#mine all suck and make me dysphoric as hell

[1o1percentmilk]

i hate drawing/posting porn bc everyone's gonna know im a freak and not in a cool way

[beatrixstonehill2]

"Come on, stop joking, guys!" Bianca laughed.

"I'm serious. Have you ever thought about it?" one of her male friends asked.

"Not really. I'm actually super happy you guys talked me into transitioning. Stop being lame! How about you guys take turns fucking me like the good old days!"

One of her guy friends shrugged. "I dunno, Bianca. It might be time for you to detrans and become a guy again."

Bianca spanked her estrogen-fattened ass. "And give this up? Ugh, what's gotten into you guys? We used to have so much fun!"

"Well yeah, you were the best piece of ass around!" another of her friends said, all four of them agreeing. "But like, back then it was super hot. You transitioned for the group, became such a sexy girl, grew those fat titties, that big ass, and we went to town on you like crazy. Honestly if not for you we'd all be lasting thirty seconds, striking out with every girl we meet."

Another of Bianca's guy friends added, "Every girl we date is crazy impressed at our stamina, and it's all thanks to practicing with that fat ass of yours, Bianca."

"So, what's the problem?" Bianca impatiently asked. "Come on, you guys! Pass me around! Fuck my brains out!"

"Wellll, I mean all of us are either engaged or married now. And you went and got that breast reduction. Those udders of yours were huge. Not they're small and kinda mid."

"But......! Ummm, I had to get a reduction! Mine were big and fat and fun to play with, I know, buuuut they were making me insanely dysphoric! I hated having boobs that big."

"See!?" one guy said. "You're dysphoric about having big tits? You're totally still a guy, Bianca."

Bianca blushed. "Am not! They just.... um, got in the way!"

"And we see you're still pumping your cock, that thing's got to be over a foot long."

"Well, yeah. After taking so much estrogen I wanted to make sure it didn't shrink like it does with most trans girls! So I've kept it nice and big, plus you guys had fun playing with it, jerking me off as you fuck me."

"We were experimenting," a different friend said. "I mean, it suits you being a girl with a huge cock like some Hentai chic. But don't you think it's time you give up the act and go back to being a dude?"

Bianca turned around, arms folded, her cock erect, bulging from her bikini. "So, this is it? After all these years being the group's personal fuck toy, you don't need me anymore?"

"Not really. Well, not to fuck. We have sexy pregnant wives and fiancés with big tits to get our rocks off with. You can't just stay a girl like this forever."

Bianca rolled her eyes. "OK, fiiiine. It does kind of suck being a girl. Well, it was fun while it lasted..... I guess you guys moved on. Bummer. So, what should I do?"

"First," another friend stepped in, swimming over to Bianca. "You go on testosterone, stop taking estrogen, and we get you to the gym. You're clearly bulking up already without us, dude."

"So you noticed?" Bianca giggled. "I miiiight've been trying to gain muscle for about a year now. Check out my arms!" She flexed them for her friend to feel.

"Nice! Don't worry, we made you become our little slutty girlfriend, we'll pay to have the rest of those tits removed, get you loaded up on steroids, and in no time you'll be dating, and get a ring on some cute, curvy pregnant chic's finger."

"That sounds nice..... Then what? Married life?"

"No, dummy. We swap our wives, go out swinging, film our girls fucking other dudes and upload it to their socials for their families to see. Turn these girls into good pregnant breeding cows obsessed with fucking. Just like you were."

Bianca's huge, erect cock twitched, falling loose, hanging between her meaty thighs. "Sounds like every guy's dream come true..... but no seriously, you assholes made me your fuckslut, and my cock is hard as hell, can you please fuck me one more time? Don't act like this fat ass of mine isn't tempting....."

"OK. One last time, Bianca. We'll fuck your brains out and milk that monster Futa cock you're packing. But after that we're turning to back into a boy whether you like it or not."

Bianca bit her lip, blushing. "Deal!"

[uncanny-tranny]

i was wondering if you had any advice on dealing with dysphoria? mines been getting worse lately, especially chest, and i feel shitty about things i never even used to. like specifically my face shape and like general way it looks, i literally never used to get any dysphoria about it and now its like happening kinda often. i have no idea why its happening and like no masc makeup or anything is really working. so yeah any advice you have would be awesome.

I'm going to be honest, it's perfectly normal to have these sorts of things happen, even if there's no "reason" or nothing seems to work. I want to preface with that because it's really important to realize that sometimes this happens, and it isn't your fault.

The things that might work for you may look different than what I or others do, too, and that is completely fine. Do whatever you find most beneficial. I'm not an expert and I the things I suggest have worked for me and a few others, but that by no means means that you have to do them.

Here are a few things I have done:

Covering mirrors, especially before showers

On the topic of showers, being sure to have a barrier (e.g. washcloth, loofah) between your hands and your body soap

Wearing clothes that are the least dysphoria-heavy or clothing that fits in ways that don't trigger more negative emotions (I found baggier clothing helps me both dysphoria-wise and in general)

Making sure all your emotions about this go somewhere, like a journal. Basically, have a place for you to process everything you feel. I've got old journals filled with entries that are just rambling about how I felt about being pre-transition. It didn't solve the issue, but it did give me an outlet where I could articulate exactly what I felt, so I wasn't as confused or lost by emotions I couldn't process through.

Finding healthy ways that invest in yourself, physically and mentally. I've found that when I am kept occupied with things that make me feel fulfilled, I am able to process through those negative feelings. It doesn't mean you run away from them, and you can certainly still feel dysphoric as hell after, and that is okay, but it means that you fill your life with a variety of experiences.

Surround yourself with a variety of different people and bodies. This one really helped me out personally, just because seeing other people who look just like me was really eye-opening and made me realize that I'm not uniquely less masc or whatever else

Don't discount how you feel. Give yourself as much space as you need to understand where you're coming from, and let yourself feel everything you are able. It's okay to feel a variety of emotions. They are neutral at worst.

This one is best done after you feel a bit better, but I've found learning about my dysphoria triggers really helped me understand how I was feeling and why I got in a bad spot. It's helpful to know exactly what can make symptoms worse or less manageable.

I hope I didn't overwhelm you with these points. Dysphoria fucking sucks sometimes, and I just want to offer you the knowledge that you aren't alone in your experiences. I hope something here may make you think about what works for you specifically. There isn't a universal answer to how dysphoria works in others, and I just want you to know that if you find something wildly different that helps, that is okay. I just hope you are safe and okay. My best regards go to you, I wish you peace. If anybody else wants to share some of their own tips, that would be lovely, too, because having multiple different ideas is a great thing.

[theglitchywriterboi]

If you're a trans person & you get dysphoria from another trans person [or hell, any person in general] just existing: KEEP THAT SHIT TO YOURSELF !!!!

It's really gross to comment on a trans person who is simply vibing & comment on their shit going "This made me so dysphoric". Like imagine you're happy w/ your body & at the beach & some random person is like "Hey, your body makes me hate mine/feel super uncomfortable w/ mine" most of you would be super uncomfortable w/ that.

Yeah second hand dysphoria sucks [as does any dysphoria] but thats a you thing you gotta deal w/ on your own not push it on others.

Also, for all you know, you could trigger THEIR dysphoria/body issues w/ your comment.

If seeing a pic/video of someone else's body makes you dysphoric: Scroll/stop watching.

[sonic-spirit]

OH, AHHH! WHY DOES IT HURT!?

It really fuckin’ sucks that it hurts so damn much to work on It Doesn’t Matter right now. Like, it is not fair, this is my Coping Project, this is how I ROLL. LITERALLY. It is how I Feel Like Myself. Which, fuck you, maybe that is weird, or pathetic, or like, “Not Sonic-like at all”. Fuck you. I’ve spent years being depressed, years trying to get this stupid fucking body to feel and move a bit more like mine. I work hard, and it is tired! YES, I would prefer to be able to run, especially in the woods, or even go hike, but WHOOPS! MY FUCKIN’ BODY PITCHES INTO MAJOR DEPRESSIVE EPISODES WHEN I TRY, BECAUSE I’M BURNING TOO MUCH DAMN ENERGY AT WORK. And I like my job now! It’s a good, physical job doing something that actually matters and helps. And my mates are super good and sweet and help me make it work, because I am bad at all the things! Not to mention that most of the time running makes me feel more dysphoric anyway, because this body sure as hell isn’t mine, and isn’t able to do the things I naturally just DO. Chaos, even getting this thing’s endurance up to a bare minimum of “Able to run a mile” was a wretched endeavor. YEAH, SURE, “OH, YOU LAZY SHIT, YOU MADE YOUR BODY THIS WAY! YOU SHOULD’VE EXERCISED BEFORE!” Yeah, well, I was still majorly dysphoric and depressed. I’ve been doing my best to make peace with this thing and actually take care of it.

But writing IDM sucks right now. Instead of being a focus, a way for me to Be Home the way I…guess I kinda sorta rarely actually did that way? Maybe recording it once it’s happened sorta? I dunno, it’s hard to pinpoint. But instead of me being able to use it to just Be, it’s just making the gulf between where I am and there that much wider. I wrote a thing with me experiencing euphoria there, and it super flared my dysphoria here. Which I guess makes sense, but usually if I was able to do it, I was at least able to just be and feel the euphoria. Even in the bad parts. I dunno. It just sucks right now, because it just leaves me feeling stuck.

And then drawing it for the scene I’m on right now, I just kept freezing, especially because it’s, Oh Boy, draw another crowd forever. But also like, I feel like the 40 second transition shot is a shit way of doing this part, but also I don’t want to do more on this fucking transition…It’s a really shit cycle.

[werevulvi]

So I've been away from tumblr for a while. Not sure how long. Maybe a month? I'm writing a book (fiction) so I've been and still am busy with more fulfilling distractions from reality than social media. The book I'm writing is about a woman, Olga, who's transitioning like me, but then she's an assassin. I don't wanna get into all the itty gritty details of that until I'm done, but writing that book has been serving as a great distraction from my gender issues. Except I need to take breaks from my hyper-focused super intense writing spree at times to not accidentally boil my brain. What? Is working on a project for 10+ hours a day, every day, for over a month a little much? Sorry I can't hear you over my autistic hyperfocus. And those breaks get me tossed right back into... mostly dysphoria. That’s what I wanted to rant about.

I know this is an unfair accusation, but sometimes I wonder just how paranoid and anxious feminism has made me. I fully abhor victim mentality, but sometimes reading feminist posts, articles, etc, about the various evils of men (crime statistics, female victims' accounts of male violence, etc) makes me feel... like a victim, and hopeless, for being female. And it requires a lot of effort to dig myself out of that pit. I need to remind myself that I can trust men, that most of them are not violent, that they're not the real enemy, and that women are not so different from men. Otherwise what? Otherwise I'd give into my PTSD and get drowned out by my dysphoria.

PTSD says all men are dangerous and want my pussy, either to harm it or fuck it. PTSD says it's my fault I'm a victim of sexual trauma, because I am female. And I dunno why, but sometimes feminism echoes that sentiment, and that's not great for my recovery, or my long term pursuit of happiness. Dysphoria says I'm too different from men and that's why I hate being female. Dysphoria doesn't want any special treatment just because I'm female. Feminism echoes what my dysphoria says, sometimes, and that's not great. Dysphoria wants equal treatment. Receiving equity due to my "failed" sex feels like... I dunno, like wanting to crawl out of my fucking skin and set it on fire, I suppose. Bad female skin humiliating me. Because that again reminds me that my sex being female is what's wrong, and not the treatment of women as "weaker" and more emotionally frail. Then my solution is to get rid of my femaleness, so that I can be strong, fast and free. Independent enough to open a fucking jar. I feel trapped in the unfairness itself.

I still want to be different from women, not from men. I want to stand out among women, and I'm jokingly boasting about how I'm such an NLOG (Not Like Other Girls) and proud to be different, in masculine ways. I'm proud to be hairier, having a deeper voice, and that female socialization didn't stick to me as much. And likewise, I feel good when I'm similar to men, blend in among them, am compared to them as an equal to them, and that I managed to pick up on some male socialization. This is more subconscious, and not something I really think about.

I still wish I was male, and that impossible dream still hurts, I guess. I've been trying to distract myself from those thoughts by writing my book and... having sexual fantasies in which I am male. Clearly my own home made therapy that made me connect somewhat with being female (3 years ago) was ineffective in the long run, but now I can't possibly make myself believe I'm a man again, just because I still/again wish I was male. It comes and goes, yes, but it's seemingly in a curvy line that over time points me in the dysphoric direction, and not in the desisting direction. And that's what's so hard. That I basically have to force myself to this realization that... I can't talk myself out of my dysphoria, and that that little bit of connection I got to my sex 3 years ago, was an appetizer for a meal I'll never have. That feels cruel.

And I keep telling myself I don't have dysphoria. Nah, I'm just transitioning for the heck of it. If only!

I don't wanna be trans, and I don't wanna be dysphoric. I wanna be male, but that's different. I can't even see myself as a man simply because I am not male and can never be. Thus, I'm a woman, and unhappy with it. Yet, I clearly can't function as a woman socially either, and that frustrates me. I'm happy that I can look and sound so convincingly male in my appearance, and I'm really excited to go back on testosterone, but I... I feel trapped, in a medical condition I cannot escape. And it doesn't matter what fucking caused it, it's not going away! Point is it's not going away! I've tried for sixteen years! I am tired! And now I can't even call myself a man without laughing all the way to hell and back.

Everyone wants to be trans nowadays. Everyone who benefits from a new label. But I don't. Clearly I don't have an easy time with it, and it might be because I just have a shit ton of sex/physical dysphoria, and not even calling myself a man helps. It just adds insult to injury. I don't wanna play pretend, goddamnit, I wanna be a real boy! That's "problematic" to say, because I shouldn't shatter other trans people's dreams. Well, mine's shattered and I wanna whine about it. I don't blame them for their identities. How could I? Ignorance is bliss, and I miss bliss.

I think that's why I feel like I'm a woman who just wishes she was a man, and kinda always have. I wrote it in my diary when I was 16, four years before I even came out as trans, before I knew anything about trans ideology or gender critical or anything, but I knew I was dysphoric and fit the loose criteria for FTM transsexuals, and I didn't like that verdict. It felt like a death sentence, and now... now it feels like a cruel joke.

I don't think I'm really all that different from trans men. De-gendered, perhaps, but still just as bloody dysphoric and still just as much of a testosterone junkie. I'm just a less happy go lightly kinda FtM. I've always been a bit of a nihilist. The "if you leave the half full glass it will eventually dry the fuck out no matter how much water you keep pouring up into it, because the nature of water is to vaporize" -kinda nihilist, not the "the glass is half empty" -kind. Yes, there is a difference. I'm not a pessimist, I'm a hardcore realist, and reality is... being trans sucks and I can't do fucking shit about it. I want a solution, not rose tinted goggles. But at this point, I'd take that too. I've tried... but they keep falling off.

Perhaps I'm too autistic to get gender identity, or maybe I just don't have social dysphoria or gender incongruence, perhaps it just feels so fucking pointless. Words... they're just blah blah blah. They have whatever meaning we put in them. So I changed my personal meaning of "woman" to include my dysphoria and beard, and since then I'm fine with calling myself a woman. But woman is still just a word. It's what I am that I dislike, not what I'm supposed to call it. My problem is not in how people perceive me. They can perceive me as a stranded jelly fish if they so wish, it doesn't change reality that I'm an adult human female. And it's reality, that biological reality, that bothers me.

And I don't like that I realised that, because biological reality is the one thing I can't change. I can change my identity, but my identity as a woman is not the problem. The problem is my sex is still persistently female. And I don't wanna change what is not a problem. Why fix what ain't broken? I get that my sex isn't broken either (well it might be now, considering I've smashed it with testosterone) but I just don't wanna be a woman. Because dysphoria. No point in arguing. It just goes round and round in circles. I can't make a logical argument for why I don't like ketchup either though. It always comes back to "but I just don't like it."

I just get sad, sometimes, over being female, and uncomfortable. And I get envious of men's bodies, and then I get sad I can't have that. And I try to emulate what men's bodies do, which makes me feel a bit better, but then I remember I'm still female, and I try to be okay with that. Sometimes I even half succeed, and feel like "yeah, being a woman is actually kinda badass!" but then I remember that a cranky uterus and estrogen exist in my body, acting as if they want me to suffer a slow (very slow) death, and I get sad again. Is trying to like being a woman even worth it, considering that's mostly been going downhill since I was 3 years old? Well what the hell are my options, aside from that?! Pretending to be a man? Pretending that the nonbinary labels could do anything at all to benefit my existence?

I'm sorry, but I don't see the appeal, in either of those options. I'll try to just exist. That became my focus; just existing. But I can't distract myself 24/7. Because as soon as I stop distracting myself, for even just a minute, I get caught in the inevitable doom that is my dysphoria, and how hopelessly trapped I am inside it.

[ittakesrain]

Track Your Shit

I sat on the couch in my psychiatrist’s office with my arms crossed and steam billowing out of my ears.

“Are you on cocaine?” he asked without a hint of sarcasm.

“No,” I shot back, completely bewildered but appropriately defensive.

“Then you’re bipolar.”

Yup. That was how I was diagnosed.  And to my memory, that was really the only major piece of information my psychiatrist gave me that day.  There was no supplemental information given to me, no sort of enlightenment or introduction into the all-consuming project that would be managing my difficult and sometimes debilitating condition, and I left the office with what felt like a really random label and a higher dose of Abilify.  I was nineteen years old, I was a chemistry major in college, I’d kicked the hell out of an eating disorder, and I was bipolar. The facts didn’t matter too much. Right?

Over the next several years, I really didn’t hear the word “bipolar” all too frequently, in or out of my psychiatrist’s office, despite the increasingly, uh, intense fluctuations in my moods and energy as well as steadily growing anxiety and irritability. Weird, am I right? For a diagnosis that impacts pretty much all aspects of a person’s life, in one way or another, to not be mentioned nearly enough times? There are more fitting words, but sure, we’ll go with ‘weird.’

By the time I graduated college, I knew my diagnosis was playing a larger role in my life that I originally assumed it would.  I started keeping track of when I took my meds (and with that tried not to miss any doses). I recorded my moods more frequently.  I did some cursory research into my disorder. And I finally started noticing patterns in my cycle and knew to watch out for specific warning signs.  And mind you, doing all of that was a pretty big accomplishment for someone who was given virtually no guidance. Not to mention a medication regime that was significantly lacking.

The first thing I realized was that my episodes often began with feeling “emotionally itchy,” or “like I want to rip my face off” and “jump out of my skin and out of who I am as a person.” Thanks to the knowledge I have now, I can use different language to describe what actually goes on as I inch ever closer to a major episode. I become incredibly irritable and experience what’s called “dysphoric mania.”  I have the racing thoughts and flight of ideas that come with manic episodes, meaning my brain is running at a million miles a minute and I can’t keep myself focused on one idea long enough to think it through, but it’s not what anyone would call a happy feeling (not that mania is to be confused with mere happiness). In my dysphoric state, I have too much energy, so much so that it physically hurts me as it swells from within me and threatens to burst open at any second.  I often cut myself in such a state because I need the assumed and metaphorical emotional release as well as the physical release of endorphins in response to injury.

Then I began to see that if I missed my meds for any period of time longer than a day or two, I felt the effects about two weeks later. If I forgot (or “forgot”) to take my Abilify for let’s say a full week, I’d be in the middle of a relentless and torturous depression in about fourteen days. Sidenote, I shouldn’t have missed ANY days of meds, but lo and behold, I wasn’t exactly warned all too well against it. But to see a pattern, to determine the cause of a specific (and dramatic) dip in my moods, was hugely influential in my life. Not to mention, it brought me to google how the medication I was prescribed actually works. And, spoiler, every single human being who is prescribed any medication at all should be aware of what the fucking medication does and how it works and all of that. Seriously. So important. Turns out Abilify is “long acting” and takes about two weeks to leave my system.

Furthermore, Abilify is a type of drug called an “atypical antipsychotic.” Those types of drugs are frequently used as mood stabilizers. They’re the second generation of drugs that you’ve probably seen being used on dramatic medical shows or movies about psychiatric hospitals that knock people who are acting “insane” out. They’re used as tranquilizers. Haldol is an example of one that works fast and Thorazine is an example of one that works somewhat slower. Those are called typical antipsychotics. Atypicals like Abilify have fewer side effects. They work to influence serotonin (the neurotransmitter sometimes called the “happy molecule”) as opposed to blocking signals from dopamine (the “pleasure and reward” neurotransmitter).

Right. So as you see I’ve become fairly well-versed in the goings-on of impending episodes and the key pieces of information surrounding them. Again, this is phenomenally helpful. But my point is that I should have been given this information from the get-go. I should’ve been prepared and taught, should’ve been armed with education given to me by a human being who knew what the fuck was happening to me and how bad it would potentially get if I didn’t have the fucking said information! I got there myself, and I’m damn proud of myself for doing so. And it still brings me peace of mind and a sense of control to research bipolar disorder, and learn new things about treatments and meds and biochemistry, and to work through my recorded moods and symptoms to find existing patterns or warnings. But for fuck’s sake, why wasn’t I told about the importance of recording the fluctuations or about psychoeducation as a tremendously powerful tool?

Alright alright, not going to continue dwelling on the past and how I was royally screwed (at least not in this particular blog post). Because as I look to the future, I know things will at the very least make more sense. I’ll at least be able to understand this bullshit and from there hopefully combat it better.

Which brings me to a few months ago as I began to embark on a new and more um, intense journey of self-discovery and understanding –which, in turn, is allowing me to feel significantly less dread about my eventual (and inevitable?) next episodes. It started when I wound up in the emergency room for the first time in October 2018 when a depressive episode took a terrible turn for the worse. I was 27 years old and at the end of my rope. Exhausted from years of worsening symptoms and my cries for help going unheard, my begging and pleading remaining unnoticed, I collapsed into chaotic despair.

The good that came from that particular visit to rock bottom was that I subsequently found a therapist (no, I hadn’t been in therapy previously and yes, that was really dumb) who is literally the coolest person ever, in addition to being really fucking good at what she does. And a few months after that, my amazing therapist helped me find a better psychiatrist, and from there we all began the arduous task of getting my act together and trying to stabilize the shitshow of my life.

As it turns out, since I was on a medication that didn’t do much for me for such a long time, my bipolar disorder was able to “mature.” To further develop and overall just get worse. Literally look it up. It’s a known thing that bipolar worsens if left untreated, and I absolutely feel that mine at the very least wasn’t being treated properly. Lucky me.

But since beginning to see my therapist in November and my new medication provider in February, I’ve learned like, so so so much. I know to stop and breathe when I start to get worked up, because I know I have gone for long periods of time without inhaling and exhaling like a functioning human. I know that I fidget around and repeat purposeless motions (“display signs of psychomotor agitation”) because it comforts me when I’m anxious. I know I have issues with control, with the desire to feel safe, with things that aren’t fair.

Also. Insomnia is a huge red flag for me and for the majority of bipolars. It’s both a symptom of approaching mania and a trigger for it. Meaning, when you start staying up all night long, you’ve gotta find a way to get some sleep before it gets worse and leads to an episode. It also means that you can’t voluntarily pull all-nighters (if you can help it) because that might land you in the middle of a manic break as well. And as if that wouldn’t suck enough, a despairing depression would most certainly follow the agitated (hypo)mania.

Alcohol is another one. Now, I’m not huge on drinking. I never partook in any of that before I was of legal age anyway (which is perhaps a testament to my nerdy younger self haha), and once I started drinking, I had trouble getting past the gross taste. I still do. But when I drink as an adult (which I haven’t done in a few months, mind you), I drink to get fucked up. So basically, I drink in a way that’s literally terrible for my bipolar. It’s a cycle, too.  I’ll have a bad day and come home and take five shots of fireball, and I get shitfaced so I have a terrible day the next day. It’s similar to insomnia in that it perpetuates itself and that I’ve gotta be responsible about it.

[On that note, by the way, I should say that maintaining stability involves quite a few key things (such as sleep hygiene, med compliance, the nutrition you fuel your body with, the way you move your body, being mindful and having the ability to focus on breathing, following pre-set routines, your support system, your coping skills and crisis-management tools, and your healthcare professionals…to name a few). It’s imperative to keep up with each thing to prevent all hell from breaking loose.]

I’ve also come to see that, for whatever reason, my major episodes usually have a definitive end but not a clearcut start. As in, I can identify the specific day my depression ends, but the irritability and frenetic energy and aggressive outbursts start out kind of slowly and increase steadily until my moods surrender into despondent melancholy. At this point, I believe the phenomena has to do with my tendency to ruminate and nearly drown in repetitive thoughts. I really struggle with redirecting my brain away from negatives. It could also be because of my coexisting ADHD, but either way, I can’t knock myself out of a bad mood as easily as most people can. So even something small going wrong has the potential to send me spiraling. I can’t think myself out of it. But I can easily make it worse –by ruminating and letting the negatives repeat like a broken record in my head. The decline, therefore, moves like a ball rolling down a ramp. On the opposite end of a “crazy spell” (as I called them way back in the day before I learned all this enlightening information) we have the ball being yanked back up as if it was attached to a string or something. As in, something good can happen that completely “snaps me out” of a major depression. It’s wild to think about. Like, fuck, why can’t more good things happen? Maybe then I’d spend less time wanting to die. I have, however, come to learn how to put myself in the line of things that have the potential to knock me off the crazy train. File that under “bitchin’ coping skills.”

Thanks to psychoeducation, I’ve also come to understand some of my personality traits. I’ve often called myself “volatile.” I fly off the handle fairly quickly, I accelerate from zero to 100 faster than the Kinga Ka roller coaster at Six Flags. My therapist calls it being reactive, and I prefer that phrasing now. My reactivity is part of my personality, but I understand it more clearly by looking at it through the lens of what I know about bipolar disorder. Similarly, in addition to reacting more, I react bigger. I guess some people might call it being dramatic, but again, I prefer to think of it in terms of how my therapist explained it: I’m wired intensely. I feel things in a bigger way. She once said something along the lines of “you can light up a city with your emotions,” and I don’t think she used the word emotions, but that was the gist. My intensity if a part of who I am. And honestly, as much as it can be super annoying and anxiety-producing, it’s not all bad and I choose to label it as a good thing.

Oh, and I pretty much knew this already, but I like to write/type because in my bipolar brain, the thoughts move more quickly than my mouth can move. It causes me to stutter, or stumble over my words, or lose my train of thought because I didn’t say something the right way and I can’t make my mouth move in a way to correct myself because I have fifteen thousand other thoughts flying through my mind and I can’t focus on any of it now. I exhibit pressured speech. Oh yeah, that’s one of my faves.

Thanks to psychoeducation, I’ve learned why I cling to my routines with a death-grip. Doing so is legitimately helpful to people with bipolar. Which is why going on vacation or starting a new job or a new chapter in life can throw bipolar people off in such grand ways. Circadian rhythms are screwy in us. We need to work hard to keep that shit in check. And the sleep-wake cycle and yes, routines, are part of that.

Okay then. With all of this knowledge being attained and a few more trips to rock bottom (and the emergency room) since October 2018…here I am. Still holding on, and doing better at that holding than I have in a while. A month and a half of normalcy without anything rocking the boat? I feel pretty damn good, thank you very much.

Oddly enough, stability can be just as scary for me as the complete and utter chaos of the rest of it. Like, now I have no excuses for not moving forward. Ugh, I have to move forward. But ya know what, I will. Because I’ve got the bipolar symptoms under control at the moment. There’s really nothing stopping me, so I’m sure as hell not gonna stop me.

Keeping records is absolutely fucking necessary. I’ve got no choice but to record my moods, anxiety, and irritability. I’ve gotta take my meds every fucking day and keep track of if I ever miss a day (which I shouldn’t). I need to write down other factors that play a role, such as my periods and when I have therapy and life stressors and stuff like that.

It’s taken, holy shit, so much work to acquire the awareness I currently have. And moving forward will require consistently working on what I know and actively seeking more information. But dude, I’ve come this far. I’m not gonna stop now.

[thetruscumsiren]

I’m so heartbroken I hate being in an art class because I’m horrible at building things and so my vision is always a million times better than what I end up making and she makes us do self evaluations and I legit almost cry every time. Like I try so hard but I never get better and it always looks like a shitty middle school project and it looks so rushed and sloppy. I really want to be good at art but I never improve and I know it takes time but I’ve been trying for years and I don’t think I’ve improved at all. It’s really hard to keep trying when you’ve been trying for years and it never gets better. I just want to be good at something. I’m always mediocre or bad at everything I do and it makes me so sad. Like I just want to be good at something. But no matter how much effort I put in, no matter how much time i put in, no matter how much I persevere, no matter how much help I get, it always looks horrible.

And when I say horrible I mean it. Not like the whole “I’m a perfectionist and this one building is crooked so it’s horrible” thing even though I am 100% like that sometimes. But it really looks like a shitty middle school project and everyone’s looks better than mine. Like my buildings are sloppy and my painting is horrible and my base is poorly put together and it looks like I didn’t try at all. But I did. I really did. But it looks like I just did the project to get it over with and I’m so fucking sad about it. I’m amazing at ideas but I’m horrible at trying to execute them.

Like my writing is alright but it’s nothing special and honestly people only like it because I write in fanfiction style format by default. My art is horrible. I’ve been playing guitar for years and I can barely remember what chords are what and I can barely play well. My singing is okay but my technique is bad and I get so dysphoric about my voice that I’m scared to sing most days now. My lyrics are boring and shitty and I can’t compose to save my life. My poetry is mediocre at best, but it just feels like a Pete Wentz reject poem with 5th grade language. I’ve been trying to dance for years but I look like someone’s drunk father at best. My photography is nothing special. I can’t play any sports. I can’t act and hell I can barely make the correct expressions in day to day conversation. I just want to be good at something. ANYTHING. But I’m just not and it makes me feel horrible. I try to be confident and have that whole “I don’t have to be good at a thing to enjoy it” vibe but I just want to feel like I’m good at something. It just feels like I fail everything I do. I’m just :(((((

(Plus everyone always lies to me so I never get constructive criticism so I never know what to actually work on or get any tips on what I should do and it’s really hurting me like please tell me I suck i need to know where to start)

[awolspaceman]

how my dysphoria manifests i guess

just gonna warn u right here: this is gonna get in depth talking about dysphoria. if that triggers you, keep scrolling and have a lovely damn day! (also, i anticipate that this is going to get l o n g)

so i’ve seen a ton of shit coming from tucutes about how us “nasty horrible transmeds believe you need to despise yourself to be trans!!!!!!! they’re so harmful to the trans community!!!!!!!” so i just wanna dispel some of those myths. please keep in mind that i’m one person and my experience is totally not universal. i have trans friends who do hate themselves due to dysphoria, and i have friends who aren’t super dysphoric but still experience gender dysphoria. it’s a varied experience. here’s mine. 

i don’t hate my body. if we add up all the things i like/love about my body and then subtract everything i don’t like, we still end up with a positive. i got blessed by the genetics from my parents that i have a relatively masculine face, as well as a pretty pronounced adams apple by female standards. i have really nice eyes in my opinion, and i have some of the thickest eyebrows that i know of. so yeah, i got a masculine face. 

i am very unlucky with the rest of my body. from the neck down, here’s some of the things i like about myself: my collarbones, my shoulders, my hands, my arms, my calves, and my feet. those are all pretty masculine if you ask me. i’m 5′7 and wear US men’s size 9 shoes, and i’m a broad dude (my dad is disappointed in me for one reason and it’s that i don’t competitively swim). unfortunately, i’ve got a big chest. i don’t just have a big chest by trans guy standards, i have a big chest by female standards (if you wanted to put me in a size i’d be a 36 DD, which means i have a bulky ribcage and an even bulkier chest). i’m never perfectly flat while binding, and trust me, i’ve tried on a lot of binders. i live in sweatshirts. i’m also pretty damn curvy, with a smaller waist and thick thighs (mostly muscle, but it still makes me fairly hourglass). apart from my shoulders (which are probably the reason i don’t have that “perfect” hourglass figure thing), i have a super feminine build. that’s just how it be. we’re not even gonna talk about bottom dysphoria because i think you get how my entire body is contradicting itself.

so how does my dysphoria manifest, i hear you asking. my dysphoria is this weird thing that never really goes away. however, it’s not complete and total self hatred. let’s use the shower i took tonight as an example. when i look at myself naked, my body doesn’t register my feminine “bits” as mine. seriously. my brain cannot comprehend that my chest is a part of me. it cannot comprehend my lack of penis, so its circuits overload and i just feel... nothing about it. that feeling of nothingness is then replaced with a similar feeling to touching raw meat. just kind of “huh, that’s weird and kind of gross. i’d like this to be over as quick as possible, please and thank you.” i’m currently sitting in bed, and my chest is pressing into my stomach slightly. i’m not constantly focusing on it (yes, it’s physically uncomfortable, but it’s not making my dysphoria make me want to die), but in the back of my mind, the “ew raw meat” feeling is constantly running. not a fun time. my brain would like to be rid of that feeling as soon as possible. problem is, i’m kinda stuck with it. no matter how much i bind and how much pointless youtube i watch, it’s always there and isn’t going to go away until after i’ve had surgery. 

you know those cursed images that make you go “yeeeeeeeeesh, that’s n a s t y oh god it gets nastier the more i look”? yeah, that “ewwwwwwwww” feeling is the feeling i get. it just feels wrong, and i sure would like it to feel right. do i feel this way all the time? pretty much, unless i’m super distracted, which i try and do all the time. does my dysphoria get to debilitating self-hate sometimes? yeah. lemme explain, with a few choice excerpts from my life. 

this was june, 2018. not that long ago. i needed some sports bras so i could work out, go on long road trips, etc, without binding dangerously or for too long. let’s just say, buying high support sports bras for people with large chests is.... difficult. so, since my mum is a Saint and understands how my dysphoria works, we measured me and bought stuff online. when the stuff came in, there was a return deadline, so i needed to make sure it fit. this is where my dysphoria becomes near debilitating. i ended up sobbing in my room and writing in a small journal i had about how horrible i felt, and this is the gist of what i remember: i want a knife to cut off my chest. i dont care how painful it will be, i just need it GONE. 

i’m on a medication called norethindrone. it stops ovulation and therefore, i don’t get my period (its a fucking blessing. i gained a little weight with it but it’s not too bad, no heavy mood swings, and so if ur a trans dude who wants to stop your periods, check in with your primary doctor about it! they can prescribe it to you, you don’t need to be in gender therapy or anything). however, my natural hormones overloaded it once, about a year ago almost to the day. i got my period for the first time in four months (i had only been on the medication for about that long), and it was hell. i was having more cramps than i had ever had, and my dysphoria was just skyrocketing. i’d had the privilege of not menstruating for a while, and so i’d gotten used to it, and wasn’t prepared for the mental toll of my medication failing. it was horrible.

tomorrow, i’m going into the city with my parents to meet with some people to talk about freezing my eggs. it’s the one thing i need to figure out before i start HRT, so hopefully we figure it all out rather quickly (testosterone is on the horizon babey!!!!! we’re talkin like hopefully under a year until i can start it but idk). however, the thought of even talking about my uterus makes me feel sick. my brain refuses to acknowledge that i have it, so forcing it to acknowledge a part of me i try hard to ignore is 1. exhausting and 2. really distressing. talking about it with my parents made me dysphoric, and when this special flavor of my dysphoria rears its ugly head, i swear i can feel my internal organs shifting with discomfort. so, yeah, my dysphoria gets pretty nasty. 

so let’s just review. personally, my dysphoria manifests as this weird thing my brain cant quite comprehend but definitely does not enjoy, and sometimes it spikes to those self-hating, “everything about me sucks and i want to die” levels, but those are normally induced by me getting deadnamed or misgendered or i’m forced to think about aspects of my body that i work hard to ignore. this is my experience and i’m allowed to share it. not everyone’s is like mine, but i think maybe, just maybe, one person who sides with tucute ideology will read this and maybe, just maybe, they’ll change their mind about the “horrible self-hating transmed ideology” that other tucutes talk about and demonize. 

have a nice night y’all. get some sleep and eat breakfast tomorrow.

[alteriius]

Dysphoric

FANDOM: Final Fantasy XV PAIRING: Noctis/Prompto WORD COUNT: 2,311 LINKS: AO3 | FFN

Trans Prompto, dysphoria and a little bit of bed sharing. If this is the type of content you enjoy and you like my work, consider buying me a coffee! Also open to requests!

“Admit it, we're lost!”

“We are not lost.”

Prompto Argentum is the first to admit that Noctis isn't much of a liar. Hell, his honesty is probably a hazard to Lucis, as far as most its politicians are concerned, but that mattered little. He could say with confidence that most people preferred an honest king to a liar, even if he came baring disheartening information.

But as much of a liar Noct wasn’t, that didn’t mean he couldn’t tell one. Being a blunt guy didn’t mean he wouldn’t pretend that he knew where they were going until it was clear that he’d lost their way well over an hour ago.

“Dude, we're totally lost. There's the coeurl we killed like thirty minutes ago!”

“Okay, for on thing, that was maybe twenty minutes, but fine, yes,” Noctis says with an eye roll so aggressive that Prompto wouldn’t be surprised if they rolled right out of his head. He leans heavy on his “good” leg, eyes scouring the trees for their destination to no avail before making their way back to Prompto. “We’re a little lost.”

“Finally!” Prompto says, raising his hands toward the sky, as if reciting a silent prayer to the Astrals, thanking them for this blessing. Noct’s half-hearted glare stops him from actually singing his praises to the Six.

“You're more than welcome to show me where I should be going if you know so much better,” Noctis says with a wave of his hand, gesturing at the foreign landscape stretched out before him.

Oh, hell no.

“Right, uh, buddy. Pal. Kinda defeats the point of a camera man is he taking the lead.”

There’s another roll of his eyes, but Prompto doesn’t miss the way Noct’s lips twitch upwards into a smile that gives away his amusement.

“Yeah, you just wanna take pics of me falling on my ass,” Noctis says and Prompto touches a hand to his heart, offended by the mere concept that he would enjoy the opportunity to ruin his friend’s reputation. But he doesn’t have the chance to continue messing around, if only because they need to be adults for once, instead of letting Iggy do all the legwork for them.

“We're gonna have to camp soon. It's getting late,” Noctis says and any glee Prompto had found in their antics disappears. He groans at the idea of sleeping on the ground again. This would make the fourth night in a row—and this time, he couldn’t even blame Ignis being cheap.

“Ya know, I think we need to convince Ignis that sleeping on a giant magical rock that sends a smoky wisp thing up into the air to alert everyone to where it's at is probably not very beneficial to our health.”

“Tried it.”

A laugh spills from Prompto’s lips as a smile spreads across Noct’s face. The two of them walk onwards in the dimming light, searching for anything that might resemble safety once night fell. It’s the aforementioned sliver of smoky light that leads them to their destination and it’s not until he takes a running leap to the top of the rock that he realizes how shit out of luck they are.

“Aw, man,” Prompto says aloud, letting loose a whine as he swivels on his heels to look at his friend. “We’re gonna freeze our balls off out here, Noct.”

That was to be expected, but it somehow slipped his mind that as infinite as Noctis’s internal storage apparently was, their camping equipment had a home in the trunk of the Regalia, rather than the Armiger. Tents, sleeping bags… Come morning, they were both going to have nasty colds and aching backs to match.

“I have, uh…” Noctis says, pausing to hum softly before something flickers into existence in his hands, pulled from the Armiger. “This?”

This is a just a single, solitary blanket, not particularly thick and superior to what Prompto could offer—which was nothing—but it does little to make him feel better about the night they’d be spending away from their other comrades.

“That’s… not gonna get us very far.”

“Yeah, but it’s all we’ve got,” Noct says, shrugging off Prompto’s observation before he tosses the blanket to him. It covers Prompto’s face and by the time he’s wrestled it from the top of his head, Noctis is disappearing over the edge of the rock to retrieve a few pieces of firewood so they don’t actually freeze to death.

Apart from this sad little blanket, a fire was going to be their only means of staying relatively warm.

A sigh leaves his lips as he tips his head back for a moment to look at the stars starting to appear in the sky amidst the warm hues of the fading sun.

Looks like he's stuck prepping their, uh… sleeping arrangements.

Their camp is a sorry one. It can hardly be called one at all, but the sky is clear and the daemons are distant, so despite the chill in the air, they still had plenty to be thankful for. The fire isn’t going to stave off the cold as much as he’d like, but it’s better than nothing and it’s easy to ignore the chill in the air when he’s teasing Noct for cheating and using magic to start the fire.

It’s easy to ignore the temperature that’s steadily dipping sitting here with Noct, sucking down dinner that was little more than a nice meal of enhanced cup noodles. It’s not until they’re getting ready to underneath their single, solitary blanket that he begins to feel the cold. Their jackets are peeled away, laid down to defend them as much as possible from stone beneath them.

The rest should be easy. Years of knowing Noctis had given them time to have plenty of sleepovers in the past. There were perhaps too many times where Prompto ended up crashing at his place—in his bed—because he’d missed the last train. Not to mention, Noct was his best bud. The only real tragedy here would be if he wasn’t allowed to cuddle away the cold with him.

Noct is the first one to find a home in their shoddy sleeping arrangements. That’s no surprise. What he’s not expecting is for Noctis to stop him before he can crawl in to join him.

“C'mon, man, I'm freezing my junk off out here.”

“You’re not wearing that to bed.”

Violet blue eyes find a sudden interest in the stone beneath his feet more than the face of his friend. He can’t help biting down on his lip, chewing on the tender flesh there for a moment as he mulls over how to win the ensuing argument.

Anyone with half a brain would know what Noctis was talking about—and it’s not the pants he’s borrowed from him to keep the cold from clinging to his skin like it would if he slept in his boxers as per usual.

“Aw, come on, man. Don't be Ignis,” he tries, wringing his hands in front of him, chest constricting the minute the words were out of his mouth. That is 100% your anxiety, he tells himself, not wanting to believe it’s anything else, despite the likelihood of it.

The way Noct’s face scrunches up at the mere suggestion that he’s even remotely similar to his adviser elicits a breath of laughter from Prompto, though he knows a loss is in the cards. All he’s doing is prolonging the inevitable.

“I'm not ‘being Ignis’. You can't sleep in a binder, Prom.”

“Uh, and I can't sleep with my tits, like, on you.”

“Like they’re any different than mine.”

From day one, it’s been obvious that Prompto was the only one bothered by the disparity between his identity and his body. The only “disturbance” that had occured due to Prompto’s confession was Ignis being surprisingly upset that he hadn’t been told in advance so he could tailor meals more appropriately to minimize the negative impacts of what Prompto liked to call his “monthly hell”—and Prompto couldn’t have been happier to say that the extra effort wasn’t necessary.

But Noctis had known longer than Gladio or Ignis. He had found out back in high school, when his stupid uterus had decided to be on anything buta schedule and Prompto had been forced to tell the prince of his fucking country that he was trans and could he please go buy him a couple things because he couldn’t very well walk down the street bleeding everywhere.

Words could never express how grateful he was to have a friend that would not only go out and do exactly that, but would also deal with the weeksthat the press spent trying to track down who he was dating.

So if there was any one person that Prompto should feel comfort being around without a binder, it should probably be Noct—if only that was enough to will away his dysphoria.

“Prom,” Noctis says, voice as soft as it is stern. It’s the tone of his voice that dissolves whatever drive he has to keep his chest as flat as possible. Much as he hates the fat sacks hanging from his chest like a pair of anatomically-infused weights, sleeping in a binder is a bad idea.

Noct's right. He knows this; he knows that the ache in his chest isn’t anxiety.

“Fiiine, just… turn around, would ya?”

Noct does as told, but that doesn’t mean Prompto’s satisfied.

“And close your eyes.”

Prompto can’t even see his face to confirm whether or not he actually does it, but he decides that maybe—just maybe—Noct is trustworthy enough to assume that he did as told.

“And cover them with your hands!”

“Prom, really?” Noct asks, though Prompto hears more amusement than irritation in his voice, despite the exaggerated sigh as his hands move up to comply with Prompto’s demands.

“Listen, I'm not taking any chances with you after that time you grabbed me, Mister!”

Noct sputters, ears flushing bright even in the dim light as he tries and fails to make anything but words. It takes him so long to figure out how his mouth works that Prompto’s already stripping his tank off when he says, “It was an accident! Besides, you’re one to talk! You had your hand on my ass how many times today?!”

“Dude, I have to make sure you still have one after all the lazing around you do. Think about how disappointed Lady Lunafreya would be if her husband was assless?”

“Hey, I have an ass!”

“Yeah, sure, buddy,” he says with a laugh as he peels off the tight, black binder, letting loose a breath of sweet relief that came with the first opportunity he’s had to breath properly all day. But the absence of it reminds him of another issue as the air hits his bare skin, causing a shiver to rock his body. “Hey, uh… Don't suppose you have an extra shirt? Iggy had all of mine for washing… And the tank is a little…”

Tight, he wants to say, but the thought of how it would emphasize a part of his body that he hated second most was enough to make him cringe. But as always, Noctis doesn’t question him, doesn’t second guess whatever is on Prompto’s mind.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he pauses to fish through the armiger a moment before retrieving one of his spare shirts and Prompto was grateful when he reached back without looking to hand it to him. He doesn’t scold him for pulling his hands away from his face to do it, either. “Here.”

“Thanks, man.”

It’s when the shirt is in his hands that he knows he’s been more than blessed by the Gods, given the friend that he has.

“Oh, Noct,” he whispers, tone exaggerated. “My favorite fabric. How did you know? Not even my nips will suffer tonight.”

He hears a huff of laughter from his friend, but the joke that follows has Prompto gasping in mock offense.

“It's my subtle way of saying, ‘Please keep your shirt on’.”

“Like you haven’t seen ‘em before, your highness.”

Both of them chuckle at that, knowing the truth of it. It’d be hard for Noct not to see his bare chest once of twice when he was constantly getting his ass kicked. How many times had he needed to help bandage a wound that he’d waited too long to grab a potion for?

Prompto pulls on the shirt offered to him, relishing in the familiar soft fabric that was easy even on the most sensitive of skin.

“Okay,” he says, signalling to Noct that he can finally turn back around. This time, their eyes meet and a smile lights Prompto’s face as Noctis opens up the space he’d previously closed off for his sake. He’s quick to settle into their makeshift sleeping bag, laying close—too close by the standards of some—to his friend and curling an arm around him. “Give me your best octopus impression.”

Noctis wastes no time in leeching off Prompto’s natural warmth while Prompto suffers a few minutes through the chill that’s settled into Noct’s limbs. He spots a hint of the same tired smile he’s been seeing all evening before it disappears into blond locks.

“Night, Prom,” Noct mutters, voice already slurred from sleep. He was going to wake up with a stiff back tomorrow. He was going to wish they'd never wandered out of Gladio and Ignis's field of vision, but he had none of those regrets right now.

“Night, Noct,” he whispers, the soft snoring he gets in response eliciting a giggle from him that fills his chest with warmth instead of the usual anxiety.

Nah, this couldn’t be counted among his regrets, no matter how sore his back would be come morning.

[aquarianlights]

Hey I just have a question, as a transboy do you wear a binder on a daily basis and how do you deal in the summer if it's hot where you are? I find that it's extremely uncomfortable when it's hot to wear an extra layer and I'm just wondering if you know of any like lighter solutions than a normal binder? Xx

I actually don’t know any lighter solutions to binders, tbh. :/ I’m sorry. My favourite binder is from a company…uhm…GC2B? Or uh…something like that. Anyways…it’s absolutely amazing. And it’s actually rather breatheable, surprisingly. It does still get hot af, though. But I mean…during the summer, if you ARE going to wear binders…wear the ones that only cover the bare minimum. Like…only ones that cover your chest and nothing else. It helps with the heat problem a bunch. 😣 Coz I mean…if you don’t wear a binder, you’re probably gonna wear a bra (I hope???) so that’s still an extra layer in a sense but holy fuck bras are SO MUCH MORE BREATHEABLE THAN BINDERS. Not to mention they don’t squeeze you like binders do. “But that’s common sense, Riles. Don’t even go there.” Okay okay sorry. Tangent.

BUT. To answer your other question…I don’t always bind in the summer for the heat reasons. If I know I’m gonna be outside for more than 30 minutes, I don’t wear a binder. I am susceptible to heat exhaustion because of my medications so I have to be really careful. Not to mention, I get hot as fuck SO easily…and it puts me in SUCH a bad mood, that if someone even so much as rubbed me the wrong way, I would probably snap their neck off. You have no idea how many physical fights I have gotten into simply because it was too hot out and I had been in the sun too long. Fucking hell, I mean, …with what global warming (cough humans cough) is doing to this planet, I would not even be surprised if wearing a binder could KILL YOU in this heat. I mean, in case you missed it, things are literally MELTING in Arizona. Like. Fuck, dude. ._. Idk about you, but, being psychologically tortured and uncomfortable is better than dying of heat stroke or heat exhaustion or yknow…being literally cooked alive from the inside out. So no I don’t really wear binders during the summer. Or hot months in general.

I don’t always wear a binder when it’s comfortable out, either. I have to outwardly portray as female around my family so I don’t get beaten or yelled at or locked up. I also outwardly portray as female when I’m at home in the south. Basically because I’m scared of getting raped or shot or burned alive or whatever. I have had cis men shout at me that they want to “rape the girl back into me” and I have had a gun pointed to my head over my expressing myself as male outwardly. So…I mean…I’m just…scared, tbh. And since I’m in MA SURROUNDED BY FAMILY (aunts, uncles, great aunts and uncles, cousins, second cousins, third cousins, …I mean…holy wow, practically my whole damn family is up here so I’m constantly in the presence of everyone AND their friends) I just don’t bother binding. However…I have fairly small breasts and I always wear a bra that tucks them close to my chest in a comfortable way (not always a sports bra). So when I put on my clothes over that…it really only looks like I have little raises on my chest. You can barely tell at all. I mean, yes, you can tell…but it covers it pretty nicely. Helps that my breasts are really small.

But…I do think that I’m gonna start binding when I go to family things now. Coz after talking to one of my second cousins, I have found out that our family is pretty open to the LGBTQIA+ population…as we have QUITE A FEW lesbians and gays in our family. I think I’m the only transgender one, though. But some…a lot…of my family knows what transgender is (surprisingly, even a lot of my older 40-50+ aged family memebers know transgender things)…and I came out to a lot of people I felt it was safe to come out to so far…so I mean…I feel like when my mom introduces me as my birth name, I am going to start stepping up and saying “Please. Call me Riley. I am transgender and I don’t go by that name anymore.” Because I’m finding out that…the north is a LOT more accepting of us than the south is. Like…I don’t feel like I’m gonna get raped or murdered here if I go out of the house with my chest bound and portrayed as outwardly male. So I’m gonna start doing that…coz, I mean… I’m going to be getting on hormones anyways so my family will find out EVENTUALLY ANYWAYS. WHY NOT NOW. UGH.

Fuck. Tangent…sorry, mate. Lol.

But ANYWAYS…to answer your questions:No, I don’t know any cooler options to a binder. If any of my followers know, PLEASE shoot me an ask to publish or respond to this ask in the thread.No, I don’t wear a binder in the summer.

And, yes, I’m completely downplaying how utterly PHYSICALLY ILL it makes me feel to go outside outwardly portraying as female…but I will be damned if I end up passing out in the middle of Boston because I couldn’t handle taking my binder off. I do NOT want to die…and that would be an EXTREMELY painful way to die. And YES the dysphoria it causes makes me FEEL like I’m dying, but…fuck it. I can’t handle heat, man…the way the binders squeeze me makes the heat thing even more unbearable. And binders+heat=panic attacks for me. Coz I feel like I can’t breathe.

So…man…the only thing I can advise is invest in some bras that push your breasts down. Sports bras are a good way to start…but I found some that are a lot softer than that, push without it FEELING like it’s pushing, and gently cup your boobs on the inside with super soft breatheable material. And most of it is netted material…so it’s nice and breatheable. I think I got them at Target? Maybe Wal-Mart. Fuck, I can’t remember.

But I SERIOUSLY recommend getting a binder from these GC2B people. I forget if that’s the right name of the company…I will edit this when I can google it. Sorry. I’m on mobile. BUT ANYWAYS dude lemme fuckin tell you about these badass binders okay. 😎 Like holy fuck where do I start. They’re fashionable, they’re breatheable, they fit like a glove when you get the right size (and omg they have AMAZING staff and customer support that will help you return yours if it’s not the right size and exchange it for another size), they don’t squeeze you to death, they’re made of REALLY nice material, they don’t pull on your shoulders, they come in a variety of colours and skin tones and different models, they’re extremely durable…and they do the job they’re designed to do. And they do it DAMN WELL. When I put mine on, you can’t tell I have boobs at all. It chisels my chest into nice pecs. Like…I could not ask for a better binder. They’re not super expensive either. I mean…yeah, they cost a good bit, but they’re not “expensive”. They cost a COMPLETELY fair amount. And I PROMISE YOU they will help you find your right size no matter how many times you have to exchange sizes. And yes they have a measuring chart…like every FTM shop should!

But anyways I’m going on another tangent.

I’m really sorry I couldn’t answer your questions…Sometimes I wear baggy tops to cover my chest when I’m feeling more dysphoric than usual. And I feel dysphoric every time I don’t bind my chest. So summer fucking sucks. Stay indoors…lol. That’s the best advice…if you do things indoors, a binder shouldn’t be a problem. A/C is a fucking miracle, tbh. 😧

If anyone has any answers or personal experience to share for this lovely person, PLEASE hit up my inbox so I can publish it…or reply to this thread so nons can keep track of it. 🙂

Ily nonny! I’m sorry you’re having a hard time. I know that feel all too well… I really hope you find a solution that helps with the awful dysphoria. :/ And if you DO figure out something on your own…PLEASE come back and let me know. I would love to be able to comfortably bind during the summer without being cooked alive by the sun. Lol.