zeptember

I was at some sort of goth convergence-alike, staying in a fancy hotel. We’d gone out to one of the nightclubs and I was zoning out when suddenly I realised an African American woman on the edge of the dance floor turned and looked at me, got irritated and looked away. Then another African American woman, sitting to the left of me, got up and reached over the table that separated us as we sat, and she said something about me having gotten to that woman on the dance floor. I was apologetic and explained that I often zone out when I’m in public places like this, and before I know it, someone’s in my line of unfocused, zoned out sight. The woman who approached me was cheerful - she reminded me of my fiancé’s bandmate’s girlfriend. But I still felt bad about having upset someone by seemingly staring them down or worse, glaring at them in my moment of zoning out.

The next song that came on was either the original or an electronica remix of Eye of the Tiger by Survivor. I laughed and started telling someone I knew about how I used to love that song when I was a kid about the age of ten, and that it was the soundtrack for a recurring dream I used to have.

The rest of the dream featured me as an adult taking everyone at this gothic gathering into my childhood dreamscape. There was this old abandoned white building with white interior and lots of cascading stairways. The stairways were lined with brass or chrome staircase railings. There were large, open doorways, sometimes fitted with glass and glass doors in this building.

I was always in a race to get to one of the top floors of the building, to a room of operations held by the enemy, who wanted to do Bad Things™. It was always my job to take out the bad guys (via cheesy 80’s fist fight/martial arts), then set a timer and run as fast as I could back down to the ground floor and exit the building before it blew up.

I wish I was better at this early hour at explaining the fine details of how the building looked on the inside.

As the adult in this childhood dreamscape, I got to the top floor of operations and found the group of people I needed to take out. But this time it was different. They were dressed in suits and I wrestled with a woman who looked like she was wearing a stewardess jacket and skirt. She was trying to pull a taser and/or a gun from her waistband as I fought with her and the others in the room looked on. I can’t remember if I grabbed her weapon and killed her with it or just knocked her down and ran, but I knew the timer was on…as well as the soundtrack - Eye of the Tiger.

And now, whoever from the gothic gathering was with me in this dreamscape had to run with me for their lives. I left them behind because I knew how to navigate quickly down the hallways and staircases, often jumping over railings and such to get to the next level before. That’s how I always did it as a kid. I noticed however that as an adult, I was much slower now - not so limber - and I worried that I’d not make it out of the building in time. My childhood confidence was replaced by adult worry and insecurity.

When I got to the bottom floor, as I approached the foyer, the cascading stairs were carpeted in red, and the couches in the large lobby/foyer were red faux leather.

I did make it out of the building, and others made it out with me, but the building did not explode. I assumed that meant we made it in record time. But I also knew that in my childhood dream, the building would always explode just as I made it out, but I’d always end up unscathed. So I was perplexed as to why it didn’t blow, yet.

I was in the parking lot of that building at this point, talking with Naveen Andrews from the TV series Lost (which in real life I watch a lot of on DVD at one sitting on about a weekly basis). He was telling me about a sticker on the back of his car, which was from his elementary school teacher, who was now 94 years old and still kicking. I wondered if I had any elementary school teachers who were still alive and told Naveen I’d be visiting my hometown again in November.
We parted ways and as I walked off. As I walked away, I turned and said, “by the way, I’m not 23, I’m 37 (years old)”.
(Earlier in the dream somewhere, I’d told him I was 23 for some reason. I wonder now if the character that Naveen was involved with in the series Lost was 22 or 23. I forget. I have no idea if this is a tie or not….)
As I walked off, I hoped he didn’t feel like I had a crush on him because I knew he had a wife, and I have a fiancé, but I just enjoyed talking with him (in real life, I often worry about how men I talk to are reading me, because I’m usually uncomfortable around men. I want to relate to them as one of the guys but I’m hyper aware of the fact that I’m a chick and that just by being a chick, there can be sexual tension on one or both sides. This is why, as a kid entering puberty around the age of ten, I sobbed and begged my mother to reverse the process. I knew all too well that I’d never be viewed as an equal again by my male friends. That emotional trauma has stuck with me throughout life.)

I got back to the hotel and saw that people were checking out. I realised I did not have my hotel key on me, and my roommates had likely checked out already. I went up some carpeted (red paisley?) stairs to the front desk. They were open stairs with a brass staircase railing. To my left below the stairs was a sitting area for the hotel lobby. There were three female attendants at the front desk; the one in front of me on the right of the desk was doing something at a computer, checking on something for someone. The middle woman was talking with a customer, and the third, the one on the left, was on the phone. The phone was white and antique. I made my way over to her. She set the phone down a moment after I appeared in front of her and I told her I’d forgotten my room key. She got my info and told me that everyone had already checked out, and the room had already been emptied. She craned her neck to look over the front desk at something. I turned and looked - suddenly I noticed several suitcases and bags scattered on the floor behind me with people going through the bags to find which one was theirs. I went towards the edge of the brass railing that separated the front desk area from the lobby sitting area below, and started to sift through the suitcases and bags. I was told by another female attendant who came to me that my suitcases were in this area, as was a luggage bag, but the bag had poop in it! That’s right, she said, someone had left a brown bag of poop inside of it. I had loaned the bag to one of my hotel roommates, who was a goth boy in his early 20’s. Obviously he in his youth thought this would be funny to leave a woman nearly twice his age as a gift of thanks.

I awoke one minute before my alarm went off, having left myself in the dream having just found the bag with the poop in it. I woke with Eye of the Tiger playing in my head.

I can’t say now for certain whether the childhood dreamscape was ever REALLY something from my childhood that I was remembering, or something new altogether, made special for me in this morning’s dream…

I do know that the part of the dream containing Naveen and me worrying what he thought is a direct reaction to having had to work yesterday with the father of the child at home at the same time I was working. My fiancé had come over to drop off some money for me to catch a bus to see a florist later in the day, and he got to meet the child’s father. Because of the trust issues I’ve had (my partner’s end and my end) in previous relationships, I felt awkward socially in the presence of two males like this.
The child’s father will be home again today and I’ve not been looking forward to it because I feel like ‘The Help’ instead of being in charge on my own with free reign. The father in no way has made me to feel this way - it’s just my emotional hyper-awareness of having been reared socially in this culture that females are lesser, and nannies are lesser still. There was a time when this was so but likely it is not so in this day and age. I just carry outmoded social mores with me. Great, huh?

Risin’ up, back on the street
Did my time, took my chances
Went the distance, now I’m back on my feet
Just a man and his will to survive

So many times, it happens too fast
You change your passion for glory
Don’t lose your grip on the dreams of the past
You must fight just to keep them alive

Chorus:
It’s the eye of the tiger, it’s the cream of the fight
Risin’ up to the challenge of our rival
And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night
And he’s watchin’ us all in the eye of the tiger

Face to face, out in the heat
Hangin’ tough, stayin’ hungry
They stack the odds ’til we take to the street
For we kill with the skill to survive

chorus

Risin’ up, straight to the top
Have the guts, got the glory
Went the distance, now I’m not gonna stop
Just a man and his will to survive

chorus

The eye of the tiger (repeats out)…

I can’t remember if I’ve stated this before but 1) I’m too lazy to go back and look and 2) I feel the need to repeat something like this anyway…

This year marks the first year since high school that I have wanted to go shopping for female shirts - shirts with v-necks and u-necks with upper bicep-length sleeves instead of elbow-length sleeves. Shirts which end at the waist, rather than at the thighs like many tee shirts do.

I know I had some initial gender dysphoria when I started wearing an underbust corset on a regular basis, but I’ve changed the type of bra I wear with the corset to one with no padding, no wires, and no support really, because the corset does a lot of the job holding up the breasts on its own. Changing the type of bra and continuing to wear the corset despite the gender dysphoria, I finally got through it within a few weeks.

It’s important for me to record this stuff because a lot of my life has been spent hating the body I dwell in simply because of breasts and distribution of body fat normal to that of a female.

It’s equally as important that I continue to work on accepting the body I dwell in as I approach our wedding day, because going into a marriage having worked so hard on one’s Self is a testament that one will continue to work towards Self acceptance and improvement, as opposed to hoping for eternal acceptance from one’s life partner.

I still prefer to go down a bust size, but I may be able to do this with toning and further weight loss.

Currently I weigh 169lbs (77kg). According to the BMI chart, I’m supposed to weigh 115lbs to 145lbs (52kg to 66kg) for my an adult female of my height (5′5″ or 65″ or 165cm).

So I have 2 months to lose 29lbs (13kg), or I can just continue with the Self-acceptance route and not force anything just because I’m getting married and want to look extra good in photos.

Well the bleeding just started.

I am going to refrain from saying “thank you george for allowing me to make it through the work week before attacking me” and instead say:

I thank myself for treating my body right this week in preparing for menses to begin on time.

This is a first for me in terms of the way I view my body and its functions.

I’ve always viewed my menses as something external and terrible happening to me, not something that is a natural part of me because I was born female. Before menses, it was my pubic hair and my breasts that freaked me out and were bad things happening TO me. I have viewed the very things that make me female with such abhorrence since I hit puberty at age ten.

I remember liking pink and red as a child. I had several red and pink friendship pins. I remember picking out my favourite white dress with red hearts to wear for my fifth birthday party, and my favourite peach coloured dress to wear for sixth grade school photos. My favourite pen in middle school was a thin pink Jordache pen. And yet I was also a total tomboy from age five or six. I had more female friends than male friends but I’ve always identified more with males. I loved climbing trees and climbing on top of the garage at the first house I ever lived in. I loved throwing a racquetball my dad gave me onto the roof of that house and running to catch it in the baseball mitt the teenaged boy next door neighbor gave to me. I loved playing stick hockey with my brother and his friends in the creeks that froze over in the woods in the wintertime.
I loved playing with matchbox cars in the dirt and mud. I loved playing in the muddy rainwater that flooded our street each summer.

But when puberty hit at age ten, all I remember thinking was that the boys I was friends with at school would hate me now. I knew how they talked shit about the other girls. I considered myself one of the boys, and now I’d be betraying them. I sobbed and begged my mother to make the puberty stop happening. She had no idea how to react. I sat on the stairs to her bedroom and just sobbed.
Within days it was confirmed. My best friend Jack disowned me and began making fun of me, just like he and the other boys did to any girl who grew boobs or filled out in any way. At age ten, the opposite sex has cooties. That’s just how it goes.

That was pretty emotionally scarring for me, and so I’ve never forgiven my body for what it did to me.

So this now is a huge step for me - that I would correct my thinking mid-stream tonight when I saw the blood. With this change in verbiage, I have finally acknowledged that there is no asshole attacking me as an innocent. This is not some outside force happening to me. I’ve realised that my body is sick and has been for a very long time, and if there’s any asshole abounding, it’s my own Self - ME - if I don’t do everything in my power to avoid getting sicker.

SO, I thank my own Self for not drinking alcohol this week, for not eating cheetos or anything with MSG, corn syrup, caffeine and partially hydrogenated crap.

Although I did splurge on sugar a bit this week (On Sunday or Monday I baked a gluten free, yeast free cake and frosted it with non-hydrogenated, corn syrup free frosting), and although I also splurged on breads this week (gluten free, yeast free pizza crust, mmmm SO good), I am happy to report that I did not cause harm to my body intentionally like I normally do when PMSing.

It took a lot of courage this week to stand tall in the face of my PMS demands. I wanted chocolate. I wanted caffeine. More than caffeine itself, I wanted coffee. I wanted ice cream and milk shakes. I wanted Cheetos and that horrifying Fritos brand Jalapeño cheese dip (which I call nuclear cheese dip because of the neon colour of the cheese). These are all on my personal No Fly List, because over time, I have observed that the above have directly caused the pain to get worse right after ingestion while menstruating.
I also wanted red meat. I wanted hotdogs. I wanted ham and cheese sandwiches.

I held my courage and said no to this every time I was in the grocery store or near a place where the above could be obtained. I was good. I was strict. I am proud of myself.

I did all this so that my menstrual flow would begin on time, because I do not want to allow for the possibility of menses arriving early anytime before my wedding. I only have one good week leeway. If I am early next month, my wedding day the following month could be doomed. I can’t let that happen. I refuse to be bedridden for my own wedding. I refuse to be in pain on my wedding day. I refuse to be on painkillers on my wedding day.

I must take care of myself. I am taking care of myself.

This morning my man woke me up accidentally by caressing my hand. Startled, I awoke panicked, “What? What? What’s going on!?”

My man told me in a soothing voice nothing was wrong, he’d just come into the bedroom after his shower and noticed that my hands were all tensed up as I lay sleeping. So he caressed them to help me loosen my grip.
I told him that I usually sleep with balled up fists - that I’m high strung and never really know how to relax, even in my sleep.
After that, I couldn’t get back to restful sleep. But I did focus on keeping my hands from balling up as best I could. Didn’t always work. After an hour of twilight and irritable sleep, the floor began vibrating, which vibrated the bed. My eyes popped open. It wasn’t an earthquake - the city crews were jackhammering the street again - they’ve spent the past month replacing the main sewer lines. But this was the first time I’d felt the house actually vibrating. Ugh. Now worry overcame me - would the toilet suddenly fly off its foundation? The sinks shoot out water? Do these assholes know what they’re doing?

So I got up, and was greeted by cranky meowing cats, demanding wet food.
This week I stopped feeding them wet food in the mornings, because they’re getting fat, and I don’t want that. A few months ago, my boy cat had some kidney distress - the vet said he needed a lower protein diet, and had me put him on the lowest protein content wet food I could find, twice a day, until I could decide what low protein kibble I wanted to go with.
Well I’ve since chosen a kibble, but kept giving in to the cats’ demands to be fed wet food twice daily. No more. I put my foot down this week, but cats are like cranky two year olds - unrelenting. And when my boy cat doesn’t get his way, he scarfs a bunch of kibble and then goes and pukes it around the house - much in the way a two year old child having a temper tantrum will cough and sputter until they force themselves to puke.

So I had interrupted morning sleep, I woke up irritated with the city crews, and now I’m met with cranky cats. I go into the kitchen and see that there’s a message on my cell phone. Two messages, in fact. Both are from the daycare agency.

Goddammit, this means they tried to call me in to work today. I specifically called them YESTERDAY to request work, and they told me they were waiting on a daycare to confirm with them before they could officially assign me out NEXT WEEK. I specifically told them “I am looking for work on the 4th, 8th and 11th.”

I never heard back yesterday.

This morning, I checked the time of the voicemails - they occurred two hours before I got up. I called the agency. The woman sounded upset with me. I told her point blank that I’d like more notice, please, and that today wasn’t on my list of requested days because I have a doctor’s appointment scheduled anyway. She was not pleased, but she asked if I’m still available for next week. I told her yes, MONDAY AND FRIDAY ONLY.

I’ve told these people several times I am only available those two days right now. Who wants to lay bets that she’ll try to call me in Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday, when I’m at my other job?

This is the same agency that let me go for AN ENTIRE MONTH without an assignment, before calling me in to work ONE DAY - this past Monday. And they had the audacity to get pissy with me when I told them I couldn’t make it to their annual employee appreciation BBQ in July?
These people can suck a big, hairy, sweaty nad.

So after all that this morning, I’m in a right foul mood. Add to that the fact that my tits are bugging the hell out of me just by being attached to my body.

Yep, that’s right boys and girls, it might be time for zept to go through gender dysphoria again!

It started when I began wearing my training corset. Corsets make a woman busty - and I’m already busty enough at 38C.

I’m not feeling the need to put forth a male persona or even a butch persona at the moment. I’m just angry with my tits is all. And my posture. Two nights ago as I sat in my training corset after work, I noticed how awkward my body felt, and that I wasn’t sitting like a lady - I felt like a man in drag with the corset on. My man replied, “well your posture looks better”…
Sure yeah my posture LOOKS better but I feel like crap because I’m not comfortable and don’t know how to sit like a lady! I don’t know how to hold my shoulders and arms. I don’t know how to position my ass on a chair, or my legs - do they always stay crossed? I hate forcing my knees to stay together when my legs aren’t crossed - doing that actually hurts my hips.

I really really hope I don’t get the full on gender dysphoria. I so do not need that right before the wedding, when I’m supposed to be a fucking princess in a frilly dress in front of everyone.

GAH.

Today’s gonna suck if I don’t take charge to put myself in a better mood.

I’m playing my catalogue of Minor Threat on iTunes while journaling - that is helping somewhat.
I’m eating more than just gluten-free waffles and syrup for breakfast.
I’ll give myself a break from wearing the corset for at least part of today, if not all of it.
I will shower after I’m done eating, and put on a sports bra to flatten down my tits and bind them to me so I’m not all bouncy wouncy today. That’ll help, too.
And I need to either hit the gym or go for a bike ride to let some aggression out. Must force myself to make time for that today.

Today is my doctor’s appointment to discuss my social drinking problem related to the social anxiety. I hope to get a referral to a substance abuse counselor and also get some valium type medication. From now through the end of the wedding planning and activities, I’m going to NEED the fucking meds. Have I gone off about some of my family yet and how they’ve pissed me off re: the wedding?
*checks*
No I guess I haven’t.
Probably because I can’t be sure they haven’t found my journal.
feh.

Dear Ztepf,

Today is a day I will never forget.
It is with unimaginable joy that I write to tell you that the California Supreme Court just ruled in our favor, declaring that each of us has the freedom to marry the person we love.

This is a landmark victory for our community. It’s a victory for fairness and justice. And it’s an incredible victory for California—a land of opportunity. For 10 years, Equality California has worked tirelessly to bring us to this moment. Today, for the first time in history, lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) Californians are truly equal. It is an amazing feeling.

I wish we could simply celebrate and enjoy this incredible victory.

But the truth is, this is just the beginning of the fight of our lives. Anti-LGBT hate organizations are already hard at work trying to pass a constitutional amendment this November in an attempt to take away our freedom to marry. And they have already raised millions of dollars to fund their discriminatory effort.

We can’t let that happen. We won’t let that happen.

It will take all of us to keep this victory. Make a contribution today to help preserve the freedom to marry from this vicious attack. Every dollar you donate will be used to fight this initiative.

Equality California Issues PAC is with a coalition of organizations working to defeat this initiative. Your donation today will help us buy media time and hire more field organizers across the state to mobilize the thousands of volunteers who have already gathered more than 76,000 signatures opposing the initiative.

Today’s victory proves that by working together we can achieve equality.

Our win today would not have been possible without the generous commitment and steadfast support of our thousands of volunteers and donors. And I cannot say enough about the brilliant legal team representing EQCA as a plaintiff in the case: National Center for Lesbian Rights, Lambda Legal, ACLU, Heller Ehrman and the Law Office of David C. Codell.

Help us keep marriage in California by making a donation today to fight the ballot initiative. As a united force, we will forever have equality in our state.

Once again, thank you for supporting EQCA in the fight for equality. I have never been more proud to be a part of this community. I have never been more proud to be a Californian.

Warmly,

Geoff Kors
Executive Director
Equality California

My girliness factor is growing exponentially by the day.

I looked at *purses* today.

I bought *women’s* underwear (as opposed to men’s boxers and bikinis) for the first time in about a decade.

I looked at TIARAS today.

Those of you who know me personally might know that I am a tomboy from about the age of six, and know that I came *this* close to becoming a boy between the years of 2002 - 2005, and that it wasn’t my first trip down Genderboinking Lane.

WTF IS HAPPENING

SEND HELP

P.S. I miss my *early* childhood wallpaper. There are no pix of me in my bedroom facing the wall that had that wallpaper. It looked something remotely like this:

only much brighter, with lots of bright orange and green and yellow and pink, and the background was bright green if I remember correctly, and the flowers were more rounded, like stereotypical hippie flowers…

The end of my first week back to work has ended in tears.

george is due tomorrow and my hormones are all out of whack.

And this week I started drinking again to the point of getting drunk due to work stress.

I ran out of my anti-anxiety medicine last Sunday, so I’ve been taking my muscle relaxers and a bit of wine to cope. But last night I joined friends at the tiki bar and got smashed on two drinks (well the 2nd drink is more like five-in-one and is appropriately called The Zombie).

Today my shoulders started to seize up and my lower back began to ache.
Then I got joint pain in my shoulders and wrists and knees.

Then without warning, a panic attack came on at work where suddenly I felt as if I was being smothered. I gasped for air and my heart raced and panicked. I maintained very well on the exterior but inwardly the panic grew. Why was this happening at work? Why right now? I grabbed the bottle of Ensure I’d had with my lunch and scanned the ingredients for anything speedy or caffinated. I saw nothing. But shit, the next call will come in at any second - I work in a phone queue, and then what? What if I still can’t compose myself by the time the call comes in?

I was waivery-voiced but maintained, and by the end of that next call, I was composed again.

Depression was starting to seep in, and hit full blast when I had a bunch of calls at the end of the day that added to my work load and made me stay a half an hour overtime. I’ve done that four times out of five this week so far. That’s typical, too.

And also this week, the managers expressed a need for volunteers for the weekend because they’re short staffed. I felt pressed and obliged. I will be working Saturday. I need the money anyway and I’m off on Monday for dead ex-president’s day, a day off I can never understand being granted to people. But then, I’m wholly unpatriotic to begin with, so of course I don’t understand.

The idea of working six days straight on my first week back to work when my period is due on that sixth day of work however caught up with me today and I became depressed. I barely make it through a five-day work week as it is. Now I know that six is just too much and sets me over the edge.

My depression worsened when, at the end of the work day and talking to my boyfriend, I realised that I’d not packed any club clothes or makeup. But yet I’d agreed to meet up at a friend’s house so we could all carpool to the club tonight. A bandmate of my boyfriend is playing tonight in a side-project band.
My shallow side kicked in hard. “I can’t show up at the club dressed in work clothes”, I whined.

So I came straight home from work. But in that hour and a half commute home, the depression sank me even lower.

On February 14th, it took me TWO and a half hours to get home because of traffic. I thought I’d take a short cut to avoid the massive backup. I studied a map and off I went. And went. And went. And missed my turnoff. And got turned around and lost.
I should have been sobbing from that experience, but I went numb. I stared ahead as I drove. Silent. Numb.

I got home and whined for sushi and my man and I walked to the local sushi joint. But I forgot my special wheat free soy sauce. So I had to walk back home and get it.

Some guy outside the nasty white-trash dive bar was staggering and slurring at people. He fixed upon me as I walked towards him. He began smiling and slurring out a sentence. I kept my eye on him so I could be sure to jump out of the way if need be. He said something about “San Francisco, Brother” at me as I passed, and then realised I’m not a guy. He then said “…hey…that’s not a brother…” and laughed, embarrassed at himself.

I however, was proud. It’s been a couple of years already since I’ve been mistaken for a guy. It didn’t matter that this guy was so drunk he couldn’t see straight. I know he thought I was a guy because I had my Detroit Walk goin’ on, and from a distance, he took that for male. I get that way - autopilot Detroit Walk - whenever I feel on guard or threatened. I was raised a bit streetwise.

So I cracked a smile out of the view of the drunkard and two other bar patrons who were standing at the curb outside of that bar. I was proud that I can still shape-shift.

That was the only happy moment it seemed, that evening.

Even the sushi sucked.

And here I am, two days later, sore eyes from sobbing right after my boyfriend left the house to go off to the club, and then after that off to a hotel for the weekend for a game convention. I’m normally not sobby like this. He goes off to see his friends for game every Sunday, and has band practice twice a week, and goes to game conventions twice a year for an entire weekend.

But today I am all weepy and emotional because of several factors. It was my first week back to work after surgery. I am PMSing already. I hate the commute and knew I would likely have a meltdown based on that alone Real Soon Now, anyway. Hell, my first month on the job, I cried every week because of the fucking commute and the Big Brother crap imposed on us at work.

I feel I have no choice. I keep saying that. People must be paid back. I have to get out of debt. I have a credit card and two department store cards to pay off again. I have two loans to pay.

And then I listen to a story on National Public Radio (NPR) about this military couple. The wife got her legs blown off in Iraq. Her husband helps take care of her now but after 19 years in the national guard and not seeing active duty, suddenly they’re calling him up for Iraq. And he’s going. WTF. This country is so fucked up.

And I sit here sobbing because I can’t go to a club because I have to be up at 5:30am to get ready for work tomorrow. What a weak piece of shit.
Hormonal whack aside. I don’t care. I usually listen to other peoples’ tales of woe to strengthen and embolden me to go on. But today, that didn’t work. I’m sore. I’m achey. I’m whiney. I’m sad. I’m depressed. I’m ready to quit.

I know I will carry on. I always do. But right at this moment, everything’s just too much for me to handle. “If I can just get through tomorrow.” I say that every fucking workday of the week. That’s how close I always am to meltdown. That close.

If I can just get through tomorrow, I will have two days off of work to do nothing but lay around for most of the day.

I already miss the week I had just laying on the couch with the laptop, looking out the living room window at the hummingbird that often visits the flowers outside the window. I miss that so much. I got to work on my family genealogy that week, something I’ve not been able to do at a stretch like that for two years.
That’s all I want all of the time - the week I just had off - minus the surgery and recovery part, of course.

Last night I tried eating chicken again. I had yams with my meal.
Within an hour of consuming the meal, my intestines were irritated and gassy but it wouldn’t come out.

The intestines are trying to get back to normal in general - I defecated three times yesterday and twice so far today. My friend, who has also had the same surgery, called today to tell me that vegetables were in general pretty harsh on her for the first month after surgery. I’m finding this to be true for me, too. Even creamed corn isn’t holding up so well with me.

Fruit however seems to go just fine. I have bananas and some canned fruit, and my friend G brought over fresh strawberries on Saturday, which I’ve been eating.

I can sleep on my side with care, now, but sitting up still requires a reclining position, and I shudder to think of how I’m going to wear jeans or slacks by the time I return to work on Monday, let alone how I’m going to sit upright for eight hours.

I know my perspective of Monday comes only through today’s lens, and that it’s once again a manifestation of fear. I’m healing well, I mustn’t forget.

Painwise, the belly button is the most painful incision, and the area below the belly button on down to the pelvic area is spotted with large greenish bruises. This morning, both pelvic incisions were throbbing in unison for several minutes. Now it’s just sporadic pinching - mostly on the right side.

I tried to wear a bra yesterday for the first time since surgery, but finally took it off after about eight hours because it was digging in. Not that I’ve gotten larger since surgery - it’s just that with the breasts unrestrained, they are not so heavy on my ribs and shoulders as when they are restrained.
I lament the loss of muscle in my breasts since binding them so much when I had my gender issues a few years ago. Definitely this year I am going to strengthen those puppies up again.

This year I’m going to get back into bicycling and lifting weights. It’s too late to partake in the Cinderella Ride this year, but I do want to try for the Tour De Tahoe on Sunday - September 9, 2007.

There are several crows calling outside. Wish I could see them. It makes me so happy to hear crows - when I lived with my dad on the edge of the forest, I always loved hearing all the crows.

Whew. Naptime. I’m still easily wiped out.

I went into work last night, despite feeling crappy. The bleeding and cramps had subsided by around 2pm, so I threw myself together, popped 600mg Ibuprofen, and drove to work.
Everyone seemed to keep their distance from me - I think perhaps they were under the impression that I’d been out with the flu or something contagious. No matter - they’re all guys, anyway. Telling them about george would likely spook them off.

Later, on break, one guy did ask me what happened and was I ok. I shrugged, told him I’m drugged still, and that it’s “girl stuff.” He paused and said, “…oh..”, looked at me kinda funny, like he’s never encountered someone with girl stuff so bad before, and then walked off. Heee… he’s only 19 years old, anyway. He could use a good mind bending, I’m sure.

About 2 hours into my shift - around 6:30pm - I started experiencing really bad ass pain. This is the “someone is shoving a sharpened broomstick up my ass” feeling, which always accompanies george for the past ten or so years. I know that I alarmed the person working next to me - who is genderbenderific like me - because every time I jumped from the pain and stopped my book scanning work for a second, I could see out of my peripheral vision that he’d look up from his work and give me a look for a second, then cautiously return to working. Yet, he’s not good on making small talk or conversation, cuz when I was on dinner break later, and he came out for a break, I tried to say hi and engage him in some chat to no avail.
Still, he seems to dig me, and seems concerned for me.
He had pulled down books on genealogy for me and sat them on my chair for me to see when I returned from my dinner break. So I’m sure we’ll be friends before long. He’s just painfully, painfully shy.
He knows I’m into genealogy stuff, because on Tuesday, when our nightshift boss ordered pizza and told us to go eat, I’d politely declined, and was teased for being some kind of health food nut. So I told the boss about my wheat allergy and how per my doctor I have to be on a gluten-free diet.
Well, the place is so small - there’s only 8 to 10 of us on a given night - that everyone listened in and started asking questions about Celiac. One guy rattled off symptoms, which I nodded to. He then asked if I’m Irish, and declared that his whole family is sensitive to wheat, and that he is convinced that all Irish people have some degree of wheat intolerance. I told him I’m more Appalachian, but that Appalachia is made up of Scotch-Irish descendants, and I told him that his theory was interesting, and that I’d love to really dig in and research that.
Well, the Appalachia comment spurred even more commentary and questions, and that’s how I got to meet most of my co-workers, finally - through this conversation! That’s how they found out about my love of family preservation work (genealogy), and why I came to interview for this archival job - because preservation in general is dear to my heart.

So anyway, Genderbenderific Boy paid attention, cuz now every time he sees books on ancestry and genealogy, he leaves one on my chair for me to look over.

On gender stuff in general…
Because my job is a sort of factory type environment, and because I work with all guys, and because of the extra testosterone boost that often accompanies george, I’ve been feeling more butch lately. I watch my shadow in the setting sun when I walk to the bathroom (which is in a different building - it’s better than what they had before - they used to only have a port-a-john!), and since I tend to wear a ponytail to work (cuz it’s been hot weather), I notice how guy-like my shadow is again. I notice the weight I’m losing. I notice my walk is more butch, because I’m walking alone in evenings and at night to the bathroom and back, which automagically kicks in my Detroit Walk™. There’s nothing bad or wrong with any of this. I am after all gendertastic. Just noting for the record, since it’s been awhile since I’ve discussed my gender issues. Hm, going back over that old site, I realise I’d dropped the ball in porting stuff over. Gonna have to find time to remedy that.

Back to the pain issue….
The broomsticky ass pain went in waves and lasted from around 6:30pm til after 9pm. By 9pm, I was so exhausted from fighting and steeling against the pain (I’d taken 400mg more of Ibuprophen, too), that now I was dizzy and very drowsy.
On top of that, our boss tried to cool down the room by sticking a fan on the floor and blowing it down the aisle we were all sitting in. Well, this is a small room built up industrial style - and it’s full of carts of old books, dating to the late 19th century. There’s a lot of dust. The fan was turned on high, right next to me, and stirred up a ton of dust. This inflamed my eyes and nose immediately. My eyes got sore and itchy and puffy, and my nose got instantly clogged.
I began to wonder again if this job would do me more harm than good, health-wise, and I started to worry that I wouldn’t hear back from the other job I interviewed for on Monday.
Genderbenderific Boy and I complained about the dust, and the fan was removed.

But as I said, the pain was so long-lasting that it wore me the hell out.
So there was the ass pain, the dust issue, and then… I started repeatedly sugar-crashing! Yes, no sugar has been present in my diet, and I’ve been eating protein and vegetables and LARABAR fruit protein bars, but because george is here, I have experienced hypoglycemic attacks every day this week. However, last night, I had one attack after another - I couldn’t stop it - I didn’t know how.
Those alone will make one want to sleep for a week after an attack, but combined with the ass pain and dust allergy…. OMG I just wanted to go lay down on the railroad tracks outside and wait for the next train to put me out of my misery.

I asked if I could leave an hour early, and was granted permission. But the last hour on the job was grueling. My scanning average was sucktastic for the evening as well, and I told this to my boss, who chuckled and told me to just go home and get some rest.
I’d expected to be paid last night, but forgot to ask about it when no check was handed out. Perhaps they pulled my check cuz I’d missed two days, and now they have to recalculate. Oh well, I did get my last unemployment check, though, which is good.

I came home and went right to bed last night.

Today, I woke up and immediately started to sugar-crash again. I ate 2 scrambled eggs and 2 gluten-free waffles with gluten-free butter. I’m still fuzzy-headed from the morning attack.

I’d like all of this to stop now, please. I’d like george to vacate the premises and let me go back to feeling reasonably healthy now, k thx.

…apparently this request is being denied, as I’m feeling the bleeding and slight bent of cramps creeping back up again. Go me.