A heap of broken images... (String Quartet in A Minor, Op. 3)

Last night I came out in a sort of inverse, unusual manner to someone I've known for several years online.  I say inverse and weird because for the entire time she has known me, she's known me as Julie, and as a female.  But after a dozen times trying to tell her, and then deleting the stuff I was writing, I finally broke down (literally and figuratively) and told her.  Thankfully, she was more than accepting, and it went well.  But as one could gather, I was absolutely terrified out of fear that I'd be seen as telling an untruth.  My sin was one of omission...I was being truthful, because I am Julie, but I omitted the fact that Julie is also trans.

I met this friend through a web forum for a relatively popular British TV series (wink wink nudge nudge), and we both share a passion for writing fiction based on said show.  She's been a source of constructive criticism and encouragement, and I was worried about losing that, and worried about losing a friend who has listened to me in the past when I needed.

Luckily I don't have to worry about either.

~~~~~

I'm in the fifth day of a depressive streak with liberal lashings of dysphoria.  As I've been asked several times what dysphoria is, let me give you a definition and then me.

Dysphoria (from Greek: δύσφορος (dysphoros), δυσ-, difficult, and φέρειν, to bear) is a profound state of unease or dissatisfaction. In a psychiatric context, dysphoria may accompany depression, anxiety, or agitation. It can also mean someone that is not comfortable in their current body, particularly in cases of gender dysphoria. Common reactions to dysphoria include emotional distress or indifference.

Now, me:

I hate my shoulders, my neck, my chest, my hips, my 'bits.' Each one is a reminder that I was AMAB, and hormones have conspired to give me a body to match.

I hate my chest, my waist, my hips, my 'bits.'  Each is a reminder that there is next to no estrogen in my system, and for everything I do with makeup and clothes and wigs, I'm half of who I need to be.

I hate that gender therapy is so expensive.

I hate that I can't just have my GP prescribe me T-blockers and estrogen.

It doesn't bother me that people don't get it.  I don't want them to understand,  not because I am selfish but because I genuinely don't want anyone to understand how this feels.  No one should ever feel this, ever.

~~~~~

I'm strongly considering leaving Facebook.

The Blackout was one part of it.  Realistically though, the fact that stuff I write that matters to me generally (not always) gets no comments or anything, whilst memes get all sorts of said same, is part of it.  Some people care, I'm not at all saying that.  But it's the same few every time.  I love them for it.  But I get a general feeling of either malaise or familiarity...and I'm not sure the later is a positive thing always.

I have the benefit of generally feeling safe there.  A lot of my friends do not.

I say I'm strongly considering leaving Facebook, and I won't, because I need my connections to my friends more than I need the rest of the service.  But I don't have to like it.

~~~~~

I'm arguing with myself whether I'm going to post a poem or a story this coming week.  Story wise, the last one I posted I posted an excerpt and then linked to the upload on Whofic...but I think I'm going to just post the stories here from now on.  40,000 stories on the archive, and 20,000 of them are Tenth Doctor, and likely Ten/Rose or TenTwo/Rose fic.  Considering (not bragging) my writing influences are Chambers, Zelazny, Moorcock and Ellison, and I tend to deal with BIG ISSUES (genocide, gender issues, war, etc.) I don't fit in there either.

I'm also giving brief consideration to self-publishing my short novel as a fundraiser thing for LGBT charity.  And a friend and I have had brief discussions about a T-shirt for the same thing.

Time will tell...it always does.

~~~~~

It's Whoday, so expect more happy geek stuff (as opposed to morose Julie!stuff) later.