The Great Intolerable Fear of the Unknown.

Apologies for the lack of updates. I've been struggling for topics to write about and mostly been delving in escapism as my mechanism. However writing is really the best form for this. The big news is that the plans for my surgery are underway. Deposit money is being moved and the real make or break point is approaching. Which really brings out a lot of other emotions and fear around this. I'm afraid of this and I'm afraid of what is coming. This is something I feel I should do, the discomfort I've had with my lady bits has been well known. I've referred to it as a cancer before, as a deformity. There is no love lost there. Yet, in the past year or two it's become less of the epitome of symbolism for all of my struggle in being trans. Before, when I first started this, there was an unspeakable amount of rage and anger, frustration, and disgust at being trans. The grief and anger over why I have this injustice and others do not. There was no greater symbol of that than the bits themselves.

It was a constant reminder. It IS a constant reminder. But lately as my relationship with my partner has bloomed, it's become less of a harsh reality, and less on the forefront of my mind. I don't face that rejection from it as often, or as harshly as I did when I was single. This makes me question my desires, and my relationship with my body.

I'm trying to be objective in my decisions, and at least remove as much doubt and emotional instability as possible. Being partnered, and having function left (many trans folk don't) means I've gotten to enjoy an aspect of my body that previously has been uncomfortable (and still is at times). Now that the time has come to decide what to do with it, how do I value that?

I have to learn how to have sex with my partner again, something that we've both been comfortable/compatible with. Meaning this will put strain on our relationship as we both relearn how my body works. And there is risk that if we aren't sexually compatible, that things might have to change for the worse.

I worry that once this is done I won't be satisfied. I worry that I won't be able to feel anything, that it will be ugly or unrecognizable. I worry about something happening. I worry that I'll regret it and that I'll regret not being able to penetrate my partner in the way I used to be able to. I worry about it being a waste of money, and I worry that I don't want it badly enough.

For as long as I can remember I've wanted to be a lesbian. Why then am I having such doubt over this change? So then, the better questions is why then am I still going through with it? For one, I doubt my peace with myself. If my partner and I were to split up I can easily see this becoming the symbol and anguish generating source it once was. My current state of acceptance I believe has less to do with my lack of desire to see it removed, than my being distracted from it. As in, if my partner wasn't in the picture, I would have a huge desire to see this through. Just because I may not have he utmost of hatred and loathing for it now (now that I've another use for it) that doesn't mean said sentiment is gone.

In talking to my friend who's had the procedure done before, her opinion was such that any result was better than what she currently had. That, was my same sentiment in starting this transition. When looking at this now, are my bits objectively worth keeping over the potential for a bad result? Further more, in the laundry list of situations, feelings, emotions, placements, and minute uncomfortabilities that enumerate my experience, is the sum of said things greater, than the enjoyment and pleasure I get out of penetrating my partner.

Looking further into that, is it the act of penetration, or the closeness and emotional connection that the act brings that I enjoy. Assuming that pleasurable sex and orgasms will be had either way, why the reluctance to give up something I have for something that is slightly different given ceteris paribus? Which brings me back to the fear of the unknown. Not knowing what the results will be is of grave portent in regards to my comfort and sexuality.

Looking at this through the lenses of my education it's easy to see my bias in overvaluing what I have now. Still, this risk and discomfort associated with not knowing is proving to be significant. At least, more than I thought I would have at this point. I will muddle along however, under the idea that objectively, it is the right choice even if I'm terrified of taking the risk.


Please think not ill of me.

It's hard to describe what the lows are like. If I can remove myself from the ether, and stay in the real world; either by distracting or focusing on activities, keeping busy, or otherwise preoccupied, I can make do with most things. It is when I get bored and begin to analyze and withdraw into myself/my emotions that things get a bit off. I'll shut off the outside world and think about things, it's almost a meditative state. In this state, which I've previously labeled as disassociated, the ability of my mind to distinguish between what it imagines, and what is real, is a bit bad. It isn't that I see these things and think they are real, or that they exists in reality. Don't mistake me for hallucinating. I can easily differentiate what I see in my minds eye, and what is real.

The problem though, is that I'm not the only one in there. In that state, where my imagination and my consciousness are a bit melded, I often begin to see/hear things that I feel aren't coming from me. The most vivid, and recent one is as thus.

I was laying on my couch, sobbing. I had imagined the face of my matron/crone figure, a woman I looked up to, who could make me feel safe, protected, secure, and wholesome. This is not a thing I had created before, but the ideas were. It was simply new to give them this form. I began to reach out to her, and tell her what was wrong, what I felt, looking for sympathy, compassion and a warming embrace between that of a lover and a protector. She then said this: "Aww honey,there there, It's okay, it's simple, you just have to kill yourself".

As this was said, a horrible nervous wreching went down my spine. These sorts of thoughts and surprising dark comments that seemed to be pushed into my imagination are disturbing. I don't provoke them, I know they are negative, awful, and bad thoughts and I know I don't want them, and honestly know they are unhealthy. My only explanation is that my subconscious is pushing these deeper/darker thoughts through in that meditative state so that they feel as if I'm not creating them (when in all likelihood, they can come from nowhere else, while we are still dealing in the realm of the realistic. While I've not utterly ruled out the idea of a haunting, it is at least, less easy to diagnose).

Being subconscious, I have lesser control of when and how they come, and when they do they almost always produce the same lecherous nervous twitching. Either in my arms, or legs. It's as if you were going about your normal business, and someone just suddenly induced an electric shock down your arm. It's odd, and it goes away as quickly as it comes, but you do look a bit odd. I've had these twitches for a long time (going back at least 10 years) However, they haven't been around in a while. It does however, serve to depress, and darken anything I would otherwise do. While I may be going about doing anything, these horrible thoughts being consistently injected into you like so much intravenous drug has the effect akin of being shown a flash of your close relatives/loved ones all murdered for a brief instant. It isn't real, but seeing the image is disturbing and offputting regardless.

These thoughts feel foreign to me. Not that I'm unfamiliar with them, but just that they feel like they are coming from an outside source, and that disturbs me. If the sanctity of my own internal church can't protect me from darkening thoughts, just how secure is my emotional foundation to begin with? Part of my wonders if this has to do with the psychotropic effects of marijuana.

My old bad habits help, they life me out of the fog, and while I can still see it there, and dive back in if I so desired, it is at least pleasurable to be moved away from that place. Still, pushing the storm away only does so much good until your shelter is in a better shape.



This lonliness is exacerbated by the new found enjoyment of a new person from my partner. Their NRE and her eagerness and excitement serve to greatly illistrate how utterly dead I feel inside. I ling to have that sort of giddy excitement about anything in my life, let alone someone. Just when I dudn't think it possible, I find new and awesome ways of hating myself.



There are a few things I'm struggling to understand at the moment. Prominent amongst them being how can I be with someone and yet feel so alone at times. With that, comes sensations of uselessness, and the normal plethora of standard negative emotions associated with it. It's like the more I search the more alone I feel, and the more alone I feel the more drastic my search. I trace down old familiar mental alleys and corridors, well attuned to my foot steps, I've loosened these cobblestones personally, and worn away soft indentions where my knees have fallen in tribute and prayer to those old self destructive habits.

I find that anytime I'm left alone to think, my mood and emotions turn pretty harshly destructive. When around other people, or escaping I can box the emotions off into their own little realm. Banished to their room like the petty childish emotions I paint them as in a rude mockery of a monument to my inability to affect my own personal story. How absurd of me to feel powerless in my own story that I write about myself. Yet I feel entirely victim to the whims and indifference to a greater universe than mine own, one wholly hostile and cruel to all the things and ideas I would see manifested.

What causes me the most unending anguish in all of this is not the loneliness, or the literal mind-numbing decades long depression. It's the length of it. The sheer fact that I'm still here, still working on these same fucking problems and these same fucking woes. Had I collected all the tears wept into a bucket I could fairly realistically likely drown myself in it.

Beyond that is only the anger, that vast red sea of unending power and rage that would see all things to their rightful end and deserved place. That is the thing that scares me the most, that even now, some few years after, that ocean is still there, crashing awfully against those all to thin shutters and threatening my calm and tranquil seas. I desire violent change, the kind I don't find productive, or altogether useful, but at least satisfying. The fact this exists, within the context of my relationship, gives me a great deal of guilt and grief.

Never before have I felt so entirely unsatisfied with the sand castle I've built, and so entirely willing to see it all lost to the waves. I hate this. I hate this. I hate this.

Apologies for the mixed ocean metaphors, I'm a cancer, we deal in all things water.


All is full of love, You just ain't receiving

Subjcets: Crutches vices, is the fake psuedonym (names authors sometimes write under) one? Why do I feel so alone all the time, and what can't I be attracted to people. Disappointed in events I had hopes for, meeting up with becky was nice in dispelling some of my childish preconcieved expectations and notions. While, that the desire is still there, a lot of the emotional edge is gone, which is nicer to deal with. Meeting your heroes, would seem t be an always, in my case. Still, it is hard to see your hopes and dreams annihilated in front of you. There are just so few people who are compatible to me, and then to see a partner walk in, and have her way with a room, with her small and meagerness to my grace and poise, is rough. Not in the jealous way, but in a way of feeling as if i'm somehow at fault. Like, I've done something wrong, when I know, it is, and always has been, and issue of simply not being enough. Not attractive, or normal, or innocent enough. I'm not cis enough to pull off the small shy card. The one I play is the mature gradeful lady who needs no help, but will gladly take your assistance. The independent and equal that you may tear down for her benefit. A submission earned, and deserved, not expected or demanded. The problem, is that I'm late. And that those who desire such a role either have their fill of partners, or are too busy to bother. Such is the problem when you restrict your selection to the pick of the litter. BUt what are my options, lower my standards? does that not then devalue the rest of what I've done and who I've done it with? Does that not ruin my appreciation for submitting when I know in my mind that I opted for a lower class .


The Juxtoposition of Sin and Purpose

In light of recent events, of having something I've been hoping for denied to me, and facing yet another rejection of sorts, I've composed my reasoning to place blame on myself. The output being of course, there are two potential problems, that of motivation, and that of methodology. As I refuse to believe the null hypothesis that my options of a D/S relationship are naught. Not at least, in this city, or community. I am however, so, infuriated, exhausted, and weary of scouring the depths of my networks to find someone.

The reasoning, as you might suspect, for this comes from the maelstrom of harsh feelings that develop as a result of being heart broken for no reason, outside disappointment.

The former, being my motivation. I pursue this with such fervor either in bias and flowered vision, or in honest devotion to a found purpose. I've, to date, a single experience to go on, and one that has been said to have been abusive, negative, ill-suited/ and ill-dated, and a terrible experience to build as an example. Yet, it is my only sample. My ex, colloquially known as Voldemortress. Only in that setting, can I remember not yearning for a purpose. My purpose was decided, and it was her. The question is however, do I see that now, years later, through my apologist imagination of what was the experience, or is my memory infallable enough to remember my emotional states in truth. If true, then searching for a D/S relationship continues as it was the only thing I've ever found to make the question of my life seem to make any sense. If False, and my memory and judgement is clouded, then I carry on through a perfumed cloud, hypnotized by something inevitably an illusion, and the journey continues on, innevitably to whatever end it may come to.

The later, being the methodolgy, in which case fair criticism is well and fair deserved. I've long suffered a nursing wound of two inhereit character sins, That of Sloth, and that of Cowardice. I've build up a fabulous cachet and array of excuses and inconvienances to allow myself failure. Promising a scowering of depths of only the shallowest of areas. If my drive and purpose in life is listed above, then how can I allow myself such grievances as this? For someone so inclined to a pursue the dynamic and relationship of a D/S style, as I tell myself I am, I have very little to actually show for it that puts myself at risk. Attribute that the uncomfortability of being introverted, and hard to approach, intimidating and alone, standing for one's self, perpetually an outsider due to circumstance.

Yet, I have felt this before. This disappointment and unwarranted ache. I was 11, and had mistaken carefree affection, for honest desire, and in pursuit found myself dancing over landmines to a much harsh audience of middle school kids. I feel now, as I do then, wondering what I did wrong, and why, for no apparent reason of my own, I'm facing the feelings of rejection and disappointment. Albeit the individual verbiage hits an uncomfortable similarity.

In honesty, the idea of my prospects for salvation going from sole, to nought, does bring strong waves of depression in the idea of having to, once again, start over from scratch. To face only the same harsh disappointments, over and over,  gives rise to great jagged and shaggy outcrops of depression and demoralization that it makes one consider even the desire to make said journey.

In saying as much, I apologize for the cryptic nature. It was ever my style of italicize my vernacular to my mood, therein. In sadness, it leans towards the metaphorical, dramatic, romantic, and fatalistic.



It is hard to describe the hollowness that comes from things. After a year of saying I love you too, it doesn't diminish the meaning of the world, but it certainly doesn't carry the same weight. Don't get me wrong, this is not a post lamenting the diminishment of NRE (New Relationship Energy), but given the crazyness that was the mid-late March, things now have calmed down and returned to a nice normal level. A level, I find to be quite hollow and without substance.

A great part of me wants to attribute this to the unfulfilled aspects of my life. Not that I don't have goals, both long and short, but, it all just seems so meaningless and arbitrary. I'm learning French because I want to, and while I' can find enjoyment in that, it is a shallow one. It exists because I want it to, and not at all within itself.

What does one strive for when one's needs and pains are remedied. These goals are nice, but, feel arbitrary and self imposed (likely as they are). Commendable, sure, but I can't take them to the bank, so to speak.

Why do I feel so, pointless in my endeavors? I have friends, great friends. I have a lovely partner, but, at the end of the day when everyone is asleep, I still lie awake at night with longing for something greater.

I...understand..that these dreams of grandeur, are likely the last grasps of the dieing breath of my hopes for a better life. I'm not sure what to think of that sentiment. Part of it seems realistic, and the childish remnants sees it as fatalstic romance. That last bead that if I would only strive for and put my entire energy towards, could make work into some sort of epiphany of a dream for a one way ticket into a better life/higher class/fantasy land.

All my life I've made pragmatic choices. It's a side effect of being given a shit predisposition of choices in life. When all your options are shit, you tend to become realistic, and play for what you can achieve. Having dreams is a side quest to pain, disappointment, and a quick slap in the face from the realities of the world. Now that my pragmatism has played out as it can, I'm out of realistic options, as it were. Everything is my life is, satisfactory. Not fantastic, not great, but acceptable.

The question then, is where do I go from here. Do I accept the realistic options of mediocrity that is my life as is? As, difficult as it might seem, there is solidarity in accepting the fatalism that is the majority of us. Most people go through their lives with unfulfilled desires, knowing that they can't achieve what the want. It seems, at least, progressive and mature to accept that I am as most are, and mediocre at best. That, jives, so to speak, with my mentality.

The, downside, of course, is the sheer depression and sadness that comes with knowing how futile, pointless, and meaningless your life has come to summarize in the vast expanse that is the time you've spent on this planet. Life, is an extravagantly, and a fantastically expensive long time. Most of which is spent doing vast quantities of unremarkable task for no reason. Leading one to question what the point is, if not for something fantastic.

Which all points to the issues of cognitive dissonance. A person has to maintain two separate countering ideas, while attempting to balance the two, or at least, remain ignorant of one. In the one, that life has to worth something, else it isn't worth anything. In the other, the realistic notion that there are seven billion people in the world, half of which are infinitely more qualified to be worth more than you at any given task (statistically).

So does one accept ones own mediocrity, or does one strive for what one will inevitably likely never achieve (at least, by my age standards)? If one opts to accept, how does one then rationalize that depressing, and truthful fact of self-obsolescence.