It’s been over a year. I started this blog as a daily endeavour, during one of the many flurries of a new interest which was bound to die out. It was only long after I finished it that I realised something: it was not a blog, but a personal diary.
Why air out all my thoughts onto the Internet where someone could find them and expose the deep truths of my soul? I’m not sure, to be quite honest. Paper diaries have never worked for me. I realised the other day that I’ve been on YouTube, in one form or another, for almost ten years. I grew up on MSN, forums and chatrooms. I am in every way a child of the digital scrapbook generation, who communicated through writing and content and deep long threads plumbing into the depths of our souls, or at least as far as virtuality can.
So it makes sense. Of course my diary would be online. Everything else about my life has been, more or less, even if it is filtered. In fact, this may be the least filtered place I’ve ever created.
A lot of things have changed in the past year. The last post ended on a positive note: the rush of returning from a nourishing holiday. Unfortunately, the rest of the year was still fraught. I don’t believe I stated it at the time, but the reason I was so crushed and torn apart was because my housemate of the time had decided to stop acknowledging my existence. We were friends when we moved on, but she ceased to talk to me, left the room while I was there, and ignored me in the street. I felt like a ghost in my own home, and it wasn’t until February of this year that she left.
Such a simple act, but perfectly targeted to tear out the soul, scoop out the essence, wring every last mite of marrow from the bones of the autistic body.
I have a new housemate now. She’s also trans, which is pretty damn cool. Lots of hairs everywhere, though. Luckily I have Drahoslav, a little vacuum robot that cleans them up. He is my glorious son, too cheap to intuitively avoid obstacles with fancy AI, meaning he gently bumps into stuff before turning another direction to continue his randomly-moving routine. Eternally charming.
I stopped taking antidepressants over two months ago because I wanted to be skinty. I wish I could say that there was some much deeper reason than that, but there wasn’t. I simply wanted to lose the awful belly weight that certain meds give you that doctors refuse to acknowledge the existence of, even though every ex-user will attest to it online. Did I mention I fucking hate doctors?
Since then, things have been… weird. Dysphoria, antidepressants and the early cycle of going on hormones had all kind of put a lid on my libido, and I was happy with that. I’ve always had one much lower than average, and sex has largely been a fraught and traumatic set of experiences for me. But, as I’ve read about online, at a certain point estrogen can dial up your sexuality again, and coming off antidepressants broke open the coffin to let the horny vampire come lurching out, brushing off dust and stumbling towards unresolved traumas.
I had really convinced myself that I didn’t struggle with dysphoria that much, but that was because I was (perhaps sagely) cutting myself off from sexual interactions with men. Turns out, interacting with your oppressor under patriarchy will bring all that stuff to the forefront. Oops.
That’s been the biggest issue: coming to terms with the fact that I transitioned from a gay man to a straight girl who watches gay porn. I’ve found solace in gay romance novels, but they only break my heart all the more when I interact with actual men, because I realise that these emotionally-clapped, desperately introspectiveless creatures will never come close to matching the vivacity and tenderness of a romance character. And like, duh, but you know, being oppressed as a woman really fucking sucks sometimes!!!
Exhibit A: the latest guy who chewed me up. We were chatting on The Grinding Place, he said he’s really turned on by “trans”, I feel weird but correct him, we meet up anyway. Have a nice drink, make out, but I decide not to go to his to have sex that night. Few days later we’re supposed to meet up again, but he starts asking if I’m going to wear a dress or a skirt for our date and it makes me feel fucking weird because really, we all know you’re gonna be there in your shitty Primark shirt so who are you to dictate how I dress?? I cry three times and call it off, but he gives a shitty tactless man apology that somehow convinces me to not just block and move on. Eventually we meet up again, have sex, and he’s very tender and says he’s really attracted to me, but also doesn’t actually touch my tits until I ask, and is actively not interested in touching my penis. It’s not ‘his thing’.
Like, cool I guess, just reduce my body into a bunch of interchangeable fetishes, and let’s ignore the fact that I just gave you the best head you’ve ever received, and let’s just forget that I might want to get some sexual pleasure out of this…
And despite all that bullshit, I STILL felt guilty about blocking and moving on, even though after coming home I drank a weird impromptu vodka cocktail (Żubrówka and ginger cordial, try it) and cried again this morning.
I just wanna be treated like a human, you know? Not just a sex object. Pretty crazy, but also whenever I voice this concern to men they fail to see how objectifying this stuff is… truly we live in a himbo universe but most of them aren’t even -bo.
Anyway, I’ve gotta go teach so I will depart. Thanks, diary. I love you almost as much as I love myself 💜