#hifithoughts

[nxiousxpsistence]

My First Rant (of whatever lives in my head rent-free)

I’m bombarded with questions and answers. I’m tired of reaching into my bottomless bag of new words, new ideas, and ever-changing meaningful orders of words and forcing my hand to fetch the one distinct order of haunted words every time another fellow human being asks me a question.

“How do YOU feel?”

I never get the answer, from any of them. Communication drops dead right there and then. I’m not heard. You’re deaf to the question. It’s a non-moment in our supposedly two-way communication. You don’t hear much of me afterwards, either. You’re scared you might get asked the same question. And you WILL.

Unless you know exactly how you feel in the middle of the tornado you have to survive a 100th time, a 101th will start immediately after it ends. Immediately after you’re in the clear for one split second.

It’s so obvious that the haunted order of words is so predictable that I witness the turn of the next cycle of events minute by minute, message by message.

- He blocked me everywhere.

- How do YOU feel? He doesn’t feel like being with you.

- I don’t know how I feel.

- Don’t worry I’m here.

1 week or 10 days

- I texted him “I miss you”. He called me. I’m going to visit him.

- Are you OK? What did he say?

- He didn’t say anything.

- What do you want to happen?

- I don’t know.

- OK, call me.

1 week or 10 days

- We had a huge fight and broke up.

- What happened?

- I don’t know. He got mad and broke up with me. Apparently, we’re not a good fit.

- OK, how do YOU feel?

- I don’t know.

1 week or 10 days

- I texted him “I miss you”.

...

In no part of this 2-month cycle you wake up and say, “This is not love, this is compulsion!”. It’s a drug. You’re hooked.

A drug addict doesn’t love every bit of the experience of using - they take the low with the high. Running after it in close danger is no fun; neither is the horrible withdrawal. But the high makes it all worth it for them - consciously or unconsciously.

You do it too. There is a series of events on one side triggering yet another series of events, leading up to satisfaction, then loss, then curiosity, then death. Resurrection is a cycle, not a destination.

I don’t have a problem with all that normally, cycles is how we live through life and I know for a fact that a few years later, I will come back right to this point, reading through these apocalyptic, yet strangely hopeful and content words, and square two will be the place I’ve always wanted to be. Biting my own tail, spinning a basketball for some considerable while, being proud, and starting it all over again.

But years, I say, not weeks. But feeling I say, not what happened. One step further I say, not one step back. Age is just a number and time isn’t linear, but that’s surely not the point here. You live backwards.

And yet again, my salute to 2012, If you’re 555, I’m 666.

Unashamedly, belligerently, angrily.

I don’t see people who don’t see as people.

I don’t see any motion in a person walking forward merely to resist change.

I don’t want to hear/see/feel anything emanating from a mind that fails to look in the mirror of the brain.

I don’t believe people who believe their own truth, never checking the version history.

In the [redacted] language, we have a saying:

May God protect me from what I wrongfully believe to be true.

We have a wonderful word in [redacted] for “to believe something which is not true”. Loving your language is easy when you no longer hear it being used daily for hate.

The best part of diaspora is finding yourself no longer able to miss your home country.

[nxiousxpsistence]

The brown page. The one where the text is yet to be visible to the naked eye. I know all, I’m but a speckle of dust. My emotions run rampant just so that I can know what part of me doesn’t see yet, what part of me still holds on to the illusion that I actually exist.

But I kept an industrial token wherever I went just to remember. Every street I wrote down a number of times in my address had a tower wrung with wires pointing the sky to remind me of my non-existence, my insignificance. “You matter only in your world,” I repeat to myself. That gives me the strength to cast well-wishing spells on my remaining 36 years. Some work, some don’t. Then I forget. Life grabs me, this desk, my computer grabs me, holds me down and I forget.

“I’m not very significant” said Jesus to Magda.

“Before I forget” said Slipknot.

I need to be reminded of my memories now. The feelings remain, the impressions, the laughters, the sounds... But the timeline goes. It doesn’t fade away like the snuggly fading scene from your favourite movie. It drags on. Until you let go.

I have colourful ribbons revolving around me, each held by a hand I am yet to see, but am already familiar with. The colours change by the second, the speed, the pattern! I was pretty grey once, now it’s in colour at least.

I wish I hadn’t seen the advent of many things, b&w TV being one of those. Growing old is like your clothes getting more uncomfortable by the minute and you being left without your devices to do anything about it.

That’s why we get more comfortable farting in public.

Or doing that embarrassing thing. Why bother not doing it.

It is uncomfortable and even more so every day. You wave good bye to your future kids, dread the day your libido goes forever (or not - that’s another thing!), and try to find ways to entertain yourself in these ever-bleaker days.

Those of us who are fortunate enough to actually learn how to love and how to dream find it in being nothing and loving all. The body ages faster than thoughts mature. Still, it’s a thing. You’ve spent more years on this earth than most people around you (at least than those people whose voices matter) and it’s now your time to shut up and listen as if we had had any moments of glory that weren’t tarnished by anxiety. This is the challenge we have to face now.

Will we? I don’t know, but it will surely be a good watch on a Tuesday night.

[nxiousxpsistence]

I don’t know what I look like.

It amazes me how people in [redacted] in general.

I’d been telling my therapists that I didn’t have a concept in my mind as to the accurate representation of my body for years before I learned about it. My hands and feet get bigger sometimes, my upper arms feel larger sometimes. I can never picture myself short and I am actually short. I don’t know if I look as fat as I am and I don’t know exactly how fat I am - it changes. I either feel like a tall thin person or a tall fat person - never somewhere in between. I feel like I have never seen my body represented anywhere and even when I see myself walking around in videos, it just doesn’t stick.

I had a physical disconnect with my body too - I thought it was the norm. It was as if my body had been hanging below my neck and were not visible to me at all. I didn’t look at my body parts - except for a few that I really liked. I was the one moving them, but I had no idea about how physically present they were.

I still don’t know how I feel about my large hips, small ankles, and ever-present belly. I’ve been hiding them for as long as I can remember and I’ve just watched a tiktok urging me to let my belly out for at least for an hour a day - what? No?!

It’s not because it is ugly, it’s because I really don’t know what it looks like.

It’s been better since I accepted that I am a fat NB and since I stopped adding judgment to how I see my body. And also since I had to start saving money on what I ate and feeding myself well became a bigger concern than keeping my weight at a certain number. I mean I still have only a vague idea of how big or small I actually am, but whatever. At least, I am fine with my tits now.

Still, my friends in [redacted] need to know and their therapists need to tell them that their laser focus on weight/appearance might just be a way to deal with dysmorphia; they may just be desperately looking for a foolproof way of drawing the borders of their mental image of how they look and somehow be content with it. I know I was.

And knowing the [redacted] society, somehow believing that thinness can and must exist in a curvy body and everyone must be a certain height, but never shorter than anyone else, drawing that image may never bring the satisfaction one might strive for. I had too many friends who were afraid of having children just because their spouse may leave them afterwards, finding them “not attractive enough”. I lost 14 kilos once working out and dieting and I spent not a single moment thinking that I was “thin”, even after reaching my goal weight. And even then people would say “Oh you’ve lost TOO much weight, stop there!”.

I have been a high femme for years, but could never fool anyone into seeing me as the “real woman” I was trying and failing to be, because it just wasn’t me. I was left with perpetual dissatisfaction with how I represented myself, with no other useful outcome than impressing other women with my walks in high heels. Low cut dresses were never comfortable either.

So, yeah, the solution (what is the problem again?) might just be connecting with your body as it is now, seeing it as it is, rather than putting it off until it has become an “acceptable” version of itself (acceptable for whom?). We must reclaim our autonomy and our right to represent ourselves however we see fit.

I’m not there yet, either, and my new challenge is to find an accurate representation of who I am in a style that I’m comfortable with. London is a great place to start, but wait, what is my favourite colour again?

[nxiousxpsistence]

Right...

So it’s been I really don’t know how long since I wrote something / since I wrote something about myself / since I wrote about something real / since I produced something honest / since I was honest with myself.

Time has been elusive lately. I don’t remember much about the last three months. I got taken over by the same hands writing this now that has allowed me to live / to see / to be for only short periods of time during the way or week.

Time is moving at a different pace every day. I feel like I haven’t slept-slept for months now. The overload-crash-overload cycle is real.

Writing this showed me why. Some time ago, I was in an ADHD Coaching session (one of the pay-what-you-can deals, from ADHD UK) and there were adults with ADHD on my screen (even that is amazing as in [redacted], you don’t talk about being “deficient” in anything, let alone your attention). I saw some little faces in the screens looking around, some little hands working on / playing with something and the speaker? Oh! The Speaker! 

There were moments where he had to stop, as he lost his train of thought.

HE STOPPED A FEW TIMES ALONG THE WAY TO GATHER HIS THOUGHTS.

There were moments where he forgot where he was completely.

HE SAID “OH WELL” AND MOVED ON TO A DIFFERENT SUBJECT.

And the best part? He was fine with it. We were fine with it. It was OK.

IT WAS F*CKING OK!

Well...

1) I’m an interpreter/translator, right? I write and listen and speak for a living. The more I am meticulous in removing any obstacles in communication, the more I earn. The more I make the cycle of troubleshoot-optimise-repeat continuous, the more satisfaction I get from what I produce.

2) And I’m from [redacted] and that is apparently a bigger part of my identity than I thought. I came this far thinking I was white. Yeah. Old habits die hard, but they do die eventually if you try hard enough. 

Being a [redacted] means that you have to conform absolutely whenever you are in public. This may be a thing of my generation (19[redacted]s), but if you are in a class, you pay attention. If you’re in a meeting, you listen or at least pretend to listen. Zoom has been harder on my people (maybe my generation of [redacted]s) because anxiety over being afk when you’ve been asked a question was hell for them. I’ve been working for 18 years and never have I heard someone [redacted] come out and say “Well, I don’t understand what you mean by that” or “Oh, I don’t know that”. It’s as if everyone must have all the answers and keep up with the conversation at all times.

3) And you guessed it! I have ADHD and my work is either my cure or my downfall for that. Only in interacting with multiple media at the same time and being painstakingly loyal to repeating what I hear/see/write verbatim am I able to perform well or at all. I once earned a lot for doing nothing but sitting between two people talking for 9 hours a day for 3 days and it was hell for me. I would pinch myself to stay awake and attentive. And in my work, If I miss one word in a single sentence, it bugs me. I used to feel bad about a single mistranslated sentence which I couldn’t correct at the time for days (now it’s only minutes). Gaps in my knowledge used to give me palpitations (now I just learn more).

So yeah, my life did change when I saw people “making mistakes” publicly 

not making mistakes (Mark’s voice here), but being themselves

accepting communication as something human, human as something prone to imperfection, and imperfection as something free of any judgment

not masking any urge coming from within.

AND BEING OK WITH IT! AND PEOPLE AROUND YOU BEING OK WITH IT?

This changed my life. So all these years, I could have just let it go? And that would have been accepted not in [redacted] maybe, but somewhere?

Oh the conversations I would have interrupted - sometimes I just can’t listen.

Oh the times I would just say “Could you repeat that?” rather than overworking my mind not to lose my focus.

Oh the games I would have played while in a meeting.

Oh the lies I would have never needed!

And that realisation opened a door. I accepted my flaws and said, “This is who I am, this is who I have been”. I lose the track of time sometimes, sometimes days on end. I am interested in too many things and can’t stick to one and I will tell you all about them. I work myself to exhaustion just to get paralyzed for extended periods of time. I can’t do anything out of confusion for days. I need to share whatever I can share with whoever is with me - I think the word “overshare” will not age well, but that’s another post. I never stop, like literally. I haven’t relaxed in months. My mind is simultaneously in the past, the present, and the future. Sometimes, it is difficult for me to talk to people because I know what they are going to say and they take too f*cking long. I hate! hate! hate! mornings and I can never keep time unless it is for something that is worthy of my hyperfocus. I never know how to reply to honest conversation and even know less about responding to cricitism or appreciation. AND THAT IS OK.

And accepting it was OK meant that I was free to unmask it all. And unmasked they have been! I don’t constantly hunt down my “flaws” to correct them any more, so they run amok. I’ve missed two deadlines just this week. Confusion is still there and I watch it happen. I dissociate during conversations and I let people know. What I mean is, I do what I CAN, not what I somehow superhumanly need to force myself to do and hance the flare in my symptoms (or in the real me?).

It’s not like I’m getting treatment for it or anything, right? RIGHT?

[nxiousxpsistence]

Can I get some comfortable invisibility?

I spent 22 years as a hetero and supposedly cis woman with undiagnosed ADHD.

I wasn’t aware of who I was for exactly that long and some more.

It’s easy to say “Women are beautiul,” when you’re considered hetero.

It’s easy to say “I cheated on my bf” when you’re considered monogamous.

It’s easy to say “I love wearing men’s perfume” when you’re considered cis.

It’s easy and it’s common.

Three of my very “self-supposedly monogamous” dear friends have recently found themselves in polyamorous relationships by mistake. They’re cheating on everyone they’re involved with. The “Love Triangle”. They’re confused. They don’t know where to go. They hurt people and get hurt. And I’m supposed to say “Yeah, it’s hard” and offer them relief by boosting their ego as they count the notches. Applaud their escapades?

It’s not hard, though. That’s learned helplessness. You create words as unique as yours and try to match it to “the supposed reality” and they just don’t fit.

You’re not monogamous at heart, but you try to push yourself into that size 2 “happily-ever-after” bubble. You are dying to marry (and never get divorced), but I know for sure, for sure that marriage won’t make you happy and the divorce will be lots of alcohol-fuelled fun.

I never jump to conclusions. I need data of at least 2 years to gauge a person’s path. And find the courage to come out with the info only when I’m [redacted].

But I know it first hand, too, because I experienced this never-ending guilt-ridden damnable circle of finding myself running after things which just were not me.

Your second nature is unfortunately uncannilty similar to your first.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot in the past three months and the question was: “I always tell my friends to dump their bfs/fbs but that doesn’t sound right?”. First of all, the first step is to check whether you can actually leave that person due to the many dangers that we know lurk in the modern world for women and especially trans women. If you find that you can’t, please please please reach out to someone you like or the closest help available (this is, of course, if you are in the UK, if you’re in [redacted] speak to your nearest women’s NGO). Also: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battered_woman_syndrome

Let’s say you actually can leave - I still believe stopping a relationship (or even ghosting someone) when you don’t feel comfortable anymore is an option always, but now it’s more about being honest. I believe the solution is being honest. Try calling everyone you’re involved with and saying “Yeah this has been going on”. See what happens then? This is the “right” thing, yes, but it’s also what you owe yourself.

And being honest means you need to have a position to be honest about, to make up your mind about your emotions, preferences, and boundaries.

The rest is a rant:

When you’re taking up Reiki, that’s a crossroads. You believe/assume/entertain/know that you have a power, which cannot be seen by anyone, call it energy, call it dust, call it the universe. All visible powers are regulated visibly. There are rules and norms governing whatever you can do with your hands - as long as what you do is visible. If you really believe that you are using some invisible power to heal people, you need to be sure that you’re doing it for the good.

Especially if you really insist that you’re a good person.

No? That’s wonderful, too. I love evil people, they’re fun, and I’m not so good myself. But at least say it! Come out with it! I can’t see you for all the white ribbons you’ve tried to tie around your sinful parts. At least enjoy the villan’s laugh. At least enjoy the sweetness of sin.

That doesn’t stick, either. Who taught us that we could be two completely opposite things at once. I would’ve been okay with the mouth saying one thing and the action saying another, but what I’m seeing is a 428613-piece puzzle put together from two completely different boxes with pieces missing and honey, you haven’t even started.

The worst part about losing insight is that you’ll continue to believe you still have insight.

I love a good rant, but this is more about the pain I feel for not being there for a friend as they’re deaf to whatever I say, thereby enabling their harmful circles, and not being able to break up with them at the same time, as I want to support them without judgment.

I hate seeing the truth and not being able to say it. That, too.

This is my crossroads.

[nxiousxpsistence]

the keyword is capitalism

I’m 37 looking 30ish going on 50% 16 51% already dead.

I was born into the ‘80s, a time I honestly believe only existed in my imagination. 1980 to 1990 is more like a physical thing, like a bucket of an impossibly ugly colour that we dipped ourselves into. It started for a coup in [redacted] - that’s one thing. 

My father was a budding doctor, my mother a recently liberated housewife. They both came from poor families - living in makeshift houses poor. I was born in a village. Three years later, my brother was born in a city. The makeshift house turned into a flat. Long walks into a car. We were kind of OK? 

What happened at every moment around us changed us. The coup was an identity. The deaths of beloved journalists were an identity. Grief was political. We did have money, but my father, typical of the first university graduate in the family, had been deprived of his imagination. Poverty does that.

Fancy meals feel “foreign”. A bit of cold feels refreshing. I’ll just wear two jumpers. I live wearing flannels inside my t-shirts. The bun should be larger than the patty - that was a good one, thanks bro.

So, he saved the money. The way we lived, I was always scared of being poor. Every day. I knew how much my father was making. It was the golden years of capitalism in [redacted]. Yet, I saw how anxious they were about money all the time? We would have lengthy discussions about my chances of getting a doll for the new year’s. What would give? In my childish mind, I learned what money was the wrong way. I thought money was something we as a family are supposed to have little of, something we should always be anxious about.

Curiosity kills the cat, satisfaction revives it. I’ve always felt it’s better to just enjoy the light, even then. 

I find it utterly frightening how fast London grows me.

It is really impossible to care about something you no longer see.

I mean I know that a country called [redacted] exists and some people I love live there, but here, the coups are gone, the politics are gone, the restrictions are gone, the ugly men are gone, the fear, the fear, and the fear are gone, my horribly ignorant friends can’t touch me anymore (I love them to death, that’s really all they can do in [redacted]), my chances of being a victim of a hate crime dropped by 60%, I literally can wear anything I like, people will - at least have to - call me with my pronouns, I’m literally in a legally recognised partnership with my honey-boo, and yes, most importantly, the inflation or the non-existence of it!

It’s not a weight off my shoulder; it is me rising from my ashes, destroying every bit of spiky slimy warmly wet tentacle along the way trying to grab my by the balls; it is me travelling back in time to retrieve my long-lost wings (one of my incarnations may well be a bird) and being astonished how well they fit; it is me standing on the edge of a cliff, wearing a duster flailing with the wind, and yelling “I’ll beat you [redacted]!”; it is the future me having a bender with all my friends on the streets of [redacted] for my homecoming; it is me giving whomever I never wanted to be around the two-finger salute; it is all the people inside of me proclaiming their own republic.

I guess I’m that fabled witch balancing the family out, because imagination. It’s funny how imagination brings you closer to the cruelly satisfying reality.

[nxiousxpsistence]

Money is confusing...

... in the context of immigration.

(If you can’t resolve the compulsion, just be more aware of the cycle.)

I feel like money is an entirely different thing here. It’s not the money I used back in [redacted]. Yes, it’s better value, but it evens out merely because of the imbalance in rent. So, yeah, you’re rich by your home country’s standards, but still don’t add up to much here. Maybe that’s why the [redacted] community here finds it better to save up and be rich back home than try to make it big here. But each to their own.

My cycle with money spins relatively slowly. For the first few months of my arrival here, it would happen over a course of a week, but now its up to 3-4 months and it goes:

0. I’m pretty confident we’re above water as a household.

1. Something triggers me - I’m yet to discover what that is - and I start to feel unconsciously anxious around money. I act like I can’t buy anything nice for myself and I don’t, either.

2. Anxiety shows its ugly head on the water and avoidance kicks in. I start thinking that I’ll be deported and in jail this time next year for unpaid debt or worse, bad checks! Looking at a mere spreadsheet of my finances is the jaws of death and the jaws of death are best avoided.

1. Fear triumphs over avoidance. I ask my partner about our financial situation. She explains it all to me like I’m 5. I ask three times if we’re really in the black. She says yes.

0. I’m pretty confident we’re above water as a household.

Now I need to see if the trigger comes from the inside or the outside.

[nxiousxpsistence]

Being an immigrant (and somehow old)

I moved to London seven months ago from [redacted]. I’m 38, NB, Lesbian, a linguist, a Taurus and a PROPER shshshs starseed. I dabble in my own religion and try to support reproductive rights and trans folks.

Immigration can be the singular experience I can say makes art in my life. Something is happening inside like shifting of dimensions. There’s a light strip calling me to a large metal structure. Something gives. I’ll literally fade into old age if I don’t leave a trace somewhere.

What I’ve learned so far:

1. There’s no summer in the UK. It’s a PR stunt.

2. If your home country had a lot of sun, expect your body hair to grow darker and thicker. I’m 38 - why though?

3. Being an immigrant is like having a child. Nobody tells you about the bad stuff. They don’t say “You will feel like you’ve watched your house burn and lost it forever”, they say “It’s hard but we make do”. No, they don’t. Nobody does.

4. Racism exists. Like really. I look more European than my girlfriend. She’s been saying that people would stare at her. That has never been my experience. Simple, right?

5. Being able to hold your girlfriend’s hands on the street is pretty cool.

6. Parks in London make up for a lot.

7. It’s a struggle and people don’t like to talk about the myriad ways they have been failing. They pretend instead. This means you won’t have anyone to share the burden with and nobody will ever really see what your situation is (at least not for a while until everybody gets settled).

As people at home are in an entirely different context, they will not really have a good idea about what you are going through, either. Prepare for some (!) loneliness and bring a friend, if possible.

8. Whatever your position was before, prepare to take a step backwards. I really hope I can see an exception to this rule soon. See Point 4. Oh, and prepare for ego crises - plural.

9. I’m not saying I wish I had done it earlier, hey who am I to judge what plate I’ve been given, but the time your body takes to tire itself out does matter when you’re anxiously on your feet for extended periods of time.

10. I wish somebody had been in my ear saying,“It’ll be OK” the whole time, because it does come together in the end and if not, crossing yet another bridge won’t be an issue. “As it turns out, we have more days to see.”

[nxiousxpsistence]

the MINN15T7Y offfff SülllllY WqI8x

We're two people sharing a life.

If the remote is closer to me than you and its snatching would require me to use less energy than it would you, then I'm getting that remote.

If you fall in the bottomless hole of feeling like you've lost something important at around 8 every night, I'll find that for you by 1 minute before 8.

It's easier for me.

If, however, you find more joy in doing the dishes (and perhaps throw away rotten food) while I cook, I'll leave that to you.

If we haven't watched one of MIIIIINNNNEEEEE for over an extended period of time, you'll hear about the rise and fall of a Gen Z YouTuber.

It's this balance I have in me; one that I thought existed in everyone. If there's two pieces of ravioli left on the plate, I sure as hell won't be the one eating the last (unless I really want to feel a bit guilty, I like that sometimes).

You'll say no as much as you would like to say no.

Yes a bit more than that, but again by your choosing. 'cause I'm hot.

One broken nail means all have to go.

So, this is a #hifithought so my conclusion from all that is that I hate you all equally?

There's a universe where that makes sense and I go there sometimes.

I can still try.

When I leave the last 1 meatball alone on the plate, I'm doing something because it's right.

Because it wouldn't be right otherwise.

So, in a way, I already carry the foregone conclusion of not doing it having something wrong attached to it.

And now I have right and wrong to contend with.

I've never EVER EVER EVER chosen to do that; I believe it's nothing but a futile GESTURE (not even an effort).

I call something right BECAUSE I CHOOSE TO DO IT because my nature tells me so and I don't know if other people have the same nature as me but I kinda sense that they must be somewhat... DIFFERENT? Alien, even.

Sometimes I meet my older (more beautiful but less smiling) self having drinks with young normies I appear to have been tied to by a laughable twist of fate right when I decided to come here. And I. Don't. Like. Her.

Because she didn't do the right thing. Like ever.

She lived in a bubble that burst at the right time, which was always late. We put the puss in pussie.

And however hard I try to convince myself that I've forgiven her, it'll never be right, will it? I'll do my best to remember in her best, all the while making unpleasant stops at horrible gas stations on an untimely journey you take after bad news - to smoke and unknowingly diving deeper into one 4-second scene of a movie replaying for eternity, wondering when it will end?

It won't. Not entirely.

I'll forever cringe at the idea of this temple of a body begging another human being to be kept alive a bit longer. And there won't be an instant where I won't laugh at the very mention of how I was the epitome of femme fatale once. Those weren't the days, but it was fun.

Mx Right and Ms Wrong.

It's almost as if I've somehow internalised the now rather dubious fact that rooting for Mx Right would mean hoping Ms Wrong would stop talking.

The wrong needs the right to be... fair? Where did that come from?

Like I need to banish the wrong to the nether zone before I can call on every bit of my resources just to even entertain the possibility of me? ACTUALLY DOING SOMETHING RIGHT? about whatever?

My writing isn't too abstract. I'm abstract. (It's not a good trait to have in the Middle East).

I used to be a transphobe, never a TERF, but an ignorant piece of shit. See what I did there?

I feel shame. I feel guilt. I feel like it's something too horrible to fix. Just like that.

It was just wrong and the best thing I can do for the good of myself AND EVERYONE ELSE is to move on. Accept, cringe, have some heartburn, and move on.

Yet I have moments once every two months where I cringe so hard that it ruins my day thinking about HOW FUCKING IGNORANT I WAS?

(This also means that I'm deathly (the linguist in me isn't happy (she's really 38) afraid of making the same mistakes, not being able to understand the human condition, and falter in my fucking exalted ways of loving people as I love myself (hshshshshshshsh really?).)

I'm afraid of being a transphone to my fucking NB self that is trying very hard to transition socially.

Congratulations to anxiety on winning the war on anxiety.

There's me having created a perpetual cycle running through my beautifully crafted balls of hating myself and loving myself (sometimes at the same time). If I let it, it will never end.

I'll cringe once every two months thinking about how much of a horrible feminist I was (and how much I hated myself and apparently others) and the cringe will be followed by me HOLDING MY RIGHT HAND WITH MY LEFT, convincing myself that no, I can't make the mistake again, I AM A GOOD PERSON. Braiiiiinnnzzzzzzzzz Braaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiinnnnnnnzzzzzz...

Just to repeat the cycle again. I need to hurt myself just so I can heal myself.

So I hate you all. Equally.