The Diary of Hope Atwille (or, The Trans Girl Experience)


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 Fire. [12-12-2016]

So I’m struggling.  I’ve been struggling for quite some time.  This is a fresh struggle though.  On one hand, I had the idea to go into medical transcription.

I was (am?) going to attend an online college to acquire a certification, and use said certification to get steady work.  If all went (goes) according to plan, I was going to move back to Portland, get a house, and travel at my leisure.  I ran into quite a few problems there.

I no longer make enough money to continue my online schooling, and even when I did, I was so stressed and generally in crisis that I could never focus enough to even get started.

So, on the other hand, I realized that I had utterly suppressed the fact that being an author is what I am truly passionate about.  The dilemma is the whole not-making-money of it all.  I was thinking about possibly enabling the ability of this blog to make money through ads, but the problem would remain, as I don’t get enough traffic to make a pittance, let alone an actual living.

I know that compromise will lead to my giving up writing altogether in order to make a living and travel.  Writing makes me feel so complete though.  I’m up a creek.  If I want to make a real living with transcription, I will need to have a part time job (which is in itself proving difficult) and focus most- if not all- of my free time on studying.  After getting my certification, I would need to focus most of my time on work in order to move, and also in order to travel after moving.

I have enough trouble finishing a project when I have all the time in the world, I don’t see the same being possible when I am working full time.  I’ve attempted that.  So it falls to me to decide whether I am going to continue the online schooling deal, or double down on my latest novel.  Double down on having true faith in myself and my ability.  My unproven ability.  I see the online schooling as a definite.  I study, I work hard, I get my certification, and I establish relationships with establishments that require my services.  With writing, I push through my project, I post it on this site (because I’m already through with amazon and smashwords,) and I hope for attention.  I hope that maybe I can gain a following.  But then what?

I suppose I could initiate the whole “ad money” plan.  I could restore my Patreon.  I could try and sell copies if the completed novel gains popularity.  If.  If.  Too many variables.  So many… but there is a part of me that doesn’t care.  I am trying to decide whether that part of me and the bit that wishes to destroy me are one and the same.  I’m trying to figure out just how much time I have and what risks I should spend that time on.

Also, writing is free, while schooling is not.  I am flat broke, and trying my damnedest to change that…  There are so many things wrong at the moment that I don’t trust myself to decide what is right.  I don’t trust myself enough to do anything but lie in bed all day and ponder my life choices.  I feel like I’m almost out of chances.

 

 


The Bright Side. [7-31-2016]

[listening to: Phoenix]

It’s been a rough weekend, so I thought it might be helpful if I focused on some of the good things that have happened since I began my transition.  Then my mind says “they’re few and far between.”  You shut your mind-face.  I’m trying to be positive here, asshole.

So, HRT brings with it a host of difficulties and potential health issues, but again, I’m not focusing on those.  Let’s focus on something nice, me.  My skin has gotten so nice and smooth.  It used to be dry, and just unpleasant in general.  Even my complexion is getting better.

This is ridiculous.

Shut up.

My face is changing shape, though slowly- as you would expect.  Occasionally, I can catch a glimpse of what I will look like in the mirror, and that’s always nice.  My nails are better than they were, along with my cuticles.  My nails used to be really rough in appearance, and for no real reason at all.  My cuticles used to have this film stretching out over my disgusting nails. Not sure why, but I blame testosterone.

On the topic of blaming testosterone, even though it isn’t gone completely, my depression isn’t as bad as it was.  I used to cry a whole lot, and now I hardly cry in despair at all.  Sometimes I cry while watching nice things, which is very… niceNice.

Things don’t bother me as much as they used to, and I have a lot fewer fits of unchecked rage.  Yeah.  Still happens, but usually it’s because of mood swings now.

Body hair is a lot slower to grow.  I hate body hair.  I HATE IT.  So, that’s good.

I think I’ve actually gotten more flexible as well.  I was a bit surprised, as I haven’t found anything about that in any of my research.  I guess if I looked for that specifically, I’d probably find some testimonials.

I’m not going to talk about breast growth because there is a limit to what I’ll even put in a diary.  I wouldn’t normally write about something like that, and so I won’t.  It’s not like this is really here for anyone but me, and even if it was

I’m not really modest when people ask me about things directly, because I’m all about educating people that want it.  That said, there’s a limit to the information I will volunteer- I guess that topic makes me feel a bit bashful, and I can’t imagine anyone wants to read about it.  Unless they are beginning their own transition, in which case I would point you at Youtube.  If asked.

So, what else…?  Oh!  My hair!  My hair is getting pretty awesome, and I’ve got all these cute little baby hairs on my hairline now.  Also, these lovely golden hairs have popped up on my upper arms, and some other places.  I love those.  Now, if only all of my body hairs would turn into those…

It’s a lot easier for me to be empathetic now.  I’m also a lot less visual, but I was never really all that visual to begin with.  That said, my ability to focus on an image in my head (be it for a story or trying to find something without physically looking for it) comes much easier.  I’m much more likely to be taken in by something I am imagining, than something that I see, if you know what I mean.

I’m definitely quicker with a smile, and I find myself smiling at a random though a lot more often now.

I think I’m done.


Chips.  [7-30-2016]

[listening to: Bastille]

I can feel myself sinking again.  My depression never really went anywhere, but it had receded.  It felt good, not to be at the mercy of such a malevolent force.  To be able to wake up in the morning, to breathe, to feel, without being racked across that jagged edge.  As with all good things though… well, you know the saying.

 

I can’t seem to come out from under the caustic presumption that I will never look the way I want to look.  The way I should look.  I’ll never have any peace, because there is no allotment of peace for me in this world.  Now, before you freak out: this is not a suicide note.  This is reality, or at least my reality.

 

Every time I am feeling some semblance of peace, somebody says something that I don’t like.  Him.  He.  Buddy.  Guy.  Man.  Sir.  Young man.  I can feel a piece of me fall away, chips of my marble facade falling to the floor, only to shrivel up and die- never to return.  It hurts every time.  It hurts so much, but I don’t have it in me to do anything about it.  I know how to ask for what I want, but I never ask for things that I don’t think I deserve.  It’s like they’re reaching inside me and tearing out something important, a piece of my broken heart, but I can’t tell them to stop because I don’t deserve to.  If I looked the way I’m supposed to

 

It’s my fault for looking wrong.  Being wrong.  It’s my fault for having a physique instead of a figure.  It’s my fault for not having the right kind of hair.  It’s my fault for not doing my make-up properly.  It’s my fault for not using the right voice.  It’s my fault for wanting the impossible.

 

I know it’s not my fault, so why can’t I get around the feeling that it is?  Why do I feel wrong all of the time?  Why am I always wrong?  Wrong about how, maybe today, I look good enough not to be seen as a joke.  I feel like putting my fist through this computer right now.  Then I get to thinking, maybe it’s wrong that I am even alive.  Maybe that is my biggest mistake: being born.  It’s exhausting, being alive.

 

Unfortunately for my heart and it’s broken pieces, I don’t have it in me to give up.  Not until I have tried everything I can.  So I go on, burning with a self directed rage.  It’s easy to be laughed at, gawked at, mocked, and shunned when I know that no one on this planet could hate me as much as I do.  No one could ever do anything worse to me than I have done, and continue to do.  No one could ever see me as more repugnant than I do myself.

 

So don’t get too full of yourself world.  If I ever do kill myself, it will be because I couldn’t reconcile the fact that I even exist in the first place.


Being transgender is fucking bullshit. [7-?-2016]

I spend a majority of my time hating myself.  My body.  My shovel face.  My voice.  Every single hair below my forehead.  My hands.  My feet.  My belly button.  My legs.

The worst part is, no matter how much I change, I know it isn’t in me to ever be satisfied.  Hell, I can’t even believe that the hormones I’m on will help my physical situation in any significant way.


It would be nice to have someone to love.  [7-1-2016]

Someone that loved me.  Someone to hold me and rub my back when I’m feeling down.  Someone to tell me I’m pretty, even when I know I’m not.  Someone that would stay with me no matter how rocky my moods got.

I’ve never had anyone.  Not.  Ever.  No joke.  It really is a miracle that all of the varying jealousy’s in me haven’t completely destroyed me from the inside.  Yet.  Only once has anyone ever wanted me enough to actually make it known, and every time I like someone- every single time– my affection is completely unrequited.  I hear people complain about their relationships, their girlfriends, boyfriends, husbands, wives, and not only can I not relate, but it makes me extremely sad.  I could get them to stop simply by telling them that I have never had anyone.  You are complaining about dirty water to someone that is dying of thirst.  I never do though.  That isn’t how people work.  Just because their hardship is something I have never had the chance to experience, that doesn’t mean that it is not- in fact- a hardship.  Does not an engine failure in a Ferrari have the potential to be just as devastating as a broken down bicycle, given the person involved?

I started thinking at some point that I may have been cursed.  The first and only person to confess their feeling for me, did so at the worst possible time.  I was not ready for what came with such a confession, and so I shrank away from it, and them.  I feel horrible about that to this day, but I feel she put a curse on me no less.  I bear no malice toward her for it, and actually feel that I deserve it.  Perhaps it is this guilt that has doomed me to a life of solitude.  I can only suppose at this point, so far into my loneliness that it’s hard to spot the place where it began.

To make matters even worse, I’m trans.  Born a male, identifying as female.  Who the hell would want that when they already didn’t want anything to do with the vanilla version of me?  I spend a majority of my time thinking about how much I hate myself, and how I’ll never find someone to love me because I’m incapable of loving myself.  Not as I am now.  Not as I will always be.  We can save where I stand on the trans issue for another entry though.