Bonk Bonk On the Head

Well, up until an hour ago (4 PM), I was good. After going to buy groceries with eBay money, I opened the trunk to carry bags into the apartment. I heard a metallic POP! The load bearing strut holding up my trunk hatch snapped while was under it. Hard hit to the back of my head, knocking me forward.

As I was standing on ice, I lost my footing and collapsed into the trunk on top of the groceries, and the trunk then hit the back of my legs. Gravity at work.

What it's supposed to look like

I saw stars and tweeting birds (ready when you are, Raoul!). Now I have a nasty headache and a trunk that's hard to open and won't stay open.  

I took Aleve. If I start feeling dizzy or sick, I'll go to the emergency room.

I'll bet it looked funny as hell. At least I didn't crush the bread.

Ouch!

Broken

I stayed awake and sitting up, keeping busy.  Now it's later in the evening.  I'm going to take another Aleve along with my evening meds.

When I sell more on eBay, I'll buy a new strut and have a garage put it on for me, as I'm hopeless with car repairs (I was absent from guy school the day they covered that topic.)

I hope it's not a concussion, but I'll find out by morning I guess.

Christmas Night '21

So Christmas is over, thank God.  This tale begins on my last day of work at the LGBT Center for the semester.  As a thank you for volunteering to speak to classes, they gave me a $20 Starbucks gift card.  I don't drink coffee.  All of us working there got a small bag full of stickers and glitter pens and such.  A couple of days ago, my friend Aimee gave me a Christmas ball she knitted, which promptly went on the tree.

I've had insomnia the past few nights (what else is new?)  This morning, I woke up around 7, coughing my head off from this cold I can't kick.  It isn't Covid- I was checked.  I had a bowl of cereal, and went back to bed, having had only four hours of sleep.  Besides, Linda wasn't up yet, so...

I crawled out of bed again around 11:30.  Plopped on the couch until Linda was ready to open her gifts.  I bought her a book.  Linda's sister generously sent me a bag of small things, and my dear friend Jenny North sent me a DVD, an ornament, as well as a Disney + subscription.  She's far too kind.  In any case, that was my Christmas.  

Linda and I played a couple of games during the day.  I made dinner: ham and mashed potatoes.  We watched a movie.

11:30 and I still wasn't tired.  I took melatonin, but knew from experience that it would take time to hit. (it's 1:06 as I type this and I'm still wide awake).  I decided to take a drive downtown, so Linda wouldn't have to listen to me cry.  

And cry I did.  For the past few Christmases, all I've asked for from Wife for Xmas was for her and Daughter to come visit me for the day.  Hasn't happened.  Still.  I barely spoke to either of them, as while they returned one call briefly (as they were going to Wawa), the second call wasn't returned.  Guess they had better things to do.  I texted with Daughter a bit though.

Christmas Tree, College and Allen

I'm tired of the fact that they are Top Priority for me while I'm merely and inconvenience or obligation to them.  It's tearing me apart.  So, I cried like the weak little useless child that I am.  (Got a bloody nose out of nowhere as well.)  

I arrived at the main intersection in State College: Allen St and College Ave.  That's where the "gateway to the University" stands, as well as the Christmas tree.  I took pictures.  Downtown was empty.  No one on the roads, and maybe three people walking.  I walked half a block to take more pictures, and as I walked back to my car, I heard music coming from Zeno's, a basement bar I frequented back in the day.  It was open!  So I walked down the stairs, and had a beer.

Alone at Zeno's

There were a few Asian women at the bar wearing very short dresses as well as maybe six other people, plus staff.  I sat at a small round table, and quietly drank the beer.  Around 12:05, they started kicking people out.  I finished my beer, and walked over to the bar to pay my tab.  It was free- the bartender wrote "Merry Christmas" on the charge slip.  I had no cash to tip him.

I left him the Starbucks gift card, and went back to my car.

I hate Christmas, almost as much as I hate my life.

Stopped to see an old friend on the way home.

Holidazed

I've written many times here, on TG Forum, and on social media about my feelings about the Christmas holiday.  I hate it.  Absolutely and thoroughly.

Yes, I know- stop whining.

Like me, so many transgender people lose their families when they come out.  In my case, I lost my marriage as well.  My daughter was five when I was thrown out.  During the few years before that, I tolerated the holidays, because of the magic I saw in her eyes, especially on Christmas morning.  She loved Christmas and everything that came with it.  Does she still?  I have no idea.  I never see her on Christmas anymore- not in years.  

I just asked her via text.  She said "Yeah, kinda.  I like giving gifts."  

One of the major reasons I hate Xmas is all those years in the service industry: bartending, serving, wholesale, and the worst: retail.  Any of you who have worked retail during the holidays know how horrific people can be during that time.  During the last few years at the book store, working Xmas eve left me actively looking for ways to die after work.  People were that bad.  I would drive home sobbing and hating every breath and heartbeat.  Sleep couldn't come fast enough.  One year, my friend Katie insisted on coming over with bottles of wine.  She literally kept me alive that night.  

I used to enjoy Christmas when I was young.  Gifts from Santa were great.  Also, the whole family (dad's side) would get together.  I used to get along well with many of my cousins.  That kinda ended when we all started hitting our teens, and the oldest of the cousins married, etc.  When I hit my teens, I felt more isolated, because teen, but also because of my Dark Secret I needed to hide- that I was trans.  

In very late 1989, I met someone who loves Christmas.  We dated through spring and summer 1990, and she kept telling me that she was going to teach me to love the holiday, as her family was REALLY into it.  But she cheated, and by October it was over.  Then my first suicide attempt.  Thing is- I was really looking forward to seeing why her family loved it so much.  That added to the bitterness of the breakup and the holiday. That was over thirty years ago.  Yes, it takes me forever to get over some things.

Yesterday

For a few years, I did "Orphan's Christmas Eve" at my house in Baltimore and then when I moved back to PA.  That ended when I was thrown out.  I enjoyed that bit.  I think I already wrote about it somewhere.

Since coming back to PSU, it hasn't been as bad as that.  My roomie/bestie Linda and I watch TV Christmas eve.  Next morning she opens the gifts I give her as well as the ones from her sister.  The past few years, a dear friend has sent me a gift which I open Xmas morning.  That done, it becomes just another day.

Just another day.

But it's a day where everything is closed, everyone is busy (not that I have many friends around here- I don't), and there's nothing good on TV.  Some bars and such open that night, but by then I'm not in the mood for being social.  Maybe I will afford a decent thing to make for dinner, like a turkey or ham.  (Who am I kidding? It'll be Hamburger Helper.)

Thing is- I have it SO much better than so many people, especially trans women.  So many of us are homeless or worse.  In my case, at least I have Linda here, and maybe I'll be able to speak to Wife and daughter if they're not too busy.  Usually her brothers come over with their many kids (ten between them.)  So many of us have absolutely no one.

Maybe I'll have the money to buy a bottle or two and drink myself into oblivion.  Been a while since I've done that.  Besides, it's not like I'm doing anything the next day or so after.  I don't recover as well as when I was younger.  But Drinking, I'd go to sleep, and the day would be over.  

Face it, the only three spirits helping me with Christmas will be liquid, not Dickens-esque.

In any case, I know many of you enjoy the holidays, and for that I am grateful.  Enjoy them for me too, please.  

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.  

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?

*********************************************************

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.

*******************************************************************

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.