zannesgender - Tumblr blog

[zannesgender]

I was diagnosed with Adult ADHD this week at the tender age of 43.

I have decided to journal my experiences and thoughts of the process in case it helps someone else realize they might be neurodivergent and possibly benefit from treatment!

The first thing I want to talk about is that thing we so often do when we consider we possibly maybe might have ADHD, or depression, or gender dysphoria.

We too often tell ourselves "I would know if I had that. Other people have way worse symptoms and I don't want to take up space that isn't mine.

Now if someone else told us this we would say, "there isn't a set number of disabilities or mental health issues or trans people. You possibly maybe might be experiencing this doesn't take anything from anyone else, and you should at least explore it."

But the thing about growing up with these things, even when you tell yourself you don't, maybe especially when you tell yourself you don't, is that they come with trauma. And trauma can be very convincing voice telling you that you are uniquely bad or lazy or faking it even though you don't believe these are real things for anyone else.

So at some point, hopefully sooner than later, we have to give ourselves permission to look into the possibility. We have to give ourselves permission to be wrong. We have to be willing to take up space.

And so I did.

And the funniest thing is that when I told people I got diagnosed with Adult ADHD, every single person said, "oh yeah that was obvious"

Where were you decades ago when I probably wouldn't have believed you?!!

Oh well, I can never have a different past, but I can have a different present. I can have a different future. e

[zannesgender]

Delicately, you lift the back plate. A loud pop startles you, and you drop your screwdriver onto the concrete floor. “Fucking shit,” you blurt out as you retrieve the screwdriver and clench it in your jaws by its rubber handle to free your hands. You breathe deeply and collect yourself. Hopefully it’s just a frayed wire or blown capacitor; you really don’t feel like spending the whole weekend with a voltmeter, combing through the whole system. You lift the plate and place it to the side onto your lowered workbench. When she went dark, she slumped forward in a particularly convenient position, so you didn’t bother trying to move her to the table.

Pushing aside the bulky tangle of wires running dorsally towards the posterior power bank, you survey the mainboard. Even after all these years of maintenance and study, the beauty and complexity of her inner workings still take your breath away. Aside from a few minor upgrades and replacements, everything still works exactly as Father designed. She was his greatest achievement and your best friend, a work of craftsmanship that sparked the envy of every engineer at his company. Not seeing any obvious damage, you sigh and plug in a data access cable. You stand up and stretch your legs, knees popping in the process, and follow the cable to the computer on top of your desk. After keying in a few commands, a diagnostics progress bar begins stretching across the glowing green monitor. You yawn and make your way over to the coffee maker.

Your pink mug with the glittering pony on the side sits on a ringed stain at the edge of the table. The inside of the mug still has the dregs of your last cup from this morning. After a quick rinse, you top off your favorite mug with the last of the pot. You lean against the table and take a deep sip. Your eyes drift across the room, an old basement-turned-workshop under a little suburban house. You tend to avoid the rest of the house. All the good memories come from this dank workshop. He always looked happy down here. He never cried down here. Only once did he yell down here. He was at his most patient when he was explaining some complex principle of electronics or robotics or coding. You picked up on things quickly, always eager to hear his praise.

“Your mother promised me a little girl,” he’d say, “but sometimes you have to make your own world, fulfill your own promises.” He would not otherwise talk about Mother. You only knew her from photographs hanging on the walls upstairs. You recognize her face, though, reflected in the visage of your sister, stretched over the gears and wires that make her come alive. Your father always knew you would need to keep her in working order, always suspecting that the greed of his company would lead to his early death.

You finish the last of the lukewarm coffee just as the progress bar reaches its end, and the screen fills with diagnostic readouts. You place the mug on its ring and walk over to the desk, settling in to scour the details. As you suspected, power loss appears to have occurred over several seconds, rather than instantaneously. You trace the path of failures, mentally visualizing the architecture throughout her body. You determine the most likely cause to be a faulty wire somewhere in a lower appendage. The good news is it should be an easy repair. The bad news is, access can be a real pain in the ass.

You walk over to your sister and get a firm grip just under her arms. You lift her up and pull her forward, extending her legs and laying her down prone, face down. Satisfied with her position, you walk over and rummage through your instruments cabinet to retrieve your borescope. You hunch down over her body and, after disconnecting peripheral power from the primary supply, you feed the cable down the access panel and into the upper left thigh, observing the feed on the attached monitor. The camera snakes down gently through the cogs and spokes and wires, a tiny light illuminating the immediate surroundings. Eventually a small, black patch of wires catch your attention. Upon further inspection you find that one of the wires has frayed through its sheath, exposing the bare copper to the environment.

With your scalpel, you make a small incision where the camera’s light shines through the synthetic skin. You clean the charred debris from the wires and carefully wrap the point of the fray in insulated adhesive tape. You rearrange the bundle of wires in a way to reduce further wear at that point and apply a bit of skin paste over the incision. You let the curing lamp sit over the incision point as you reattach the power cables, replace the back panel, and close her up. A soft pressure on the nape of her neck, just to the right of her spine, and the whirring electronics begin anew.

You can feel the vibrations as you gently run your hand down the length of her naked body. Her warmth returns quickly, though her startup processes take time. You made her whole, just as she made you whole. Father saw no need in certain anatomical details, despite her appearance as a young adult. And why would he? All he wanted was a daughter to call him Papa, to sit at his feet and laugh and make him feel alive and not so alone. You could never be this, not to him. You knew you were, but he refused to see you as such. To him, you would always be “Boy,” the one who brings and cooks and cleans, the one who cries too much, sleeps too much, needs too much.

She gave you both new life. She listened and understood. She studied and learned what it meant to be human. She saw her differences and mourned her fate. But you made her whole. While father slept, you worked. She showed you the body she wanted, and you spent hours and days tirelessly working, carefully hiding the results of your work. She was also careful to keep the changes hidden. She feared he would never understand, as he never understood you. When you were finally done, you stood shyly behind her as she examined your work in the mirror, tracing her hands over her breasts and down to the delicate instrumentation between her legs. She smiled at you and wept, her body trembling from a sudden loss of motor control. You stepped close and embraced her, to steady and to comfort her.

She kissed you then for the first time, a full and passionate kiss. Her tongue hungrily entwining with your own and slowly withdrawing to her lips, which then stretch into a wide grin. “Can I do the same for you now?” she asks. You step back, eyes darting to the ground, shame flushing your face. “You’ve always been my sister, even if Papa is blind to the truth. I can make you, though, just like you have made me.” With tears running down your face, you look into her loving eyes and nod your head.

She worked so skillfully. You hadn’t known how she’d spent her downtime alone in the basement, what she’d been researching and learning. Now you knew. As you lay down on the table and drift off to sedated sleep, you fully trusted her. Recovery did not come gently, and you came to understand the precautions necessary to hide her work from Father. When the pain and swelling had subsided, you stood in the basement with her, naked in the mirror, seeing yourself for the first time. Again, you both wept and held one another, shuddering and kissing, falling into each other completely, bodies wrapped around so tightly you could not imagine ever parting. Then he came down.

You were both so enraptured in the moment, he was already down the stairs before you registered the danger. His bellowing rage thundered through you as you peeled yourself from her. “Degenerate monster,” he yelled as he closed the distance between you, arm raised and eager to strike. You closed your eyes, dropped to your knees, and lifted your arm in anticipation of a blow that never fell. As you slowly opened your eyes, you saw your sister, your lover, your savior, holding Father’s arm aloft as a shocked and terrified expression froze upon his blue-tinged face. When she finally let him down, he collapsed into a pile on the floor. She helped you gently to your feet and held you close, whispering in your ear, “He can never hurt us again.” That was the last time you have ever been afraid.

Her body twitches, and her head flicks to the side. She rolls over, looks up at you and gives you that warm, loving grin. “Good morning, sunshine,” she says in a sleepy voice. “I hope I wasn’t too much trouble.”

“Not at all,” you assure her, as you join alongside her on the basement floor. “Sometimes we just have to fix each other.” You embrace one another and continue to explore the bodies you’ve come to know so well.

[zannesgender]

Hey. I don't really post much here bc I don't have much to say. I tried writing a short story as a kink shit post the other day and I liked how it turned out. This place is better for that sort of longer form text, so I'm gonna stick it up here as well. Disclaimers: I am not a writer, I do not have a zombie kink, this is a story I wrote about zombie sex.

You throw your shoulder into the front door, splintering the frame as you collapse into the threshold. She stumbles over your body, unshouldering her rifle and placing it on the dusty floor. She regains her footing and hastily helps you to your feet. You shut the door as best you can and assess this new interior. As you both frantically dart your eyes across the room, you simultaneously settle on a tall, wooden armoire, drawers stripped and cabinets bare, but solid. Each claiming a side, you move the furniture in front of the door. You next grab the nearby loveseat and move that into position as well. Exhausted, you each fall onto the loveseat to catch your breath and think. You unholster your handgun and rest it on your lap. You know instinctually that the rest of the house has not been secured, like a subconscious knot of anxiety that cannot be released until you do the work. But just a minute, fuck, you just need one god damn minute.

“We need to sweep,” she says, shaking from the adrenaline coursing through her.

“What the fuck was that? The way was supposed to be clear. Patrols have had it clean for over a month.”

“Must have been a breach. Closest settlement from their direction would be Lynchburg. Not that we would have heard shit from them, not after Carrigan started heading the board. Fucking fragile little assholes.” You nod your head, those residual slugs of the American prepper community can’t ever seem to learn a god damn thing.

“We need to get word back to Carrigan or Summerton will be blindsided by nightfall. And God knows how many caravans will get caught up in it.”

“How the fuck do you expect to do that? Closest comm station is two miles through a swarm of three hundred fucking zombies. Next one is twenty miles west.”

“We dump our packs and haul ass. We still have 6 hours of daylight.” You’re pretty beat, but a little rest and you know you can pace yourself out in time. It’s not even a marathon, and you’ve done those in half the time, back before the world began.

“Maybe, but I need a bit. Let’s sweep this house real quick.” She gets up from her seat slowly and retrieves her rifle from the floor, slinging it back over her shoulder, and slides out her sidearm. “I got point.” You usually take point, but you’re not gonna argue. Besides, this house looks like it’s been swept and scavenged a dozen times over the years. You’re not expecting any surprises.

You sweep through every corner of the three-bedroom rancher with little incident. You have to shift some kitchen furniture around to secure the back door, which was previously kicked in. It’s long-since been picked-over of anything useful, and you end your survey lying down on a California king four-poster bed in the primary bedroom. The knot of anxiety finally loosens as you sink into the mattress. She leans her rifle against the empty nightstand and joins you, sitting a bit too rigidly on the side of the bed, staring into her open pack on the floor. She gives a deep sigh and pulls out her loop of rope. “Babe, I’m gonna need you to do something for me. I don’t have much time, and definitely not enough for you to melt down.”

Your body tenses, a numbness surges through your limbs and your stomach sinks. “What are you talking about?” you quiver, but you already know exactly what she’s talking about. “How? We got away. Are you sure it’s not just a scratch?” Then you notice the wet spot on her black cotton t-shirt. She pulls off the shirt, revealing an open wound, no longer bleeding, but dry and necrotic at the margins.

“Yeah, I’m sure. And I’m gonna need you one last time.” She uses her knife to section out four lengths of rope. “Make it tight. Make it hurt.” She gives you the ropes and begins to undress.

You’re still trying to process the reality of it all. You recall that night, around the bonfire, passing around a jar of Trudy’s jet fuel and unwinding with the camp. Troy asked the group how they’d go out if they got bit, the sort of gallows question you ask people grown hard and cold to this world. “If I’ve got my side-arm. Y’all just leave me to myself,” Marcus said, poking a stick into the fire. Your arms were wrapped around your girl to keep her warm, to smell her hair, a mix of salt and dirt and smoke and that sweetness underneath it all that never faded. She spoke next in a slurred but sultry voice, “Babe, if I get bit, I want you to just tie me down and fuck me to death.” Troy spit his drink up into the bonfire, igniting in a whoosh as the group joined in laughter. “I can do that for you,” you said, “but then I’m gonna have to get going,” and you kiss the top of her head and smirk at the laughing circle of your fire-lit family.

She smiles up at you, her eyes slow-blinking you like a soothed cat. Your eyes sting from trying to hold back the tears, but your fingers know these ropes, and work the knots unthinkingly as they’ve done a thousand times before. First the hands, then the feet. You’re careful to anchor the hands low on the posters to ensure as little movement as possible after she… after it’s done. You straddle her, admiring every curve of her as if it’s the last time, your penis pressed against hers. Your hands trace up and down her sides and around her breasts as you feel her grow against you, her nipples hardening at your touch. You lean forward and down and kiss her, delicately at first, caressing her face and neck and sliding your hands down the length of her slender, firm, tethered arms flexing against their restraints. You pull back just enough to whisper, “I fucking love you.”

She smiles and whispers back, “Then fuck me ‘til I’m gone, and maybe a bit more if you want.” Her smile breaks into a grin and you kiss her hard, hungrily, your tongue exploring every familiar contour of her soft mouth. After applying some of Trudy’s lubricating gel from the pack, you enter her slowly, gently. Her eager hole accepts you readily and you become one for the last time. Your mind swims, trying to take in every last detail as her breath quickens and her chest rises and falls, shimmering and perfect. When you feel her moment approach, you reach down and take her swollen dick in your hand as you quicken your thrusts into her. Her breaths turn to moans and squeaking pleas of “Yes, fuck yes.” Her back arches as you thrust deep inside and her light spurt of crystal ejaculate stretches thinly across your hand and into her navel. Her back falls into the mattress and she breathes deep and slow. You lean forwards to kiss her, but her hips buck and her head turns away to the side. Then she exhales deeply and is still, silent, perfect.

Alone, but still inside of her, you allow your tears to come. Streaming, shrieking tears mark this final shattering of your world. Every day that has ever mattered started with you waking up in hell next to the most beautiful creature you could have ever imagined. Every struggle you’ve faced in the blistering sun and choking dirt you conquered with ease knowing every night you would get to hold her and feel her drift into sleep. You had everything this morning and you knew to savour every moment of it. Now, at the end of it all, you regret nothing. You’ve decided you don’t want to run anymore.

You grab the loop of rope and cut four measures for yourself. You’re not sure if you’re too cowardly to continue or brave enough to accept your end. In this lonely, abandoned home, those words lose all meaning. They are standards and concepts rendered meaningless in a world that has shrunk to the size of a California king. You start with your legs, and finish tying up your right hand with a firm jerk of your head. As the last end of rope drops from your jaw, you feel the body stir underneath you. You barely pull out of range before the head snaps towards you hissing and lurching for a bite of you.

The shock sets your heart pounding again, and you watch as the head weaves back and forth, mouth grasping desperately at you, shoulders struggling against the restraint. You breathe deeply, exhaling as you move close, enjoining your mouth to what remains of the world. You feel the teeth sink into your tongue as your mouths fill with blood. You pull back and moan as you slip inside of the writhing beast for the first time. You drink the blood and feel the poison burn down your throat. Beneath you, the creature gnaws at the meat it has been fed. Your arousal overcomes you and you begin thrusting ever more voraciously. Every moment of her reels through your mind as you close your eyes and fall into your needed rhythm. The surge of ecstasy engulfs you, your mind burns with pleasure as your body shudders one final gasping time. Your head falls on the creature’s chest as your awareness fades and spreads thin across eternity. It does not try to bite you, for you are one now.

[zannesgender]

Took me 30 minutes to figure out what email I used to sign up for this. Turns out it was my cat's email address. Makes sense. Anyway, here she is.