Sorry if I worried anyone.

I’m fine, currently, despite the lack of posts.
I have pretty much switched to my Tumblr because I feel more able to post things there without hours and hours of editing.
The URL is

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A self-terrifying post.

“I just find it creepy and sick, honestly.”


People under 18 don’t exist in a void. 
I didn’t, when I was 6 and 12 and 13 and 16, and that fact is why looking at a BDSM website restricted to 18-and-over, one filled with nothing but basic information on how you’re not bad and sick and scary, not a monster (for that reason at least) makes me quietly anxious while I want to be angry. I’m an expert on previously-mentioned unemotional shame, and this is why it’s a multi-field specialty. 


There’s a Simpsons character who I’ve always remembered who screamed that you don’t know what you want and that’s why you’re kids, and that was predominantly my experience of childhood. I didn’t know why I wanted to do Those Things, or the common element in them, I just confusedly tried to reach out for what I knew I needed, with clumsy, random, fumbling and inappropriate expressions of submissiveness, the kind of things I force down under a howling maelstrom of thoughts about something, anything else when I get near to remembering them. 

Of course, it didn’t just stay emptiness that filled up with strange, contradictory good feelings when my friend pushed me into a mud puddle or something I was told to do hit that spot between being something I wouldn’t want to do for that person and being something I would like to do for that person. BDSM, D/s and the other initialisms like it like it are typically characterized as always sexual, and while they still aren’t always sexual for me, they started to be, just a little, when I was 12. 

Not that I’d admit it. It was just one daydream, and it was full of enough horrified shame that I threw it out completely, realization that I was trans included. I try not to think about how things would have been different if I hadn’t, just like I try not to think about how they ended up. I succeed, not even thinking about them enough to bring them into that plain where they’re solid enough to attract words, so just imagine something disgusting, constant reader. Unthinkably disgusting.

 In fact, imagine several things like that, and imagine that you do them in private, because you have a constant, horrifying urge to do them, and you feel a horrible mix of sickness and self-hate and a respite from feeling empty while you do it. And the shower you take afterwards is so hot it’s agonizing, and you hope that it’s enough suffering, enough of an apology to nothingness for being so fundamentally awful that you can muster the tiniest speck of forgiveness for yourself. 

It’s a heck of an experience for a 12 year old, you know. It seems amazing that I ever did experience it, really, because it’s so very easy to stop it. You just need an explanation, some information. The knowledge that some people need this, and they’re not sick and bad and perverted and broken. Permission to be neither empty nor disgusting, to not take 4 years to slowly, painfully understand this by yourself.

It is so very simple, so very basic, and so very often restricted to those 18 and over. Like everyone else lives in a sanitized void, puberty held back by magic, underwear fused into their hips, with potential needs like mine that appear safely, predictably and never non-sexually at age 18. It’s the same principle as abstinence only sex education, really. If you don’t educate people about what they’re going to want to do, they won’t do it. 

Only they do. They feel horrible about wanting to, of course, it does that much. They will feel horrible when it goes horribly wrong. But they will do it. The statistics show it, the personal stories scream and sob and whisper it, and they will do it. The only difference lies in if things are horrible or if they’re fine. 

When they’re fine, I’m quietly and openly submissive to someone I feel my odd, fixated, wanting-to-please equivalent of love for, and it, who uses it/its pronouns and loves me too, likes that I am. It doesn’t seem to mind that the consentual, meeting-certain-conditions kind of humiliation feels good to me, and I get so excited and gleeful when I please it that I make strangled squawks that I’m too repressed to make at any other time.

When they’re fine, I’m not frightened and ashamed of the urges I get and the things I want, I don’t do inappropriate things that I’d happily kill the memory of forever and I don’t pick up painful, uncomfortable aversions that take years to break.  I’m okay. I’m okay like my inclinations are, like I’ve almost never been, like I didn’t get to be when I was supposed to be being a kid.

You’ve already heard about when they’re horrible, and I’d like to leave you with the contrast for more than a moment, constant reader, but I’m anxious-afraid to. 

Because BDSM is so constantly characterized as sexual, and I’m anxious-afraid of being seen as advocating the sexualization of children, the inappropriate knowledge and sudden moments of horrified, humiliated shame at accidentally betraying it that I had as a child, from exposure to truly adult desires.

And I worry that I’m retroactively doing that now, betraying myself as some bizarre, broken un-child grown into something worse, a hybrid transgression against the ideal of innocence itself. The persistent fear and sexualization of what I’ve always wanted has shaken my certainty that I ever really was a child, that there was anything for my abuse to really damage in me. 

But if that is the case, I was doomed from the start, and I can’t believe that.

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A blunt piece of sarcasm

“Nobody is going to consider 1% of the population!”

Allow me, then, to make a few statements about this all-important 99% of humanity, random privileged whiner.


Nobody is the president of the United States of America at this time, because obviously less than 1% of people can be president. In fact, less than 1% of people have been presidents, so presidents don’t exist and I’m unsure why the 99% think they do. A person called Einstein who was less than 1% of the population did not exist and so contributed nothing. Humanity has never invented electricity, and you do not exist. In fact, nobody exists. Only broad catagories of people who make up more than 1% of humanity exist, faceless bundles of groups.

Additionally, incredibly talented people make up less than 1% of the population, so they obviously don’t exist and shouldn’t be acknowledged or utilized in any way, shape or form. Nobody has ever set foot on the moon and nobody lives on Ivy Dene Lane in England. This note on humanity would end, but it is less than 1% of all information, and does not exist.

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On estrogen.

“What difference would it make?”

I do not know if it was an attempt to challenge me, with all the cis, adult pretension that that has to come to imply to me, or an attempt to make me feel better, recover me from trauma with a snapping fade-out of my slowly recovering and frozen mind-state.

The subject was estrogen.

The differences are manifold, psychologist, cis person, expert who doesn’t know the 101.

I am 5.3 and 98 pounds, brittle and covered in skin that screams when people touch it, gripped by helpless, hysterical laughter when I’m in danger and so weak that I can’t do five push-ups to elevate my prominent ribcage and visible collarbones above the surface of my bed. I am painted-nailed and pink-shirted with plainly nonexistent breasts, openly called by a name and pronouns I identify slightly more with than those thought of as male.

I am obviously, visibly trans, with men in dresses and concealed rapists and every other transmisogynic concept pressed into my back every moment that I’m outside, a fallen crown of the murdered names of people like me set below my forehead, the iron thing I pretend to be to persevere through pain in the midst of a lightning storm of murderous, deadly, darting contempt.

I am unpictured on my Fetlife account, momentarily hating my inadequately cis features in a rhythm of moments. I am told by my kindly, tactless, trying-not-to-be-bigoted father that I will look silly in a skirt until I get my treatment done. I can feel the nothingness where my breasts should be shoved into my chest when I so much as imagine wearing clothing that isn’t loose and layered.

I am pausing suddenly as I type this, smashing a fist into my thigh almost reflexively to put off thoughts of delicately whipping my skin away, an obscene magic trick with a flickering straight-razor and a toss of the hand, because I anthropomorphize objects and I want to feel this stubborn, infuriating thing shriek.

I am, dear psychologist, a poison factory. I am stained with slow-growing hair and broader shoulders than I’d like, roiling with trauma to make your skin blister and your blonde hair fall out. I have been in full swing for two years, winding down for two more, and the difference is just how long all those corpses inside my structure spend rotting and poisoned before it’s cleaned up, and what else in me wanders inside to die.

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The sound of options.

The red, messy underpart of my arm is showing in a thumbnail-slashed line, but there’s still the thinnest layer of skin over it. I’m unsure if it will be healed by tomorrow, debating if I should expect the ability to wear short sleeves and reassure my father I’m no more piebald with discolouration and scar-striped than I was a month ago or just scrawl “die cis scum” over it, quash that possibility for comfort.

As I said a few posts ago, it has been years. It has been four years, I miscalculated, and it will be four and a half years before I’m given basic medical care by the NHS, I have been informed. Nearly a quarter of my life, I will have been waiting for basic medical care post-request. And, as my psychologist informed me, then I will have to convince them to let me have it. 

Apparently I looked upset. 

I don’t know. My face was numbed by a slow bloom of coldness, and I just retreated inside myself to a place where an expanding rictus grin felt like it would peel my face away, wetly and obscenely to match the rotten giggles that were hysterically choked up from some abyss inside and spilled out in a rich stream as my arms tensed and muscles bunched and whoever did this to me choked through a sucking wound and gave those great, slow, shuddering sobs I’ve so intimately known on occasions. 

It lasted for three seconds or so of imaginary respite before I had to talk to the psychologist, and I apparently scared her, ripping stripes down my neck with a blunt fingernail below a face that felt impassive but doesn’t have reliable sensory input, banging my head on the wall and being gently told by my mother that there might be someone in the next room. 

Another day, another appointment, staggering into an agonisingly noisy library feeling like my skull has been replaced with some crushingly heavy fluid. Someone supposed to return me back from the cracks in the educational system I’ve slipped through, informing me that every option is soundly guillotined under the failure of abled people to account for the existence of anyone like me.

I strike a mental bargain with the stress of yesterday and pull out the caustic remarks that my politeness-conditioned self normally wants to start screaming and crying and never stop at the mere thought of using, directing them only at the twitching corpses of my platforms to survival. 

It’s a pointless lashing-out at the endless door-slam of closed-off options that chases me inevitably towards one last anticlimax at every turn, a final roll of the dice on bigotry and neurotypical privilege to see if I can get a fact so obvious it shattered years of conditioning against percieving it validated by those ignorant of it, a gateway to grudgingly-given, capitalism-defying survival handed out by the government, a diagnosis of autism, benefits and that charming title of “burden on society”. 

I stumble up to what may be the point of determination of my survival, and I am so tired of being inches from death that I cannot rouse myself to anything more than a mild headache. The abuses and denials and disingenous, acceptably-toned-by-neurotypical-normative-standards defenses have piled upon one another, and my ability to care is simply exausted, like some endlessly-exercised muscle, like the childhood empathy I used to have and suddenly lost one day.

I don’t even know if my apathy is borne on resignation to death or certainty of my own immortality, if it’s yet more damage done to me by the medical industry or a self-forged improvement in the face of all that I’ve ever been through. I have no certainties about myself but the most obvious and basic, and now I put those on trial by ignorance for a bribe of the fair chance at life implicitly promised to me from birth.

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I respond to various things: #2

This is a post from a misogynist, ableist, classist and fatphobic One True Way-er on a BDSM site. I’m using asterisks instead of quotes because they’re used for italics on the site and it will take ages to change them all.

*Now, Women are free to post their two cents here. But understand as you read this dear and gentle reader, that I am making this post as a Man speaking to Men. Thus I am speaking to them as Men do to one another when not in mixed company. Not a lot of equivocation here, not much pussyfooting around or going out of my way to be delicate with anyones feelings.*

You know, far be it from me to blast someone for their tone. Heck, it’s against my politics. But quite frankly, the problem with this isn’t your tone, it’s the fact that your logic is faulty, and your assumption that that’s the only problem people are going to have is pretty frigging arrogant.

*Men. You’re fat and soft. That is your fault. Not someone elses. Hit the gym. Get a P90X program. Stop eating all that damn sugar and corn syrup. Whatever. Just take care of it, and take care of it yourself.*

Yes, because twue weal domwy menz are immune to the realities of being fat! They always have enough money for food that’s both nutritious and not fattening, and there’s always a place to buy it. If they’re mobility-impaired, the outside world is always accessible and perfect for excercise, because god knows a lack of access for disabled people doesn’t exist. And of course they have no genetic predisposition to being fat, that would be so much less plausible than that genetic predisposition to being thin that keeps me around 98 pounds no matter what I do.

Oh, and they never have thyroid problems or anything like that.
Nope, they exist in an invisible shell that defends against all possible causes of being fat, right?

*Your Mommy may love you unconditionally, but no one else does.*

Apparently abusive parents don’t exist now.

*Nut up. No one expects you to be Jack LaLanne (google it, kid), but If you can’t at least half assed take care of yourself, what the hell makes you think anyone else would want you to take care of them?*

Yes, weal twue domwy menz have reality-warping powers of incredible magnitude, allowing them to care for themselves as you define it when it is completely impossible! Also, that’s some nice ableism you got there. I suppose that none of the men you speak of have disabilities rendering them incapable of self-care, huh? I guess you’d just vanish in a puff of smoke if you happened to gain such a disability.

*You’re dressed like your clothes came off the bathroom floor. This is your fault. Not societys’.*

Yeah, it’s not like society is capitalist or anything.

*You don’t have to have or spend a lot of money to dress better than you do.*

Really? Prove it.

*My Grandfather worked the farm, drove a milk delivery truck when he was 14. He grew up to be a San Francisco dock worker in the Pile Drivers Union. He built docks, railroads, was a carpenter, 72 through 77 he was a site foreman working on the Alaskan pipe line. he worked up until two months before his death. A 40 hour work week was to him, semi retirement. Yet when he took his wife out for dinner, he was dressed like he was on his way to an awards ceremony.*
*He was never anything other than blue collar, but even if he was just taking his pre-teen grandkids to Round Table pizza in Dublin Ca, he wore slacks, cowboy boots, a dress shirt and a bolo tie.*

Does his fuckin’ ghost hand out clothes-money to the poorly dressed? Because that’s the only way what your grandfather did way back when proves anything about how expensive or easy it is to dress well. It’s not enough to see someone meet a standard and then demand everyone reaches it because you think that would be great, you have to actually consider if it’s realistic, and in many cases, it isn’t.

*Some of you asshats can’t be bothered to tuck in your “no fear” T-shirt into your poorly fitting jeans on a date.*

Oh, the horror.

*Your boss or coworkers don’t really respect you? Women don’t respect you? How you present yourself is probably a good place to start, dickhead. Man up.*

Yes, man up and produce money from thin air or waste it on superficialities whether you can afford it or not! Making bad decisions to please shallow others is what real domly menz do, don’t you know.

*Grow the hell up and take out the piercings, stop with the stupid ass tattoos (they stopped being cool, novel or unique 20 years ago. Fuckin’ let it die, already) and for Pete’s sake, get a damn hair cut.*

Translation: I don’t like body modification or long hair, so obviously not having any of that is part of being a twue domwy man. I regret to inform you that other people are not clockwork automata, and have likes and dislikes that may not match yours. Therefore, this demand is arbitary and self-centred.

*You want to be treated like a Man?*

What exactly is this supposed to entail, anyway? I can think of cultures where being treated like a man involves having to have a coming-of-age ceremony where you wrap an ant-filled tube around your dick.

*You can start by looking like one.*

Do you have any, any reason for this beyond your personal dislike?
Anything at all? Because if you’re going to levy down standards on other people, you need more than that, or you’ve all the authority of me if I wrote about, for example, how blonde hair is horrible and if you want to be a real twue etc etic, you should dye it.

*Maybe if you start to look like one,*

There isn’t even the flimsiest excuse, like a correlation between manhood and being free of tattoos, to justify this. Defining what things supposedly look like does not work that way, and pretending otherwise just makes you look silly.

*you’ll start to feel like one, and if you feel like one maybe you’ll start to act like one. And when you act like one, you’ll be one and when you are one, you’ll be treated like one.*

When I look like undefined, arbitary thing, I’ll feel and act like one despite none of what that actually is or involves being defined, so it effectively means nothing, so you are effectively trying to entice people with nothing?

*And spare me the feel good-ism bullshit about the clothes not making the Man. That’s an intellectually vapid cop out crock of shit, even if your mommy told you otherwise.*

Yes, that’s why you’ve refuted it so…
Oh. Oh, you didn’t.

*Stop hanging out with Women, and start dating them. Stop treating them the same way you do your friends.*

Yes, just about halve your pool of potential friends and treat even women who aren’t interested or never will be like potential partners. Hand out those rapist vibes, dudes! Women love that, apparently.

*They deserve that much respect and consideration.*

.. Despite the fact that very few women consider that respectful or considerate. Yay, treating people like automatons! If I consider it particularly respectful to punch people in the face, does that make it so? Because I’ve got as much proof it is as you have.

*They are not your buddies.*

Yes, they’re thoughtless automatons who lack the self-determination to be anything you’d rather they’re not, huh? Additionally, gay & asexual/aromantic people apparently don’t exist, because that would impede your little fantasy.

*You wonder why a Woman does not regard you as her alpha? Because you don’t treat her like you are.*

Again, thoughtless automatons. You hit the right switch and then bam, alpha. No lack of interest, no personal dislike and no man-forbidding orientation can get in the way.

*She’s not your “buddy”. She is not a “dude”. She is a*

Mindless automaton?


Oh, another undefined term with added random ungrammatical caps.

*Act like a Man, and treat her like a Lady, even when she does not act like a lady Herself.*

Let’s try this again. “Act like a blank and treat her like a blank even when she does not act like a blank herself”. That’s what I’m reading until you define this.

*Stop swearing like Andrew Dice Clay around Women, even if they are themselves speaking that way. If you take your own standards for yourself up a level, it WILL rub off on how others view you.*

Of course. Mindless automatons, right? Nobody actually LIKES swearing and so on, because this is your fantasy overlay for reality.

*The loss of distinction between Men and Women has also meant*

Less people being forced into arbitary and unscientific boxes.

*a loss of novelty, mystery and mutual consideration.*

Yes, obviously! It’s not like anyone could feel otherwise, because, you guessed it, mindless automatons. As in, everyone but you apparently is one.

*Be a Man and reclaim those things.*

Be a blank and reclaim those things.

*Got “friend zoned”? There is a reason.*

Yes, it’s because you’re a sexist and the friend zone is an invention of whiny, entitled, self-professed nice guys.

*It’s because that is what you made of yourself. The Lady didn’t “Friend zone” you, YOU “friend zoned” you.*


*Stop treating her like she is one of the fella’s, and she’ll stop acting like one of them.*

Because… All together now… MINDLESS AUTOMATONS!

*And just maybe, she’ll also stop treating you like you’re one of the girls.*

Because, again, women who simply prefer friendship to relationships with a man under any circumstance do not exist. It’s all a matter of men pushing the wrong buttons on their subby dispenser.

*Time Management. If you are over 20 and still own a “Game console”, you should have your ass beaten. If you have time enough to use a game console, you REALLY aught to have your ass beaten.*

Because having a hobby that you don’t like is worthy of traumatizing violence.
Any justification for why gaming is worse than other hobbies?

*Put it down, turn it off, go outside.*

Why is that innately better?

*Visit with your family.*

Because abusive families don’t exist, duh.
Sing it with me, folks; mindless automatons!

*Go do volunteer stuff or something. Clean your damn house. Whatever. Anything besides sit there like a baked potato spacing out passively on the couch.*

Which is totes different to you sitting there at the computer while you typed this. Because it’s not like games can inspire you or anything, or you can’t create things in some of them. Also, apparently being a pro gamer or games journalist is no longer a thing. No talents in things you dislike should ever be exploited, huh?

*Urban culture. Just knock it off. It wasn’t cool back when it was cool, so let it die, too. To “chill” is not an activity or a hobby. An inverted, backwards peace sign makes you look like a dickhead in photographs. If you like rap music, fine. Whatever. That does not however, require that you go about behaving like an advertisement for Eminem.*

Eh, I can’t say I know enough about this to respond.

*Man the fuck up.*

Blank the fuck up.

*Stiff upper lip, what what.*

You know, I had a friend who couldn’t repress facial expressions due to facial injury. Her upper lip couldn’t exactly be stiff, and I doubt she lacks a male equivalent or ten thousand. Did I mention yet that your idea is destructive and fails to account for diversity of any kind?

*Get the sand out of your vagina and fuckin’ deal.*

Cool implied misogyny. Other than that, I lack a comment.

*Learn how to manage your finances. Why the hell should any Woman trust you to provide if you can’t balance your checkbook? I mean,, seriously.*

You’re contradicting yourself.
Oh, and shitting all over people with cognitive disabilities, but I suppose an utter lack of awareness about any of that should be expected by now.

*Clean your living space. If you respect yourself and your home, she’ll respect you as well.*

I’m running out of ways to say you talk like women are thoughtless automatons.

*Hygiene. Here is a good rule to go by: If you would like her to suck it (Whatever “it” is), shave it and wash it before presenting it.*

Other than some women liking hair, I can scarcely argue with this.

*It’s responsibility, not privilege. Being head of household means responsibility, not privilege. Don’t waste time on what you “get” to do to her or have her do, instead worry on making sure you deserve those things. It is not “Do I get a blowjob? “, it’s “Do I deserve a blowjob? “. And having a cock is not enough reason to get it sucked.*

I’d do it on more of a “does she feel like giving a blowjob”, but whatever suits you.

*So Man up.*

So blank up.

*Pull your damn pants up, watch your language in mixed company,*

Because mixed company never likes swearing.

*treat her like a Lady, dress like a Gentleman,*

treat her like a blank, dress like a blank.

*work more often than not, stop screwing off wasting time, deal with your problems instead of whining about them, be responsible with your money,*

Unless you need clothes to appease shallow people, in which case don’t be responsible and buy them whether you can afford them or not because this dude’s grandfather had the money.

*your home and yourself and for fucks sake, face the fact that it’s NOT all about YOU.*

I’m sorry, but that last one seems a bit ironic, given that you just laid down your personal likes and dislikes as universal laws for being a real twue domwy menz.

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To cis people who need it.

“If a guy says.I like blonds that’s ok.If he says i like trans women.He may as well have just put a child’s hand in a blender on frappe”

“Blonde” is a simple, not terribly varied physical trait. In the country where I live, there is no discrimination against blondes by people of other hair colours, and blonde people do not discriminate against people of other hair colours. You can look at me and tell that my hair is a drab middle-ground between blonde and brown and therefore not fitting your preferences.

“Trans woman” is an incredibly complicated trait so hugely variable that there is no shared trait between trans women other than being women, the trait itself rooted in one’s mind and twisting up into an artificial social class. There is discrimination against trans women everywhere, and you’ve almost certainly been bombarded with it in ways both covert and overt since you understood the ideas of gender or sex. When you look at me, you can’t tell if I’m trans, let alone if it’s one of the rare hours where I’m a trans woman.

It’s therefore, then, only when you are told by me or someone else that I’m a trans woman that you are particularly attracted to me or repulsed by me. And that might be a lie, but you’ll still be more attracted to me, or less, depending. You are, in effect, fetishizing or repulsed by the fundamental idea of someone being trans.

And unless you started this reaction of fetishization or repulsion very early or developed language late, you have been bombarded with a full ten years of covert and overt messages, at the very minimum, that trans people are freakish, disgusting, obscene, not right, all men or binary-violating, dehumanized its. It takes a grand total of a few seconds of condemnation or praise from someone you trust to bias your opinion for or against someone, and so what do you think a minimum of 8 to 10 years of the most vile condemnation does to your preference for or against trans people?

Your preference that is irrefutably, objectively based solely on your idea of trans people? What do you think it does, you whiny, entitled chaser fuckbag who posted in a trans group I frequent with “tranny” and “shemale” in your fetish list, the tawdry slurs of porn producers and transphobes? What do you think it does, professed lesbian who claims a natural lack of attraction to trans women?

Why do you think that every fetishizer of trans people I have ever seen has been part of one of the endless procession of cis male chasers with their transphobic slurs, their remarks about how trans women are exotic and the best of both worlds and all that transphobic, cisnormative and binarist shit, always with an unapologetic misgendering lurking behind them, just for my CAMAB, mostly gender-neutral self?

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An undramatic evasion of silencing.

It has been years since I went to the NHS, ready to kill myself if it didn’t stop soon.

The doctor who referred me called me “he” a total of four times, being told not to each time. Not once did she pronoun me correctly. Near the end, she saw fit to share her opinion that if her child wanted this, she’d make them wait until they were 16, when puberty had done almost everything it could, perhaps carving pieces of their body into things they’d forever hate.

The man from the NHS told me, with his curly hair and cissexism, that they didn’t prescribe hormone blockers for trans people under 16. That this was no story, where months of determination and bravery and pain were rewarded. This was ageism and cisnormativity and other words I didn’t have, a tipping of the world prior to a nightmare plunge that I had struggled into expecting the great, shining point where Things Got Better.

And I can’t even talk about what happened next, because it’s illegal to have the bodily autonomy that you need to survive for another few years if you’re a trans teenager. It’s illegal to stop something worse than when you were a miserable, abused little 6 year old who hated everything and felt broken inside, and it’s illegal to get anything close to what cissexual people are born to.

All I can say is that if I’d relied on the NHS, I would have died. That one day I was so depressed that I sat on my bed doing nothing for the entire day, not even bothering to take Fade To Black off repeat. That I stopped taking baths so I didn’t have to look at myself. That I tried not to think about how I was being mutiliated in a way that would never heal every single second of every single day

It has been years, and in an alternate universe where someone I can’t talk about is more law-abiding, last week would have been the day I’d have failed to survive to where the testosterone stopped. It has been years, and I can’t articulate how long that is, how unacceptable it is, how impossible it is that I would have ever survived without the things I can’t talk about.

Those things are just one more mark of how the NHS has failed and continues to fail trans* people, among hundreds.

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From a brittle 16.

“Sylvester and Daffy Duck had speech impediments, why is there no hysteria over them?”

Because the speech impediment isn’t integral to their concept as an ableist stereotype. Because they had a purpose and an idea other than “lol suspiciously disabled looking useless person”. Because they were not Derpy Hooves, in short. They were not pieces of the nightmares of most people with a life like mine splattered with tasteless cartoon paint and splattered on a wall to a roar of silent canned laughter.

So they were not edited after an uproar by disabled groups. But you wouldn’t think of that, would you? With the recycled spew of privileged ignorance that passes for your thoughts on this, you would never think of that, would you, internet whiner? It would never occur to you that perhaps people who live with something day in and day out, study it, survive under ceaseless assault by it, might know more about it than you.

They “don’t know what the internet is”. They’re certainly not among your “fellow bronies”. They certainly didn’t watch the entire first season in one sitting on YouTube, and being “soccer moms”, they’re evidently not me. That’s the real crux of this, isn’t it? They’re not me, and they’re not anyone like me. They don’t spend days with clumsy bodies and confused minds, aren’t quietly haunted by words like “retard”.

I’d say it’s interesting that you baselessly jump to that conclusion, with a careless, droll tone, if I were more calm and sophisticated. As it is, I just want to scream at you for being so smug and filled with businesslike, angry faux-reason in your ability to fire miles wide of the mark and proclaim a bullseye. To, in more academic terms, come up with a strawman fallacy.

To vindicate me, because your view of people like me doesn’t include the ability to have an opinion about or an argument against an aspect of the thing we all have in common. It’s soccer moms and non-bronies and anyone, anyone but us.

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He is the tenth to hundredth random online man, here to unoriginally harrass, and he asks if I am a he or a she. I am an it, a cie and a they, and if he asked about my genitals this would cease to be a penis as he attached his sickening cis concepts to the word as it exited his typing hands and I’d tell the truth about that but leave things out, like I always do.

I don’t lie anymore, I just translate. We’re expressing elements of our worlds, and theirs is made of buckshot-blasts of unrelated and often meaningless concepts packed in with gaudy emotional fireworks, always just a careless trigger-pull away and never examined with the warranted detail.

He tells me he loves me, trying to confuse and bewilder. We met 5 minutes ago in an online lobby, and he has only 4 lines of profile info to go on. He is the sixth random online man to do this in a row, over the year, and I want to shock him into examining his own utter lack of individuality like it’s a corpse in autopsy, shake him with how all these repressed giggles into microphones and cheap, failed tricks have remained unchanged through years of pink Spartans, gamertags with “girl” in them and avatar pictures that have dresses.

How he’s a jeering, generic patchwork of Random Online Man, like an enemy type from one of the many video games I’ve caught the attention of his kind on, always there and always the same, target practice for newly-unlocked gear like the act of stately dignity as he ambles across the next-gen battlefield and takes ineffective cover with his helmet poking up over it.

I wonder if his mind is the same kind of muddy, black-and-white mess that mine was when I was like him, the kind of mind that I imagine the Cerberus Assault Troopers who eagerly advanced into shotgun range last game as having. I wonder how you can fix such a mind, if it isn’t as willing as mine was, and I drive him away with terse replies just like every single other random online man I’ve met.

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