#the whole reason i got into psych was because i wasnt allowed to see anyone but now that i have the option toand know what professionals act | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

safetyqueenofhell · 7 years

Text

Uh, News?

((its ‘pume rants about life” time))

So uh...hi guys. Funny story. I started out this blog because I loved the headcanon, but was at first hesitant to because of my gender identity or rather, I felt shitty for putting the words in the mouth of a transgender character when I myself was cis. This is a feeling I’ve pretty much always had about the transgender community. I always liked to think myself supportive of this community, but because of a certain rhetoric that plagued me as a kid I never really felt as though I was allowed to relate.

My older sister was a bitch. I dont know if she is now, all I know is that she doesnt wanna feel like ‘the bad guy’ anymore so I’m not allowed to bring it up. She used to draw pictures of me dying in horrible painful ways and talk about how happy thinking of me being mutilated made her. She used to take pictures of me in the shower and show her friends. Eventually convinced mom to force me to watch her shower and let her sleep in my bed with me. Her reasoning to my mother was that she was afraid of serial killers and didnt want to be alone. What she told me was that if someone were to attack she wanted someone else for them to go after, and she loved mom, my dad, and my little sister too much to hurt them. I was expendable.

She also really liked yaoi. There was pretty much gay porn always on the search history of the family computer whenever I tried to look up kingdom hearts or naruto characters. She would causally joke with her friends that she she would trade me for a cute little uke brother in a heartbeat.

When I was 13 I realized I was totally into girls. I (very famously) announced over the dinner table that I was a lesbian while asking my grandma to pass me the potatoes in the same sentence. My older sister was furious. She’d take every opportunity to tell me that I was making it up. That I wasnt really a lesbian, and in fact I was a horrible person for pretending to be a lesbian and invalidating the real struggles of the LGBT community.

This is not the first time I would hear shit like this from her.

Also around this time I started bringing duct tape to school with me. Every day I’d sneak the tape into my backpack, then go to school and strap my breasts down in the bathroom. I didnt really know what it would accomplish, but I liked it. I liked seeing my breasts disappear under my shirt. It wasnt the same as being allowed into the boys locker room like I wanted, but it was close enough.

I started reading books about girls dressing up as boys going on adventures. Not just ‘Mulan’ shit (in fact I came to resent the movie because it is by far the most well known but also the worst depiction of the trope) but also Leviathan, Song of the Lioness, and to a lesser extent The Monstrous Regiment (which is hilarious & gay as all fuck 100% recommend) More then anything I wanted to pass for a boy, even before I knew what transgender was. I cut my hair, I wore the boys school uniform when I left home to go to boarding school, I fantasized about kindling a romance with my roommate. This wasnt to be, alas, (even tho Missa is a literal perfect human being and I love the shit out of her) but I did get to experiment with girls in the form of my first girlfriend ‘E’ and the girl who took my virginity, ‘C’.

When I went home for the first time it was like returning to the darkness. I didnt realize how much I hated my home until I went back that first winter break. I would talk about my experiences (And since I had 0 shame) would also talk about girls. My sister wasnt having it. She’d shut me down in front of my own parents, insisting that I wasnt Bi because she’d never seen any of my girlfriends. Mom wanted us to repair our relationship so she’d make me drive around the street in circles talking to my sister as she repeatedly beat me down.

The next couple of years at school were pretty much blended together. I became something of a “Come Out Kid” in that, for some reason, I was the first person a lot of people told when they started having homosexual or gender divergent thoughts. Particularly girls who didnt know they liked girls until they met me. Coupled with my sister’s abuse, this kinda gave me a fucked up sorta ego that makes other people uncomfortable to this day. I almost force myself not to believe so many people came out because it seems like it couldnt have happened, how could the disgusting leech of a person my sister convinced me I was have so many people be attracted to her? Even still, a fucked up multi-faceted ego is still very much an ago, so I had the confidence to date both boys and girls. I dont wanna get into it now but was also molested by both boys and girls. One of my best friends ‘A’ made her transition, and around senior year I began to suspect that I might be on the agender side as well. My other best friend ‘M’ told me that I only wanted to “Join A on the bandwagon” and I believed him instantly because that was the kind of fucked up person I was.

I came home for break one year and saw my little sister had no contact with any boys at 13, which I found strange considering me and my older sister only hung out with boys at that age. my little sister’s dance studio was run by an entire staff of lesbians who were always incredibly supportive of sexuality and self expression. I thought it only natural that if my sister were gay then she’d probably be open about it. I suggested it to my mom. she threatened to disown me. when i said that was homophobic, she called me a monster for daring to call her such a horrible word. No, she wasnt homophobic. what she was was a mother of a confused 13 year old girl, and would not stand for me trying to police her young, undeveloped sexuality by saying the word ‘lesbian’ in front of her.

That very same summer my older sister harassed me in a public restaurant making fun of the time “grace thought she was gay but was only faking for attention” and I looked into my mothers eyes as she said nothing.

Cut to freshman year of college my older sister was graduating, and I was experimenting with my gender. My sister was ironically a psych major and graduating that year. Since I was forced to care about her again mom tried to force us to love each other by (you guessed it) more stuffing us in a car together and driving around. I admitted that I might be a boy. When I talked about wanting to look and fit in with boys she said if I ‘need to rely on societal norms to justify yourself you’re an anti-feminist and hate yourself for being a woman’ when i said that it just felt right she once again demanded ‘proof’ and went in idiotic circles from there until she slammed the breaks and said she said that I just hate myself and am desperate to be anything other then myself and I’m incredibly pathetic for doing so. She then said that if I were really a boy she’d love and accept me. But I’m not. she said that she forgives me for being such a horrible little sister and its high time i love myself too. she went on to say I’ve been faking my mental illness and I’ve always hated her for no reason and im ruining her life blah blah blah whatever.

Tragic backstory unlocked you get it.

Cut to now. Cut to making this blog. Cut to having the upmost respect and adoration to anyone who is able to come out of the closet. Not disgusting fetishists like myself, real people with real problems to overcome. I loved trans marco and related to her greatly, and made this blog. but soon people started asking me questions. asking for advice. and how the hell could I help? i had no idea what it was like to be trans. All my life I had only pretended to be LGBT so boys would pay attention to me. what could I possibly tell them? I started to look up terminology. I started to read memoirs. I might be a horrible fetishist who spits on the struggles of people who suffer by my mere existence, but goddamnit if anyone is looking at this blog I’m going to do my best to help them through their struggles. I’d agonize for days any time i got an ask about trans issues, trying to make the wording perfect to make up for the fact that i was cis scum capitalizing on the ‘fad’ of trans issues.

and you know fucking what. everything i found. everything i read. all of it i related to. all of it validated me. I thought about it, wrote down my feelings, talked to friends, and pretty much everyone agreed that why the fuck would i even lie about something like this? what could i possibly have to gain?

this is a whole lotta rambling for a whole little payoff. I guess what I’m trying to say is that...like.

I think I’m a boy. I think I’ve always been one.

I dont know if thats the same as being MtF or where the divergence between the experiences lay but. Every time i get mistaken for male i just get this flower of happiness in my heart. thats literally the image that comes to mind. just. happy. happiness rushing through my veins like glittery as fuck happy.

Idk what I even hope to accomplish with this. maybe I hope that, since I cant really come out to my family, I just want someone to...witness me? i dunno. But, Trans!marco helped me, even though I dont share any of her internal conflicts directly. So maybe someone else is reading this too. maybe someone else has been told they’re a faker. maybe someone else’s mother accused them of just trying to ‘get a reaction’ maybe someone else heard that mother bragging to her friends at dinner parties about how brave caitlyn jenner is and patting herself on the back for supporting her. but thank you everyone who has sent me asks. Thanks to all of you. I havent been paying much attention to this blog, and maybe the hiatus is gonna go on a little longer, but thanks to all of you for sticking with me. I love all of you. bless.

-Pume

#not safety #but #i needa talk about this somewhere?#and honestly #this blog made me realize some thangs #abuse #tw: abuse #long post

49 notes · View notes

vitalmindandbody · 7 years

Text

Admissions Of A F* ckboy: I Donated To A Sperm Bank And It Was Such A Tour

Walking out of your accommodation with the intent to masturbate is an uneasy feeling.

Its uneasier knowing youll be doing so legally, safe from the handcuffs and stigma that follow the demoralizes whamming off in the subway.

I truly had to snicker at the believed to be the whole thought. There are loopholes everywhere in this nature, as long as you know how to find them. And here I was, swiping my MetroCard with a hop-skip in my pace and an attention toward one of those imaginary destinations you know is real, but hidden, crammed into metropolis like secrets.

The sperm bankwas a place that didnt merely examine fondly on masturbation, butit and would compensate you for it.

As far as loopholes croak, the sperm bank, just by prevailing, felt like a long overdue affirmation to my 12 -year-old self, who, I swear to God, would have ejected on his eggs every morning if he could.

Because no matter who he grows to be, every adult male comes from a squirming, semen-crazed cretin conducted around for years by the incorrect psyche. Its embarrassing on some stage, but real and inevitable and completely normal on another.

Its important to remember who you are and where you come from.

I hate my 12 -year-old self, but hes certainly good-for-nothing to be scared of, and he deserves some enjoy because it was all he required. So I channeled him as I skipped off the metro and into the shambolic normality of Lexington Avenue atnoon.

Walking against congestion, I weaved and swerved through the 401( k) combat: dejected investment categories, the wind blowing their ties up their cervixes; preppy, young go-getters, wearing purple on purpose; measured women around pantsuits onhands-free labels; bald managers indicating off every possible face spaces, windshields, the wind itself.

Everything steel, everything imposing, everything sculpted. Yet, somehow, everything also severely edgeless.

I often feel like an infiltrator in this field, whichfeelslike one large-scale savings account is built around Yes Men and 40 th-floor favors. Like me, all of them had1 2-year-old versions of themselves, but theyd all been thumped out of them, like boners tucked up in the waistbands of their own lives.

After split second of investigating their faces, their headaches were plain to read: These parties seemed entirely unaware of their close proximity to a biology lab that mostly doubled as a modern succor terminal. They involved a release.

I smiled at them from under sunglasses as I approached the labs build: a grey-haired monstrosity branded as country offices spa. Glass doorways discriminated the street from a lily-white, modern lobby.

A concierge buzzed me through without judgment.Instead, he grinned, too. That corroborated mine and redoubled as a tap on my 12 -year-old selfs shoulder, almost as if to allege: See buddy, you werent so bad after all.

For those who dont know, sperm banks( or cryobanks) accumulate and distribute donated bodily fluids and tissues to people who need such things. The broth is disproportionatelysemen, but also includes embryos, oocytes, ovarian tissue, testicular materials, and more.

Sperm tests are analyzed for effectivenes, condition, vitality and health and, if accepted, are frozen until a later date. Women interested in in vitro fertilization then re-examine stored tests, hand selecting characteristics theyd prefer in their child.

This establishes cryobanksthe ultimate Darwinian battlefield.

In vitro fertilization isnt uncommon, but its still comparatively uncommon, and given the size of the potential donor base, requirements are strict. Most banks wont accept a donor shorter than five foot seven, and overweight donors are generally repudiated. Some clinics admit only 1 percent of donor applicants.

Certain qualities are in higher request statistically. Mothers miss their children are derived from physicians more often than from taxi operators, for example. Theyd rather their babies not havecertain genetic fragilities, like a familial record of diabetes.

They likewise disproportionally crave semen of Italian genealogy, for whatever reason.

In vitro fertilization is commonly an upper class alternative, so it simply constitutes sense that such fathers would prefer donors with more white collar professions, backgrounds and appearances.

Basically, what that mean for dudes is: If you want to be a donor, you need to be towering, strong, fit for rearing and an admirable representation of traditional success.

Blue-eyed, spaghetti-loving intelligence surgeons who are somehow six-foot-four and free atnoonon aThursday thats the archetype. The world is, most donors are young men with flexible hours who could use the money. Like me.

I pressed the elevator button and squirmed anxiously as the doors closed, agitated to be acknowledged that my swimmers stacked up.

If you want to be a donor, “youve got to be” towering, strong, is suitable for raising and an admirable of traditional success. Blue-eyed, spaghetti-loving brain surgeons who are somehow six-foot-four and free at noon on a Thursday thats the archetype. The actuality is, most donors are young men with flexible hours who could use the currency. Like me.

The fourth floor opened to a tiled hallway lining two disconnected place infinites. The kind of fluorescent dawns youd see in a dentist officebathed the corridor, committing it a infertile look, like somehow this is only the test tube and you were already in it. A really strange meta/ horny combo ethos crowded the room.

And that was when I went past all the jizz decorations.

Thats right, jizz emblems. At the conclusion of its hallway, two glass entrances signaled the entryway to the donor part of the cryobank. Through the glass, it ogled not unlike your usual physicians bureau waiting room: portable chairs rowing a direction to a receptionist window, a non-functioning television hanging above apprehensive patients, publications, snacks.

But if you zoomedOUT and focused on the doors themselves, it suddenly became apparent this wasnt a typical clinic.

You know how a kindergarten teacher will print out unthreatening cartoons of swine, like a lion, and staple them to abulletin board? Its for medal, but its too supposed to help the minors informed about vowels, and lion has two vowels in it.

But they dont magazine out an image of a lion destroying a zebra carcass. They print out an image of him smiling, returning a thumbs up whatever.

Well, the glass openings of this clinic are decorated with similar epitomes of sperm. Earnestly. Animated blue swimmers glued to the doors accepted donors in what purposes as a disarmingly transparent salute and super-effective confirmation that, yes, theyre in the right place.

A printout speaking DONOR ENTRANCE sits scotched-taped between the imitation swimmers. The clinic literally shapes you walk through the sea to come in.

So, thats what I did.

They construct you fill out species. Lots of forms.

The booklet sat eight pages late in the clipboard. A heated, post-grad liberal character with a Lena Dunham haircut handed it to me at the receptionists desk, right before informing me I wouldnt be paid for this visit.

I accepted her as the woman whod answered my email inquiry and scheduled the visit. Donors are only paid after theyve been accepted, she spoke. Today was my trial run.

All right, I mentioned. I understand.

I sat down with my brand-new publication. The extend sheet was filled with foreground verse and capital letters.

PLEASE READ INSTRUCTIONS CAREFULLY.

WRITE CLEARLY AND LEGIBLYON ALL PAPERWORK.

WRITE TODAYS DATE ON EVERY PAGE WHERE DESIGNATED.

PRINT YOUR FULL LEGAL NAME AT THE BOTTOM OF EVERY PAGE.

PLEASE INITIAL AND DATE ANY CORRECTIONS THAT HAVE BEEN MADE.

Very ominous, all these directions. Exceedingly clinicalNot exactly an aphrodisiacal environment.

I flip-flop the page.

First, they want to know all your medical record, then all your genetic history, then all the medical record of your family.

Do you have any history of epilepsy, of hepatitis, of Zika, of this, of that? How many maternal uncles do you have? How many paternal aunts? Where did they come from? Where are they now?

Have “youve been” traveled out of the country? Where? Have you ever traveled in different countries? When? Where? Have you ever been incarcerated? Do you have sounds? Pages and pages of this.

Finally, you turn to a page that asks you to detail your sexual record. The questionnaire asks you how many sexual partners youve had in the past 12 months, then asks you to list them and gives youspaces to do so. Five.

Not merely do they expect me to recollect my sex partners, but they are leave room for five? Hilarious.

I literally burst into laughter.Good happen I was the only one waiting.

The questionnaire asks you how many sexual partners youve had in the past 12 months, then asks you to itemize them and gives you five spaces to do so. Five. Not exclusively do they expect me to remember my sexual marriages, but they are leave room for five? Hilarious. I literally burst into laughter.

Youre likewise asked to itemize what shield you used, every time, with each partner. It was an depleting exercise in reminiscence and defy that I ultimately succumbed to.

I couldnt help but lie on that portion. I only didnt know.

Shortly after, a man penetrated mid-3 0s, blue sweater, classy jeans, bald manager and whisker. He looked as if he could be coming from anywhere in New York.

Walking up to the receptionist, he removed a card from his pocket and swiped it against a card reader while in stride. The readers initiated a light-headed a opening guiding within the agency, unlocking it.

I mustered he was an active donor, a person who had already well underway screened. Active donors are frequently allowed to donate several times per week. Each season, they received about as much money as I do for these columns.

The man didnt look up or clear attention contact with anyone. He just marched in.

Because Im a dick, I made a document of the time.

Over the next fewminutes, I fucked up the forms multiple times while my blood sugar descended considerably and while, I reckon, Bald Man experienced himself.

I sided my completed application form to the Lena Dunham woman, was told to wait and then was handed them back by a cheery, unionized type who emerged from the back of the agency and put me more in the mood.

She had complicated brown seeings that bristled with this concoction of compassion and permission and you want to fuck me matter-of-factness. They almost became me guilty for being there, selling the future infants I could legitimately suppose establishing her.

This entire slouse needs to be filled in, she told me calmly.

I missed an entire division?

She smiled like I wasnt the first idiot, and wouldnt be the last.

I missed lunch, was my lame excuse.

Thats why we have snacks, she answered. Help yourself.

I hadnt discovered just how stunning a collecting of treats this waiting room offered popcorn, corn microchips, protein barrooms, granola rails, trail concoction, cheese scrabbles (!!).

Being the only one there, I decided to load up before Bald Man reemerged. I went to town, spraying crumbs all over the questionnaire, which was now asking me which street medications, if any, Id assimilated in the past two weeks. You mean besides cheese scrabbles?

I reverted the forms. Boss Lady approved them, eyeing the popcorn scraps on my upper cheek. She asked me a few more wonders, squinted suspiciously and asked me to sit again.

On the practice back to my chair, I find a portable refrigerator in the reces of the room. It was labeled DONOR REFRIGERATOR.

, I belief,

Boss Lady receded out of display, and “its just” me again. I had half a sentiment to openup the refrigerator and picture for myself when Bald Man rose again from the glass openings, his head down, never bursting his speed as he departed in a hurry.

I look back my watch. 11.5 hours. I thought.

Lena Dunham instructed me to walk through the glass openings to a back area where I would situate my test. She handed me an empty plastic beaker with a off-color name, a sticker with my figure on it.

After youve deposited your test, youll realise labelled go-carts in the hallway, she said. Youll leave your test there to be analyzed, and well advise you in a few days.

I nodded and saw my road down the passageway where four tiny quiz rooms waited, all exhaust. I chose the most significant one and looked at my watch.

The room was coated blood-red and nondescript. A single portable chair sat in the middle, next to an intent counter. A subside remained on the back wall below a clue, imploring patients to cleanse their hands.

Another sign informed that lubrication was available upon request. Another non-functioning video hung from the wall.( I acquire it was non-functioning; I didnt want to touch anything more than I had to .) A stack of Hustler Magazines weresprawled and weathered on the table.

I closed the door. I anticipated.

I grew up with Internet porn, never even considering magazine porn. Its kind of like the path millennials consider newspapers: pointless, burdensome remnants. But here it was, my only option.

I wondered if it would even work.

It did. I started to climbing. Unexpectedly, my original believe, the one that stumbled me as I moved out the door earlier in the day, came again.

I was going to uncovered myself in public, and by that, I represent outside of the privacy rights of my own home.

There wouldnt be repercussions. There would not be police. There was nothing indecent about this revelation, and thats a very strange notion to wrap your heading around, specially when so much blood is hastening from it.

Young guys are studied from such a young age to obscure their boners. Its a proficiency in survival education that evolves as they age, and as the stakes rise. We know instinctively they are important, “they il be” fragile, “they il be” cherished and used.

Not long after we start sprouting, we are told our erections are rude, they are wrong, they are even felon, and we spend the next 50 years or so stuffing them up into our waistbands in suspicion of being ostracized.

Much of a young mans adolescence is an education in abridging his erectings, harnessing them in an attempt to protect himself. So to sit there without dismay genuinely was a trip.

I giggled aloud and wondered if anyone could sound. While Im here, I guessed, I might as well enjoy it, so I clanged off some puns in my head.

I thought.

I snickered.

It all became too much. I looked at my watch. Six minutes killed. Thats more than enough time wasted.

I sat down, breath and unzipped.

The post Admissions Of A F* ckboy: I Donated To A Sperm Bank And It Was Such A Tour appeared first on vitalmindandbody.com.

from WordPress http://ift.tt/2s7qsL5 via IFTTT

#IFTTT #WordPress

0 notes