Captain, I am not

  • My not sleeping is of the ‘Freddy’s gonna kill me’ variety, not a manic one
  • Brave vs. Courage (1)
  • Hugging mostly sucks (2)
  • My house does not equal home (plus it’s tidy, but not clean. I don’t know how this connects to any of my issues, but it probably does) (3)
  • Lamictal helps me survive, but in doing so hampers my ability to live
  • My acceptance window is shut, but my tolerance window has never been closed.

1) Cousins see my Steve Rogers side, which lights up a genuine Captain America for them. For them, (and my cat, back at my parents’ house) I feel courage.

For everyone else I know, it’s bravery. They see the sexy uniform and shield, and for them that equals the Capt. The don’t care to see the Steve Rogers behind it.

2) Which is also why hugging them, even touching them, makes me feel disgusting. They are hugging what they want to see, what they think is real, a courage, but because they don’t care to see the Steve Rogers part, my actual courage quails, because they’re touching it, dragging it to light, without bothering to care about it.

Hugging strangers is better than hugging them. Strangers haven’t formed an opinion, whereas family insists on theirs, and fuck mine.

3) The ‘house not being home’ pain used to be ‘not allowed’, but now it’s, I see that I’m allowed (but that’s still hard). but the worst of it is that no one else is there. Friend, family, or lover. All those are different kinds of pain: Friend: regret, shame. Family: a young abandonment. Lover: a bitter self disgust. Plus all three have a wistful, missing them feeling to it.

PS: I got a diagnosis that makes sense, finally. PTSD, and ADD. The ADD is biological, and the PTSD, you know how that goes. I don’t know how to fix it, there isn’t a right answer. I wish I had a mentor, though, an older guy. The past six years I’ve been trying to learn ‘guy’ on my own, and before that, trying to learn ‘human’ on my own. I am a blob of ‘not raised.. at all, really’, and I’ve been having a hell of a time trying to┬ádo it alone.

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*gag*

What has my mother done now, you ask me.
Well, that pivotal moment when I chopped off all my hair to transition and whatever? Years ago. The hair was there, I was going to donate it to locks of love. Mom took it. I swear she said she’d do it, donate it, or throw it out.

I asked a few years ago, she still had it.

I just asked again.

And she still has it.

I feel violated.

…you take him.

I’m trying to read Bear’s new book. (I have Johnny Cash’s biography too, both from the library.. oh I wish I could still read!!)

But the point is family. I wish I had one of my own, a chosen family. I hope it’s just the depression talking, but I echo so much that I doubt I ever did.

I don’t know where I fit. I’m a four years transitioned transsexual (dude). To my bio family I’m a cousin, (that one’s weird since no one’s near me in age anyway) a brother (Bueller..?) a son (you’re joking) and a nephew (to whom?). They’re a bit of a traditional gender divided bunch of irish catholic kind of thing. On thanksgiving the ladies are in the kitchen, the lads are watching football, and no one blinks. But that’s just barely looking at it. In the middle of it, it’s like, ‘you take him’. I’ve crossed the line and am not part of the girl circle anymore, and I can see that. I’m not a girl, but I don’t know that block very well yet. But the guys don’t want a thing to do with me either.

And so, I dance.

Recently, I went to where I spent every summer vacation as a kid with my family. I went with just my dad.

We visited all of our old haunts.

There were the happy childhood ghosts. Smells, sights, ingrained into the very fibre of my being, causing whiplash because the present is so cold and careful, when my childhood was just the opposite. The idea of dad himself is full of happy childhood ghosts, more than anyone else (when I came back here I was shaking and spooked for a week from all this, bug eyed. I’m still spooked, though mom did come here a week later, which doesn’t help).

So there was that.

I had a good time, if I was careful and followed the rules. I put on different masks, one right after another, because I just don’t know who dad, or anyone in my family, is expecting anymore. It isn’t me, because when it is they close off and drift away, and then I shut down and don’t come back for another shot at it for a long time.

I want a dad. I had a dad, when I was a kid. My parents divorced, so he was gone in one sense for awhile (other than every other weekend), before they remarried each other. But mostly, as life grew more painful and more complicated, the less dad was there for me. My sisters told mom complicated things. I felt obligated to do so at times (she has recently called me her project, to give you an idea about how that storyline goes), but really I wanted to tell dad, and be his son, even though I didn’t have the words for it.

When I told dad I was trans, the door shut completely, and for a long time I had nothing. In the beginning of it all, I think I told you already, I went psychotic, when a blast of cold greeted me when I came out to my family (that was the main reason for it, I think). I went back in the closet for awhile before coming out again, despite their cold. In order to keep it together in college, I had to build an invisible bridge to a deity father figure, real or not.

Dad has said things since, over time, on the surface, like a birthday card that said he couldn’t ask for a better son, or something like that (I have since lost it), and admitting that he might have been wrong, to my aunt, or writing a poem about my transition (a painting and a placemat came out of that too). He has tried other things too, to try to speak my language, like playing my song in the car, and babbling why he chose it for his music class, or attempting to watch superhero movies (and insulting everything about them, but he tried, haha). It is things like these I try to remember when the door hurts, because there’s never been anything to back them up, or build anything, and that’s all I’ve got.

He’s never followed through. The energy around us is that of a storm building, even as the tone of what we say is stilted and half apologetic, like after a fight. When we are in the same room, we are aware of each other, and can’t really let settle down. I can never bring up anything to do with manliness, or transliness (everything I’ve learned up to this point I’ve basically learned from the internet, it’s really sad). We have this unwritten rule of not using the public restrooms at the same time. He’s trying to get to know me again, yes, but only enough so that we can actually hold a ‘pleasant’ conversation about something, instead of just sitting in the room hoping someone else will come in. Every time I slip past pleasant and into actual humanity with him, or any of them, the door slams in my face.

And so, I dance.

I must keep the mask up, and know the steps.

Otherwise I wouldn’t know them at all.