Rambling: Winter stress

I hate this time of year.

So, I’m moving– I’m outta this place on the 22nd. I’m liking my new house a lot. My tenants? Well, we’ll see. They’re JW’s. They know my grandpa. I’m pretty sure their kids went to school with my siblings for a while.

Yeah. I feeling a little paranoid. They’re getting kind of pushy already. And Grandma (who’s on title– it’s a long story) hasn’t exactly put her foot down. She pretty much promised to rent to them, and put me in a position where I couldn’t say “no.” At least, not without causing all sorts of other issues and making myself look like the world’s biggest asshole. She avoided telling me exactly who she made this promise to as long as possible. She’d wait until I was distracted– the night before a term paper was due, for example– to tell me things, then insist on an answer right then and there. She changed the subject whenever I brought it up. My grandma is an expert at giving answers that don’t actually tell you anything useful– the grand master of bullshitting.

I’m a little peeved.

It gets worse: my accident happened in late December. Driving is really panicky for me, especially at night. It brings up memories that I really don’t want to think about.

After my accident, I needed several blood transfusions (massive intestinal ruptures = contamination of the entire circulatory system.)

JW’s are forbidden to have blood transfusions. Fortunately for me, my mom doesn’t buy into that kind of bullshit. But my Grandpa does, and he made sure that we all knew the doctrine. It’s one of those “family politics” things– my parents had screwed up, my grandparents were helping out, and one of my Grandpa’s conditions for helping was that we were to be raised in the “Truth.”

The same “Truth” which dictated that I shouldn’t have received the blood transfusions that saved my life. The same “Truth” which lead others to assure me that it wasn’t my fault that I’d received the blood transfusions that saved my life. Yes, you read that right.

JW’s are also forbidden from celebrating “Christmas.” My parents, Aunt, and Grandma always celebrated, but it was kept secretive– Grandpa couldn’t know. It was a time of sneaking around and keeping lies, and for what? I don’t think I ever really bought in to the whole Jesus thing. The Santa illusion never even got a chance, thanks to my Grandpa.

The whole thing makes me wish I could just… I dunno, hibernate over the winter or something.

Thoughts on pot

So, I feel like writing. And I’ve been thinking about pot. Prepare for rambling.

I’m not a fan of pot prohibition. I believe that the act of smoking a joint is not inherently more injurious than many other legal acts. I do understand, however, that there are extraneous factors which can cause damage.

I have a couple ofbasic guidelines for judging behaviour related to smoking pot.

1. Discretion is the better part of valour.
   Discretion can save you a whole lot of trouble. If you aren’t being obnoxious, many people will not give a shit. It’s when you start stepping on people’s toes that they have problems. So, seriously, don’t be a dick.
2. If you shouldn’t do it while/after drinking, you shouldn’t do it while/after smoking.
   Yanno, people driving while intoxicated scares the shit outta me. I’ve mentioned before that I’ve been in a rather bad car accident. I’m not willing to repeat the experience. Don’t toke and drive.
3. Likewise, if you shouldn’t be drinking, you shouldn’t be smoking pot.
   If you’re doing something that needs your full attention to be effective (like, driving home from work, working with heavy machinery, or anything else that can cause mayhem, injury, or death) please, don’t do it stoned >.<
4. Know the risks.
   Some people just shouldn’t smoke pot, just as some people shouldn’t drink. Sometimes, there’s health reasons- inhaling smoke is not particularly healthy, and there can be side effects to smoking pot. Erowid is a good resource.

All of these can be further summed up in two words: Be responsible.

I don’t think that prohibition encourages responsible use. Instead, it pushes all use underground, and treats it all equally. And seriously? The dude who smokes a joint to de-stress once he gets home from work is not the same as the guy who does stupid, dangerous shit while stoned.

Prohibition obviously doesn’t stop people from smoking dope. I mean, seriously. I grew up in a rural area, where there was nothing to do but smoke dope. I went up to a cousin’s wedding near Vernon– damn, those people smoke a lot of pot. And no one really cares, because they aren’t stepping on anyone’s toes. There’s some pretty good local shit available up there. Ah, BC, how I love thee…

Anyways, I favour legalization with restrictions. Treat it like alcohol or tobacco- age restrictions, restrictions on where and when you can smoke, etc. One argument I’ve heard against this involves the amount of pot grown in private homes; on the other hand, people brew wine and beer at home, too. Make quality controlled pot available in liquor stores and tax it. Ta-da! The government gets money (and while I’m talking about the gov’t, maybe they could stop being such wasteful douches?), allows for a shift in control, and deflate the “there’s no quality control” excuse against pot use. And trust me, people will buy, if prices are reasonable. Restrict amounts that people are allowed to grow privately; if they want to grow more, they can adhere to whatever regulations for quality control and sales there are. If you put these laws in place, and make sure they’re reasonable, responsible users and growers will comply.

A rock and a hard place

So I mentioned in my last post that my grandpa is a Jehovah’s Witness. This has caused no end of turmoil in my life.

Yesterday, I received another lecture on how “worldly” I’m becoming, and how wonderful it would be if I started coming to JW meetings. This has been a common theme in my life- I’m thinking for myself? I’m too worldly! I don’t adhere to the patriarchal gender roles proscribed by his religious leaders? I need spiritual help!

My grandparents, as much as I love them, have made transitioning all but impossible- at least, unless I’m willing to sacrifice my education. You see, long ago he decided he’d pay for “Sara’s” education- but I seriously doubt that he’d say the same for Sean. I’ve been looking for a job since the summer, and I’ve still yet to get a single call back. My grandma says “don’t worry about it, focus on your schooling,” but without a job, I can’t pay for therapy. I can’t live as a guy full time. Even if I somehow managed to meet the requirements, I wouldn’t be able to afford hormones. And despite her claims that any time I need money, I can just ask her, there are some things I just can’t ask for money for.

I feel guilty whenever she gives me money. I feel useless, like I shouldn’t be relying on anyone else for anything. She says she’d rather give me the money, knowing that I’m trying to make something of myself, rather than give it to my aunt, mom, or cousin, all of whom have serious issues.

Anyways, back to grandpa. He’s not doing so well these days. I’m not sure how much longer he’s going to be around. Our relationship isn’t as good as it could be, and I feel guilty- even though the only way to make it better seems to be to deny everything that I am and adhere to his belief system, something which I’m not willing to do. It’s bad enough that I feel the need to lie about myself to him, I don’t want to carry those lies over into the rest of my life.  And instead, I’m watching our relationship crumble. Sometimes, I think that it’ll be somewhat of a relief when he’s gone- and there’s more guilt to pile on, because I don’t have enough in my life.

A rock and a hard place, indeed.

Meandering thoughts, and stuff.

My grade 8 English teacher occasionally had us spend 15 minutes or so just simply writing anything and everything that popped into our heads. She called it “bloodletting,” and like the medicinal treatment of old, the purpose is to purge that which would otherwise stagnate. That’s what this is.

I’ve got sex on the brain at the moment, so… yeah. I guess that’s where I’m gonna start.

Sex is a bit of a double-edged sword for me. On one hand, I don’t get along too well with my bits, to the point where stimulation only works if I can disassociate them from me. On the other hand, well, I’m a 22 years old and haven’t gotten laid since I was 19- my libido’s pretty much reached the point of screaming “PAY SOME FUCKING ATTENTION TO ME, ASSHOLE!”

Some trans guys have a pretty good sex life. I’m not one of them. At least some of that’s because I’m painfully shy- even online, I end up letting myself fade into the background all too often. Usually, there’s at least some “why would they care what I have to say?” involved in this, especially if I respect the person in question.

Admittedly, my body image is shot- along with the whole mind/body gender dissonance thing, I’ve also got some major scarring from a childhood car accident. There’s a scar running down the center of my abdomen, starting about the same level as my third lowest rib, bisecting my navel, and running to just above my pubes. There’s also another scar on my stomach, about where you’d find an appendectomy scar, though on my left rather than my right. It’s also larger than an appendectomy scar, and more star-shaped; the remnant of a temporary colostomy while my ruptured intestines healed (and just to note- hell is the stomach flu with a colostomy >.<).

I’ve never been very good at relating to people one-on-one. I get nervous when I care what they think, and bored when I don’t.  I have a hard time believing that they actually want to have a conversation with me. I spent a lot of time isolated in elementary school, socially, and once I got to highschool- well, teens can be fuckwads. Some little asswipes thought it was funny to call me fat (ok, I admit, I haven’t been skinny since I was counting my age in single digits, but nor am I massively obese.) Unfortunately, this was about the same time those lumps of fat on my chest really started being a focus of attention, and it was easy to believe them, so I stopped eating for a while.

Some years later, someone told me that one of those guys (the most vocal of the lot) had a 2 inch dick- and that was hard.  Schadenfreude, what schadenfreude?

Anyways, so I haven’t been laid in years, probably because I’m too afraid to talk to anyone, much less proposition them. I don’t trust other people easily, I’ve had my trust abused before. I’m a little pathetic, I know- or maybe more than a little.

Ah, well, what’s a guy to do?