Diving Practice

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.

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About JC

I'm a no-longer-nameless trans asexual autistic, chemistry undergraduate at a London university, pronoun enthusiast, amateur photographer and budding proofreader. Son of Optimus. Join me and be amazed. Or just join me. The sense of awe and wonder is optional.
This entry was posted in Gender, Life, Mental Health, Musings, Soapbox, Updates and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Diving Practice

  1. JC,
    Don’t get me wrong, but I truly enjoy your take on things which are hardly as oddball as you think because I have been there and done that. I also know that the suicide rate for transgender and gay/lesbian teens is the highest in the age range because of bullying and I publicly support all the efforts to turn that around.
    Yet, as I was once a serious lad myself and can honestly empathize about the parents being too loud and reminiscing at what I might perceive as being at my expense, I am also a parent of a son who didn’t need to be told to get a life of his own and move out before he was twenty two, so I can also see your parents telling you to get a life, for Christ’s sake!
    As to being mis-gendered, I finally got that the longer that people have gotten used to calling me he, him and David for as long as they have known me, especially my dear sister who has gotten used to me being her brother for her 60 years on this earth, only to be asked by me to look at me as her sister, deserve all the slack in world and my blessing for doing the best that they can. I still bristle, but it is my problem and I don’t need to add to theirs because they have enough problems with it already.
    Deanna

    • J.C. Prime says:

      Deanna,

      As always, you’re spot on in your response. This post is one of those which, as soon as I hit the “Publish” button, I regret. My mental health has never been better than when I started dealing with my gendery things (and I surprised myself to learn that I actually don’t get set off that easily), but it looks like I’m going to have to take extra care with my responses for a while.

      I’m lucky, luckier than many, and most of the time I’m very aware of it; my mum hardly needs correcting any more, and I’m sure my dad’s trying in his own way (he has something of a malicious streak, but I’ve not been kicked out yet, so I’m taking that as a good sign). Sometimes it hits hard, like ice water, when I’m not expecting it, and it’s simply because I’m not expecting it; a fact that surely must be positive, even if it doesn’t seem like it sometimes! My parents don’t generally hear my complaints, particularly with misgendering (partly because it doesn’t usually end very well), if that counts for anything; my long-suffering readers do instead, as you might have guessed!

      Perspective is always appreciated, especially perspective that has been worded so well.
      And as always, thank you for your response.

      -JC

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