Is This It?

I was on my way home on Wednesday, September 23, 2009, with my dinner in hand, and I swear I just wanted to sit down and eat but I knew the bus would show up the minute I did. I had intended to eat in the restaurant, but for some reason the counter person handed me my meal in a bag to go. Since my usual table was occupied, I sighed and left; the entire day had been off like that. I should have known the universe had it in for me.

When the bus arrived, I was the second to board and the first person stopped and pushed past me to get off again. That was when I noticed one of the passengers was beating the crap out of another. The bus driver had gotten up to try and do something about it, but that just drew the psycho’s attention to himself. I had stepped off the bus and was looking for somewhere to set down my bag of food and my drink, because I’m not the kind of person who can stand around and watch something like this. None of the people standing around at the stop would do me the favor of holding onto my meal, so I shifted everything into one hand so I could reach in and pull the mad man off the bus driver.

I had no desire to get involved in this; I don’t get into fights. Still, I tried to get the guy’s attention, pulling him back and saying, “That’s enough. You need to step back and think about what you’re doing,” while he stared at me in disbelief and asked me if I wanted to die. “You’re attacking the bus driver,” I pointed out, adding, “Think about it!” At that point, I let him go and stepped back to give him a chance to come to his senses. I can see in his eyes how pissed he is at me for “disrespecting” him, and yet there I was treating him like a sane, mature, intelligent human being, giving him the chance to resume acting like one. Instead, he turns back to the bus driver and is joined by a young woman who has come forward to attack the bus driver too.

When the guy tries the grab the girl and pull her off the bus, I step back and hope this means that he, at least, has sobered up a bit. She keeps screaming, cursing and kicking the bus driver, while people around me cry out for someone to call 911. When the couple finally does step off the bus, the driver shuts the door on them at the suggestion of the other passengers. I was trying to back away from them, but I was caught between them and the crowd at the bus stop. When the girl, who had tried to stick her foot in the door and got it stuck, pulled free, the couple bumped into me as I tried to get out of the way. The man turned around and grabbed me, shouting over and over in my face, “WTF! Do you want to die?”

I show him the drink and bag of food still in my hand, telling him calmly, “No. The only thing I want to do here is get home so I can eat my dinner.” He gives me this look of contempt and grabs the drink, crushing the plastic cup and trying to spill the contents on me with little success. Once the cup is empty, I let it go and try to step back with a disappointed shake of my head. After screaming something about disrespect, he hawks up a mouthful of spit. I looked him straight in the eye and, still in a level voice, say, “Don’t. That’s assault, and I will defend myself.” I know the adrenaline had hit my system minutes ago, but all I felt was disappointment and resignation.

He spit on me, and I took one moment to let my disappointment show on my face, and since he still held me close, with one hand gripping my coat, I pounded him in the face. I think it was the first punch I have ever thrown, and I was amazed that I felt no pain even though I could feel and hear flesh and bone compact and crunch under the blow. He did not let go, so I hit him again, still looking at him with cold disappointment and resignation. By the third punch, he was trying to jerk me off balance and his return blows began to land on the left side of my face. I had seen him go from person to person lashing out like a wild animal, and I wondered right then, Do I want to kill this guy? Will anything less stop him?

I was still amazed that I felt no anger, I was not seeing red after taking a few good punches. Not interested, I realized. I started to put him into an arm bind and headlock, and the girl suddenly jumped in, throwing punches, pulling on my hair and clothes, kicking and screaming, and I looked right at her and said, “No. I don’t want to hurt you,” as I pulled back the punch I threw instinctively in response to her attack. She kept attacking, though, so I caught her up in my other arm, for a moment keeping both of them bent over and bound up in my arms. Their struggles threw us into the side of the bus, and one of them went for my leg, throwing me over and then things really got out of hand. The next few moments were a flurry of her tearing at my hair and jerking my head around and him raining my face with punches.

This is what it is to get beaten. I thought it would be more painful, but it was mostly a series of shocks and a lot of disorientation. I could not make sense out of things, which meant I was no longer able to fight. You need trained reflexes to fight when you can’t rely on your senses. So, I curled up, protecting my head and face and gave them my back. In a way, it was an enlightening moment. I was beaten senseless, and yet I had the clarity of thought to note that while I lost the fight, I had won in the sense that I accomplished my objective of helping to protect the passenger and driver they had been attacking. I was a bit disappointed that I had not been able to defend myself, but the only thing I was really upset over was the destruction of my dinner. I was still hungry, and I really regretted that.

I finally have proof that physical pain just does not compare to the psychic pain I live with daily. The only thing that really bothered me was the twinge in my knee, which was twisted when they attacked that leg to bring me down. The broken nose bled like a faucet, and has been tender since; I suspect that it straightened my nose from when I broke it as a kid. The real problems have been the fact that I don’t have medical insurance; I could not let them take me to the emergency room and run up a massive ambulance and medical bill. I had to take a couple days off work, which I really can’t afford. I might just have enough to pay rent and bills, but that will leave me with nothing to live off of for the next month–even assuming I don’t lose my job for being out injured without a doctor’s note.

I have been taking care of myself, giving my knee time to recover. I could not walk on it Thursday or Friday, but Saturday Evening I was able to walk to the nearest mini-mart for some Advil and ice cream. I was not able to focus on school work for a couple of days; I spent a while laid up in bed and even when I was able to get around my apartment, my knee made it impossible to sit at my desk for long. In a way, I feel like my worst fear has come true, that I would get hurt and not be able to support myself while I am alone up here in Alaska. I was able to get some help from my apartment manager and one of the girls in my support group to get some food stocked up so I don’t starve, and if I am able to walk by Monday, I might still have a job. The problem is, I don’t know that I will have an income beyond this weekend, and that’s stressing me out more than the attack itself.

I have never been able to be myself, so I tried to just be the best person I could be, and yet when I truly do my best, I always seem to end up the worse for it. It really makes me wonder if there’s any point…

A Spark

My eyes opened and this is what I saw. You can in yourself be anything you desire. You create yourself from a point. You define your own existence. A soul defines itself. What words cannot define, they can characterize, so that the truth may be recognized as it is encountered. The existence of a soul is absolute, at once all and nothing. The qualities of a soul are both infinite and eternal. A soul is not a question, nor is a soul an answer. A soul is a statement. A soul is an expression, a unique, individual creation.

While I gazed in wonder, I realized that even before a soul embraces the awareness of other souls, the darkness of a soul embraces the light of other souls, filling the emptiness of its existence with the certainty of others, both as a foundation for its own reality, and a medium for the realization of its self. A soul dreams its dreams, innocent of consequence, immune to concern, often unaware of those who chance to share its dream. But already it is evolving. Its attention expands to encompass a growing understanding of its condition, and its will develops as it struggles to grasp the essence of its awareness.

Then I looked upon myself and had to see that in adopting a design, a soul is often faced with a limitation that arguably compromises or violates its integrity. If, within a given archetype, a design employs mutually exclusive characteristics, a soul, which by its intrinsic nature encompasses the gamut of mutually exclusive characteristics, can be stifled by the emphasis of its adopted design. Confounded by an exclusive emphasis, a soul is often compelled to find expression elsewhere. The diafracture of a soul can result in the functional and dysfunctional aspecting of a soul. The fact that such a situation can occur is not in itself damning or flawed, but a certain sophistication is needed to distinguish between a functional and a dysfunctional emphasis.

I looked upon my life and considered what was there to see. As the soul evolves, it creates. Constantly grasping existence anew and refining its understanding, recreating its universe. The power of its dreaming creating dreams. And in its dreams, it begins to experience moments of clarity. The questions and answers that it eternally weaves suddenly resolve and it awakens to a world. There was so much wonder in that. One soul can give birth to all souls, for that which can conceive of itself, can conceive of others, and in conceiving of others, can conceive of others that can conceive of themselves, and those that can conceive of themselves and each other can conceive of that which can conceive of itself.

So I understood, that one soul, dreaming of many, makes an invitation. The souls, dreaming of themselves, realizing the same truth, making the same invitation, are revealed to each other. Thus souls born dreaming alone, become souls dreaming alone together.

It took so little effort to put this epiphany to words, but the longer I looked at it, I realized that so much of it was beyond words. So much will ever be beyond words, and perhaps that is why the relationship between the body and the spirit is easier to describe than the relationship of mind and soul. Like the soul, a mind is a possession of itself, but unlike the soul, the mind is vulnerable. In a way, mind is a soul’s way of transcending itself. A soul can touch, and can be touched, only through its mind. The mind exists at a crucial threshold, as a premier interface between the individual and the infinite. Where every soul is a thing of innate perfection, each mind is a unique work of art. A mind is a soul’s way of representing itself.

At the same time, I could not help but notice that a mind is also a soul’s way of influencing itself. The power of a mind is derived of itself, in the expression of its soul. Mind is key to existence. The function of mind, to make dreams into reality, is demonstrated in our own realization of each other. The ambition or promise of mind, to realize the ideal, is demonstrated in our insistence on finding meaning in what we experience. In the world, the mind — not the body — is the seat of the soul. The mind is so central to existence that people are often blind to it, though nothing within it is ever hidden from the soul. If the soul could be said to be the light of our awareness, then the mind is the lens through which that light is focused.

It is a lens shaped by the soul, as much as by experience. It is intimately personal, yet exposed to everything. A possession of itself, a mind is also an object, a thing that can be grasped, manipulated, probed, and even possessed by, or shared, with another. I know that seems to imply telepathy, but even if there is something to that implication, there is reason enough for us to find it unsupportable. No intimacy can compare to what the mind can invite, and that is what makes telepathy, or any true example of what we would think of as psychic potential particularly difficult and dangerous for us to accept. Even without telepathy, we have enough ways to know each others’ minds. Even without other psychic abilities, we are capable of realizing that in order for the mind to influence reality, it must open itself, and become vulnerable. Only a strong, stable, healthy mind could bear to be so naked to reality. Only an open mind can touch naked reality.

Or maybe I should say, only a closed mind can avoid it. That is sort of the paradox of the position we find ourselves in. It is not our minds that define the limits of our grasp of reality, but the manner in which we perceive it. We give precedence to the senses of our body, as if the fact that our minds truly make sense of what we perceive means that the mind itself has no means of perception. And yet, all that we can ever truly know, we know only in the mind. Our connection to the physical universe we perceive as containing us lies solely in the information our minds derive from our perception of the world. The world we exist in is contained in that information, as much as that information is contained in the structure of the world, so the world we experience is really just an idea of the world. What that information really is or what it represents we are unable to know, because it can only be observed indirectly—if at all.

Our senses provide a very limited perspective. Our physical senses only provide the mechanism for transforming electrical and chemical impulses into information, perception itself is rooted in them and thus in the body, but only in the full focus of consciousness is perception truly realized, and only the mind perceives meaning and purpose. If you take the mind out of the process, information ceases to be a meaningful concept. Even limiting the mind to the function of processing information, storing and correlating data, the mind becomes distinct from the brain and nervous system by virtue of perceiving information. That transition to an information state crosses the same boundary between that which is purely physical in nature to that which is mental, or psychic or spiritual in nature. If one must look for a reason to accept these diverse terms, a justification for a soul as well as a mind, all I can offer is the common observation that what ultimately distinguishes one of us from another is the possession of our own awareness. That awareness is not always conscious and focused and it is not always neatly confined to the bounds of our own minds or even the bounds of our bodies or the world those bodies exist in. Also, while the minds provide that awareness with structure, the awareness is not passive. Awareness penetrates and pervades us, active and impulsive, persistent and pensive, focused in both understanding and intent.

It has taken me a long time to find the words to capture what I glimpsed, and that was neither the first nor the last glimpse I’ve had. I am sorry to say that these words only offer a glimpse of what I saw. If I thought I would live a long and productive life, I still do not think I could do more than scratch the surface of all that I have seen. In the life I have, I have barely made a scratch.

Staring into the Face of Truth

“A story is as good a way to organize your thoughts as anything else,” she points out, poised in the shadows in the doorway. I quickly conclude that she is playing the part of my conscience. That, or devil’s advocate. Either way, she’s me. I cannot say she does not really exist without implying the same of myself. She is in my mind, and of my mind, so I do not look at her. She cannot be seen, not in the flesh anyway, but it’s not like I have to look at her to see her. “It’s been a long time since you’ve done this, though,” she observes, watching me carefully. I can tell there’s something on her mind. I can feel it. Technically, it’s on my mind, but I have long since learned that her thoughts are her own when she chooses to assert herself. It’s a bit like being in two places at the same time, a way to step outside my normal perspective and look at what I’ve become.

“That’s because it takes more effort than thinking, even if it is no more contrived than any other thing written; it isn’t really a story,” I respond. I do not have to add that this manner of confronting myself is one of the reasons my stories never get finished; she knows that as well as I do.

“It helps when you need someone to talk to, though,” she argues, crossing the room to sprawl on the couch next to my desk. There are times when I wish that I could have visual hallucinations; it would be nice to really see her when she goes to the trouble to try and fit herself into the world. Instead, I can only see her in the way I see what I am reading about in books, from everywhere and nowhere. Of course, with her, there is no book, no words; she is self-rendered thought. “It gives me chance to be myself, too.”

“You mean, get some distance from being like this,” I amend somewhat bitterly, in reference to all the unpleasant facts of my reality. Normally, I do not have the patience to write like this. Once I discovered I could split my attention two or three ways, it did not take long to become good enough at it that I would just talk to myself when I needed someone to talk to. I can confront any part of myself that way, even the parts that are smarter and wiser than I can normally be. I have come to believe that this is what angels and demons are, projections of ourselves, impressions of others and the personification of our hopes, beliefs, fears and doubts. It’s what I think of as five-dimensional thinking. “So, what do I need to talk about?”

“I’ve been thinking about what you posted yesterday. Okay, that’s still weird; it’s as much my post as it was yours,” she sighs and scoots closer to the opposite arm of the couch, tucking her feet under herself. “I know what it has to sound like to anyone who reads it, and if people have trouble understanding and accepting a transgendered person, well…” She cannot finish the thought, because I already know what she is going to say.

“People have a hard time understanding and accepting anyone different from themselves. It took me too long to realize that there is nothing I can do to make anyone understand or accept me. People have to take it upon themselves to understand anything, and it is impossible to truly accept what is not understood. I am inclined to think that an inability to accept something is in fact proof that you do not truly understand it,” I find myself declaring. I had been unable to understand what was expected of me as a child, and so the role imposed on me was unacceptable. When I learned enough to understand what made me a boy, I also understood that I never had a choice, and that was unacceptable. When I worked it out enough to realize I also had no power to change what I was, that too was unacceptable. This lead me to ask some devastating questions. What is the point of being able to choose if you are not given a choice — especially about something that virtually defines you? What is the point of living if you are given a life you did not want? “I am not the only one to suspect that there has to be more to life than this, or that there is more to us, for that matter,” I tell her, in response to her unstated concern for what was at the heart of that post.

She tilts her head and shrugs in agreement, picking at imaginary lint on her skirt. “I know, but I did not stop at that, did I?” I can feel her studying me. I can’t really meet her eyes, but I can imagine myself looking over at her, seeing thoughts written on her face.

“I know, some of this is impossible to put into words, but yeah, the post was really about believing in myself and the impulse to act on that belief,” I admit, picking up on the thoughts this little game was bringing to the surface with a small sigh. “Although, there really is nothing hard about changing the world. The world changes with or without our help. What is hard is getting the results you intended. I might have gone out on a ledge by saying what I wanted to do, or why I wanted to do it. If there was a problem with what I posted, it was not being able to say how it could be done.”

She pulls her knees up to her chest and hugs them. I know what she’s thinking, because I am thinking the same thing. I have not been able to invest the time and effort needed to figure that out. “The hard part is not figuring out how it can be done. There’s plenty of scope for the imagination there,” she insists, prompting me to think of thousands of stories I’ve read, and hundreds I’ve tried to write, where suitable means were presented.

“No, the trick is establishing that there are means and methods available, and pushing ourselves beyond our current understanding. It is kind of hard to work on that if it is not your job, though,” I laugh, bitterly. Of course, there is no job like this. That has been the other reason I have been totally lost in this world. That sobers me up. “Honestly, even the little I’ve managed to find time to think about would take a lot of writing, and I don’t need another ‘job’ I don’t get paid to do!”

“And yet you sit up all night writing a blog like this?” she teases.

“Until I figure out what to do, what will make a difference, I don’t really have anything better to do,” I point out tiredly. As usual, I’ve barely scratched the surface of all the things that are on my mind. Writing is too slow and time consuming a way to deal with such thoughts. She looks at me, knowingly, and I shrug. “Things have to be done in their own way. If this were a story, I could skip over all the deep thinking. Even in a simple blog post, I could just focus on making a point. You intended to ask me how this is going to work. You really want to know how much more of this you have to endure.” I close my eyes and lean back in my chair. I know what it would take to set her free, and that I have to find it in myself. The problem is, as long as I am not her, I can’t really be me. I roll my head to the right and look at her. She cannot be seen, but she does not let that stop her. An obvious truth, always staring me in the face.

Impulse

Who am I? Why am I here? What is the point of my existence? These are questions we all ask at some point in our lives, and we can go our entire lives without knowing the answer. I suspect that a lot of people try to avoid thinking about it, not knowing how to begin answering, and I wonder how long a person can go without asking them. There are an endless number of situations and circumstances that can force us to confront these questions, and other soul searching questions like them. For me, the question can come up as a result of gender issues, but I’ve had it come up in many other circumstances. The answers, whatever they are, test the limits of my understanding, because in many ways I am the awareness brought into focus by both the sum and the gestalt of my understanding. In the scope of my understanding, I am aware that I am not driven by a desire to be female. I am driven by an impulse that is at once too simple and too complex for words, because words will never serve to express that impulse. Because I found myself in a body that I was not able to express myself properly in, it was only natural for me to become obsessed with finding a better way to express myself. I put a lot of thought and effort into figuring out the best way to embody myself in human terms, and because I was thinking in human terms, my self image is based on understanding the compromises that allowed me to be as true to myself as possible. Of course, human limitations are based on the limitations of reality, which are the perceived limits of existence — or rather the limits of perception. The plain, simple and painful truth is that I am driven to do something that can not be done within those limits — as we understand them.

I am a person who would have to change the world in order to show myself in it. It is who I am, it is why I am here, and the end — the point — is to have a beginning. It took a long time to understand that I was not limited by what anyone else knew or understood about reality; I can only be limited by my own understanding. At the same time, I realized that people understand a great deal more than they know, and that the truth is pretty much always hidden in plain sight. As I began to see and understand more, I felt the temptation to try to share what I discovered and help enlighten others. I got side tracked trying to figure out how to describe and explain what I perceived, losing sight of my original purpose. I do not need anyone to tell me that what I intended to do was “impossible” and I got tied up in wanting to be able to explain how to do the impossible before I went off and actually did what I intended. I just ended up spending a lot of time thinking about how impossible it was to do what I needed to do. I should have obeyed my original instinct, which was to try to do the impossible without attracting any attention to what I had done, but I did not know how to do that without hurting people I loved. I was also bothered by the implications of what I intended, and the peculiar insight that motivated me to act. I intended to transform my body, but that was simply how I intended to use the power I perceived in myself, how I would truly show myself. I am not actually interested in trying to change the world, but I find myself in a position where it is necessary in order to be true to myself. But, as Morpheus reminded Neo, “there is a difference between knowing the path and walking it.”

I know it sounds insane, and I’m not inclined to convince anyone that it is not. This is mostly a case of me thinking aloud and not much caring who hears. I have spent decades trying to figure out what it would take to accomplish this task, and discovering where I am obstructed by a lack of knowledge, or experience, or resources. I’ve shared bits of speculation in past journals and blogs, but I can never really capture my thoughts in words. Writing allows me to slow my thoughts down and get some of them out where I can focus on specific ideas. I needed to get to the root of what was really bothering me, and even if it sounds crazy, I am more comfortable with what I have said in this post than I have been with any of the posts about being transgendered or needing to transition. Those other posts have forced me to revisit the things that have torn me apart, but in the hope of being understood and accepted I tried to stay within the bounds of what seemed socially acceptable. The problem is that transition falls bitterly short of accomplishing what I really need to do. I have paid a huge price to give myself time to think this through, and for the second time in my life been tempted by the practical alternative and found the cost in terms of personal compromise to be too high. It was never an option, because I always believed in myself, even when that belief was undermined by all the doubt in the world. If I cannot act on that belief, is there really any point to living?

It Takes a Village to Break a Child

I do not often get comments on my blog; if I exclude the pingbacks, spam and my own replies, I’ve received twenty-two comments from ten different individuals since I started the eye of paradox two years ago. Four of those people have identified themselves as transgendered, and like every transgendered person I’ve known, it has affected their lives as bad or worse than mine and I do not have to explain myself to them to be understood. For a long time, I’ve understood that this condition is difficult or even impossible for people who have not experienced it to comprehend. In order to live with normal people, the “cisgendered” if I use the term that’s come into use to describe those who identify with their birth sex, I’ve had to go to incredible lengths to comprehend and empathize with them. I’ve tried many, many times to find a way to describe what it feels like to live with this condition, hoping to make it easier for my family and friends to understand me. As I mentioned, I do not always like what comes out when I write on this topic, because it is a very intensely emotional issue and intensely emotional writing just encourages people to accuse me of being mellow-dramatic. I honestly expect most people to be driven away by the things I have written. Growing up, it did not take me long to learn how incredibly unsympathetic most people are about this issue. I was never asked to explain myself. With the exception of my adopted mother, who confronted me when I was six to ask if I wanted to be a girl, no one ever asked me why I acted like a girl. By the time she asked, I knew better than to admit it, since every other time someone noticed I was just slapped, spanked, or jerked around while being criticized for acting like a girl and being commanded to stop. That does not mean I was not asking myself why I acted like a girl. Even though the question was often on my mind, the only answer that ever rang true was the one that the facts denied.

Because I was being held to a standard of behavior I truly did not understand and which did not come naturally to me, I had no choice but to conceal my pain and confusion in order to conform to that standard. As I’ve said before, it had been made clear to me that my “disobedience” was justification for punishment, rejection and abandonment, so it did not take long before I was conditioned to assume that anyone who enforced the male standard of behavior could not be trusted. I could not ask anyone why it hurt so much to not be a girl or why nothing about being a boy made me happy. I could never understand why compliments and praises highlighting my qualities or accomplishments as a boy left me feeling hurt, hollow and unhappy. I did at least feel relief and gratitude for the fact that it made people happy with me, and at the time I thought that was what happiness was. I was not always caught on the double-edged sword of gender conflict. No one can be, because one thing that Sophia Marsden pointed out is true; life is full of things that can be appreciated no matter who or what you are. In fact, I pretty much lived for those things, using them to distract myself, and in my preoccupation I pretty much forgot myself and acted like a girl — perhaps a tomboy, I should say, since I managed to get away with it more often than not. If there is a bright side to my childhood, it was that I found ways to be as much like a boy or a girl as I wanted to, as long as no adults were observing me. Unfortunately, I was never comfortable with my genitalia, or the fact that the sensitive organ served as a constant reminder of why I was not a girl. It pissed me off that I was never allowed to let my hair grow, and I hated the clothes I was forced to wear.

The simple fact is, there was always something bringing the gender conflict to the fore. No matter how hard I tried to be obedient, practical and realistic, the notion of myself as a boy never took hold. I was always caught off guard by the realization that I was male, and even when I was trying my hardest to keep that fact in mind, I would look at the girls around me with admiration and envy, forever underscored with an ache of loss. I did not really wonder why, because I knew why I felt this way, and knew it was forbidden, so I simply did not allow myself to think of it most of the time. I just locked myself away and died a little more each day. In a sense, when I got my hands on an anatomy book and finally found out why I was not a girl, I understood what was expected of me. I still did not know why I felt like a girl, and I still do not know. I do not know why I feel like I am lying whenever I act like a man. It is a feeling that makes me feel so sick, I cannot even get past the stupid “male or female” check-box on a job application. I mean, if you look at me and assume I’m just another guy, then, well, whatever, I cannot blame you for what you see, but if you ask me, I no longer know what to say. I am no longer a child to be threatened with abandonment, I am no longer willing to give anyone the power to reject me. I am more than willing to do any job asked of me, but I am no longer able to ask for a job, and if I care even an ounce for my own well-being, I cannot say anyone can pay me enough to endure what I have to do to myself in order to work. I got into temping and contracting because, for the most part, I am never in a position to ask for work, I am asked for; unfortunately, even that is drying up, and once my savings run out, I’ll be stuck homeless in Alaska with winter around the corner. The scary thing is, that doesn’t frighten me. I’m long past the point where I can be motivated by fear. Or, I am more afraid of compromising myself ever again.

I do not want to die, and I do not want to quit, but I do not trust anyone, I know I do not fit in, and even though there are people who understand and care, I know they have to take care of themselves first. I have made little appeals for anonymous help because I know I need it, and since I do not really expect anything to come of it, I really feel no guilt for asking. When you hurt enough, you scream. It’s human nature. Walking by and pretending not to hear the screaming is too. I really have no idea what I would have done if anyone had stopped and asked what was wrong. I would really be at a loss if someone thought they could help and offered. If someone wanted to throw money at me, no strings attached, I’d take advantage of it; it would be stupid not to and even if I’ve lost the will to go on living like this, I’m still too stubborn to die. I go through these spells of crying for help unable to decide for myself if they’re the remnants of my morbid sense of humor, a way to make it clear that I can manage a cry for help without killing myself, or simply an example of believing in people even if I am no longer able to trust anyone. In the end, the reason I write is not in the hope of salvation, but in the hope of understanding the answers to questions I do not even know how to ask. The people who shaped my childhood did not understand me, and their actions hurt me because they were carried out by kind and caring people I depended on. I could not tell you who is responsible for breaking my spirit, or failing to simply ask “why does this boy think he’s a girl?” My father stepped out of the picture when I was three, my mother’s parents convinced her to put me up for adoption when I was four, I was passed around between extended family members and foster care like a hot potato. Someone, perhaps more than one, saw my natural personality as a problem and whatever they did, the damage was done by the time I found myself in a safe and stable environment. I guess that just means that sometimes it takes a village to break a child.

Point Penetrating Points Overlapping

A number of my posts, particularly the ones dealing with transgender issues in my life, have been written on a long, dark night of the soul. It can be difficult to come back and read what I’ve posted and resist the urge to delete what I’ve written, because of how dark they are. I have moments when I think, if ever a family member happened to read them, some of what I’ve written could really hurt them. That was never the intention, and yet, there is a ring of truth to the posts I am not able to deny. It is an unfortunate fact that I’ve been hurt a great deal by people who never meant me harm because of things neither I nor they had any control over. It is not their fault that efforts to encourage my growth and development as a son or brother caused me so much pain; they were simply responding to what they perceived me to be. Our current society is the end product of thousands of generations of people struggling through life trying to make sense out of it. If that resulted in the division of human traits into masculine and feminine, and if the cultivation of gender roles led to a society that could not understand that there was a difference between the things that make people who they are and the things that make them what they are, it is not possible to assign fault or blame to any specific group, let alone a given person. As much as it would have made a difference in my life to have been raised among people who were more perceptive, or in a society that was more accepting of individual differences, I would still have grown up with the more difficult problem of being a girl in a boy’s body.

I can look back now and say it would have been better if I had been more assertive, but like most people I did not come into the world with all the answers and because I understood the reality of my situation, I tried to adjust to it. It took a long time to prove to myself that I was right from the beginning to think of myself as a girl. I had to destroy myself trying to be a boy and a man to understand that the only way I could survive as a person was by being true to myself. That was hard, and it is still hard, because there is nothing I hate more than the idea of being a woman trapped in a man’s body. How can I possibly be true to myself when I am betrayed by my own flesh? What future is there for a living contradiction like this? So, even when I am tempted to regret allowing myself to be forced into a role I cannot endure, I can understand how I could try to hard to be what everyone else expected me to be. I tried to be the person everyone thought me to be in the hope that, if I could not hope to live for myself, I could at least live for the people I cared about — the people who cared for me. I had no idea it would cost me so much, or that in the end I would be driven into isolation and have to face the simple, horrible truth of my existence. I lived a lie, and that is why I do not feel deserving of the love my family and friends have had for me. I hate the person I tried to be, and in that irrational way of such emotions, I hate everyone who ever loved that person. I’ve never been the type to hold on to negative emotions; I know that they arise in response to things I perceive to be wrong, cruel and unfair. I could never point a finger of blame, because I keep analyzing the problem until I understand it and what I did, or did not do, to bring it about.

I am a girl in a male body because I found myself and believed in myself, and it ended up hurting me because I allowed the circumstances I was in to overwhelm me. I knew the truth and allowed myself to doubt it. That doubt was all the leverage needed to turn my life into hell. I tried to deny the truth and struggled to believe the lie I created to survive in the world of doubt I had embraced. Why? Do the facts really matter if they contradict the truth? Is reality worth holding onto if you have to dispose of yourself in the process? I could never silence these questions, and part of me struggled to hold onto the one truth I had. I know there have been times when I wondered why this was happening to me, and there are answers I could give myself, but in a lot of ways it was not the question that mattered. If I tried to look at my life as a story, then everything that happens is just part of the plot, and if I think of myself as the protagonist of the story, then it’s all a puzzle I have to figure out. Even if I just call it a life, then the challenge of every experience is to find meaning in what is happening to me. When I open my eyes and consider what is happening with everyone all over the world, then it begins to look like a proving ground, and the purpose of everything that happens in life is to find out what it takes to destroy us. When I think about it, though, I feel like I’ve survived too many things that should have destroyed me, often in ways I would have preferred not to have survived. Even worse, it often seems that it has been because of my weaknesses, not my strengths, that I have been able to survive. I mean, if a person can really die of a broken heart, I could have died a thousand times a day.

The hardest thing to endure is the idea that this is a world without magic and miracles, a world where it is not possible to transform this body of mine in a way that would make it mine. I cling to my sanity in the face of a reality in which the very thing that supports my existence is the thing that denies me the ability to truly live. I’ve always known that there are others who have experienced a conflict between who they are and what they appear to be. I also know that appearances matter no matter what anyone says to the contrary. It is not necessary to be gender dysphoric to feel betrayed by one’s body. It is enough to simply look different. In many ways, it is easier to accept what other people look like than to accept our own appearance. I always had a hard time with the fact that I appeared perfectly normal to other people but felt horribly deformed, with parts of me literally turned inside out. I feel the distortion of my body image by my physical senses as a constant dislocation and disorientation, like I have two bodies, a male body overlapping a female body — which is a lot like wearing over-sized boots all over. That should go a long way towards explaining my instinctive understanding of four-dimensional space, as well as my intuitions about the nature of the mind, soul and spirit. Even as a child, I found it easy to comprehend magic and miracles in terms of multi-dimensional functions, though even now it’s difficult to describe what is clear in my mind using words. Of course, what I think of and associate with the terms “magic” and “miracle” are a bit different from what I find in most literature. For a while, I thought it might be more appropriate to use the term “psychic” or “psionic” instead, but even those terms are met with suspicion and skepticism these days, and I can understand why.

I recall pointing out somewhere that magic is the ability to change reality in spite of what you believe, while a miracle is a change in reality based on belief, and that both are expressions of psychic potential. These were clarifications I made to distinguish the concepts for my own use, both in fiction and in philosophy. As far as I am concerned, there should be no stigma attached to these words, or any mystery or occult terms passed down into the English language, even if scientists and skeptics do like to view them with contempt. Concepts are necessary to communicate ideas, and even if there is no scientific basis for their use, they provide a rich vocabulary for expressing ideas that are otherwise hard to articulate. It’s an approach I’ve been using all along, in previous posts. It was inevitable what I would reach a point where I would feel the need to comment on my use of such terms, just as it is inevitable for a child born in the wrong body to wish for metamorphosis. If all I had done was wish for change, I would have lost it a long time ago. The part of growing up and outgrowing fairy tales and children’s fantasy would have left me hopeless. So, I had to put more effort into searching for a way to change, which meant doing my own research into miracles, magic and medicine. Since I did not have money to throw into it, I was pretty much limited to what could be found in libraries and book stores or what could be learned from other people. It is not hard to find people with strong beliefs about magic or religion, and medical practices are pretty well documented; it did not take long to conclude that what I was looking for was beyond the reach of medicine, and what most people who believed in magic or divine intervention would consider possible.

I should say, anyone who believes in God would say He has the power to transform a body, but since He is our Creator we are meant to be the way He made us. To believe otherwise is perceived as a sign of demonic or satanic influence. I have had this kind of theology used against me, and it falls apart with just a little analysis. We could not be vulnerable to demonic or satanic influence upon our identities unless we had the capacity to redefine ourselves, and we would only have the capacity to redefine ourselves if we were meant to assert our own identities. God might determine where we start out in life, but I don’t think we would be able to live without free will; if it’s all God’s will, then there’s really no one here but God playing with meat puppets. If we are free to make our own choices, who we are is a reflection of those choices, even if we cannot act on them. The problem most of us face in life is not having the opportunities to make the choices we really want to. One of the ways you find out who you are is by understanding the path you choose to take, and why. In any case, the world we live in only makes sense if we have true free will; there is clearly nothing limiting the choices people have except the consequences of those we act on. By chance or design, we are free to do anything we take it upon ourselves to do, and it’s up to us to figure out what the right thing to do is and to do the right thing because it is what we choose to do. In the end, we become better people by choosing to be our best, without the need for threats or coercion.

For all I know, the point of my life was to come to this understanding, to live a lie long enough to want nothing more than to be true to myself and find a way to be true to others, to understand how vital it is to be true even if the truth is out of reach. Perhaps that is something that can only be understood when you need something you cannot have, when you aspire for something that cannot be obtained with words, or actions. The thing I have sought my entire life is the power to change myself, not because I want power for its own sake, but because I need that power to become the person I want to be, the best person I can be. I can be honest and say I am not happy to be the best I can be; it’s not enough to make the most out of what I’ve been given. I want to be the best I can dream of being, and I wish I could achieve that on my own, without compromise. I’m not sure if that is possible in this world. I believe in the possibility, but what I believe only affects what I can accept as possible. In all probability, I will die for that belief because I don’t want to live in a world where it will not come true. Until then, however, I will keep thinking about what it would take to change the world just enough to make myself truly part of it.

Matter and Movement in Four (or more) Dimensions

These days, it only takes a little curiosity, access to the Internet, and a bit of patience to find explanations of progressive spatial dimensions or examples of four dimensional geometry, such as the old favorite the hyper-square. Some of the things you will find use analogies like Flatland, or animations which is a way of using time and motion to reveal a higher dimensional object using a lower dimensional cross section — the advantage of this kind of intersection or interface is the ability to scan through what is too dense to actually see through. In this way, we can emulate the ability to observe, say, the details of the internal structure of a three dimensional body in a manner similar to seeing it directly from the fourth dimension. Of course, we did not have to wait for the invention of magnetic resonance imaging to be able to perceive the insides of our bodies; our sense of touch gives us the closest thing to a physically four-dimensional perception. Our kinesthetic or spatial sense is annexed to our visual perception to give us an integrated sense of physical reality. In addition, we supplement our active field of vision with the memory of what we have previously seen, and studies on perception have revealed that we often rely more on our visual memory than our active sight in familiar settings. This ability to fill in the blanks around us is one that we can use to “see” into higher dimensions.

In the mind, it is possible to construct things in four or more dimensions, but that does not tell us if there are any objects in the universe that are constructed in four or more dimensions. Taking the example I gave of eight-dimensional time-space, we could surmise that the universe has height, width and depth in a kind of cellular structure in which every moment in time exists in strands of continuity along branches of probability in a network of possibility where multiple event paths lead to and away from any give moment. The instant is where-ever you happen to be focused on eternity. Time-travel would be non-paradoxical because time itself would be process based, a product of attention. The event you experience would largely be determined by the state of mind you are in as you approach the moment, so causal time would probably be the norm; that is the path of least resistance. The real challenge to time travel would be presented by the body and its influence on attention. As a three-dimensional spatial construct, the body predisposes us to move through time as a byproduct of moving through space. To arrive at a specific point in space and time, without transiting the intermediary space and time, would break the perceived continuity of events unless one could perceive space four dimensionally–in which case the intervening space was bypassed in an instant of time. The mind can conceive of four-dimensions internally, but the real question is, how would you move the body through a fourth-dimension externally?

A question like this is a question about matter as it relates to space. Among the things physicists know, matter occupies very little space and is distinguishable from energy only by structure. Attempts to understand the structure of matter has led to the identification of elemental atoms, primary particles and fundamental quarks; the last taking us down into the realm of quantum mechanics. In the process of getting down to the quantum level, physics has also run into fundamental forces, the electric and magnetic forces, gravity, the strong nuclear force and the weak nuclear force. These are all things that can be observed or inferred to exist based upon experimental observation, and for all that is known about them, there is much that is still not understood. The one aspect of matter that has captured my interest most often is the characteristic of mass and its association with gravity. A particle with mass is infinitesimally small and produces (or focuses) a force that has infinite range (though the strength of the effect diminishes over distance in a known, inverse-square ratio). Unlike electric and magnetic forces which are polarized, or both attract and repel, gravity seems only to attract and does so in a “like to like” fashion.

The “dent in space” model of gravity gets me thinking, as anyone who read my post on Gravity in a distributed, process driven, information-based Universe could tell. Einstein gave us the equation summarizing the relationship between matter and energy, but by itself, the equation does not explain what is really happening when energy is concentrated into mass. We have to ask, what is happening to the energy, and part of the answer lies in understanding how a point of mass is focused into a stable object and why that deforms the space around it. The answer is further complicated by the specific structure and electromagnetic properties of a given particle. Particle physics is a whole field of study unto itself, and if the great minds devoted to it will pardon me, outside the complexities that might be explored, the simple observation is that structure holds the answer. Energy is concentrated and structured into a more complex and dynamic state in which we find a focal point in three-dimensional reference and forces that produce one-dimensional (polarity), two-dimensional (surface tension, surface area), three-dimensional (height, width, depth) and four-dimensional (mass, gravity, inertia, vector) effects. There is so much going on, all of it debatable, but I always come back to the four-dimensional view of matter.

I would have to have a great deal of time and a decent amount of resources to formulate something more substantial from this speculation. I am sure there is a great deal more information available that could affect the assumptions I have about pervasive energy, pervasive space, particular matter in infinitesimal space, concentrated energy, mass, structure, gravity, spatial displacement, fields, force, electron shells, magnetic shells, and light. I have the interest and the fascination to keep probing and a desire for more reliable speculation, but until I find an opportunity to devote myself to it, I can only work with the insights I have now. The implication of four-dimensional structure in matter, or the idea of atoms as four-dimensional objects, does not make our world any less a three-dimensional environment. That is, matter may only be possible at the three-dimensional surface of a four-dimensional substrate of energy and space. There are particles that seem to spontaneously pop in and out of existence, if some of the reading I’ve done on particle and quantum physics is correct, and that might be an indication of structure transecting our three-dimensional “plane” but most atoms seem to be pretty well stitched into place.

I am not as confident in speculating on how energy and structure “bind” but that is what I see as a likely basis for fundamental forces. The forces seem difficult to understand or explain, but part of that is because the concept presents us with an inherent mental block. A concept allows us to hold onto an idea about an observed phenomenon, but in the act of grasping an aspect of reality in that way, we focus on the effect and become unable to see the cause. Stepping back and looking again, we might be able to see that what we call a force is simply a particular way the balance of energy in a structured system must behave to achieve stability. Seeing that way, we can begin to ask what imposes structure and how does it persist either as part of or apart from energy. The question brings me back to a notion I had about the nature of limits and how that impacted the perception of substance and solidity. If matter is mostly empty space, what keeps things from constantly falling through each other? The substance of matter is not in the mass, but in the repulsive forces of the electron shells of atoms. The thing that makes the world seem solid to our touch is the existence of forces associated with particles that prevent them from actually touching.

There is a great deal more needed in a comprehensive analysis of matter, but this is enough to return to the question of moving a body through four-dimensional space. A common observation is that an infinite number of objects of a given dimension can exist in an object of the dimension above it, being in effect an image of itself, but it would take the action of an entity acting in the higher dimension to manipulate or move the object through that hyper-space. In my example of a person attempting to jump from one position in space-time to another position in space-time without transiting the intervening space, either an outside agent would have to be involved, native to the higher dimensions, or the person would have to be constructed in four- to eight-dimensions to begin with. Not really a problem for the mind, assuming the mind is not exclusively internal to the body. The hard part, for a mind rooted in a physical body in a world such as ours would be figuring out that it did exist in more dimensions and that this enabled it to move through space and time in ways that transcend the physical limits of the body. No tool or technology grounded in the physical world would be of much use in discovering or exploiting this fact. Not that you could not discover it by accident if the mind should happen to wander; though you would have a hard time distinguishing random moments scattered over infinite probability from dreaming.

Awakening

I have pointed out before that my struggle with gender dysphoria prompted me to search in all directions for a solution to being born in the wrong body, and the determination with which I pursued that goal in spite of all doubts and discouragements — even attempts to accept things the way they were, adapting to and adopting the identity imposed on me by circumstances — says a lot about me, and even about what I ultimately concluded. My existence may be supported by reality, the physical, chemical, biological and sociological fabric out of which we all seem to be spun, but none of these things are me. I exist in my mind and that is why the way I perceive myself in my own mind can not only contradict my physical form, but trump it in importance to my survival. I have heard the theories and arguments on nature versus nurture and taking my own experience into consideration I can say that there are elements in both that can help shape who you are, but only by presenting the options or stimulus necessary for you to determine who you are. I cannot tell you if this is a process of creation or revelation; it feels like both. I am the driving and defining force within my own mind; my mind is the structure and articulation of my soul.

I was born in a context in which everything and everyone seemed to deny my existence, in accordance with the belief that who I was was based upon what I was and where I came from. I was not encouraged to express myself in ways that were inconsistent with my appearance. I’ve described some of the ways I was discouraged in other writing, and how it affected me. The most important result of this situation was that it did make me conscious of the fact that there was more to me than just my body. I have long since realized that most people are not very clear on what a spirit or a soul really is, but I never really had a problem with that. It was difficult for me to understand the modern view of consciousness and things like mind, spirit and soul as mere epiphenomena. I eventually understood the limitations of scientific thinking responsible for promoting this view, as I understand the way it drives scientists to look for a physical mechanism for the origin of consciousness. On the other hand, I had no difficulty understanding that the mind was central to everything that really mattered about existence. Perhaps that is a result of being hyper-conscious of every thought and action I took as a consequence of being forced to override all of my natural instincts and impulses to conform to people’s expectations of me.

I spent my childhood engaged in a constant, intensive observation of myself and everyone around me. I analyzed the world and all my experiences in it as if my life depended on it, often discovering new ways in which it clearly did. In my day to day life I was as deliberate in the control of my thoughts and emotions as I was in the control of my body. I had to understand as much as possible about how my mind and body worked to achieve that degree of control, which included managing or bypassing a number of “hard wired” behaviors and responses. I was thinking hyper-dimensionally long before I learned that was the way to describe what I was doing, or how to explain the process to someone else. I think the first step in thinking hyper-dimensionally involved the unstated realization that everything in my existence occurred in my mind; the “outside” world distinguished from my “inner” world by my physical perspective in it and limited influence over it. In my “inner” world, I was everyone and everything, everywhere at once — all on the verge of being nowhere, nothing and nobody. My consciousness was an all encompassing point with unconscious depths in the shadow of oblivion.

I began to understand that there are many things you have to figure out for yourself, in order to know and understand them, and consciousness is one of those things. I suspect that the scientific study of consciousness will inevitably conclude that it is a complex form of a basic property of “awareness” inherent in energy as the combined medium of information structured in space, time and mind. It might arrive at that conclusion with more esoteric and granular terms, but that is pretty much what it will amount to. Any other proposition runs into the problem of spontaneous generation of the subjective state phenomenon that is the prerequisite for any observer of the objective state. The consequence of any reductive analysis is an increase in relative potential; which is to say that everything is implicit in nothing. The information potential of a singularity is infinite. The interesting thing is that I am not saying anything new here. The same observations have been made again and again in many different ways. None of them make any sense to people until they observe it for themselves. I have no idea what conclusions a scientifically valid description of it will lead to. The first steps in this direction were taken when science confronted the quantum paradox and the possibility of observer based reality.

For my purposes, this observation is not the end; it is just the beginning. To be perfectly frank, I find myself in an untenable position and this can only be corrected in a world where things we would think of as magical or miraculous can occur. In part, this is because any question of physical transformation runs into problems related to the preservation of the mind. I ran into this while contemplating the use of future nanotechnology to remodel a living body, picking this as the most scientifically plausible method of turning a man into a woman. Biological processes can and should be viewed as proof of the concept of nanotechnology, in which complex organisms are constructed on a molecular level. We know that some aspects of personality can be passed on biologically, but there is no indication that the subjective consciousness is transferable. If you were cloned, the clone would be his or her own person, with a unique subjective consciousness. He might be like you, and assuming your exact brain structure and chemical memory was copied precisely, think he was you, but you would not be him. Nothing we know of suggests that there is any continuity of consciousness in that kind of situation. In a transformational process, there is every chance that the thread of subjective consciousness would be broken as one form was broken down and another built up.

The possibility of transitional death forced me to focus on understanding the nature and survival requirements of the mind, and this is ultimately a question of significance for all of us in the face of the inevitability of death. Death is the inescapable paradox. It is reasonable to assume that it inspired the concepts of spirits and souls. The prospect of oblivion is something that drives us to truly assert ourselves, to dream of and strive for immortality. In our lives we experience oblivion in different ways. In a way, the singularity of our consciousness exists in a bubble of oblivion. It is not hard to argue that individual consciousness can only exist if it is shielded from universal consciousness. Until we actually die, we cannot know if death is the end of consciousness, the end of individuality, or the beginning of something else. All we can do is ask what the existence of the mind really depends on. One possibility is that the body and brain is the foundation on which the mind is built, while the other is that the body and brain are merely the scaffolding used in building a mind that can stand alone. We might as well be asking if the world is really what it appears to be. As it happens, it is not. The world as we know it exists only in our minds.

To be more specific, we exist in our minds and the world we perceive is constructed in our minds based on information provided through our senses. What we can know about the universe is based on the information that can be derived through its structure. Perception is the conversion of structure into information, through the structure itself, into our minds. Our bodies, our physical senses and our brains are part of and can be found in that structure, but our minds cannot. Our minds possess structure, based on they way they use information, however; this gives us information and structure in both abstract and manifest states. The process of transition from a manifest state to an abstract state presents us with one dynamic. The constant transformation of structure in the universe and in the mind gives us another dynamic, in general terms “change” or in more specific resolution “time” which we derive from the continuity of perception. It is possible that consciousness emerges from the organization of awareness in the structures of perception through the interpretation of information derived from static interactions with dynamic structure in the universe. The interesting question, of course, is what does the existence of the universe depend on?

I am not sure anyone claims to know an answer to this question, but science has given us a lot of ideas derived from tested information about the universe. It does not give us an origin for the medium of space-time or energy, but it can tell us that all matter is derived from energy and structure. I am strongly inclined to look at space and time as part of the way energy is structured, viewing dimensionality as a component of structure along with size, scale, position, etc. If, as I suspect, awareness is a property of energy, then even the mind can be fully encompassed in the universe. Mostly, energy seems to be the most persistent and pervasive thing encountered along the spectrum of extrapolation or reduction. I would hope that anyone critical of my inclination to view awareness as an inherent potential of energy will understand that I simply find awareness too fundamental to our experience of existence not to be implicit in energy. I think that the obvious complexity of structure found in the human brain and perceptual processes is evidence enough of the difficulty of focusing potential awareness into coherent consciousness. I do not pretend to have a hypothesis for how the structure and organization works, or where in the process proto-awareness becomes awareness or proto-consciousness becomes consciousness. I just see it intuitively in life in the world around us.

I did not get to this point in my speculation following a straight and direct route, and some of the most interesting and useful things I spent time on were essential to getting me this far, such as a study of dimensionality, part of which I have elaborated on in explaining the different dimensions and part of which I only hinted at in this post — dimensions of mind. It is a lot to go over and again, too much to really explain inside another topic. We do not truly know what energy is, but it does seem to be pervasive and universal enough to be a base medium that, through structure in manifest, static, dynamic and abstract ways would give us space, time and mind, the three media that encompass existence as we know it. Information and structure both have intimate relationships with energy. Our bodies and our minds can easily be seen as structured energy. We are energy and information forged into a truly dynamic state. With all the universe to show us that energy sustains information, it seems absurd to think it would simply delete information like us. Most of all, I would think that energy organized to the point of self-awareness would somehow be self sustaining. If we could become more complex by one dimension of space-time-mind, I suspect that maybe we would. Of course, that’s just me commenting on a mountain of unshared speculation.

Slightly Left of Nowhere

I rarely have time to write or draw, and as my friend keeps reminding me, I’ve little hope making a living as an artist or writer. I have to agree, knowing that even brilliant writing and art takes a massive investment of time and effort up front. That seems to be a recurring theme in my life, however. I have never really had the things I needed to succeed in life. I have almost always had a reasonable substitute for the things I lack, which I am sure could have been used to achieve success, if success meant anything in the absence of a life worth living. The hard, cold facts of life undermine my identity and force me to live the life of a person that does not exist. I succeeded in earning enough to live and function as a man, but the process left me with no sense of myself as a person; nothing that I did felt real to me and nothing that I engaged in felt meaningful.

I tended to find purpose in living for other people, and that worked when I was close to the people I cared about. I did not do that well when I was removed by one degree, living on my own. Alone, I shift from positive distractions as a productive member of a household of family or friends to negative distractions, focusing on work, school, art, writing, reading, and latching on to anything I can do to entertain or amuse myself so I do not dwell on the problems I am not able to solve. I do not go about it in a healthy, productive way. It is more frantic and desperate than anything healthy should be. I get a lot done, but I am never satisfied by my accomplishments, because I know they are not contributing anything to my true well-being. I know I am distracting myself and that I am neglecting many of my real needs, but I keep doing it because I will fall apart if I stop.

Work and school take the bulk of my time and effort, and while one allows me to pay the rent and other costs of living and the other improves my future career prospects, I’m really just treading water as I drift out into the ocean. A degree is a bit of a plus on one’s resume, but it is no guarantee of a good job, and may not offset the negative impact of any transition attempt, and the financial aid debt will drain the financial resources I need to transition successfully. So, even doing all the right things, I am digging myself into a hole I might not be able to climb out of. I have tried to use my need for distraction and love of art and writing together in a positive way, to kindle a creative source of income, but my creative impulses are driven by a need for self expression and I end up putting too much of myself into them. I do not mind that, but I doubt there is a huge audience for transgender themed art or fiction. I have put a few things out on the Internet to test the waters, and while I have gotten some great responses, they have been pretty scarce. Not very confidence building!

I’m a pretty stubborn person, though. I feel pretty fragile because I seem to be bruised inside and out, and that makes everything painful — but it does not really stop me if I accept the pain and push forward. I have mostly been tripped up by indifference. Yeah, okay, I know I’m no one important, and I’m slightly left of nowhere, but it is humbling and humiliating to put myself out here about as naked as I can get, and not even get rude cat calls! Personal feelings aside, though, I realize that I am not catering to anyone’s tastes here. I am just being my self, commenting out loud on topics of random interest between fits of bitching and moaning. I use my blog and various journals as a relief valve, and pretty shamelessly at times. I try to share thoughts of greater interest, and I present only observations and insight — I do not try to present myself as an authority. I am happy if I simply inspire thought, and I would like to get enough feed back to know that I do on occasion. I do not think I would change how I express myself to win over an audience as a professional blogger.

On the other hand, if you have ever been slightly left of nowhere, you are my target audience. If you are a misfit or a dreamer and yet believe there’s a place for you in the world, and that our dreams are worth sharing, you’re my people.

It is where you can, and yet… can you? On writing what I know.

I may have commented on it in passing, and it is something I certainly never miss, but my art and writing have always brought out the real me. In a sense, that is appropriate enough; isn’t it a common recommendation that writers draw from their own experiences? I often feel that my escape into fantasy or science fiction has been good for my sanity, but bad for my hopes of a writing career. I could be wrong. I see enough gender bending in books, manga and film. I find it interesting that most cases involve a boy turned into a girl against his will. Interestingly enough, the first time I picked up an issue of Ranma 1/2, I put it back when I discovered that Ranma considered his ability to become a girl a curse. I did not think I could stomach reading about a guy hated having what I so desperately longed for. Months later, I gave Ranma 1/2 a second chance and eventually came to like him and appreciate what he was going through. I became a fan, read all the manga, watched as much of the anime as I could stand (if you’ve tried, you know why I say that), and even wrote over a million words of fan fiction. I’m still trying to complete volume five; it’s hard to give it my attention when I am struggling to hold myself together and it’s writing that doesn’t pay.

It is not a hugely popular story; people either love it or hate it, it seems. I mostly only hear from the people begging for me to write more, and it bothers me that I usually have no time or energy after coping with work, school and stress. I will say this, it was nice having a set of characters and situations that were so well suited to the topics I always wanted to explore but was always resistant to exploring in my own writing. I wanted to write, and deep down I wanted to share the experiences and insights I’ve had in my life, but I had a hard time with the fact that writing myself into fantasy or science fiction, where the problems I face can be resolved so the character can move on to other things, I was engaging in a degree of self-destructive wish fulfillment. I threw a lot of stories aside because I kept writing myself in and then writing myself into a corner. I tried to get around it a couple of times by jumping past that part, as in The Eve of Paradox, but then I lost the opportunity to show the reader what made the character who she was. I think the only way to break this pattern is to accept that it’s the story I have to write, and hope that it’s a story people will read, love and beg for more–because there is a lot more.

So, there it is. I can say that I chose to write fantasy and science fiction because that’s where you can present a problem like I’ve lived with and get past it. It is a story I’d rather live than write, and I know that has been part of my frustration. I know that there is the option of transitioning, to get close to where I belong, but there will always be a part of me that knows that what I really want would be like magic, a miracle, a true transformation. Even then, there would be part of me hurting for the childhood and life experiences I missed. I have all my dreams, and the problem there is that in all my dreams I was alone. No one in here but me. Perhaps by sharing the dreams and stories I’ve kept silent all these years, it won’t seem like that as much. I dunno, but it’s what I’ve got. Why shouldn’t I make the most of them?