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These Things Project


WarrenG

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So, my therapist had me do a project. Well, ex-therapist. I quit her, but I never did the project. Decided to do it tonight. She wanted me to write about how I felt with my 'conditions.'

Here ya go.

These Things

"Imagine a desert. No beginning and no ending. Nothing in sight but sand and an occasional breeze. It’s humid and agonizingly hot, every breeze that wanders through only seems to increase the heat. Every direction in which you wander only seems to send you in the same looping circles, though you cannot tell because there are no markers and no footprints. Nothing to occupy you while you wander aimlessly and afraid. You feel no thirst in this desert. No hunger in your belly. But instead of these things, you instead suffer such an overwhelming sense of failure that nothing seems worthwhile. Every step you take is agony. Your feet burn from the sand, yet you cannot bare to stand in one spot for too long, fearing you may scream from the pain. Yet it doesn’t matter, because every scream that escapes your lips is silent. Every wail and cry is unheard in this vast and seemingly empty desert of sand and dune. No one can hear your grief. No one can comfort your fear. Ghosts only occupy your mind, though they whisk away as nothing but sand with empty and concerned eyes. There seems to comfort from this burning hell, and nothing seems to comfort and relieve you. It is as if you’re burning apart from the inside out, turning hollow and dark. You think you see shadows of guests in your own personal hell, but alas, they only turn away and disappear into the dunes. Mirages, simply put there to make you hope before making you weep. There seems to be no escape, yet you’re not even sure how you got there to begin with. All you can do is wander, and wait, and hope that someone somewhere will rescue you.

These things are Depression.

 

Imagine that you are within a room. It is a tiny room, to be honest. This tiny room has only four walls of a bland grey, the floor covered in broken and cracked tiles of unidentified color. Should you know this color? Have you forgotten this color? The ceiling is low against you. So low that it actually forces you to remain laid down upon that floor, curled up in an uncomfortable position, struggling to find relief from this frustrating situation. No position seems to help, and every part of your body hurts from the attempts to find one. Not only can you find no comfort, but from places unknown, noise vibrates through these walls. These grey, oddly crowding walls. Are they shrinking? Have they gotten shorter? Perhaps you should have noticed this. Have you gone crazy? These noises make no sense. They jumble together like spilt scrabble pieces, making no sense but reaching you nevertheless. Screams inaudible. Nails upon chalk, a pounding like hundreds of hammers against your little walls. Wailing for unknown ailments, furious yelling as though angry creatures stalk for you. Should you remain quiet? Or are they here to help you? No, you remain quiet. Perhaps it is best. The noises never dull. They never quit, and they never quiet. Unyielding and demanding, these sounds pester and frighten you in your little box. You need something—anything—to lock out those taunting walls and frightening noises. Anything to make it stop, even if just for a moment to offer you repreave. Yet…you dare not move. You dare not breathe. They might hear you. They might tear apart your walls and discover you. Every scream seems to be your name. Every angry cuss feels as though it were directed at you. Every wail seems to be of your cause, filling you with despair. And among these things, the whispers can be heard. Are they mocking you? Perhaps. Are they rumors of your existence, spoken either kindly or of ill will? You’ll never know. Are they perhaps just comments of your agony, or broken and weak attributes? Can they see you in that box? Or perhaps they are nothing at all. Perhaps you’ve simply lost your mind. Is this all a game that you’re failing? Regardless, they persist. Should you listen? It hurts to hear their sounds. But what if it is something important? Maybe you should know these things. If only it were all silent, you could perhaps breathe. The tiny confinement limits your air, cutting away your ability to think clearly with all the noise and that agonizing sense of dry drowning. You want to escape. You want to flee as far and as fast as you can. But instead, you have to wait for someone to open your box and let you out.

These things are Anxiety.

 

Your day begins as it always does. You don’t remember when exactly you fell asleep the night before. Or what woke you up today, for that matter. Regardless, here you are. You stare at the ceiling in a sense of hopeless ambition, feeling as though you’re sinking. You almost hope you do, actually. To sink down so far that you will never have to come out. Yet, you do. You somehow insist on getting up, beginning to dress yourself. What will you wear? Will you conform to society’s demands, or will you do what makes you feel normal? Let us assume for a moment that society rules today. You wear what they demand, a sense of aching in your chest as you slip into the clothes that they deem appropriate. You feel ridiculous and hideous, yet you endure it. Perhaps you wander to the bathroom and paint on a face that is not yours? Wearing a mask with bold lettering stating “I’m fine”. Perhaps you will do something with your hair. You’re not entirely sure what to do with it, because everything you attempt seems odd and unfamiliar. As if you’re modeling yourself in someone else’s image. Someone you are not, yet….someone you are. They say you are. They insist you are. With a heavy sigh and a broken heart, you wander from your room. Will you work today? Will you go to school today? It all blends together regardless. It feels as though all eyes are on you. Every detail of yourself seems flawed and obvious, and everyone is whispering about it. You are desperate to hide, even if for a moment. This isn’t you….This isn’t who you are…but its only for today. Right….?

No, let us instead chose that you decide to be yourself. You set aside those things, and you avoid that mask. It has been put away for now, and you can use your authentic smile and enjoy today. You dress as you wish, and do your hair as you please. Yes, this looks right. This looks pleasing for once. Is that a smile I see? Yes, I think it is, actually. Perhaps today will be fine Perhaps today you will enjoy being out of that bed. But wait…they’re still looking at you. Are they looking even more? I cannot tell, to be honest. But…but wait. Those things you don’t like. They’re hidden, aren’t they? Those things that you wish you could remove yourself, but know it will end you for certain. They cannot be seen can they? But it feels as though everyone sees them. Everyone seems to point, even if not physically. They whisper, they talk, then they giggle. Do they know this is really you? Or do they think this is a mask? Do you blend in, or do you stick out like some freakishly abnormal thumb? Perhaps you will be the mask again tomorrow. Perhaps it is safer. But wait…the mask hurts. But doesn’t this hurt? Nothing seems right.

These things are Dysphoria.

 

Today you are happy. Today you have had no cause of alarm, and you’ve found a rather enjoyable time either playing games or spending time with friends. Your smile is priceless, your joy unavoidable. It seems contagious, as if you have gotten the laughing virus and no one is immune to your illness. You find a smile on the faces of others enjoyable, and you thrive on these things. You giggle and you jump around, having a blast and perhaps even singing without shame. You dance as if your mother will be embarrassed, and you have no shame. But wait…what is this? Where did this darkness come from? Your smile disappears. Your chest aches and you can feel your heart sinking. As if it were a literal disease, your heart sinks into your stomach like the titanic and disappears. You look around, and everyone is still smiling. Why wont they stop smiling? All you can think is “stop smiling at me!”. You want it to stop, and its making you furious. What is this feeling? Where has it come from? Nothing had upset you that you can remember. You were so happy five minutes ago. What changed? People will ask you what they did wrong. You have no answer for them, yet somehow it is annoying that they ask. They will ask you ‘are you angry at me?’ and you will struggle to figure that out. Are you angry with them? But weren’t you just happy with them? Did they do something wrong to you, or have they done something that somehow impacted your emotion? You cant even put words to it. It is as if someone has taken your happy. They have taken that little spark in your eyes and put it in a box, and they’re holding it hostage. Perhaps it will come back. You want people to give it back to you, and you want them to understand that they did nothing wrong. But you wish they’d stop asking you what is wrong. You don’t know what is wrong, and it is frustrating to try and figure it out. But wait, what is this emotion now? Are these new things?

These things are Bipolar.

 

You have your desk, and it is your own. Your own design, your own order, your own creation. Things are just as you please, and nothing can damage that. You know how things are to be done, and how things will work, and these things make life pleasant. You enjoy your things and your desk, your creations and your order. Yes, your order. The patterns in which you place things, making them as your mind has decided ‘yes, this is right’. You will not understand this order, but you will obey this order. You may try to explain it to others around you, but this is a language that they do not understand. You walk away, pleased with this order. But wait, you come back. Someone has altered your design. They have changed your order. These things are not in their places. Your mind falters like a car out of control, screaming tires and smoke. No, no, no, no! This must be corrected! They have changed things! What has been changed? You cannot decide. No, no, this must not be. These things make your head ache, your heart beat rapidly, your hands sweat and your fingers shake. No, this must not be! You scramble to fix these things. People point and laugh. This is amusing to them. They will alter them later simply to watch you panic once more, though they hardly understand the pain your head feels at this moment. These things must not be so. Your order must persist. Your design must be as it was. Your stomach is in knots, as if this alter of design will cause you harm. As if this change of pace will bring forth a sense of dread unknown to man and misunderstood by all who witness it. Wait…yes…yes, this is better. This is your order. Yes, you have fixed this disaster. You have brought peace to this chaos. You’ve done it! You’ve brought back your order, your design, you have recreated the life in which they have destroyed. Yes, you can breathe now. You can breathe. You can relax. All is well, and all shall remain well. So long as the order is kept…

These things are Over Compulsive Disorder.

 

There are more of these things.

Perhaps we will speak of these things later.

These things have made me tired.

Warren G.

"

 

Also my Mom called me Ren. Kind of a big deal, but I'm still cautious about it. It's not like her to cooperate so well....

13 Comments


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Ren,

I read the first couple of entries for now, will read the rest later, but I wanted to say how encouraging it is to see how well you seem to understand and examine the things that trouble you ("trouble" seems insufficient, bit it's all I can think of at the moment).

There's still no doubt a long journey ahead, but understanding where you are starting from is a vital first step.  For so long I knew something was wrong, very wrong, but couldn't identify it, or worse, I misidentified it.

Stay strong! And please keep sharing :)

xoxo

Christie

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Finally got around to reading the rest - these are all quite vivid and well-stated - I do hope you are still seeing someone to talk about these things?

The phrase "hopeless ambition" really struck me - in the midst of my sleepless depression last night I think that phrase summed up much of how I felt - and how I continue to feel - full of ambition, but feeling that it has nowhere to go.  It's still an improvement from before transitioning when I had no ambition (it feels a little worse, but I know it's really better)

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No, I don't talk to anyone about it. Attempted to talk to a friend about my thoughts of suicide but it's too painful for them to hear. So basically be honest but only tell me the good stuff. Frankly no one wants to hear about it so I'm done talking about it.

Edited by WarrenG
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Hiya Warren. "Suicide" !  Please Don't Do That. I Am talking as Someone Who HAS Made 3 Serious Suicide Attempts. They Were Between August 1988, and Spring 1996. Warren, Please, Please Don't Do It !  If EVER You Need To Talk, Find Me On Here, and I WILL Listen. I Suspect Many Other's On Here WILL Listen Too !  Warren You Young Man,  Are Not Alone !  I Am Sorry To Hear That Your Surgery Appointment was Not Helpful.  I Don't think that some Professionals Even Understand FtoM Transsexuality, and I think that is Entirely Due to the Fact that MtoF Transsexuality seems to Me to be More Common-Place.  Warren, is there another Place that You could try going, to see about Surgery ?  Warren I Am by the Way Pre-Op MtoF Transsexual, and I Came-Out, just over 4 Month's Ago ! I Am in the UK.. Warren, If You Would Like To Message Me On Here, I Would Always Be Pleased To Hear From You Young Man. Warren, Take Care, and My Very Best Wishes, Stephanie. 

 

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Went to my surgery consultation today. Looking like they'll only do reduction and not removal...so what's the fucking point.....

​My first thought is, if you had cancer they would remove them right?

If that is your only option how much reduction would they do?

 

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Went to my surgery consultation today. Looking like they'll only do reduction and not removal...so what's the fucking point.....

​My first thought is, if you had cancer they would remove them right?

If that is your only option how much reduction would they do?

 

Not enough to make it worth it.

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There's no other surgeons around here who will do it without hormones. He's not sure on doing full removal because of my weight. Says it won't look natural.basically saying I need fucking manboobs to look normal- _- he was extremely cooperative and never once called me a girl. Would say things like "theoretically if you were female, your bra size would be....?" So he was very respectful ans I like him. He's trying to find a way for insurance to help, and they won't if it's full removal. That's why he doesn't want to do full removal. As for the suicide thing- -- I've tried a total of 8 times since age 14. Think I understand by now the impact.

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Dear Warren,

The closest thing to a having your chest rebuilt would be a 'simple mastectomy.'  Is there any way to get a surgeon to agree to a simple mastectomy?  

Your friend,

Monica

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Dont really feel like making a whole blog post about it but I'm not really doing the greatest. I'm five seconds away from committing myself, I'm THAT serious about doing something I might regret. I have ceased my communication with my best friend because my bipolar mood swing bullsh*t has gotten so out of hand that I'm continuesly upsetting her or fighting with her, so I decided it was best to just stop talking to her altogether. I've also deactivated my facebook account because it feels like every 'friend' I have on there is fake and only cares about the latest gossip and not wether or not I'm legitametly okay or not. So what's the point? I dont talk to anyone, I dont visit anyone, and no one does the same for me. So there's no f*cking point in attempting to. I'm done. I'm done attempting to help other people and I'm done making the effort to talk to others when the bottom line is that they just dont give a sh*t if I were here every day or if I was dead. They'd move on to the next bit of drama and forget my very existance. I simply dont give a sh*t anymore.

Surgery isnt happening, yet the bruising/rashes/backpain/agony/dysphoria persists. Basically been told flat out that the insurance company doesnt give a sh*t if its mentally and emotionally damaging for me to have them, as well as causing me every day pain. They just dont give a f*ck.

So why should I?

After a while, people just get really tired of being tired. They get really sick of feeling sick. And theyre just really f*cking done with fighting.

Warren

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Dear Warren,

I agree with Monica. But also, when you feel like this, please call a hotline, like the Transgender suicide line I posted in TH Resources or that you can find by Googling. I've done it, on more than one occasion, and it helped.

i agree too that at times it just sucks, feeling this way, tired and burned out. Time to take care of Warren, my friend. Give yourself something, a hug, a cup of tea, take a walk. 

We all love you, Ren.

Emma

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