I hope some of you have noticed my lack of posting and infrequency of being online. Most of you already know a few months ago I accepted I was a transman, and that the NHS system (and its slowness) has been taking up headspace. I'm now in the waiting list for a gender clinic (which could be as long as 12 months away, and at it's shortest 6 months).
In those first few weeks of fully accepting myself, the body dysphoria was nearly unbearable. I was dealing with difficult parents and family members. And trying to work out if me and my boyfriend of two years were or weren't going to survive this.
After two months of watching him struggle with the decision, I realised I was going to have to make it. It sucked beyond anything, but I knew the life he wanted. And it wasn't with a man. He wanted a wife and biological children. The picket fence perfect life. The kind that even if one day I did want – was no where near the forefront of my mind. So I made the call. I ended it.
And then there were more months of living together as friends. We are of course still friends. There are things now that I can only talk about to him, and vice versa. He saw better than anyone the struggle I had with my birth body. It was him who told me to stop struggling and come out at work. It was one of the best things I did. I feel more content being called Alex and hearing male pronouns. I still get the shock in the normal world where I'm still seen as female, but I knew that would happen.
Eventually my parents and brother came round to accepting it. They try to remember my correct name and pronouns. Most of my extended family are fine with it as well. My cousin Jade has been a big support without a doubt. None of my friends have had a problem with it.
But those months living with my ex were still difficult. There's nothing more emotionally confusing than still being close to someone you still love I think. So soon after it all. There were times I was sad and had no issue letting him hug me. But there were other times I couldn't explain that my sadness was caused by him, and that letting him touch me even like that was too difficult.
It's why I decided to move out sooner than later. And now that I'm settled in a new place and back with my parents (my independence was so short-lived), I figured I could let myself relax finally. And that's what I did, thinking there was no one anything big could happen to shake me emotionally. I should fucking know better by this point in life.
Technically I'm not supposed to talk about this, but that's only on social sites. And to be frank if my manager somehow stumbles upon this – I don't give two shits.
Most of you don't know where I work, but it's in a hospital. Today I learned a paediatric doctor from my hospital is being charged for sexual abuse of eleven year old boys. The same age I was when I experienced my own sexual abuse. The wording I used to a co-worker who knew of this was “I guess it struck a chord”. Her response was “I'm not surprised”. I wanted to say more, but really what was there to say?
I universally suck at getting anything across when speaking. I need to write. And so I'm writing. But writing is also difficult now. I've reached a mental breaking point time and time again. The pathways that connecting my fingers to my mind and its imagination have been burnt out by the tidal waves. I'm still thinking about my stories and my characters, but I can't sum up the energy to write about them. I hate it. Writing was my hideaway. If I ever needed a time to hide, it'd be now.
But it's still not there. I have to force it out of me, and I always hate the results. I haven't even managed to sum up a decent verse of lyrics. I feel pathetic and useless. Writing is the one thing I'm good at, and now I don't even have that.
I guess today I'm just left a bit numb. I want to cry, but then I feel pointless. I want to slam the walls down and move on. I mean I didn't know the doctor, it has no direct affect on me. So why the fuck am I feeling emotional about it? Because of something that happened ten years ago. Something that no longer bothers me. I had the therapy, I got over it.
I'm left feeling depressed about the world. How will things ever get better if there are still people out there who will do these terrible things? Childhood is meant to be a wonderful thing. It's the time you get to marvel at everything and explore your imagination. It's the free pass you get until adolescence and adulthood when responsibility occurs.
Everyone deserves that free pass. I know what its like to have it taken away. To have it echo through your relationships and poison them. I feel distressed thinking about what those boys are going to go through when they hit puberty. Then again, nowadays they'll get therapy for it straight away. In my case it was shoved into the cupboard and ignored. Maybe that's why it's so difficult for me to work out how to deal with it.
Maybe my belief that I'm perfectly fine is completely off mark. But I'm not prepared to hold off starting hormones and everything I need to feel sane and like me in exchange for years of talking and reliving a bad memory. Everyone is fucked up in some way. Others in multiple ways. I don't think there's a single person alive who hasn't been screwed up some shape or form.
It might make us strong. It might make us have a great will. Might form interesting stories. It might give us good personalities and an ability to listen and empathise. But why is that needed?
The human condition is so twisted. Only those who have faced difficulty can appreciate all the good. While those who have all the good think they need more. This world we've made, and the people in it - None of it makes sense. How did we get here?
I'm not about to suggest some big answer, I just need to vent. I still have no clue when writing will be possible, but I'll keep trying.
And if that fails - I'll get my drivers licence, a motorcycle, and drive around working wherever and seeing the world. I think that's a solid B plan.