Rejection still hurts

I had plans to write some positive blogs, especially for the first one of the new year. However, I've come to realise that plans, just like good intentions, don't always come into being. Today's event has left me shaken even though it wasn't a total surprise.

It's been almost two years since I've seen my best friend from high school. When we last met, it was over twenty years of friendship that spanned many life changing events. If any of my friendships were to survive my transition, I would have thought that this would have been it. Sadly, this friendship was officially put to rest this morning. 

As many of you may know, the last two years of my life have been tumultuous. Through those ups and downs I had offered several invitations to my friend but there were always reasons why they couldn't be accepted. I'm not one to read too deeply into things because sometimes people are busy, sometimes people actually do have valid reasons why they can't accept your invitation and sometimes it is just unfortunate that your events and theirs continue to clash several times in a row. It is too easy to come to false conclusions (and I have had many false claims levelled against me) and I am not about to make allegations against a friend without knowing the facts. Today, however, I received the facts from him. It is too hard for him to move on and as our lives have moved in different directions our friendship has come to an end. 

I have mentioned, in previous posts, my thought processes regarding my transition and whether or not I should have told my friends or just left. Telling them is, I still believe, the right thing to do since I have acted with honesty and integrity. Whatever actions they all take is a testament to their character and not a weakness of mine. However, for all those in transition, be warned, it is a painful process and the pain continues far after all the physical aspects of transition are "complete".

What continues to astound me, is how people expect to resolve problems by staying away. As an ex-male I know that retreating into the man cave is a way of coping but it never actually resolves anything. With all relationships, contact (be it physical, verbal or virtual) is important. Distancing yourself from someone cannot somehow magically remove an issue so that your relationship will somehow become better again. An extended amount of time spent apart will only serve to spread the relationship further apart. 

So, chalk up another scar and call it experience. I sometimes wish I didn't have to experience so much and I wonder how much I can take before I am totally enveloped in scar tissue and there is no heart left.

Finding a place to fit in

Part of what makes us human is our tendency to interpret things and to search for answers and a reason. This inquisitiveness is a good thing but it also highlights our fallibility as we often tend to focus on over simplistic explanations for complex behaviours and problems. Indeed, Occam's Razor is often misquoted as saying something like "the simplest explanation is often the best". 

"I am thrifty with money because I was raised in a poor family."

"I enjoy spending money because now I have it where as I was raised and brought up in a poor family."

Our tendencies to focus on simple explanations and reasons often cause us to fixate on factors that jump out at us. Whilst these factors may actually be contributory, they probably aren't the single or even the single most significant cause for our behaviours. This can be seen when the same situations are used to explain different behaviours in different people. There must, therefore be other factors at play but it's a line of faulty reasoning that we fall into again and again. Perhaps we do this because it is simple and our minds really aren't that good at processing a lot of complex information without distilling it down.

Whatever the reason, it's possibly something to be aware of when transitioning. Growing up, I've always felt that I didn't fit in. It always seemed that I viewed things differently and that caused problems when dealing with others. I didn't understand nuances in schoolboy rough housing that made others upset at me and I still don't understand why their actions in certain games were considered okay whilst I was called a cheat if I did the same or less. This resulted in me, starting from very early on in primary school, spending most of recess and lunch times by myself counting the days till the next school holiday. 

In high school, my way of thinking resulted in teachers not liking my essays and creative writing and usually missing the subtle points I was making. English was one of my least favourite subjects during high school and I gravitated toward mathematics, physics and chemistry where problems could be solved with flair but (at high school level) there was only a single final answer. 

At high school and university, as interpersonal relationships became more important and more complex, my strange views caused further friction with those that I was close to. Girlfriends couldn't understand how I could be friends with ex-girlfriends (assuming ex's wanted to be friends with me). How I could be friends with a girl who cheated on me?And nobody could understand how I could remain best friends with my friend she cheated on me with! Then there were the (to me) arbitrary boundaries that defined whether two people were friends, interested in each other or "really good friends"... I still don't understand these nuances and I still don't understand why people just can't show affection and love without it being interpreted as something more. My views and beliefs often resulted in me feeling left out because they would translate into poorly received actions or I would have to pay close attention to my actions and behave in a way that, well, wasn't really me.

I often pondered what it was about me. Many things crossed my mind such as my ethnicity, my geekiness, my physical make up or my confusion over my gender. That last one can be a problem for those transitioning as it is all too easy to believe that your problems will be fixed once transition is "over". Each milestone in transition carries a kind of holy grail with it which only leads to disappointment when we realise that we the same person we were before but we just look different or have the genitals we always wanted. Many things change but many things do not. 

I am glad that I transitioned but, it may surprise many to learn, I still feel like I don't belong. Core beliefs and values tend not to change when transitioning and my beliefs and values still tend to be way out field compared to many. That's not to say that I stick out like a sore thumb or mope in a corner in social situations; I've learnt to navigate those waters well enough. Rather, I feel more like a golf ball that nestles into a social circle only to realise that this hole isn't the cup in the green but a divot in a sand trap and that I'm about to be whacked out.

Sometimes I just want to find a place where I feel that I truly belong but then sometimes I feel like Groucho Marx when he said, "I don't care to belong to a club that accepts people like me as members."

Yesterday

Yesterday was the anniversary of when my ex and I first started going out. Strangely, I didn't actually realise that until today and I don't know if that is a good or a bad thing. In some ways it was fortunate since by the end of last night I was already in bad shape and knowledge of another once happy day passing by would have compounded my already despondent mood.

After finishing some reading last night for a university unit that I'm doing over summer, which interestingly included two pages on gender identity, memories began to flood back about my house. Due to the fallout from our financial settlement, my house is currently on the market and I am no longer living there. Yet, memories still remain. Every room in that house has a story to tell of happiness and sadness, promises made and dreams and potential unfulfilled. Tears streamed down my face and I sobbed quietly into my pillow, dark spots spreading across it's surface just like my grief spreading through my body. 

Curling up underneath my blanket, I hugged myself to sleep.

These times of despair are happening less frequently now and, for that, I am thankful. For now, though, they still do remain.

Moving House

Since my day in court, I've been spending every day packing up my house and getting it ready for it's inevitable sale. It has been a difficult couple of weeks although I've been managing to cope a little better as each day passes, although I'm not sure how I will be when it finally is sold. My first day back to pack, I could feel sadness as I approached the front door with trepidation. Unlocking the door slowly, I turned off the alarm and quietly whispered, "Hello house." It was too much and that was all I could manage before I broke down in tears. I sat on the couch, sobbing for several minutes trying to pull myself together. This was a scenario that was to occur frequently over the next two weeks.

Memories and feelings still ran deep even though my house no longer felt like a home. At one point it felt cold, but now it felt tortured. It's heart hadn't disappeared, it was just broken, torn, shattered, severed. My heart. Dreams and potential had now faded into wistful memories that would now forever go unfulfilled and I cried for them and for me.

I began to sort through my possessions and to put them into boxes for moving or discarding. It is amazing how much can be gathered over the course of a decade. So many things had strong emotions attached that made my heart fall when I laid eyes upon them again and I would find myself back on that couch, sobbing for several minutes. It was a long process and progress was slow during that first week. 

As days wore on, sobbing became less frequent and more progress was made. With deadlines looming, sorting has given way to purely shifting with promises of discarding unnecessary items postponed to a later time. Even though I have been packing for a long time now, there is still some way to go yet and I'm sure plenty of tears will still be shed. 

My Day in Court

I just returned home from a full day in the city where I was at family court to settle financial matters ahead of an impending divorce. It was an arduously long day but after seven hours, an agreement was finally signed. Was it fair? Am I happy with it? Can I live with it?

I can't say that I am happy and I don't know if it was fair. All I can say is that it was the best that could be done under the circumstances. It's not particular fair that I've had to struggle with this gender identity burden. Neither is it particularly fair that when I finally managed to wrap my head around it and brought the truth to my soul mate, she decided that she was no longer my soul mate. How do you put a financial figure on that?

It's not that I'm against being fair or even against the concept whether in theory or practice. However, I do believe in acting with integrity. Proposing a solution in private and then presenting a legal offer demanding so much more is not acting with integrity. Friends who said they would be there and then couldn't fit me into their busy schedules and then later blame me for not reaching out to them; that is not acting with integrity. 

Ironically, she could have had anything she wanted if she had just asked me instead of pursuing it through the legal route. She knew that and I made it abundantly clear to her on several occasions. We would both have had more since we would have also avoided the legal fees. I can't begin to imagine how the love that she once had for me has soured into a tonic most foul that she has had to take this route. Yet, for all that has happened, I still love her and I think that is what hurts the most.

Attaching Emotions

I'm reaching a point where I'm almost functional during an average day. Worries about life are no longer totally overwhelming and I don't live in pervasive fear or anxiety and I'm not constantly in tears or a state of despair. Almost.. 

Unfortunately, I find myself still traumatised by emotions that are attached to what were once happy memories. Places, things and events trigger memories in my mind that then release a flood of sadness that washes over me as quickly as a tsunami. Observers might think I were bipolar if they observed my mood swings but that would neglect what is actually happening in my thought processes.

As an example, there are now a number of movies that I can no longer watch. Antz was a wonderful animation that I enjoyed but it was also the first film that my ex and I went to see together. Avatar (the James Cameron film) is another that I enjoyed but that reminds me of the final times during which my ex and I were still in contact. As of writing, it was the last movie that we watched together. Remembering these movies is distressing due to the associated emotions and, even at this very moment, it requires a pause as I am brought to tears by these thoughts.

I did not choose to associate negative emotions with these memories and I have yet to figure out how to detach them. This places me in precarious position as I can find myself quickly crashing down when what might seem to be a small or innocent detail is brought to my attention. Judging by how my mind has dealt with other events, these associations will not go away but I can only hope that their effects will lessen over time.

Failing Friendships

My heart thumped in my chest and the lump in my throat accentuated it's dryness as sweat started to bead on my forehead. Anxiety ran through my body as I fidgeted with my fingers trying to figure out how to bring up the news. There was never a good time and there isn't a good way. 


That was my hellish reality for several months when I first began my transition and I was doing the rounds with all my friends to let them know what I was doing. Fears ran deep through me about how they would react, how would they see me and what would be the future of the friendship. As might be considered wise, I prepared myself for the possibilities. I steeled myself in case they threw a few superlatives as they were presented with a concept that they could not possibly understand and they decided that you were therefore a freak which the no longer wanted in the same room with them, let alone their lives. I prepared myself for the real possibility that I might end up totally alone with not a single friend in the world.


When you're expecting a slap in the face, any sign of compassion, understanding or acceptance is a surprise. It may be a welcome surprise, but it is a surprise nonetheless. Friends rally around me and pledge their support and understanding because, after all, they aren't going to throw away years of friendship. Tears are shed as I tell them of my fears and hugs are shared as we both say how glad you are that you didn't do "anything silly". Fears dissolve and, feeling rather foolish but ecstatic, I want to sing from the roof tops about how wonderful my friends are and how lucky I am to have them.


A journey of a thousand miles may begin with a step, but the first step is not necessarily the hardest. As my journey progresses and my legs weary and my spirit begins to sag, I turn to my friends. Unfortunately, they are busy with prior engagements or other friends which is fine. They are friends with lives after all and not my indebted servants who should come running at a whim. However, time and time again, they seem not to be able to be there and may begin posting cryptic messages on facebook that seem to mourn the passing of a friend. Some ask for a little time alone to come to terms with such big news and that seems fair enough. Their promises of contacting me later begin to bristle like thorns when "later" never arrives. Maybe I finally manage to meet one or two of them again, but the meetings are short, the warmth missing and the pledged emotional support strangely absent.


Not being one to jump to conclusions, some probing finally confirms your fears. Accusations of being selfish and running merrily along my life leaving others behind to pick up the pieces are let loose as I sit at the precipice of my own path. Looking around at the shattered pieces around me, attempting to summon up the strength each morning to try to shove another two ill shaped morsels together so that I can crawl forward in my own life, I wonder how such charges could be raised. Somehow, I'm apparently happy and am selfish for causing all this suffering and not being there for people who told me to leave them alone. Finally, the truth is revealed and as my "friends" turn their backs to march out of my life, they reach past my lowered defences and rip out my heart.


That, I was not prepared for.

Thailand Day T+20 : A surprising disappointment

I slowly strolled through the now familiar ground floor of the shopping centre next to my hotel. It was after lunch and I thought it might be a good idea to stretch the legs. Looking through the shop windows during my walk, I slowed and stopped in front of a fashion store that I had passed many times. A sleeveless striped dress adorned a manikin in the window. It's smart collar and lapel outlined a pointed breast line that was completed by half dozen, medium sized silver buttons providing the front closure. It was beautiful, it was sexy, it was classy and, thanks to black and white striping, it was slightly retro. In other words, it was me and I wanted to try it on.


There's no secret that the petite Asian girls populating this part of the world wear a jealously small size dress and that local clothing sizes are often far too small for any of us who might claim to be average or larger in a western country. I was prepared for that and had already given up on many stores who's maximum sizing was a medium that barely reached from one shoulder to the other collarbone let alone other shoulder. Like I had previously said, being in a country with plenty of cheap clothing that I can't fit into is hell. However, you still have to explore the opportunities just in case you do come across that one find that will be the envy of everyone you know, so I bravely walked in and examined the dress on the rack.


To my surprise, amongst all the dresses was a size XL. I don't care what the label says and I don't get flattered by all this vanity sizing rubbish as long as I can buy what I want and it fits. From my research, a Thai XL might just fit me. I turned to look for the sales girl and found her standing right behind me patiently as they tend to do here. She used a bamboo pole to lift the dress off the rack (I neglected to mention it was a very high up rack) and directed e to the change rooms. I scurried in anticipation and glee.


Inside the change room, I undressed and unbuttoned the new dress. This was the moment of truth. I put my arms in the openings and smiled as a buttoned the waist. Perfect. But only for moment. It was perfect at the waist and I continued to button down to the bottom of the dress, but as I did so I was ever conscious of the prominent gap at the bust line. I held the button nervously and attempted to button it up. On the third attempt, after fumbles and struggles, the button was done up, but it was ridiculous. My breasts were obviously too big for this dress.


I stared, depressed, into the mirror switching my gaze to only alternate at these new bulges adorning my chest. To make matters worse, I was totally busting the seams as much as stretching them which meant that it probably would have fit if my breasts were anywhere between my original size and size smaller than what they were now. This was a nightmare and the vagaries of implant sizing had always left me fearful of the question, "What if my breasts don't end up the right size?"


With monumental disappointment, I changed back into my own clothes and handed the dress back to the sales girl with a smile. Walking back to the hotel, I couldn't help but look at all the girls walking past and analysing their proportions and wondering if mine had now been made out of shape.


I feel like I'm in a dangerous and vulnerable position at the moment. I haven't even left Thailand yet and I'm expressing doubts and possible regret over some part of my surgery. It's a grave moment indeed.

Thailand Day T+17

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"What the hell?", you're probably thinking. Did a lizard run over Filly's keyboard while she was away or has she finally lost her last marble? 


Well, actually, the answer to that is a little involved. Since when have any of my blogs been concise? I've been blogging for a while now and occasionally I'll get a nice comment from someone that I'm a decent writer. While I might not necessarily agree, it's still good to know that my creations are appreciated by others even though my intentions aren't necessarily virtuous. Indeed, they are probably downright selfish.


A main thread connecting my blogs is that they tend to describe how I feel about something. Whether it is a moment in time or a more general philosophical outlook, my posts are about my feelings and I haven't, as yet, written anything technical about, for example, how I have managed various technical aspects of my transition such as my voice or look. Posts along those lines have actually been thought of, but not yet acted upon because I find them harder to write. It's not because of the knowledge or the content in the material but merely because any of my decent writings have been a result of a catharsis. When I'm deep in the bowels of anguish, it's comforting to open the floodgates and let my fingers do the talking without my brain getting in the way. Technical writing, however is hardly cathartic and, when my brains get in the way, I have difficulty writing and my English essay grades in school reflected that. 


In case you're drifting off due to my rambling, this is where I get to the point. (Don't you hate it when authors herald the arrival of the point instead of just stating the point?) Sometimes, the purging of my thoughts through my fingers doesn't work. Not for lack or desire or effort, sometimes it's as though the waters of thought are muddied and mixed with the rocks of a superabundance of emotion that clog the drainage paths for cleansing. My usual prose is replaced by an internal pressure accompanied by a frustration for the lack of progress, which is then replaced by numbed empathy and imagination as the rocks scour my insides. Those first few lines are usually all I can mange at this point and I guess tonight was one of those occasions. 

Don't forget...

Curled up in bed, tears streamed from my face once again. Emptiness dug its way through the core of my body no matter how tightly I clenched my fists or curled into a ball. I knew it was senseless that I should be feeling so horrendously dejected after such a wonderful afternoon and night. Depression, as a major illness, doesn't care for logic and attempts to make you feel your worst just when you might think that you are feeling your best. Forgetting your medication doesn't help either. 


Waking up this morning, I soon realised that I had run out of anti-depressants. Panic and anxiety struck as usual but I managed to restrain them when I confirmed that the pharmacy was indeed open today. I was still in quandary, however, since it was a Sunday and I so wanted to relax with a bath. After a short debate with myself, I decided I would throw on whatever was at hand, without too much thought, and buy my medication first and then relax with a nice long bath when I came back home. Everything went according to place except that I was so excited to relax in a bath and promptly forgot to take my medication. 


Curled up and weeping in bed, I suddenly remembered what I had forgotten. In five hours I need to wake up again and I shall be having another dose. I wonder if five hours is long enough between doses even though I already know that it is too late. It is too short a time between doses and yet too long a time to claw at my chest and tug at my hair in a futile effort to fight off the growing pain inside. All the emotional traumas are exacerbated by the need for me to stop taking hormones from today in preparation for my upcoming surgery.  


It's not the first time I had forgotten and I knew what it would be like if I didn't have the medication, hence the panic and anxiety earlier in the day. A smart person would learn their lesson and remember to take their medication. A smart person would not water their mattress with their tears, nausea churning from their stomach and curled underneath the blankets trying to hide from the world. I'm not a smart person.

More memories

I saw the brown striped wallet box on the floor next to my bedside table and picked it up. Before my wedding I had been given two new wallets. My wife gave me one because I needed a new one. She was sick of seeing me pull out my stretched and overstuffed wallet with frayed stitching and panels starting to separate. I really did need a new one. My inlaws bought me a new wallet as part of chinese wedding tradition. I was supposed to carry it during the wedding and since I had started to use it, inertia one and I decided to keep using it until it wore out upon which time I would switch to the one my wife gave me. Unfortunately, I never got that chance.


This box I was holding now was probably that unused wallet. I opened the box cautiously and peeked inside to discover that I was right. Light reflected enchantingly off the beautiful leather surface and that leather smell was still there. It would be a shame to let it go to waste and I was never going to use it. My mind ran through a list of possible candidates to whom I could give this special gift and I made a mental shortlist as I lifted the wallet out of the box to remind myself of how it looked inside.


As I opened the wallet, my neck stiffened as my heart fell. Sitting perfectly inside and showing through the license holder was a photo of my wife... or ex as the case may be. I remembered how she complained that I didn't have a photo of her in my wallet and recalled how she had specially bought me a wallet with a spot that would hold her photo nicely. My body lowered itself onto the bed and I sat there, numb, staring at the photo. It had been taken during our holiday to Japan and there she was sitting atop a statue of a red ladybird with black spots. This was our first day in Tokyo and we had exited from the wrong side of Shinjuku station and spent out afternoon walking around like idiots in the business district on a Sunday. But, we still managed to make fun of it this photo brought those memories back. My feelings of numbness were slowly replaced by despair as tears welled in my eyes. I knew I would not be be able to give this wallet away and I slowly packed it back into its box and placed it inside one of the large cardboard boxes into which were packed my old clothes. I sat back down on the bed, paralyzed as the tears trickled down my face.


My task of packing was no easier.


At this moment, I had set myself the task to pack a little more but I find myself procrastinating and writing this blog instead. Feelings of despair, sorrow, loss, pain and even a little regret remain. It probably doesn't help that I ran out of anti depressants today and I'm not seeing my psychiatrist for another few days. Neither does it help that my mom seems to feel sorrier for my ex than for me and then she wonders why I don't talk about stuff with her and tells me off for it. So I find myself weeping at my computer while writing about my feelings and sitting next to an empty plate of nachos. I really didn't need those nachos since I was full before I made them and now I'm satiated. They weren't even that good since I ran out of sour cream and didn't have any jalapenos...


About the only thing that I accomplished this afternoon was to wheel my motorbike out of the shed and into the driveway. But even that was a sad affair. My Yamaha TRX-850 that was at one point my pride and joy is now a dusty relic since I have been unable to ride it for some time. Given that I won't be able to ride it for some time into the future, I've decided it would be best if I sold it. Money from the sale would be most needed also. I haven't been without a bike for fifteen years and the thought of being without one leaves me strangely anxious and dejected.


When it comes to packing, some things can stay and some things just have to go...

Sunrise, Sunset

When I was in primary school and being shuffled off to piano lessons every week, there was a girl who had her lesson before me who was always smiling. She was several years older than I, but I was always struck by that radiant smile that always graced her face. While concentrating and playing the piano, a frown would always cross my face, but never hers. If she was waiting for someone and began reading a book, a hint of the smile would still be there. Her smile was not fake or forced but it was radiant and she exuded brightness and happiness whenever I saw her. 
I wished I could have been like her, but I felt as if I had little to smile about. Sometimes I did have moments of fun, but otherwise I lived in a melancholy world with few friends and, I felt, nobody who understood me. Even while my age was only single figures I wished, although I didn't understand the concept of suicide, that my life would end each night. In high school, the prayers became regular.
"Let me wake up as a girl", I would plead. "And if not, then don't let me wake up at all."
I guess God doesn't bow to earthly demands and many times I discovered that I lacked the nerve to actually take my own life. It has been the basis of many a comedians routine, but there is actually nothing more devastating to be curled up in tears at the planned site of your own demise, forlorn at the knowledge that not only are you a failure at life but you have failed at something else yet again.
By the time I left university, I decided to try the advice I was constantly given. 
"Cheer up and smile."
"Wake up and smile and everything will be ok."
"Smile and it will make you feel happier."
I suppressed all those unhappy feelings and began to smile. It sort of worked for a while, but years on I found myself out of work and was diagnosed with clinical depression. I guess you can't just ignore your feelings and hope everything will go away. At one of the support groups I cringed every time I heard the phrase "Fake it till you make it". The therapist must have felt my cringing since she didn't much like me either.


Another couple of years later and here I still am. My smile is still here, mostly, but now it is real and it is because I am really happy with myself. I am trying to live my life with integrity and even when I found myself in hospital recently, I had a strange sense of calm. It was as if there was nothing to worry about because I had lived my life the way I needed to. Perhaps it was inappropriate because I discovered that lying in bed smiling during (supposedly) traumatic events may annoy people around you. Barring social convention, I was at peace. 


Sometimes, events in life seem to conspire against you. When hopes, dreams and feelings are crushed it is difficult to smile, especially when tears are streaming down your face. It is difficult to believe in yourself when you question your integrity and the decisions you have made. So the smile fades from my face but I cling desperately to what I have, to what will keep me afloat; hoping that one day, I will find peace again.

Ink of Destiny

"Use Black Ink", the form stated. I glanced across to my "To Do" list that I had just added to and saw, with disappointment, that the pen I had handy was blue and not black. Reluctantly, I heaved myself off the bed and trudged to the back room where all my pens still were and rummaged to see what I had available. Being a little fussy with pens, I prefer not to use ball point pens and opt for roller ball or gel pens instead where the ink comes out a little wet. I also do like fountain and cartridge pens although their maintenance is a little bothersome. My eye caught a felt tip pen which also aren't on my favourite list but my ex used to use them almost exclusively. This would no doubt be one of the pens that she had had a tendency to misplace or lose. In some corner of her office there was probably a cluster of pens huddling away and trying not to be found like prison escapees.

I picked up a fountain pen and wondered if I should fill it up and use it for filling out the form. My feelings were torn but I finally put the cap back on and placed it back in the pen holder. Something caught my eye and my heart sank. Hesitantly, I reached out and picked up a red pen shaped like a cigar that was fat in the middle and tapered towards both ends. The tip was a brushed metal and there was also a similar metallic ferrule at the nib. Encasing the body was a soft, squishy red plastic. There used to be a cap to match, but that had started to fit improperly soon after I had bought it and it was now lost somewhere.

I felt my heart grow heavier and the tears in my eyes begin to well up. I had bought this pen when I had gone to Sydney and it was the first time I had been away interstate from my girlfriend who was to become my wife much later and is now my ex wife. Wandering through the streets of Sydney, I was looking for a small gift to bring back to her. It had to be something stylish, yet useful as well; neither of us were fans of useless tourist trinkets. 

I hadn't known at the time that she wasn't a fan of ball points either and the pen did look quite stylish so she accepted my gift graciously and appreciated the thought. She had neglected to take it with her when she left and it had now been left behind and I wondered if the sentimental value, that at least I had attached to it, had also been left behind. It was now discarded to haunt my thoughts and memories. 

Fighting the heaviness in my chest, I brought it back to my bedroom and began to fill out the form as a tear fell from eye.

Filly's Frolic #13

I stumbled through my front door, collapsing on the floor and gasping for air. Bathed in sweat, I lay with my arms outstretched and began stretching my tired legs. I had just completed my run for the morning. Now that it was no longer freezing or pouring with rain every morning, I had decided to get my regular morning runs happening again. The weather this morning did not disappoint and whilst it was not exactly sunny or warm, it was at least tolerable if not pleasant for a coolish spring morning. If I was to get my tummy in check and lose the kilos I had mysteriously put on during the week, I could not afford to be too fussy about the weather I exercised in.



After I stretched and cooled down, I staggered into the shower to get ready for the day as I had to get ready for my blow wave appointment at my friend's salon. It was training time again and I was lucky enough to be the training model for one of the girls. She gets a model to train on and I get a free blow wave; I'm not going to argue with that. Her goal today was to complete the blow wave in an allocated appointment time. Understandably, it can be hard enough learning the correct techniques let alone doing them quickly, but the salon obviously can't allow hair dressers to take as much time as they want. 


She was definitely improving though. Between giggles, she mentioned that her arms weren't getting sore from holding the brushes and dryer all afternoon. Additionally, I had become accustomed to feeling the hot hair from the dryer turn into a searing heat against my scalp. A jerk away, possibly combined with a slight yelp, would signal to her that she had burned me with the dryer. Today, it didn't happen once! She was definitely getting better. The result was wonderful as usual but she still needed to work on her speed. No matter, I can always come back and model again another day!


What was more important was that I now had a fabulous hairstyle that I needed to show off somewhere. The weather had deteriorated to a miserable and wet day so it had to be indoors. I therefore headed to the self-proclaimed fashion capital that is Chadstone Shopping Centre. I was sure I would fit right in with my lovely blow wave, my new skinny ripped jeans, black heels, a white t-shirt with a black rose print and my wonderful bluish black jacket. 


I meandered through the centre, keeping my eye out for any bargains, and as I moved from shop to shop I noticed the two young men walking towards me. They were involved in a conversation but apparently I had distracted one of them. He had shiftily started staring at me, unbeknown to his friend who was still chatting away. I looked at him playfully and smiled. As they passed I realised he couldn't see me smile since the part of my body that he was staring at doesn't smile. I rolled my eyes and sighed whilst continuing my shopping without missing a step.


Several shops later, an older asian lady sneered and looked disapprovingly at my jeans. I sneered back. I thought of my parents who would probably not approve of me spending money on jeans that were torn. It was ok, I don't take fashion advice from them either... 


It wasn't long before I came across my shopping centre fear - the kiosk sales people. In an ever so familiar scenario, one of them held his hand out in front of me with a free sachet of skin cream as he greeted me and asked me to take it. I knew I would be doomed but I couldn't say no and I walked straight into his trap. He proceeded to ask me about what skin care products I use, then asked where I was from.
"What you have done, it must be hard", he said suddenly in his broken english with an eastern european accent.
I was stunned. Was he really saying what I thought he was saying? I felt a lump rising in my throat as heart began to sink in a newly formed hole. I cocked my head to the side and looked at him blankly. 
"Huh?", was all I could manage.
"You have done something. Yes?", he replied gesturing his arms up and down towards my body. His voice was a little unsure now ad he was probably second guessing his original assessment. 


I had been waiting for something like this to happen. Waiting for someone to acknowledge that they knew that I had transitioned instead of just hiding behind a silent stare. Acknowledge me in an affirming way and letting me communicate with them. "How did you know? What were the giveaways?", I would ask. I would be able to speak to someone with an unbiased opinion and find out how people in the public really see me. We would talk and the support of a stranger would be golden.


But I had been taken off guard. Confusion ran through my mind and I could not pull my thoughts together. I felt as if all my old fears were suddenly rising up again and all I wanted to do was just make them all go away. Time seemed to stretch on for eternity as I started at him and he looked back, increasingly apprehensively, waiting for an answer to his question. I began to shake my head and as I mouthed "No" I felt the twinge of regret running down my spine that was soon disintegrated by the cold stigma of cowardice. I had denied myself.


"Oh", said the salesman reservedly, then, recovering in lightning speed, he added "Can I show you this exfoliating cream?"
"No, I don't need any more of that right now", I lied as a backed away. At the very least, I had found an exit and I was taking it. He didn't try to keep me there and I managed to get away without buying anything.


As I walked back to my car, I reviewed what had just happened. Someone had extended sympathy towards me and I had rejected it. Embroiled in fear, my character had shown through and I was not happy with what I saw. I was a liar and I felt like a traitor, letting myself down and the trans-community down. I kicked myself mentally. Was I ashamed of who I am? Why did I let what other people think affect my thoughts and feelings so much? This was not the person I wanted to be. The questions and thoughts swirled through my head and, as I started my car and began to drive home, I knew they would not be easily answered.

Barriers - Depression

"Just snap out of it"
"Smile and think positive"
So many time have I heard these words often spoken with will meant intentions, but anyone who believes this is good advice does not understand depression and has not suffered from its crippling effects.


In my view, depression is such an insidious illness because it creeps up on us so stealthily. I thought I was able to handle problems and situations that I was being confronted with. They were similar problems that I had faced before and had successfully overcome. Suddenly a wave of setbacks knocks me down. Normally this would be only temporary and in the past I would have dragged myself back up and kept on going. This time, the termites of other problems in my life erode the platform of my self-confidence that falls away as I grasp to hold onto sanity. I look to the lifeguards I trust to help rescue me but it seems my trust was misplaced as they look at me and decide to leave their posts and head to the pub instead. My fingers claw at the railing as I try to pull myself up. So many times have I been here and dragged myself back up, battered and bruised but victorious. Today, maybe it was the alignment of the stars and the moon, maybe it was because everything had aligned so perfectly, I could not hold on and I plunged into the deep dark depths of depression.


Telling someone with depression to snap out of it is like telling someone who is drowning at the bottom of a 100m ocean to take a breath of air. Actually, since depression is an illness, it's like telling a paraplegic to just get up and walk. It's not realistic advice and it isn't considerate. Recovery from depression is a hard process that requires effort from the sufferer and, unfortunately for the friends and family, if someone is not willing to be helped, it is difficult for others to help.


In the darkest, deepest depths of depression, it is difficult to do anything. Everything seems so worthless and pointless, even the thought of moving an inch after realising, with great disappointment, that I had woken up again in the morning. (Ironically, I spent many teenage years praying to wake up as a female and after that I spent many years praying that I didn't wake up at all.) When I was able to pull myself out of bed, the mind still refused to work. Where I once was able to spend hours or entire days absorbed in work or hobbies, now I couldn't focus on anything for more than a few minutes. I still retained my ability to act though, so I could pretend I was concentrating or listening to someone while a drifted in and out and tried to piece together what I missed before I drifted out again. My memory became non existent to the point where I would look at the calendar to find out the date and then when I looked back at the form I was filling in, I would have forgotten the date already. My eyes would dart back from the calendar to the form before I threw the pen down in disgust and went back to bed. Depression is insidious because it is situations like this that my self confidence was eroded even further and I would slide deeper into its clutches. 


to be continued...

Death of a ladybug

This little wooden lady bug used to look quite sprightly with its white body, a bright red nose, cute grin and lovely wooden polka dot wings. Around it's neck was a spinner with red with white polka dot plastic fans that was cause it buzz in the wind with joy. It sat happily in my front garden bed but now it's happiest days have long gone. I haven't been in my front garden for a long time but it caught my attention when I went out this morning and it brought a tear to my eye.


Okay.. that's an understatement. It made me cry... and I still am.


One of the biggest challenges faced by ts people is trying to deal or cope with loss. That may be the loss of friends, the loss of jobs or the loss of our home. But those things embody the arguably more important abstract things like loss of hopes and dreams, loss of drive and inspiration and loss of relationships. The harsh thing is that we are not the only ones affected, but all those for whom we are more than just an anecdote, are also affected. For me, knowing that I caused the same pain that I am feeling to somebody else is like another sword through my soul. 


So I wasn't weeping for the ladybug even though I can be anthropomorphist. Rather it was the association of the relationship with the person who bought it. We had shared experiences in the past and we had dreams, hopes and plans for the future. There were things we thought we had but, although one should not count their chickens before they are hatched, I was in denial about the big transsexual chicken that was about to step on all the eggs. So now our hopes, plans and dreams are lying broken in the dirt, much like the ladybug. And that makes me cry.