Be warned: this is not a post about diving.
Disclaimer: Normally, I respond to things rationally, good or bad. Normally, I wouldn’t be so affected by everyday lifey things. Normally, I wouldn’t feel the need to ooze my juvenile blatherings all over the webwaves. But today’s not a normal day.
Yesterday was a Quadruple-Whammy Kind Of Day, here in the land of Genderstrange. It started off with some painful ignorance which, as is typical according to the Law of Sod, splattered all over me at a most inopportune time. There will be a post on that kind of ignorance in general, but not for a while yet, so as I can filter my current anger out and hopefully replace it with logic and reason. We’ll see how that one goes.
It continued with the person I consider to be my biggest supporter turning out to be, well, less-than-supportive, when I mentioned the aforementioned Ignorance Splatter to them… as is even more typical according to the Law of Sod. All of a sudden, I’m repetitive, and they Just Can’t Take Any More Of My Gender Crap So Go Awaaaay. This didn’t bother me because they couldn’t take any more gender, or that they resented me “dominating conversations” all the time; it bothered me because, actually, it was an unfair accusation.
And here come the “actually”s…
Actually, gender doesn’t come up much (and, I hasten to add, not nearly as much as I’d like it to), other than when the inevitable medical stuff takes over for that few minutes of the day. And actually, they haven’t had to hear about it at all, for a long time, until recently, when things started moving forward again. And actually again, I have heard nothing but repetition from their end, at least as often, if not more so. And I’ve not complained once, apart from the times I had tried to make a point that they’re wasting time talking about things that they could otherwise be fixing.
There’s probably a whole other post in me about Why I Like Thinking And Talking About Gender, so I’ll leave that argument for another time.
It continued further with some delightful nostalgic photo-flicking; the credit this time goes to my parents for having the Worst Timing Ever, although it was my dad who caused the main problem. Of course. I should point out there that any kind of reminiscing, which involves me in some shape or form, makes me very uncomfortable. Most people I know are aware of this, not least my parents. So on a day when my nerves were already twitchy and on edge, they decide to get the ol’ albums out and… discuss. Loudly.
I can hear them through the walls, so I ask them to stop it or – at the very least – talk and laugh more quietly. Please. I get told to shut up, fuck off and get over myself. My dad, the wordsmith, ladies and gents (and everyone in between, of course). Next time I dare to walk past, I realise that not only did they continue after I’d left, knowing I could still hear them making fun at the tops of their voices, but they’d got more albums out. My dad’s tone defied me to make a comment; he’d have made an excellent candidate for an ASBO, had they existed in his youth, I guarantee it.
Which leads me on to the fourth and final complaint for the day – feel free to let out a long sigh of relief – which is the conversation that followed. I was misgendered and mispronouned, repeatedly, as they discussed Young Me further, and later as they discussed why I was being so pathetic. Even though they already knew that I could hear them through the walls; I’d told them in no uncertain terms earlier that evening. Le sigh.
Well, if they’d thought to ask, the reasons for my aversion to reminiscence are several-fold and complex, many of which they should know better than anyone. Several of which have not been spoken of outside our little unit. Most of which they shouldn’t even have to question. And misgendering/mispronouning only made it harder.
And so, back to the title of this far-too-adolescent-sounding-for-comfort post. By the end of this unfortunate day – and it really was unfortunate, as everything had been plodding along nicely, before Life’s Little Hassles decided to unite in protest against my stability of late and start throwing rotten food all at the same time – my entire self was aching, my limbs exhausted and painful (I had gone for an angry walk though), and my brain had turned against me, screaming its hatred deep into my cells.
This is the point where my sense of self decided to go for diving practice. Off a cliff.
With that, I sigh as deeply as my nineteen-year-old lungs can manage, and move on to happier (or at the very least, less frustrating) things. Like the fact that I’ve heard back from Gender Care. I’ve not got an appointment yet, but I’m close. So close. And another odd thought process: how is it that two of today’s views have come through Google Search and yet there are “no search terms” for today? My befuddled, bemused and bewildered brain needs a break. ‘Til the morrow, good readers.