Today, I feel like I've made some sort of progress with my parents, as well as coming to a strange realisation myself.
It started as soon as I got home, and my mum asked when I'm going to Sweden, and said once more how she feels I should have mentioned it or asked, because this is probably the last year they could have had me. I, like the good son I am, said I can come back next year, but mum pointed out that I'm not even good at being here when I am here. I didn't answer because I'm not fond of lying more than I have to.
Somehow, it moved to my transition, as always. And while my parents have a terrible understanding of how transgenderism works, believing that no matter what I do, I'm still a girl, they're immensely relieved that I can't start hormone treatment immediately. They seem to think it's a tablet, and I've never heard of it being tablets, which shows just how much they've bothered to research this.
I found out that the reason mum didn't say goodbye to Moony was because she'd been crying for four hours and looked a mess, as she casually told me before informing me that that's how she'd been falling asleep for several nights, which made me feel like a fantastic kid.
I got told once more how the brain doesn't fully develop until you hit the mid 20s, and my mind is still prone to risks. They actually likened it to my brother insisting on getting so drunk he could barely walk. As if I'm not thinking at all about this, as if I haven't spent literal years and many a sleepless night fretting over details and scenarios.
They assume it hasn't occurred to me that job interviewers may treat me differently because I changed my name. But if a placement discriminates against LGBT* minorities then I don't want to work there.
They think that if I'm not allowed in the disabled bathrooms in public (because apparently you might be told you aren't allowed?) and I try to go to the mens, that I'm breaking the rules because I'm a girl.
But what McDonalds or chain coffee store doesn't have disabled bathrooms?
And if I tell people what I am, they're still always going to think 'she' and correct themselves to be politically correct, but essentially they will see me for what I am, so who am I trying to kid? By taking hormones I am conforming to the societal views of gender that I so despise.
Except that isn't true. I'm taking hormone treatment because I feel sick sometimes when I see curves where there shouldn't be any. Louis Tomlinson can get away with a feminine figure while still being seen as male, but I can't.
I was also informed of how selfish I am.
I've been told by many that I'm not selfish at all, that I'm actually selfless, but apparently, as I'm starting to consider, my parents have been saying how selfish I am for years. It's not how they raised me, but it's happened.
And that's worrying, because if I believed myself not to be selfish, what else about me isn't true? Or is this just more things my parents think they understand?
And yet, despite all that, I actually feel okay. I've got a good free weekend ahead of me, and I've convinced my friend to be a dungeon master for an eventual game of Dungeons and Dragons. It feels like a step in my nerd-life to take on the joys of a roleplaying board game. I'm going to finish Game of Thrones at last soon, and then embark on comic books or more of those games, or something, and actually just have a nice weekend.
Who knows, maybe I'll even book an appointment on Monday and ask my GP to refer me to a psychoanalyst while telling her of my name change. I think that maybe if the GP contacts the hospital I was born at, maybe they'll sort out the problem that my title and gender are different. At least for the next few years.
In truth, I feel better than I have for a while. I'd become used to my home life being horrible, to it being totally unbearable, but it isn't, not right now. I think I'll be okay, somehow. But then, I'm always okay.
Showing posts with label Trans* issues. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Trans* issues. Show all posts
Friday, 8 November 2013
Sunday, 3 November 2013
Anything easy has its cost.
This is a post about time changing. It's a melancholy subject, and slightly spurred on by a series of markers and things in my life, and more than slightly by One Direction's new single and music video, Story Of My Life.
Two years ago, I met Moony.
At that time, I didn't have my name, I wasn't comfortable with who I was, I didn't like the world or anything the reality in my life was shoving at me.
But now I'm Lorcan, and I'm okay. I'm happy and content.
The last post was my 100 marker. I meant to make a special post about it but I guess I lost track of things. Wil Wheaton writes how when he looks back at his first blog posts, he wants to cringe away and change them, because they were so far removed from how he writes now. I think I get that. I can't really tell if my writing has changed since last July, but I know I've changed as a person. A lot.
When I started this blog, I didn't have a name I was happy with, I just knew I wanted one. I was working with Sam Hall, but Lorcan fits me.
Yesterday, I finally gave in a wrote a letter to my parents before leaving for London for a day, where I explained being Trans*, said it in a way that didn't leave room for discussion, told them I'd changed my name and I'm going to get testosterone, and that's that. I channelled my inner Spock to a degree that my formality became passive aggressive sass.
And we haven't discussed it. Not once. My letter is crumpled up like it's been held in a loose fist, my documents are still on the footrest, but its been read. I've done all I can. They haven't spoken to me about it so I assume they've taken the same approach they always have, the idea that if they ignore it, or if they don't, I'm going to do whatever the fuck I want anyway. And that's pretty legit. I am doing my own thing, but I would have liked their support.
Today, I told them I'm going to Sweden for Christmas. They were unwilling. I said that since Moony was refused to stay here last year for the holiday, and my mum muttered that this is payback, then. They missed my point entirely. But my brother's girlfriend is allowed, because she lives here. I firmly stated that flights are expensive between Christmas and New Years, so why not be there for both. They're angry about it, but ultimately they can't do anything, and they have no choice but to allow it.
And this has awakened some sort of realisation in me. Something that's terrifying and invigorating.
They just don't care any more. They've given up. Whatever I do, they're not going to help me, they aren't going to support or back me up on anything, they're just going to sit through it.
And I've done everything that I have the power to do. I've given them all the information I can, and they haven't called me on it, asked how I'm doing. Nothing.
So I can bind wherever in the house I want without fear of upsetting them. I can start the process of meetings to eventually get testosterone, I can have stuff sent to me to start the legal name changes.
They can't do anything about it. If they wanted to, really, they'd have tried harder. Or better yet, they'd have told me they were willing to help me.
I have all the support I need. Family don't end with blood.
Two years ago, I met Moony.
At that time, I didn't have my name, I wasn't comfortable with who I was, I didn't like the world or anything the reality in my life was shoving at me.
But now I'm Lorcan, and I'm okay. I'm happy and content.
The last post was my 100 marker. I meant to make a special post about it but I guess I lost track of things. Wil Wheaton writes how when he looks back at his first blog posts, he wants to cringe away and change them, because they were so far removed from how he writes now. I think I get that. I can't really tell if my writing has changed since last July, but I know I've changed as a person. A lot.
When I started this blog, I didn't have a name I was happy with, I just knew I wanted one. I was working with Sam Hall, but Lorcan fits me.
Yesterday, I finally gave in a wrote a letter to my parents before leaving for London for a day, where I explained being Trans*, said it in a way that didn't leave room for discussion, told them I'd changed my name and I'm going to get testosterone, and that's that. I channelled my inner Spock to a degree that my formality became passive aggressive sass.
And we haven't discussed it. Not once. My letter is crumpled up like it's been held in a loose fist, my documents are still on the footrest, but its been read. I've done all I can. They haven't spoken to me about it so I assume they've taken the same approach they always have, the idea that if they ignore it, or if they don't, I'm going to do whatever the fuck I want anyway. And that's pretty legit. I am doing my own thing, but I would have liked their support.
Today, I told them I'm going to Sweden for Christmas. They were unwilling. I said that since Moony was refused to stay here last year for the holiday, and my mum muttered that this is payback, then. They missed my point entirely. But my brother's girlfriend is allowed, because she lives here. I firmly stated that flights are expensive between Christmas and New Years, so why not be there for both. They're angry about it, but ultimately they can't do anything, and they have no choice but to allow it.
And this has awakened some sort of realisation in me. Something that's terrifying and invigorating.
They just don't care any more. They've given up. Whatever I do, they're not going to help me, they aren't going to support or back me up on anything, they're just going to sit through it.
And I've done everything that I have the power to do. I've given them all the information I can, and they haven't called me on it, asked how I'm doing. Nothing.
So I can bind wherever in the house I want without fear of upsetting them. I can start the process of meetings to eventually get testosterone, I can have stuff sent to me to start the legal name changes.
They can't do anything about it. If they wanted to, really, they'd have tried harder. Or better yet, they'd have told me they were willing to help me.
I have all the support I need. Family don't end with blood.
Sunday, 30 June 2013
The Human I Am.
I have a lot of posts to get through, and a lot of them are fairly serious and not as whimsical as my Trek-related posts. But I'll get to them later.
Six days ago, a good friend of mine got cleared to go to Tavistock Clinic in London. It's where the trans* kids get sent before they're 18, where I believe they go somewhere across the road to Charring Cross. It's really near the station, too, which is cool.
There is only one clinic because that way doctors can't disagree over treatment, and it helps everything run smoother. Because of that, the waiting list is very long. Four months, more or less.
That said, he has it set, and is making progress. And he's my age, only older by a month or so. And I'm somewhere between elation, because god knows he deserves this as much as anyone, and self-discontent because I haven't got to a point where I'm willing to do that and risk everything.
I want to. It crosses my mind consistently, but my family is holding me back.
They do not agree with my name choice, or the very idea that I might actually change it. They see it as disrespectful towards them, because they chose my name for me, and raised me on it, and what's wrong with it anyway? (I maintain that nothing is wrong. It's a brilliant name, and one I'm somewhat sad to leave behind. But it has never been my name. Also it's very difficult for me to pronounce in Swedish, which isn't good.)
But the truth is, I haven't started actually speaking to the NHS about it because I'm scared. There's a big difference between transitioning by choice, on my own, and speaking to adults about starting treatment. Treatment suggests something is wrong. I know there is, of course. I've known there was something wrong for a long time, but this makes it properly real.
Gender dysphoria is now recognised as a legitimate medical disorder to be treated by doctors, but 'disorder' sounds wrong. It is, as it suggests, order gone wrong. I've been placed in the wrong biology, and that's fucked me up, but it doesn't help that it sounds like there's something actually wrong with me as a human being.
It's absurd, really, that I'm so worried. It's already real, I'm changing my name in two weeks, at Pride, and there's not much else I can do on my own. But I'm more scared of this, of getting started on something like this, than I have been over anything else.
I'm fine with having a therapist, with going to new places to find help, but I'm going to be psychoanalysed by two professionals, they're going to ask me questions to work out if I'm insane or not. They're going to try to work out if I'm serious about transitioning. I'm only just 17. It's only going to take two years or so once it gets going, and then I'll be filling myself with testosterone every week or two, and I'll start actually changing in my appearance.
That's bloody confusing in itself. It's only in the last four months that I've come to any sort of acceptance of this body as it is. I only just managed to shake the habit of only showering in the dark. I know all of that is down to Moony showing me that she'll never see me as anything but male, no matter what. I couldn't do this without her.
She promised to come to Tavistock with me whenever I need to, regardless of when it is. I don't know if I could go alone, and she rightfully says this is our battle, so we'll have to handle it on our own. We're the only people it's going to actually affect.
I guess I'm just a little shocked that someone I know is actually getting somewhere. It's at times like this that I remember how many people across the country feel like me, but we all feel alone despite that fact. Everyone has different ways of handling it, different ways to live with being trans* and overcome dysphoria, if they ever get it. I only get it towards my facial structure and my hips, since I got my binder. And my voice, sometimes. But other people get it much worse.
It's such unmarked territory, and it's easy to feel isolated and lost. That's kind of why I started this blog. I wanted to stop that. And all the page views I see each time I check make me think that maybe, somewhere, someone is feeling a bit better about themselves, or like they're not alone.
Moony has work most of this week, and my bloody grandparents are staying tomorrow night, sleeping downstairs. That means they'll be up when I get up for school, which is horrible. I'm going to have to put up with hearing how much I look like my mum, maybe comments about my clothing choice, my hair (not sure they approve of the 'mess is good' theory), and name calling.
In short, I'm in for a tough week. I just hope I make it through. Moony will be here in 12 days. I can do this.
I'm going to ask for Kevin to send an letter to my GP, to ask about getting the analysis thing. Over The Rainbow might be coming to my school next year to broaden everyone's understanding of LGBT stuff, which is what I've been asking for since Easter. It would be fantastic to see the people who make me feel so sure of myself in a location that I feel needs more explanation of who I am. As I've always said, there's no point asking to be accepted it the people I'm asking aren't sure what they're accepting.
It was Rupert Graves' birthday today. He's 50. I celebrated by watching Different For Girls, which is a lovely film about him and his mate who transitioned to living full time as a woman with hormone treatment and surgery. It helped my slight dysphoria and I got to watch someone I have much affection for. Since Moony went to bed, I had to do something to keep my mind occupied.
Six days ago, a good friend of mine got cleared to go to Tavistock Clinic in London. It's where the trans* kids get sent before they're 18, where I believe they go somewhere across the road to Charring Cross. It's really near the station, too, which is cool.
There is only one clinic because that way doctors can't disagree over treatment, and it helps everything run smoother. Because of that, the waiting list is very long. Four months, more or less.
That said, he has it set, and is making progress. And he's my age, only older by a month or so. And I'm somewhere between elation, because god knows he deserves this as much as anyone, and self-discontent because I haven't got to a point where I'm willing to do that and risk everything.
I want to. It crosses my mind consistently, but my family is holding me back.
They do not agree with my name choice, or the very idea that I might actually change it. They see it as disrespectful towards them, because they chose my name for me, and raised me on it, and what's wrong with it anyway? (I maintain that nothing is wrong. It's a brilliant name, and one I'm somewhat sad to leave behind. But it has never been my name. Also it's very difficult for me to pronounce in Swedish, which isn't good.)
But the truth is, I haven't started actually speaking to the NHS about it because I'm scared. There's a big difference between transitioning by choice, on my own, and speaking to adults about starting treatment. Treatment suggests something is wrong. I know there is, of course. I've known there was something wrong for a long time, but this makes it properly real.
Gender dysphoria is now recognised as a legitimate medical disorder to be treated by doctors, but 'disorder' sounds wrong. It is, as it suggests, order gone wrong. I've been placed in the wrong biology, and that's fucked me up, but it doesn't help that it sounds like there's something actually wrong with me as a human being.
It's absurd, really, that I'm so worried. It's already real, I'm changing my name in two weeks, at Pride, and there's not much else I can do on my own. But I'm more scared of this, of getting started on something like this, than I have been over anything else.
I'm fine with having a therapist, with going to new places to find help, but I'm going to be psychoanalysed by two professionals, they're going to ask me questions to work out if I'm insane or not. They're going to try to work out if I'm serious about transitioning. I'm only just 17. It's only going to take two years or so once it gets going, and then I'll be filling myself with testosterone every week or two, and I'll start actually changing in my appearance.
That's bloody confusing in itself. It's only in the last four months that I've come to any sort of acceptance of this body as it is. I only just managed to shake the habit of only showering in the dark. I know all of that is down to Moony showing me that she'll never see me as anything but male, no matter what. I couldn't do this without her.
She promised to come to Tavistock with me whenever I need to, regardless of when it is. I don't know if I could go alone, and she rightfully says this is our battle, so we'll have to handle it on our own. We're the only people it's going to actually affect.
I guess I'm just a little shocked that someone I know is actually getting somewhere. It's at times like this that I remember how many people across the country feel like me, but we all feel alone despite that fact. Everyone has different ways of handling it, different ways to live with being trans* and overcome dysphoria, if they ever get it. I only get it towards my facial structure and my hips, since I got my binder. And my voice, sometimes. But other people get it much worse.
It's such unmarked territory, and it's easy to feel isolated and lost. That's kind of why I started this blog. I wanted to stop that. And all the page views I see each time I check make me think that maybe, somewhere, someone is feeling a bit better about themselves, or like they're not alone.
Moony has work most of this week, and my bloody grandparents are staying tomorrow night, sleeping downstairs. That means they'll be up when I get up for school, which is horrible. I'm going to have to put up with hearing how much I look like my mum, maybe comments about my clothing choice, my hair (not sure they approve of the 'mess is good' theory), and name calling.
In short, I'm in for a tough week. I just hope I make it through. Moony will be here in 12 days. I can do this.
I'm going to ask for Kevin to send an letter to my GP, to ask about getting the analysis thing. Over The Rainbow might be coming to my school next year to broaden everyone's understanding of LGBT stuff, which is what I've been asking for since Easter. It would be fantastic to see the people who make me feel so sure of myself in a location that I feel needs more explanation of who I am. As I've always said, there's no point asking to be accepted it the people I'm asking aren't sure what they're accepting.
It was Rupert Graves' birthday today. He's 50. I celebrated by watching Different For Girls, which is a lovely film about him and his mate who transitioned to living full time as a woman with hormone treatment and surgery. It helped my slight dysphoria and I got to watch someone I have much affection for. Since Moony went to bed, I had to do something to keep my mind occupied.
Thursday, 9 May 2013
Wearing Thin.
I said a while ago that I was amazed I hadn’t had a
breakdown yet, considering how everything feels like it’s pressing in from all
directions. Yesterday was nearly that day.
I got a B in half of my English Language mock, and a C+ in
half of my English Literature mock. Normally, I’d be entirely thrilled about
this, and knowing I got comfortably high As in my coursework means that my Lit
would have been pushed up to a B, probably.
But for some reason it really got to me, and threw me off my
guard. We practiced exam questions and I was so unsure of myself that I
couldn’t do it. I nearly started crying several times even though I knew it was
pointless.
I’ve started watching Supernatural when I feel like I need
to calm down my senses, and I got a load of food to stock up on during my
revision. The problem is still actually getting myself to revise.
The complete fear of not getting the grades I need are
stopping me wanting to have anything to do with them. I absolutely need to get
a B grade in Critical Thinking, but I have no idea if I’ll even be able to
manage that. I’m starting to get the hang of terminology now, but there’s no
way of knowing if I’ll get a good mark.
The stupid Government have made it so that as of next year,
students are unable to retake exams, meaning we’ll all be stuck with whatever
grade we got the first time around. For many students, that is actually going
to signal the end of their educated dreams, if they have one bad day.
Small things are starting to annoy me again, as they did a while
ago. Being asked to wash up when I had nothing to do with any of the plates or
cups in the sink made me want to give up on everything. I get easily hurt by
comments friends say, even though I know that’s just their style of things, and
I’m so tired all of the time.
It’s been five weeks since my last therapy appointment, and
I really think I need one, so despite a change in the system that means my
appointments are starting to cost £5 now, and I have to organise a contract
that I need to be there in person for. This means I won’t be able to sign it
until the 28th, when I can next get to Group and have an
appointment, and it will have been nearly two months.
It’s all part of a new system in an attempt to achieve
charity status and be funded that way. I can understand what’s going on, but I
miss the old system that was a lot easier and I could get to better. Right now,
I could really do with some counselling. The appointment is on the other side
of my exams, and that’s what’s got me so stressed out at the moment.
I’m beginning to appreciate the small things I have that are
worth my time to feel good. Crappy horror films and brilliantly written books
still capture my interests, and every time I hear my name I get a wonderful
feeling of belonging. So that’s something.
Sunday, 5 May 2013
May The Fourth and other thoughts.
I opened this page with no idea what I'm actually going to write. So we'll see what happens.
Yesterday I spent my time watching Star Wars, four out of the six films because we got too tired to continue. I watched them with two mates, one of their girlfriends and another guy with a cool name who decided my name is David, due to the scratched name on my lightsaber from the previous owner.
I felt accepted, I thought I was passing. It was amazing. I actually nearly started crying in the bathroom because I was so overwhelmed. But by the end of the evening I realised I wasn't. The cool-named guy had been informed of my transition, but was wonderful enough to not actually care. He still made male-anatomy based jokes that I was allowed to joke with, and it didn't feel awkward. It was mentioned that my friend's girlfriend must feel awkward spending the night with a group of guys, and she said it's totally fine. To be honest, she's definitely not a stereotypical female anyway. Her personality is like that of a young teen boy, all innuendo and immaturity. The two of them are perfect for each other.
Despite my metaphorical cover being blown, it was an awesome night.
Chase put up a video about his anxiety yesterday towards top surgery, and I've never watched a video of his that was so true to my thoughts. I'm really scared of starting T.
It's years away, and I haven't even changed my name yet, but I know I'm going to do it. I need to. And then I'm going to be doing it regularly for the rest of my life.
Being that dependant on something just in a little vile, and needing it to become the person I know myself to be... I'm not sure if I'll ever be ready for that.
Yesterday I spent my time watching Star Wars, four out of the six films because we got too tired to continue. I watched them with two mates, one of their girlfriends and another guy with a cool name who decided my name is David, due to the scratched name on my lightsaber from the previous owner.
 |
| We took a break between Clone Wars and Revenge Of The Sith to battle. My saber is the one Anakin is holding. |
I felt accepted, I thought I was passing. It was amazing. I actually nearly started crying in the bathroom because I was so overwhelmed. But by the end of the evening I realised I wasn't. The cool-named guy had been informed of my transition, but was wonderful enough to not actually care. He still made male-anatomy based jokes that I was allowed to joke with, and it didn't feel awkward. It was mentioned that my friend's girlfriend must feel awkward spending the night with a group of guys, and she said it's totally fine. To be honest, she's definitely not a stereotypical female anyway. Her personality is like that of a young teen boy, all innuendo and immaturity. The two of them are perfect for each other.
Despite my metaphorical cover being blown, it was an awesome night.
Chase put up a video about his anxiety yesterday towards top surgery, and I've never watched a video of his that was so true to my thoughts. I'm really scared of starting T.
It's years away, and I haven't even changed my name yet, but I know I'm going to do it. I need to. And then I'm going to be doing it regularly for the rest of my life.
Being that dependant on something just in a little vile, and needing it to become the person I know myself to be... I'm not sure if I'll ever be ready for that.
Friday, 3 May 2013
Is The World Strange Or Am I Strange?
Last night a good friend of mine had a minor identity crisis.
I won't bother with names, but people who know me may be able to work it out. So please, don't mention it if we meet each other in the real world, unless you know you can.
So this friend consoled in me that they wish they were straight. That they hate that they aren't and they'd never admitted it before, but they really do. I joked that I'm trans*, I know what it's like to hate who you are. But you get over it. Hell, you can't choose who you want to sleep with, and it doesn't really change who you are as a person. They said they wanted to go to a camp in America where they make you normal again.
I walked my friend home because I was sober and they weren't, and they said I'm wonderful, and really good to do this, even though they could make it home alright. We negotiated and I ended up walking mostly all the way.
But as if all that heartbreaking stuff wasn't enough. They said they don't want me out at night because 'you're different, like I am. And that means you can get hurt too.'
What I'm trying to get at is that we're just kids. We're on the cusp of hitting 17 but we're so very aware of the dangers of being who we are. My mate was buying roses for his grandmother and the woman behind the till asked if they were for his boyfriend. We were both called 'girls' by our librarian the other day. Not to mention the stories we hear of LGBT* kids being beaten or worse just because of their orientation or lifestyle. I don't need to build myself up to Boys Don't Cry to know the true story behind it.
Kids shouldn't have to watch behind their backs as they walk back to their house after being sure their drunk friend is safely home, because they promised not to get beaten up and they don't want to mess this promise up. I'm always so adamant that I can be a mature adult, but the truth is that I'm nothing more than a kid with a binder and a constant identity crisis.
I'm not usually this pessimistic, I intend to bounce back tomorrow during my Star Wars marathon to celebrate May Fourth, so the general business of complaining about school and other dull things will resume shortly.
I won't bother with names, but people who know me may be able to work it out. So please, don't mention it if we meet each other in the real world, unless you know you can.
So this friend consoled in me that they wish they were straight. That they hate that they aren't and they'd never admitted it before, but they really do. I joked that I'm trans*, I know what it's like to hate who you are. But you get over it. Hell, you can't choose who you want to sleep with, and it doesn't really change who you are as a person. They said they wanted to go to a camp in America where they make you normal again.
I walked my friend home because I was sober and they weren't, and they said I'm wonderful, and really good to do this, even though they could make it home alright. We negotiated and I ended up walking mostly all the way.
But as if all that heartbreaking stuff wasn't enough. They said they don't want me out at night because 'you're different, like I am. And that means you can get hurt too.'
What I'm trying to get at is that we're just kids. We're on the cusp of hitting 17 but we're so very aware of the dangers of being who we are. My mate was buying roses for his grandmother and the woman behind the till asked if they were for his boyfriend. We were both called 'girls' by our librarian the other day. Not to mention the stories we hear of LGBT* kids being beaten or worse just because of their orientation or lifestyle. I don't need to build myself up to Boys Don't Cry to know the true story behind it.
Kids shouldn't have to watch behind their backs as they walk back to their house after being sure their drunk friend is safely home, because they promised not to get beaten up and they don't want to mess this promise up. I'm always so adamant that I can be a mature adult, but the truth is that I'm nothing more than a kid with a binder and a constant identity crisis.
I'm not usually this pessimistic, I intend to bounce back tomorrow during my Star Wars marathon to celebrate May Fourth, so the general business of complaining about school and other dull things will resume shortly.
Sunday, 28 April 2013
My life as seen through my parents' eyes in pie chart form.
I don't make a habit of two posts in one day, but this seems necessary right now.
I just accidentally brought up the topic of my last post; my motivation. My mother said my motivation is not having to do all this next year. She's obviously wrong, because I'll still have exams next year, and probably for the next four years of my life.
It boils down to their belief that all I concentrate on is Sweden, Supernatural, Sherlock and Doctor Who. According to them, I'm a bright kid, and if I applied myself better, I'd get the grades I want. But it doesn't matter to them because it's my life and my choice. They're not angry about it, they just accept this about me.
This is a long standing argument based on the fact that I only really talk about the above (because school is uninteresting and I know they don't care) and my unexpected grade in my Critical Thinking exam back in January. I got 50 points out of 100, however the system works, and that is halfway to a D overall when added with the exam next month. To get the B Brighton wants me to have, I would have to be near perfect in my May exam. That clearly isn't going to happen. So I'm resitting.
When my family heard this, they assumed it's my fault and that I didn't work enough. Okay, perhaps I could have done a little more, but a classmate of mine revised solidly for weeks and got the same grade as me. The best mark anybody got was on the way to a C.
I tried explaining that the topic is difficult to revise for, as previously mentioned a few posts back, but they didn't seem to understand. They don't get how important I find getting out of here to be, and that I honestly thought the exam went well. I underestimated what was required of me, and I've learnt from it. I'm working on it.
But their lack of belief in me, or the belief that I need to try harder, is incredibly unhelpful. How can I rely on them for support if what I'm doing is never enough? Worse still, when I left to make tea because I couldn't stand it any more and I needed a comforting ritual, they were laughing.
So here is an accurate representation of what my parents believe me to be thinking about, and what I really am concentrating on at any one time.
Red Crayon: Sweden // Blue Crayon: Supernatural // Green Crayon: Sherlock // Yellow Crayon: Doctor Who // Purple Pen: School // Orange Highlighter: Trans* Crap // Blue Highlighter: I need to get out of here // Purple Pencil: Can I handle a job? I have to // Black: Friends/Social life // Blue Pen: Family-related teen angst // Gold: DYSPHORIA
It's not accident that the two highlighters are next to each other, or that the blue highlighter and purple pencil are side by side. Same with gold and the blue pen. They go hand in hand. And the gold is dysphoria because it stands out. It's unavoidable and unique to the other colours because dypshoria is unique to everybody.I'm so deep and thoughtful when I don't need to be.
The first is my parent's view, the second is the truth.
As you can see, they're right about Sweden. Or rather, Moony. Yes, I spend a lot of time thinking about her, but I feel entitled, since we're pretty much married.
But there the similarities stop. I barely spend that much time on Sherlock any more, or Who. Supernatural, yes. But fandoms are something I need to get by. School work rivals my time spend with or thinking about Moony, so it's clearly not something I don't care about. And Trans* issues affect me daily. I always have the knowledge that I'm going through something not many other people I know have, and it's a little isolating sometimes. It makes me feel like I have to get away, as shown. It makes me determined to get a job because I need to see the Uni places I am considering. I barely have a social life, besides hanging out with a mate I'll name Dean, since I keep calling him it by accident, and a handful of others every Friday at Dean's house.
And my family angst is constant. Hard not to be, since I'm living with them. Mum asked where I'd like to go in the UK, for a holiday since it's probably the last year we'll all be together. I told her Wales or Edinburgh, and by the sounds of it we'll be camping there and that means not much phone time if I want to have any energy left on my battery. I'll be alone with them, and it may be hell, but I'll be in a setting I've never been in and that may be enough, if I can get away regularly. The last time we went camping I was told I probably wouldn't be 'like this' if I'd been forced towards pink and barbies instead of Doctor Who and Star Wars.
I didn't group trans* crap with dysphoria because they feel different. Anything can trigger it, and it's horrible to cope with. It deserves it's own group.
So by telling me to focus more, my family have forced me away from revising to make this post, in an attempt to calm my nerves. I haven't had a therapy session since the day before I left to see Moony, so this is my only outlet.
I just accidentally brought up the topic of my last post; my motivation. My mother said my motivation is not having to do all this next year. She's obviously wrong, because I'll still have exams next year, and probably for the next four years of my life.
It boils down to their belief that all I concentrate on is Sweden, Supernatural, Sherlock and Doctor Who. According to them, I'm a bright kid, and if I applied myself better, I'd get the grades I want. But it doesn't matter to them because it's my life and my choice. They're not angry about it, they just accept this about me.
This is a long standing argument based on the fact that I only really talk about the above (because school is uninteresting and I know they don't care) and my unexpected grade in my Critical Thinking exam back in January. I got 50 points out of 100, however the system works, and that is halfway to a D overall when added with the exam next month. To get the B Brighton wants me to have, I would have to be near perfect in my May exam. That clearly isn't going to happen. So I'm resitting.
When my family heard this, they assumed it's my fault and that I didn't work enough. Okay, perhaps I could have done a little more, but a classmate of mine revised solidly for weeks and got the same grade as me. The best mark anybody got was on the way to a C.
I tried explaining that the topic is difficult to revise for, as previously mentioned a few posts back, but they didn't seem to understand. They don't get how important I find getting out of here to be, and that I honestly thought the exam went well. I underestimated what was required of me, and I've learnt from it. I'm working on it.
But their lack of belief in me, or the belief that I need to try harder, is incredibly unhelpful. How can I rely on them for support if what I'm doing is never enough? Worse still, when I left to make tea because I couldn't stand it any more and I needed a comforting ritual, they were laughing.
So here is an accurate representation of what my parents believe me to be thinking about, and what I really am concentrating on at any one time.
Red Crayon: Sweden // Blue Crayon: Supernatural // Green Crayon: Sherlock // Yellow Crayon: Doctor Who // Purple Pen: School // Orange Highlighter: Trans* Crap // Blue Highlighter: I need to get out of here // Purple Pencil: Can I handle a job? I have to // Black: Friends/Social life // Blue Pen: Family-related teen angst // Gold: DYSPHORIA
It's not accident that the two highlighters are next to each other, or that the blue highlighter and purple pencil are side by side. Same with gold and the blue pen. They go hand in hand. And the gold is dysphoria because it stands out. It's unavoidable and unique to the other colours because dypshoria is unique to everybody.
The first is my parent's view, the second is the truth.
As you can see, they're right about Sweden. Or rather, Moony. Yes, I spend a lot of time thinking about her, but I feel entitled, since we're pretty much married.
But there the similarities stop. I barely spend that much time on Sherlock any more, or Who. Supernatural, yes. But fandoms are something I need to get by. School work rivals my time spend with or thinking about Moony, so it's clearly not something I don't care about. And Trans* issues affect me daily. I always have the knowledge that I'm going through something not many other people I know have, and it's a little isolating sometimes. It makes me feel like I have to get away, as shown. It makes me determined to get a job because I need to see the Uni places I am considering. I barely have a social life, besides hanging out with a mate I'll name Dean, since I keep calling him it by accident, and a handful of others every Friday at Dean's house.
And my family angst is constant. Hard not to be, since I'm living with them. Mum asked where I'd like to go in the UK, for a holiday since it's probably the last year we'll all be together. I told her Wales or Edinburgh, and by the sounds of it we'll be camping there and that means not much phone time if I want to have any energy left on my battery. I'll be alone with them, and it may be hell, but I'll be in a setting I've never been in and that may be enough, if I can get away regularly. The last time we went camping I was told I probably wouldn't be 'like this' if I'd been forced towards pink and barbies instead of Doctor Who and Star Wars.
I didn't group trans* crap with dysphoria because they feel different. Anything can trigger it, and it's horrible to cope with. It deserves it's own group.
So by telling me to focus more, my family have forced me away from revising to make this post, in an attempt to calm my nerves. I haven't had a therapy session since the day before I left to see Moony, so this is my only outlet.
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