#*LIED ABOUT HAVING DYSPHORIA | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dino-nugget7 · 11 months

Text

TW: This post is going to be about my experiences as a teacher. This is going to include discussions of covid, child abuse, workplace negligence, and sucidality.

Well, got back on this lovely little hellsite for the first time in about 2 years yesterday. I left here around the time that I had decided to leave teaching. I talked a bit back then about how horrifically oppressive the school system is to students (which is still something I'm pissed about) But I wasn't ready to talk about a lot of the other aspects of the system that disturbed me. I thought I had bipolar disorder because I went through a severe depression and the meds I was put on to cope with that put me through a manic episode which was in some ways scarier than the depressive episode. I haven't had an episode in either direction since leaving. I mention this so you understand how fucked my situation was even if you don't read any farther. I do hope someone reads farther though even though its gonna be a depressing read because I need people to know how horrific it is to work in education, especially rural education.

So here's an exhaustive list of every fucked up aspect of my time as a teacher:

1. Within the first few weeks of being a teacher, a student confided in me about being beaten at home. Of course, I reported it and a few days later the caseworker assigned to that student informed my colleagues and I that the state did find evidence of violence against the student but that it was leaving the student in the home "because the student was 17 and had a history of drug use so there would be no foster families willing to take him." The student was beaten again to the point of ending up in the hospital and the state locked up his stepfather for a few months but left him in the home again with his mother who had let said abuse happen. This is not the worst case of a student experiencing violence at home and not being removed after we reported it that I witnessed. Just the first. I was powerless to help any of them because the safety net they were supposed to have outside of us when horrific shit happens, just...wasn't there.

2. As discussed before I left, I realized that even though I happened to have liked school when I was in, its fucked up how micromanaged every second of the day is for students and how they have no say over what they are learning about. Its fucked up that they are trained to be blindly obedient and forced to stay in spaces and interact with people that cause them suffering.

3. This is pretty specific to the fact that I was in a student self-paced rural alternative school but I was the only science and health teacher both years, the math teacher my first year and the art teacher my second. In a class period with 16 students, it was common for students to be working on 7 different courses. Which would have been fine, I had experience in college running that class structure, but I had no textbooks, no lab materials unless I bought them, very few math and art supplies, and I had to make all of my lesson materials and all 20 curricula from scratch because the curricula I had been handed by my predecessor had been written in 1993 and never updated. Between teaching, meetings, grading, curricula building, classroom upkeep and lab setup I was there every day from 5 am to 7pm at least and often also came in for a few hours on Saturdays.

4. When Covid hit and we all went remote, I spent every day staring at my own face on a webcam for 7 hours because none of the students showed up at all to any of their classes despite us calling the parents we could reach every day and sending emails every day. A few students completed a couple of assignments early on over email but even that didn't happen after a while. I didn't blame them, I know a lot of them were trapped in hell being stuck at home and the rest considered school hell but it fucks with your psyche to spend 35 hours a week forced to stare at yourself on a screen on the slimmest chance someone will show up for 2 months straight.

5. On the last day of school my first year, a parent called and yelled at me about her daughter not getting a science credit and having a 10% in my class. She claimed I never reached out. I pointed out that her daughter refused to do work in my class long before lockdown despite every effort on my part, which she(the parent) knew about based on previous conferences we'd had about this very behavior and forwarded her every email I sent her over the course of lockdown with work she could have done and links to my class zoom meeting if she'd wanted face-to-face help and pointed out every phone call we made. She went to my principal to demand an extension for her daughter into the summer which my principal granted so I got to spend Even More Time staring at my own face because Surprise surprise, her daughter still didn't show up or complete any assignments but I didn't recieve further berating from that parent about it at least.

6. When we went back to in person teaching I was the only adult in the building who took the mask mandate seriously so my classroom was the only one where students were wearing masks at all and I had to fight them tooth and nail about it because my roommate's son was immunocompromised and could not afford to get sick but because I was the only teacher fighting that battle, it got harder and harder instead of easier and a lot of students I had built good relationships with the previous year started to hate me for being so strict and I had to go get that test where they shoved a swab all the way up into your sinus cavity every single week until the vaccine came out. When I opened up to my colleagues about the stress this was causing me and why I cared so much (which I really didn't feel like I should have had to justify in the first place), they told me to "relax about it, kids aren't even the ones dying," entirely ignoring that I was in direct contact with a kid who could have, in fact, died from it. This was the straw that caused me to put in my resignation.

7. All of the above put me in a mental state where I had to call a suicide hotline and take an emergency few days off work because I couldn't physically get myself out of bed. I got put on those meds that made me manic but they take a few weeks to kick in at all and I contractually could not take that long off and couldn't have afforded to do so anyways so still in full-blown suicidal depression, my first day back was Parent Teacher Conference Night, which is exhausting and terrible at the best of times. My principal knew I was mentally unwell and had told me if I needed any accommodation as I readjusted to let her know so I asked if I could sit out conferences or at the very least have someone else in the room with me since the school was so small that every teacher had every student. She said no, that it was a privacy issue (which was untrue because we did whole-staff parent meetings All The Time for students with particularly concerning behaviors and because again we all taught everyone and had daily staff meetings about student progress and concerns so we all knew everything about everyone but even so she could have been the one to sit with me) I pointed all of this out and she told me, "Well being a teacher isn't about you, you have to put the students above yourself." When I had been doing that nonstop for two years to the point that I was in the mental hole I was in. I was in such a fucked up place that a lot of the parents noticed it and tried to check in on me as I started falling asleep or forgot what I was saying midsentence.

8. When I did my exit interview at the end of the year my principal told me that I was a great teacher and she hoped I'd return to the field someday even if it was in a different setting because students deserved someone who was constantly the voice in the room advocating for them even when their own parents and other teachers stopped doing so. This was the first meeting I ever had where I was told I was a good teacher rather than being constantly told what i should be improving on as I drowned trying to even lay a foundation for myself.

Despite everything it still breaks my heart to realize it will never be healthy for me to go back to teaching even if I was in a district with better supports because of how much trauma I've been left with and because of how jaded about the entire system i am. I loved the teaching part of my job. I loved those moments where students showed me projects they were proud of and when they finally understood concepts that had them stuck. I loved empowering students to make positive decisions and to come out of their shells in my class. I loved when I managed to create lessons that hit that learn something-have fun sweet spot. I loved when I was able to let students incorporate their real interests into what we were learning or even let them be the experts on a topic. I still have art students gave me. I know despite it grinding me down to a husk of myself, I was good teacher and I could have eventually been an excellent one. Its true that Teaching is more than a job, its a calling. But I'm no use to anyone dead.

#i had a therapist during all of this and she didnt even have any advice #she just kept being like yeah thats a fucked up situation and being Not Okay is the normal reaction to being in the middle of all that #also i lied this list wasnt exhaustive #i didnt even talk about the bomb threat that happened or the fuckery I learned about on the district level #and this of course also doesnt touch on the gender dysphoria and family rejection i was facing for being trans #or the fact that i was living in a homophobic antiatheist town as a gay atheist

3 notes · View notes

mainfaggot · 2 years

Text

my mother makes me so miserable

#i fought with her about my gender expression bc shes been on my ass about that lately and how i 'look like im confused'#since i 'try to be a boy'#i have literally told her countless times that im the opposite of confused about my gender. in fact i am very sure about it #i always tell her that i view myself as a person before anything.. i liked about having dysphoria bc i do have that but she thinks #that thats sinful or something #but the point is i know exactly how i want to be seen and that is a girl thats a boy thats a girl thats just. A PERSON! WHO WEARS WHATEVER #and acts HOWEVER! (without hurting anyone) (like actually tangibly causing damage to anyone)#bc apparently me being this way 'hurts her'#anyway just smoked a cig im so normal nowwwww #literally i smoke twice a year or something and its always when im hanging on by a thread too 😭💀#z.post #*LIED ABOUT HAVING DYSPHORIA

1 note · View note

faultsofyouth · 3 months

Text

My mom will give me tattoo money for my birthday this year (intended for my leg sleeve) but what I really want is boob tattoos but I cant have a conversation with her about why they are so important to me like im not ready to talk about cutting with her and I never will be ready

#my posts #i started cutting up my toddies for dysphoria reasons but i didnt leave behind awful ugly scars until my big sweet 16 relapse #which as much as a relapse can be somebody elses fault it is hers. she stabbed me in the back #but it breaks her heart to think about her only child taking a knife to herself #i'd rather her live in denial than have a conversation with me where she learns the truth about how bad she fucked me up #she doesn't deserve that conversation. not only would it hurt her but i told her for years before that #that i could not cope with a violent man in our house. and she yelled at me and hit me and lied to me and named me one of her abusers #its far too late for her to go feeling guilty now. the damage is all done. i just want to move on quietly

0 notes

autolenaphilia · 6 months

Text

Edit: as hoshi9zoe pointed out, the original version of this post needlessly berated other transfems like Jennifer Coates, for which I do apologize, and I have toned it down in this edited version. The original version survives in reblogs.

Some months ago, I was searching through this transandrobro blog to see if they posted a callout of me, and i found this reblog, which I couldn't really write about for months, because what do I even write. I recently wayback machined it for posterity, and I guess this is my attempt to write a post about it.

It's saint-dyke himself, the coiner of transandrophobia, saying that the infamous (at least for me) article "I am a transwoman. I'm in the closet. I'm not coming out" is what made him coin the fucking word. It's literally bolded and underlined: "Reading this article is what made me coin “transandrophobia”.

The reason I put off writing this post is that reading that article makes me feel like i'm drinking poison. And it is poison, make no mistake, it's internalized transmisogyny brainworms dripping out of the writer's brain and onto the page.

It's a justification for why the author, known by pseudonym Jennifer Coates, doesn't want to transition, despite knowing she is a trans woman. And it's the exact kind of internalized transmisogyny that keeps trans women in repression and not transitioning. "I'm not going to pass, i'm forever going to be an ugly freak who will at best be humored by other women, the closet is uncomfortable but at least it's safe"

It's the same exact bullshit a lot of represssed trans women tell themselves because it's what society tells us about trans women, that we are freakish parodies of women, that we will never pass, and if we don't pass we have failed and are ugly freaks. It's all to scare us into staying in the closet and make others hate and fear us. Transmisogyny permeates our society, and the majority, maybe all transfems will absorb and internalize some of it.

Coates says that it all is just applicable to her, but again so many transfems believe this shit before transitioning and realizing it's a pack of lies. If this bullshit was in any way valid, a lot of trans women shouldn't transition, because before we actually transition many of us believe it word for word. And "it's only true for me" is how we justify it to ourselves. We tend to be way harsher on ourselves than others. This kind of self-hating transfem tends to think: "Other trans women are beautiful graceful goddesses, earthly manifestations of the divine feminine, always destined to be women, while I'm an ugly forever male ogre who just has a fetish."

It's all bullshit, it's poison, it's internalized transmisogyny.

And the rest of the article is bullshit too. It is not some insightful mediation on gender as some people say, it's the author confusing and mixing up actual transmisogyny with an imagined problem of misandry. She does this because she has gone full repression mode, and decided she has no other choice to live as a man, so her dysphoria and experiences of transmisogyny are actually men's problems.

It's a bad article, excusable because as Coatas points out, it's "essentially a diary entry." that was meant to be a way to "vent frustration" and she "did not intend for anyone else to actually read it." It is clearly not the product of a healthy mind.

I hope the author sometime in the past seven years eventually did transition, and that for whatever reason she didn't want to publicly repudiate her own article. Maybe she lost access to the medium account so she can't delete it.

Far worse than the article itself is the response to it. I've seen it passed around as some insightful commentary on gender by the "feminists are too mean to men, misandry is real" crowd. I have argued against this before. And other people have made insightful comments about it.

And learning that saint-dyke claiming that he was inspired to coin the word "transandrophobia" because of this article is the cherry on top of this shitcake of transmisogyny. For my thoughts on "transandrophobia" theory and how transmisogynistic it is, see here.

Of course, Saint-dyke absolutely could be bullshitting here. Claiming that Coates's article is what inspired him to coin the word might be a lie to claim that transandrophobia theory is not transmisogynistic because it came from listening to trans women.

This is why "listen to trans women" doesn't work. Because TME people will always choose a trans woman who confirms their prejudices. Blair White has made an entire career out of this. And Coates article is popular because it says that misandry is real and trans women's issues are partly caused by it, misgendering herself and other trans women.

And it's popular for another reason. Coates has thoroughly internalized transmisogyny, and thus her article presents a trans woman that is exactly as transmisogynistic patriarchal society wants her to be. She is suffering, but ultimately accepts her assigned role. She truly believes that her biological sex dooms her to forever be male. She literally "manages her dysphoria by means other than transition" as conversion therapy advocates want us to do. She never makes an social claim on womanhood by actually transitioning, so she doesn't invade the sacred women's spaces. Yet she performs the role of woman perfectly by serving men, by defending them from supposed feminist misandry. And she fulfils the ritualistic role that the rhetorical figure of "trans women" sometimes serves in progressive spaces, of giving a blessing to TME people's pre-existing views and actions, all while actual flesh-and-blood trans women are destroyed by those same deeply transmisogynistic spaces. This time it's a blessing for the same "misandry is real" soft-MRA bullshit that has infested the online left and created the transandrophobia crowd.

That is why this article and the positive response makes me sick, makes me feel like i'm drinking poison. This is what its fans want trans women to be like. I'm acutely aware this kind of self-denial is exactly what transmisogyny wants from me and tried to indoctrinate me into doing it. And I want none of it. I want to live, I want to be a woman.

#my writings #transmisogyny #jennifer coates #this is a lot more emotional than i usually am #but i'm so angry and disgusted

2K notes · View notes

borrowmyshovel · 2 months

Text

Ultimately the reason a certain type of transfem is so resistant to the concept of transmasc oppression has little to do with the trans people involved and much more to do with the panopticon of cisnormativity.

The conversation always comes back to what something "must imply" about trans women, with the assumption that any claim made about transmascs must be inverted to apply to transfems. That is because these women have made a deal with the devil. They have paid for the conditional acceptance of cis women by pledging themselves to the defense of binary, cis-centric, white feminism. Their womanhood is dependent on the rejection of masculinity, not in the normal "I'm not a man so don't call me that" way, but in the radfemmy "men and masculinity are my #1 enemy, I have nothing in common with any man" way. Under this framework, trans women's acceptance necessitates trans men's rejection, because someone needs to be the enemy. So to tell a trans woman that she's in community with trans men amounts to misgendering. There cannot be solidarity between transmascs and transfems, because a woman's only ally is other women, and to have something in common with a man is to admit you're not really, at the core of you, a real woman. And the cis feminists are gonna fucking get you.

The saddest thing is that the cis feminists don't even need to be actual people. More often that not, they seem to primarily exist in the person's head. It's the voice of dysphoria, the fear of transphobic violence, the paranoia of marginalised existence, all working together to create this idea that the key to being accepted and accepting yourself lies in being as cruel to other trans people as possible. Because what the fuck else can you do?

#transandrophobia

459 notes · View notes

copperbadge · 3 months

Note

hi, i had a medium to big question. in your post about the adhd self-help book you mentioned people with adhd being conditioned to be nonconfrontational, but i've never once in my entire life connected the two? can you break down the connection for me so that i can once again (this week, even) have my understanding of my own condition blown wide open?

So, you are not the only person to ask about this, but that's on me for being unclear -- I wasn't trying to assert that kids with ADHD are automatically conditioned to be nonconfrontational, I was more trying to be like "Hey not everyone needs lessons in medical self-advocacy but a lot of nonconfrontational people do." And I think there is a higher population of people with neurodivergence who are deeply confrontation-averse, but I don't have like, numbers for that, it's just an assumption based on other knowledge.

It gets complicated; ADHD is a disease based heavily in acting impulsively against your best interests. But yeah I do think people with ADHD are often conditioned to avoid confrontation because of two main factors: rejection-sensitive dysphoria and executive dysfunction.

RSD, which I hate perhaps more than any other symptom or behavior associated with ADHD, automatically kicks our nervous system into high gear in social situations and encodes embarrassing moments in our memory with high-def clarity. Because RSD naturally causes a level of anxiety around socialization, it tends to make us nonconfrontational simply because a) we don't want to be yelled at, b) we don't want to embarrass ourselves by getting emotional about something that may not warrant it, and c) by the time we realize what's happening our body is already on high alert which means we are likely to go into fight-flight-freeze mode.

Me, I freeze, usually, but none of those three options are great for fast thinking during an argument. I used to lose arguments a lot simply because I couldn't think or react as fast as the neurotypical person I was fighting with, so I simply stopped having fights. Notably, I did not have this problem when fighting with my brother, who is also neurodivergent and has many of the same freeze reactions I do.

If people disagree with me, even when I know I'm right I also know I probably won't be able to vocalize it properly, so I back down. Usually it's trivial so it doesn't matter, and I've gotten strategic about how and when I argue about things that do matter; it's also a lot easier to do with strangers or professionals (like doctors) where I don't have to worry about long-term social repercussions. But yeah, our own nervous system tells us "hey maybe don't pick this fight" about every single fight and if we do pick that fight, it treats our opponent as a dangerous predator.

Executive dysfunction's interaction with nonconfrontation is something I have less problem with because while I do have poor executive function, I've spent a lot of time and energy training myself to cover the Important Stuff. I have mild ADHD so I'm capable of this; I'm not trying to say everyone with ADHD is, because lord knows it's exhausting for me and I've been doing it for roughly thirty years. But essentially, I cover where it counts: if someone needs me to do something I do it, I meet deadlines, I pay bills.

So with that disclaimer in place, a very common issue especially for children with undiagnosed ADHD is that they'll be told or asked to do something and simply be unable to begin or complete it, then when they're asked why they didn't do it they can't explain. Even if they try to explain that they simply couldn't, like they were incapable of doing it for reasons they don't understand, that usually doesn't hold water with a lot of parents and teachers.

"I couldn't bring myself to write this essay," is actually something I told myself a few times in college, but it's not something I'd bother trying to tell someone else, because if you think you're neurotypical that sounds very insane. So I'd lie and say I forgot, or I'd take the fail, or I'd simply drop out of the class. Crucially I would not fight with the authority figure who was questioning me about it, because I knew I wouldn't be able to explain myself, and I'd just end up getting in more trouble for longer.

Our culture is structured for neurotypicals, and it's not even structured for all neurotypicals. Behavior that deviates from Approved Neurotypical even when you think you are Approved Neurotypical is highly punishable. So if your options are passivity, even when passivity leads to pain, or confrontation, most people who aren't Approved Neurotypical will opt for passivity once they've had a taste of where confrontation leads. I know I do.

And the thing is, there's nothing actually wrong with that. It's a strategy calculated to minimize pain. Even when I'm firing on all cylinders on a fresh dose of Adderall, I still generally let fights go unless there will be actual real consequences, because it's just not worth it. But knowing we have ADHD and knowing we fall into this pattern, I think it is good to be aware that sometimes letting a fight go is really going to fuck you, and at that point even being bad at it is better than not engaging.

I'm pretty good at calculating those, but it's a lifelong process, knowing which hills to die on when you assume you will automatically die if you ever get above sea level.

#sam has adhd #jellydishes

344 notes · View notes

nothorses · 3 months

Note

#idk i have thoughts about the 'binar v. nonbinary' distinction. i think there is a reason#that trans people get degendered when they use binary pronouns#AND wrongly gendered when they use use gender neutral pronouns#for example

i'm intrigued by these thoughts would you like to share more about these thoughts

I think I'd boil it down to like... specifically the idea of "binary trans" people as a class.

I very firmly believe that the oppression of nonbinary people ("exorsexism") exists and is a real form of oppression, and I believe that experiences with it- and the ideological foundation it rests on- are unique and worth discussing. I think nonbinary people have unique experiences with oppression that are necessary to listen to and understand, and that it is to everyone's benefit to include in those perspectives in larger conversations around trans justice.

I specifically take issue with the idea that there is a group of people that can easily & universally be differentiated as "binary trans" in anything but how those people personally identify.

I think that, socio-politically speaking, the only people that are truly classed as "binary" are 100% gender-conforming dyadic cis people. When we're talking about transphobia as a concept, we're talking about a system of oppression meant to punish people who stray from the gender binary. Historically, anyone punished under this system was included under the "trans" umbrella: gender-non conforming cis people, drag kings and queens, nonbinary people, intersex people, you name it. We are all gender outlaws; we all exist outside traditional understandings of gender, and we are all punished for doing so.

Now, we can narrow the scope quite a bit; I do still have the ability to "pass" as my gender, which is not an option to a lot of nonbinary folks. I can get a gender marker that accurately reflects my gender, and I can go "stealth" in a way that doesn't cause me a lot of dysphoria. I absolutely acknowledge that there are experiences I do not have, and oppression I do not face, and I should take care to listen to the people who do face them.

The problem for me here is that like, none of those things are exclusively "binary trans" experiences either. Plenty of nonbinary people are not strictly outside of every binary gender, or outside of comfort with a binary gender presentation. Such is the enormous multitude of nonbinary identities, and the unknowable vastness of human experience.

The other, perhaps larger problem for me is that I also do not strictly have a "binary trans male" experience. I mean, least of all because I have still at this point spent more of my life identifying as nonbinary than I have as a trans man- but also because I'm still trans. In a lot of ways, I'm not actually viewed as "binary"; I am clock-able enough that I'm pretty regularly degendered by even incredibly well-intentioned cis people, for example. My grandma is confused about my gay relationship; she very much does not think it is gay or straight. Anyone who knows I'm a trans man does not think of me as a woman or a man; they think of me as something entirely outside of the binary, and they treat me accordingly.

To go back to the tag you're quoting: I think binary trans people using binary pronouns are degendered for the exact same reason that nonbinary using gender-neutral pronouns are misgendered. People don't want to recognize us as the genders we are. They don't want to validate an experience of gender that lies outside their tidy little gender binary.

Again: this doesn't mean that exorsexism isn't real, or even that "there is no such thing as a binary trans woman/man". That's not what I'm saying. I want to keep having discussions about the unique experiences nonbinary people have, and the unique ways in which transphobic society treats and targets them, and the unique oppression they suffer, and why, and how we can fight that.

I also don't think I'm the first person by far to point out that maybe the idea of The Binary Trans Experience should be problematized a little bit, and I think there's something to be said for the funky space that "binary trans people" occupy on the good-little-gender-conforming-cis-person to nonbinary continuum.

#if anyone uses this to justify erasure of nonbinary people or oppression #i just want you to know that i am shooting you with a gun.

159 notes · View notes

muzzlemouths · 1 month

Text

Part 1 of a oneshot based on @juicyyyboxxx's Valentine's Day art because it's lived in my head for months. so if this breaks your heart you have them to blame 💕

WC: 1400

The rejection is familiar. It bites like teeth on flesh, a deep and aching bruise, unseen, it offers no catharsis without the bitter taste of crimson beneath. Circuits sting and spark under plates of cold metal and a heart that tick tick ticks to a pre-programmed pulse. Alive by electric veins, each breath is painfully artificial. That's why they always leave, isn't it?

How silly it is to think this time might be different. Yes, silly, that’s what they always tell him. What a silly robot, with silly little feelings he himself doesn’t understand and a silly heart that goes 01100010 01100101 01100001 01110100 (beat) 01100010 01100101 01100001 01110100 (beat) 01100010 01100101 01100001 01110100 (beat).

He is exhausted by its rhythm. Disheartened each time a scraped knee leaks oil and not blood. It didn’t use to be this way, of course. This dysphoria of sorts is recent — a development which stems from not one rejection, not two, but a number that can’t be contained when counting on both hands. He is made to watch, not to keep. The children come and go. Their parents, too. His coworkers find him endearing, charming, amusing, silly silly silly silly silly.

But not worth staying for.

He tries writing letters, assuming (hoping) that it is his voice or maybe his face which scares them away. Maybe he can’t find the right words, and his hesitance is too ugly to bear. Maybe it’s a matter of not saying the right things, or not saying enough of them. Writing it down will fix this, he thinks, and so he gets to work.

The first letter isn’t good. No, no, it isn’t good at all. He tries it again. This one isn’t much better. That’s okay! He has plenty of paper, see, and all the time in the world to get this right.

Time swims through scribbled ink, his hours punctuated with each shake of his head and the crunching of paper, forced into a ball and tossed over the shoulder to be discarded at a later time. It’s terribly messy and goes against his very coding, but then again, so does this beating heart of his. So do these feelings.

It’s a bug, he thinks. A sickness. There must be something wrong with him, surely. He can’t think of another reason for this madness. There are butterflies where his wires ought to be, a warmth in his chest that no amount of fans can reckon with. He feels so strongly about this. About you. And this time, the letter is perfect.

It has to be.

If it results in that familiar sting once more, well, he doesn’t think he will have the strength to try again.

He spots your orange sneakers from across the room and makes towards them like a bee, high on hope, catching you by your name just as you reach the exit doors. Your heel turns to question him, and your smile is thin. Polite. You want to clock out and be home, already.

The paper in Sun’s hands is folded neatly, basic printer white. The adhesive of a red heart sticker keeps the letter in place. His fingers tap-tap-tap against it for one anxious minute before he works up the courage to hand it over.

“Seeing as it’s Valentine’s Day, a-and everything,” he sputters, “I thought– well, why don’t you just give it a look?”

For all the opinions Moon had to share over the hours that the letter was being written, he is decidedly quiet now, of all times, when his voice and companionship is arguably needed most. There is a shared stillness to the room that is perfect as much as it is daunting as the letter is extended.

His gears tense like a held breath when you raise an eyebrow in his direction. You take it with the patience one might expect from any other retail worker; which is to say, too much. Your breezy attitude has him fidgeting with twice the enthusiasm, and the reasoning behind his restlessness is lost on you.

A confession lies between folded paper, unbeknownst to you, ready to be heard if you will humor him and listen. Your eyes return to the letter with an inquisitive hum.

Taking little care in preserving it, you break his heart.

Sun watches on with quiet resolve as the sticker is ripped in two, and the paper unfolded. He dares not move or utter a word as your eyes look over the small poem written in crayola purple. Short and sweet, with the intention of making his feelings for you known without it becoming too cheesy, he thinks it gets the job done well enough. His best letter yet! This assumption is further bolstered when your mouth upturns into a lopsided smile, but he can’t quite read your face.

Then comes the laughter.

Short, curt, a quick exhale through your nostrils more than anything else, as though he’s just told a joke that you found particularly–

“Oh, Sun…”

The letter is returned to him with that same humoring expression on your face, and it is here where he realizes that the look in your eyes isn’t returned affection at all. It’s pity.

“This is very sweet,” you insist, nudging the paper forward a second time when he doesn’t immediately take it back, “but it’s not like that between us, right? I mean, we’re friends, but…you didn’t seriously think this would work out, did you?” Another laugh, and this one stings. “Don’t be silly.”

There is an echo of understanding between his code. Your words don’t offer him the kindness of sinking in slow, rather, they cascade through his audio processors like a slap to the face, one after the other.

There it is again. Silly, silly, silly. Yes, indeed, how silly it was of him to think he could ever be anything more than a hunk of metal in human clothes, pretending to be something he’s not. At the end of it all, it’s not his face, or his voice, or the words he is too scared to say. It’s him. Silly, silly him.

And he is not something that can be fixed with crayon words and sticker hearts.

“…Sun?”

“Of course!” He abruptly straightens with a vocal tick of metal on metal, swiping the letter from your hands as if it burned you. “Of course I wasn’t being serious,” he continues, “it was a joke — a joke! You know me, silly ol’ Sunny. Just thought I’d give you a laugh before you went home for the night, is all!”

Printer paper white folds neatly over shaking hands. You might have questioned it were you not in so much of a hurry to get home, but as it stands you have more important things to get to, and a subtle tremor isn’t too out of the ordinary for the animatronic, anyway. Old wires, if you had to guess. The company really ought to get that fixed.

“Good one,” you say, a third and final laugh spilling between your grimace. “Well, I should get out of here. Thanks for helping out today.” Your eyes flicker towards the exit, then back, again, to where he waits like a statue, unmoving and with that same ever-constant expression staring back. “See you tomorrow?”

Something clicks and buffers in his voicebox as he realizes you’re waiting for an answer, a thousand responses readying themselves between the silence, questions he’s never dared to ask. How is any of this fair? Is it in vain, all these hours and days and years spent toiling with words that go no where, and feelings he isn’t allowed to have? To run his circuits ragged chasing after a heart he can’t keep? Am I better off alone, he wonders.

“See you tomorrow!” He says instead.

You can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt rising in your chest as the door clicks shut behind you. He sounded so genuine, you might have actually believed it if he were in any way built to host those kinds of emotions. You assume that he’s just mimicking them, instead. Putting on a show like he used to do before the daycare became his new objective. And yet, the idea of an animatronic truly feeling anything in the way of love makes you smile just a little as you head for the parking lot.

“…What a silly robot.”

#drabbles #Sundrop #sun fnaf #DCA #This is a hurt/comfort #with the hurt being part 1 #but mark my words. there will be comfort

88 notes · View notes

phasecornnuts · 3 months

Note

HII OMG,, Thinking about Vox/reader with postcoital dysphoria??? If ur comfortable with that ofc ofc!! Take ur time and ty!

Ok y’all I actually kind of cooked with this 😼😼

Also since you said postcoital I assumed you wanted it after sexy time so here you go <33

CW: General angst

——————————————————————————

When he was done Vox rolled over onto his back, leaving you in a sticky puddle of your own release. Your breath felt heavy and body sore, a pulsing pain between your legs from where he had you. Strange thoughts filled your head, shameful, invading, ones. Being with him had felt good in the moment – so fucking good – but now you felt…wrong.

You sat up, wrapping the thin cotton sheet around you, thoughts were growing dark and murky as swamp water. You felt dirty and used and spoiled and….wrong. Vox was still lying on his back, his hands clasped over his chest. His eyes were closed, exhausted after having spent himself inside you.

Slowly you rose, holding your sheet close to you. A shiver took hold of you, coating your body in gooseprickles and making your teeth chatter in an odd tempo. You needed to be away from him, though you didn’t understand why. Nausea and anxiety ran their way through you in cold ripples - leaving you with a sickness akin to not having eaten in days. The air was thick with the scent of sex - a cloying muddy smell strangely primal.

Entering the bathroom from such a place was jarring. You rubbed the sole of your foot on the ugly shag carpeting of Vox’s bedroom, savoring the warmth of it before stepping onto the chill of the tile. Behind you, you locked the door. Back against it, you breathed in, deep and shaky. Inside the bathroom everything seemed to stand still, the nervous anticipation before a tremor. The air was sharp and cold, causing you to cling to your sheet further, though it didn’t help much.

You lied on the ground then, curled with your knees to your chest like a quailing infant. So desperately did you want this feeling to end, but it seemed to feed on that hope. The act you two had done played over and over again in your head, every time making you feel more ashamed. You thought of your face contorting and body bending; The way he huffed and groaned when he was close, like a bear. You squeezed yourself smaller, how could you have done that? You didn’t know which was worse, the fact that he had done all of that to you, to your mouth, your face, your legs, your stomach, or the fact that you had wanted him to before. Out of the corner of your eye you saw yourself in the shiny silver mirror above the sink, a tiny ghost with red glass eyes.

The delicate surface tension in your eyes began to falter. Fat globs of salty tears pleading to be released. You tried to hold them back as well as you could, not allowing yourself the humiliation of it (even if you were the only one that knew.) But it hurt so terribly to keep all of this despair inside, the hinges of your jaw uncomfortably rigid and your throat tighter than any fist you could make. In your head you mocked yourself, trying to see if that could get your mind to stop racing. Crying? You’re crying because you let him put his cock in you? If everyone cried when they got fucked the lust ring would be flooded by now. That only served to make you want to cry more.

In the end, you let yourself cave. Hands shaking you sat yourself up, stroking your cheek. It’s okay sweet girl, calm down, I’ll let you cry. You gave out another heavy breath and looked at the thin fabric in your hand. You bunched the cotton over your mouth and screamed.

You let them out, those raw, throaty wails, like someone getting killed. Keeling over, you pressed your hot forehead to the cool tiles, feeling the way your tears and snot streamed down your face to make a pathetic puddle beneath you. Everything hurt, inside and outside. You were scared and disgusted and tired and guilty. Bile rose in the back of your throat, and quickly you crawled to the toilet, retching a stream of salty hot water. You stared down in the toilet bowl, looking at the froth of stomach acid and saliva marbling together. Weakness and spit. That’s all it was, weakness and spit. A headache was starting to swell inside your skull, extending from your temples to your eyes, aching to burst out.

“What are you doing?!” Nonononono please God, not him you can’t let him see you.

Your body felt light and formless, like you were made of cotton. Turning your head you saw him, briefs hastily put on, his face full of concern and fear. He dashed towards the toilet, kneeling down and pulling you close to his chest, rocking you back and forth. You felt hot and empty and ashamed. You sobbed for a while, shivering and scared. He stroked your hair, brushing flyaway strands behind your ears and wrapped your sheet around you more securely.He looked down at your tear-stained face, face flush and eyes glassy. A string of spit dribbled from the corner of your mouth and he wiped it away with his thumb.

“What happened?” His voice breathless.

“I dunno.” You mumbled, throat sore from your crying.

The two of you sat in silence for a while, him holding your body close while you calmed yourself.

“‘M tired,” You croaked.

He breathed out, looking down at your face again.

“Did I do something?”

“No…”

“Then what happened?” He was confused again.

You shrugged, trying to find words that could define how you felt. “Every time we…you know…” trailing off, afraid saying the act will turn your tongue yellow.

“Have sex?” You flinched at the bluntness and nodded.

“I don’t know, it’s just…” you wrap your arms around his chest, burrowing your face, “Afterwards I feel like I’m a bad person. Like…like I did something wrong.” You felt stupid explaining it like that. In dumb, easy words like a child would.

He held your face in his hands, “Did you not want to? Did…did I make you cry?” You shook your head no.

“I dunno… I just…I just feel that way after we do.”

“Like what?”

You pull away from him and press your back to the cool porcelain of the bathtub, pressing your knees to your chest. “Dirty and gross I guess…” Afraid he would take it the wrong way you look up at him from your eyes. “I mean, I like it when we do it. It feels good…you make me feel good but after I just feel…”

“Bad?” He answers. A simple one syllable word that seems to be both the stupidest and truthful description. You nod.

You both look at each other for a few beats before he helps you up from off the floor, seating you on the toilet. He turns the water for the tub on, so hot it makes his screen fog. Getting the idea, you ease your way in, the scalding bath making your skin itch and tingle.

After around 15 minutes of the tub filling he turns the faucet off with a whulp. You sit in the bath, feeling the heat on your skin and the steam of the water making your face sweat. In your ears you can hear the steady rhythm of your heart, one two one two. You look down at your body, staring at the red parts where Vox had nipped and kissed you.

“I don’t want to make you cry honey,” He says, his voice thick with remorse. You lean over the edge of the bath, holding his wrist before lacing your fingers together.

“You don’t. I promise.”

He kisses your forehead, humming. “We can do this after we…you know.” Vox runs his thumb over your knuckle, “We can talk too, and sleep together. I know I knock out all the time afterwards but you can wake me up and I can hold you if you want.” He offers with an awkward smile.

You give a small grin in agreement, nodding your head. “That sounds nice.”

Vox straightened himself up then, placing a clean towel on the toilet for when you were ready to get out. When you were, wrinkly as a prune, you wrapped it around you snugly. Your body was calm now, tranquil as still water. Feeling the texture of the Terry cloth of the towel you realized it was the first time in you didn’t know how long, that you weren’t still crying after sex. Easily you stood up, ready to face Vox again, happy to know that he was there to care for you.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #vox x reader #hazbin hotel vox #vox #hazbin vox #fanfic #hazbin hotel fanfiction #request #fanfiction requests

103 notes · View notes

missmastectomy · 4 months

Text

Soo this is awkward. I’m a detrans woman and figuring out what on earth went wrong. I’m making this new blog to vent and get my thoughts about gender out there. I hope I can help at least a few detrans people, and also show a side to detransition most people don’t see.

I used to believe in trans identities with so much conviction. I really thought a person could have a soul that didn’t align with their sex. I was a dysphoric non-binary person who took T and had a double mastectomy, both of which I deeply regret. I now realize I was suffering from mental illness and latched onto my gender dysphoria to explain why I hated my body. Little did I know as a 15 year old that I hated myself because I felt victimized by adult men. In my subconscious I thought that removing my breasts would free me and my body would feel like my own. Now, I just feel that what I actually did was allow another man to violate me. It is difficult to feel like my body is my own, but I refuse to dissociate from it anymore.

That’s really what the trans identity is. Extreme, debilitating sex dissociation. Body dysmorphia that at the end of the day is not special. It’s not innate, it’s not incurable. It is a product of society’s failure to accept gnc people. I ran away from my body because it became my enemy. It was simply not safe to exist as female in the world. I thought it would save me, but it didn’t, and the only thing I have to show for it is two scars and a lifetime of trauma.

If there is such a thing as trans joy, there is also detransition rage. I was lied to by my endocrinologist. I was failed by my therapist, who focused so much on my dysphoria that she totally neglected to ask where it came from. I transitioned as a minor and I will never forgive the trans community for pushing this on kids. I believe trans people 21+ should have the right to transition and deserve to be treated respectfully, but they need to be given the tools to give proper informed consent, which most are currently not.

This is my attempt to find some level of empowerment. I will no longer try to be palatable to people who disrespect women and blatantly disregard children’s safety and rights. I am done with you.

I love to debate and I am open to talking to anyone, especially detransitioners. If you are ever doubting your identity as trans, stop what you are doing. Don’t make the same mistakes I did.

#detrans #radical feminism #detransition #ftm detransition #radfem #radical feminist safe #radical feminists do touch #radical feminists do interact #gender critical

120 notes · View notes

gatheringbones · 1 year

Text

[“A reminder I find helpful is that trauma, especially developmental trauma, often shapes our thinking into this polarity, this all/nothing, pink/blue, man/woman. When I view the rigidity of this binary through this lens, I can also be more compassionate towards myself and others when we get caught in its net.

All/nothing patterns are tough to break out of, after all. We can notice the rigidity of the gender binary in a range of ways: the gendering of chromosomes, body parts, behaviors, mannerisms, clothing, emotions, toys, experiences, and so on. All/nothing thinking patterns are those that view duality as the only option. For example: you are male or female, good or bad, with us or against us. Given that we live in a cloud of historical, intergenerational, cultural and social trauma when it comes to gender, it makes sense that we have internalized much of this thinking.

In fact, even when we get away from binary ideas of gender, we might still engage in all/nothing thinking patterns, if we are not careful. For example, some young people who identify as trans and/or nonbinary have internalized such a deep need to police gender that they might be afraid of being viewed as “trans trenders” (that is people who think they are trans because it’s “trendy”). Within this paradigm, you are trans or not (another all/nothing pattern). There is no exploring, playing or considering; there is simply, you are or you are not. Some trans and cis people alike question the validity of nonbinary genders, and then other trans and/or nonbinary people turn around and talk about “truscum,” that is, those trans people who align with a medicalized and pathologizing model of gender and believe that dysphoria is an essential trait for some people.

All/nothing patterns are insidious and, if we are not careful, we tend to reproduce the same discourses that oppressed us, creating and recreating boundaries around gender identities and experiences to make sure we know who is “in” and who is “out,” who is “with us” and who is “against us.” While these patterns are understandable, when people are hurt, in survival mode and trying to protect themselves, this is not conducive to healing or liberation. As long as there is policing of gender, any gender, there cannot truly be liberation. This is a really tough one for many of us who have been hurt by rigid gender binaries, and who might have come to our identities through hardship, risk and loss. It is so tempting to feel that now that we are “in,” whichever label, identity or experience that “in” might be, we get to police others and make sure that “fakers” and “trenders” are kept out.

We are simply afraid. Afraid that if we let anyone in who is not 100 percent certain, or in agreement with us, or just like us, we might get hurt. We are afraid that whatever we have built will be blown away. It is understandable. It is what everyone is afraid of. Trauma keeps us afraid of one another. Colonial and patriarchal ways of thinking divide us, and seduce us into believing that, if we behave in certain ways, we too could have power over our little domain, whatever that domain might be. However, these are all lies, lies that trauma tells us and that oppression thrives on. These dualities of Men are from Mars and Women from Venus, cis women against trans women, sex workers versus SWERFs (sex worker exclusive radical feminists) are all deeply rooted in historical, cultural and social trauma.

How can we, then, find another way? The idea of another way is key. If polarities are foundational to all/nothing patterns, our way to liberation can only be found in a third road. Building and nurturing flexibility in our individual and collective soma (bodies) is therefore key. Practicing saying and noticing the maybe, the pause between breathing in and breathing out, reflection, curiosity, slow, kind and consensual relationships are key to healing. We cannot heal from gendered trauma when we are still caught in rigid polarities, still invested in finding a perpetrator or savior so that we can stay in a victim place. Or so invested in being the irredeemable perpetrator that there is no hope for us. Once more, it starts with us, our own gender journey and dismantling internalized polarities first.

Once we engage with this work, we can then support those around us—be they clients, students, fellow community members and communities—to challenge those polarities within themselves and one another. This might all seem very idealistic, and it is. I truly believe we cannot move towards healing through violence. If we are to heal from gendered trauma it has to be through relationships: human, messy, complicated, infuriating, joyful, loving relationships. We cannot be in relationship when we are in opposition. We can be in a tug of war, push and pull at one another but, as long as we stay locked into these patterns, we can only view ourselves as victors and losers. In the meantime, the only victors seem to be systems of oppression.”]

alex iantaffi, from gender trauma: healing cultural, social, and historical gendered trauma, 2020

#alex iantaffi #trans literature #brainspace #gender stuff #currently reading

451 notes · View notes

garden-if · 10 months

Text

After spending a childhood in isolation, Mikhail has finally been able to find freedom in academia. Pursuing the passion of their only solace; the forever gentle sound of song. Though, Mikhail has lived a life of naivety. A life shielded by the harsh faith of their church and family. Now Mikhail will discover the dark underbelly of the city of Vilyuchka — and what it means to be a composer in a city where crime and music are one in the same.

DEMO: TBA

The Garden Sanctuary is an 18+ horror, romance, and erotica interactive fiction. It takes place in a world built in Gaslamp Fantasy, with Art-Deco and 1920s influences. As of current, it is planned to be semi-illustrated.

KEEP IN MIND: The Garden Sanctuary is currently in a deeply unfinished state, a lot of things are undecided and the cast isn't ready to be revealed yet. This post is very informal, and I'll make a more in depth introduction post later on~! I just wanted to get a post out there to hopefully find some more similar IF devs to connect with :-)

As it stands right now, TGS follows a locked MC and has several different romance options. RO customization is currently being debated!

CONTENT WARNING: Gore, body horror, violence, and other generally dark themes, CSA and incest (portrayed critically), body dysmphoria, gender dysphoria, internalized and externalized ableism. This may expand later on in the future.

Follow the story of Mikhail Ilyushin, a budding and prodigal composer attending the Academy of Saint Yelena. Once sheltered by the church they were raised in, Mikhail has yet to learn that music is not as pure and innocent as the clergy once taught them. Learn about the city of Vilyuchka and the culture of crime that has completely engulfed the art of music. Navigate the unseen world that lies in plain sight in Vilyuchka. Discover the existence of things much stranger than human. Choose who to put your faith in; your family and the church you have always known, or the life of blaspheme that has granted you your freedom.

#The Garden Sanctuary #The Garden Sanctuary IF #interactive fiction #interactive novel #twine #twine game #twine wip #horror interactive fiction #interact if #interact-if #Ill probably add more tags as i get organization set up #sorry benji im so fucking scared i just stole all your tags

151 notes · View notes

dancingacrossthemilkyway · 11 months

Text

Please reblog for bigger group!

#tma #martin blackwood #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #jon sims #magpod

180 notes · View notes

elliots-an-idiot · 3 months

Text

Dimitrescu Sisters comforting dysphoric trans masculine s/o and reacting to him coming out!

My first dimi sister work inspired by @muffinsin :3 I’m a transgender man so this is mostly self indulgent lmfao, I hope you enjoy!! I’ll do a smut version if anyone’s interested!!! (@muffinsin has the best stories ever!!!)

Bela

“Love, baby, what’s wrong?” Bela wipes the tears from my face as I wept, feeling so wrong in my own body, “little one, come here.”

I lay on the bed and curl into her arms sobbing, my dysphoria had already been kicking my ass today but with the dance coming up it was getting worse. The crimson dress Bela had chosen made her look effervescent, even more than usual. I haven’t seen the dress she chose for me yet, but the pit in my stomach told me it was similar to hers. Her dress, one suitable for a princess, and mine? I sobbed at the mere thought of being stuck in one for the night.

“B-bels I can’t-“ I took a shaky breath, trying to calm myself, “I can’t do this anymore.”

“What?” She looked down at me with a pained expression, “what are you saying love? Are you brea-”

“No! I can’t do this anymore, I can’t keep pretending to be someone I’m not. ” I grab the material of the skirt I’m wearing and feel more hot tears stream down my cheeks, “Bels I’m not a girl, I’m sick of trying to be one and I-”

“Love, I know, I’ve known since we met. You have the body of a woman but, your blood, it’s not female. You’re a man my love, a real man. No matter what anyone says.” She grabs my face before I can speak and gently kisses me, “I love you nonetheless, if you’re worried about the dance, stop. I chose your outfit for you remember? Do you want to see your outfit for the dance baby?”

I nod, shocked by her love and acceptance. We stand and approach her closet, I turn to her as she grabs the most amazing tux I’ve ever seen. It perfectly matches her dress.

“Bels, darling,” I feel more tears well up in my eyes, “I fucking love you.”

“I love you too my pretty boy.”

Cassandra

“Hey pet- oh shit you’re crying,” Cassandra swarmed over and plonked on the bed in front of me, “who do I need to kill? What’s wrong doll?”

“Cass-” a sob cuts me off and I curl into her lap, the fabric of my bra digs into my back again and I claw at it to take it off.

“What are you doing? Why are you crying?! Also, what the fuck is going on!?!” Cassandra is practically fuming at this point, concern etched into her face. She grabs my hands and takes a deep breath, “Doll please talk to me, I’m here.”

I look up at her and tears well in my eyes, waves of fear and sadness crash onto me as I take a deep breath. Then blurt everything out at once, “Cassieimaboy”

“What?” A smile spreads on her face and she laughs, no, cackles at me, “Fucking-”

“Cass I'm so sorry I've known for a while but I love you so much and I didn't want to ruin anything and-" She purses her lips and puts a hand over my mouth.

“As I was saying, fucking finally dumbass, no shit.” she smirks down at me, and all I can do is stare back in shock "Are you almost done crying? I have a surprise for you and- hang on what?"

"Y-you love me?" She practically whispers the words before looking into my eyes with a mixture of confusion and glee. I get up and kneel above her, straddling her hips. I take her face in my hands and gently kiss her.

"How could I not?" I stare into her eyes awaiting her response Instead, she reaches into her pocket and grabs something.

"Um. I didn't really have anything planned but, uh, well. I made you this." She hands me a small box, a promise ring with the words I love you doll lies inside. "I'm not good with words but, uh, yeah.... I love you too, doll"

Daniela

"Hello, my love!" I hear Dani enter my chambers and call out to me in a sing-songy voice, before throwing something onto the bed "Are you excited for our date?"

"Y-yeah, I'm excited." Im lying, god I feel so shitty! My day was bad enough since the headmaid caught me out of uniform and practically forced me back into a skirt. Right now the last thing I want is for Dani to choose something overly feminine for me for our date today. I only really agreed to let her choose because I don't have anything other than commoner clothing. She comes up behind me and wraps her arms around my waist as she kisses my neck.

"My love, something is different about our date today. I chose your outfit again, but, I couldn't decide between these two! Which one do you like more?" She spins me around and grabs two outfits off of the bed, and I gasp. The first is a brown tux with a vest and the other is similar, except it is black with green specks of something shiny. The dress she's wearing is form fitting and gods she looks amazing in it "I figured since you are a man, you wouldn't want to wear a dress or anything, so I chose these! I like the brown on because it-"

"The black one. Please." I step towards her and press a kiss to her lips, "and thank you love, for everything. You look stunning by the way!!"

"Thank you my handsome pet." she giggles and hands me the tux before swarming away.

#crow is a new author and they need help #bela dimitrescu #cassandra dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu #bela dimitrescu x reader #Cassandra dimitrescu x reader #daniela dimitrescu x reader

51 notes · View notes