So when I first decided to accept this, I didn't think body dysphoria would bother me much. I mean it hadn't been much of issue the past two years prior when I was indecisive. Logic states I'd be fine. I'm not.
Everytime I wake up for work I dread getting ready. I want to pull on the chest binder and the guy shirt's I have and be done with it. But I can't do that yet. So instead I go to work as a girl and spend the day feeling disconnected and not there. Then the instant I get home the first thing I do is get changed. It's then and only then that I feel a little better. Cause with the binder on I can feel more like myself.
But after a few hours it's get extremely uncomfortable and sometimes a little painful. I know it's too tight, but don't have the money to buy another yet, and I really, really can't not wear it to be frank. So when that happens I eventually give in and take it off and, yeah, don't feel great after that.
And I won't even start on the bottom dysphoria. Most of the time I can ignore it and be fine. But other times it rears it's head and it'll stick around for hours. Any little thing that can possibly link back to it makes me feel horrible and awkward. And yeah, that's all I really need to say. Now if I just had some good way to convey to my parents that this is what I'm going through, maybe they'd accept it all sooner.
So here's the confession I need to make. Because if I don't write it down, I'm just never going to tell anyone, ever. Because I spent two years not doing this, and being right back where I started just makes me feel more useless than I already feel. I thought I was coping okay, really, I did. But then other things would somehow manage to pile on top. Other people continuing to need a shoulder to cry on and someone to talk too.
I guess it never occurred to me that I'd have to tell them what I'm going through right now sucks, and they should leave me alone with my own issues. Oh well, I've learnt from the mistake. But it's triggered something and I don't know what the fuck to do about it. A few weeks ago I scratched again. Just the once. I felt shitty, I felt ashamed and I told myself I wouldn't do it again. I've done it four times since. So next time someone wants to come talk to me, claiming I'm brave or strong or whatever because of the crap I deal with, therefore I'm the best person to talk too. I'll very bluntly tell you to leave me the hell alone.