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.

So, it’s been a little while

Life’s been complicated over the last couple of weeks, so I haven’t had the time/energy to post much.

The cold from hell turned out to be bronchitis. Yay… >.< Speaking of which, I need to find a new doctor, preferably one which will speak up when their patent’s grandfather follows them into the examination room without being asked to.

Tomorrow is the 20th anniversary of the École Polytechnique massacre, and the 18th annual National Day of Remembrance and Action on Violence Against Women (clearly, whoever came up with the name didn’t expect to have to read it out in from of a crowd). UFV’s memorial was yesterday. Four people showed up for the memorial, aside from myself– and two were related to me. It’s always nice to know my hard work is appreciated. On the other hand, since I only had a week to pull it all together, I think I did an ok job.

Of course, the NDoRaAoVAW (damn, that’s a messy acronym…) has special significance in my family. In 1985, my aunt Kim and her two children were shot and killed by her ex, who had stalked them for several years prior to the murder. The killer was denied parole in February.

I’m supposed to be writing a paper on heterosexism and ageing, but I can’t get motivated. Instead, I’m rereading Lightning on the Waves’ Sacrifices arc, because I’m obviously not depressed enough.

Seriously, if you can read the entire series without crying, you’re probably completely dead inside. Yep, it’s massivley AU. Yep, it’s H/D. Yep, there’s a cubic fuckton of OC’s. Yep, Harry is massively OOC. And yep, it’s probably the best fic I’ve ever read– possibly the best story I’ve ever read, period. Whatever you do, though, don’t ignore the warnings; there’s a lot of potentially triggery stuff.

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.

Humanization

Dehumanization of minorities is one of the most common means of ensuring they remain oppressed. When an individual or group is widely presented as not human, the need to treat them as human lessens in the minds of others. After all, why would you extend human rights to someone who is less than human?

In my mind, one of the ways to fight this is to force humanization- while it may be easy for some to overlook the beating of some “fag” or murder of an anonymous “tranny,” it’s a little harder to do the same with someone you can relate to in other areas. It’s not the whole solution, of course- if it were, there wouldn’t be so many bigots saying “but I’ve got a friend who’s [whichever minority they're besmirching]!” But it’s a start.

So, in the name of experimentation, here’s 20 random facts about me:

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?