I’m so over whining, I’m so over being stressed out, I’m so over being afraid of my feelings.
Yet these are the only things I’m ever able to do, the only things I’m ever able to write about. If I were to be asked what my blog was about, the first answer that the smart ass part of my brain would respond with would probably be self-defeating. I’d feel compelled to give some sarcastic answer about how my staple is bad writing and worse topics.
Thankfully, my mouth doesn’t always move at the speed of my brain, and I’d correct myself before ever getting there. I’d tell you that I write about myself, about life, about relationships.
I’d talk about power, and submission, and wanting.
Wanting. I always want something, I always want some answer, I always come to some conclusive discovery at the end of the post. That’s what it feels like, anyways… to me, at least… that I have to have an answer for everything. That I write, and ask myself questions, and by the end of my post I’ve found what I was looking for and discover it right along with you, the reader, because, unlike my mouth, my hands do move faster than the speed of my brain. It’s a surprise for me too, of course.
To get to the point, today’s latest tragedy is an existential one (yaye), and one that I’d tried, very hard, to write more elegantly than what has already been said:
I want to be more feminine.
And I don’t know what the fuck that means, what the fuck that entails. I’ve come to a very real conclusion that I suffer from quite a bit of dysmorphia, that I hate so many masculine traits about myself, and that they’re a large source of stress in my life.
And that I’m terrified to follow through with the elimination of even a small amount of my masculinity at all.
That I can sit here and scream all day how I’d like my body hair to be gone, how I wish my hair was longer, how I wish I could paint my nails or have a hairless face, but my sad truth is that I can’t do these things without great difficulty and shame.
Oh, and shame, shame is such an ironic little hell, because I’m probably more ashamed of being ashamed than anything else.
Supporting and helping to nurture Eiren’s femininity is my entire life, has been my entire life, for so long… yet, the very idea or utterance that I could be scared of my own femininity is so wrong to me, so horrible and disgusting that it envelops who I am down to my bones and traps me.
How do you fight that? How can you be ashamed of yourself, then be further ashamed of yourself for that very reason? What recourse do I have to say “Enough is enough” and get over it?
And how do I even begin to let Eiren help me? Lord, we play… Eiren loves feminine men, she loves to play adult Barbie with me and use me like her doll, but I don’t want to be a doll, I don’t know what I want in its completeness at all, but I know that whatever it is… I don’t want to play, I want to be.
I don’t even know what “being” is, yet I feel that I know enough to say that play can’t help?
What can help?
I’m not naive enough to say “nothing”, and the best option for me right now is to see a therapist. Nothing comes from blind self-discovery in my life, and I’m terrified that if I don’t understand what any of this means, that I’m just hurting myself and my family.
This is horrible and I wish that I was strong enough to deal with it by myself, but I’m just not.