Late November Late Night Rambling

Thanksgiving was quite nasty, and I'm still deeply depressed from it.  But I'll see if I can write something that isn't depressing.  This is being typed straight in- I didn't write it longhand before.  See? I ended two clauses with prepositions- look at me go.

I had to drop a class this semester due to various issues- chief among them being that I was so far behind in the reading.  How did I get so far behind?  I spent a LOT of time lying in bed, either asleep or staring at the ceiling.  I'm guessing the depression meds aren't working.  That said, I doubt they've ever worked.

I'm taking a break from writing papers.  I have two due next week, both 20+ pages.  One is in my qualitative research class, and the other is in my Sociology of Gender class.  I really enjoy the Gender class, as it goes right into my research.  The other one... doesn't.

I wrote a TG Forum post for last week, about TDOR here at PSU.  In it, I wrote:

I then stood to speak at “open mic.” I don’t remember all that I said. I opened with “I don’t know what it means to be cisgender” then talked about fear. Fear of being caught dressing by parents, about Wife finding out, about losing everything because of coming out. . . and then there’s violence. In Detransition, Baby, Torrey Peters wrote that trans women of color are murdered, while if a white trans girl dies prematurely, it’s usually suicide. Either way, dead.

Death doesn’t scare me — never did. However, I wonder how long it will be until another person I know’s name is read at TDOR. A week doesn’t pass without word of the suicide of a trans friend or a trans friend of a friend crossing my social media feeds. Too many of us are dying. I read in an academic paper recently that the average age of death for a transgender woman is 32. I don’t remember which paper, but it was peer reviewed, so must be somewhat accurate. And none of those count natural deaths (miss you Katie!). I thought I was desensitized to loss, but as the number of dead friends continues rising. . . well, I’m not... [edit]

I remember one other thing I said — that I’m afraid that my life, or someone I care about, will be reduced to just a name to be read on November 20. And mostly forgotten by the next year.  

If you want to read the whole thing, I linked it above.  

Fat bitch reading

I've been thinking a lot of what I'll leave behind.  I have hundreds of books just taking up space in storage.  I doubt anyone will want them, like a used book store, and putting them on ebay would be more trouble than it's worth.  So when I'm gone, will they all just be thrown in a dumpster?  Each one of those books was a gift, or piqued my interest enough for me to buy them.  I'd guess 2/3 are unread- the pleasure and knowledge I sought from them wasted.  I remember all the times I'd go to bookstores with Wife and just browse, because I couldn't afford to buy.  

I miss those days with Wife- almost carefree in a way, as we had no daughter or pets.  Yes, I was still depressed, and drinking heavily, but I was young and it was Wife and I against the world.  Re-discovering my trans self in 2008 destroyed so many things.  Can I say transition has made me happy?  No.  It destroyed what little good I had left in my life.

I'm grateful for the friends I've made since that day in 2008, including some of the best people I've ever met, especially Lisa, Ally, and Linda.  I like to think I've done some good as well, but is that enough to justify all this pain?  Every single fucking hour of every day?  No therapist or medication has cured it (unless you count the fact that I'm still alive) after over three decades of work.  Dr. Osborne did the most, but then she retired.  

But back to the books in storage.  I also have a lot of games in the room where I type.  I think selling them would yield more money, especially since they'd hopefully go to a home where they'd actually be played.  My roomie/bestie isn't a gamer, not that I have time.  Nor do I have the inclination.  All I do anymore is stare through walls, watch tv, or nap.  And homework.  I have no hobbies any more.  It's been forever since I've written a story.  Or a blog entry (before this.)  And this one isn't exactly a bundle of laughs.  let's face it, I've become that boring person at the end of the bar that no one talks to because they're so depressing.  

I think I mentioned previously how I've already written the final entry of this blog- I did it five years ago.  I update it occasionally.  I think about the day it will be posted often.  I don't write here much anymore, primarily as I don't see the point.  It doesn't bring me any joy, and I'm bleeding subscribers as fast as I lose hits.  

And while I'm on that topic: Ruben Paixao, I'd appreciate it if you'd change your icon.  Nobody wants to see that gross display, and this is a family show.  

Thanksgiving passed, and it ended with me sobbing for days.  Like, still.  I try not to cry in front of Linda, as she has enough problems.  In any case, it's now the "holiday season."  I'm glad so many people find joy in it.  I don't.  Haven't in a long time.  I guess working wholesale and retail wrenched what little enjoyment I had right out of me.  Usually on Christmas, I just cry.  I've written about this so many times before, so I won't belabor the point.  

It's almost 1 am, and I'm still not sleepy.  And writing isn't helping.  Maybe I'll watch some tv or such.  I'm so fucking pathetic.  Sorry, I couldn't write something more uplifting.

In any case, thanks for reading, those who do.  I seriously appreciate it more than I say.  Makes me think someone actually cares.  

Be well.

Getting Caught

Thinking back all the way to when I first put on a piece of feminine clothing until, well, today to some extent, my biggest fear concerning being trans has been getting "caught."  Discovery.

It's something feared by transgender women from crossdressers to transitioned, but mostly  those who are closeted. (Heidi Phox has a fun video about this.)

When I first started, I feared being caught by my parents or my brother.  I knew that if my parents caught me, the punishment would've been beyond severe.  Possibly being thrown out or worse.  And if my older brother (OB) caught me, he'd instantly tell them while greatly embellishing the story to the point where the only true part would be the skirt.  (In reality though, when my brother caught me, it meant a huge bribe to buy his silence, combined with the knowledge that he had something terrible on me.  But to his credit, he never told.)

So I usually dressed when they all were away.  Sometimes when mum was away and dad was on night shift, so asleep during the day.  It really depended upon how bad my dysphoria was on a given day.  

Sometimes I'd dress if they were out running errands, but then it would only be hose or something easily removed and hidden.  During those times, I kept my ears peeled for the squeak of the front door, or the sound of one of the vehicles in the driveway.  I sort of miss those days, fresh with discovery and fear.  My adrenaline ran very high and senses were on edge.  At those times, the clothes felt extra silky and soft.  

But then that sound- was that the door?  The frantic scramble to unzip, unhook, don't rip it!  Hide it hide it!  God help me if I had on makeup!  That usually meant shower time- that was my excuse for all the washing.  

Close calls.  Oh, so many close calls!  The sound of my mother's voice shouting my name up the stairs... I didn't hear her come in!  PANIC!  Strip!  Oh don't come up here!  As I mentioned, I was only caught once, and that was by OB.  

After Halloween 2008, I was hiding from the whole world, especially my Wife.  I knew that the consequences for being caught now- with a family and career- would be catastrophic.  I took every precaution and thought through every move.  Motels paid in cash.  Post office box in another town. Storage site several towns away.  I was so cautious, and wasn't caught.  I realized an important fact: that no one would recognize me because they weren't looking for me.  Even if they were looking for me, they wouldn't be looking for me dressed as a woman.  They may recognize that I'm a crossdresser, but not who I am.

Of course, the problem happened because this blog was found.  I was Thrown out.

Since then, I haven't cared who found out.  And then in March 2014, I came out to the world.  Since then it's been misgender, misgender, misgender.  But no more hiding.

I know no one reads this anymore, but I'll ask anyway: have you ever been caught crossdressing?  What happened?

My Fault

Everything is my fucking fault. I can't do anything right. I'm never smart enough, strong enough, fast enough... whatever.

Want proof?

Ask my wife. Who destroyed our marriage?  Me.  Who couldn't find a good enough job so we could move out of her mom's place?  Me.

Ask my parents. If something happened in that house, it was my fault.  Period.  Never my brother's- mine.  After all- he said so, right?  I was the root of everything wrong and evil.

Ask anyone who I've failed, which is pretty much everyone I know. If I haven't failed you yet, give it time, I guarantee I will. Ask any of my teachers or employers. Li Longo didn't get past the primary because I sucked as a campaign manager. When BN or GW didn't hit a target, it was because I fucked up.

I fucked up so much at GW that they moved me out of sales and put me under someone who did his best to make me quit.

I never do anything fucking right, so why do I fucking bother even trying.

I'm fifty fucking five years old.  I'll be near sixty IF I finish this program.  No one will hire me.  So why am I bothering?  Transwomen are dying out there, and here I am learning adult learning theory.  Theories don't stop bullets.

I used to think transpeople may just survive the 45 junta.  We did- barely.  The GOP kills far too efficiently.  Ask the Latinos in the camps... or their children who have been sold off, oh I'm sorry- "disappeared."

Now they'll just legislate us out of existence.  And what am I doing about it?  Reading about Gramsci and ubuntu and qualitative research.  Useless.  I'm fucking useless.  Always have been.  

Early Autumn Raw Whining

I've always taken a writing book everywhere I go, but lately I've started writing in it while in class, as we're supposed to keep a journal to reflect on readings and discussions. The following was written yesterday, and has the class related stuff removed- but that's the only editing I've done, aside for clarity and removing names..  Raw Sophie thoughts as they happened.  Not that anyone is reading.  Last month, I had 747 hits.  I used to do over a thousand a day.  Is it that no one is reading blogs anymore, or that I've scared everyone off.  Or bored them.  

I'm good at fake smiles.  Sept. 2021.  Like my sun poisoning?

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Sweaty as fuck, as it's so humid.  Drug dr. says Cymbalta may be the cause.  I'm very sick of it.  I sweated through a dress this morning, so I'm on my second dress of the day.  

Mum is still alive.  I spoke to her the other day, and could barely understand her.  I thought of going down [to see her] on Sunday for her birthday, but decided not to, as I don't want to see her like this- not again.  Spoke to Wife and daughter about it today as well.

Drug dr. asked me if I'd felt suicidal lately.  I answered yes, but didn't say when: this morning.  I woke up at 6 am and thought that today the world would be better off w/o me.  Everyone would forget me very quickly.  I got out of bed and pushed myself to the shower that I desperately needed.  I hadn't showered in days.  And I needed a shave.  I just didn't- too lazy.  I didn't care.  I still don't, but as I have class today, I wanted to present well, not offend people with my stench, and in a desperate attempt to feel feminine.  I'm convinced that unless I get bottom surgery I'll never feel feminine or complete.  As I'll never afford it, I'll never feel complete.  I lost all hope of that long ago.  Hope lies.  I've known that for years.  Just keep moving forward, step by step.  I would rage against the dying of the light if the light hadn't died long ago.  After all, I'm a mistake that was broken again and again- loss after loss, defeat after defeat, more regular than a heartbeat.  I was born as a warning to others- that life can make mistakes.  If I were so fucking smart, then why do I lose so goddamn always?...

True Colors Photoshoot, 2010.

…Just thinking- even if I had bottom surgery, what would really change?  It's not like I'd ever use the parts, even if I wanted to.  I'm too fat and ugly and old for anyone to ever want me.  What kind of lover would I be as a woman?  Yes, I have big tits, but that isn't everything.  What kind of wife would I be?  Would I wear the white dress, etc?  Could I?  Me as a bride, outside of a photoshoot.  Never a consideration.  That pre-supposes losing Wife, meeting someone else, and caring enough about them to spend the rest of my life with them.  I can't see that happening.  I can't see wanting it to happen.  I'm already married, and will remain so until Wife jettisons me.  Would I even survive that? I doubt that very much.  Just being separated makes me crave death every day.  All those years ago, the marriage councilor said I'm "Needy, clingy, and possessive."  Spot on.  I forget which therapist said that's because I crave the love I didn't get as a child, or the acceptance I never found.  Am I capable of receiving love anymore?  Was I ever, really?  I know love has ALWAYS meant pain to me- every fucking time.

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In other news, a couple of weeks ago, I attended a tailgate.  I wrote about that HERE.  I came away with a mild case of sun poisoning that knocked me down for a week.  It's now at the peeling stage.  I should make an appointment with the dermatologist, but no money means no medicine.  

School is brutal, but at this level it's supposed to be.  The academic term for it is "rigor,"  which is defined as "hard as fuck."  One of my classes is Sociology of Gender, and I really enjoy that class.  I've learned a lot from looking at the issues from a different lens, so to speak.  

It's October in Happy Valley.  Still summer out there, despite the leaves changing.  The world is changing too.  What kind of planet will my generation leave behind?  A cinder?  

In any case, that's all I have today.  I wanted to post something for what readers I have left.  To those who have hung on, thank you.  Seriously.  You help.

Be well.

8

Dearest Lisa,

Today marks eight years since they found your body, hot pink and lifeless in the back of your work van.  How long it had been since you died is uncertain.  

What is certain is how you tore apart so many lives.  I get it- I really do.  I know how the Pain and Darkness eat away at the soul.  How the Darkness makes promises- promises sweet relief from the Pain.  

What the Darkness didn't tell you is how many people loved you, and the price we paid for your peace.

Every day I think of you, and every day I think about joining you.  The Agony you left behind still lives in me.  I hang on.  I hang on trying to do right by those you left behind.

Eight whole years.  So much longer than I even knew you.  

I wish I could go back and tell you what I know now.  Would you even recognize me?  I know I've changed- I see it in my eyes.  I hate mirrors more than ever.  If we met now, would you even want to be friends?  

I want to write more, but I'm afraid to.

I will always miss you and love you, Lisa.

Sophie

Double Nickel

On September 13, 2021, I turned 55.  Another year passed, another year still alive.  What did I do?  Well, I worked my one job for a few hours, then treated myself to some lunch (wings and iced tea) at Cafe 210 West.  The owner, noted local musician J.R. Managan joined me for a drink, which was very nice of him.  I also bought myself a birthday gift- a white Penn State Tank top that I couldn't afford, but it's my birthday.  I then went the other place where I work (grocery store) and picked up the free cake they give employees on their birthday.  I then went home for a nap.  That night, I made a steak for dinner for myself and Linda, and had some of the cake.  Also during the day, I spoke to Wife and daughter.  

At Cafe 210

And that was how I spent my 55th birthday.  Quietly.  I didn't tell people at my one job it was my birthday as it didn't matter.  I'm used to people not knowing and not caring about me or my birthday.  With the exception of when I was dating/with Wife, I spent most of my birthdays alone.  Nothing is lonelier than a birthday alone.  However, if a person goes around reminding people about it, they're seen as "seeking attention."  Well, YEAH!  It's nice to get just a little attention on your birthday!  That's why I paid hundreds of dollars to throw my own birthday party a few years ago.

A few of my facialbook friends remarked that a lady never tells her age.  I'm honest about it, because so many transgender women don't live this long.  We get murdered or commit suicide or whatever.  My dearest friend Lisa died at 52.  So at 55. I've survived three suicide attempts, countless deep depressions where I wanted to die, accidents, running into burning buildings, crawling into demolished cars, fights, falls, and God only knows what else.  Yet, still here I am, typing this.  If I had my way, I'd be dead these five years and mostly forgotten.  

272 people posted on my facialbook page wishing me a happy birthday.  My birthday fundraiser raised $502 (target: $300).  Yes, I am honored by this, and very grateful.

So I'm still here today.  Still studying for my PhD.  Still breathing.  Still crazy after all these years.

Be well.

Tips For New Girls Redux

This piece was first published on TG Forum on August 30, 2021.  Please click on the link to show them some love.

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And now for something completely different.

Long ago, back when people still drew on cave walls, I did a piece (either here or on my blog) about some helpful tips for beginners.  It’s been forever, so I thought I’d try this again.  Tip of the hat to Linda Jensen who also writes about this, and does it far better than I ever will. 

Right.  The transgender continuum encompasses many different types of people, from casual occasional crossdressers, to people who dress often but can’t transition for whatever reason, to people who have surgeries and go stealth. My dear friend Kristyn King told me when I first came out in public the first time that being TG is like a train: you ride and progress until you arrive at the stop where you are comfortable (or must stop.)  However, very few ride the train until the end of the line: transition. I am one of those who paid for the ticket, and took the ride.  I’ve been living my Truth since 2014.  I’ve learned a lot since rediscovering myself since re-discovering myself in late 2008, usually the hard way, but also from other transgender women here and there.  And now, I give this wisdom to you.  You lucky people.

Let’s start with legs shall we?  This is the biggest sin I see at TG events:  KEEP YOUR KNEES TOGETHER!  As biological males, we tend to sit with our legs spread far apart: the “Man Spread.”  Women don’t sit this way.  At all.  They are socialized to keep their legs together to prevent them from flashing their privates to any who care to look- especially while wearing a skirt or dress.  Give you a hint ladies: we don’t want to see your underwear or pantyhose crotch.  Keep your knees together!

Manspeading

While I’m at it, let’s discuss feet.  Females sit (or hover) when using the restroom.  You know this, right.  Men don’t have to, as they can stand to pee.  However, if you’re going to dress as a woman, nothing will creep out cis-women (and out you) faster than standing at the john in the ladies room.  WHILE IN THE STALL, KEEP YOUR FEET POINTED AWAY FROM THE TOILET.  That means sit on the throne, ladies. 

The next major bit I notice is obvious, but not.  When I attend TG events or conferences (like the amazing Keystone Conference in Harrisburg, Pa), there are usually group meals.  During one of those, close your eyes and listen.  What do you hear?  Guys.  Guys talking and laughing.  Some of the most beautiful women you meet at a conference out themselves as soon as they open their mouths.  They make no effort to raise their voice into a feminine range.  TRY TO USE AS FEMININE VOICE AS YOU CAN.  Even if you think it sounds ridiculous, it really helps your mental state and presentation.

Walk past a male presenting person.  How do they silently acknowledge you as you pass by (assuming they do)?  They nod.  Men in Western cultures nod to acknowledge/greet others.  What do females do?  They smile to each other.  (They don’t smile at men that often, especially in Europe, where smiling is seen as flirting.)  WHEN SILENTLY ACKNOWLEDGING SOMEONE, SMILE- DON’T NOD!

Finally, we have walking.  Men walk one way due to the angle of their hips and center of gravity, while women, with structurally different hips and higher center of gravity, walk differently.  There are long lessons on how to walk in a feminine way.  So, as a simple guide: WHEN WALKING, SHOULDERS BACK, CHEST OUT, AND A MAKE BELIEVE BOOK ON YOUR HEAD.  It isn’t perfect, but it’s better than shambling around like a guy. 

In any case, I hope these tips help.  I’m still working on voice and walk, and always will be.  Hopefully, these tips will help your feminine presentation, and help you be the best female you can! 

 

Be well!

 

 

 

update 09012021

 too depressed to write anymore

not that anyone cares

be well

Collectables

I used to collect a great many things when I when I was first out of college (It's hard to collect anything when money is so tight.  That said, in college I collected hangovers), especially after I met Wife and I was able to get a relatively stable job in a game distribution company.   Go figure one of the things I collected were board games. I also collected miniatures, as well as Dungeons & Dragons books. One thing I saved my money to buy was a 1990 Captain America chess set, in pewter and brass.  I loved that, and couldn't wait until we had would have an actual house where it could be displayed.

Occasionally, I bought a comic book character statue.  Around that time, Wife and I collected video tapes of movies, because we didn't go out that much so at night we would drink wine and watch movies.  

This was a wonderful time.  I had friends with whom to game, money enough to pay the bills (as Wife made more than me, even at the beginning of her career.)  Our biggest expenses were my drinking and our weekly dinner date night.  

Unfortunately, my drinking was out of control and I spent a LOT. 

Wife is better with money than me. Things were looking up.  We were building a life Together.  Y'know, like normal people.  

At that point, I changed jobs.  When I took the job with Games Workshop, it also cut my income by a third.  I cut back expenses a bit, and started selling off a few things at conventions.  Eventually, we saved enough to buy a house.  I loved that house:  it was an end unit of townhomes, built with our input.  A dear friend who worked in construction built the deck for us.  Add to that, we shared a wall with an amazing couple (who are the best neighbors anyone could ever want) named Adam and Carol.  

We held many parties there, hosted some dinners, and eventually even got a dog.  And, finally, I was able to display my chess set.  Fortunately, it was not one of the things taken when the house was robbed.  My favorite times there were sitting on the couch with Wife after the day was done, drinking wine and listening to music.

Captain America Chess Set.  Pics swiped from an ebay auction.  Want it?  $524.00

Still, even with an occasional raise from GW, expenses were outpacing income.  Then, Wife was laid off.  

I began selling things I'd collected.  I began selling off comics.  Then the statues, one by one.  Board games that I didn't play for whatever reason.  Out of production miniatures.  Miniatures I'd painted.  Books.  Eventually, I sold some of the original art I'd collected.  I'd occasionally buy something on ebay just to turn it around to resell it, as I knew it was worth much more than I paid.  

It wasn't enough. 

One day, I sold the Captain America chess set to a comic book store.  I remember that day vividly.  I put the chess set, mint in factory box, on his counter.  He paid in cash, which I handed to Wife.  I was so sad.  I'd never even played a game with those pieces.  I felt like a complete failure.  We made the mortgage payment.  

I don't know why, but I thought of this image when writing this piece.  It's drawn in the art style of Wife.

Eventually, my job at GW was eliminated.  We sold the house we loved so much, and moved back to Pennsylvania.  I was deeply depressed.  Again, I started selling off things I'd collected.  No longer constrained by my employment with GW, I sold off most of my GW miniatures, including the armies I'd worked so hard to build and paint over the nine years I worked there.  I sold the last of the sellable statues in 2011.

Very Rare Game.  Sold January, 2011

Since that time, I've been selling to pay bills.  At first, it was to pay for things like the tuition for my masters degree.  Then our daughter was born.  Eventually, it was to buy feminine items and clothing, as my femme side re-emerged in 2008.  

Now, I still sell things, and occasionally buy.  Almost all of the high-end items are gone.  What few items are left aren't worth much to anyone really.  My once huge game collection fits on two ikea shelves.  Most of my books are in storage.  I tried selling some to a used book store, and they were very blunt about telling me that they weren't interested.  I've given many of my old books (mostly unread) for free to my friends who own Bramble Books in Spring City.  I figure it will help them make money.  (Their bookstore is thriving, btw.)  

In any case, a lot of the games I still have, I kept hoping that someday I'd actually have people with whom to play them.  I've had several of them for over thirty years, and a couple for forty.  At what point do I finally give up and either sell them or give them away?  (Before you ask, my roomie Linda isn't a gamer.  She builds amazing models from scratch.)

This morning, I'm exhausted.  I've worked on this piece for days, little by little.  Time to go to work.  I'm doing both jobs today.  Then work Friday, Saturday, Sunday...  

Maybe I'll just give it all away.  They'll make someone happy.  It's all wasted here.

Humid Midsummer Sunset

The sun was setting when I left work Tuesday, and to the south an early moon hung in the blue and rose colored sky.  The humidity was so heavy you could see it and almost taste it.  This is the sort of summer I remember from growing up and those summers when school was just a threat over a month away.

Last night

But tonight, it reminded me of the beach.  Bethany Beach, Delaware, specifically.  Early in our relationship, Wife's family always rented a beachside house for a couple of weeks during the summer, usually in late June.  It had to be beachside, as Wife's grandmother wanted to be near enough to hear the ocean, even though she never went down to the beach itself.  The sound was enough.

Most nights after dinner, Wife, her brothers, and whatever cousins or friends were along, would walk on the beach about a mile to the Bethany boardwalk.  We'd usually get ice cream and play miniature golf at the most ancient yet challenging place, and it only cost fifty cents!  It's long gone now, replaced by a restaurant.  

Still, it's those memories that relationships are built upon.  I loved those walks.  I loved those evenings.  I could usually only stay a few days or a week, as I had to work, but those were wonderful times.  I think about them on evenings like this as the bright early moon presides over the sultry sky.  I miss them.  I miss the days of being happy and with Wife.

The next morning I learned that some of the haze was due to smoke from the west coast wild fires.  So much for wistfulness.