King David

This, is now the second fucking time I've had to write this out. I don't want to do it again. This will thus be, with increased frustration and animosity.

I'm so fucking tired of everything being ruined. No matter what it is it seems to be just an endless process of patching things. I acquire nice things, they break, get worn out, stolen, ripped, stained, or some other how ruined, and I then have to go about and maintain them. Thus is with my clothes, is also in my life. Ever just patching holes on a ship to weather the storm, never bothering to change course or properly fixing parts.

 This sensation thus culminated in having my laptop stolen this past weekend, along with about seven years of my life and a countless amount of private and pertinent information should they wish to pillage it.

I'm just so fucking sick of having to fix everything. It feels like nothing is ever just working properly. Even this stupid software is making me rewrite this, with less poignancy and flow than the original, and I'm just sick to death of it all.

I'm sick of feeling nothing but rage and numb muted pragmatism. I chose this option as it was objectively better in minor way X. There's never a decent emotional response to sway me one way or the other, and I'm so veyr tired of asking myself what I have to gain by a particular action. I want something that strikes me straight in the chest and makes me scream yes! I want to feel something so clearly, so defiantly that there is no possibly way I can sit on my ass and consider the pros and cons.

I'm tired of middle ground, logical compromised bargains. I'm tired of good enough and make due. I want something to make me feel alive, for once.

The  current plan of holding a wake is the best thing I can come up with for some sense of closure. I don't want to do it, but feel I have to. The whole thing makes me feel embarassed, ashamed, silly, and self absorbed. But, so far, its the best way I can think of to give some sort of closure to the matter.

Assaults

So, I've never really talked about this before. Forgive me if this is a bit scattered. I don't remember precisely when, but I know it was soon after moving to Austin, so around 2004 or 2005. This would make me around 19 or 20 at the time.

This was pre-transition, when I was first trying to figure out who I was. I began talking to a guy, I'm not sure where I met him, maybe on Myspace, or something (it was the all the rage back then). We talked back and forth for a couple of days and he seemed nice. We decided to meet in person in a parking lot. I was young and naive as you can see. We met up in our cars and he convinced me to go back to his place. He seemed nice enough and I had no reason not to. I opted to follow him, rather than have him drive me. Even then I didn't trust people easily, but I still liked to give them the benefit of the doubt. This, would get me into trouble multiple times.

We got to his place and he offered me a drink, I opted for soda despite his ramblings of the marvels of alcohol. We began by sitting on the couch and watching something. He began to run his hands up my legs and fondle me. I was nervous, and uncomfortable. He was nice, and cute, but I didn't want to mess around with someone I barely knew. I don't remember if he asked if it was okay, and I don't remember if I said it was fine or not. I have a tendency in situations like this, to convince myself that it is okay, when it isn't, and to simply silently endure it until it is over.

This fondling progressed, I asked him to keep things above the belt. I was ignored. Before I knew it he was in my pants and touching me. He asked if I wanted him to perform oral sex, I declined, and he continued to touch me, while touching himself.

I became introspective. I started asking myself questions about what I wanted, wasn't this what I wanted, wasn't he nice, did I have reasons to not reciprocate, why wasn't I into this act, and so forth. I figured at this point I would simple force myself into it. I moved and began to touch him in return. I found strange, issues to focus on during this. After some time I orgasmed, and cleaned myself up. He did as well soon after, and we made small talk for a while before I left.

I drove home crying furiously, unable to explain why, or how everything had just happened. I got home and quickly cleaned myself up. He tried to contact me again in a few days, saying he hoped he didn't scare me of. I never spoke to him again.

I did, once, write this all out to a friend of mine, but I've never spoken of it other than that one instance.

I mentioned before that giving people the benefit of the doubt would get me into trouble again. It did, soon after I moved to Seattle. This was in 2011, post transition. I had met with a couple on OKCupid, in a nearby Starbucks that I was fond of visiting. They seemed...nice, if not idiosyncratic and strange. We didn't discuss my gender. The man talked for most of the conversation, and the woman had trouble with English but we made small talk. We finished our drinks and then decided to go to a nearby pub for alcoholic drinks.

The pub was both awkward and uncomfortable. They knew a few people but I didn't know anyone. I made introductions I knew I wouldn't remember. I got a bit buzzed and we decide to go meet up with a friend of theirs. This friend turned out to live across the street from me.

By the time we finish these drinks, I'm still only buzzed but it is late, and they complain about the buses no longer running. Not knowing how they would then get home, in the cold/rain, I thus offered them a place to sleep, at my apartment. Again, I did not specifically trust them, but gave them the benefit of the doubt. We talk for a good while, and he begins to ask if I ever did any cross dressing or gender bending. I said no as, well, I never did.

I was laying on my bed, he was in a chair. The girl then comes into the bed and snuggles up next to me while I talk some more. I'm alright at this point, physical closeness itself, doesn't always bother me. Eventually we get tired and the lights go out. All three of us are in my bed, and I'm on the far side, with the other girl in the middle. She begins by grabbing my chest, and still a bit buzzed, this is enjoyable even though it isn't what I wanted. They never asked if I was alright with this, or if I wanted this.

Things progress and before I can say anything my pants are off. My first reaction is shame as I didn't shave my legs, (if ever you doubted I didn't plan on this encounter). I panic, knowing all too well the stories of transgirls murdered by the shock of people finding out. I sit up, and quickly say that I was trans. They acknowledge, and he tells the girl in a childlike manner that I was like some other person. I assumed this meant another transgirl they had played around with. Before I can say anything else my panties are down and the girl is performing oral sex.

I laugh, or squirm or something as they ask me what is up and I lie, saying I had to pee. I then ran to the bathroom, and sulked for ..what had to be at least 5 or 10 minutes. I assumed they would continue to have sex, but they must have picked up on something, perhaps the sound of me in the bathroom, I'm not sure. I eventually came out and they were simply laying down, presumably asleep. I crept down next to them and slept.

We talked a bit the next morning, and they eventually left, without saying anything about the previous night. I would see them again at a kink/swinger party a bit later. I attended with their friend that I had met that night, and eventually met his girlfriend who was/is super awesome and still a great friend of mine. I didn't much talk to the couple though, and made a point to avoid them. There is an awkward photo of this gathering laying around somewhere, I untagged myself.

I've had trouble talking about these because I have trouble labeling them assaults or rapes. I have de-legitimized them in my mind because of various things. I enjoyed part of it, or I didn't overtly say no, or I participated back in some way, or because I invited them, or because I voluntarily went into that situation. I feel that it is partially my fault, or not a "real" assault because it wasn't violent, or as terrible as various other things, or because it didn't go that far.

To this day I still have a hard time saying no. It sticks in my throat. My thoughts are to just endure it, stick it out and then leave. I still don't trust people easily, and I still give them the benefit of the doubt.

This notion, or theme, occurred to me recently, as a situation presented itself in which I could easily have been raped by someone I had invited into my apartment. The body language of the person screamed red flag to me, that this person might be a threat, and yet I still simply endured.

I'm not sure what steps to take to make saying no easier, or what it will take for me to act on my instincts.

I do know that people have used some aspect of this benefit of the doubt, to paint me as someone who is afraid of being alone, or rejecting people (and thus being alone). It, infuriates me when people accuse me of this. It is an active trait that I find desirable in people, I think everyone should have the benefit of the doubt. Simple because I don't cut people out of my life when they give off a creepy vibe on first impression, or act in a undesirable manner, it does not mean I'm afraid of being alone, or that I need to rely on other people. I don't make friends easily, and this trait, is a step to remedy that. I abhor people mis-characterizing that as a weakness when it isn't. Excuse me for not being a judgmental jaded fuck.

I moved across the country, to be by myself in an entire new city/state for Christ's sake. The only way that could be MORE independent is if I moved out of the fucking country.

I digress. I guess the point of all of this is to vent it out. To relate, and to seek support from people on it. I don't, dwell on these assaults much, but I did feel it needed to be declared, for my own sake if nothing else.

The Cadence of Rage

Having recently resigned myself to not giving a fuck what people think of my habits and coping mechanisms, I've found that there is a lot less guilt about it, and a lot less negative emotions flying around. Shame, being a big one that people like to saddle on me. They through around terms like unhealthy and self destructive, but is it anymore so than a night of heavy drinking? Sure my way is more cosmetic and visible, but I don't damage my internal organs at all.

I digress.

I've been meaning to write since last week as an update since last week was, admittedly, fucking insane. I haven't had to cut emotions out of me in a long time, and now having done it, it feels oddly peaceful. It was a part of my life pre-move, and much like my attempted fasting and abstaining from sexual activity pre-transition failed, my attempt at doing such for my emotional safety net also failed. I was under so much pressure to be this perfectly healthy girl that did everything right. Moving was supposed to be the start of a new beginning with no therapist and no cutting. I've lost the sanctity of the act, It isn't a big deal, and it isn't something I'm going to let people talk down to me about or give me shit over. Yes, I see the frowns you give, I see the disapproving glances and hidden admonishments stuck in your throat. No, I don't care about that, and will offer you cuddles and hugs to comfort you. Rest assured there is nothing you can do (oh wait, apparently if someone else does it for me, it's healthy) to fix things.

The assertiveness and assuredness of the language used here is largely reflective how it changes my mood. It is that of my switch side, that simply does not care about most things, and knows the uselessness of 90% of what we decide to do in a day.

That doesn't mean I'm not still upset. I still break down and bruise easily. I had a very sweet moment with a metamore this past weekend who also happens to have been a cutter at one point. Very sweet words were exchanged, tears fell, cuddles were given and it was very nice.

But while nice, it is a patch at best. I still pine and wish for a sweet romance of my own, one that I don't have to sacrifice my standards or expectations for. Not that I am overly picky, but just being able to have a suitor that knows about my sexuality and gender issues would be nice. I grow entirely too weary of being ashamed of who I am and of my body.

The rest of life is largely the same. Pointless and hollow, and in dire need of some sort of creative expression. The problem I have is that I never know where to begin. I have a thousand possible choices and it dwarfs me completely to have it laid out before me. I am paralyzed by it and never get anything going because all of it is a blank page with no structure of idea to guide it, except for the general idea of "make life not shit".

My Metamore said that I should try letting it all out at once. I responded that it would likely destroy me. The more I think of it, the more it seems that my life is defined as watching a fragile girl explode from the inside out in a very slow controlled demolition one day at a time. There is such..an unending rage and grief that swallows my existence. It is deafening.

Perhaps learning to mute that sound, has rendered me also deaf to all the other internal sounds. To hear one, is to hear the anger, and after spending 20 years learning to tune that out, learning to listen to it again is proving difficult. 

I can write the words, I can carve them into my skin in fact, but the melody still eludes me. In the end though, perhaps I am, just a silly girl. Hoping for things she can not have.