I called that a funk. That somewhat understates the problem.
I've spent most of the past year marinating in stress chemicals. Feels good to be calm finally. I think I was having anxiety attacks.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Saturday, February 19, 2011
the joys of switching meds
I'd been in a funk with numerous depressive spirals. That's the only way I can describe it, at least. Two days ago I got off of bupropion (generic Wellbutrin, 150mg) and... wow. It's like night and day.
Look for some more generally happier posts coming.
Look for some more generally happier posts coming.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
I have to keep reminding myself of this quote
"Hagbard will love you as well as ball you. Of course, it's not the same. He loves everybody. I'm not at that stage yet. I can only love my equals." She grinned wickedly. "Of course, I can still get horny about you. But now that you know there's more than that, you want the whole package deal, right? So try Hagbard."
George laughed, feeling suddenly lighthearted. "Okay! I will."
"Bullshit," Mavis said bluntly. "You're putting us both on. You've liberated some of the energies and right away, like everybody else at this stage, you want to prove that there are no blocks anywhere anymore. That laugh was not convincing, George. If you have a block, face it. Don't pretend it isn't there."I enjoy and have enjoyed having a penis. Just want to get that out there.
Monday, February 14, 2011
not just a transwoman!
I've had an epiphany. I won't say where I was when I had it, but it was a place where epiphanies are often had.
I am going to explore the idea of bigender for a bit. More to follow.
I am going to explore the idea of bigender for a bit. More to follow.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
not all doom and gloom
I need to lighten up a bit. Some happier notes and links:
- Aubrey de Grey is working on biological strategies to help us live longer (as in, maybe a thousand years instead of ye olde threescore-and-ten)
- Slowing the aging process using genes for telomerase might help Dr. de Grey achieve his goals
- Regeneration in mice by shutting down the p21 gene
- 3d printing of tissue. Who wouldn't want to print out a new vulva?
- ...or a new penis? Lab-created erectile tissue, tried out in the lab to give rabbits new, functioning penises. With obvious applications for you ftm guys out there.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
who do i want to fuck?
When I went through this in... pretty much my entire life up to my twenties, I always assumed I would be a lesbian, or maybe bi.
Now, for some reason, I think I might most likely be straight, or maybe bi.
As a man*, I've always been attracted almost exclusively to women, with the occasional gay fantasy that went from either a quick flash and nothing more to long-lasting stroke fantasies that I could get days of mileage out of.
More about this later.
* When I say this, it's in the sense of "In my physical and outwardly social identity as a male."
Now, for some reason, I think I might most likely be straight, or maybe bi.
As a man*, I've always been attracted almost exclusively to women, with the occasional gay fantasy that went from either a quick flash and nothing more to long-lasting stroke fantasies that I could get days of mileage out of.
More about this later.
* When I say this, it's in the sense of "In my physical and outwardly social identity as a male."
took a quiz
Found it here.
COMBINED GENDER IDENTITY AND TRANSSEXUALITY INVENTORY
(COGIATI)
Your COGIATI result value is: 145 Which means that you fall within the following category:
COGIATI classification FOUR, PROBABLE TRANSSEXUAL
What this means is that the Combined Gender Identity And Transsexuality Inventory has classified your internal gender identity to be essentially feminine, but with some masculine or androgynous traits. It is very possible that you are a candidate for a diagnosis of transsexualism. You show a strong degree of gender dysphoria. At the very least, further investigation should be undertaken. Your COGIATI score places you among the majority of those diagnosed as transsexuals, the 'late onset' tanssexual.
SUGGESTIONS FOR ACTION:
Your situation is potentially serious and indicative of a probable inborn gender conflict. It is definitely recommended that you pursue further action.
The suggestions for your circumstance are several.
It is recommended that you seek help from a sympathetic counselor or professional about your gender issues. It is very possible that over time they will become increasingly difficult to cope with. Early determination of what you really need and want is vital. You need to determine if you truly are transsexual. Keep in mind, thought, that many alternatives exist other than complete sexual transformation. Partial transformation and many other way of existing are available. While you are very possibly a transsexual, COGIATI has determined that this is not absolutely certain. While time is an issue, being certain is more important. Proceed with investigation of your possible transsexuality or transgenderism, but with caution.
Some actions may help you to define your needs more clearly. Experimenting with living full time as a woman, taking hormones for a short time under supervision, or taking testosterone suppressers to observe how you feel are all viable options. Keep in mind that while it is very likely that you might be a transsexual, it is not certain. Do not take severe or permanent actions without long thought and the help of counselors and professionals.
Your gender issues are real, and should not be ignored. Neither should you rush into acting on them, however powerful they may feel. You do not fit the full criterion for the rarest classification, classic transsexuality, and so should be cautious, and open to possibilities. You may yet end up undergoing transition, and the path of the transsexual may well be your salvation. Be very careful, but do not ignore your issues.
If you have not already, consider joining any of the thousands of groups devoted to gender expression of various kinds. There is literally a world of friends to discover who share your interests. There are also publications, vacations, and activities that would expand your gender expression.
Some of the questions were difficult, but I answered as honestly as possible.
In other news: starting a new job the 21st. Insurance will be changing. I go to a clinic with multiple locations that offers both counseling and meds; I don't know if they'll take my new insurance. I think they will. Will need to keep up my psych meds somehow.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
boundaries (nonexistent) in the household
This was going to be a digression from the aftermath post, but I think it will end up being long enough in its own right that it could be separate.
There was no privacy in our house. No boundaries were respected. At least, that I can recall, not by my father, nor by either of my two brothers (now that I think about it, not by me either, at least when I was a young child; I do remember as I got older that I did learn them, somehow). My mother probably respected them the most, herself at least, but she wouldn't even try to get anyone else to respect them.
If there was a closed door in the house, that didn't mean anything. If someone needed to talk to whoever was on the other side, they (meaning father or either brother) would just open the door and walk in. It didn't matter what may have been going on on the other side of the door, or who was in there.
There was only one door in the house that had a lock on it, and that was the bathroom. The only room that was safe. This was never a conscious realization on my part until much later, but that is where I did effectively all of my masturbation as a kid... sitting on the toilet. (If you know or have a child who is a teenage boy, and he spends a lot of time in the bathroom, this is why.)
Eventually I joined the military, spent four years in it, then came home (and, incidentally, spent a lot of time in a depressive state, living off of unemployment...) only to be pointedly reminded of the lack of privacy. (I was in my room, or rather "the room in which I was sleeping," having phone sex and masturbating... and middle brother decided he needed to come in and ask me something.)
(Digression: After I got married and lived on my own, and had a family, I somehow managed to forget all of this, only to be reminded of it again. One Thanksgiving, we lived in another state, and invited my parents to stay with us. They hadn't seen us in a long time and our child never. At one point, my wife had just gotten out of the shower (master bathroom off of master bedroom), and was in the bedroom with the door closed, drying herself, totally naked... when my father decided he needed to go in and ask her something.)
God fucking damn it, will you people just respect a closed door?
There was no privacy in our house. No boundaries were respected. At least, that I can recall, not by my father, nor by either of my two brothers (now that I think about it, not by me either, at least when I was a young child; I do remember as I got older that I did learn them, somehow). My mother probably respected them the most, herself at least, but she wouldn't even try to get anyone else to respect them.
If there was a closed door in the house, that didn't mean anything. If someone needed to talk to whoever was on the other side, they (meaning father or either brother) would just open the door and walk in. It didn't matter what may have been going on on the other side of the door, or who was in there.
There was only one door in the house that had a lock on it, and that was the bathroom. The only room that was safe. This was never a conscious realization on my part until much later, but that is where I did effectively all of my masturbation as a kid... sitting on the toilet. (If you know or have a child who is a teenage boy, and he spends a lot of time in the bathroom, this is why.)
Eventually I joined the military, spent four years in it, then came home (and, incidentally, spent a lot of time in a depressive state, living off of unemployment...) only to be pointedly reminded of the lack of privacy. (I was in my room, or rather "the room in which I was sleeping," having phone sex and masturbating... and middle brother decided he needed to come in and ask me something.)
(Digression: After I got married and lived on my own, and had a family, I somehow managed to forget all of this, only to be reminded of it again. One Thanksgiving, we lived in another state, and invited my parents to stay with us. They hadn't seen us in a long time and our child never. At one point, my wife had just gotten out of the shower (master bathroom off of master bedroom), and was in the bedroom with the door closed, drying herself, totally naked... when my father decided he needed to go in and ask her something.)
God fucking damn it, will you people just respect a closed door?
rape, the aftermath
(I won't guarantee there aren't triggers ahead, but I don't think so. Still, read with care.)
The next day, maybe two, I was kept home from school. I had no objection whatsoever. A couple of days later I did go back. I thought I might have trouble in P.E. class, especially showering afterward, but I didn't seem to.
My dad insisted that I get in to see a counselor. I at first didn't want to, but he admitted to me while we were alone that a similar thing had happened to him when he was a child, and (I think he said this) that he wished he could have gotten counseling for it. I agreed. He had a name, I don't where he found it, but he said that this was who I'd see. I went ahead and saw him. I think I went and saw him twice all told, then not again until I was an adult. (Digression: this would turn out to be the therapist who told me he didn't think I had ADD and probably wasn't transgendered.)
That wouldn't be the end of the aftermath for me. I didn't have any particular lingering trauma that I can recall, but there were some lingering issues that only much, much later could I articulate and tie back to that. (The therapist wasn't much help in that respect. Why do I still owe him thousands of dollars?)
I think I've mentioned that the way I discovered I had ADD, as an adult, was that my youngest brother revealed to me that he'd recently been diagnosed with ADD, as an adult.
(Digression: It hit me like a ton of bricks that that's what caused all of my trouble with school when I was a kid. I felt a lot of guilt, because when you're told year after year that you're smart but why can't you seem to apply yourself?, and when someone (i.e. mother) keeps telling no, there's nothing wrong with you, you just don't seem to apply yourself, it's hard not to internalize the label of "lazy". No one ever said the word, but they didn't have to. I also felt a lot of anger, at my parents who were too wrapped up in their own lives to notice, too wrapped up in "the way it was done when we were kids" to think that maybe there might be a solvable problem, and at every single one of my teachers who were dealing with this in other students and should have seen the signs and maybe, y'know, mentioned something to my parents. I also felt a lot of regret, that if maybe some steps were taken to help me when I was six or seven or eight, I could have been a better student and not ended up depressed most of my adult life, maybe made it through college, maybe been able to get into college at eighteen instead of twenty five and end up dropping out because of undiagnosed ADD --)
I had no trouble at all believing that he had ADD. Not-digression, because this leads up to what follows in this post: let's see, maybe I was ten or eleven years old, which would have made him six or seven. A friend (a year younger and thus behind me in school), who lived somewhat nearby, near enough for me to ride my bike over to his house and hang out with him, had invited me to do just that. Which I did. I don't know why brother came along, but he did. We hung out in the friend's bedroom, talking, playing with toys (probably action figures, Lego, or something similar). The friend would leave the room to do things, maybe minor chores or something, and when that would happen brother went into action. He could absolutely not stop handling the friend's stuff. I didn't think it was right that he should keep messing with the friend's stuff, and told him to stop, but he wouldn't. I think maybe he couldn't.
Fast forward, back to the aftermath. Brother wouldn't, or couldn't, keep his fucking hands to himself. Here's the operative part: he would not respect my personal boundaries, and I couldn't articulate that I absolutely needed to have them respected. He'd poke me in the leg or the belly or the thigh or the butt (yeah, the anal region!), or sometimes sneak up behind me and very lightly tickle the back of my neck -- and screaming would ensue. "He's touching me!"
"Can't you just ignore him?"
Uhhh, not just no, but hell fucking no.
(Digression: remember the "good Christian" family that lived next door to us, where I suspect sexual abuse was rampant? The possibility exists that brother may have been a recipient. I can't remember any personally happening to me, but the kid in that family who was drummed out of the Army for rape would frequently tell me to put my mouth on his penis. I thought he wanted to pee in my mouth, and I had great difficulty thinking of anything more disgusting. I always told him no. The daughter of that family, she of the rampant sexuality, would occasionally babysit for us, but after the time my mother caught us (about which more another time), I think never did again. But her brother, the army rapist, did babysit for us at least once after that. I don't remember anything happening, at least to me, but I couldn't be every where all the time. And we were starting to get old enough to not need babysitting.)
To be continued...
The next day, maybe two, I was kept home from school. I had no objection whatsoever. A couple of days later I did go back. I thought I might have trouble in P.E. class, especially showering afterward, but I didn't seem to.
My dad insisted that I get in to see a counselor. I at first didn't want to, but he admitted to me while we were alone that a similar thing had happened to him when he was a child, and (I think he said this) that he wished he could have gotten counseling for it. I agreed. He had a name, I don't where he found it, but he said that this was who I'd see. I went ahead and saw him. I think I went and saw him twice all told, then not again until I was an adult. (Digression: this would turn out to be the therapist who told me he didn't think I had ADD and probably wasn't transgendered.)
That wouldn't be the end of the aftermath for me. I didn't have any particular lingering trauma that I can recall, but there were some lingering issues that only much, much later could I articulate and tie back to that. (The therapist wasn't much help in that respect. Why do I still owe him thousands of dollars?)
I think I've mentioned that the way I discovered I had ADD, as an adult, was that my youngest brother revealed to me that he'd recently been diagnosed with ADD, as an adult.
(Digression: It hit me like a ton of bricks that that's what caused all of my trouble with school when I was a kid. I felt a lot of guilt, because when you're told year after year that you're smart but why can't you seem to apply yourself?, and when someone (i.e. mother) keeps telling no, there's nothing wrong with you, you just don't seem to apply yourself, it's hard not to internalize the label of "lazy". No one ever said the word, but they didn't have to. I also felt a lot of anger, at my parents who were too wrapped up in their own lives to notice, too wrapped up in "the way it was done when we were kids" to think that maybe there might be a solvable problem, and at every single one of my teachers who were dealing with this in other students and should have seen the signs and maybe, y'know, mentioned something to my parents. I also felt a lot of regret, that if maybe some steps were taken to help me when I was six or seven or eight, I could have been a better student and not ended up depressed most of my adult life, maybe made it through college, maybe been able to get into college at eighteen instead of twenty five and end up dropping out because of undiagnosed ADD --)
I had no trouble at all believing that he had ADD. Not-digression, because this leads up to what follows in this post: let's see, maybe I was ten or eleven years old, which would have made him six or seven. A friend (a year younger and thus behind me in school), who lived somewhat nearby, near enough for me to ride my bike over to his house and hang out with him, had invited me to do just that. Which I did. I don't know why brother came along, but he did. We hung out in the friend's bedroom, talking, playing with toys (probably action figures, Lego, or something similar). The friend would leave the room to do things, maybe minor chores or something, and when that would happen brother went into action. He could absolutely not stop handling the friend's stuff. I didn't think it was right that he should keep messing with the friend's stuff, and told him to stop, but he wouldn't. I think maybe he couldn't.
Fast forward, back to the aftermath. Brother wouldn't, or couldn't, keep his fucking hands to himself. Here's the operative part: he would not respect my personal boundaries, and I couldn't articulate that I absolutely needed to have them respected. He'd poke me in the leg or the belly or the thigh or the butt (yeah, the anal region!), or sometimes sneak up behind me and very lightly tickle the back of my neck -- and screaming would ensue. "He's touching me!"
"Can't you just ignore him?"
Uhhh, not just no, but hell fucking no.
(Digression: remember the "good Christian" family that lived next door to us, where I suspect sexual abuse was rampant? The possibility exists that brother may have been a recipient. I can't remember any personally happening to me, but the kid in that family who was drummed out of the Army for rape would frequently tell me to put my mouth on his penis. I thought he wanted to pee in my mouth, and I had great difficulty thinking of anything more disgusting. I always told him no. The daughter of that family, she of the rampant sexuality, would occasionally babysit for us, but after the time my mother caught us (about which more another time), I think never did again. But her brother, the army rapist, did babysit for us at least once after that. I don't remember anything happening, at least to me, but I couldn't be every where all the time. And we were starting to get old enough to not need babysitting.)
To be continued...
rape
The post title gimmick is already wearing thin.
When I was 12 years old, I was... raped? Molested? (Spoiler alert: by a boy a couple of years older than I was.)
Behind the jump for a lot of triggers.
When I was 12 years old, I was... raped? Molested? (Spoiler alert: by a boy a couple of years older than I was.)
Behind the jump for a lot of triggers.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
not a woman?
I was born some number of years ago between thirty five and fifty. On that day, the doctor picked me up, still wet with blood and amniotic fluid and I know not what else, looked between my legs, and decided the course of my life right there.
He (I say he because in that time and place the likelihood was that the doctor was a he), instead of saying something obvious like "This baby has a penis and testicles", instead said the first thing every deliverer of a baby with a penis and testicles says: "It's a boy!"
I won't fault that doctor too much. He's probably no longer still alive. I'm honestly not sure that my life would have turned out all that different if he had just said what he saw instead of what he thought was. The effects the brain and endocrine system have on one another as a result of the possession of the testicles probably made a lot more difference than that.
(Digression: other things want to be told -- what state was I born in? what kind of environment? did I live in an urban tenement or a trailer park or a nice house in suburbia with a white picket fence? Some of this will be told later in this post, and some later on in this blog. Fear not, Gentle Reader.)
Sometime between the ages of seven and ten I came to a realization that maybe, just maybe, I shouldn't have been a boy but a girl. I'm fairly certain I knew that people like this existed; having been a ridiculously precocious reader (digression: something about intelligence and issues related to it) and thanks to having been exposed to great works of literature such as the National Enquirer, I had a pretty good idea of the meaning of the words "sex change".
As a child, I wouldn't say I was particularly masculine. For instance, it seemed to me that "other" boys wanted to fight each other a lot. I thought that was clearly stupid, as getting into a fight meant you would get hit, and that would hurt, and who wanted to get hurt? I was never into sports, neither as a spectator nor as a participant. I had neighborhood friends who were boys and who were girls, and I think I can recall a slight preference for the girls over the boys, but I don't think it was particularly pronounced. I thought girls had really excellent toys (I always wanted an Easy Bake Oven!) but wasn't particularly into dolls. (My mother, if I were to ask her, which I probably won't, would be able to provide more insight, but might generally agree with me.)
(Digression, which will go in here: when I read stories about people who transitioned, there's always some kind of talk about the kinds of toys or activities or clothes they liked as a child: "he always wanted to play with dolls," "he wanted to wear skirts and play dress-up," and so forth. I am of the generation exposed in grade school to the film Free To Be... You & Me, which tried to tell everyone that it was okay for boys to want to play with dolls and show emotion and for girls to play football and be rugged. The sentiment was wonderful, but did it sink in with anyone? Did the teachers and counselors who chose to show us that film even agree with or believe it?
(Does a person's choice of toys and activities as a child really act as an indicator of their gender?)
I'm fairly certain this bit happened sometime between the ages of seven and nine. The phrase statement unbidden into my head: "I'm unsure about my masculinity." I knew the meaning of the words, and I realized about myself that it was true. I have no way of knowing where or how I absorbed the existence or meaning of the words -- probably a combination of exposure to daytime TV in the early 1970's as a result of having a stay at home mom who spent most of her adult life depressed while spending most of her time watching TV and a working father whose idea of giving the kids attention was to read the paper and watch the evening news after he got home from work. (They were both of the generation of kids to whom TV was a fantastic new invention, to revolutionize after-dinner (and sometimes before- and during-) family time.)
Over the next several years, I felt a fervent wish to be a girl. I used to wish for a magic ring in the air that I could jump through and it would switch me, including change everyone's perception and memories of me. I don't recall that this wish ever went away, but I do remember that it waxed and waned a lot over time. It was probably never as fervent again, though, as it would be when I reached my late teens and early twenties (about which more later in the blog). I could never tell you why I felt this way. I'm not sure I still can.
I never told anyone. I couldn't. I knew what would happen. While I lived in what passed for suburbia, it was really a white trash sort of suburbia, surrounded by racists and bigots and rednecks of all sorts. (Digression: I first heard the words 'nigger', 'faggot', and 'fuck' from the kids to one side of us, who were supposedly such great Christians. I have no doubt at all that sexual abuse was rampant in that household -- you'll hear about this bunch later, I promise, since the daughter of the family had a hand, and a few other body parts, in the development of my sexuality; one of her brothers would grow up to join the Army, get drummed out for rape, and later be arrested and serve prison time for rape.)
Somehow, I internalized the label of 'boy', perhaps less so 'man', even with these feelings inside of me. Later in life (digression: expand this, later) when I immersed myself in the online support groups for transgender folk, I don't think I felt comfortable referring to myself as a 'girl' or 'woman'. (Digression: perhaps this was as a result of the ineffective counseling I was receiving?)
He (I say he because in that time and place the likelihood was that the doctor was a he), instead of saying something obvious like "This baby has a penis and testicles", instead said the first thing every deliverer of a baby with a penis and testicles says: "It's a boy!"
I won't fault that doctor too much. He's probably no longer still alive. I'm honestly not sure that my life would have turned out all that different if he had just said what he saw instead of what he thought was. The effects the brain and endocrine system have on one another as a result of the possession of the testicles probably made a lot more difference than that.
(Digression: other things want to be told -- what state was I born in? what kind of environment? did I live in an urban tenement or a trailer park or a nice house in suburbia with a white picket fence? Some of this will be told later in this post, and some later on in this blog. Fear not, Gentle Reader.)
Sometime between the ages of seven and ten I came to a realization that maybe, just maybe, I shouldn't have been a boy but a girl. I'm fairly certain I knew that people like this existed; having been a ridiculously precocious reader (digression: something about intelligence and issues related to it) and thanks to having been exposed to great works of literature such as the National Enquirer, I had a pretty good idea of the meaning of the words "sex change".
As a child, I wouldn't say I was particularly masculine. For instance, it seemed to me that "other" boys wanted to fight each other a lot. I thought that was clearly stupid, as getting into a fight meant you would get hit, and that would hurt, and who wanted to get hurt? I was never into sports, neither as a spectator nor as a participant. I had neighborhood friends who were boys and who were girls, and I think I can recall a slight preference for the girls over the boys, but I don't think it was particularly pronounced. I thought girls had really excellent toys (I always wanted an Easy Bake Oven!) but wasn't particularly into dolls. (My mother, if I were to ask her, which I probably won't, would be able to provide more insight, but might generally agree with me.)
(Digression, which will go in here: when I read stories about people who transitioned, there's always some kind of talk about the kinds of toys or activities or clothes they liked as a child: "he always wanted to play with dolls," "he wanted to wear skirts and play dress-up," and so forth. I am of the generation exposed in grade school to the film Free To Be... You & Me, which tried to tell everyone that it was okay for boys to want to play with dolls and show emotion and for girls to play football and be rugged. The sentiment was wonderful, but did it sink in with anyone? Did the teachers and counselors who chose to show us that film even agree with or believe it?
(Does a person's choice of toys and activities as a child really act as an indicator of their gender?)
I'm fairly certain this bit happened sometime between the ages of seven and nine. The phrase statement unbidden into my head: "I'm unsure about my masculinity." I knew the meaning of the words, and I realized about myself that it was true. I have no way of knowing where or how I absorbed the existence or meaning of the words -- probably a combination of exposure to daytime TV in the early 1970's as a result of having a stay at home mom who spent most of her adult life depressed while spending most of her time watching TV and a working father whose idea of giving the kids attention was to read the paper and watch the evening news after he got home from work. (They were both of the generation of kids to whom TV was a fantastic new invention, to revolutionize after-dinner (and sometimes before- and during-) family time.)
Over the next several years, I felt a fervent wish to be a girl. I used to wish for a magic ring in the air that I could jump through and it would switch me, including change everyone's perception and memories of me. I don't recall that this wish ever went away, but I do remember that it waxed and waned a lot over time. It was probably never as fervent again, though, as it would be when I reached my late teens and early twenties (about which more later in the blog). I could never tell you why I felt this way. I'm not sure I still can.
I never told anyone. I couldn't. I knew what would happen. While I lived in what passed for suburbia, it was really a white trash sort of suburbia, surrounded by racists and bigots and rednecks of all sorts. (Digression: I first heard the words 'nigger', 'faggot', and 'fuck' from the kids to one side of us, who were supposedly such great Christians. I have no doubt at all that sexual abuse was rampant in that household -- you'll hear about this bunch later, I promise, since the daughter of the family had a hand, and a few other body parts, in the development of my sexuality; one of her brothers would grow up to join the Army, get drummed out for rape, and later be arrested and serve prison time for rape.)
Somehow, I internalized the label of 'boy', perhaps less so 'man', even with these feelings inside of me. Later in life (digression: expand this, later) when I immersed myself in the online support groups for transgender folk, I don't think I felt comfortable referring to myself as a 'girl' or 'woman'. (Digression: perhaps this was as a result of the ineffective counseling I was receiving?)
not just a man
The title of this blog is deliberate. The blog will be about me and my wonderings, wanderings, and meanderings as relate to my sexual and gender identity. The full title is as it says, but any or all of the parenthesized words can disappear or appear in titles of particular posts.
I am trying to be anonymous, because I will reveal uncomfortable details about myself (as if the title didn't give that away, har har). I won't use the real names of people who appear in my posts, because I will in some cases reveal uncomfortable details about them as well. If anyone happening by here sees any of this and thinks it's about someone they know, feel free to ask the person you think it is. Note to anyone who is asked: the blog's official denial is:
No, it's not me.
I permit and encourage anyone who is asked if this is their blog to use that sentence, as it is written, to deny that it is them. (In the unlikely event someone I know happens by here and thinks it's me, I can also cleverly use this sentence to deny it, without having to worry they're going to read some nuance into it and a-ha! cleverly deduce that it is me after all.)
I will try to keep each post to a particular topic. My tendency is to go off on tangents, but I'm hoping that I can have enough discipline to catch them and turn them into separate posts. I'll try to signal those in some way.
I will post irregularly but hopefully not never.
I am trying to be anonymous, because I will reveal uncomfortable details about myself (as if the title didn't give that away, har har). I won't use the real names of people who appear in my posts, because I will in some cases reveal uncomfortable details about them as well. If anyone happening by here sees any of this and thinks it's about someone they know, feel free to ask the person you think it is. Note to anyone who is asked: the blog's official denial is:
No, it's not me.
I permit and encourage anyone who is asked if this is their blog to use that sentence, as it is written, to deny that it is them. (In the unlikely event someone I know happens by here and thinks it's me, I can also cleverly use this sentence to deny it, without having to worry they're going to read some nuance into it and a-ha! cleverly deduce that it is me after all.)
I will try to keep each post to a particular topic. My tendency is to go off on tangents, but I'm hoping that I can have enough discipline to catch them and turn them into separate posts. I'll try to signal those in some way.
I will post irregularly but hopefully not never.
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