Dream of a House

I want to get this down before it leaves my memory.  Last night I had a dream in which my mum and my old dog Nittany appeared, as did Wife, Daughter, and my Older Brother (OB) as he usually appears in my dreams: like he was when we were in high school.

The dream began (or at least this bit) with my approaching a house that my parents just moved into.  It was white, as were all the doors.  To my left was another door which was mostly window, like at a beach house.  It had horizontal blinds, and OB exited it along with a coworker from the past (whose name I won't use.)  

Once I entered the house, the first room was large.  The walls were white, and the carpet was tan, which I would discover all over the house.  There was a wraparound corner couch (blue), a TV, and the far side opened to a small kitchen with a fridge and stove.  That floor was tiled with tan tiles.  My dog Nittany (dead now 7 years) lay on the couch, sleeping.

Halfway through that room, on the left, was a staircase that I climbed.  It led to another floor.  There was a small room off to the side, with a small bed, a crib, and stuffed animals, all red and pink.  There was a door on the other side that led to another bedroom, but I didn't enter that- I knew these were guest rooms.  Exiting back to the hallway (where the first stairway ended), there was a short staircase of maybe 5 steps which led to a large kitchen, with wooden cabinets and marble counter.  The floor was tiled to look like brick and was the only floor that wasn't tan.)  There was a large kitchen "island" as well.  It was the biggest non-commercial kitchen I'd ever seen.  

Walking to the other side of that, and turning left I entered a large room, maybe 50 by 40 feet, that was mostly empty except for a large, overstuffed couch along one wall and a huge, almost wall sized high-definition TV, on which was a football game.  On the right-side wall were large windows, again like one would see in a beach house.  It was night, so I didn't see the view.  I knew this was the main "living room" and wasn't finished.  After all, they'd just moved in.

While all rooms (except where I mention) were lit, only the kitchens had light fixtures in the ceiling.  I saw no lamps or lights in any other room, yet they were lit.  

The living room had two adjacent rooms.  To the left, past a hallway back to the stairs and guest rooms, was a large entry (no door) to a room maybe 30 by 40 feet with another exit on the right-side wall (90 degrees from the one I entered).  Suddenly my brother was there.  I said, "this would make a great game room" and he agreed.  I then said, "I assume you have your room already picked out."  He smiled and left the room.  I proceeded through the other exit into a long room, which also opened to the living room.  

This room was maybe 40 feet long and 20 feet wide, with windows on the far wall and the right side wall (which lined up with the living room windows.)  On the left wall was the entry to another up stairwell which I took.  It went to another floor with narrower halls.  At the top of those stairs was the entrance to a room on the right, some steps up to a room ahead, and a stairwell going down to the left.  My daughter was standing there, and we hugged.  I told her I missed her so much, and she said she missed me too.  She said that the room to the right was hers.  I looked through the open door (only the second interior door I'd seen) to see a large room with a canopy bed with floral yellow covers, and some of her art on the walls.  There was a white dresser and doors to what I knew was a walk-in closet.  She turned and went into her room.  I saw the room ahead of me was huge, with windows along the far wall, but I didn't enter it.  On the left of that room, I saw another kitchen similar to the one in the entry room.  I went down the stairs to the left.  I remember thinking "we don't need all this space."

This led to a darkened hallway with two exits.  This hallway was lit by small wall sconces that had yellow glass shades.  These walls were paneled in cheap fake wooden paneling like from the 60s.  I took the left exit, where my mum met me.  This was completely normal (despite her being dead.)  She said she had a surprise for me.  She opened a large set of dark wood double cabinet doors, and inside was a 40-inch TV with large stereo speakers below it.  The screen was all static, as the cable hadn't been hooked up here yet (but it was upstairs?).  The room with this TV was narrow, like a finished basement, and it had wooden benches lining the walls.  The room was lit by two floor lamps again with yellow glass shades.  I asked her where OB's room was, and she said he had a suite of rooms on the top floor, where I also knew was a balcony.  I never found out where my parents' rooms were.  

In any case, she indicated an entryway with two steps going down to another room.  This room was small, maybe 10 feet by 20, with a door on the right wall.  The far wall had a window that faced out to a driveway and a highway, which I could clearly hear.  The carpet was a gold shag, but the walls were white.  The only furnishings were a rust covered couch, and another floor lamp with a yellow glass shade.  Mum said "this is your room."  

Through the other door was a stairway going up, but not connected to the others.  I followed mum up to the next floor, which was back to the white walls and tan carpet.  She went into yet another kitchen.  To the right was a hallway, at the end of which was another large room.  Wife was there trying to figure out where to put things, as this was her room.  It had a balcony on the other side through sliding glass doors.  To the right was a stairway that I knew connected to my daughter's room.  

That's when I woke up, feeling very sad.  The house was massive and twisting, and I knew I hadn't seen it all, but I'd seen enough.  It was where life was going on without me.  I'd seen places like this in dreams before with rooms upon rooms, but they were always businesses or such.  This was the family house, where they would be happy.

Is there such thing as Early February?

 February is here, short as it is.  It's so short that we're already almost at mid February.  Time flies.

Or it doesn't.  I don't know if it's the meds or what, but I could sleep 24/7 these days.  I spend over 12 hours in bed if I'm not working, then lay on the couch, enduring the day.  I have lots to do- my dissertation proposal, cleaning, and, if I wish, hobbies.  All I want to do is sleep.   It's not like hard labor, which many people do for a living, but its definitely the Darkness having its way.  And when I sleep, that's when the nightmares return.  At least I wake up from them.  

Lately the nightmares have been along a similar vein.  I have a destination, but no matter how much I travel, it keeps getting further away.  But not last night- last night was a Fridays dream.  I was doing a table shift at TGI Fridays, in the upstairs section (I worked at Fridays 1989-91).  All four of my tables were seated at the same time, and things just fell apart.  I was glad to wake up from that one, despite seeing old friends in the dream that I hadn't seen in decades: my coworkers, exactly as they were then, even if I wasn't.  I was as I am now: old, slow, and tired.  

Then I read the news about devastating earthquakes in Turkey and Syria, and I have no reason to complain.  1800 dead- crushed.  Horrible.  Helpless.

Be well.  

Scitman

Back in summer 1982, so much was changing in my world.  I was fifteen, with sixteen (and a driver's license) so tantalizingly close.  Some of my friends already were driving, and I envied their freedom.  They could leave this town and go to exotic places like MALLS and such without their parents.  It was the summer before my junior year in high school.  Local cable started carrying MTV which was brash, bold, and new at the time.  I was in my first summer of working at Burger King: a job which would define my high school 'social life' such as it was.  

And I was cross-dressing.  Whenever my parents went to the house down in Delaware, I stole chances to be feminine.  I'd ordered clothes from the Sears catalogue and used water balloons for boobs.  I felt what I was doing was absolutely wrong, and I didn't understand the compulsion.  I knew it was dangerous, and that the consequences for being caught would be extreme.

Still, I had a small group of friends- kind of two.  One group was the "D&D group" which consisted of Dr2Dave and another guy (who is now an MD), as well as "R".  I'm still friends with two of them.  The other group was among a group who orbited around a rather large baby faced guy we called Scitman.

Scitman was tall and very strong.  He was a lineman on the school football team, an outdoor sports enthusiast, and a genuinely nice guy.  However, among this particular group, Scitman was best known for his ability to belch, loud and long.  He could belch the entire alphabet at one go.  Childish, I know, but we were in our early teens.  

Occasionally joining us (usually on the basketball court) was a girl I'll call Pam.  Pam was tall, athletic (varsity girl's basketball) and incredibly smart.  In fact she was one of the top three of our class in GPA.  I think she had a crush on another guy in the group, who I'll call Bill.  Bill was also an outdoor enthusiast, loved basketball and bad jokes.  In any case, usually the group was me, Bill, and Scitman.  

Original Page One pencils

Back then, I really wanted to be a comic writer/artist.  I was also very much into D&D (go figure.)  In addition, I REALLY wanted people to like me, despite me being undersized and, well, different.  After all, I had this dark secret: cross dressing!  (Ominous crash of thunder).  I'd done a few short subject comics in ninth grade for my friends, and was published in the local newspaper for a while.  One day I bought a hardcover sketchbook and decided to fill it with a comic- a D&D comic, but one that people would like (D&D wasn't popular then.)  

And so Scitman the Barbarian was born.  I'd draw two or three pages at a time, usually while watching MTV.  On days that I wasn't working, I'd walk over the bridge to Royersford (where Scitman and the others lived, and try to find them- which I usually did, at the basketball courts.  There I'd show them the new pages, hoping to get laughs.  Sometimes I did- sometimes I didn't.  In any case, I enjoyed doing it, and saw the book as practice for my hopeful career. 

Page One Inked

Some of the poses I blatantly stole from Frank Miller's Daredevil, in both books I and II.  Also, some of the scenes have graphic violence, which was a way for me to release all the anger and frustration, as well as helplessness I felt.  Unfortunately, a few characters late in book I (a little in book II as well) are crude stereotypes that my 15 year old small town mind found amusing.  Looking at them now, I cringe.  Still, I'll ink them as drawn, and note that it was inappropriate then and now (like they do on Looney Tunes cartoon compilations.)  In any case, it's not like anyone will see them, as I don't intend to publish them.  This is an exercise in completion for me.

I finished the first book on July 29, 1982.  98 pages of cartoons- all in artists pencils.  My little circle loved it.  I bought another sketchbook and started on a sequel, imaginatively titled Scitman the Barbarian Book II.  

All Three Scitman books

I was a junior in high school.  Burger King had become my social life.  I was writing to various colleges for information (this was pre-internet) as I knew college was my only hope of escaping the small town where I was trapped.  People heard about Scitman, and the book was passed around the school.  In addition, I was practicing art and developing a portfolio.  Consequently, Scitman II had some new characters, again based on people I knew, new monsters and character types, and better artwork.  Looking back now at the two finished books, I could see the progression of my art as I did my best to improve my anatomical art and other aspects.  I finished Scitman II on April 22, 1983.  Would I continue?  Of course!  

This time, I couldn't find a sketchbook of similar size, so I bought a bigger one.  I decided that Scitman III would be inked and in color, but quickly abandoned that thought.  In this book, there were some new characters and villains, these taken from my BK friends among others.  I finished 56 pages of that book before stopping.  I'd fallen into deep depression after deciding to stop that cross-dressing foolishness and be a man.  In addition, I started training to be an Emergency Medical Technician.  And so, the Scitman saga ended.

From Scitman II

For my 10th high school reunion in 1995, I managed to photocopy (poorly) Scitman I, and gave copies to a few of the friends who appeared in it.  I didn't go to art school and wasn't a comic book writer artist.  I was selling toy soldiers for Games Workshop.  I dreamed of inking the books and somehow scanning them into a computer someday.  

Maybe five years ago, I bought artists pens from the book store where I worked.  I started inking Scitman, as I noticed the pencils were fading away after years in storage.  I didn't get far.  Recently, I broke out the pens again, and have been working on it again.  I'm more than 1/4 way through inking Scitman I now.  

From Scitman III

Time and transition has separated me from those friends.  All of them graduated from college and have lives and families.  At least one, Chuck, is dead.  I intend to finish inking at least book 1, and scan it in to the computer.  If I can finish both I and II, I'll then send the books to Scitman, whom I haven't spoken to in decades.  I think he'd still get a kick out of them.  After all, that was the point.  

Reading these books, I still see the kid craving attention, scared of what the future may hold.  In some ways, I'm still that kid- desperate to please others and craving acceptance.  However, I know now that acceptance will take more than me scribbling pictures- I'm just not that good at it.  I gave up on achieving acceptance long ago, as I never will.  Now, I just want peace.

In any case, in some universe somewhere, Scitman the Barbarian lives on, even if not from my pen.

(Addendum: I finished inking book 1 on Oct 31, 2022, over 40 years after I finished the pencil work.)

Be well.

From Scitman II

Tentative post: Bike on a Hill

One of the problems with having a blog so long is that I forget if I've written about this or that.  I don't like repeating myself.  One of the problems with having a blog so long is that I forget if I've written about this or that.  I don't like repeating myself.

In any case, I write about dreams often.  I even have a "dream journal" I keep next to my bed, so that if a particularly vivid dream hits, I can write it down before it fades from memory.  [Insert bit about dreams being portents and signs and such.]  Last night, a dream re-visited, however briefly, an incident from my childhood that, while I haven't forgotten it (and have a scar to remind me), I haven't thought about it in a long time.  

I learned to ride a two wheel bike fairly early in life- first or second grade.  My older brother (OB) taught me.  His bike had no training wheels, so he'd push me down a hill in a parking lot, and, at the base of the hill (where there was sediment gravel near a drain) is where I'd intentionally ditch the bike, as it was too big for my feet to touch the ground.  Crash!  Scrape!  Minor road rash.  "I wanna do it again!"  After a few trips down the hill, I'd mastered the necessary balance, and went into the house dirty, bloody, and happy.  Within a day or three, my dad (on a rare day off) removed the training wheels from my smaller bike, and off I went with my new found freedom!  

From an ad- the bike I had.

Maybe a year or two later, my parents got me a bigger kid's bike from K-Mart for my birthday.  That's the vehicle upon which this tale concerning Newton's Second Law of Motion takes place.  This bike, like all bikes of that type, had coaster brakes, which means if you pedal backwards, that would slam on the brakes, and you'd come to a quick-ish stop.  And if you did this as a skid, you'd look "BOSS!"  (Yeah, that was a thing in the 70s).  The weakness of coaster brakes was that the bike chain needed to be on to work.  Bike sprockets back then would bend if you crashed enough, which meant the chain could "pop" off.  An easy fix if one is stopped.  I think you can see where this is going.  

As I've written before, the street where I grew up was on a steep hill.  Hall street was about three blocks long.  West to east, the first block was flat, the second block was a steep-ish hill (and was closed after snow storms for sledding), and third block, upon which I lived, was far steeper with a slight bend to northeast.  At the bottom of my block was Main St, and across from that, the foundry and a driveway leading to the creek.  

 

In that order.

Current USGS Topographic Map

Using google maps and equations I looked up (hey- physics class was almost 40 years ago!), the second block descended at an angle of 350 degrees (slope -0.167) and my block was 338 deg, slope -0.4.  QED.

One summer's afternoon, I decided to walk my bike to the top of the hill and ride to Church Street (top of my part of the street) for a quick thrill.  After all, it was summer, I had a bike, and why not?  ZOOM!  SKIIIIIID!  Maybe do it again.  Hey!  Maybe if I practiced skidding enough, I'd do it cool enough that the older kids on the block would be impressed and pick on me less for being girly!  One of the problems with having a blog so long is that I forget if I've written about this or that.  I don't like repeating myself.

Still with me?

So up I went, uphill, barefoot, (shoes in the summer?  Oh please!) to the top of the hill.  Of course, I'd be pedaling as well down the hill to reach maximum speed so the skid would have maximum coolness!  And... they're off!  In my mind I was pursuing an enemy plane, and catching up for the kill!  Nearing the bottom by the police station, I decided to slow a bit before doing the spectacular skid, and...

The chain popped.  No brakes!

The trip

I zoomed through stop sign and intersection fast enough that I didn't want to ditch.  Preacher's yard?  No I'd hit the curb and wreck.  Now the steeper hill... no brakes!  Mounted the sidewalk using a driveway about half way down...Zoomed past my house doing 0.5 past light speed.  At this point, I had the brilliant idea of slowing by dragging my left foot on the pavement!  I forgot- no shoes!  Scrape!  Owwww!

Angle into the fire house parking lot, maybe ditch there?  No going too fast... oh shit!  I'll run straight out onto Main Street into traffic!  I'll be crushed!  

Lower hill.  The red X is where I put down my foot

By the time I reached Main street, I was easily doing warp 9.7.  Leaned into turning to the right, hoping not to flip and... into the street!  Fortunately, no cars were coming.  Main street was flattish, so the bike eventually slowed after a couple of blocks, and I put my feet down to stop and OUCH!  I left a bloody footprint from my left foot.  I ended up stopping next to a yard, hauled my bike onto the sidewalk and turned it over to fix the chain.  Then I lay on the grass, my left foot finally sending signals of intense pain.  

Don't cry- only babies cry... only girls cry...

I don't remember riding back to my house or dressing the wound (my mum probably did that with mercurochrome- the red-orange cure all that stung like crazy!)  In any case, this dressing made me don sneakers for at least a month to avoid infecting the injury, which of course happened anyway, and left me limping, which made me useless for what few games I'd be invited to join by the neighborhood kids.  One of the problems with having a blog so long is that I forget if I've written about this or that.  I don't like repeating myself.

Speaking of those kids- no one saw my epic death-defying stunt.  At all.  So obviously, it never happened.  If a bike crashes on the street and no one sees it...  OB knew I was hurt, knew it was bike related, and, being an older brother, made fun of me.  (As I would've had the positions been reversed.)  

In any case, said infection led eventually to a Planter's wart (how??) and in either case left the third visible scar on my body (after the Arrow-Chisel Affair and the Bat-rope Rusty Nail Episode.)

Right- so the Dream.  This dream was unusual in that I didn't have to be somewhere and by going, end up further from my destination.  Also, I wasn't being attacked by someone who I couldn't hurt.  Nor was I being abandoned by a loved one.  No, in this case, I was driving in "Spring City", the dream version of which is older, rotting, and hillier than reality.  I stopped at the intersection of Hall and Church Streets, facing south, when I saw my young self zoom by on the bike, barefoot and yowling like Slim Pickens riding the bomb at the end of Dr. Strangelove.  (I don't remember saying or yelling anything on my escapade.)  I knew that I had to cross the intersection in my car quickly, as that bike was on an endless loop, with each lap increasing speed until... I don't know... I actually get hit?  In the dream, I crossed the intersection, and in the rear view mirror, saw young me on the bike whip past again, face distorted like I was in a 10G dive.  Part of me wanted to stop, and, when I zipped by again, try to grab me from the bike and roll into the preacher's yard.  But- I (older me) was in a dress, and that wouldn't be lady-like, and what if the neighborhood kids saw me in a dress?  I'd get beaten up for sure and they'd tell my parents and...

I woke up.  

Went to the bathroom.  3 am.  Back to bed.  No more dreams for me tonight, thanks, I'm driving!

Looking back now- remembering how I felt careening out of control on that bike- I don't remember being really scared of being killed or maimed or such.  I was scared of getting in trouble for breaking the bike.

Some things never change.

FYI: Out of curiosity, I enlisted a Physics PhD candidate to help me figure out how fast I was going, and impact force had I hit a car on Main St.  By taking measurements on Google earth, and approximate heights from a topographic map, using my approximate weight at the time (plus bike), constant of friction from air and from bike tire on asphalt, he whipped out equations, calculations, and eventually determined that, depending upon certain factors such as how I was sitting on the bike for wind resistance, and tire pressure, by the time I reached Main street I was going somewhere between 40-60 mph, probably on the lower side of that range.  In a car, 35 mph is lethal upon impact, so (checks the numbers in Tefft, 2013), I had a 75-100% chance of serious injury, and a 50-90% chance of death... depending upon various factors.  So me not hitting something at the bottom of the hill was damn lucky.

Be well. 

Tefft, B. C. (2013). Impact speed and a pedestrian's risk of severe injury or death. Accident Analysis & Prevention, 50, 871-878.

56, Nine, and Forever

As I type this line, it's Monday September 12, 2022.  That means yesterday was the 21st anniversary of the terrorist attacks, and that tomorrow is the anniversary of my birth.  Don't ask me which I think was the bigger disaster.

I've written many times about my opinion of September- I dread it like normal people dread getting a root canal.  Inevitably, the calendar turns, and the month begins though, as time doesn't stop no matter what we try.  So here we are.  

August 2012

All that said, I wrote this letter last night:

Dearest Lisa,

Another year, another anniversary, another slew of letters you'll never see.  I wrote you almost daily in the spring as I tried to sort things out in my broken head.  Not so much lately, as a dull fog descended on me a month or so back, obscuring thought, emotion, and life.  

Ever since I passed my comps, I feel like I've been going in slow motion.  I wonder if you ever felt that way.  You always seemed so in control and way ahead of everything.  You certainly had me fooled- or did you?  After all, your plans and behavior before the execution of those plans fooled everyone.

I can't believe that you left us nine years ago.  Nine fucking years.  In many ways, it still seems like yesterday, but the world has changed so much since you died.  I wonder what you'd think of it.  I wonder how many people still remember you, your smile, and how special you made them feel.  

In any case, another year goes by without you- another year closer to our eventual reunion.  Save me a seat.

I will always love and miss you, Lisa

Yours,

Sophie

Silly Thoughts

As you can imagine, dear reader, there are many posters hanging about the university.  Advertisements of all kinds for different classes, programs and events are everywhere.  Unlike my day, they aren't confined to the occasional corkboard, as there are now electronic posters with shifting pictures, circles and arrows and a paragraph on... sorry.  Started channeling Arlo Guthrie again.

Yesterday was one of those events advertised.  The center where I work held an LGBT all campus welcome jawn in a large sweaty hall in the student union.  It was quite the success, with a lot of people coming, many organizations tabling, and free food (including Swedish meatballs, brie, and chicken amoretto.  Not mixed together.)  There was music as well, but all I could hear was the bass line and drums, as I was on the other side of the room.  

In any case, during the event, I had to run down to the center, which was two floors down.  As I walked, I saw a poster that caused me to pause.

"BECOME AN EMT"

As long time victims, I mean readers of this blog know, in my youth I was a volunteer Emergency Medical Technician (EMT.)  I would eventually become a Paramedic, but that doesn't matter.  I volunteered with an ambulance and a rescue squad.

As I wrote in a previous entry: "Doing this work radically changed some of my thinking back then.  Back when so many people my age thought they were invincible, I looked death in the face.  I watched friends die.  I saw things that hurt and haunt me to this day.  What does that do to someone still in adolescence?  Well, it makes us less fun at parties for one thing.  It puts things in perspective as well.  And for someone who carried the Dark Secret I had inside of me?  Yes, I have PTSD. Not just from the Paramedic days, but from repressing my Truth and swallowing my Pain."

All true.  I still think of what I saw every day.  I think about the people who I tried to help, but couldn't.  When I sleep, I have consistent nightmares of helplessness and failure.  

So why in the world would that poster give me pause... and cause me to consider re-certifying my EMT certification?  My EMT and other certifications ran out decades ago (I keep my CPR current when I can get a course.)  Well, at first glance, I figured that the course might be free, as it would be paid by the University in exchange for  service on the University Ambulance.  Fair trade.  And beside, ambulance work, while not easy, was nowhere near as traumatic as rescue work.  Usually not as bloody.  In fact, in the old days, they were a lot of routine transports.  But here were also heart attacks, births, strokes, and suicides.  The ones that still haunt me from those are the suicides- one in particular.  

I can't say I regret letting my certifications expire.  At the time, I'd met wife, had a steady job, and was ready to move on from that work.  I still stop at accidents when I came upon them (one day I'll have to tell the story of the Christmas accident in Delaware) if no ambulance had yet arrived.  I like to fool myself, once in a while, that I still make a difference.  Heck, I'm considering donating my old helmet to a museum! (Spring Ford Historical Society)

Is it a desire to reclaim my lost youth?  Do I miss the adrenaline rush?  Not really.  The fact is that in my middle age I feel useless.  I want to make a difference  again- directly- in a way that I can see.  

But then those pesky facts get in the way.  I'm really in no physical condition to run ambulance (not that many ambulance people I met are paragons of physical fitness) due to my back, hip, and knees- which were partially destroyed in the rescue days of my youth.  Also, I looked into the program- it isn't free.  Like my undergrad days, they are for-credit courses, which means tuition: $726 per credit hour.  It's a four credit course, so... $2904.  That's too rich for my blood... and bank account.  If I had that money, there are other things I'd need to do first.  Like pay bills.  Or send my mum's ashes to Scotland.  Or...

In any case, I guess my mind is writing checks that my body (and sanity) can no longer cash.  I already have enough bad dreams and flashback.  I think that, in this case, it's best to let this "opportunity" go.

Be well.

Dreams are Personal

I can't think of anything more personal than dreams.  Nothing- not fears, intimate encounters, secrets, is more personal.  When one reveals their dreams, they reveal their soul.  Dreams are the ultimate secret. 

For so many transgender people, living their Truth, or surgeries are their deepest dream and darkest secret; a secret that many take to the grave.  How many transgender women needed someone to "scrub" their homes of any feminine clothing or things before family found out post-mortem?  How many pass never living that dream for even a moment?

A week ago

Some say I'm living the dream, as I am full time as myself.  I usually reply that, no, I'm living a nightmare.  But has living my Truth been my biggest dream?  My fondest wish?  

No.

My biggest dream, beyond any other was to grow old with my Wife.  Once I decided "yes, she's the one" that has been the goal.  Even before that- the idea of growing old with my life partner- if I could do that, then everything else would be at least ok.  I remember thinking on my wedding day, as I looked into Wife's eyes... this is it.  This is the rest of my life.  

Well, I screwed that up over 8 1/2 years ago, didn't I?  

Lately I've wondered if I should detransition- if we could be a family again.  But I already know the answer to that: we can't.  Wife doesn't want to.  So even if I wanted to detransition (I don't), it wouldn't matter, I'll still be alone.  I'll die alone.  I already know this- always have.  I just dreamed of living out my days with my Wife.  That isn't going to happen no matter what.  

So when someone tells you their dreams- listen.  They're revealing who they really are.  

But be careful!  Dreams, like Hope, lie.  

7

 Dearest Lisa,

It's September again, and the now familiar sorrow intensifies.  As I write this, it's the day before my birthday.  I will be 54- two years older than you were.  I wonder if you would even recognize me now- so many changes.

I wonder what you would think of the times we live in now.  Knowing you, you'd probably have a mask to match every outfit.  Aside from that, I'm not sure.  I guess you'd be railing against the evil of the GOP (your former party) for destroying itself by aligning with a mad man.  You'd be out there on the protest line like a few of us.  I assume that after seven years you would've gone full time some years back.  Knowing you, you would've already had the surgeries you considered.  Or not.  Definitely a boob job. 

Dancing at Angela's Laptop Lounge, August 6, 2012.  

Seven Years.  Seven whole fucking years since that horrible day.  Seven years since you left Sandy alone- left your children without you.  Left the trans community behind.  Left all the unbearable Pain that you suffered and surrendered to the Darkness.  You left after promising me that you wouldn't. 

You left me wondering how I didn't see it coming, and how I was going to get through this Darkness without you.  Yes, I see you in my dreams when you visit, and I know you're watching out for Sandy.  Yet, you can't speak to us anymore.  We can't see your smile except in pictures that are becoming old. 

There are so many "new" girls who never got to hear you laugh, yet know of you from the stories that I and others who were blessed to know you tell.  I sent a message to someone who never got the chance to meet you.  I said "She [you] was a phenomenon.  She was so strong in so many ways, yet so fragile.  That was, in a way, her glory, and it was her end." 

The last message

In seven years, the world changed.  We now have a world-wide pandemic, which in this country was made worse by the lack of precautions and actions from leadership.  Tens of thousands died because the mad man lied.  Nearly 200,000 Americans dead.  Life completely changed. 

As for me, I still have the same dead eyes I've had since you died.  Thanks to inactivity due to quarantine and depression, I've gained thirty pounds.  I look like a globby parody of a person.  I'm still here at Penn State, doing my best to continue with my studies.  I rarely doll up or go out anymore.  Linda is too busy with work, and I'm far older than everyone in my school cohort.  Besides, not many places remain open.  And I just can't muster the desire.

Seven years, Lisa.  What you could've accomplished- for yourself, for Sandy, for the community... I guess we'll never know.  All I see is who and what you left behind.  I get it.  I know that Pain that is so incredibly intense that living each second is agony.  Each breath is a regret.  Yes, I understand, and you know I do. 

So all I can do is write letters you will never see, and speak to people you never knew in places you never saw- and have them wonder why I still hold that torch of your memory.

You know why.  I say it every year.  Every fucking year for seven years now, and I'll say it as long as I suffer on this Dark world. 

I love you; I miss you; and I always will.

Yours,

S

Dreams of Old Revisited

On November 20, 2016, I posted a blog entry called Dreams of Old, which was about things I dreamed of eventually doing.  I thought it may be fun to revisit it, almost four years later.  Below is the original text.  I've added new comments in italics, and some small corrections to spelling.  Oh, and changed some pictures.

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Dreams.  I write about them a lot.  I talk about them.  Everyone has them supposedly.  I was speaking with a friend about childhood dreams.

I have stated many times that my dreams are Dead.  But are they?  (Yes.) What dreams have I had in this life?

So, I decided to make a list.  What are all the dreams for my life that I remember having?  And what happened to them?  I put these in order the best I could.


Firefighter:  One of my earliest dreams.  I lived across the street from the firehouse, and would see the volunteers sprint to it when the whistle blew.  I would then see the large firetrucks (Gray first, then Yellow) leave the firehouse, sirens blaring!  I wanted to help as well!

I'm on the left

Status:  I became an EMT in 1984, and went on to be a paramedic until the early 1990s.  So, I'd say I fulfilled that one.  (I did.  The cost was PTSD and feeling I've accomplished nothing since.)

Astronaut:
Another early dream.  One of my earliest memories was watching the moon landing on TV.  And, like so many people, I would look at the night sky and wish that I could explore the stars.  Having been born nearly the same day as Star Trek helped that a lot!  When I was a child, NASA launched several moon missions, and I was glued to the TV for them.

Status:  When I was in third grade, I had to get glasses.  Back then, to be an astronaut, you had to have 20/20 uncorrected vision.  So my dreams of flight were dashed, leaving me with really ugly horn rimmed glasses.

A Day of Peace and Quiet:
Sounds unusual for a kid, right?  Well, I was an odd kid.  Whenever my brother got bored, he would come pick on me, causing a fight.  And I would get in trouble (sometimes he would too.)  I remember wishing for a day when I could just do whatever without being picked on or yelled at.  I could just sit and read or whatever.

Status:  When I started working at Burger King, my parents no longer required me to go on family vacations, as I was working.  My brother usually still went, because he liked fishing, etc.  So, I would have the house to myself, and I would take care of the family dog.  Just me.  It was then that I started "crossdressing."  I remember the hot summer days, walking Sabre by the river, reading, watching MTV (which my parents forbade), and going to work for a few hours.  It was heaven for my tortured teenage soul.  So yes, that one was fulfilled.

Becoming A Girl:
The dream of so many transgender people- to magically wake up in the body which you should've been born with.  I used to take long walks when I was a teen (see: Peace and Quiet, above) to sort out my head.  Hormones were rushing, causing changes I didn't want.  The girls were becoming women, and, due to delayed adolescence, I was still me.  It wasn't fair!  In any case, I didn't WANT the changes that were coming my way.  But, come they did, and there was nothing I could do about it.  All the wishes in the world weren't going to prevent it.

Status: Well, there was no magical solution.  Now I'm on HRT and living as a woman.  I'd say that this one, due to its nature and timing, didn't come true. (And never will.)

Yearbook pic: 1984.  See below.

Happiness:
So, this seems basic, especially if you look at Maslow.  I even put it in my yearbook- all I wanted to be was Happy.  It seems so easy, yet is so hard to achieve.  I have come to believe that Happiness is something you are born with.  You either are or you aren't.  Others say it's a choice.  I'll entertain that argument, but I don't believe it.

Maslow's Hierarchy Source:  https://www.simplypsychology.org/maslow.html

Status:  Unfulfilled now and forever

Go to College:
College.  Higher education.  Back when I was growing up, I was always told that College was the gateway to a better life.  That if I worked hard at school, and went to college, my future would be set.  And going to college was by no means assured.  But that is what I wanted.  Long story short, I worked hard and made it to college.  Then a Masters.  Then Unemployment.  Now, going for PhD.

Status:  This dream came true.


A Girlfriend:
I always figured that people could see right through me- that my "secret" was no secret at all.  In any case, I was a late bloomer, so I was undersized and looked like a little boy while my classmates were shaving daily.  So of course, the girls wanted them, not me.  Yet, I dreamed of finding someone who would see ME, not just a runt.  And of course, my dating someone would cure me of my insane need to be female.  Right?  It took a while, but in January of my senior year, I finally did start dating someone seriously.  We lasted two years before she cheated.  I mean, after all, I was off at college and all, so DUH, but I didn't see it that way at the time.  Then a college girlfriend.  Then another major relationship.  Then another- whom I married...  See below.

Status:  This dream came true.  Be careful what you wish for...



Go to a College that wasn't an Urban Hell:
So I went to Drexel University, located in a not great part of Philadelphia.  I figured that the BIG CITY would be the answer to my prayers, and I'd become a City person- cultured and urbane.  Nope.  I hated it.  I got mugged four times in two years.  A classmate was murdered.  Then that whole MOVE thing.  In fall 1985, I visited my childhood best friend, Dr. Dave, at Penn State.  And I was hooked.  Penn State was everything I'd ever dreamed college should be.  But, transferring?  That's a major change.  Would I have the courage?  As it turns out, I did.

Status:  This Dream came true.  One of the best decisions I ever made.  Absolutely true.  I still think this.


Graduate College:
So there I was at Penn State!  I met people, and partied... and did my damnedest to be the Man I was expected to be.  But- what did that mean?  And could I live up to what I felt I should accomplish?  Well, no.  I didn't adjust well at first.  And my drinking was out of control.  But I was determined- I WOULD graduate!  I WOULD make a great life for myself and make a difference!  And THEN I'd be Happy, right?  Wrong.

Status:  I graduated from Penn State in 1989.  Dream fulfilled.  For all the good it did me.


Find a Job:
Great- now I had a degree!  My teaching career came to a screeching halt.  Now what?  I searched and searched.  I found a couple temporary jobs, but nothing stable.  I went back to the restaurant business- waiting tables and bar tending.  I felt I'd be trapped there forever.  I wasn't, yet, when I have "work dreams," they're either about TGI Fridays or Games Workshop or a horrible amalgam of the two.

At Fridays, 1990

Status:  See below.

Find a girl who wouldn't cheat on me:
It seemed that every woman I could find to date me ended up cheating on me.  I guess I wasn't Manly enough.  Many women told me that they saw me as "one of the girls" or "didn't see me THAT way" and, of course, the dreaded "Let's just be friends."  I would meet Wife in April 1991.

Status:  Dream fulfilled.  I'm sure she regrets that...

Death:
So.  I couldn't find a real job.  I was drinking far too much.  I was lonely.  Depressed.  Couldn't get a date.  Then the woman who I thought was the answer to my prayers cheated on me.  It all became a whirling vortex, which, when added to complete bitter self- hatred, was lethal.  I wanted to die- badly.  I started driving without a seat belt, knowing full well that I could be killed.  I wrote about this time period HERE.

Status:  Failed.  Still alive.

Find a Real job:
In April 1991, I was still working at Fridays.  I met Wife.  I was miserable in the food service business.  I wanted More.  I felt I could do more.  This was during the first Bush recession and jobs were scarce.  That July, we went to a gaming convention in Baltimore, where I met people who worked for Chessex Game Distributors.  After a couple more months, they hired me.  I worked there for three years, before quitting (before I was fired) and going to Games Workshop.

Status:  Fulfilled for a time.

Me at work: Games Workshop. 1999.

Buy a house:
Ok, so I had this steady job in Baltimore.  And I hated apartment living.  Wife kept saying how she wanted a House.  And she got me wanting one as well.  It seemed like an eternity, but yes, we did finally buy a house in Owings Mills, MD, that we owned for five years before we left Maryland.

Status:  Dream came true.  I loved that house.

Figure out why I am so miserable:
I had a job.  I had a wonderful wife.  I had a dog.  A circle of friends.  So why was I so angry and full of self-hatred?  There HAD to be a reason.  So I thought about it.  The last time I felt the closest to Happy was in college, so the root must be there.  My brilliant solution- write a book about my college experience and research the HELL out of it.  And I did.  It took seven years, but I did it!  But the answers weren't in those pages.  I finished the book in early 2008.  I didn't know that my Answers would be coming soon...

Status: I finally did figure this out, so I'd have to say fulfilled.


Restore my marriage:
When I moved back to Pennsylvania, my marriage was on VERY shaky ground.  Without going into detail, I was deeply depressed to the point I could barely function.  Wife lost her patience with this.  I remember crying into my pillow often, just wishing I could have my happy marriage back.  (I'm tearing up even thinking about that.)  Yes, still tearing up about it.

Status:  We worked through the trouble.  Then my female side re-emerged, destroying everything.

Find a Real Job:
So there I was, back in Pennsylvania.  After a couple months, I found a job as holiday staff at a chain bookstore.  It didn't pay much, but it was income.  However, it wasn't enough for Wife and I to get a house and move out of MIL's place.  After the holidays, the bookstore kept me on.  Thirteen years later, I'm still there.  I lasted 14 years and 3 months to the day before being fired, along with every other Head Cashier in the chain.  I've kept looking for better, full time work, and occasionally found work (like at Vanguard) but I stayed with the bookstore just in case.  Smart move.  The other jobs always petered out.

Status:  See below.

Get my Masters Degree:
One of the goals I had when moving back to Pennsylvania was to earn my Masters degree in Education.  I did my due diligence, and decided to enroll at Penn State Great Valley campus.  I needed loans.  I got them.  It took years (due to financial considerations) but I finally received my Masters degree in 2007.

Status:  Fulfilled.


Get a Real Real Job:
I had my Masters degree, so it was time to really make a living, right?  WRONG!  I graduated during the Bush II depression.  There were no jobs to be had in my field, and those that WERE available, I'd "priced myself out of the marketplace" simply by having the degree.  I put out ten resumes a day, every day, for seven years (that's 25,560 resumes- including 10 for Leap day the one year.)  Not a bite.  In all that time, one or two calls.  One interview.  I stopped doing that when I transitioned, figuring I'd start again after my name change.  I started again, and got exactly 3 interviews.  No call backs.  One of the interviewers didn't bother to hide their anti-trans bias.

Status:  Unfulfilled, probably forever.

Determine Who I am really:
As I've written MANY times, my feminine self reawakened on Halloween 2008.  That led to a lot of soul searching and Pain.  I knew that Sophie was part of my life permanently.  I dreamed of figuring out my Truth, and how to live with it.  I prayed for it.  I NEEDED it.  My Myspace blogs are chock full of my trying to figure this out.

Status:  Fulfilled.  I figured out who I am: Sophie.

Start HRT:
Having determined who I truly was, the time came to start integrating my feminine side into my life.  I dreamed of being more feminine- of the day I didn't need pads in my bra or to wear a wig. Wife and I talked, and we decided I should start HRT, if only to keep me from going completely crazy.  What neither of us expected was how my body would react to the hormones, or the inevitability of her mother finding out my secret.

Status:  Fulfilled

Transition to Full Time alongside Lisa:
In August of 2013, I attended an amazing party.  Soon after, my dearest friend Lisa Empanada and made a promise to each other- that we would Transition to our True selves together, supporting each other every step of the way: "Transition Sisters."

Lisa and I at Southern Comfort- our last night.

Not long after that, I was thrown out of the house.  And, a couple weeks later, Lisa broke all her promises by killing herself.  I have written a TON on how this affected me, and the community.  I still hurt.

Status:  Failed.  Will never come true.

Death:
Lisa's death sent me into a nose dive towards suicide.  My whole life disintegrated.  Within three weeks, I'd lost my home, my marriage, and my best friend.  I seriously have NO idea how I survived September 2013.  But I did.  I STILL don't know how I survived it.  Even after years of reflection.

And so I made a plan, and December 2013, I was headed toward Penn State to execute the plan: suicide behind the Nittany Lion shrine.  Obviously, it didn't happen.

Nor did my extensively plotted plan to end my life on my fiftieth birthday last September.

The Darkness is still with me.  I fight it EVERY DAY.   Lisa once said she was "one bad day away from ending it."  I understand that completely.  Every night, I lay in bed and contemplate ending it all.  And usually, I smile.  Yet every morning, I awaken, and, somehow, find the strength to get out of bed and face another day.  In this fight, I have amazing allies, like my roomie and bestie, Linda Lewis.  I will fight this battle all the days of my life.

Status:  Hasn't come true.  Will someday.  As it will for everyone.

Transition:
With my life in ruins, I pushed ahead with my plan to transition- to live my Truth.  On March 25, 2014, I started living as my True Self: a Woman.  In the years that have followed, I've chipped away at the necessities of name change, gender markers, etc.  It's still a work in process.

Status: Came True.  At great cost.  Was it worth the cost?  In my case: no.

GCS/FFS:
Now I start going into what would be considered "current" dreams.  If I had them.  Which I don't.  In any case, I live my Truth every day.  I would LOVE to finish the process, and be a Complete Woman.  As for FFS, I'd love to see a feminine face gazing back from me from the mirror instead of a Neanderthal.  However, as each costs more money than I make in a decade, neither will be happening.  So, I don't even dream of them anymore.  Why keep hurting myself?  (See: "Death" above)

Status:  Yeah right.

June 2020.  Still the same mug- just older.

Doctorate:
I have always had the smallest flicker of a dream that I would someday be a PhD.  My dear friend Dr. Dave has two of them!  However, getting my Masters degree saddled me with a ton of student loan debt that won't be paid off in my lifetime.  Also, if just getting a Masters priced me out of the marketplace, a Doctorate would kill all possibility of work.

Then there's the question of topic.  Education?  I'd rather get one in American Studies, or History, or Gender Studies.  But then I'd need to go back and get masters in these topics first, which, again, I can't afford.  Also, I can't take the time off work to pursue these degrees.  So I don't even dare dream of this either.  Why keep hurting myself?  (See: "Death" above)

Status:  Yeah right.  This one is now in process.  I've completed my first year of work toward a PhD in Lifelong Learning and Adult Education.  It's been a rough ride, especially with the pandemic, but... it's not over yet.  I do one day at a time.  That's all.


So, there it is- a tour through the ashes of my desires.  Yes, some Dreams came True, usually through a combination of hard work and dumb luck.  Some of these dreams left deep scars that will never heal.  That's the danger of dreaming- even daring to do so can cause intense pain.

But sometimes...



"Is a Dream a Lie if it don't come true
Or is it something worse..."
Bruce Springsteen The River

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2020 Coda:  In re-reading this, it's amazing what has changed (no longer employed; now at PSU) and how much hasn't (Depression, failure.)  Each day, I do what needs to be done, and try to help others.  Since the original post, times have become FAR more dangerous for people like me- as was expected.  Transgender people are now denied healthcare, shelter, military service, and basic recognition of our existence.  There's supposed to be an election in a few months, but I doubt it will happen.  And even if it does, the results will be falsified to keep 45 in power. 

Dreams?  I don't have them.  The GOP have outlawed dreams for people like me.  But they didn't have to do that- I stopping dreaming... and hoping... long ago.

Just existing.  Day by day.