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.

Brain Spew #2, Hair Issues and Boy Issues

I have barely written anything in my notebook in the last few days, and we all know that's not a good thing, so I'm going to spit out whatever I can right now. You are under no obligation to read it, in fact I highly suggest you don't, lest your brain be short-circuited by the frantic buzzing in my own.

I've had so much going on in my head lately, but no will to let it out on paper. I guess it's times like these one needs people to talk to. I really don't do enough talking. I'm like a balloon that's too full of air, I need to let it out!

Speaking of which, I have my next appointment with Louise tomorrow. With my Mum. This was supposed to be the big sort-it-all-out session, but my brain is so far away from the issue at hand, I have no idea what I'll say. I think once every 2 weeks is no where need frequent enough for my sessions with Louise.

I've been considering growing my hair out, which is scary somehow. I cut it super short a few months ago, into a sort of Louise Brooks bob, in line with my lips. It was kind of a big deal because I tried a short, shaggy cut when I was 11, cutting off my waist-long hair, and it came out horrible. I'm stubbourn, though, so every time it grew long enough to try again, I did, then got frustrated when it looked terrible. I'd managed to not cut it (apart from the not-so-infrequent Haircut of Despair) and had it down to my shoulders. Anyway, this time I looked damn good, and it was the first thing I'd ever done to physically acknowledge any kind of gender-variant behavior, though I didn't mention this to anyone. The fact that I thought I looked like a young Willy Wonka was my secret, though I think my granddad was unnerved by how it made me look, because he said I should grow it again, and also dye it a natural colour.

Thing is, I don't see myself as boy-ish at the moment. I'm not sure, but the it's been a few months before I cut my hair that I admitted I wasn't happy with showing the level of femininity in my appearance as I was. For some reason, now I'm a little scared about growing it out, even though it's only down to my chin now. I'm afraid of looking too... "feminine". I guess I feel kind of jipped that this short phase of my life went undocumented, apart from a few camera-phone photos on Halloween. Damn, I need a camera. What was I on about? Oh, right...

My physical appearance has always been dictated by others, hand-me-down clothes, Mum hair-cuts, that sort of thing, and it's always been girl-oriented. I've never really admitted it outright before, but now that I have I feel more comfortable with my gender(s) now, at least, the boy-ish part, and I felt good about expressing it, even if it was just to myself.

People expect me to be "female," and I guess I just don't want to give them the satisfaction anymore. I've forgotten how I was going to tie this in with the hair thing, but I don't feel right cutting it again. I'm not sure what to do here, or even if I should be worrying. Or if I should post this blog entry. To post or not to post, that is the question.

Maybe I should just shut up and go to bed. Yeah.

PS @TheLadySappho on Twitter needs out support. She's been practicing her fingers off making an audition video, and is going to ask Emilie Autumn to consider her as her touring keyboardist! Yippee!

PPS I know BB tagged me aaaaaages ago for that Honest Scrap game thing, but I really have no idea what I could write. I promise I will get around to it!

PPPS If anyone knows how to get rid of those stupid "Mood: Interesting, Funny, Cool" check boxes that appear at the end of my posts, please let me know! I'm sick of them!

XX Goodnight.

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.