Last Sunday I went on a trip to the Teaching Awards in London with some staff from my old school. It should have been weird but my favourite teacher was there with me, so it was fine. Also, London. Worth it.
But in the morning, before I left, I couldn't find my own deodorant, which is crappy at best, so I grabbed my brother's Lynx. It smells nice, I like it, and why shouldn't I use it? My mother found out, ripped it from my hands, told me I'm a girl and I need to get used to it, and pushed some /dove/ into my hands. Then proceeded to tell me off because I wasn't using it properly. My excuse for that was that I was running late, my shirt isn't exactly loose, and I don't have time to go about unbuttoning my shirt, besides that makes me uncomfortable. As well as all that truth, I'd been binding, and didn't want her to know.
I was so shocked and unable to handle what had happened that I left the house crying silently, unable to see my phone to tell my partner, trying desperately to focus on my breathing. I couldn't stop hearing her words all the way to London, and it put a fair dampner on my day. But I thought that had been it. I was alright, they wouldn't go there again.
The next day mum stopped me on the landing, asked if I was wearing 'it'. I shook my head, she replied 'you must just need a shower, then.' I'm still half torn between insulted and proud because clearly I have a manly musk.
Five or so nights ago I was informed that some new spray had been bought for me, and didn't even bother to check it. I was busy finishing the last few episodes of Supernatural. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't some pink, flowering, 'sensual' spray that couldn't be more feminine if it threw on a little red dress and covered itself in makeup. I was so disgusted that I haven't even touched it.
My friend from my old town is visiting, and uses a spray called Charlie. Completely femme, her mum bought her it, but when she used it my mum called me down and asked, accusingly, if I was wearing Lynx. I said I wasn't, honestly. She clearly didn't believe me, went on to state that smelling like a bloke doesn't make me one and nobody in this house is allowed Lynx, she hates it and my dad isn't allowed it. I'd like to know how my brother owns it then, but okay. Dad informed me it's because my uncle who passed away before I was born used to wear it, but that's no excuse for such hurtful words.
So basically, when I move out, I'm using Lynx. I know smelling like a bloke won't make me one, but it'll sure as hell get me recognised more than that pink thing would. Sexist as it is, women are supposed to feel more attracted to male spray, so why on earth shouldn't they be allowed to wear it? I mean, not that I'm a woman, but my parents seem to think I am. Surely, at 16, I'm old enough to know what I'm doing, to choose which bloody deodorant I want.
Monday, 29 October 2012
What's In A Name?
A week or two ago, while idly looking up how one goes about changing their name, I discovered that the age restriction to change without parental permission is 16. Well, I've been of age for about five, almost six months now, so the news hit me rather hard.
All I would need to do is sign up online, for about £10, and have the papers sent to me. Or rather, to my willing friend. Then I need one witness, and it's done. I can show that paper to everybody that needs to see it and my name is legitimately changed to Lorcan.
However.
My parents aren't exactly the most understanding of people, and truth be told I think they'd flip out at me, tell me I'm being rash and not thinking about things properly. They'll be disappointed in me, angry, and though there's fuck all they can do about it, I'd still feel incredibly bad and I don't want to have to regret this decision. At school my teacher said choosing a name is a rite of passage to being who you truly are, and that's so very true. I won't have my choice, my rite of passage, darkened.
For University, I want to be recognised as I am. It's going to be an intricate process, choosing exactly the right moment to change my name so that the place I choose knows who I am. I can't change it and then start signing up because my mail will be sent here, and that could be a problem. But somehow, I'm going to manage it.
It's a tricky life, being a Trans* kid.
All I would need to do is sign up online, for about £10, and have the papers sent to me. Or rather, to my willing friend. Then I need one witness, and it's done. I can show that paper to everybody that needs to see it and my name is legitimately changed to Lorcan.
However.
My parents aren't exactly the most understanding of people, and truth be told I think they'd flip out at me, tell me I'm being rash and not thinking about things properly. They'll be disappointed in me, angry, and though there's fuck all they can do about it, I'd still feel incredibly bad and I don't want to have to regret this decision. At school my teacher said choosing a name is a rite of passage to being who you truly are, and that's so very true. I won't have my choice, my rite of passage, darkened.
For University, I want to be recognised as I am. It's going to be an intricate process, choosing exactly the right moment to change my name so that the place I choose knows who I am. I can't change it and then start signing up because my mail will be sent here, and that could be a problem. But somehow, I'm going to manage it.
It's a tricky life, being a Trans* kid.
Dysphoria
Each time I sit down to type, I don't know where to start, and I have to shut it down. A fair few things have happened so I'm going to section them out. Also for ease of navigation, each post will cover a different thing that happened recently to me that I feel the need to write down.
So now, I'll tackle dysphoria.
Genuinely, it's doing alright. I've not had any major dysphoric moments, showering is actually doing alright. This morning, rather than instantly spiralling into sadness and the helpless feeling I'm used to, I just felt happy as I thought about the day I'll be able to get top surgery, when I'll sit in the hospital with those surgical bandages over my chest, knowing I'm finally where I want to be. On some sense, yes, it's a very long way away, and sometimes knowing how long it will be is enough to make me feel down for hours, but on days like this, I'm fine, the world is fine, and I'm handling it.
This feels like one of those 'it gets better' things. But I guess it does, in the end.
So now, I'll tackle dysphoria.
Genuinely, it's doing alright. I've not had any major dysphoric moments, showering is actually doing alright. This morning, rather than instantly spiralling into sadness and the helpless feeling I'm used to, I just felt happy as I thought about the day I'll be able to get top surgery, when I'll sit in the hospital with those surgical bandages over my chest, knowing I'm finally where I want to be. On some sense, yes, it's a very long way away, and sometimes knowing how long it will be is enough to make me feel down for hours, but on days like this, I'm fine, the world is fine, and I'm handling it.
This feels like one of those 'it gets better' things. But I guess it does, in the end.
Saturday, 13 October 2012
It's evaluation time!
Not much has happened recently, and yet so much has. I suppose only so much can to a kid who's still stuck in education with parents to tie him down.
But I've begun to notice a few things, found triggers that I can work to avoid, and discovered that my parents really don't know me, and I don't know them.
I've found a new friend, to start. His name is Ivan, and he lives in America, which sadly means that with work, he doesn't get home until 4pm, which is 9pm over here. Once the clocks go forward, it won't be until 10, meaning we only get a few hours each night apart from Fridays and days off. But he's probably one of my best finds when it comes to understandings and an ally. Not counting my partner, of course, who will forever be my number one, like Commander Riker is on the USS Enterprise for Captain Picard.
Ivan's been a great help to me, providing extra backup and just somebody to vent to about Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran from Sherlock, if nothing else. I've been in contact with him for months and it's nice to finally get to a point where we can talk to each other properly.
Everything seems to be building recently. Slowly, bit by bit, I'm losing my patience for humanity. Not in any ways directly linked to my 'issues' but just everything. Why, even just now my dad drilled into me again about having milk in my earl grey, and I nearly snapped at him, saying I'll drink it how I like. It's never anything major, just me interpreting things badly more often than not.
I've not been sleeping enough, either. I mostly put it down to Ivan and our stupid time differences, but it's also just that I can't get to sleep even when I try to. My thoughts are too loud. In school, usually in Critical Thinking, I nearly faded out most days. Everything would become difficult to focus on, my eyes would become heavy, words kept shaking on the page and trying to shift and unfocus on them made it worse. But as soon as I close my eyes all I can think about is all the shit that's going on. All the things I can't do yet because I'm not old enough.
Recently I've taken to the notion that when I get to University, I won't have to go through my parents for anything, so I can be 'me' wherever I choose to go. I'll be able to change my name. They won't even have to know about it, which seems selfish, mean, against everything I'd ever thought I'd do, but might be all I can do. I might have to change my name, otherwise Uni will address me by my given name. By then I'll have a binder, I'll hopefully have settled for a way of being that suits me. I'll undoubtedly be a very camp man, but what can you do about that? Not that there is anything to do. I don't want to be butch anyway. I'll get a new haircut to start me off, so people don't misgender me and get to know what to refer to me as before anybody gets confused, I'll wear tight shirts so people can see that I'm a bloke. I'll have to get my own room, probably, but hopefully in shared accommodation. That said, by then my certificate might say that I'm a man anyway, so it won't matter so much if I'm put in shared with all guys or all girls only.
The only downside will be people finding out. I don't have a facebook, so there is no way people could know that way, but what if somebody there knew me when I was female. Or if it just gets out. I've already said I'm accepting of the fact that eventually I'm going to get bullied in some way or another, but I'm not sure how soon I'm willing to have to face it. I won't be able to tell anyone, but maybe I can book an appointment with the psychologist there or something, if I need to.
I know it's all just under two years away, but once I got this into my head, the possibility of being myself in my own country is amazing. To Ivan, and everybody he mentions me to, I'm Lorcan. In Sweden, my partner, her family and friends, they all know me by that, too. They knew me before I admitted it to myself too, so my gratitude to them is very high. But my own country... That's something entirely different. To be me, in person. To be spoken to properly, with correct pronouns.
The first time I tried to tell my parents, two years ago, they sort of steered me around it, saying I was too young. I was 14, granted, but my best friend knew he was gay when he was 11, and John Barrowman always knew he was. So did Mark Gatiss, apart from one afternoon of uncertainty. I was told to stop it all, to come back in a few years, and if I still felt the same, they'd talk it through with me. So I did, in August. Sat them down, started it with 'well it hasn't gone away'. But I just got the same thing. I've been treated like I'm making it up. They even went so far as to suggest that it isn't real. I bet people assumed homosexuality wasn't real to stay with. To suggest a way of life isn't real has to be the most insulting thing I'll ever hear, so surely the worst has passed. Anything else I have to take will be easy... hopefully. Either way, in two years time, I'm doing it again. I've gone from meekly running back into the closet, going back grudgingly, and this time I'm just not going back. No way. Four years will have been too much and I'll be an adult. I don't need their consent, but it would be nice to have their understanding.
Now, triggers. I've come to notice that it's mostly when I'm brushing my teeth. I don't actually know why, but I'm putting it down - judging by how I can always replay sentences I was thrown and a bitter anger that settled over me - to the fact that I must have thought over that conversation that night. While I brushed my teeth. It hits every single night but I've started trying to intently think about something else.
I've found a way to combat everything, though. I'm not sure if it will work or not, but I can hope.
It's a set of meditation methods from a blog I mentioned before, here. The plan is, whenever I'm feeling stressed, dysphoric, out of sync with the world, in need of some down time, I can use any of these techniques. Some work so that you can calm down while in public where meditation isn't possible, and they obviously work for anybody, not just Trans* or queer folk.
I've spent the entire day typing this entry, on an off. I think it's about time it was posted.
But I've begun to notice a few things, found triggers that I can work to avoid, and discovered that my parents really don't know me, and I don't know them.
I've found a new friend, to start. His name is Ivan, and he lives in America, which sadly means that with work, he doesn't get home until 4pm, which is 9pm over here. Once the clocks go forward, it won't be until 10, meaning we only get a few hours each night apart from Fridays and days off. But he's probably one of my best finds when it comes to understandings and an ally. Not counting my partner, of course, who will forever be my number one, like Commander Riker is on the USS Enterprise for Captain Picard.
Ivan's been a great help to me, providing extra backup and just somebody to vent to about Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran from Sherlock, if nothing else. I've been in contact with him for months and it's nice to finally get to a point where we can talk to each other properly.
Everything seems to be building recently. Slowly, bit by bit, I'm losing my patience for humanity. Not in any ways directly linked to my 'issues' but just everything. Why, even just now my dad drilled into me again about having milk in my earl grey, and I nearly snapped at him, saying I'll drink it how I like. It's never anything major, just me interpreting things badly more often than not.
I've not been sleeping enough, either. I mostly put it down to Ivan and our stupid time differences, but it's also just that I can't get to sleep even when I try to. My thoughts are too loud. In school, usually in Critical Thinking, I nearly faded out most days. Everything would become difficult to focus on, my eyes would become heavy, words kept shaking on the page and trying to shift and unfocus on them made it worse. But as soon as I close my eyes all I can think about is all the shit that's going on. All the things I can't do yet because I'm not old enough.
Recently I've taken to the notion that when I get to University, I won't have to go through my parents for anything, so I can be 'me' wherever I choose to go. I'll be able to change my name. They won't even have to know about it, which seems selfish, mean, against everything I'd ever thought I'd do, but might be all I can do. I might have to change my name, otherwise Uni will address me by my given name. By then I'll have a binder, I'll hopefully have settled for a way of being that suits me. I'll undoubtedly be a very camp man, but what can you do about that? Not that there is anything to do. I don't want to be butch anyway. I'll get a new haircut to start me off, so people don't misgender me and get to know what to refer to me as before anybody gets confused, I'll wear tight shirts so people can see that I'm a bloke. I'll have to get my own room, probably, but hopefully in shared accommodation. That said, by then my certificate might say that I'm a man anyway, so it won't matter so much if I'm put in shared with all guys or all girls only.
The only downside will be people finding out. I don't have a facebook, so there is no way people could know that way, but what if somebody there knew me when I was female. Or if it just gets out. I've already said I'm accepting of the fact that eventually I'm going to get bullied in some way or another, but I'm not sure how soon I'm willing to have to face it. I won't be able to tell anyone, but maybe I can book an appointment with the psychologist there or something, if I need to.
I know it's all just under two years away, but once I got this into my head, the possibility of being myself in my own country is amazing. To Ivan, and everybody he mentions me to, I'm Lorcan. In Sweden, my partner, her family and friends, they all know me by that, too. They knew me before I admitted it to myself too, so my gratitude to them is very high. But my own country... That's something entirely different. To be me, in person. To be spoken to properly, with correct pronouns.
The first time I tried to tell my parents, two years ago, they sort of steered me around it, saying I was too young. I was 14, granted, but my best friend knew he was gay when he was 11, and John Barrowman always knew he was. So did Mark Gatiss, apart from one afternoon of uncertainty. I was told to stop it all, to come back in a few years, and if I still felt the same, they'd talk it through with me. So I did, in August. Sat them down, started it with 'well it hasn't gone away'. But I just got the same thing. I've been treated like I'm making it up. They even went so far as to suggest that it isn't real. I bet people assumed homosexuality wasn't real to stay with. To suggest a way of life isn't real has to be the most insulting thing I'll ever hear, so surely the worst has passed. Anything else I have to take will be easy... hopefully. Either way, in two years time, I'm doing it again. I've gone from meekly running back into the closet, going back grudgingly, and this time I'm just not going back. No way. Four years will have been too much and I'll be an adult. I don't need their consent, but it would be nice to have their understanding.
Now, triggers. I've come to notice that it's mostly when I'm brushing my teeth. I don't actually know why, but I'm putting it down - judging by how I can always replay sentences I was thrown and a bitter anger that settled over me - to the fact that I must have thought over that conversation that night. While I brushed my teeth. It hits every single night but I've started trying to intently think about something else.
I've found a way to combat everything, though. I'm not sure if it will work or not, but I can hope.
It's a set of meditation methods from a blog I mentioned before, here. The plan is, whenever I'm feeling stressed, dysphoric, out of sync with the world, in need of some down time, I can use any of these techniques. Some work so that you can calm down while in public where meditation isn't possible, and they obviously work for anybody, not just Trans* or queer folk.
I've spent the entire day typing this entry, on an off. I think it's about time it was posted.
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