Our (Un)known Truth

“If you cut your hair I won’t talk to you for a week”
“Don’t tell nana cause you know the words she”ll speak”
Things you told me but the irony is
You were the one who didn’t understand this
Dad got it
But only to an extent
And my poor mental health only leant to the pain
Isolation and insomnia were my best friends through childhood
Only parting from me when I left the broken shelter that was your roof
An environment where I was told to be authentic
But shamed into silence
As a result of insufficient finance
The legality of my upbringing questionable but dissociation made it tolerable
Now I only dissociate from trauma and abuse and the fear of social interaction
While I learn to relearn who I am
Who we are
Because sometimes it feels like I’m not the only one in this body
In this mind
But I don’t have a diagnosis
So I can’t really know this
So I sit with dysphoria about my body
Feeling confident in my transness
Confident in my man-ness
But what does one do when they’re sure of who they are
But don’t know who they are
Because a sense of self was never developed
So I envelope myself in myself
And call myself me
Call myself we
Cause we needed someone when we had no one
So I decide to be someone
I allow myself to be someone
And give myself comfort the way only we can
Because my trauma often comes from men
But how do I be a man when they make me feel so uneasy
It isn’t easy
Its never easy
But I promise myself not to become those who hurt me
Even when my mind and my hands burn me
Because I deserve to be authentic
Because I deserve to have my identity cemented
So I cement myself
I write my name in rocks and trees
Take pictures and tell myself that’s me
That’s we

An Exercise

This is an exercise in…writing? Mindfulness? Honestly, I’m not really sure. All I know is that the last few days I’ve had the urge to start writing again, regardless of what the writing pertains to. It’s been some time since I last wrote and after reading through some of my old blog posts, I realize how much I missed it.
Thing is, when I was reading my old writings, it sounded like me, but an old me. A me that I struggle to relate to on the same level. I know that the ability to write in the same way is probably still accessible by my mind and my hands but it still doesn’t get rid of that sense of the words feeling foreign to me.
Almost all of my writings were created before I realized I was trans, and although the truth is, realizing I was trans didn’t change who I am, it’s still strange because it almost feels like I’m brought back into the body and head space of the anxious young girl who wrote them. It’s an unnerving but somehow still connective feeling. Not connective in the sense that it feels like me or it makes me question my trans male status, it doesn’t do that at all. No, it’s more of a sense of reuniting with someone I used to know. Someone who had so much to say but not a lot of people to say it to. Someone I wish I had spent more time protecting. But I suppose it’s not too late to still try to protect them, and any other parts of me. Parts of us.
I’m not the strongest physically or emotionally and I doubt my capabilities a lot despite how far I’ve come in terms of raising my self-esteem and creating a self that I and the younger part(s) of me can be proud of. But yet still, I find myself wanting to reach out and reassure that young girl that although she is no longer the one in charge, she is/was still a part of our past and our journey and what she went through and the things she felt are valid. Though, not always wondrous experiences, she dealt with them the best way she could and I hope now that I’m here; now that the voices are here, whether or not they’ve always been here but just unrecognized, we can work through things better than we ever could.
It’s still terrifying and frustrating at times. Between the random bouts of crying late at night, to the sleep issues, to anxiety attacks and jumping at any sudden sound, it can be hard and it can make it feel impossible or like we’re not making any progress. But we are and we have. We’re learning to stay on top of tracking things and reaching out to those around us, be it friends or support groups and counselling. We’re making baby steps, and that’s not something to be ashamed of or think we’re not good enough. And neither is letting ourselves take a back seat while the little one gives us a moment of reprieve. A moment to relax and enjoy the simplest things in life, whether we want to or not.
I don’t really know where I’m going with this in all honesty. I woke up from a nightmare followed by a false awakening after only 15 minutes of sleep and just figured I would use a distraction I haven’t used in some time. At this point it’s 4:23am. We could reasonably go back to bed and get enough hours to feel useful in the morning so I can go back to two more groups tomorrow and maybe have enough energy to clean the bathroom and do some sketches. That being said, it’s Wednesday and cleaning days are usually on the weekend, so whether I have energy or not, I still have to make time to clean the bathroom regardless. I was supposed to do it today but apparently going to two groups and a counselling session in succession is a lot more tiring than I expected. I napped for maybe an hour or two when I got home instead of cleaning so we have to do it tomorrow. I also skyped my mom before napping as well. It’s still hard. I want to update her on all the progress I’ve been making and all the things I’m learning about myself and coping skills but there’s so many things that I have to leave out of the conversation. So many things that I feel will never have a place to talk about. It hurts. I’m not going to lie, it really kind of hurts. I trust my parents, I do, but a lot of the things that have happened in the past, at least those that I remember, are at this point irrelevant and would only cause them stress. And I can’t do that to them. So I do my best to bare the weight of the truth, of the pain and the sadness that I never really let myself think on.
I’ve always been an exceptionally emotional person, as a child and even now as an adult. As a kid, it would be crying over fights with a friend who turned out to be very manipulative and emotionally abusive or hiding from my brother’s actions or my family’s weekly arguments. It was hard to be around that kind of constant unrest for so many years. As a teen it turned into crying and frustration over the depression and anxiety and the feeling of all my life and capabilities slipping from my grasp. Tears at all the As and Bs turning to Cs and Ds. All the childhood dreams turning to stage fright and dust. Now as an adult, I cry without reason and don’t cry when there should be a reason. But now, I find myself crying over the progress I’ve made and the inability to share that with the people who raised me.
How can I share what I’ve learned with them, if what I’ve learned has a lot to do with the trauma and abuse and auto neglect that came from the childhood I was raised into? How do I tell them all the times my brother threatened, chased and caused me harm that I always lied about under the guise of me being clumsy? How do I tell them of the times he’s made me uncomfortable around him and with my body when they’re still living under the same roof as him? How do I tell them that a lot of my trauma responses are a result of the child they raised but never noticed the pain I was being dealt from said child? How do I tell them that the only reason they didn’t notice, is because I wouldn’t let them? How do I tell them that the constant seesaw of being told to live authentically and be proud of who I am whilst also being told not to tell anyone about our living circumstances because they weren’t safe or legal has made it hard to not carry shame with me in everything I do? How can a son tell their parents that now that he’s moved out and no longer lives there? Is there even a point? The hard stuff has happened and it’s in the past now and I’m no longer living in that environment so now it’s just up to me to deal with the aftermath. Right?
I don’t remember a lot of my childhood, but I do remember an unfortunate amount of it. An unfortunate amount of distress and unease and a need to hide everything I do. I wish I remembered more because I know it wasn’t all bad. I know there were moments where I would laugh like nothing had ever hurt me and made jokes with my dad until my mom begged us to be quiet because the two of us are just too loud-mouthed people with no filters. I know there were moments where I would get so absorbed in books and music, it felt like I got to live a hundred different lives that were more fantastic and magical than mine. But I can’t remember a lot of those moments anymore. It hurts. I want to forget but I want to remember and the fact that I can do neither is….It hurts.

Signed: …someone

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Obviously the day mentioned in this writing are inaccurate as they were written last week but I only just now thought to upload them on to this blog that I (yet again) have left to collect dust.