Willpower is Finite

I remember listening to a StuffYouShouldKnow podcast the other day on willpower – that it’s finite. Resist one thing and it’ll get harder to resist something else.

My mother called me twice in concern over my shoulder. At first I resisted contacting her back – saying to myself ‘I’m not falling for that again’.. (she’s a narcissist)

But ultimately I fell for that again and responded to her facebook message, poured my heart out on how much my shoulder hurts (injured it a few days ago) and got four words in response ‘hang in. How’s work’ and then nothing after that even telling her how work was, she ghosted.

People ghost a lot.

I tend to say to my shrink ‘no one cares about me’. Which is draining to her because she cares, I know.

I think what I mean by care is.. empathy. Sympathy.. I don’t know. I don’t feel that many people care about me in any good strong way. No one hates or loves me very much. I have two cousins who do love me, a cat at my parents house who does, a sister who does *sometimes*..  and all of these have a huge caveat, as you know.

 

So for family I know the ‘dance man’ rule well, and can tell exactly when and how I break it. I don’t know how to fix it when I break it… I think what happens is they see something interesting on the edge of the radar of ignoring me and come back for another show, and I’ll exhaustedly put on the monkey suit and dance again, because what else can I do?

I don’t know what the answer is at all when it comes to friends or lovers, because I don’t have any and I don’t know why, and no one will tell me.

So.. with no empathy towards me, I feel like I have no choice but to drink the poison of self pity, which makes me feel worse. I don’t know how to cope with nothing in the ‘belonging’ jar. I’m exhausted, I feel like I’ve tried everything. I am empty.

I am.

But honestly.. I am not.

 

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she's gonna eat me

I don’t know how I feel, other than that.

My ears are ringing, my skin feels static, my eyes do not want to close. I feel like I’ve been battered by high winds, but I don’t know how to describe the where of the high winds.

It’s too many people, and none of them are friendly.

I see some of my family, and the shrinks, and some people I newly know here. All pull my strings in a disastrous way.

I have to be on guard to give my family the ol’ razzle dazzle, I’m uptight among the new people I know because I don’t know how to be a normal converser, and shrinkage is shrinkage things.

I’m high strung, vibrating. I’m alone right now, and that should help with recuperation, right? But..I wish I had some company where I didn’t have to work so hard to be normal. I think that would help.

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 do it alone.

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.

Let’s Get Down to Business

I’m being a pansy.

I’m not facing my own truth. I’m just wallowing in pain without sifting through it and past it. I’m bored, I chafe. I want something to happen in my life.

Fuck that.

You do you. You change you. It’s not up to my doctors and support network to handle me like a fucking egg until I hatch. Who the hell wants that? Fly, birdie, fly. Find what keeps you alive, as long as you’re not hurting anyone else, I think is what Kate Bornstein said. I’ve never been good at healing my pain with words, personally. I do it, every week, but I’ve got to stretch it, like a muscle, with action. It’s been cramped up small. When I do talk I feel like I’m making excuses. So what works for me is probably rugby and singing, so I’ve got to get on that.. I don’t want to die right now, but I do feel like I’m wasting time.

Plant a tree, you know what I mean? Leave your mark well, don’t just pass through here like a dismal ghost.

Be your own anchor, your own wind.

Most of all? Get. UP.