special to me only because I could finally fucking leave.

June 26th, 2015: I cut my hair short, losing about 8 ½ inches. When I almost finished my hair appointment, I got a text that read something like, “IT’S LEGAL!!! EQUAL MARRIAGE IS LEGAL!!!!” I cried a little bit, to be quite honest. I was also incredibly pleased that I looked like Janet van Dyne with my new hairstyle. 

When I got to college, self-harm was a friend I had a shamefully intimate friendship with. However, when I started smoking weed, that need to feel pain and see myself wounded abated a bit and the craving for alcohol was lost in the back of my mind. Marijuana, however, never became an addiction. It was like a blanket tucking two toxic lovers to sleep for a little while until they inevitably woke up to abuse each other once more. The difference between falling after the marijuana was that I felt like I had to justify my use to those around me because no one understood that this was the best alternative I had access to. 

I once fell into a Low when I was high. 

Being the good college student that I am, the setting was during a party in a friend of a friend’s dorm. I went to smoke with a friend beforehand because I knew there was going to be alcohol and I didn’t want the craving to ruin my night. See, my friends know I’m an alcoholic (months upon months of being sober at the time) and so if I had consumed alcohol, I felt like they’d just get front row seats to my own destruction. However, at the party when I was in the middle of feeling pretty good, all my friends were drinking around me. The host was making mixed drinks and everyone kept complimenting him on how good the drinks were. The craving was crawling up my back and I could feel it. I was able to not think about it too hard until my friend (sitting on my right) said, “These drinks are so good!” Then he paused. “Oh, shit, I forgot you can’t have any.”

I froze, but I managed to nod and give him a forced smile, but words were stuck in my throat. I stayed quiet after that while everyone else was socializing and enjoying the loud music. I suddenly felt like I was in a box and the air supply was running out. There was a mix of fury, embarrassment, helplessness, and panic running through my veins.

My other friend (sitting on my left), who was gradually getting more and more drunk as the minutes ticked by, turned to ask me, “Are you okay?” 

That’s when I noticed that I had been staring at my hands for a long solid minute and she snapped me out of my thoughts. I smiled stiffly and said I was fine. “I think I’m going to go smoke again,” I told her. “You know, to get away.”

She nodded in understanding. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

For the rest of the night, I had the begging intrusive thought of punching my friend in the face to steal his drink. I felt awful. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I love my friends. 

That one instance, those few words, made me spiral into a very Low Low for almost a week. 

He apologized later on.

I forgave him, but I felt sick.

I hurt myself afterwards.

When it comes down to cutting back on marijuana, it isn’t difficult at all. I wanted to smoke because it’s fun, but in no way does it feel like an addiction. Not drinking is harder because the way disgustingly cheap rum and coke goes down my throat is horribly satisfying. There are two things that I could give up completely and that would be marijuana and alcohol. Do I want to give those two up? Jury’s still out on that, but they for sure want to keep the marijuana. 

(Anna, don’t give up marijuana.)

I remember once during psychology class, we were told a story about this severely suicidal girl in a mental hospital who had a ton of scars. She was desperately trying to hurt herself in the hospital, even resorting to trying to cut herself with a plastic knife. When we were told the story, my classmates laughed at her apparent foolishness and I laughed as an imitative reaction, but my heart hurt. There was something killing me in the back of my mind. 

It was the word C R A Z Y .

It’s been three years and I still think about the girl in that story and wonder how that ended up being me. 

It’s been three years and I have not been able to go one full month, not even a solid three weeks, without self-harming.

For a very long time, I never considered it to be something like, “It’s to take the pain away,” and then cry about it because I thought that was dramatic (I was very mistaken back then). I only wanted to hurt myself so that I could have a lasting effect on my body, like a scar. I enjoyed seeing my body wounded, which apparently is also not a normal thing. I thought that was the only reason. I just wanted to look like I went through a fucking battlefield. Of course, my bitch-ass teenage self was wrong, as per usual.

“You hurt yourself to numb painful emotions that you might be feeling.”

I hate people telling me what they think they know about me. 

“These are some techniques to help you.”

I hate people telling me what to do.

“Put some ice on your skin—“

I hate people.

“You have to listen—“

Who gave you the right to even look at me?

I never understood why everyone seemed to care so much about me. I never understood why people would go out of their way to try and make me happy. Didn’t they know that I am never going to be happy? Why did everyone care so goddamn much? That’s disgusting. I don’t fucking comprehend how anyone could hold that kind of love for me. 

People loving me?

[Insert SURE_JAN.gif here]

Anyway, Anna…let’s get back to why I’m really here writing you this letter.

Since I got so wonderfully off topic with some unnecessary woes, I realized that trying to quit alcohol is nothing compared to trying to quit self-harming. I have an addiction, a straight up obsession, with seeing my body ruined. It’s a warm curling strange sick satisfaction to see blood trickling down my arms and thighs. When I am at my Low Lows, there is nothing more that I want to see than new scars being carved into my skin.

People do notice, though, and it’s incredibly annoying to say the least. They ask questions, as if it’s any of their business. They even find the nerve to touch me in the middle of their inquiry to emphasize their “concern” and curiosity. 

What the fuck do they expect me to say? Do they expect me to sing out a wonderful, “Ah, yes, Karen. These are but silly little scars I gave myself whilst in the middle of contemplating death and its permanently eternal benefits. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t put those disgusting sausages you like to call fingers on me, or I’ll have them detached from your palm.” 

If anyone thinks I have a kind personality, they need to be directed to the nearest psychologist. 

Friends notice the scars, but know better than to address them directly. They look upon my body with small twinges of pity.

Lovers, however, are another issue entirely. They don’t point out scars, but I now have a problem having sex in general.

(Anna, don’t be a prude, now. Sex is a natural part of life. We can talk about sex with each other. I know sex is a difficult topic for you, but sex is important.)

When I was a teenager, sex used to be liberating. Sexual activity used to be fun and happy and adventurous. Anna, I’m sure you remember that time I was once called a “nerdy version of a slut” by some of the girls in my class. That was a very proud title for me because I was proud of who I was and what I looked like. I used to be so ready and so free. 

Now, I can’t even remember the last time I enjoyed anything relating to sex.

I’ve had to take things step by step with lovers just so I could be relaxed enough to even get halfway to an orgasm. I cannot express enough how grateful I am for marijuana, Anna, because that shit really helps you calm down just enough to let your mind feel your body. 

But it’s step by step.

I guess being raped does put a real dampener on things, huh?

Self-harm is an addiction like no other. It’s one that shows plainly for the world to see if you can’t hide it correctly. When people see it, they don’t think, “Oh no, poor you!” they think, “Why are you not in an insane asylum?”

People never look at you the same way. You are now eternally damaged goods. 

I think I figured out that my biggest addiction, above everything else, is that I am addicted to making myself miserable and being miserable.

Anna, it’s really hard just being alive. It honestly sucks and I used to think that it sucked all the time without any sort of possible happiness on the horizon. For a long fucking time, a horizon didn’t even exist for me. I thought I was going to be stuck in the same cycle of turmoil for the rest of my life, which I thought was going to be very short. I always saw myself being hospitalized because my bipolar mind was going to do something so drastic on my Low Lows, or I’d just never even make it out alive. I thought that I’d be stuck dragging myself through every single day, experiencing new hardships, repressing traumas, disassociating and not remembering what I was doing or what I was feeling just an hour ago and being so damn afraid and confused. I thought that my manic episodes were going to wring out every last bit of energy that I had in me. I didn’t even think I was going to make it past 18.

But listen, Anna…

I’m 20 now and I’m still very much alive. Am I happy? I’m trying to be. Am I still drinking? Sometimes, yeah I do. Am I still cutting? Yes, at least twice a week. Do I still disassociate? More often than I want to, and God I wish I had control over that shit because it’s a goddamn nightmare. Am I still having issues with sex? Dude, I can’t even hold hands with someone without thinking, “Human contact is absolutely fucking abhorrent.”

I was really focused on the negative aspects of myself before and I never looked at all the good things. So, I’ll list some good things about my life and me.

I’m a good cook. I am a singer and I can dance like a motherfucker in 6-inch heels. I get constantly complimented on how great my eyeliner is. I have a cat named Lemonade and I’m a great cat mom. I can speak three languages fluently and I’m proficient in two other languages. I know how to use a gun and last weekend at the shooting range, I hit the middle of the target three times in a row and then got some ice cream after to celebrate. I know Tolkien lore better than anyone else I’ve ever met in person or online. I know every single opening and ending theme song of every single anime I’ve ever watched (I’m talking full versions of the songs). My hair is long again, so when I braid it I look like Katniss Everdeen (the real Katniss from the shitty books—you know, the Katniss who isn’t white) (God, the Hunger Games trilogy is so shitty). I’m a fucking boss at yoga. I’m a great photographer. I have a great ass. I have great legs (and my girlfriend told me two days ago that she wanted me to crush her with my thighs, so I’ll just add that here). I won a cosplay contest three months ago and I had never felt such incredible nerdy pride in my whole life. My eyebrows are iconic and I don’t even have to do anything to them to make them look good. My eyes are really pretty. I can list every single language in the Indo-European and Altaic language trees. I’ve read the entirety of Das Kapital without falling asleep once and I’m still not sure how I achieved that feat. I volunteer at a children’s hospital and I love working with kids. I’m a debate state champion. I can make the best fruitcake known to man. I’m starting to slowly, very slowly, learn how to love myself.

It’s not easy, Anna. I still don’t understand how or why I have friends and why they stay. I don’t know why my family bothers with me. I don’t really understand why I’m still alive, but the fact of the matter is that I am alive and I have to try and figure out what I’m going to do with my time. I accept that I’m probably going to be on meds for the rest of my life and going to therapy indefinitely and that’s alright. I’m still going to have manic episodes and depressive episodes, but I’ll eventually learn how to work through them and that is also alright. I’m learning a lot of things about myself that I had never considered before. It’s hard, Anna. It’s really really hard, but I’m starting to think that it might be worth it. 

I know we’re not the best of friends and we haven’t been for many years. I’m willing to rekindle the positive relationship we had when we were children. I want to try and understand you again, Anna, and see where our future takes us. I want you to accept me as I’m trying my best to accept you. 

Writing this letter was really fucking hard, Anna. I hate admitting to my faults. I hate admitting that there are things that are wrong with me. I hate admitting that we almost completely lost each other because of everything I was suffering through.

I don’t think I’m ready to say, “I love you, Anna.”

I think I need more time for love, but I will get there one day. I hope that you will meet me halfway.

And Anna… 

Remember to smile.

From your best and worst friend,

Anna Leesman