It's Over

Whatever little spark has been pushing me to go to school everyday and actually FINISH high school died slowly over the week. Nothing else seems to matter much either. There IS a light at the end of the tunnel, always has been. Trouble is, I'm not getting any closer. I haven't moved forward in 6 years. I don't think I remember how.

I quit. It's over. I'm not giving up on life, don't panic. But the way I'm going about it now isn't working. I haven't seen Louise in a month. I was supposed to see a specialist she referred me too, but her office is too far away, and I really hate using Mum's phone. Louise moved to the same suburb, so I have to find the money for the train before I can go see her.

We're flat broke. No grocery shopping for 3 weeks. Not a slice of bread left in the house. I've reverted back to my old habit of drinking tea when I'm hungry. I think I'm a little dehydrated because of it.

This life is void. It was never going anywhere to start with. I always knew I was born in the wrong body, to the wrong family, in the wrong state. How did I become the person I am in these surroundings? I am the exact opposite of a chameleon. I have to much imagination to be happy with what I have, but not enough to make it into what I want it to be.

I knew this would happen. I told them I needed stability before I went back to school or it would burn me out. I can't do this anymore. It's over. Not that it ever began in the first place.

Hang in there, Little Tomato!

This has pretty much been my mantra lately. There has been so much happen since my last blog that I don't know where to begin, so I'll just start with the stuff that's up front in my head.


I'm getting a haircut. This has been such an unnerving thing to think about lately, I'm surprised it feels like such a natural decision now. I'm getting it cut even shorter. Yes, shorter. My hair is a release point for me. Whenever I'm stressed or anxious, I cut my hair. I did a bit of hacking away a week or two ago when I found out Louise was moving her practice, but it's still chin-length. I feel like I need to drop a load of dead weight our of my life, and a haircut always gives me a lighter, weight-off-my-shoulders feeling, like I'm getting rid of all the anxieties and hang-ups that have been building up inside me. I need that to be able to get on with the rest of my shit.


 Also, it turns out my little gender-shift wasn't as temporary as I assumed it would be. I've been searching the fringes of the interwebs and reading up on the subject. Ever since I can remember, I've been discouraged from thinking outside the box. The general rules seemed to be "Don't step out of line, do as you're told, don't let your personality imprint on anything outside of your mind." I have no idea where that last one came from, I have no memory of any life lesson or lecture, but it's been a huge roadblock in my life for... ever. Since I was about 12, I've been slowly uncovering the real person underneath all the stuff I've been told I'm supposed to be. I guess this is just another fun fact I've learned about myself. I've been becoming more and more comfortable with the term "genderqueer," even more so with "androgynous." Because of this, I've been reconsidering what I'll change my name to. I've been Tabitha for the past few years, at least to the people I like. I think it would be smart to chose a unisex name. Small problem, though, a lot of the unisex names I've come across so far are so plain. I never thought I'd want to start making lists of potential names again, but I find my self feeling more optimistic this time around. I've been hanging around on Genderfork, taking note of the kind of names and stuff. I feel good about this.



Before school started, my younger brother Jerome and I went to stay with our Aunt Kym and Uncle Greg for a week. This was a big week. I found out that most of my family know about the problems we've got going on, but were not aware of how much Mum's drinking was affecting us, or how much and often she drinks. There was a family meeting, where we got it all out and I got into a fight with my giant of a grandfather where we both had to be restrained. A few days before that I would have just broken down in tears even before the argument, but I felt so different after staying with Kym and Greg. There was a lot of time-wasting when everyone tried to convince my brother and I that it was our job to take care of Mum. What the fuck does it look like we've been trying to do? She's supposed to be the mother in this relationship. I figured that out a few years ago and backed off, and stopped thinking of myself as the one in charge of everything. One of the few intelligent adults to ever speak to me honestly said that if I acted like a kid, Mum would become the mother I needed. Bullshit. She's just not mother material. Good intentions don't equal good parenting. It's taken me a while to admit that. I've been feeling guilty for saying Mum's not the greatest, well, mum, but now I understand: she's not a dead-beat, she's just genuinely incapable. She's still a child herself. She had kids because it was what married couples were supposed to do. 


It's also taken me a while to admit I'm not okay, and asking for help is definitely not something I've had a lot of practice at. After  they got the message with a little help from Kym, who just listens like you wouldn't believe, we discussed alternative living arrangements. I'd already asked some of the aunts and uncles for help, and they just kind of blew me off while trying to stifle large quantities of guilt. The problem with my family is that they do want to help, they just don't fully understand, which was the point of the family meeting. My aunt Karen was trying to get an apartment with a friend, so I could move in with them and operate like an adult, but I'm so not ready for that it's not even funny. I've tried to operate like an adult for a long time, I can't do it. I admit I need parental figures in my life. (There's a lot of admitting going on) Kym understands that, and we've been working on finding a way for me to live with her. I had hoped to have the majority of these issues resolved before I started school, but it hasn't happened that way. I've been holding up okay, though, but it's starting to take it's toll. Thus the need for ejecting dead weight.


School is awesome. Simply awesome. I love my teachers, my classes, the stuff I'm learning, I've met loads of cool, interesting people. A few weeks ago, we went on an excursion for art to the APT6 exhibit at the Brisbane Gallery of Modern Art. It rocked, bigtime. I look forward to seeing it again without herds of raucous eight-year-olds running around. I totally aced my Art exam the other day, too (I think). Apart from feeling a little over whelmed (okay, a lot) the last few days, things have been very, very, good.


This post is getting ridiculously long, so I'll just leave it here.

xx Remarkable

Post-Louise Euphoria

I don't write in this blog nearly enough. For the last few months it seems like all the good ideas and words and phrases that might be useful for a blog entry have been sucked into the giant black hole in my bedroom floor. Today, obviously is different. I've just got back from my second session with my psychologist, Louise. Since I've been seeing her, the black hole in my floor has grown smaller, at least for temporary chunks of time.

I've been seeing counselors on and off since I was 11, but none of them ever helped that much. Jenny, from my first year at high school, and last year when I returned to that school, came close, but I was reluctant to open up to her. I didn't really have the ability to express my thoughts the way I do now. With Louise, however, this is different.

For the first time in my life I feel listened to. That's the thing I love the most about her: she doesn't just hear, and scribble notes, she listens, and thinks and processes. And her office makes me feel safe. Both times I've been to see her, I ran out of tissues, which she immediately replaced, and I still felt safe after she was gone. I also love that she said she'd take me home herself if it wasn't unethical, and that Molly was the coolest name for a cat, ever.


We talked about a lot of stuff (when I say "talked" I mean, "actual useful, intelligent dialogue that helped.") and during this and afterward I felt...I don't even know a word for how I feel. Safe? (seems to be a key word here) Optimistic? Hopeful, even?

I remember after leaving her office the first time, on my way home I was struck by the thought that with this woman's help, I could become a whole person. Silly way to phrase it, I know, but that's how it struck me. A whole person, who acknowledges and accepts all her life experiences, good and bad, and takes responsibility for the emotions attached to them, and is capable of the things that other whole people are. I could have a normal life, without gaping chasms opening up in walls and floors, without fear and anxiety 24/7, with friends I care about and a future to look forward to. To be a whole person, not just a personality.

One thing we talked about, which I have been meaning to mention somehow, but haven't, is my fear of aging. (Friend Josh pointed out to me that "gerascophobia" is the term for fear of aging. Thank you, Friend Josh) It was my birthday 3 weeks ago, and I spent the entire week leading up to it in a state of blind, frantic panic mixed up with terror. By the day before my birthday, I was literally tearing my hair out. (The hair on my head, which I almost never pull out) trying to climb the window panes to escape the now enormous black hole. I decided, for the sake of my sanity, to go on a Time strike. Or, rather, age strike. To simple not acknowledge my age, at all Period. Just stay 16 until I was ready to move on. There are plenty of 30-something-year-olds who say they're 20-something, right? I still look the part, and I don't feel any older, so why not me?

(Louise was out of town all week during this time. Ironic, I know.)

When I mentioned this to Louise, I slipped in something along the lines of, "I know it's stupid and illogical," as I always do when I'm afraid people will say something mean. She pointed out that there were no drastic changes had occurred, no growth spurts or sudden wrinkling etc. Her message came across as, "Age is only a number, and you're only as old as you feel." I still feel 16, it's true, so what does it really matter. She also said it was perfectly alright, and not stupid at all, to wait until I felt 17 to declare my age, mostly to myself, and that I'm still the same person anyway.

She also said not to think about it. Oops.

After getting all my issues out in the open, we made actual, solid plans to make things better. Rellies to talk to, things like that. Discussion was followed by action (or at least the planning of action, with the intention of following through), not just a, "See if you still feel the same way tomorrow morning." We're getting shit done, plugging up the black holes sprinkled across memories and feelings. I still feel like my emotions are all squashed and rung out and gunky, like the crap you scrape out of the plug hole after washing up a load of dishes with pasta baked on, but I also feel like there is a scratch on the surface of what has been boxed up for so long, providing a little light for me.

I do feel hopeful. Life is not only fixable, but worth fixing.
Thank you, Louise.