starting again

I find myself with not very much to say.  There’s no context.  Everything is new and blank, and I’m forced to move on, to start again.  Any attempt to salvage my old life is met with disgrace.  There are some things, like my education and a handful of core relationships (absurdly repurposed core relationships) that I’m taking with me.  But attempts to, say, utilize my network of professional contacts, are yet to succeed.

 

My new body is comfortable; it is also unfamiliar and somewhat disgusting.  I’m sick of standing up straight.

I want to hate myself, but I can’t find any clear reason to, other than being so consistently out of my depth, not knowing my sexual orientation with any precision, being afraid of random shit, and crying too much.  But I can’t bring myself to hate myself for these things.

 

I feel lost and also without a need for direction.

I would ask myself why.

 

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the block

I was spilling my guts to a friend over drinks; I think I should just stop drinking entirely.  But in the process of relating my unusual life and its concomittant angst in a crowded room, I realized something.  Or at least my friend realized something – I have a mental block surrounding my voice.

 

From October 16th, 2014:

This is getting progressively more difficult to think about, let alone write about.  I feel lost.  My mind doesn’t match my voice; my body doesn’t really match my voice, and I am lost.

According to my research, the voice is a direct reflection of a person’s mind, more so than the eyes or what one is saying.  Voice is just one of those things that is just not well understood.  The largest, richest corporations in the world cannot make artifical voices that sound human, even though this would increase their profits considerably – it’s that hard.

And then there’s the trans girl with a funky voice.  There are few things that I fear more than changing it, letting someone tinker with it.  Because a voice is who you are – even if it’s physically deformed.  What happens if you change it?  Does it change who you are?

 

Changing my voice has been the hardest part of this process, but there’s no getting around it.  It’s the most squeamish, ticklish, fucked-up thing.  I couldn’t stand my voice since forever, but I hate changing it, softening it, making it higher, pitching its resonance – playing my nasal passages like some kind of pipe organ.  In a gadda da vida.

I’ll never sing again.  I hate myself.

 

But that was the problem…  Apparently, my block is that I hate my femininity.  And voice is probably the purest, most intense expression of gender.

 

I’m paying through the nose for a speech therapist and I wouldn’t do the exercises.  I created endless obstacles between me and the exercises – that they wouldn’t work and I could only do them at a certain time, in a certain place, under certain conditions, because God forbid anyone should hear me feminizing my voice, which seemed like the end of the world.  I even created a semi-soundproof studio in my closet (of all places) to work on it before I got a roommate and needed the storage space.

Why would I be so embarrassed to have someone overhear me trying to make my voice higher?  Because it sounds stupid?  Yes, but no one cares at this point.  And it’s not like my gender identity is a secret to anyone anymore.  So what’s the problem?  I didn’t want to sound more feminine.  It’s weak, it’s wrong.

 

But it’s not.  It’s okay for me to draw strength from femininity, from things that I associate with femininity; community, trust, mercy, and yes – a softer voice.

As it was strong to be masculine as a man, it’s strong to be feminine as a woman.  This is something I need to remember.

 

At least I can do the exercises now.

 

what it’s like

I was getting ready this morning and there was an eyelash hanging from my eye.  I picked it up and held it for a moment.  What do I wish for?  Nothing came to mind, so I dropped it.  I must be happy, or at least satisfied.

 

I woke up this morning and noticed my skinny legs and the hair receding from my hands.  I noticed my vaguely unfamiliar face, I instinctively checked my earrings as soon as I woke.  The left one was bleeding a little the other night.  They’re new and they’re stuck.  I tried to unscrew the left one with a set of pliers.  No luck.  No backsliding.

I woke up and noticed that I’m different and I wondered why.  A thought bubble with just a “?”  No words, but why are my legs so hairy – It makes no sense.  I feel blessed and forgotten at the same time, “here take this.”

 

I need to pick a surgery soon, to find a regenerative medicine option, to figure out my life.  I wish my life came without assembly.  It’s like getting an oldschool dollhouse-in-a-box for christmas, what I always wanted, but if I got it I would have been disappointed with my familiarity with glue.

 

gender is mysterious

Gender is mysterious.  It’s more than what you read about or hear about or learn about or see.  It’s more than what people tell you you are or what you tell yourself.  It’s more than a dress code, a social script, a biological imperative, a state of mind.  It’s more.  And it’s immutable.  And it’s there, always.

 

november 25th, 2012 (on a sunday)

From my journal, six days before realizing that I am female:

Last night I had a glimmer of a thought of what is going to happen but now I can’t place it.  The day before, I woke up looking forward to something I can’t remember.  Is something going to happen soon?  Of course it is, but chances are technically slim that it is something that I have in mind…  if I had something in mind.

What is this thing on the horizon?

The thought I had last night was like a green aurora sunrise.  It was joyous and warm and I wanted to be there, I was there for a short moment.  It was as if…  I have no idea.  There is no analogue to this feeling, not in drugs or experience.  Maybe…  no.  It’s nothing you have seen or experienced before.  I can’t imagine anything that would make me feel that way.  There is also a clean-slate element to it.  Anything I imagine to compare it to has baggage that makes it different.  The new feeling is unattached to anything in the past.  This is so random and strange.

I woke up the day before thanksgiving and felt myself looking forward to something, I had assumed I was looking forward to being reunited with my old friends or that it was something from a dream, but these things didn’t fit.  I felt something was going to happen and I couldn’t wait.  What was it?”

 

june 14th, 2013 (on a friday)

From my journal:

“What I feel now is not true hopelessness, it is not full absence of hope.  It is shock and panic and fear as I contemplate how my newly realized identity changes things for me, changes my future.  But it is a positive change in the long run.  I am more stable.  And I am arguably more realistic, not living in a fantasy of anything that I could imagine to make the world make sense in my terrible ignorance of my true self.  I even seem to have the ability to write now when I could not write before.  My old journals are an exploded debris field of confusion and pain, longing and despair.  Now I know.”

 

june 3rd, 2013 (on a monday)

From my journal:

“I think often of what to write about in the blog, of when it will be indexed, of what people will think, what it will do, whether to pull the plug.  I feel healed by it though.  I feel like it just doesn’t matter when I look in the mirror.  I looked myself in the eye this morning, pointed to my eyes, and pointed at the eyes in the mirror, whatever this means.  Literally, it means, “I see you” in an aggressive sort of way, but this was playful.  In place of nail polish (I had an allergic reaction to the feed me basecoat last night I think) and feminine hair (there’s really no getting around my hairline or the fact that my hair just wants to be left alone for the most part), I feel like just knowing who I am and putting myself out there is enough.  As I wrote yesterday, it has to be…  at least now, in the moment.  Things may or may not get better, but I need to realize myself right now.  I see you.”