#i never really like. had the typical feminine teenage girl phase my mom expected

[navysealt4t]

wagh.

[my-wayward-son]

2 months on T-------------------> 7 months on T

I’m late with this post.  Again.  Because I’m doing really shitty.  Again.

First, let me address the obvious: yes, I’ve lost weight. (Well, if you wanna get technical, I weigh the exact same thing as when I started, which I probably shouldn’t).  But beyond that, I don’t want to talk about it.  That change is probably 25% due to testosterone and the tendency it has to aid in the development of lean muscle, and 75% due to other factors.

All the previous changes I’ve noted in these posts are still happening/happening more, such as still more body hair growing/thickening.  There’s really nothing new to report, except that I pass better when I have on glasses and teenage boy clothes (as opposed to professional clothes), but still get a lot of gender neutral and she/her designations mixed in with the he/hims.  

I had a dream last night about correcting my dad (his typical naming convention for me is Laura, I mean, Laur, she, I mean, Laur...) . So he’s trying when he’s in front of me, but it’s obvious he isn’t trying when he’s talking to my mom without me present.  I’m torn between being upset about it and letting it go.  My dad was diagnosed with Aspergers as an adult and he struggles with shifting his perspective.  This is something else I don’t want to talk about, but just know that my far-from-NT-yet-decidedly-allistic ass has a hard time reconciling it.

But anyhow, the transition is going great, and I have no reason to be upset about anything, but I’m upset about everything, and the rest is going under the cut because it’s going to be full of triggers (suicide and ED stuff).

For my whole life I never understood why anyone would want one of those dolls that you can customize to look exactly like you.  My thought was always, ‘what’s so special about me?  I kind of suck.’  I thought so little of myself and my live, even as a little kid, that I would rather pick the princess or the American Girl or whatever with the most interesting story and change myself to match.  Like I’d beg my mom for an outfit the same color as the character’s, or wear sunglasses with the lenses popped out, or only style my hair the same way as the character in order to adapt into that character.  

Of course all those phases were just that, phases.  They were highly tied to the media I consumed, and as I aged, that media changed.  So I was always editing myself to match my current obsession.  I never gave thought to what I was actually like, deep inside.  Like it didn’t matter what my actual personality was.  I hardly even thought about it until the end of high school, and then a series of traumas knocked me down a few pegs, and that sense of self didn’t come back to the surface until mid 2017.

In mid 2017, I went to a 2-week dance convention.  At that time I was living as female, had basically given up on the idea of transitioning, and was just trying to push through as a painfully shy 24-year-old who worked full time and danced part time with a local ballet company.  At the convention, I studied various styles of dance, realized I was extremely untrained in every field but ballet, and spent the entire thing on the verge of tears because I was with students over 10 years my junior in most of the classes.  It was an “all ages” program, but literally all the other adults were in professional level classes for all styles.  I was only in the professional level class for ballet.  I couldn’t wait for the convention to end.  I hated every second of it.  I had a chronic foot injury that made dancing painful (but not dangerous), but I’d always pushed through it because I loved it.  Now I could barely stand to go to class, even back with my regular company.  So I made arrangements to retire. 

I retired from professional dance in May 2018 and had foot surgery in June 2018.  I could dance again, if I wanted to, but I’m not ready yet.  Eventually I might go back as a recreational adult dancer, just taking class from time to time.  But I don’t know.  

I still love ballet, but as of a year ago, ballet was the one thing hanging over me that I hated.  I hated the obligation; I hated the way it tore up my body; I hated the way it made me exhausted and ate up all my spare time. However, I was damn productive.  I wrote so many fics and drew so many pictures, and I went to therapy at least every other week, and sometimes to PT.  I was at the studio approximately 20 hours a week, on top of working 40 hours a week.  But I guess I was so busy and tied to my obligations that I quite literally couldn’t fall apart.  

My uncle died (suicide, marking the 4th attempt and 2nd success in my family) and my granddad died (heart condition), so I had good reason to fall apart.  I was freaked out and sad for a while, but I was also fine.  I was a robot.  When I look back, I realize that the last time I was happy was prior to the 4th of July 2017.  I call that the “Wonder Woman Moment.”  I did a photo shoot for a ballet personal training/nutrition service that dressed me up in WW-esque dancewear.  We blasted Patty Smythe and had a ball.  Even though it was a really feminine thing, it was so much fun, and I had no worries.  It was July 1st 2017.  Before my uncle died, and before my granddad died and before I went to the dance convention.  That’s my last happy memory.

After unpacking some acute issues with grief and anxiety, my therapist started talking to me about my issues with gender ID.  By November 2017 I was thinking about transitioning (I had thought about it before, but never felt it was feasible).  By December, I’d decided it felt right.  I sought out a doctor in January 2018 and had my first appointment in February.  I told my mom on Superbowl Sunday.  Then a month later at my Oscar party, she basically washed her hands of me.

I love film crit and the Academy Awards almost as much as I love fanfiction and ballet and coffee and all the other good things.  I’ve been on the edge of my seat waiting for the 2019 noms to drop.  I know a few of them just from the grapevine, but I haven’t looked them up yet.  I’m still working from my early prediction spreadsheet, even though the actual noms are just a few clicks away.  I’m scared of the feelings that’s going to bring up.

One year ago, all I could think about was getting through the next 6 months and reaching a series of milestones: my company’s production of Alice in Wonderland.  Moving to a new apartment.  My company’s production of Water for Chocolate (an original contemporary ballet choreographed on me and 14 other dancers).  Starting testosterone.  Retiring from ballet.  Foot surgery.  I thought my life would be so much better.

And in a way, it is.  I have the confidence to do random shit, like walk into Autozone and talk to the workers about what is wrong with my car, then help them fix it.  A year ago, I would have panic attacks over things like that.  But a year ago, my mom loved me.  A year ago, I thought I’d have my current job forever.  A year ago, I thought once I got on T, my eating disorder behaviors would go away.

I’ve gained personal confidence, but lost so much else.  Lost my family.  Gained a new one, but still, I lost my relationship with my biological mother and father.  Lost my job satisfaction, which makes me worry that at some point I will have to interview for a new job and integrate with a new company, which is frightening in the extreme.  T has changed my body shape in the way I like, but it’s not magic.  I’m still afraid of eating, and stress doesn’t help.  I’ve also had health complications that add pressure and make me feel run down.  Some is my own damn fault (Hi, I’m Laur and I abuse OTC medications like a rebellious teenager, which is apparently not advisable when also on several prescriptions).  Some is a fluke.  But feeling like shit while also mentally feeling like shit has destroyed me.  I hate my life.  I hate everything.  I don’t see the value in anything.   

I know there’s a Spider-Man: Far from Home trailer out there.  I haven’t seen it.  I don’t know what to expect.  I want to see it.  But I also don’t want time to move forward.  I like the MCU as it is (I like it pre-Infinity War, actually, but nobody asked me, so I won’t belabor you with my opinion).

And that’s a good metaphor for my life right now.  It’s a mess.  I can’t picture anything far in the future, so the light from my proverbial headlights is dim and dull.  I’m afraid of moving forward, so my tires are spinning in place, kicking up mud and dust.   I’m incapable of shifting side to side, so when I do roll ahead a few inches, I hit every obstacle in the path.  If I just changed the lightbulbs, twiddled the steering wheel, took a breath and let myself move, I’d probably be fine.  But somehow that seems like the most impossible choice.  

I could slam the car into one of the cave walls, triggering a rockslide and killing myself.  If I did that, I know it would hurt a lot of people in my life, but it would also fulfill all of my hopes and dreams.   Peace.  Calmness.  Stillness.  Not having to deal with a world that insists on moving forward with the passage of time.  

The most compelling reason is that I can’t find a reason not to.  I wish I was an undergraduate student again, because I want to get a degree in philosophy.  I don’t know why living is so highly valued.  I can’t figure out what makes this “will to live” the correct way of thinking and the desire to die the wrong way of thinking.  Right and wrong are subjective.  They don’t exist, really.  There is not value behind things and thoughts and actions.  They just are.  What’s to say that a lack of serotonin or whatever in a depressed brain is really not normal?  The non-depressed brain may have an excess.  Normal is relative.  Averages don’t mean correct.  Just because most people in the class chose answer B doesn’t mean that it is the right answer to the question.  Just because most Americans are a little overweight doesn’t mean that that’s the healthiest body type.  

Sometimes I really want to try to get well and forge ahead and get my life together.  Sometimes I want to say fuck it and take all the pills in the house and lay down and drift away.  I can’t decide which is better because neither is better, they both are just choices.  I can’t use other people’s reasoning to back up either one, for they are slanted for reasons I cannot understand.  They have a bias toward life.  I have to choose what I really want most, and I just don’t know.  I truly don’t.  My wants and desires-the deep ones in the core of my being- have been so long ignored, given up for what a character would do, or what my mom would do, that as an adult, I hardly know how to access the decision-making skills that most children have already mastered.  I’m a fucking goldfish; when I’m upset, I’m only upset, and I’ve always been upset.  When I’m happy, I’m only happy and I’ve always been happy.  I don’t know how to take a step back and see both at the same time.  I can’t hold contradictory truths at once.  I’m not wise.  I’m set up to fail because there are cracks in my foundation.

As long as I continue to not decide, I don’t take action.  I’m stuck in a holding pattern of “I don’t know,” and “what’s going to get me through the next 5 minutes,” and “just fuck it all, it doesn’t matter.”  

I’ve never, ever, in my life imagined myself as an elderly person.  I’ve thought of myself as a middle-aged adult, but never past 40 or so.  Sometimes I see myself as a woman, sometimes as a man, sometimes an NB person.  But that’s not what matters.  I don’t see myself living to old age.  Mortality is comfort.  The fact that this life doesn’t go on forever is one thing that honestly makes it seem ok to keep living.  But by definition, it also makes it seem like a good choice to die when things go wrong.  Because I will in the end.  

I see my life as a project, and I’ve always had this dilemma with projects: if I make a mistake, what point is too ruined to salvage?  What factors make it more worthwhile to backtrack and fix the mistakes vs. just throwing it away.  Fixing the mistakes shoes dedication and perseverance, but it’s frustrating.  Hot.  Angry.  Uncomfortable.  Embarrassing to show youthful ineptitude to the world.  Throwing it away is quick.  Easy.  Zen.  Brings immediate cool relief with grace and style.  But it’s selfish.  So fucking selfish.  

If you’ve read this far, please proceed to pour water into your ears and shake vigorously.  This was not meant to be imprinted on your brain.  This is for me to sort out my thoughts, which are, and shall always be, unable to be ordered.