Fin (2025)

It’s almost 4:20 am, and I just woke up a little bit ago. I feel like I have more clarity, and a better understanding of the hopelessness of my situation.

I don’t know that I should try to make it about Lupron or anything. I think I should just… die. Quietly.

I was already a late bloomer; but now, I’m likely to be north of age 40 before I ever get SRS.

It just feels… impossible. Impossible, and not worth it. I just… need to go. I feel like today is a good day to die.

I was planning to just send this to Brittany and Samantha later today, but I’m not sure I want to now. Because, it’s basically my suicide note.

I know some people happily get SRS after age 40, but… Look. I’ve wanted this since I was thirteen at least. And you’re telling me I’ll probably be in my forties before I get there?

Ugh… just fuck this.

I genuinely thought things were going to be really cool during the height of my insanity. I thought I was going to get a new life, or lots of new lives, and a spaceship, or a time machine or some shit… and, that’s a really tall height to fall from. And, there’s just nothing. Nothing, unless there really is something waiting for me in the afterlife. Which, I’m not exactly holding out hope for.

And, I scarcely have anyone close and sane to even reach out to for help. Let alone much of anyone to leave a suicide note behind for.

I’m thinking about what I ought to do before I go. The house is a mess, and I probably won’t really clean it before then. Let’s be honest.

I just… don’t know if this writing is even worth much at explaining what happened to me. I mean, all of it. The UFOs, the weird sex stuff, the gender-fuckiness… It’s just impossible to “bottle” this. And, that’s what I set out to do six months ago. I just wanted to give at least one other human… this. Because, I’m just this. This life chose me. And, I still don’t understand any of it.

And, nothing seems to come out right. It sounds too sexual, or it sounds too dishonest… it doesn’t capture how much of a tornado swept through my life in 2019, when suddenly all of my friends were leftists with people living in their heads who were fucking each other and into mysticism and magic, and I was just left out again. Like always. And now years later, I’m left wondering who the fuck these people even were. Are they real people? Was I the victim of some psy-op? Like… April and Drew kept their thermostat on Celsius because they were forward-thinking or something, and Crystal was learning Russian for some weird reason, and then Drew and I took LSD that had been dissolved in water, ostensibly to make splitting the tabs easier… Like, was my polycule started by CCP agents or something? I thought they were just hippies from Evergreen who liked Kropotkin and the metric system… I mean, I’m probably just imagining things, right? These are trans people, after all…

At the end, Josh asked a question that he tried to pass off as an afterthought; but that I can only imagine was singeing a hole in his mind. It went something like

Oh, I remember what I was gonna ask you… Did you, uh… do BDSM with Katelyn and Cassie?

And… no, I did not. Nothing of the sort. I probably got more childhood BDSM from Aaron Lee just on account of the aforementioned time he tied me to a basketball goal. I just can’t… bottle this. This… feeling.

Like… I guess the thing that’s singed into my mind was some game we were playing in a closet at their house, where I ended up wearing something tight around my crotch and it made me aroused. And, I know I at least had my ham radio license at that point… That’s what I’m trying to bottle. That… feeling. It’s ineffable. Old enough to have an amateur radio license, a couple years too young to know about transsexuals and BDSM, or really even sex except that it’s something for “adults after marriage!”… And a couple years away from having genuine cognitive dissonance about this really innocent errant boner that was entirely normal… and I know this intellectually, but some part of me just feels… guilty, and confused, and like a liar. What did it mean for me to get aroused in that situation, when I really just wanted to be a girl more than anything? What am I? Does anyone even know? Did Harry Benjamin even have a clue? And then we just… kinda stopped going to Katelyn and Cassie’s house around that time. For all I know, it was just the divorce, or maybe my parents thought it best if I spent more time around male friends now that I’d started puberty…

I mean, it was obviously something totally innocent, but these are the sorts of things that singe a child’s mind. Children are like sponges. They get all sorts of crazy ideas about this confusing world that they’re just trying to piece together. And then, not a month over thirteen you’re learning about transsexuals and transvestites and drag queens… you’re learning some people disparagingly call this “sexual”, or a “lifestyle choice”. And, you still want to be a girl more than anything. But you’re learning that true transsexuals don’t want to transition just because of some sexual thrill, and you still don’t know what that boner meant, and now you’re masturbating in mom’s clothes with a vibrator… and you still want to be a girl more than anything, and you still don’t know what it means. You start hiding your sexuality from yourself, because you don’t want to be too kinky to be truetrans or something. You’ve read enough about transsexuals to at least know how you’re supposed to feel, so you think… but everything you learn is colored by things you learn in youth group or Sunday school, which it turns out is mostly just bullshit. And your mom says she loves you. She loves you. She loves you to the moon and back. She loves you more than anything. She loves you more than life itself. “You can tell me anything”… And you decide you need to tell her, you decide it’s too risky, you decide you need to tell her again, you tell yourself she already found the box in eighth grade or something so what’s the point in hiding it, really? But, obviously she didn’t want to talk about it. I love you. I love you. I love you to the moon and back. I wuv a’widdle Efan… And finally you have to tell her because you’re an idiot and you decided to trust Emma, and now she still loves you very much, but she’s clearly not taking it well, and she thinks I had my “first gay experience” with some dude from Goldsteins when I was really just fixing his computer after work, and she saw a transgender woman come in to work today for food stamps, and she really doesn’t want me to do it, but she wuvs a’widdle Efan, she wuvs a’widdle Efan, she wuvs a’widdle Efan… What was even the deal with that weird sex stuff from when I was younger? Should I just try and forget about that? I still want to be a girl more than anything… I feel like Sarah or Morgan or whoever is dying. Oh goddammit, Susan’s yelling at me because she found out what I actually do when I wear women’s clothing, and I still don’t really understand that weird boner I got when I was playing with Katelyn and Cassie, and… I think maybe I’m beyond gender. I think maybe I’ve transcended gender. I think maybe I’m just full of shit. I think maybe I should just drink this beer, and smoke this weed, and play some COD, and just try and be a normal fucking dude. Because, why do I have to be so goddamn weird all the time? And it’s like, Susan encourages me to be a weirdo. I think she wants me to be some kind of retarded Bobby Boucher mamma’s boy. She volunteered to go to the DMV for me when I got my Mustang in college, and it’s why I still had Amateur Radio tags on it, because no offense but I just wanted to be normal. Normal. Normal! No Linux and ham radios and transsexuals and BDSM… Okay, I still use UNIX, and I’m actively involved in the local BDSM community now. But I just want to be normal. Normal. Normal! Goddammit!

And then you’re having a smoke on the balcony, and you’re talking to Trevor about how you used to play with Kimberly and her older sister all the time while her and Josh are fucking in the other room, and Trevor’s all like

Well, how do you feel about that? Do you ever wonder what could’ve been?

And all I can think is “Uh… no. I kind of just want what she’s having.”

And then I go to sleep later that night, faded and maybe a little tipsy, and I think about that time me and Katelyn and Cassie were playing in that closet, and I got a boner after putting this thing tight around my crotch, and I’m not sure if anyone noticed, and I still have complicated unresolved feelings about it for some reason, and… what if everyone noticed and thinks I’m a huge pervert? What if they know I’m a huge pervert? Like, what if I transitioned and everyone was all like “Oh, Ethan the weird boner boy thinks he’s a girl now?” It’s probably just all in my head. I think it’s just me. It’s probably just me, right?

And your friends are all dating normal college girls, and they’re asking questions about why you’re never interested in getting any pussy, and they’re wondering where you’ve been off to lately, and where you’ve been off to lately is this Narnia of BDSM and polyamory and decade-wide age gaps, and you’re just kinda like

Eh. You wouldn’t be interested…

And your mother’s wondering if you’re ever going to start seeing anyone, and when my dad died she made a thing about how I had my dad’s blessing to transition if I was still going to do that, and by then I was just really weird about the whole trans thing and didn’t really want to talk about it, like that time my dad got me a make-up kit and I was just kinda like “eh, I don’t really do that anymore…” and he was all like “Oh, awkward…” and, goddammit I’m an idiot, I haven’t even thought about that in years and now I just want to have a smoke after dredging that up and every once in a while Susan wants to know if I’m seeing anyone and I’m just like

Heh. No, not really…

And I can tell she wants more visibility into my personal life, but I just don’t really have anyone to take home to mommy, see? I’m just this. And she thought I left the country for a sex change operation when I was at Maureen’s house over the weekend, and she keeps asking if I’m seeing anyone, and she’s asking more and more, and she’s getting more insistent, and she kind of just invited herself to the LGBT center once and managed to become Facebook friends with Brittany, and she keeps asking if I’m dating anyone, and I’m just like “eh, not really…” while I think to myself about how I’m trying to get back into BDSM stuff again, and she learns about Brittany and Samantha and Stacey’s little situation through Facebook, and she doesn’t seem to have smoke blowing out of her ears, and I’m just thinking to myself “Well, that’s kinda my people, Susan…” and she keeps asking if I’m seeing anyone, and I’m really not, and I’ve started to think “What’s the worst that could happen if I give this crazy lady a bit of the access she craves?”, and then shit gets crazy, and now I’m in a polycule, and Susan’s sort of invited herself to Pride again, and I figure “Hell, let’s just give this a shot…” and she tries to act supportive, but I could tell she died a little inside when I told her about this one particular unconventional “lifestyle choice”, and I think back to when I was a kid and Susan didn’t really even tell me anything about sex except that it was for “adults after marriage!”, and here I am in the year 2019 or 2020 thinking “Oh c’mon… we aren’t still doing that, are we?” Like, what do you people want me to fucking do? Go to Christian Mingle? And, I know I killed her a little inside, because then she tried gaslighting me into thinking I made her go to Pride when really she just sort of invited herself.

I’m okay. I just feel like I got… incomplete instructions for assembling life, I guess. I feel like my puberty was like that dude who got killed by that cop because he couldn’t follow the guy’s impossible instructions. They make sex sound like just a few simple rules Jesus wants you to follow before you have fun on your honeymoon, but like… when was someone like me ever really going to have a honeymoon? I guess whenever I decided it’d be fun to start picking up chicks or something. And Josh the other month was like

You’ve never even tried Bumble or anything?

And I’m thinking “Dude… I’d already excluded myself from the mainstream dating pool a long time before Bumble ever became a thing.” (I hadn’t written about the part where I destroyed my career the first time because I wanted to low-key make a dating app that would work for me or something…)

And like, every time I’ve even glanced at one of these dating sites, it always starts with “Okay, guys over here, do this stuff and pay $$$” and “Girls over there, do that stuff and pay $”… and I’d always get shitty gender feels because I want to do that stuff like the girls over there, and it’s really not even about the $$$ part. It’s about the part where I feel like I’m being aggressively gendered male and can’t just… do things the other way. Because, I just have to be this special goddamn snowflake. And I’d rather just… die alone than do the “guy thing”. And, I know I’ll never be anyone’s woman. Except, I could’ve been. But when I could’ve been, I was cynically telling myself I knew I’d never be anyone’s woman. And, now I’m just here.

Ooooooh baby
Of course momma’s gonna help build a wall

I’ve got no one to blame but myself. Myself and my own bad decisions and my own free will. But, I made those bad decisions for a reason, goddammit! And, I was so close to making better ones. Like those pretty trans women who were on the sauce when they were something-teen years old instead of being all “Oh look, I’ve transcended gender or some shit…”

And, everything I write kind of just makes it sound like a sex thing. It doesn’t really capture that I actually have way more of a snuggle drive than a sex drive, or how much more comfortable I feel now in very non-sexual ways… but I’ve never felt conflicted about the part of my life where I’m just fantasizing about snuzzling my boyfriend I’m never going to have while I’m falling asleep. It’s the part where I came of age thinking I was unfuckable to 99% of the population, and it’s ever since left me looking for the elusive 1% of people who would actually do me. Because, that’s the eventual end to all that G-rated dating stuff, right?

Anyway, that’s what I meant when I said that. Oh, what did I say that started this?

I remember getting hard playing with Katelyn and Cassie whenever our play involved themes like confinement. I just had to wait until I was older to have enough grains of sand to understand why I liked that so much? Then, when I was finally old enough, I felt guilty. Was that a scene? Was that consensual? I mean, there wasn’t anything sexual about it; for them. But, I really liked this stuff. Did I unknowingly coerce them into topping me by directing our child’s play toward themes that made me aroused, before I understood what sexual arousal even was?

Okay, I guess that does kind of sound like… Goddammit, I just can’t bottle this. This many more words later, and I still don’t know that I’m any closer to bottling this feeling. I just don’t think I can give it to anyone. It’s just me. I’m just floating alone in this universe… strange and incomprehensible and maybe still just “Ethan the weird boner boy”. I tried to give you a piece of it, but sometimes I feel like the more I try to explain it the further I get from the essence of this. This dull, aching, numbed out feeling. It’s just me. It’s what I’ve always been. It’s all I’ve ever known. And perhaps sadly, I’m quite adjusted to it as long as I have at least half the Maslow’s hierarchy or something…

I don’t really have much of anyone else to even give my suicide note to. Josh and Tommy already have their versions… I guess it’s really just a matter of whether I send this to Brittany and Samantha. I have a really sad lack of close friends.

I’m feeling more at peace with it; and I feel like I could’ve done it yesterday morning if I had the stuff already. It’s kind of dark and feels like crossing the Rubicon, but I really do need to buy the stuff.

I don’t even know if I want to show anybody the rest of this. There isn’t much point. I think Susan is too fragile to handle my anger toward Christians, and I sort of just want her to die thinking we’ll all live happily for eternity in heaven or something. Poor thing; I consider it a sort of palliative care for her and her sort.

Then again, the thought has crossed my mind that I might be possessed by a demon. Maybe they’ll punish me for it by sending me to live with Susan for an eternity. I mean, she is an asshole; but, I also want the best for her for some reason. She’s like a child trapped in a grown-up’s body or something.

It makes me feel like I shouldn’t leave any sort of a note at all. Because, I don’t think my words could ever really do anything except hurt people. And, I haven’t even done a very good job of explaining the Rachael Brown experience. Six months and 140,000 words later, and… I don’t think I can bottle this. It’s just another distorted attempt at trying to explain this weird way some humans can be born as. At best it just comes across as weird; and at worst it’ll be weaponized by conservatives.

It’s me, though. Just me. Some human from Warren, Ohio I think; who I suppose may as well be half alien.

---

I keep reflecting on the fact that this may be my last month on Earth. I’m thinking about all sorts of things, big and small. What my last meal will be… probably drunken noodles from the Thai place down the street. They’re so good, but I haven’t been able to justify spending that much on a meal in a while. I wish I’d have planned better; but, I’ve always been a procrastinator. I’m even procrastinating at preparing for my own suicide. I’m planning to get one of the helium tanks later today, and maybe the construction-grade trash bags. I have some 1/2” or so rubber tubing that I want to see if will just slip onto the tank without any fuss, or if I’ll need additional hardware to get a helium hose in my bag. There are detailed resources on manufacturing exit bags if you want to put more effort than I have into finding that, but… I think I get the idea. My plan seems pretty airtight, pun intended. I could even test the bags to see that they stay buoyant before I put my torso inside. Hell; maybe if the bags are big enough I could just sit Indian-style in there with the tanks.

I don’t want people to be sad for me. I don’t want people to mourn for me. I just want this to be over. And soon, it will be. This is an easy way to go, and I don’t think I exactly have an easy life ahead of me. I just… deserve better for myself, and this is my way of regaining control over my own destiny.

Should I do laundry first? Should I pick up around the house? What if I try it, and I just wake up on the closet floor, or in the hospital with brain damage, or with cops swarming my house? Should I spend extra time rigging up a timer to send out the link to my suicide note, or should I do it manually right before? Am I really going to do it? Maybe someone will stop me at the last minute, or I’ll decide to just check myself into a mental hospital instead.

---

I woke up this morning (well, around midnight), and… I didn’t want to do it. This just seemed so crazy. And, maybe it still does a couple hours later.

It’s just illogical for me not to kill myself, though. I’ve basically totaled my life, and there’s nowhere else for me to go. I don’t think I can just… go to the back of the line for SRS again, and try to make something of myself after all this. Hell; I probably can’t even get a good enough job to pay for SRS now. I just… don’t see the point. But, sometimes I am a little sad that this is going to be the maximal extent of my existence. Just some little weed that Christians couldn’t let grow in their perfect little garden. Okay – maybe I need to cool it with the hate for Christians. I just feel like I got… really bad instructions for assembling life from them, and then they turn around and blame me for my “sinful lifestyle choices” after all that.

Dude. I’ve been an atheist since like… forever. Where is this even coming from? I guess I still have hard feelings.

I do keep thinking about how similar my experiences are to this “targeted individual” conspiracy theory; but, I’m not into right-wing conspiracy theories, or really right-wing anything. And, some of the claims, like that I’m in an “electromagnetic concentration camp”, don’t really make sense to someone with an even partially-working understanding of electromagnetism. And even then, some small part of my brain goes “Well, what if it was some kind of spread-spectrum tech?” Oh, come on. This is ridiculous. One common thread in variants of this conspiracy theory is that these sorts of “interrogators” in your head ask you an endless stream of questions to keep you… hooked, or preoccupied or something. And, I definitely relate to that. That’s been going on for years now at this point. And, there’s nothing persecutory about it. It always feels like they’re trying to help me, but they can’t give me the answers. Like a cryptic Morpheus. And, sometimes it feels like various people I’ve known. Like their future ghost has come back in time, to haunt me before they’re even dead. But, I don’t believe in ghosts or right-wing conspiracy theories. If there really was something otherworldly happening to me, I doubt I’ll find the answers I’m looking for on the internet. But, I’m probably just mentally ill, right? I mean, let’s be honest. This is crazy, and it’s just unrealistic to expect some happy ending from all of this.

Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder if some malevolent entity with otherworldly technology really is just trying to get me to kill myself. Who knows why they decided to fuck with me in particular. Maybe it’s ’cause I’m a tranny, or because I don’t have much of a future, or because Joe invented a time machine and wants revenge for me fucking up his thing, or because I’ve been randomly selected for a culling of the population… I mean, I guess I might just be mentally ill. That’s the most obvious answer; but, this just seems so crazy.

I’ve already written over 4,000 words in 2025, and I’m not sure I’ve really said much of anything new at all. Maybe I should focus on quality over quantity. The state of things has had me banging out lots of stream-of-conscious writing, that I probably won’t have a chance to clean up before I die if I’m actually gonna do that.

My only (oh, what do I mean only) regret is that, if someone really does want me to kill myself, I’m letting them win by doing this.

I’ve thought about refreshing what Tommy can see with what I’ve written since then, at the risk of it leading to an intervention in preventing my suicide that might well be for my own good. I mean, I don’t think it’s any worse than what I already sent him… I feel like I’m teetering on the edge of really crying out for help, but I sort of just want to stop being a pussy and do it already. I feel like that guy.

---

I’m starting to worry that one of my worst fears might come true. What if Susan really does end up getting the Britney Spears conservatorship thing on me? I think I, well… really would be better off dead then. I’m a little freaked out that Tommy hasn’t really read this mess, and when he eventually does cops might get involved in my life again. I guess I turned it up to eleven, because I didn’t really get much of any response out of Josh, and I really need help getting out of what’s become a life-or-death situation, and Tommy is one of the few remaining people who might actually be able to shed some light onto what the fuck actually happened in the months and years following that conversation he had with Vickie.

I guess I thought the hard part would just be getting it all out of me and writing this down. But now that I’ve done that, it feels like nobody really even cares what happened. The world has just left me behind. I’ve just been forgotten. And, I get that as an adult it’s not anyone’s responsibility not to leave me behind, and I’m just supposed to keep up. But, it just hurts. I might be days or weeks away from going out of business, and I don’t think anybody even cares. Hell; they might not even find my body until the cops get involved because I’m not paying my mortgage.

I’m pretty sure “suicide hotlines” and the like are for a totally different kind of person; not that I’ve tried one or anything. I can’t imagine what they do except try to talk you out of a highly distressed emotional state, like if you had BPD or something. I just need help. Like, cold, hard, logical help. Okay – maybe that’s what Josh gave me. I just don’t know what I even need really. The problem is too complex and nuanced to even explain to a suicide hotline operator. That’s why I was hoping to rely on my support network or something, but as it turns out they’re mostly the sort of people I’ve complained about being the wrong crowd in the later part of this document. And, my motivation to continue de-scumming this for Brittany or Samantha or Erika or someone is fading. I guess I’m just… out of options. I guess this is the end of the line, or something really close to it.

I can’t believe Tommy’s like, my only hope right now. I can’t believe I’m just back to that. I don’t know where else to go. So much just doesn’t make sense.

I’m kinda worried that if I checked myself into a mental hospital, they’d think I was just trying to use them as a homeless shelter given my financial situation. “Oh, so you just didn’t have a serious mental health problem until you went broke, huh?” Maybe I shouldn’t make wild assumptions about people before I’ve talked to them. I’ve just been hurt a lot.

This just sucks, man. It’s the end. There’s no more Rachael, and there’s not even anyone to invite to my going away party. I should just… die, quietly. Like I said.

I feel pretty stupid for spending my last six months on Earth writing a document nobody cares about that I can’t even share without hurting people.

I’m worried I’m gonna procrastinate until I literally can’t afford to buy a nice, cushy way to die like helium. I’m worried I’ll have to panhandle for helium money. Maybe I can find a group of Republicans who would chip in to help a tranny kill herself. Maybe I should just be a little more proactive. I want to combine the helium run with a cheese stick run because the two are right there beside each other.

It doesn’t matter. No one’s probably going to read this anyway.

Then again, maybe I’m supposed to kill myself. Maybe that was the only message I was supposed to receive from this. Kill yourself while you still can. This might just invariably be the end for me, and perhaps lots of us.

Tommy probably knows nothing about space aliens, and he probably doesn’t want to talk to me anymore after that anti-Christian rant. I just… don’t want to kiss anyone’s ass. Even if I really don’t have any options besides that or death.

---

I’m really scared I’m gonna get locked in the psych ward for writing this, and they won’t let me take HRT because I’m DIY, and they’ll make me do stuff with Susan or something. It sort of has me thinking I should just do the thing sooner rather than later, because by crying out for “help” like I am that’s likely to be what’ll happen. I just need… actual help, and I don’t think it exists. Not, like, the government babysitting me until they decide I’m not a danger to myself anymore or something while they forcibly detransition me again…

I just don’t think I can trust like that anymore. It’s starting to look like I’ll have to put a lot of trust in some stranger who’ll wield legal custody over me and keep me from doing normal “Rachael” things, like taking 200mg of spironolactone and 6mg of estradiol a day, or getting Bojangles at 5:30 am. Hell; I’m not even going to mention the weed, and I’ll even consider compromising on the Bojangles. I won’t be able to afford it for much longer anyway.

---

I’m writing this in real time, after smoking and experiencing a sort of strong self-preservation instinct. This is crazy, right? Is there not anything I can do? I mean, anything short of literal torture would be better than nothing, right? I need ideas. Like real, actual, things I can do this month.

• I could sell the house to get cash now.

I don’t think I can do anything until I unfuck my brain, though. I really need an answer to this. What actually happened to me? What’s my diagnosis? How do I explain this, to myself and others? What am I?

So, how do I get an answer? I mean, I’m sure if I check myself into a psych ward they’ll give me some kind of diagnosis. Is that just… it?

I don’t know what I’m expecting from Tommy exactly; except maybe a very crystal-clear explanation that I was just imagining things! The 12:26pm message thing was just a coincidence, Vickie saying Tommy wasn’t from Warren was just a miscommunication, anything I thought Tommy was hinting at during our previous meetings was just misperception, and the Freemasons are just some boring fraternity he’s probably not even part of.

---

It’s after midnight on January 10^th.

Yesterday morning, I decided to start working on an anonymization script to scramble the proper nouns in this document, so that I might share this on the internet in a last-ditch attempt to get help. It’s taken the form of a 200-something line .sed.m4 file, that’s probably going to keep growing over the next couple days. I’ve started to wonder if it’s worth it, or if anyone will care.

Later that morning, I finally got a response from Tommy. Granted, I wasn’t expecting much… it still stung a little.

After checking the server logs later that afternoon and seeing that he hadn’t actually looked at my thing since the night I sent it to him, I panicked and removed him from the .htaccess file. I didn’t want him to see any more than he already did; especially the part where I descended further into suicidal ideation. I just… really don’t want cops banging on my door to take me to the psych ward again.

When I woke up around midnight, I got a very official looking email from Chase. I haven’t opened it, because I know what it says. I have almost exactly $1,000 in my bank account, bills aren’t getting paid, the HOA wants me to fix my yard, and I really have no plans for doing any of that. There’s maybe going to be a big snowstorm tomorrow, and I’m planning to get pizza and cheese sticks or some shit that I can eat for a couple days just in case. That means…

It’s Balloon Time™! (assuming I don’t pussy out tomorrow, or I guess later today now…)

I just… don’t understand. Did my doctor really mean for me to take 1mg of estradiol twice a day with no antiandrogen, when she’d been prescribing a reasonable dose previously? Did my therapist really mean to suggest dialectical behavioral therapy for symptoms of psychosis? I mean, I’m not crazy to hold these opinions, right? I’m just concerned, particularly regarding the first part, that a mental hospital wouldn’t exactly agree with the psychotic patient who’s still recovering from thinking she’s Alyssa Jones. They’ll probably let me have “Prescribed Medications ONLY!”, which effectively means a sentence to medically detransition until they let me leave. Which, I guess could be any time so long as I manage to keep it voluntary…

Which probably means I can’t really show them all of this. (sigh)

I mean, I went to Google with the phrase “psychosis dbt” or something. And, Gemini at the very top was all like “DBT is usually not recommended for treatment of psychosis…”

I got out that box with old medications and shit, just to make sure I still have the bottle of spiro from high school.

See? I remember that much…

But, I guess all the stuff about Freemasons and UFOs and reincarnation just didn’t, uh…

Okay. I, uh… I get it now, alright? I’m an unreliable narrator.

When I was researching this “targeted individual / gang stalking” conspiracy theory a while back, I came across this article from Psychology Today.

For example, the “who” is variably attributed to neighbors, ex-boyfriends, employers, police, and other law enforcement agencies, “the financial elite,” or less conventional sources, like Freemasons and space aliens.

Upon reading this, I immediately thought

Wait… Freemasons and UFOs is actually a thing? I thought that was just me…

Like, I don’t remember reading about UFOs and Freemasons on the internet back in 2021… There was the weird 5D New Earth Law of One shit, there were a bunch of IRL trans friends who were into “mysticism and magick” while I was a hardened atheist skeptic… and from there is was purely my (clearly flawed) memories about Freemasons and UFOs that steered me into this. So what did I, just independently recreate a popular conspiracy theory held by these “targeted individual” types? I mean, I still don’t believe in that stuff, but it is pretty weird, right? What is it about the human mind under psychosis that makes one go all Pepe Silvia about Freemasons and UFOs? Because, it would appear to be something internal about human neurology or psychology, presuming there really isn’t anything substantial to all these conspiracies.

I asked ChatGPT what conspiracy theories exist that involve Freemasons and UFOs, and it listed several; none of which really have anything to do with my particular brand of psychosis.

After reading other stories on r/psychosis and elsewhere, I’ve grown convinced enough to diagnose myself with psychosis.

I guess I just slipped though the cracks again. I had to diagnose myself with gender dysphoria, I had to diagnose myself with a hiatal hernia and a concussion… and now I have little choice but to diagnose myself with drug-induced psychosis. I want to bitch about how I feel like medicine has failed me; but the truth is, we didn’t even have penicillin a century ago. I guess we’re still a pretty young species. And, I guess I’m just supposed to help myself. I’m an adult, after all.

I just don’t want to get locked in some building where they treat me like a child and won’t let me take hormones or use scissors. I mean, I haven’t thought I was a time traveler in a little over a year. I feed myself (with takeout, granted), I operate a motor vehicle with no history of major accidents… Then again, I’m demonstrably incapable of keeping up my house or holding down a job, and I’m clearly “addicted to marijuana”, or whatever…

I just wish there was something for me. Where I could get help, but still have the same rights afforded to any other legal adult. That (potential) loss of basic rights really has me spooked out. I could get in there, wish I’d have just taken the helium, and not be able to leave until I really put on a show for them. Worse yet is the fear that they might entrap me with promises that I can keep taking whatever meds as usual, only to renege and recite some zero-tolerance policy like “patients aren’t allowed to keep their own medication, you have to go through nurse Ratched for all your medication”, and then nurse Ratched is just gonna say “Oh, I can’t give you estradiol and spironolactone without a prescription, you’ll have to make an appointment with your doctor once we let you go”; or “So, I called Dr. Reid for you and I can give you your last prescribed dose of 1mg estradiol twice a day…” And they call me crazy for wanting more than 2mg a day of estradiol and 0mg a day of spironolactone! And for that matter, I still maintain that dialectical behavioral therapy makes no goddamn sense for treating any of my mental health problems! And, I really don’t think I’m saying that because I’m in denial about my cluster B personality traits or something.

It just sucks that I’m apparently batshit crazy, and I’m a self-medicating tranny. Because I know they aren’t going to believe anything I say. And goddammit, I know I’m not a fucking time traveler anymore. I just know I’m certain to be diagnosed with TBAS along with whatever psychosis-spectrum disorder out of the DSM-V they pin on me.

My life is just goddamn depressing. And utterly hopeless.

As much as I’ve wanted to laugh off the “reefer madness” hypothesis, my reading suggests that cannabis-induced psychosis really is far from unheard of; and there was also methylphenidate involved early on, which may’ve precipitated some of my problems.

I’ve probably got at least a couple more days of work anonymizing this thing, especially considering it takes the better part of a day to read. I’m tempted to send this to anyone who bangs on my door looking for money; but, I already know what they’re gonna say.

Some of this was too personal. I skipped over it. It was too long.

I don’t think I have a friend in the world. I don’t know what I’m still doing here.

---

I got sick again yesterday from not stretching well, and it’s entirely my fault. I don’t really have anything left to lose, so I’m thinking I might as well send this to Brittany and Samantha. Even as I write this, I sometimes feel I’d be better off dead. I keep thinking about whether I should do anything else to this document before I give it to them. These people are happily years post-op, and I don’t really want to change that. Then I realize I already verbally assaulted Tommy and probably made him feel bad about his life choices, so why shouldn’t I keep burning down bridges? I still feel like there are way too many trans people a lot of the time, but I already know I’m mentally ill. I just want things to go back to the way they were, and I don’t know if that’s possible.

There’s no elegant ending to this. It’s January 12^th, and I’m sort of just falling apart. And at the same time, I feel surprisingly calm. I know this can’t go on for much longer.

---

I feel like this is it. It’s Tuesday afternoon, and I haven’t heard anything from Brittany or Samantha yet. Granted, I sort of did ask them to read a fucking novel.

I don’t think I have much of anyone else left who I can even ask to read this monstrosity. It just needs to be… shorter. And, I guess I can do that. I went through a psychotic break. See? That was easy. #rambleamble

I think I might just be… out of friends, and out of time, and out of money, and out of Rachael. I don’t think I have any more quarters to put in the machine. Of all the ways to die, I never would’ve imagined this to be my fate.

Maybe I’m being pessimistic about my career prospects after all this, but… I mean, I just had stuff about the “Great Stay” in my news feed yesterday. There’s a laid off 20-something software developer who’s applying “everywhere, even grocery stores”. And, he isn’t the dumpster fire that I am. I think the world is about to get a lot more mean for people like me. I can tell that much. I always wondered back in 2017 if there would be a really bad backlash one day. Is there any point to finishing my anonymization project and putting this on the internet?

I had a dash of optimism this morning, that I was going to get my shit together. I bought my house for $180k, and Zillow’s estimate is now around $320k. I’m not exactly underwater in my mortgage. I had a brain wave that I could maybe get a HELOC or a cash out refinance; but talking it through with ChatGPT reminded me of the obvious problem that I’d still need a source of income for both of those things.

Given my emotional state, I decided there was only one top priority this morning: I need to get in touch with RBL about getting back on the list for SRS. I can only assume I’ll have to start all over with another consult and shit; but I figured maybe I could get lucky and just need updated WPATH letters or something. Either way… I felt like I needed something to live for. I wrote a short little 259-word message; then I shortened it to 500 characters or less so it would fit in MyChart. I still haven’t sent it off yet, because I was thinking about maybe just calling them instead. The message would seem to go to the billing department or some shit.

It’s January 14^th today, in case I didn’t make that clear enough earlier. I haven’t paid my mortgage since November, and I eventually did look at that official looking message from Chase. It was actually a little creepy how little was actually in it. Just…

I’m your dedicated Relationship Manager and I’ll help you find the best assistance option to meet your needs.

Pretty much. Like… they don’t even tell you how you fucked up. Because, you already know you fucked up. Still, I guess I was expecting “YOU ARE IN DEFAULT NOW!” inside a <blink> or <marquee> tag or something.

I was intent earlier in the day on smoking less weed and trying to get my shit together, but that all kind of backfired once it sank in that my increase in home equity isn’t really going to help me here; unless I sell the house like now or something. Which sounds like… a lot of work. It’s really just starting to feel like Balloon Time™ when I think of how I have all of that to look forward to.

I just… can’t believe this happened to me. And, I don’t think anyone even really wants to read my thing because it’s too long and whiny. I mean, I get that. I guess I should’ve just not let myself get this out of sync with the world.

I feel like I’m stuck in this… quietly dystopian timeline. Everybody wants me to explain my problem in 500 characters or less. Nobody’s ever going to assign me a dedicated Self-Improvement Gigolo to help me with my flaming-life-in-ditch problem.

---

I got this from Susan. I don’t really know what it means.

Maybe she’s heard that I’m okay but I’m going through a rough time. I’m so desperate for help I’ve even thought about answering her. But, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Susan is usually… less than helpful. And, I really need to stay away from “Bladen County friends”. I should’ve made that pivot a long time ago.

I can’t find a way to talk to my “dedicated Relationship Manager” except by phone. And, I really don’t want to talk to somebody over the phone. They’re going to want to know all about what my plans are, and who my doctor is, and when I’m going to get a fucking job… I mean, maybe I’m making a lot of assumptions, but I just… don’t really have any good news. For anybody. I don’t fucking know when you people are going to get your money. No, I’m not looking for a fucking job. I’m more ready for helium than Food Lion, but I’m really not prepared for either. It sucks that that’s what my life has come to. I just… ate tar toast, and it’s all my fault. I was just supposed to know better. I was just supposed to know my therapist was lying to me to gain my trust, and Persephone was just a quasi-schizophrenic fruit loop who believed in magic, and Natalie was just some quasi-shamanistic commie, and my therapist telling me an obvious lie and giving me the exact opposite advice after the meeting of the goddamn century was just some silly miscommunication, and the weird perfectly-timed messages at 12:26pm were just an obvious coincidence, and Paul changing his Zoom avatar to a space alien once during the height of all this was just him being a goofball, and my doctor giving me a bullshit dose of hormones was just her not really understanding how endocrinology works… oh, and of course I was supposed to know not to keep smoking weed after work when I was taking Concerta. I mean, I knew it probably wasn’t “recommended”, but I didn’t think it would lead to all this…

I decided I wanted to investigate the likelihood of actually getting a random text message at 12:26pm. Assuming there are eight core daytime hours when one would be likely to text a casual acquaintance, there would be a \(1/480\) chance of any one message being at that particular time, assuming a uniform probability density. I’ve received a total of 26 messages from Tommy to date. Thus, speaking naively as a non-statistician and mathematical dunce, the probability of accidentally getting a 12:26 text from him would be \[ 1/480 * 26 \approx 5.4\% \]

This is higher than I might’ve reckoned otherwise; granted, I still won the loser lottery. This is very back-of-the-napkin math, and there are a lot of factors that are hard to quantify; on one hand, both messages felt perfectly timed, and my eight-hour window is probably a little on the small side. On the other hand, I don’t think it’s fair to assume a uniform probability density; people are probably more likely to send text messages during their lunch break, for example. Applying a normal distribution to this would obviously be much less charitable for arguing my sanity; however, I don’t know that there’s much of a basis for arguing that someone is more likely to text during lunch as opposed to at the start or end of their workday. I’d guess it would at least be more appropriate to apply a normal distribution across a full 16 waking hours. I mean… I have real world text message data I could analyze, but I probably have better things to do considering I’m about to lose my house.

Also, keep in mind that this is the probability just for Tommy sending one of these things. In Susan’s case, I have a total of 3,714 messages from her; three of which were sent at 12:26pm, and only one of which was “perfectly timed”. This is a real-world incidence of \(3/3714 \approx 0.08\%\). Ouch!

When I qualitatively look at all the factors, along with everything else that happened, it really feels like the universe just kinda found the hole in my death star.

The search space for Mastermind is 1,296 possibilities.

---

I don’t want to die. This is stupid. Where do I go? There’s this refrain that’s been repeating in my head for months.

I need help.

There is none.

I need help.

There is none.

I need help!

There is none!

Is that just… maladaptive? Is there really “no help”? I mean, I could always just check myself in to a mental hospital… I’m sure they’ll get me all ready for a bright future at Food Lion, posthaste!

I fucked up. This just… isn’t supposed to happen, I guess. I think I might actually buy the helium today. I keep putting it off. I need to do something. It’s still one of my best ideas, I think. Dark as that sounds.

I found a way to send a message through Chase. It doesn’t seem to go straight to my dedicated Relationship Manager; but the thing about me right now is that I’m not going to talk to anybody over the phone today, and I’m probably not going to talk to anybody over the phone tomorrow.

I wrote a whole little 229 word thing about how I don’t really know what the fuck is going on or what the fuck to do (they give you a whole 5,000 characters to talk about money!), before asking ChatGPT whether I should leave out the part where cannabis may’ve been one of the contributing factors in my presumed psychotic break. My only friend shot back with a lecture about how I should keep things professional and vague, and probably not talk about any contributing factors. I guess if I don’t have anything professional to say, I shouldn’t say anything at all.

It’s just not like me. Brutal honesty when I’m backed into a corner is (usually) my aesthetic. I can only be this. I’ve been doing the stupid mask thing my whole life, and I’m shit out of mask juice.

---

Okay; so I couldn’t resist doing it. It wasn’t really that hard.

I don’t really know what to say, except that I really won the loser lottery.

I just don’t know, man. There are only a handful of really small rabbit holes in Termina field, and I keep Goron-rolling into them. It distracts me, as I think about how to stop a disaster-bound freight train.

I’ve been thinking that maybe I should call trans lifeline. I really just need someone to talk to. No one’s really even reading my thing. I guess it really is too long. I guess this just amounts to some whiny diary I probably shouldn’t share with people. I really wish I hadn’t put all my eggs in this basket. Granted, I didn’t really see any other basket to put them in at the time.

I don’t know. I was going to buy helium today, but I didn’t really do much except make a histogram and roll around Termina field and think about calling a suicide hotline. I really wish I could just be like “Here, read this”, but even ChatGPT is all like “Uhhh, can you elaborate on what part of this you need help with?” And I’m just like “I don’t know, like fucking all of it?”

I can’t believe I just… made it all up. I still remember Tommy having me read the Kybalion so fucking clearly. Why did my subconscious even make that shit up? I was an ardent atheist. Tommy’s like, the last person I would’ve wanted to reach out to for something like this, inebriated or sober. It’s just so… weird. Is this even a real timeline? I mean, I remember him being kinda secretive about it. And, I’m not being very secretive right now… but, I feel like I gave everyone a chance to do this in a more subtle way first.

I guess this is just psychosis. I guess you just go crazy and make an ass out of yourself. It’s never going to make sense, because I wasn’t even sane. It’s like trying to figure out why the devil some program randomly turned purple, when really there’s never going to be a better explanation than “Well, you had a bad stick of RAM…”

Shit, man. There are so many stupid metaphors in this thing that nobody gives a fuck about. I need to make a list so I know what to talk about with trans lifeline. With my luck it’ll probably be 140,000 words long, and take another few months to write. Maybe I’ll finish before I’m homeless.

---

I’m gonna do stuff today. I’m gonna call RBL. I’m gonna send that message to Chase and totally disregard ChatGPT’s advice. It’s 6am, by the way. On a Thursday. Durham, North Carolina. I’m running low on weed and making an effort to smoke less; but I did just smoke.

I tried stream-of-consciousness writing.

Holy shit, dude. I’m fucking losing it. I really need help. What the fuck am I even doing? This is so bad. I’ve written enough stupid bullshit like this already. Am I really going to do everything I said I was going to do today? I’m thinking about helium less and less, but I should probably at least have that option. I mean, right? I’m… not doing well. Am I? I wonder how over my psychosis I am? People might still think I’m kinda nuts. asdfasdfasdfasdfasdf I think I might call trans lifeline. I mean, they’re used to people in weird situations, right? I just need to be prepared to explain it all from the beginning, because I can’t just give them this ten-hour long thing to read. Right? Fuck, I wish I had more friends. Maybe I do and I’m just being cynical. I mean, I haven’t sent it to Kristina yet… What am I waiting for, anyway? I could just make a thing for her and show her this. I mean, the more people I get involved the better, right? Something about that sounds wrong. Idk, she might read that I technically disregarded my therapist’s DBT recommendation and nope out of that shit. I mean, I don’t blame her, given her history and all. I need to go faster. The house is still an absolute wreck. I’m just… not ready to deal with this. I thought I was going to get aftercare, but I’m probably just going to get foreclosed on. But I mean, I still might not be better off dead. Right? I’m gonna do something today. I have to do something today. This is not productive. I just got Dunkin an hour ago, and I already want a burrito. My appetite’s been coming back since I started the B12 again, and my lip chapping problem is resolved, too. That probably shouldn’t go here. I think my hair really is getting better, at least. I read B12 deficiency really can cause psychosis, and it really does seem like that is at least part of it. More so than the D. Heh. What am I fucking doing? I’m like… paralyzed, or something. I can’t afford Dunkin or a burrito. I need to get serious about suicide if I’m going to do that, but I don’t really want to think about it. This is so bad. I should not have written this. I slipped on a fucking banana peel. Man, B12 really does make me fucking hungry. I swear to god or whoever that’s the only thing that’s changed, and it’s even happened before in recent memory. I even lost another 10 lbs somewhere in my break of not taking it. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. I might still be psychotic, after all. See? I have insight. That’s what I said at first. I have insight into how weird all this Freemason and UFO stuff is! That means I’m not crazy, right? Nooooope! Shit, what do I do? Probably not this. I really was going to call RBL at like 9 or 10. But knowing me, I’ll decide to do it after my burrito, and then I’ll be jonesing for a smoke after I eat, and then I’ll want to wait until I’m a little less stoned, and by then it’ll be too close to my bedtime. I’ll tell myself I’ll get a head start when I wake up around midnight. But, I can’t do much until… goddamn, will I shut up already? Fuck, I wonder what Susan means when she says friends want to see me. I really did send Tommy some pretty disturbing shit. And, the Vickie thing was probably just a miscommunication. Raised in Cary, Born in Cary… christ, how much more goddamn unlucky could I possibly get? Susan and her friends are probably going to try to send me to rehab for my marijuana addiction… granted, I really should smoke less pot. It might even be contributing to my condition, for all I know. What the fuck, though. I really could’ve used a little more transparency. I guess people who are talking about Freemasons and UFOs don’t really get transparency in those kinds of situations. I just don’t get what happened. What a goddamn mess. I wasn’t even into a documented Freemasons-and-UFOs conspiracy theory. I just made it all up! Goddamn, how much more unlucky could I be? What if I got Bojangles now? Oh come on, I can’t wait three hours? Christ. Why did I even remove Tommy’s access? This isn’t any worse than what he already read… I mean, I don’t think he’s gonna go back and look at it… he probably told Susan I’m suicidal and mad at Christians and they’re getting a posse together. Oh come on, that’s just my paranoia again. See? I’m probably not over it yet. Psychoanalyzing yourself is dangerous. What am I doing? Oh right, a stream of consciousness writing exercise. I was feeling more confident about sending that message and calling RBL before I got high an hour ago, but now I kinda just want to play it safe. I’m gonna play it safe all the way to Skid Row. If I even make it to the west coast. Goddamn, what am I even doing? Helium would probably be better than Skid Row, right? Why don’t I just look for a fucking job today, huh? What am I even waiting for, closure? A formal diagnosis of donkey brains? Not even enough savings for helium? I mean, I don’t even know if I’ve got the tubing situation figured out yet. That’s why I need at least one tank, right? They’re on sale because Party City’s going out of business. So I can save money on suicide gas. My future self may thank me, for all I know. Fuck, this hurts. I was so certain there really was some conspiracy afoot. I remember so much, and it’s all just false psychosis memories I guess. Maybe they’ll have “Just Say No” commercials with my face on them or something. Dude, it’s just weed. Right? Nobody’s ever heard of someone fucking their life up with marijuana, right? Too many jazz cigarettes, I tell ’ya. Did you know you can Goron roll through Southern Swamp? You can’t kill the giant octorok by fast-rolling into it. I need to do something. Besides write this thing no one cares about. What if I call RBL after my burrito, but before my next smoke? Is that fair? That’s still almost three hours away. I’m gonna die, aren’t I? I bet I’ll at least wish I was for a while. Fuck. Ugh. I already feel like my day is derailed. Maybe I’ll get it together after lunch. Fuck. I didn’t get it together after lunch. I told you this would happen. I can send a message anytime, you know. The moon’s going to crash in six minutes. I’m trying to stay positive. At least I’m not fat anymore, and my hair’s growing back, and I’m inoculated against whackadoodles, and maybe I can get some sort of fresh start that very much doesn’t involve Freemasons or UFOs.

---

I woke up to a message from Brittany, like six minutes after she sent it. She acted like I wouldn’t be up, but… ugh, I’m weird lately. I probably need to stretch.

It seems like the crux of the problem may’ve been that my therapist treated me like a run-of-the-mill conspiracy theorist, when really I was experiencing psychosis or some shit. Vickie and Dr. Reid both decided to treat my new weird little “Freemasons and UFOs” thing as a sort of harmless Scientology-like personal spiritual belief; which I suppose it was at the time, but it isn’t really me. It feels like an ironic twist to the “radical acceptance” movement; and I can’t help but wonder how many people were smiling and nodding about me being “a woman now” before I went all Pepe Silvia.

Though everyone had seemingly the best of intentions… some of the parts where I was talking to Vickie, and Doris for example, did sort of remind me of this thing Susan does. Where she won’t tell the truth, and you can tell she’s trying to manipulate you “for your own good” or something. I just… really thought I remembered Vickie saying it was just reincarnation before this even started with me. But… she probably didn’t. These memories are still just as convincing as anything. I guess that’s just what psychosis is.

It sort of leaves me wanting less “radical acceptance” and more “Dr. Phil” for my next therapy experience. I just… don’t want my support network to follow me off the deep end again, if I can even get another support network.

Self-diagnosis time

Vickie (and maybe even Dr. Reid) mentioned a particular risk with ADHD meds and undiagnosed Bipolar Disorder. The thought has crossed my mind that I might be experiencing manic or hypomanic episodes; just lately for example, I’ve been going through a phase where I only sleep for like four hours at a time. I’ll fall asleep at like 4pm, wake up around 8pm, think about maybe getting food again, fall asleep around midnight… and now it’s like 4:30.

Did Susan really snoop around my house?

I mean, my paranoia that she did began like right after I started taking ADHD meds. Logically, I’m tempted to just blanket say that I probably wasn’t in my right mind regarding any bizarre insights in 2021 or later.

But, like… at the same time, I feel like I’m arguing that the submarine cable kinda just cut itself.

Susan really is sketchy. She’s overly involved, and she’ll basically pick your entire 30-year-old wardrobe if you let her. And for a while, I kinda was. Shopping is hard, and I’m not a very organized person. I think this is the real problem with Susan; she wants me to be her little plaything, but it’s really important that I find my own unique style. And, I don’t think I want Susan picking that. I told her I was dealing with trauma mostly because she was being such a fucking asshole about me forgetting Mother’s Day, and… I don’t think I even got any real sympathy out of her. I think I just made things worse.

I just don’t really know what to do with her. She seems determined not to “give up” on me. But, I’ve sort of given up on her. Part of me wants to give this to her, but she’s just gonna be all like “AAAAAAAA You took the name of the Lord in vain AAAAAAAAAAAA” and like… I really can’t handle that shit. We’re very far apart on matters like religion, and she vehemently argues with me when I try and say that “we’re two very different people”. She thinks she knows me better than anyone; yet, I’ve sort of just been doing the Vickie and Dr. Reid thing with her and her weird church stuff. Because, I don’t want to hurt her delicate little feelings, and I don’t want her fretting over the eternal fate of my soul.

I didn’t think living a double and triple life was a big deal in college, but… it’s really draining. It was born out of the feeling that I can’t leave her, and that I also can’t tell her the truth. She’ll either panic that strange people are tying me up and playing with me, or… hell, she might even invite herself to a munch like she did the LGBT center, become Facebook friends with Maureen, and then resent me for making her go to a kink event.

Do I really need DBT? It is indicated for substance abuse problems, too. Maybe the psych ward was like “Yeah, this crazy tran’s THC is through the roof, she must smoke all day long!” And… I kinda was toward the end. There was a lot going on with me. I just wish there was more transparency. Because, I feel like Vickie was the main person confirming my delusions for a while… and then she just told me Tommy wasn’t even from Warren and drove me off a cliff.

Maybe I’ll update this for Brittany and Samantha, in case they’re gonna keep looking at it. It’s probably just my personal journal at this point, though.

I’m gonna do stuff today! I’m gonna get a bagel I can’t afford, then I’m probably gonna have my first smoke after waking up… then I’ll aimlessly Goron roll around Termina Field while I ponder my choices… I’ll plan on calling RBL’s office at around 9 or 10, but I’ll probably just spend an hour stretching in preparation for an early lunch. Then I’ll eat a big meal, and I’ll really need a smoke after. And I figure, maybe I’ll do that stuff after I come down that afternoon… but by then I’ll be reading about the Russo-Turkish wars on Wikipedia, and I’ll be bargaining with myself about just touching up that overly personal message I wrote for Chase when I wake up around midnight. But I’ll actually have my second “manic sleep” around that time instead, and then I’ll wake up around 4 instead of midnight… and then I’ll plan on calling RBL’s office after I get Bojangles and have a smoke.

Ugh… I’m fucking hopeless.

Brittany and Samantha probably think I’m asking for money (and granted; that is a problem…), but I really feel like I just need a reliable friend who can give me good advice and doesn’t think I’m being gang-stalked. I feel like I need some kind of social worker who can help me put one foot in front of the other and not get distracted by reading about the Siege of Izmail. Like… I need a mental health doctor, and probably a regular doctor… I need to explain all of this in less than 100,000 words. And as soon as Chase gets involved, they won’t be content to let me keep lying around and smoking pot and Goron rolling while I try and figure out what to do next. There’s gonna be phone calls, and faxes, and forms, and emails, and all sorts of grown-up shit that I really don’t want to fucking deal with right now, and I can’t even just “show them this” like I guess I was hoping for when I started writing it.

And, I guess maybe that’s part of the reason for my inaction. Because, I don’t fucking know what my doctor’s name is, other than perhaps (website redacted). And, that does not make me look good. I ignored my therapist’s and my doctor’s advice before falling off the deep end and deciding to self-medicate. And, I still feel like I did that for all the right reasons.

It sucks, because I don’t really even feel like it’s my fault. I tried to get help for my lack of productivity, and it ultimately destroyed my career and delayed my life. It’s like I kinda just “went to prison” for three years or something, thinking something really cool was going to happen eventually.

Then again, at least I’m not fat anymore. Maybe I won’t die alone after all.

---

I think I’m going to send Chase the thing today. Hell, I’ve thought about actually sending this to Susan because we’re kinda at that point. I just worry that won’t result in anything productive. She’s probably just going to shit everywhere and make a bunch of noise and treat me like a toddler while acting like a toddler. I might as well check myself in to a mental hospital if that’s what I’m in for. I had “the headache” earlier and was worried I’d get sick again, but I think I may’ve warded it off for the most part by doing, like, all the stretches. It’s 9am and it feels like nap time.

---

Nobody’s going to miss me when I’m gone.

I’m getting the helium today. I’m getting more vitamin D today. I’m stopping by Lowe’s or Home Depot to get the big trash bags today. Or, maybe I can find them at Target.

Nobody’s going to miss me when I’m gone, except for my crazy mom.

What happened this weekend? Josh sent me a message I couldn’t help but giggle at.

I serendipitously got a message from Stephanie. I told her I was probably recovering from psychosis. She was worried it was her fault for some reason. I’ve certainly never seen it that way.

Brittany and Samantha both messaged me. I’m just glad they read my thing, because I know it was a lot. Samantha offered to have a conversation Saturday afternoon, but it was already close to my bedtime.

After waking up that evening, I decided I was going to take a shower. And right after, I was going to do the thing. Oh, sweet sinful desire.

crinkle click rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr crinkle crinkle
Joe Rogan podcast, check it out!
The Joe
Rogan
Experience
rrrrrrrrrrrr crinkle click crinkle

I probably wouldn’t have listened to it if I hadn’t bothered to see that it was the My Big T.O.E guy. I have heard of that from somewhere. Granted, it may’ve been from my weird misadventures back in 2021. Anyway, the guy may be on to something, or he may be a male Persephone. I don’t regret listening to it. It did sort of tie in with my lifelong fascination with self-organizing systems of negentropy.

I think I edited that nonsense out of 2021 for brevity. Like; negentropy pockets that are simpler than a prokaryote or more complex than an animal are all considered “non-living”. But, what incomprehensibly complex organism might we be the single dumb individual cells of? And what about the other end of the spectrum, where we decide things are non-living because of some silly technicality like being unable to reproduce? If I have a soul, what is the soul of a government, or a corporation, or a polymer? Why does negentropy sometimes gain sentience?

I had a text conversation with Samantha yesterday afternoon. She wanted to catch up; she refreshed me on a lot of COVID-era things that happened which I’d already heard about. It doesn’t sound like much new has happened other than her and Brittany getting married.

My face looks a lot more femme than it did a year ago, but I still have bald patches. That doesn’t exactly instill confidence that I’m ever going to have a normal head of hair again. If I do, it’ll probably be just in time for me to lose it again, or for it to go gray.

Nobody’s going to miss me. At least, nobody that matters. If I want to leave a suicide note, I may as well just put an anonymized version of this on the internet.

I mean, it was good talking to Samantha. She’s good people. I just… don’t see anyone mobilizing the troops or anything. And, that’s kinda what I need right now. Boots on the ground. Idk, like help moving and selling my house, maybe somewhere I can stay and get my shit together. Sometimes it feels like I need to live in a halfway house or something. Most of the time, I feel like I’d be just as well off in someone’s spare bedroom. I do think I’ve spent too much time alone stuck in my head with all this. I think I need to be around normal people for a while, like several hours a day.

It’s like I’m deficient in some kind of societal vitamin. I had a weird childhood, I transitioned late, the COVID era happened right when I felt like I was entering “the prime of my life” at the age of 29… Now I’ve just lost it. I was behind before, but at least I felt like I could catch up.

Josh, Tommy, Brittany, Samantha… Persephone back in 2023, Heather didn’t know anything about that concert back in 2022… I haven’t given this to Kristina yet, and I don’t think I could give it to Maureen.

I’ve gotten the message by now. Even if there were some sort of conspiracy, I’ve obviously been left out of it.

Last night, I thought to myself

I. Still. Believe.
In something.

I don’t understand what. I just… feel it. Maybe I can’t even call myself a hard atheist anymore. There’s just… something. Voices from the beyond. No, not auditory hallucinations. No, not persecutory delusions. Benevolent delusions, maybe…

People living… seeing through my eyes. Maybe it’s all just a delusion, but it’s all I have left. Like they know the story already. The story of Rachael. Maybe I will do it after all. Maybe I have. Maybe I always do. A stock character. Maybe even the only playable character. A true transsexual from the year 2025. Up next, a swashbuckling pirate from the year 1649; followed by a Roman centurion from the year 51 BC. Don’t touch that dial! I mean, what else could a stock transsexual from the year 2025 even do other than kill herself? Maybe that’s the point of this simulation. It’s a tearjerker. A tragedy.

I guess people will miss me a little bit. I’m just not getting what I need. I’m pretty sure I’m just going to die from a lack of help. I know I’m an adult and I’m supposed to pull myself up by the boot straps. I just don’t think I have the upper body strength.

Samantha reminded me that “Stephanie is still in NC”; but, I think I need more than that. I’m out of places to go, unless there’s some ultimate deus ex machina that’s just going to tear through time and space and get me all fixed up. Maybe that’s why I still believe. Because it’s my only hope.

Voices from the beyond. Clearly just trying to wreck my life, if they’re trying to do anything at all. I’ve probably just made them all up. By withdrawing from society for all these years.

This is their favorite part.

My yard looks bad. I can’t do anything to it. It’s too far gone. I need help. There is none. I’m supposed to help myself. I’m supposed to be an adult. All the resources are too overwhelming. I need something hardcore. I guess you get that at the psych ward. I just feel hopeless. I really want aftercare, but that’s too much to ask. I never really got the hang of dating, because I couldn’t get up fast enough after what happened in high school. And I couldn’t merge onto the freeway in college with BDSM, and I really knew I needed to do something in my mid-20s, I got back on the horse with transition, full-time, poly, COVID, trauma, Susan, aliens… I feel like I’ve just been beat up psychically. And there’s no one waiting to take me in with open arms, except for my crazy mom. I know I’m better off dead.

I can’t leave her this. The friends I have reached out to with this writing, they’ll understand why I had to do it.

And that’s it. Nobody’s going to miss me when I’m gone.

I feel like no one really got to know me. Susan likes distorting my narrative into something she likes… I have no close friends on the level of, like, a partner or an ex or something. I mean, unless we count Stephanie or something.

This was my life. This was the product of my own free will. This is all my fault. I’m a grown-up, after all. And yet, I don’t really believe my own words. How could this be my fault? You beat me down in high school, you never really made me feel like I could be anyone’s woman until I’d long since moved past it… I think it’s what she wanted, Susan. To bend me back into being a straight man. But, I was never that to begin with. Now I’m just a bent-up woman-ish or something.

It’s just over for me. This is it. I’m already dead.

Don’t mourn for me. I only hope that you can learn from my mistakes. There’s a lot of weird shit happening in the world today; but I was real. Flesh and blood, with hopes and dreams and desires… with a sexual identity that just never really fit in anywhere. Maybe it did fit in somewhere, but I just didn’t know where to go. Anyway, it’s too late for me now.

Helium. I’m going to get it today. Right? It’s almost 8am. On inauguration day. I may not kill myself, but I can at least get the stuff.

I mean, I don’t think anyone really cares that I’m suicidal. Will you listen to yourself? Maybe I do need DBT.

Dude talked to Rogan about how there were high-entropy fear-based people, and low-entropy love-based people. Whoa is me, if it wasn’t for bad luck I wouldn’t have no luck at all… I feel like I at least had less entropy before I slipped and fell. Now I need somebody. To put me back in order. I’m fucking pathetic. You’re supposed to date and get married at this age, Rachael. Like all your friends have done.

This world’s a freeway. And I’m stuck on the shoulder. Nobody’s going to stop and help me. Hell; I’ll probably just get a ticket for my abandoned vehicle. Whoa is me. If it wasn’t for bad luck…

Frankly, before all of this I think I was toxicly positive. And now I’m a radioactive waste dump. I really thought I would get it together… tomorrow. Next week.

Just… run, little Aiden. Don’t make the same mistakes I did. Don’t let yourself become a pathetic little 34-year-old who has no one to send their suicide note to.

Like, there are literal trees growing in my flower beds at this point. I’ll need at least an actual shovel to dig them up.

I need help.

There is none!

I want a burrito. One day at a time. I want a burrito, and there’s still less-than-half a pizza in the refrigerator.

I need help.

I still haven’t called trans lifeline. Should I?

I finally sent the message to Chase last night. There’s a pretty good chance they’ll just say “Oh, you need to call your dedicated Relationship Manager.” And, I don’t want to call. Anyone, really, unless they’re a long-lost friend or something. I know I’m being a fucking child. This is probably the part where I need actual DBT or something. I still don’t think I was entirely wrong to be suspicious of the initial suggestion, all things considered.

Ugh. What a fucking mess. Nobody’s ever going to read this. Fuck my life.

I know my neighbors hate me. I just wish I could tell them that I hate me, too.

I need help. There is none.

I need help. Samantha said she was going to talk to her therapist today about it. I can’t imagine they’ll have the missing piece…

I just wish I could talk to my younger self. Middle-school me. For just five minutes. I’d turn it all around, I swear. Dude on Rogan said sometimes the universe will just slip you into another timeline, or data stream or some shit, if you’re really good and tuned in. You can’t want it too badly, though. I guess we can just cross me off the list.

Maybe I was a raging transphobe in my last lifetime. Maybe I just wanted to understand. I don’t. Understand. I’m still an atheist, right?

I’m not moving fast enough. This is bad. I’m not sure that I care. It just hurts. This is me. This was me. Now I’m just waiting. For Godot.

---

I woke up Monday evening to a lot of weird things in my news feed. And I knew, right then. I had to do it.

Maybe they’ll see me as a martyr. Maybe it’ll just get buried under things that are flashier and shorter and less grim to read. I don’t know that it matters.

I don’t care for religion. I don’t understand this existence. I don’t think I’m meant to. The world keeps telling me I’m on a path. I think this might be my path.

It didn’t make sense until last night. All of this. My life, this universe… I didn’t weave this. I’m just the punchline. The tuba player who dots the exclamation point. Some god’s virgin sacrifice, to help you understand.

23 years of trans history. I’ve seen it all. I’ve aged out of Antijen, aged out of TNG (well, almost)… I’ve watched the COGIATI give way to the button test; debates about stem cell research give way to debates about kids on hormones and Lupron… There are a lot of weird things happening in the world today. I don’t have all the answers. Maybe a bunch of chemicals got dumped in the water and it turned the freaking frogs gay. Maybe this many people were trans all along. I just don’t know where they were before the last decade. Maybe it’s Russians. Maybe it’s the CCP. Maybe it’s us. Confused humans in a radical acceptance circle-jerk. I’ll never know, unless the beyond explains it to me after I’m dead. I just want you Christian conservatives to tell me what I was supposed to do. Other than simply not exist. It’s easy for you to tell me to just not be this… Do you lack the theory of mind to imagine a world where your budding sexual identity is already taboo by middle school?

It’s too perfect. Everything in my life has been set up for this. I was born to die. Just like the rest of us.

I don’t know what the devil happened to me. But, I believe now. In something outside of this. I don’t know if I’m about to get more than a probationary warning from Richard Dawkins for that, or…

I’m planning for the end of the month. January 31^st.

See, the problem with going to Party City is, it already feels like my day is winding down by like 10am. My schedule is weird. An early lunch is, like, dinner time.

Samantha just sent me a link to some shit I didn’t even know about.

Durham Community Safety Department (DCSD) works to enhance public safety through community-centered approaches to prevention and intervention as alternatives to policing and the criminal legal system.

Well, how long has that been a fucking thing?

On June 27^th, 2022…

Well I just keep winning the loser lottery…

DCSD launched 3 new crisis response units that aim to connect people experiencing non-violent mental health crises or quality of life concerns with the right care by sending new responses that better match residents’ needs. A fourth unit launched at the end of September 2022. Our goal with these approaches is to connect our Durham neighbors to the right care — starting from the point at which someone calls 9-1-1, to the warm handoff to those prepared to help meet the needs of our neighbors in crisis.

Okay…

Do I fucking call these people? Part of me feels like it’s too late now. The new administration has an obviously fascist agenda, I don’t even really feel safe here anymore, and I feel like this is the only way I’m ever really going to have a voice.

---

I’ve probably written enough “woah is me” bullshit at this point. I’m on a schedule now, and I think my mind is made up. I’m not unaware of the irony of going from ignoring your therapist’s questionable DBT recommendation, to oversharing in my very public and very whiny suicide note as I die of a martyr complex while likening myself to a sacrificial vestal virgin.

I just want there to be a reason for my doing this. And, I want that reason to be the restoration of sanity. I’ve watched us go from a myth and a joke, to the headlining issue in national politics. Some people think we’re just born this way. Others think it’s a lifestyle choice, or a social contagion, or a manifestation of more conventional mental illnesses. The reality is, you’re both right. And, nobody’s really talking about that.

Having spent my time in this community, I really don’t think half of these people are “Harry Benjamin” transsexual. Hell; I’m struggling not to lie to myself about it, because I just want to go back to the way things were. And, I can’t. The arrows of time and entropy won’t let me. You can’t unscramble an egg.

I’ve seen what, to me, feel like really obvious cases of social contagion; myself included. I’ve watched trans and non-binary identities sweep through underground subcultures like BDSM and third wave intersectional feminism with the swiftness of a plague; before erupting into the mainstream with the highly publicized transition of Caitlyn Jenner and the first bathroom bills. And, I’ve seen it happen with other things; like this plural stuff back in 2019, and the recent trend toward self-diagnosis of mental illnesses.

If I were to suggest any one root cause, it would simply be too much information. Millennials grew up with instant access to the sort of information Generation X youth could only find by living half their life in a library, or by getting an advanced degree. Compounding the problem of too much information, is the problem of half-truths and outright misinformation. People used to learn about difficult or complicated subjects in context; by listening to entire lectures, or reading through entire books. I think both sides in America are struggling to integrate the shift toward bite-sized pieces of crowdsourced infotainment for learning about even relatively complex topics. Laypeople are drawn toward fascinating and bizarre phenomena; like multiple personalities, or women trapped in men’s bodies. Or perhaps, vague and nonspecific ailments to which they might place blame, or use as an explanation for their differences and shortcomings. The more conspiratorial-minded are drawn toward fascinating and bizarre explanations for what they see as the hidden agendas and ulterior motives of those in power. These people are unlikely to spend their time obsessing over mundane aspects of political science and business administration; or boring mental illnesses like depression and bipolar disorder.

As I watch the backlash against “DEI” unfold at an alarming rate, I can’t help but think… I understand why they’re so angry. The last decade has been full of alphabet people and MeToo and minorities on pedestals and white men played by women of color and weird fake gentrified astroturfed diversity. And, I think a lot of people really do want to “make America great again”. Not like the 1950s as we often joke about on the left; but just “great” like it was in the year 2012 or something. Like, before trans people and gamergate and the “culture war”. We’re sick of uncreative attempts at pasting women and black people over the parts where white men traditionally go; it comes across as “whiteface”, and it’s somehow still offensive to people of color. It feels like the turn-of-the-millennium multiculturalism I grew up with has given way to a sort of… mono-culturalism, for lack of a better word. It feels like all the distinct, colorful minority groups we used to have were assimilated with Borg-like Draconianism into this sort of thick homogenized high-fructose goop which we’ve termed “third wave intersectional feminism”. And, I mean this in the least misogynistic way possible. I guess what I’m trying to say is, feminism started getting weird in the 21^st century, once it wasn’t really even about women anymore.

I think there’s a creeping feeling that DEI is creating this world where underqualified minorities will always beat a rockstar white guy who’s really good at his thing. While I don’t think there’s any truth to that, nobody (myself included) wants to be a diversity hire. Hell; I’d like to think I could actually pull my own weight for an extended period of time if I wasn’t dealing with childhood trauma-turned Freemasons and UFOs, or some other stupid bullshit.

I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I know it sounds like a defense of DEI rollbacks, but it’s really not. I think what we’re witnessing is a terrifying overcorrection of what’s really a much more subtle problem. And, that’s what frustrates me right now. We need to act like we’re steering a big ship, but it feels like we’re skidding around on ice. Everyone has really big goddamn feelings, myself included. But like, a lot of powerful people aren’t really thinking rationally, and we’ve started making wild bull-in-a-china-shop decisions just because maybe gender dysphoria is a little bit contagious sometimes.

I might be oversimplifying a field of study I don’t know much about; but I’ve gotten the distinct impression diversity has been reduced to a sheer numbers game. If 13.7% of the population is black, then 13.7% of your engineers had better be black. The white man must still be keeping them down if we aren’t at 13.7% yet. If half the population is female, then half of them ought to be women. While I understand the ethos, I sometimes feel like it’s oversimplified. Maybe it’s kinda just natural for there to be more male engineers, and more female nurses, and more black mumble rappers. Maybe the stereotype that Asians are good at math, or that Jews make good lawyers and accountants exists for a reason.

There’s this line we all grow up hearing as Americans.

All men* are created equal.

It’s probably because of my science and engineering background, that I’m unable not to scrutinize this universal Western platitude at least a little. Because, this isn’t the same thing as saying “all men ought to be treated equally”, or “all men ought to be given equal opportunities”; or even “all men ought to have equitable, adversity-adjusted access to the same opportunities”. In science, you can’t just say everyone is triple-equal-sign equal just because it feels good and keeps people from enslaving each other. #TODOI’m abusing the triple-equal sign but it sounds good

Not only is there no obvious mechanism by which we could all even be created triple-equal-sign equal; the whole thing also falls apart on inspection. Some of us are disabled, some of us have rare gifts, some of us are modern-day Renaissance men, others are sort of just not really good at anything. To me, the fact that we very clearly weren’t all created equal is the basis for real, organic, home-grown diversity. It ought to be about celebrating our differences, and spotlighting those who defy stereotypes or overcame adversity. Not whining about how the white man is still keeping people down until 13.7% of the engineering and IT departments are black people.

I guess to me, real diversity isn’t quotas and astroturfing and phony bullshit. It’s scaring the fuck out of the one trans person in the room, and then making them feel silly when all you’re doing is talking about the lambda design rules. I think that kind of visibility is better than a dozen mediocre diversity hires.

I often feel like a fuck-up when I compare myself to my childhood role model; but the reality is, I had a pretty crazy childhood. Lynn (erm… Professor Conway) came from an engineering family, and was encouraged at a young age to “build things that worked” (according to her bio). I came from a working class family, where my dad was able to point me toward broad hobbies like Linux and ham radio; but, I really had to teach myself everything I wanted to know, and I often did so poorly at first. My parents couldn’t really help me with schoolwork once I was past the fifth grade; and I had atrocious study and homework habits, along with an after school job from 9^th grade on. When I saw how slow at math I was compared to my peers, I often felt like I just didn’t have the genetics for it; nobody on either side of my family has a four-year degree, and I wondered if there might be a reason for that. I often forget that a lot of my peers likely came from very different families than mine. Their parents were often teachers or doctors or scientists or engineers, they usually went to school in the city where they could take any AP class they wanted… and they probably had genuine advisement that pushed them forward with goals, instead of just bumbling around in the spare bedroom and being made to already feel smart for it. I was considered precociously smart by a bunch of people just because they didn’t understand what I was doing; but I wasn’t nearly as “gifted” as people made me out to be. I was just precocious, and really could’ve benefited from some sort of polishing stage before I went right off to a university from Bladen County.

When I think of the present culture war issue of equity, I think of this sort of imbalance and how we might correct it. The modern approach of padding the numbers by throwing minorities right into the fire with white upper crust city slickers seems a bit naive; and may even appear to prove the “race realist” types right if the minorities were to underperform relative to their able-bodied white male counterparts. As I’ve grown older, I’ve often wished that there was some kind of “decompression chamber”, in between life in the country with rednecks where your self-esteem as a trans woman is likely deflated, and life at a university where most of your peers have already dated and made friends as themselves back in high school. There’s unfortunately a lot of pressure on folks to graduate in four years, and we don’t really have a concept of redshirting for something that isn’t a sport. I’d like to think we might manage this more effectively as a society in the future, especially where we can see that university in the big city might be a little bit of a culture shock.

I guess my hot take about equity and inclusion, is that we’ve been naively shoving extra minorities into the execute stage, when we really ought to be focused on getting these folks who both show promise and have childhood adversity ready in the fetch and decode stages of the pipeline. Because, something like being a great engineer really does start in elementary school. I think of how much I could’ve benefited from a little extra help in my youth; and then there are other kids just like me who didn’t even have a dad to make them curious about Linux and ham radio as a kid. And rather than just shoving anyone who’s a girl or a black kid toward STEM fields indiscriminately, I think it’s really important that we find those Harry Potter kids and send them to their Hogwarts. And, I don’t think we should make too many assumptions if the ratios aren’t perfect right away. I think quality is way more important than quantity.

There are just a lot of variables, I feel like. Not only were we probably not all made “triple equal sign” equal; we didn’t even all have qualitatively equivalent childhoods. There are talentless people from well-to-do families who’ve got no soul but will probably at least make adequate engineers. The next Lynn Conway is out there somewhere, but she probably grew up dirt poor and doesn’t stand a chance; even against a pot smoking burnout like me, who at least grew up playing with Linux and living like they’re trying to win the messy hamshack contest. There’s a guy out there who genuinely manages to defy anyone’s preconceptions about black engineers, and there’s some woman who really should’ve majored in political science instead. And the next Lynn Conway might actually be a Rockefeller or something, and everyone’s going to complain about how she owes everything to her privileged white upbringing when really her mom was absent and her dad was an abusive drunk and she’s actually just sort of a beast at what she does.

And, that’s the problem with the modern world. Y’all paint with really broad strokes; while the demographic portrait of America is only becoming more nuanced, with well-off minorities and victimized white dudes all mixed in with an ever-rising glass ceiling and a blurring of lines between identities and lifestyle choices. If you don’t keep up, you’ll be the ones on the wrong side of history.

I remember applying to schools back in the late 2000s; and there was usually an opportunity to write an essay about adversity that you’ve faced. I always considered writing about my gender stuff; but I never did. It wasn’t really cool yet. I’d learned firsthand that people won’t be accepting of it just because they’re your friend, and it’s a lot to ask someone who’s already been through that to just try opening up about it with a stranger. I knew there’d be a lot of pressure to transition if I played that card to get into college or the School of Science and Math or something; and being “born a pervert” hardly qualifies as adversity anyhow. It stings a little that writing about your gender feels on your college application was only cool for about ten years, and now we’re here.

---

I wonder if Blare White is feeling like leopards ate her face, now that she can’t have an “F” in her passport anymore. See? They don’t care if we’re “truetrans”, sweetie. They’ll throw you under the bus just like that faggot Ernst Röhm.

(Am I truetrans, though?)

I mean, a lot of the shit I started bitching about late last year kinda is coming true. Maybe I really am psychic. (It’s a joke.) Or, maybe I really am creating my own reality, like Dr. Crusher in that Star Trek episode. (Only joking a little.)

Should I somehow not kill myself, I just don’t want to live the rest of my miserable life as this political pawn whose rights change on a whim every four years. I feel like we’ve lost the thing that made America “America” in the last decade; and like we’re on the verge of having actual fascism vs. communism in 21^st century America.

#inaccurateDespite what I’ve said thus far, I’ve already decided I see no value in talking about post-inauguration politics. Except to say, this son of a bitch better make eggs really goddamn cheap.

---

I had a meltdown a little bit ago. The first one since I thought Emma might have something to do with my problem last summer; and then probably since I thought the government was fucking with my food and medicine.

I was scrolling around on my phone, and some folks were talking like I might still be able to get my passport with the right gender marker on it if I were to do it like right now. Although I’m kinda planning on killing myself, that did fill me with some shed of optimism should I not go through with it.

I then quickly found this article, which sounded a little less optimistic.

Something about the whiplash of this situation just made me fucking lose it. In an attempt to earn Vickie’s DBT recommendation, I started throwing things around the room, for the first time in like forever. I threw my clipboard at the wall, making another hole in the drywall near a previous one from when I thought humanity enslaved the first witch or something.

I decided to climb into the hammock and write about my feelings in real time. After a few seconds, I found myself with the barely repressible urge to yeet my laptop across the room. I started screaming and making primal growling sounds, then I went back to my room and started throwing the lid to the Brita pitcher around.

Toward the end of my fury, I sent Josh a text I’d wished I sent a long time ago.

I proceeded to get high and try writing about my feelings in the hammock again. It’s 8:18 right now.

I maybe feel a little bad for the way I did it. Because I mean, that might be the last thing I ever say to him. I’m really hurt. I’m sort of just mad at everyone right now. I don’t really care about biting the hand that feeds me, even if there were one feeding me right now. I don’t want to kiss anyone’s ass.

I mean; the thought occurred to me that I should maybe go ahead and get a passport. But I figured I had better things to do and… now I’m here. Ugh. Maybe it won’t matter.

I just want you people to know, that I fucking hate you. You people never loved me. And now I’m just this. Just, try fucking better next time. I fucking hate this planet.

I’m feeling a little… well, I mostly just have a rage hangover. I just wish I could give this to you assholes, in a bottle or something. Everything is just crumbling all around me. Not only is there no hope left; it feels like the universe is just pointing and laughing now. Just like I can’t find a seat on the bus again. I fucking hate this. I fucking hate all of you.

There’s only one thing to do to a goddamn bully. And it isn’t to go to the principal’s office. I’ve always regretted not fighting back properly, and just letting my rage bottle up until I melt down and start banging my trumpet around or something. Because, you’re probably going to get in trouble either way. But if you can give him a black eye first, you’ll at least look cool while you’re getting in trouble. And, he might not fuck with you anymore after that.

That text I sent Josh was mean, but I kind of did mean it. I’m just tired of being walked all over. I’ve been taking the high road since ninth fucking grade and I’m goddamn sick of it. It feels good for me to be the one hurting him for once. I want his fucking rights to change overnight every four years, because that’s the only way he or any of these other theory-of-mind-lacking Republicans are ever going to fucking understand.

It’s nobody’s fault but mine. I should’ve known not to trust anyone I grew up with. I should’ve known not to take their advice, or let them discourage me.

I don’t even know where I could post this unedited without it getting instantly removed. 4chan is pretty wild, but I doubt it would stick around most corners of Reddit for very long. It’s pretentious enough that I’m thinking about giving this to the internet just before I go. I’m sure somebody will read it… I kind of just want to show this to the world, because nobody fucking understands me. Not even my friends. And, I don’t think that’s even an exaggeration.

Somebody evil wants this. Somebody wants a civil war. Somebody wants me to kill myself. They’re winning.

My deadline is just over a week away. I can do this.

---

There’s no way I’m going to survive this. I feel like I’m bleeding out, psychologically. This passport thing doesn’t even matter. It’s just rubbing salt in the wound while I’m bleeding out.

Last week on Earth, Rachael. Whatcha going to do? Stay mad at the world? I need to shift my outlook. And, I have a lot of work to do, still.

Samantha sent me a bunch more resources; which would be more helpful if I was in a different state of mind. I don’t know that much of anything could change my course at this point. Not only can I solve all my problems; I think I could make a difference in the world by doing this, too. Like those monks who set themselves on fire. I’m just another whiny tranny otherwise.

---

Who are these people? Well, I think I can see several different archetypes.

• Some of them are just “phenotypically gay”. Like… we all know what a gay man is, right? Effeminate, floppy wrists, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, that intonation in their voice… their lifestyle choices make them transgender by definition; but it seems obvious that they just have the “gay gene”, for lack of a better word. (I realize we haven’t found a “gay gene” per se.)
• Some of them strike me as “gender furries”.
• Others seem like weeaboo neckbeards who got lost on their way to the anime convention.
• Some of them probably have personality disorders that give them a fragile or ephemeral sense of self.
• Sometimes, I think it spreads via contact with partners and close friends even in the absence of an underlying personality disorder. I feel like there’s a “they/them to HRT pipeline”, and I’m not sure how I feel about it.
• And, some of them are otherwise very normal people who probably just got turned around during an identity crisis, and were met with radical acceptance.
• At least a handful of people I’ve met really did seem to have the Rachael Brown syndrome. Some of them have symptoms that presented earlier and more severely than even mine.

There’s a myth that began circulating in the mid 2010s, that taking the wrong gender’s hormones would always give someone gender dysphoria; that you could just try a little hormones, and if you weren’t slitting your wrists after a couple of months then it probably means you really were trans all along. While I think that’d be nice, I really don’t think it’s the reality. I think there’s a pretty wide middle zone, where lots of folks could probably do either gender’s hormones, and still thrive so long as they had a support network and Maslow’s hierarchy and shit.

I think a better analogy might be that of ADHD medication. Lots of people can tolerate it, and lots of people might even like it and feel better on it. But, only a small subset of those people actually have ADHD. And while your neurotypical ass might even perform better at school or work on the stuff, someone with ADHD really can’t be normal without it. In a similar vein, someone who’s actually transsexual is unlikely to live a normal life without some kind of medical intervention. Whether neurotypical people should be allowed to take hormones or stimulant medication is a different issue; although, I’d rather us not take the “nanny state” approach to it.

I don’t want anyone to get carried away with armchair diagnosing their transgender friends as one of these archetypes. There were a good number of anime fans on Antijen. Personality disorders are pretty common, and some overlap with classic transsexualism and BPD, for example, is bound to exist. I’m looking at the population as a whole when I make these generalizations, and I don’t want people to be labeled transtrenders just because they watch My Hero Academia and listen to Kero Kero Bonito.

Frankly, I think the most important thing to take away from this is… it doesn’t matter. Who the fuck cares if a grown-ass man wants to take hormones and eat hamburgers while dressed like an anime girl? You know what I have to say about it?

God. Bless. America.

You know what you should tell your kids when they ask difficult questions? “Oh, he’s just being silly.” See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?

Republicans want Draconian policies that would snub the next Lynn Conway. The left is flirting with limiting free speech to curtail the spread of fascism, in the same vein as Western Europe. We often compare ourselves to Western Europe; but America is a very unique place on the world stage. Decade after decade, each generation finds a new way to hold fast to these ten basic principles outlined in the Bill of Rights. We don’t fight yellow journalism by locking up journalists. We don’t fight gun violence by repealing the Second Amendment. We don’t keep political prisoners, we don’t dispense summary justice… and except perhaps for some dark times before the 20^th century, we don’t have mass graves. In a lot of ways, we’re even more free than the Nordic countries modern liberals often want us to take notes from. I think religion is pretty dumb, but I’ll still fight for its right to exist in America. I don’t like fascists, but I think they should still have free speech. And yes, it’s frustrating when it feels like the side of logic and reason is losing miserably. But, this is America. And, it’s really important for us to stick to our principles, now more than ever.

And the reason for this, if it isn’t already obvious, is that we’re under attack. The Russians, the Chinese, the Iranians, the North Koreans… they all want to destroy America. And, they’re doing it from the inside. And… it’s working. “Drag queen story time” (or, really, drag queen anything) was never a thing in the Antijen era. I’m pretty sure this is something invented by Russian trolls to make trans people look really dumb; and we’ve been lapping up the Kool-Aid because it tastes sweet to us. I know I probably sound like an Uncle Tom to a lot of you LGBT people, but… transsexuals used to be way more respectable. We were just regular, boring, everyday people with this one weird birth defect.

When I first came out to my mother in 9^th grade, she panicked about me “labeling myself” and getting sucked into a “lifestyle”. It’s only now that I’m older that I understand what was going through her head. Drag queens, Frank N. Furter, Maury Povich, Buffalo Bill… I mean, unless you knew who Andrea James or Lynn Conway was, there really wasn’t much positive representation of transsexuals out there. While the idea of transsexualism as a “lifestyle choice” was basically just a cruel myth in the 2000s, it’s gradually taken on the characteristics of one. And, I have nothing against alternative lifestyles. I’m actually a kinkster.

In the 2000s, the focus used to be on assimilation into mainstream society as a woman. These days, it feels like the world encourages you to seek out “the LGBT community” for these feelings; which quickly becomes your friend group, and your dating pool. This is exacerbated by the fact that we often lose a good chunk of our friends and family in the process of transitioning, and we’re all looking for something to fill that void. The problem is that the latter approach quickly gets you sucked into an echo chamber, where things like mysticism and magick and exotic mental illnesses might start to feel normal, or even passé.

I don’t feel like I’ve succeeded in socially transitioning. I’ve never had any girl-friends, unless we’re going to count trans people. I’ve had little “normal female” input into my life outside my mom, and I don’t think that’s healthy for someone in their 20s or 30s. Meeting people at this age gets increasingly difficult, because most folks are preoccupied with dating, marriage, and their career by then.

---

This doesn’t matter.

It keeps feeling like the universe is trying to tell me something. I know what delusions of reference are. I still don’t understand.

I’ve had the Rolling Stones in my head lately. What was it that started that? Oh, I remember. I’ve been thinking about buying suicide gas, and it got me thinking about Jumping Jack Flash. I still plan on listening to it on my way back from Party City when I finally go. I guess that segued into Gimme Shelter, Street Fighting Man, and Sympathy for the Devil after Monday, because I feel like that’s where we are right now in America. The first of those has really felt like the song of this week to me.

(I don’t just listen to old people music, but I guess I am kind of an old soul.)

Early in the morning, I decided I was going to get McDonald’s 20 minutes before closing time. I don’t normally eat McDonald’s when I have my life together, by the way. At the risk of sounding pretentious.

My phone wasn’t playing Spotify for some reason. My old iPod classic from college that stays hidden away in my center console occupying one of the USB ports had reset itself to playing the alphabetically first song in some ancient iTunes library. Ugh. I don’t want to listen to A.F.U. by Van Halen. And, I don’t feel like picking a playlist. I start on down the road, listening to obscure indy music on college radio.

They closed early, which tends to happen a lot. Whatever. I drove to the Morrisville McDonald’s that’s ostensibly open 24/7 but also sometimes closes late at night. I saw someone in there, but they too had cones blocking their drive-thru. I headed west; pondering whether I really wanted to eat Cook-Out two nights in a row.

I ordered two chicken quesadillas with cheddar bites and onion rings, just like I had 24 hours before. I handed the same gentleman the same debit card, hoping I still have enough of a balance. I drove home, flipping between indy rock and indy hip-hop.

I was a few minutes away, when they started playing this song that immediately stuck out as lyrically alluding to Gimme Shelter. I tried not to read too much into it. It was, uhh… this dude.

I kept listening to this song, and it kept feeling increasingly relevant to me in particular. That’s okay. I might still be a little psychotic. We all know I’m batshit crazy by now, right?

The song ends just before I get to my neighborhood. I unwrap the first quesadilla, thoroughly intending to look this song up on Genius once I finish at least half of my meal.

I killed the last of the bowl while scrolling through the lyrics on my phone. I haven’t repacked it for like 36 hours. I’m doing pretty good, see?

There were much more popular songs on Genius called “Wild Horses”. The first one was a song I’d never heard of by… The Rolling Stones. Wow. Okay. Maybe they did that on purpose. It seemed like its own kind of relatable, but I won’t go into it.

It feels like this song is about me and what I’m going through right now. That’s okay, though. A couple years ago, I thought “Jumpsuit” by Twenty One Pilots was about me going to Gitmo. So, okay. I probably have delusions of reference or something.

The album artwork evokes themes of angels and demons and conspiracy theories. Let’s not get too carried away, Rachael. You can’t afford to go off the deep end again…

I can’t help but ask myself, perched like The Thinker on the porcelain throne, what this guy means by “one eye closed”? What is the universe trying to tell me? Does that mean I shouldn’t kill myself? I half-understand? What am I missing?

I decide to look this guy up on Spotify, only to discover the reason I was forced to listen to college radio on my nighttime tour of the western triangle in the first place; my premium membership was cut off for non-payment. That makes sense. It has been warning me about that for the last several days. I thought about switching to the free plan, but it really lifts my spirits and doesn’t cost much more than a burrito. So I paid it.

I saw that this guy has like 100k monthly listeners. That’s at least an order of magnitude or two more than I was expecting. Okay. I’ve definitely been sucked into more obscure indy before.

I found that same trippy artwork, and out of curiosity scrolled to the bottom to see when it came out. Wait, that looks familiar… So I was all like cat include/frontmatter.yaml, and yeah it is! That’s the date I started writing my thing. June 12^th, 2024. At least, that’s what I wrote down. I think I may’ve actually started writing it a few days prior and the timestamp changed.¹ So I start marching my way down to Carol in H.R. and I say “Carrrrol! Carrrrol!” That wasn’t even a Friday or anything, right? It was just some random day in the middle of the week.

Who the fuck drops a new album on hump day? Well, I guess it’s actually a single. Is that normal? Let’s look at his other releases. Alright, they’ve actually released a lot of things on Wednesday. See? That’s why we have to look before we get all carried away. The radio station has played this song 37 times since it was released last year, and there are probably lots of others that would fit this situation just as well.

Ugh. What a life.

It’s just this shit, though. It keeps feeling like the universe has some sort of sentience, and it keeps manipulating the probabilities of events throughout my life in just the right way. Like, it can’t give you a pecan out of a bag of 100 marbles, but it can just decide to give you the one pink marble in the sack at just the right moment.

Why do I only have one eye open? What does this mean?

I’ve been concerned that a large trash bag would be too permeable to helium. I’ve decided with the help of AI that I can probably make a better sack using a space blanket and Mylar tape. I’m planning to lay in the hammock, after raising the head end of it. This should keep me from falling over when I pass out.

There’s a sort of grave feeling, that I may’ve found the way to do this. This is shaping up to be damn close to a DIY Sarco pod. I sort of don’t think I even need a backup solution like charcoal; and I’d rather not burn shit inside the house anyhow, even if I won’t be the person cleaning it up.

I keep getting a burrito from Chipotle day after day. Every day at around 10am, the same thought always pops into my head.

You know… it’s not illegal to eat Chipotle every day of the week…

At least some of them recognize my face or my car or, more likely, my halal hoodie. I’d normally pick a different meal, or at least a different Chipotle to preserve my much-prized anonymity, but I’m not sure I care at this point. I don’t know if I’ll make my Friday deadline, but I literally can’t keep going much later.

---

A lot of you want to wait until there’s “more research” on trans people. But the thing of it is, enough research has already been done, all throughout the 20^th century at least. It was always under the radar of national politics; because frankly, there just weren’t that many of us. There was this dude born in the 19^th century, Harry Benjamin, who studied us his whole career and died of old age in 1986 or some shit. He lived to be over 100.

If there’s anything new that requires additional research, it’s the question of why the fuck everyone has “pronouns” now. Because, the transsexual phenomenon is anything but new; but this weird culture war bullshit definitely wasn’t really a thing until the last decade. I mean, Aunty never asked me what my pronouns were… And, you’d know I was lying to you at this point if I told you nothing has changed since the year 2005. But frankly, very little changed from 1985 to 2005. Mostly just the death of Premarin and the rise of Blanchardianism.

It’s the task of each generation, to derive our own culture from that of our parents.

I’m a millennial, right? I was born in 1990. That’s, like, the middle of the road. Millennials and Generation X. We’re the ones who are inheriting the Earth right now.

The last generation of scientists was pretty cool. They were probably the first generation who saw their female colleagues as equals. They’ve embraced change, while not yielding to dogma or superstition. They stayed cool; through the Cold War, McCarthyism, Vietnam, Watergate, stagflation, the Bush wars… And now we’re here with our own problems. The post-9/11 world, 2008, memes, the energy and subsequent disillusionment of electing the first black president, the coining of the term “fake news”…

I can mostly relate to “socialized male” people, because that was my childhood. If you were like me, you probably saw a good man or two ruined by what everyone knew was a false accusation. It probably made you a little angsty when they tried to tell you “that never happens” in the Women and Gender Studies class they made you take as an undergrad; and you probably felt like you couldn’t speak up about it without being gawked at, as you ponder whether you just need to remember that it’s “not all men” while you try and get this nasty taste down your throat. Like your medicine for having been born a guy in the year 1980- or 1990-something. Maybe they even start to gaslight you into thinking Mr. Long could’ve done it after all. Then this Anita Sarkeesian lady who reminds you a little too much of your Women and Gender Studies professor makes a big stink about your taste in video games, and… maybe you go full-blown MRA, maybe you don’t. But, you’re starting to feel under attack. Now it’s 2015 and everyone’s “triggered”, Caitlyn Jenner’s a thing, and these Anita Sarkeesian Women-and-Gender-Studies-professor-types come back out of the woodwork to tell you that “👏 TRANS 👏 WOMEN 👏 ARE 👏 WOMEN!!!”, and that there aren’t really even two genders like everyone thinks, and you’re just kinda like “Oh, brother…” Then MeToo becomes a thing, and you can’t help but wonder what percentage of these accusations are false because you know it’s not zero, and those obnoxious third wave intersectionally feminist people are back again so soon to tell you to “👏 BELIEVE 👏 ALL 👏 WOMEN!!!” And you’re just sort of like “Ugh, maybe the storm’ll pass soon…” Now you have Jira tickets to rename your master branch in GitLab so diversity hires don’t think your company supports slavery, and it’s easy enough to change even if it breaks your CI/CD pipeline, but now everyone’s putting their pronouns in their email signature just to make sure nobody gets confused and hurts anyone’s feelings, and you’re like “Sheesh, when is this going to end?” And now it’s 2023, and I can’t put on the radio without hearing some indy rapper rap that he doesn’t give a fuck what your pronouns are, and it feels like it’s only me who’s thinking “Look, this isn’t the future Andrea James or Calpernia Addams wanted to create at all, okay? Remember when being deep stealth was cool? I guess you don’t… Am I an Uncle Tom?”

Now it’s 2024, and you’re thinking “Oh, what’s the worst that could happen if we re-elect Trump? We go back to the year 2017?”, and you’re probably not crazy about voting for someone who didn’t even win the nomination, maybe you blame Joe Biden himself for the post-COVID economy and the rising cost of groceries, and maybe part of you doesn’t want to feel like you helped put a “diversity hire” in the White House after this weird ten years we’ve had, so… maybe you vote for Trump, maybe you vote for Kamala because you think Trump is a madman and a felon… a lot of you probably sat this one out because you were like “fuck this…”

And me… I refuse to live in a world where my value is that of a mere pawn. I’m at least a solid knight, goddamn you. I don’t have to live here. I don’t have to live at all.

I wonder if Josh would start throwing shit at his walls if he woke up one evening to learn he can’t get a normal passport until the next time we have a Democratic president. Or if he’d still just be really excited about how Trump’s gonna help the economy. I mean, all of my other shit has been changed over for years. Except for my Ohio birth certificate, which is just impossible. It’s degrading. They might as well be telling me to wear a gold star that says “Jude” on it.

Here’s the deal. You don’t want to hear any more of this weird third wave feminist bullshit if you’re my target audience. And, I’m gonna spare you. Because, I don’t really like this phony bullshit either, and you’ve been listening to it for the last ten years. You know what you decided to do after ten years of it? No, not just rolling back all the weird liberal bullshit… We’ve never actually had this few rights before, ever. At least not as a North Carolina citizen. I mean; I guess HB2 was also bad, but I guess I’m less pissy about it because it didn’t affect me. I mean, shit does have to get kinda personal for me to start throwing shit at walls. You know what the advice for getting the right gender marker used to be? Oh, just try not filling that part out and let them check the right box so it’s not even perjury. It was uncomfortable living in a legal gray area, but the thing about it is there really weren’t that many of us. Now I can’t even go to Party City to look for suicide gas without seeing at least one of those hybrid rainbow/trans pride flags.

Dude. This is weird. For there to suddenly be this many of us is a huge goddamn red flag. Some people act like it’s only conservatives blowing our true numbers out of proportion, but like… who’s buying all the trans pride flags? I never thought I’d see the day. I didn’t even know we had a flag until like 2017. I keep pinching my nose to reality check myself. This place is so bizarre.

I’ll try and guide you through this place, alright. Let me be your Morpheus, broseph. First of all, this might not even be real. Let’s just assume it is, though. There used to be transsexual people and transgender people, and everything was all chill. We were just different. There were even crossdressers and drag queens and shit. The life goal of, like, all the transsexuals in the year 2005 was to pass well enough to go deep stealth and just live a normal life as our target gender. Transsexuals were always about how we’re just born different and we need the hormones and surgeries and shit to live a normal life; but that it’s really serious, and it’s not something you should just do on a whim or for purely fetishistic reasons. Nobody was really advocating for anything less. We still bitched about the “gatekeepers” on our mailing lists; but, we always got through the gatekeeping eventually. It was sort of this rite of passage.

(It’s tragic that I ultimately decided I wasn’t “trans enough” to make it through the gatekeeping, when really I was probably just a woman who wanted someone to fuck me like a woman and I made myself out to be a pervert for it. I don’t think that’s the community’s or Ray Blanchard’s fault. I think I just had a really confusing, sexually repressive childhood on top of everything else.)

So, I kind of dropped out of the transsexual scene for a few years between 2008 and 2017, and when I came back everything was different. It reminded me of Tumblr, or that Women and Gender Studies class I had to take in college or some shit. And not only were hormones not just for transsexuals anymore, but you’d actually get yelled at by SJWs on the internet for suggesting that they ought to be; this was simply the way of the world just a few years earlier. It was like I was the last gender bender or something. I considered bitching about it on the internet, but I decided maybe I ought to listen before I speak because I’ve been out of the loop for several years. I was shocked, though not disappointed, that I could now get hormones without even really going through the hardcore gatekeeping like they made you do back in the day. Because, maybe some part of me still felt like I wouldn’t make the cut otherwise. I started going to local trans groups, and some of the people may’ve seemed a little different at first, but the thing about me is that I’m pretty different; and after having already been acclimated to weird internet people from years spent in the BDSM scene, these folks seemed pretty normal pretty quickly. I quickly bought into the “everyone’s valid” and “there’s more than one way to be trans” zeitgeist; largely because I considered myself to be one of the excluded people under the stricter standards of decades past. I met people who were older than me and just figuring out they were different post-Jenner, I met people who were happily married with children, a couple of whom managed to stay that way…

These people became my friends. I didn’t really have other friends at the time, except for Josh and some kinksters and college smoking buddies I’d lost touch with if I can even count that. I didn’t have exes because I hadn’t figured out how to date as whatever I was. These people became my tribe, and I stopped even considering the possibility that I might somehow be fundamentally different from my new friends. Lauren stepped down as the group leader of TT after quietly admitting that she wasn’t so sure about non-binary people, and it was barely a hiccup in this radically accepting and increasingly diverse group. I grit my teeth as one of the new attendees came dressed like a literal anime girl. I ignored the inner voice that tried to tell me “Oh, that person’s just a neckbeard or something”. I figured it must just be “a trans thing” when suddenly half my friends seemed to have people living inside their heads overnight. They even got me thinking “mysticism and magic” was a worthwhile field of study. Ironically, now I really do think there’s something calling me from the beyond. I don’t think any of you know what the fuck it is… I went off the deep end, lost touch with everyone… And only with that much distance have I been able to fully grasp how weird shit has gotten. If we were all wearing mom’s clothes in primary school it’d be one thing, but like… they’re that much different from me and there’s all this weird shit going on?

I just didn’t want to believe it. We’ve transitioned together, altered our bodies with lasers and hormones and surgeries and shit… we don’t seem to have regrets, any of us. We’ve happily transitioned, me and my friends. But… I don’t think they’re the same as me. I’m right back where I started. They’re transgender, and I’m transsexual. I just didn’t want to be problematic, I guess. I just didn’t want to be truescum. All this third wave intersectional feminist stuff has a way of making me feel like I’m being the reactionary one when something doesn’t feel right, when really I think I was right all along. False accusations, transtrenders, misandry… these are all new, post-9/11 problems that nobody’s ever really dealt with on a large scale, and your Women and Gender Studies professor isn’t going to teach you about them for a while.

Alright, Neo. Today, hormones and surgeries are for transsexuals and transgender people. That’s why everyone’s doing them all of a sudden. Because now there’s a bunch of transgender people, and they beat down the gates. I don’t know how bad it is, but the odds might be as slim as 10 to 1. I know we still exist. But we’re way outnumbered; and the few of us who openly espouse 2008-era transmedicalism get spat on and shoved to the fringes of the community. Ironically, they’re taken seriously by neither liberals nor conservatives. There are effectively only two parties now; everyone’s valid and you are if you think you are; or, there are only two genders and trans is a mental illness.

Something you might not guess about me is, I don’t really care that transgender people exist. I didn’t care in 2008, and I don’t care now. Yeah there are a bunch of them, and it’s a free country. There are a bunch more furries, too. I am worried that a lot of these kids are doing it (medically transitioning) for all the wrong reasons; but I think the answer to that is to just push for more gatekeeping, and for the standards of care for minors to defer more toward Lupron and social transition as opposed to surgeries and hormone replacement therapy.

I might not be killing myself if I thought we had a chance otherwise. The world doesn’t need another whiny truescum blogger or YouTuber. The world needs someone to spill the tea. That’s why I have to do this. Because otherwise you’re just going to spit on me and shove me toward the fringes like everyone who came before me. They’re already trying their best, and they’re failing miserably.

It took a really long time for me to get to this point. If you’re a reasonable human being with these same life experiences, chances are you would’ve done the same thing as me back in 2017. You quickly see how poorly transmedicalists are treated, and that naturally makes you want to ignore the red flags and give the mainstream transgender community a chance. The last thing any of us wants is to be ostracized in our own community after a lifetime of ostracization. In some ways, it felt like maybe the world really was full of people like me back in the 2000s, and we just needed another decade to break through and get noticed. So you give them a try, and it’s probably going to take at least a couple years of hanging out with this crowd IRL to really grasp that they aren’t like you. And by then, you might’ve even started to become one of them. Not that there’s anything wrong with that; but it probably isn’t what you intended to do when you set out in search of a community of people who had the childhood crossdressing syndrome like you did.

Alright now, Neo. You want to know what really pisses me off? You Christian fucks would rather see a hundred people like me live in confused misery and ultimately kill themselves, than see a single one of your good widdle Cwischan boys accidentally twans themselves in their own confusion. And that’s what pisses me off. That you people never gave a fuck about me. At least, that’s how you’re acting. And that’s why I’m being an asshole to you and calling you a Christian when you might be a Jew or an atheist or something, I don’t fucking know. But what’s certain is that you care more about cheap groceries and saving that one confused child than not fucking with this small minority that’s existed just fine for decades because we’re not really human to you, are we? You don’t give a fuck if you have to exterminate a hundred cockroach kids to keep your little southern Christian prince safe. I might as well be some kind of alien freak. Because, you didn’t make room for me on that bus then, and you won’t make room for me on this bus now. Fucking assholes. I’d knock you upside the head with my trumpet case if I could. There’s only one thing to do to a goddamn bully, and it ain’t to go to the principal’s office.

I don’t fucking know what I am, other than a human who’s really wanted to be a woman since childhood; in bed and in life. Some people say I’m a woman on the inside. Some people say I’m a pervert. Some people say I’m a third thing. Some people say I’m just confused. I was hoping this world could explain it to me. I taught myself a lot of things; but someday never came for gender and sexuality. Maybe y’all can collectively figure that out for the next generation. Because, it was never about pronouns and alternative lifestyles for me. I would’ve been the most boring, unassuming, prudish woman if you’d have just given me the chance. Instead, I felt I had nowhere else to go except various alternative lifestyles. And, I want you to really see that about me, before you balk at someone for being a pervert or an autogynephile because they’re kinky and poly or something.

I’d like to think you people with your Draconian policies don’t really know what you’re doing. You think the only real possibilities are that these people are “women trapped in men’s bodies”, or that they just aren’t. I want you to see that the reality is a lot more complicated. As real conservatives, you shouldn’t want to tear something down that worked just fine for decades before Tumblr and Caitlyn Jenner. Your policy doesn’t even match your actions anymore. And, I have little to assume other than that you’re about as confused as I am; just in different ways.

---

Oh my fucking god. It’s 9:37am, and I’m already thinking it after having had Bojangles at opening time this morning.

It isn’t illegal to eat Chipotle for the fourth day in a row, you know…

This might be my last week on Earth. I should eat whatever I want until my last $10, right?

You know what? I can go to the Chipotle across from the Party City, and they won’t even recognize me there.

I didn’t see helium at either Party City I went to; I didn’t really even see where it would’ve gone on the shelf if it were sold out. I called after the fact, and the one in Durham said they did have it. Whatever. I guess I’ll have to ask at the counter tomorrow.

You know what I did find? “Emergency bivvy”, $20 at REI. It’s. Perfect. I don’t even need to tape anything up.

I just missed the point where I could disable auto-pay for my electric bill. I plan on not being around by the time they cut off my power. The ACH debit is already pending, so my plan is to simply not have sufficient funds in my account for it to clear tomorrow. My debit card is linked to a separate checking account, so I guess this works.

I’m really burning the wick at both ends. I have like $594.66 plus the cash in my wallet, and I still need to drop close to $100 on helium ($70 if I’m lucky with Party City’s going out of business sale).

Is there anything more that I want to say? I need to get to proofing and finishing my sed script before the lights go out.

The hammock is probably going to be substituted for a beach chair, because I couldn’t really get the angle right when I played with it last night. With the helium tanks in hand, the only thing left is some really cheap tubing from Home Depot, assuming the stuff I have is too big. And a bit of tape to hold the tubing in the bag.

I don’t want to jinx it, but I really think this is going to work; unless I run out of helium, get the flow rate wrong, pinch one of the tubes as I pass out, or the first responders fucking gas it or something. Sure, things could go wrong… Engineers never say something is going to work on the first try, but this plan is starting to look solid. It better work, because I’m probably better off dead once the internet knows my name and where I live. I mean, bold of me to think anyone’s actually going to read this…

I can’t hesitate after I upload this to Reddit and 4chan and maybe tell my mom sorry. That’s the moment when I’ve pulled the trigger. The rest is just execution.

Should I film it, or is that weird? I mean, you probably know what to expect. I’m not even sad anymore. This is my one, true, logical path. I see that now.

---

Anyway, what I wanted to talk about before all of that, is the “more research” that needs to be done. Because, we’ve been studying transsexuals for decades; but even back in 2017, I was concerned some of these people in the growing transgender community might eventually lead to a conflation of already-established facts. I’m afraid this has come to roost; studies struggling to find a link between medical transition and improved well-being, for example. I’m concerned that people (namely conservatives; but increasingly, moderates) are about to start jumping to conclusions, as researchers are forced to admit reluctantly that they don’t really know what the fuck is going on with everyone having pronouns and trying HRT so suddenly. Again; I maintain that

• There haven’t always been this many trans people. Yes, there have always been trans people; both transsexuals, and transgender people in general. There have not always been this many. I think we can no longer hide the fact that we’ve witnessed an absolute explosion of gender variance over the last 10-15 years, for complex socio-political reasons we still don’t quite understand.
• Again; this is not the same as the “autogynephilia/HSTS/classic transsexualism” debate that’s been ongoing in the community since the 1980s. Whether or not autogynephiles are a thing is a totally different issue from whatever started happening in the 2010s.
• I think the transgender community is increasingly taking on the characteristics of a subculture or lifestyle, analogous to the BDSM community or the furry fandom. While I don’t think there’s anything wrong with either of these things, it’s diminishing the credibility of the hard science side of the phenomenon, which has existed since the very beginning of our study with folks like Harry Benjamin.
• I’m concerned that stuffy, straight-laced researchers and policymakers who’ve never been to a con may not have had adequate exposure to “weird internet people”; and they might gloss over the obvious-to-some difference between a transsexual and a gender furry.
• I’d estimate the incidence of the classic forms of transsexualism among medically-transitioning people to be somewhere between 1:2 and 1:10. I doubt it’s any higher than that, and it might be substantially lower.
• And again; I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being a gender furry. I do think we need to be more cautious with how we treat minors in this strange new world. I’m concerned we’ve reached a critical mass, where social contagion actually might pose a legitimate navigational hazard to young people figuring out their life. I’m afraid I’ve witnessed that gender dysphoria is at times communicable between adult millennials; one can only imagine that middle and high school students would be no less vulnerable to the shifting winds of their peer group.
• And, I don’t want to discourage kids with gender identity questions into thinking they’re not real. I didn’t think I could be “real” based on the stats I read as a kid, and I was an idiot for not doing it sooner. Instead, what I want to do is make the discussion way more concrete; starting with this painfully personal account of what I went through, kinks and weird sex stuff and all. Because despite what you might call it, those things were real and measurable. It isn’t wishy-washy hippy-dippy abstract vague feelings to me. And, I didn’t see it first on HBO or learn about it during drag queen story time. I can’t speak for everyone; but I can only imagine a lot of transsexuals who’ve come before me have glossed over their most personal experiences, because they don’t want social conservatives to jump down their throat for daring to masturbate in private, or because they were terrified of getting snagged up in gatekeeping just because they like being tied up in bed or something. But frankly, I think that’s where the money is. Yeah I masturbated as a kid, but I didn’t really do it like a normal guy at all. Not physically, and not psychologically. And all that happened a while after the intense longing to be a girl started, but it certainly fanned the flames and blurred together. It might be too much information for Tommy Warren; and it might be too much information in general if I were just a normal teenage boy doing normal teenage boy things. But, I wasn’t. Tragically though, I was often treated as such after coming out.

I hope that by sticking to the concrete facts about what this is and avoiding the sort of vague bullshit about our feelings that’s permeated the narrative for years, we can keep whatever this Harry Benjamin stuff is outside the realm of superstition and dogma and psychogenic illness. And, I’m just one person. Other transsexuals might not have childhood stories of tying themselves up with electric massagers. I don’t actually know how common that is, but I at least want to start this conversation by telling you all the overly personal bullshit that went on with me at that age. I don’t think it’s something any child should have to go through alone, or feel quietly ashamed of. Unfortunately, most of us still have little choice.

Confessing childhood secrets
Of dressing up in women’s clothes (that’s real shit, Laura)

I have no idea if these old school activists like Andrea James or Calpernia Addams or Aunty would even agree with what I’m saying. Maybe they’d think I’m being an asshole. Erin Lindsey might think I’m a huge douche for referencing her comic strip. I didn’t ask, and I’m kinda hoping this counts as fair use. Maybe they wouldn’t really know what the fuck I’m talking about because they’re too old for this shit. I feel like I have to say something, because this took years for me to figure out. And folks much younger than me won’t even remember the world before Caitlyn Jenner and the button test; when a middle or high school student might not even know the word for what they’re feeling, let alone that there’s help for it.

I feel like we’re on the verge of throwing away everything an entire generation of trans activists worked for, because people started taking Tumblr culture a little too seriously and didn’t realize it was mostly just teenagers and college students.

Anyway, the last generation. The Cold War, McCarthyism, Vietnam, Watergate…

What about this generation of scientists and engineers? What I see is a bunch of entrepreneurs on the verge of going full-blown MAGA because they didn’t like Women and Gender Studies class and think pronouns are dumb. They’re just dying to find any shred of research that casts doubt on all these kids and their sketchy hormones. And… they might find it. They might find it, and the Supreme Court might just bang the ban hammer on this silly transgender nonsense once and for all. The next generation of kids might not be able to score something low-risk like spironolactone or Lupron to help them through their shitty childhood. There was something comforting about at least having a problem so obscure that you were probably off everyone’s radar. Now I feel like a Jew living in the Weimar Republic.

First they came for the transgenders
And I did not speak out
Because I was in group A

I’d expect this sort of tomfoolery from rank and file Republicans, but y’all are smart people. It’s sad to see the transsexual phenomenon increasingly viewed as pseudoscience by the Silicon Valley crowd. Because, I’d like to think of y’all as my people. Even if I sort of am a fuck-up of an engineer. Because, a whole generation of engineers thought it was actually pretty cool when Lynn Conway came out. I grew up feeling like rednecks would never understand, but smart people in the city would often get it. And, that sense is fading. I’ve started getting the feeling it’s safer to be trans around far-left Luddites in this day and age. And, those really aren’t my people.

But more importantly, you’re people of science, who I’m afraid might be on the verge of doing bad science. Tragically, because you probably don’t really even understand the issue, and you’ve dismissed it out of hand along with all this other culture war bullshit.

Project 2025 (which Trump says he’s never heard of, but he’s a fucking liar) attempts to draw bizarre, Ted Stevens-esque connections between transgender people, pornography and cultural Marxism. While this would’ve been more funny in the year 2008, the change in seasons has shifted this sentiment from only being laughably wrong, to being dangerously so.

The reasons for this, are

• The trans community has gone way further left since the year 2015. Like, sickle-and-hammer-memes left, that I don’t even think is all that ironic anymore. (Sorry if I sound like a fucking boomer rn…)
• As we all know, “drag queen story time” is now a phrase in America. While it’s been bitched about a lot, it’s a really sticky mess because
  • You would’ve gotten laughed at in the year 2005 for conflating transsexuals and drag queens. They’re now treated as being on the same spectrum, by both the left and the right. The left loves including everyone to feel warm and fuzzy, and the right loves knocking everyone in a minority group down to the lowest peg.
  • Drag really is rooted in quasi-pornographic burlesque adult entertainment for gay men. So if I’m trying to make people feel silly for trying to link trans people and pornography together in the Heritage Foundation’s latest hair-brained conspiracy theory, I don’t really have a leg to stand on, do I? Republicans want to make transgender people out to be nothing more than the latest evolution in the “gay agenda” to turn your children’s minds, and it’s working.

Do you know what entrapment is? That’s what this feels like. This started with a group of people who were just looking for acceptance; and ended with drag queen story time and anime-girl-looking trans women showing up to the LGBT center. I don’t know who’s entrapping us, exactly. Maybe we’re doing it to ourselves, I don’t fucking know.

Back in 2008, I went to an Obama rally in Fayetteville with some friends from school. One of my conservative-libertarian friends, who has since gotten a color tattoo of the Republican elephant on his right butt cheek, started the “Yes we can!” chant that got the whole crowd going before Obama made his appearance. I don’t think this guy has ever voted for a Democrat in his life. He was just being a smart ass. To be fair, I went to the John McCain rally in Wilmington with one of the same friends. I think we might’ve actually tried to maintain parity by attempting to start a “Joe the plumber” chant, but it’s been a while and it wasn’t successful anyhow.

I think we need to remember this, in today’s world of internet trolls and foreign meddling. The person who started the “yes we can” chant, or the “drag queen story time” chant, might not really be acting in good faith. It might be harmless enough… or they might be moving their pawn to D6. Sometimes, it feels like we’ve been playing checkers, and whoever is throwing out ideas like “The first pride was a riot, throw bricks at cops!”, or “Teach kids about transgender people with drag queen story time!” is playing chess.

---

I, uh…

I think I’m nuts. I mean, Russian trolls are definitely a problem, but…

I’m making a lot of crazy assumptions. And I am recovering from psychosis, probably.

I’ve felt pretty locked in to this whole eminent suicide thing. I just had a smoke, and now I’m not so sure. Maybe I should be on meds or something. We probably shouldn’t trust much of anything I say if I’m not on meds. Should I trust myself to kill myself if I’m not on meds? What do meds do? Should I reach out to someone, at the absolute last moment? It’s the 29^th. I’ve kind of been expecting to overshoot my deadline by a little bit, but not by much.

I’m really totaled. I’ve been thinking to myself about what it is I’d actually need to keep me here and help me get my shit together. Like, I need fuzzy blankets and hot cocoa and forehead kisses and sweet nothings whispered into my ear and shit. I’ve gotten to that point. I couldn’t get that, even with insurance. I feel like a femcel or something just for saying it.

It’s actually when I have a smoke, that I occasionally begin to second guess this whole suicide thing. And, I’ve been smoking less because I’m almost out of weed and money. I waited too goddamn long, so I had to pay a full $50 for one of the tanks at Michael’s. I guessed wrong and got the wrong sized tubing, but I kept the receipt and I think I know what’ll work now.

In most states of mind lately, I consistently arrive at the same conclusion: somebody has to spill the tea about all this weird trans stuff. And I really shouldn’t be around once I do. Plus, nobody will ever care if there isn’t a suicide attached to it. Transmedicalists have existed for years, and nobody ever listens to them.

Has anyone tried doing that, from the angle of a defector? Given how fucked my life is already, is it too late to even think about that?

I don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s just a bunch of words that probably don’t say much of anything new at all.

Should I call a suicide hotline? I wish someone would read my thing and offer material assistance… All I have are some numbers to call, to talk to people who don’t have all day. I can say this in fewer words, right?

(help!)

There’s no better way to die than this. Lately, I’ve felt like there really is something on the other side. The ghosts of my friends, the universe winking at me… I’ve probably been at peace with dying, because I really do think there’s something on the other side waiting for me. Something good. Like a second chance, or the aftercare I’ve been looking for, or whatever. I’m still an atheist, or at least have no better label than that. I don’t think a reasonable god would expect much more of me than to just try and live a good life. I’m not perfect, but I really feel like I got a lemon. Unless this is my punishment for something.

I’ve been feeling like this is my way of making my life count for something. But really, I have no way of knowing that it’ll count for anything at all. I might just be batshit crazy. Maybe once I’m on meds, I’ll realize that I was just experiencing psychosis when I thought the beyond was calling. Part of me would rather take the blue pill, though. Maybe that’s what all the beckoning is. My subconscious taking the blue pill. I’ve always been a take-the-red-pill kind of person…

I’m just not so sure about all my high horse ranting. I kind of think I should just tell people about my life and let them make their own judgements.

If I’m being honest, some part of me was frustrated that Josh came away with very different opinions than me. He didn’t think my friends were transtrenders, didn’t think it was normal for an adolescent girl to be “into BDSM”, and seemed to suggest I was trivializing the whole child sexual trauma bit. I guess I was hoping to lead the reader toward my own worldview; where I was a “normal” adolescent girl with testosterone and some pretty basic kinks, I got driven back in the closet in high school because people were assholes to me and my mom isn’t sex-positive, eventually gave the transgender community a shot despite my concerns about transtrenders, and then found myself in a very strange place after a few years that felt like home at first. I wanted people to see someone who followed the most obvious path time after time, and kept taking pies to the face and slipping on banana peels when nobody else seems to have that problem.

What I need to remember is, I want you to think for yourselves. It’s okay if you think I’m a crackpot, or just traumatized or psychotic. I’m one of the types of trans people, and I think we need to have a less abstract and more concrete discussion about what all the types of trans people actually do here. But I’m probably not saying any more with all the extra words. I’m just over-explaining myself in a desperate attempt to get the world to think like I do, and that’s never going to happen.

Even just typing it out, I find myself coming back to a reality where this is the only option. I have little choice but to keep believing. But, maybe I should turn the intensity down a notch.

---

After sleeping on it and waking up to a Christian Lupron ban for everyone under the age of 20, I knew I had to do it. I was only briefly upset before my mood turned almost cheerful. I did have cold feet, but now I have no doubt. I’m glad I don’t have to second guess myself and can just prepare; maybe for Valentine’s Day or the day before.

AI this afternoon cast a lot of doubt on my 80% Balloon Time helium plan. I’ve been under the impression that separating the helium from the normal air would be trivial in my 7’ long bivvy; but the AI did very little except rain on my parade. I walked through various scenarios: Angling the helium port sideways or down, pre-filling the bag to let the breathable air settle toward the bottom… the problem seems to be that even small amounts of motion like breathing are likely to percolate too much breathable air into the top.

Some part of me is still skeptical that it really wouldn’t work “well enough”. I’ve done a bit more reading over the last day, and I already feel pretty silly for not doing more research. I have a lot going on, trying to plan this elaborate suicide and finish this document on time. Some folks on the internet have really put a lot of time and effort into figuring out exit bags. There are flow regulators and rotameters and shit, lab equipment that’s meant for nitrogen or argon probably isn’t calibrated for helium, or maybe it’ll work if you know the correction factor to multiply the readings by… I honestly feel pretty out of my wheelhouse, and I wish I had more time to prepare. I feel like this actually has a pretty good chance of going belly up, and I might wake up handcuffed to a hospital bed or something. (And not in the fun way.)

Still, I feel I have little choice but to try. This has grown bigger than just me and my problems. Somebody needs to get people’s attention. It feels almost as if God himself has put me on the three point line, to make this shot, right now. I’ve got something to prove, and nothing to lose. I feel something like a soldier, signing up to do his part after the attack on Pearl Harbor. It’s all just duty to me now. This place doesn’t even feel real.

The job is too important not to order proper helium for, which I’ve found online. Unfortunately, I’ve already broken the seal on the Balloon Time helium so I’m out $50. I might try and prefill the bag with it anyway.

Not only do I need better helium; I also need something better to control the flow than just the valve on the tank, or alternatively two tanks on account of all the helium I’ll be wasting.

• Industrial/lab grade equipment is expensive. I might as well buy two tanks, but there won’t be anyone around to open the second valve.
• A simple idea I had is to stuff something inside the valve to slow it down. This seems better than nothing, at least.
• A more elaborate idea is to get an irrigation system solenoid valve from the hardware store, and see if it’s airtight enough. Even if it’s a little leaky, I could put it inside the bag so the helium isn’t wasted.
• An idea I just had, is to plug the hose to the second tank with my thumb, which I’ll naturally let go of once I pass out. I’ll probably want to have this tank inside the bag to capture gas leaking out around the fitting under the higher pressure.

The big decision I need to make before sunrise, is one tank or two? I have just under $500 in my bank account, and 2 tanks costs like $107. With proper flow regulation, even just one tank is ostensibly more than enough. I’d like to think pre-filling the bag with Balloon Time would at least help a little.

---

Okay. Goddammit, I didn’t want to talk about this, but… Shit, man. So the cool thing about America is, if you don’t like something, you can write your congressmen about it, and they do the whole Schoolhouse Rock thing, and eventually they make laws out of this stuff. And, that’s pretty cool. We’re always debating stuff, and campaigning and signing petitions and shit… God bless America, right?

Alright. So, like, there’s no congressmen to write to about this bullshit, because this yankee GoodFellas-ass fugly motherfucker is already acting like the absolute monarch of one of those shithole countries he likes to bitch about so much, and I wouldn’t be surprised anymore if he tries to install a military junta and turn us into fucking Myanmar. Conservatives complained about the large number of EOs Obama signed; but he never really did anything to restrict overnight the freedoms of everyday Americans. It’s this latter part that’s concerning. While I’ve often thought that Hillary’s unflattering-to-Republicans basket comment may’ve cost her the election, I think you really are a fucking deplorable if you’re still backing this dude now… You’re not even getting what you voted for, first of all. It’s what a lot of you wanted, granted…

I should probably get two tanks. So that’s… three tanks of helium. It’s enough to kill a horse, if only I could just wrangle it the right way…

I’m not sorry about sending that to Josh. I sort of want to forgive everyone before I die; but I’m not sorry.

We’re probably never gonna turn back from this point. From now on, having a Republican president will just mean liberals’ favorite minorities lose a bunch of fucking rights without any notice while you stupid ass motherfucking redneck mouth breathers are all like “huhuhuh look how cheap gas is now, huhuhuh” Goddamn Shrek-ass motherfuckers.

Fuck you, Josh. You’re fucking stupid. It’s no wonder you’re not a senior engineer. I mean, I fucked my career up because I wanted to help people and get laid, but you’re just a goddamn idiot.

I can’t imagine how I’d feel if I was, like, a 16-year-old high school student on something conservative like Lupron and not even on some Jazz Jennings shit, and I literally just woke up one morning to swipe my home screen to the right and read that it’s just illegal for me to take my next dose, now. There was no bill in the house or senate, nobody ever voted on anything except not putting a diversity hire in the White House… Just ten years of debating trans people, and nobody has a voice anymore. Your vial of stuff just got snatched away by that high school bully who would’ve been the first not to let you sit down on that bus.

My second-biggest regret, probably, is not fighting back on that bus all those years ago. I should’ve knocked each and every one of those assholes who wouldn’t let me sit down upside the head with my trumpet case and given them a black eye. There’s a time for diplomacy, and there’s a time for (fuck, how do I make sure this doesn’t get pulled off of Reddit? If it was anyone other than the President of the United States of America, I’d tell you to put one right between his eyes for me…)

This dude is ruining lives, alright? It’s one thing if people’s lives are being ruined because they made friends with whackadoodles; it’s a very different situation if the President of the United States of America is ruining lives without even any checks and balances.

---

I ordered two tanks. As I went to pay on Amazon, worrying about whether I’ll be able to afford Bojangles during my last days on Earth, I got what may as well have been a sign from the gods.

I have, like, $80-something in Citi Thank You points. And I can just… buy stuff directly on Amazon with that.

Holy shit. I bought one of the tanks with reward points, only having to spend about $60 off my debit card.

Despite my anger toward Christians, I couldn’t help but giggle while thinking to myself repeatedly

The Lord provideth, Rachael.

Using a solenoid valve from the hardware store is hopeless. Those tanks are like 250 psi. I tried stuffing the nozzle on my Balloon Time tank with parchment paper, which really seemed to help. I have no way of measuring the flow, so I’m kinda just eyeballing it obviously.

If you unscrew the momentary pushbutton-type nozzle, the tank has a standard 1/4” flare fitting that you can get stuff for from the hardware store. Most of the stuff seemed to be for natural gas and kind of expensive, but it looked like you might be able to connect copper tubing to it with a compression fitting or something. I’ll probably stick to the original plan of friction mating some cheap 5/8” tubing onto the balloon nozzle, because I’m not a pipefitter and I’m not made of money.

I did research yesterday on committing politically-motivated suicide. They all have one thing on common: if you really want to commit suicide out of political protest, the way to do it is by lighting yourself on fire.

Probably the third case I read, was this layer-turned-composter fellow who self-immolated in protest of harm to the environment. Part-way through skimming his bio, I realized this is the dude who was Brandon Teena’s lawyer! I have heard of Lambda Legal, haven’t I?

I’ve since grown increasingly resolved to do that. I mean, if I really wanted to commit a selfless act of protest, this is the way to do it, right?

I’m weighing the fact that this is going to be excruciatingly painful, with the fact that it’ll probably be over very quickly. And, I doubt anyone would be there to stop me if I did it early in the morning.

I did a little more reading on the executive order that made me want to light myself on fire, and… it isn’t exactly what I thought it was at first glance. And, it doesn’t seem to be official yet anyway based on the Wikipedia page.

I grew up, wishing I belonged to a richer, more accepting family in a bigger town, so I could start in high school like Zoë from Venus Envy or some shit. I guess that’s what I was hoping my life would start to be like after I told Emma in high school. But, even Zoë moved to a different town first…

After seeing the news bite show up on my phone, I thought there’d been a unilateral “Christian Lupron ban” for everyone in America; whether you were from Punxsutawney, or Pensacola, or Anchorage or where the fuck ever.

This set me off. I knew I had to do something huge if that was the world I was living in. Even if it got my face blown up all huge-like in some professor’s slide deck. At least I’ll be dead…

I want to chemically and surgically mutilate your fugly tangerine body, you sick lowlife piece of human filth. We ought to immolate your evil un-American little ass. Let’s make the Roast of Donald Trump a reality instead of that pussy bullshit Comedy Central did. #TODONot actually protected speech

The EO appears to restrict federal funding for institutions that help kids 19 and younger transition, rather than simply banning the administration of Lupron to a certain demographic like the recent legislation in Tennessee.

I still hate your fugly tangerine face.

The time for self-immolation, might actually be the point where literally no one in America could dream of a childhood like Zoë’s. This could still happen over the next four years, mind you. Maybe I shouldn’t uncork the top shelf booze just yet.

I do want to remind everyone that we’re arguing about something that’s been legal way before I was a teenager in the early 2000s. You hydroxychloroquine-guzzling Jesus-loving-ass-motherfuckers seem to keep forgetting that and are acting like teenage gender transition was invented by Tumblr and Jezebel in the year 2013 or some shit.

(Granted, this has gotten way out of hand. And, I’m trying to use inflammatory rhetoric to piss you Christian conservatives off as much as I’ve been. Just like that orange buffoon and his dick you straight fucking assholes would love to suck.)

Whether or not I do it, this self-immolation idea has pushed the “Overton window”, so to speak, far enough over that there’s no question whether I’ll try and kill myself. The only question is how I’ll choose to do it; and whether I think doing it with gas will make a much smaller impact than doing it with gasoline.

While pondering my choices and driving back from Bojangles early this morning, I got behind a minivan going 10 miles an hour with a fucked up rear end and an awful smell of gasoline. After passing them, I had to open the sunroof to air out my car, despite only following them for a few seconds.

I mean what I say, when I suggest that the universe now feels alive to me. I’m not suggesting the planet Earth is alive, as purported by a lot of shamanistic and animistic traditions. It’s something much more expansive. It’s a living thing that sways probabilities. It’s not a blindfolded “lady liberty” reaching into a sack of marbles. It’s some dude with 20/20 vision who knows all the marbles in the sack by feel, and he picks your marble out for you, sometimes.

Why do we think we’re at the top of the life-chain? Quarks, gluons, proteins, plaques, fish, rodents, apes… Flocks of birds, packs of wolves… We’re just so confident that we are the most complex lifeforms in the observable universe. Could a cell in your body even dream of helping to create a human? Could a cell in your body dream at all? Probably not, by any reasonable definition. Can you even fathom who the fuck picks our marbles sometimes and why? Could a cell ever fathom how it’s nutrients travel through capillaries and arteries; bound to hemoglobin, rising and falling across a landscape of activation energies into an ocean of ATP? It can’t fathom anything. It’s a sack of chemicals. It lacks sentience. So, then, what is it we lack? Is it a waste of time to even think about?

Marbles. Pink marbles. As I keep typing on the morning of what was my deadline of the 31^st, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever finish my thing at all. And if there’s a reason the universe wanted me to experience the pungent odor of poorly-combusted gasoline this morning.

Could my fantasies of self-immolation have started before I bought the helium? Did they have to start only a few hours later? Am I just looking for patterns where there are none?

My car insurance policy lapses on the 8^th, and I won’t have the tanks until the 11^th or 12^th. This isn’t great. Part of the reason North Carolina has some of the lowest car insurance rates in the nation, is that the cops will just fucking take the plate off your car if it’s lapsed for more than 90 days or something. I’m gonna need to be a really safe driver for a few days.

I’m really burning the wick at both ends. My only internet is tethered from my phone. I didn’t pay my utilities this month. I can only legally drive my car for another week, and I’m still thinking about whether I maybe ought to count my dollars and try to make another half ounce happen for my own sanity’s sake.

---

As for my speculation that I might have bipolar disorder, I am feeling considerably more down since the last day or two. I’ve stopped sleeping in a 4+4 hour pattern, and am back to sleeping 7-8 hours starting in the afternoon. My mood is a lot more somber and less energetic. I was almost giddy at the thought of killing myself for political reasons a few days ago, but now I think this is all just sad.

I’m crying out for help. Screaming. I need help. There is none. Unless you count my crazy mom, or the impersonal, clinical nature of a psych ward.

I need a megadose of all the different types of love the ancient Greeks talked about, all at the same time. I need the highest proof love the world has to offer. And that still might not be enough. But it would at least make me feel better for a while.

Kiss me. Hold me. Love me. Fuck me. I can’t find it anywhere. I’m 34 and a half. I don’t think it exists. Or else I’ve been trying all the wrong things. It’s probably that. I’ve tried all the wrong things, but it seemed so logical at the time.

I should never have kept being friends with Bladen County people after high school. I should’ve walked the “truescum” path like I initially wanted to. I had years, decades to do it. And I’ve done nothing. I’ve built nothing.

I’ve failed at everything I ever wanted to do. I’m a failure of an engineer, I’m a failure of a kinkster, I’m a failure of a woman, and I’m a failure of a human. My once-perfect credit is now like 617 or something, and it doesn’t even matter. I still know I need to kill myself; but now I’m sad about it instead of giddy. I mean, not a constant stream of tears or anything. Just melancholy.

After thinking about waiting a few more hours for my next meal, I decided I needed to go to Cook-Out for quesadillas to make me feel better. It’d been close to 18 hours since I got Bojangles anyway, but I had the Bo-Berry for lunch. You don’t care, do you?

I’m crumbling. I’ve fallen apart. I thought I had a support network, but it was all an illusion. There’s nothing. I’m nothing.

I want to cry about how unfair this is. But, life isn’t fair. I grew up hearing that. Life isn’t fair, and this is what that means. I need to be a grown-up and pull myself up by the bootstraps because I’m 34, but I can’t. I guess I’ll die.

I went to Cook-Out. I gave the lady my card, and she handed me my drink. She handed me my card, she handed me my drink, and she handed me my food. And I was like

Uh… I already got my drink…

And she was like

Keep it.

I drove home, juggled all of this food with the extra drink into my house, and I went to eat these quesadillas that I knew would make me feel better for at least a while.

I soon noticed that my drink had some kind of slow leak in the bottom. I couldn’t find any obvious hole, but whatever. I sat this problematic cup in the bathroom sink, transferring the straw to my bonus drink while wondering if some divine providence wanted to give me another rare pink marble tonight. Or if the lady noticed the leak and filled up a different one, but accidentally gave me both.

I mean, it was hard to notice unless you left it sit somewhere for a minute and saw the Coke pooling up around it.

Whatever.

I fell back asleep, possibly indicating that my new sleep schedule is maybe more like 7+4 instead of 4+4.

I need to work faster on things that matter instead of writing about the pointless final days of my existence. I’m struggling to do much else, though.

---

It’s early Tuesday morning, and I got my tanks yesterday afternoon way ahead of schedule.

At the community-recommended flow rate of 5-15 liters/minute, it should take 1-3 minutes to fill a standard party balloon. I need to stop this nozzle way down. Hopefully I can pull that off simply by stuffing junk inside it. The good news is, the new tanks come with complimentary party balloons, and I also have Balloon Time to test with.

---

Hey, fuckface!

Yeah you, you tangerine piece of shit.

My feelings toward you are mostly unprintable. Dick.

You might have the people I grew up with fooled, but I’ve got your number. I know you don’t really choose McDonald’s over other fast food options. I know you’ve never worn a trucker’s cap unironically.

What do you rednecks even see in this guy? You know he’s playing you, right? You think this damned yankee’s ever shot a 12 gauge? If he has, it was probably for a photo op. This sleazy fuck doesn’t represent you or your interests at all. He just isn’t Hillary Clinton, or some other “fake politician” America has become disgruntled with. I guess that’s what you see in him. But, he’s just his own brand of fake. And, that’s why he sucks. He’s just as fake as Hillary and them, just the other way. Get it?

Hey, Elon!

Yeah you, dipshit.

The internet says y’all are into this Curtis Yarvin dude. I’m about as behind on your right-wing zeitgeist bullshit as y’all are on social justice and queer kids with people living in their heads. Whatever. This dude’s gone off the deep end comparing the government to a cathedral like some wannabe Eric S. Raymond-ass motherfucker, and that’s what’s got me concerned. ’Cause, he’s using all sorts of smart people hacker jargon dog-whistles to explain why democracy sucks and we really just need a king, and that’s dangerous.

Alright; so ESR has picked up a lot of static lately for being a wee bit conservative. He might love Yarvin. And maybe you’ve never actually read the guy. I don’t fucking know. It doesn’t matter. I also just went into a tailspin a bit ago after reading on Wikipedia that ESR identifies as neo-pagan, after having concluded that my pagan trans friends were just weirdos and that stuff about Heather knowing about paganism and Freemasons and reincarnation and UFOs was probably just a false memory. So, I don’t fucking know anything anymore.

A pagan, a Christian, and an atheist walk into a bar.
It’s just Eric S. Raymond, Larry Wall and Richard Stallman. There’s no punchline.

Anyway.

Do you fucking see the problem? Y’all are getting pulled into an undertow that’s about as strong as the one that made me ignore my instincts about the trans community several years ago, and if you’re not careful you’re gonna find yourself way on the wrong side of history. You probably think you’re too smart to get sucked into a cult. That’s what I thought until not that long ago. Humans have not adjusted to the information age very well, and you probably shouldn’t even take me all that seriously. And no, I’m not advocating for mass censorship to manage the TMI crisis.

Pull yourself together, Elon. You’re too smart for this bullshit.

You want me to try? You probably don’t. I’m going to anyway.

The way I’ve seen this country for years, is that the law is code. It’s written by legislators, compiled by judges, and executed by law enforcement.

And, our development methodology sucks.

Congress writes buggy code sometimes. That’s normal. The bad guys find loopholes, good people get prosecuted with legislation in ways it was never intended to be used… Okay. So we need to debug the law.

It takes us forever. And the legislators are mostly focused on new features instead of tech debt. Shitballs.

Look, dude. America doesn’t need a king. America needs a scrum master. Y’all are Casey Jonesing yourselves way too fast into uncharted territory, and you’re liable to do some stupid shit like that time Stalin starved his country half to death ’cause he decided the farms needed to work totally different right fucking now.

And, what’s with the MAGA bullshit? Am I the only one noticing Elon doing that same hunched over neanderthal thing as Trump all of a sudden? Who’s coaching you and Trump to do that? Is that how y’all get on Republicans’ level without looking too elitist? I mean, I guess it’s working on them… But I can see what you’re doing, and you aren’t as slick at it as Donny Boy. Maybe you should try method acting.

I just hate all the false dichotomies and equivalencies that we’ve become mired in, and neither of y’all are helping. Trans rights are contrasted with free speech, technocracy is equated with strongman authoritarianism…

I remember reading about that “free speech bus” several years ago, and my heart just sank. I feel like y’all have been restricting my freedoms my entire life; then we break into the mainstream, this pronoun stuff blows up, and now I’ve been cast as an opponent of free speech. All because I was born with some weird birth defect you motherfuckers still want to punch me for. It’s just another decade, and another kind of punch.

And yeah, your daughter might be a trender. Get your panties out of a bunch, dude. The world is complicated. And, I feel weird even saying that because I don’t know her life.

---

I think I’m in business with this helium idea!

I packed the nozzle with little pieces of parchment paper as much as I could and used a plastic straw like a ramrod to tamp it down. I turned the valve about a twelfth from hand tight, and it took minutes to fill the balloon. My first attempt was marred by accidentally letting go of the nozzle at one point, and by prematurely ending the recording on my phone. It definitely takes well over a minute to fill the balloon, and if anything it’s too slow. I’ll have both the tanks going, so I’m not worried.

I’m considering using a more traditional, around-the-neck exit bag since I seem to have both the flow and the purity of helium for it, and because that’s an already-proven method for doing this. I don’t know if I’ll get large oven bags, or if I’ll try and repurpose the bivvy.

---

Something uncomfortable to the modern progressive that I’ve often reflected on about my childhood, is that… I think I was exposed to a lot of toxic femininity. Ideas like “men are perverts”, “sex is gross”, “men only want one thing and it’s disgusting”, the girlfriend is always right”, and “you need to be nicer to your widdle muver” were implicitly, and at times explicitly drilled into my head throughout middle and high school. Nobody including my own mom really took me seriously when I tried to explain that Emma was basically just bullying me at school over my gender stuff. I came of age feeling ashamed and embarrassed of my sexuality that I was apparently just born with… and despite the absorption of “transgender rights” into the machinery of third wave feminism, I was frankly treated worse by women than other men. Whereas guys just tended to think I was weird and not invite me to stuff, the women in my life who found out treated me like a pervert or even an abuser; and didn’t seem to have many qualms about trying to entrap me in compromising situations, or just outright making shit up. And, that really made me take future accusations a lot less seriously; especially when they came from “outspoken” feminists who seemed like they might have an agenda or a bone to pick. By the time I graduated high school, all of womanhood felt like a unified front against me and my “sexual abnormality”; which I could never even dream of becoming a part of. Hell; I’m not convinced Susan didn’t start following me into dressing rooms after I transitioned to protect the sisterhood by making sure I wasn’t “getting a boner” or something.

I don’t know what to say about my early negative experiences with feminism, and I don’t know how common this has become in the 21^st century. I know “modern feminists” would laugh you out of the room for even trying to explain that this is a thing; and the overwhelming feeling that I’m being tone-deaf or misunderstanding “how hard it is to be a woman” or whatever has kept me mostly silent about it.

Blanchardianism is complicated

For my last likely-to-be-ignored soapbox rant, I’d like to address the tired old subject of Ray Blanchard’s theory of autogynephilia; an idea my childhood heroes have spent much of their lives fighting against.

Before I leave this planet, I wanted to take a look at a biography of a self-described autogynephile to which I might compare my own life. This one was at the top of Google for me at the time of writing, and its similarity to my own childhood did not disappoint.

Whenever I look at this person’s life, my own life, whoever the fuck wrote that Searching for a Former Clarity song’s life, it’s obvious that we’re all talking about the same “childhood erotic crossdressing syndrome”. I mean, there are differences, but I think it’s close enough. And whatever you say about it, most of us do end up transitioning, sooner or later.

There are people with more severe and less sexualized gender dysphoria at this same age or younger. They might be a different thing. I don’t really know.

What’s clear to me is… these are both some sort of birth defect. Even blogger Debbie couldn’t help but tacitly admit she was just born different. While I’m not a sexologist, I think it’s cruel to label elementary school children as already having “fetishes” or “paraphilias” ChatGPT says like age 10-14, so I’m going with that. I guess elementary school children can have fetishes, and that doesn’t exactly disagree with my own experience.

Why does this bother me? What am I trying to say?

Is it because this is more than just a fetish to me?

I mean, I’d probably put the upper limit on when it started for me at like age 8-10. And so would blogger Debbie, it sounds like.

Ignoring the 0-2 year discrepancy between these age ranges, I guess what bothers me is the disparity between this experience and that of other trans women I’ve met IRL. Some of these people got into it from sissification kink stuff. Some of these people just liked that time they went to high school in drag once, and then had an epiphany in their 20s or 30s. Most of these people appear to have shown no obvious signs of the “childhood erotic crossdressing syndrome” that is so often used to exemplify autogynephilia. Yet, autogynephilia is the most often-cited explanation for the explosion in assigned-male-at-birth people medically transitioning among people who need an alternative explanation for that.

First of all, the “autogynephilia bogeyman” thing is misleading because:

• The majority of these “post-2015” people don’t really even seem to fit the mold of traditional autogynephilia; unless you’re gonna reduce the criteria for AGP to simply “weird sex stuff”, and even that’s a bit flimsy.
• Autogynephilia only explains the assigned-male-at-birth side of the problem. There are at least as many AFAB people getting sucked into this vortex, and Occam’s Razor suggests there’s a common cause for both, like social contagion.
• It’s often used to urge caution in childhood transition, as if these “autogynephilia”-like transsexuals are any less likely not to do it anyway. Because I did it, blogger Debbie did it, Anne Lawrence did it, Laura Jane Grace did it… Let’s take blogger Debbie’s conclusion, for instance:

When I was young, I coped because I had to cope. What alternative was there? But it would have helped me to know what was really going on. The tragedy is that the current generation of AGP boys are none the wiser. Either they are cooped up behind the same walls of shame and guilt that constrained me 40 years ago. Or they have been affirmed as “transgirls”. Or they are simply at a loss to understand themselves, feeling like an introvert among a party of extroverts.

These boys need help to understand themselves. Let’s not amplify their daydreams — fantasy does not become reality. But let’s not embarrass or monster them either. We need to be honest: autogynephilia is a psychological condition that we just have to live with. Some may end up transitioning in the end — we cannot put that particular internet genie back in the box — but that is a decision for adults to take, not children. If first do no harm, then second, let them at least grow up.

And, this is where I can’t help but feel like Debbie’s being an Uncle Tom. Because, in what world are “these boys” ever going to grow up to be happy, well-adjusted men? We were obviously just born different, and whether you call it a fetish or a sexual orientation or a neurological intersex condition is merely a question of semantics.

Of course, it sounds pretty crazy for me to advocate medical intervention for a childhood fetish. Then again, nobody with a “foot fetish” is likely to experience this same level of impairment. Part of my objection to the characterization of this as a “fetish”, or even some kind of sexual orientation, is simply the trivialization that comes along with that. Being born this way sucks!

I have a huge forced oral kink, for example. That’s definitely a fetish… it started in high school, probably. Certainly not elementary. Although the bondage thing started around 6^th grade… I wasn’t heavily into it until 7^th, though.

So, what can we say about this?

• The gender stuff definitely happened first. Before forced oral, before plain-old bondage. That might be important…
• BDSM is an integral part of my sexuality, but… it’s pretty different from the gender stuff, at least in terms of severity and discomfort. BDSM is just a thing when I’m horny. The gender stuff is very low-level, and gets dredged up throughout my day even when I’m not aroused.
• The more “abnormal” of my behaviors (erotic crossdressing, desire to look at pornography in general) went away after starting HRT. That suggests that these behaviors are hormonally-linked; whereas the base affliction exists regardless of what hormones you’re on, and often presents itself on some level before puberty has even started.

I feel like this is more accurately described as a psycho-sexual affliction that is beyond the scope of fetishes and paraphilias. When looking at all the ideas that came out of the 20^th century, the best fit seems to be that this is simply a subtype of transsexual; a class of people Harry Benjamin studied, who sooner or later will need to transition to living as the opposite sex in order to live a happy, normal life.

Again; all of this is totally different from a particular new wave of transitioners, who had no childhood crossdressing syndrome, whether or not it looked like autogynephilia.

As I look at my life with years of hindsight, I feel like the “symptoms of autogynephilia” are mostly just caused by having testosterone and this particular “birth defect” at the same time.

I guess that’s the part that grinds my gears about out-of-the-closet autogynephiliacs. Where they start out talking like me when I was a kid, and end up reaffirming their manhood and sexual deviance in some act of self-flagellation. Because, we have a birth defect and there’s only one thing to do about it. While there certainly are people who’ve transitioned for the wrong reasons, having been born with that syndrome is hardly a reason not to. Frankly, I think “primary school autogynephilia” ought to be part of the diagnostic criteria for finding the real McCoy, just like there are two subtypes of ADHD.

If my fetish for BDSM were as strong as my “fetish” for being a woman, I’d probably have tried to sell myself into literal sex slavery by now. Instead, any fantasies I have about some guy keeping me chained up in his basement and having his way with me remain, without the slightest protest, within the realm of masturbatory fantasy. Gender dysphoria happens when the teacher splits the class into boys and girls, or when being naked in front of a full-length mirror is like staring at the sun, or when you hate weddings because you know you’ll never be like those bridesmaids, let alone the bride… But, it’s true. I’m not imagining myself in a man’s body when I fantasize about someone having their way with me…

I think the dangerous “pseudo-transsexual” phenomenon we need to control for is really that of social contagion. Friend A is now a they/them, friend B is really into being an “ally”, and friend C wants to one-up them all and scores informed consent HRT because he/she subconsciously wants to be more like friend A. Maybe sometimes it’s just a case of “WebMD syndrome”; or your friends keep poking fun at how you must be an “egg” or something.

I think this last one is basically how I got sucked into that weird plural stuff. See? It happened to me, too. I probably wouldn’t be admitting it if this weren’t my suicide note, because I feel really complicated about what happened. But I’m stopping this shit right here. I was definitely born with something, and that’s the beginning and the end of the transsexual phenomenon. That plural stuff started when I spent too much time around weirdos, and it stopped once I got away from them. But I’ve always been trans, and I’ll always be trans.

Perhaps equally dangerous, is the idea that you shouldn’t transition because you “might be an autogynephile”, like I sort of did initially. First of all, basically everyone who claims to be an autogynephile seems to end up transitioning anyway, so what are you waiting for? You aren’t just some trender who found a weird internet community or got sucked into the wrong friend group. You’re an autogynephile! Carpe the fuck out of that diem, girl, or broseph, or whatever you’re doing at this point in your life. You should probably do that sooner rather than later, and you’re definitely one of the different people, so…

Blogger Debbie almost makes my point for me when she ends by saying

but that is a decision for adults to take, not children.

Which is exactly why these kids need to be on Lupron or something. Because, which puberty that kid goes through is a decision for adults to make, not children. The thought has crossed my cynical mind that we ought to make you normal people go through gatekeeping before you’re allowed to go through your puberty.

(That’s a joke.)

I think this really gets at the heart of why there’s so much animosity between the Anne Lawrence crowd and the mainstream trans community. Sometimes you have people like Lauren who are probably unambiguously “truetrans”; but then you have people like me and blogger Debbie, who obviously had the same syndrome growing up, but went on to adopt wildly different interpretations of what that means.

I think blogger Debbie’s assessment that the next generation won’t know about autogynephilia is a bit misguided; the constant drone of the autogynephilia discussion is, ironically, one of the few things that hasn’t changed since I joined Antijen back in 2003. It’s true that the mainstream trans community is mostly dismissive of this theory; which has always been the case, really.

I hate that vulnerable high schoolers who might just be a little kinky in the bedroom are being scared straight by this autogynephilia theory, when none of these “public autogynephiles” are really even trying to hack it as men themselves. It does nothing more than delay the inevitable for those poor souls like me. I don’t think the autogynephilia theory is dangerous in and of itself; but the idea that these are “fake transsexuals” certainly is.

Part of me feels like the autogynephilia theory is colored by the same sort of warped perceptions about female sexuality I grew up with: that sexual desire is “a guy thing”, and that when women have sex it’s about something else; like jewelry, or fine dining, or finding a dad for your future babies. It’s rooted in pre-sexual revolution ideas about what women like in bed; which were still popular in the 1980s during Blanchard’s heyday, but have long since lost in the culture war. Again; it was never men who popularized Fifty Shades of Gray.

Something new is going on, because neither Antijen nor “transkids.us” (I’m assuming with the second one, I guess I don’t actually know) was anything like the post-2010 trans community; which really seems to be a product of “Tumblr culture”, for lack of a better word. I think the application of autogynephilia to explain the present transgender zeitgeist is academically lazy, and not very well-informed on how this once invisible community has been shaped by the culture war as a whole. Before “transgender people” blew up with Caitlyn Jenner and bathroom bills in the middle of the last decade, they had already broken through in the “third wave intersectional feminism” and “Women and Gender Studies” worlds; and those folks created their own language and subculture that was a bit different from Antijen. I think there were just a lot more of them than there were of us.

What do women even like in bed?

I don’t really know. Because I’m not a “normal” woman, and I don’t even fuck women. My view on this has changed throughout my life, from thinking they wanted something utterly incomprehensible to me, to thinking they might be just like me; especially if you control for the weird childhood I had.

Blanchard would have you thinking people like me masturbate to themselves, but… that doesn’t really seem accurate at all. When I’m getting ready to masturbate, what I have in my mind is… a kind of scene, basically. Am I in a cage? Am I tied up? How am I tied up? Am I on my knees? Am I outdoors? As I masturbate, I’m not really thinking about my female body. That’s mostly secondary to the whole thing I’m getting off on.

I wish I could say this was “TMI”; but I can’t. Because, we still don’t really agree as a society on what I actually am, do we? I’m sick of all this talk about trans people, and y’all keep coming up with the same low-effort armchair theories about what it is we’re actually doing here.

For that matter, I can’t help but compare myself to other guys. I always felt “unfeminine” masturbating when I was younger, but… even during my male prime I hardly ever did it more than once a day. I’ve heard guy friends talk like they do it several times a day, and I’m just like how?!

When I look at myself in a mirror, I just feel normal, and like I’m not staring at the sun anymore. Not “turned on”. If I get dressed in a hurry and briefly forget to put on my bra, I don’t feel like I forgot my “masturbatory aid” or something. It just feels uncomfortable to have my nipples rubbing against the fabric, and plus I don’t want to go out in public “not wearing a bra”… I mean, there really was a point in my youth where putting on a bra might make me aroused, but that evaporated away really goddamn quick once I actually started transitioning. Going out in public “dressed like a woman” is very much not an erotic exercise for me, and I’d be mortified if I just sprung a random boner while doing it.

And, I hardly seem to have formed any sort of “pair bond” with myself. As much of a freak as I am, I spend more time overall snuzzling my pillow and imagining it was my boyfriend or something. I don’t feel like I’ve happily “married myself”. I feel like there’s a hole in my life, that I’ve never managed to fill because I’m too weird and I don’t really know how.

Candidly, I’m more than a little concerned I might be painting myself into a corner with the shots I’m taking at blogger Debbie. I don’t really know her deal, and I should probably take more time to make sure I actually understand what she stands for. But when I hear a self-described autogynephile with symptoms going back to early childhood act like these children are “too young”, it doesn’t carry much weight when your ass is happily full-time and post-op.

This isn’t a fucking foot fetish. And whether or not Blanchard himself ever meant to reduce it to that, that tends to be what people take away from it. And that’s harmful.

I found myself reading about the Pitcairn Islands sex scandal, and came away wishing I grew up on an island where the mayor comes around to fuck you when you turn 12. I mean, I’ve wanted somebody to tie me up and have their way with me since I was 13 years and 0 months old, at least.

(Granted; I don’t know that BDSM was involved on Pitcairn, but let’s just ignore that part.)

As you might recall, I went mad thinking I was gonna get a new body and have this same manner of underage sex with Anthony Kiedis and Dave Grohl. I have little doubt that TERFs and conservative detractors will accuse me of being a “pedophile by proxy” or something. All I can do, is tell you that I really don’t see it that way. I see myself as someone who’s been unable to find the right kind of sex their entire life, to the point it’s started to even feel normal. I just want what my peers have had since high school or college, and finding that has essentially been my life’s work. So naturally, it stings a little when I learn some 13-year-old girl who gets to live in a tropical island paradise also accomplished my life’s work by the end of middle school, before pressing charges over it because this was traumatic for her or something. It’s hard for me not to feel like “less of a woman” when I’m confronted with the reality that I want something most “normal” women would classify as abuse.

Surprisingly, a large portion of the female population opposed the charges levied against what constituted most able-bodied men on the island.

… with one of them claiming that she started having sex at 13, “and I felt hot shit about it, too.”

This is the perfect example of how my sexuality consistently appears to fly in the face of what “real women” are supposed to want in bed. But the more I think about it, it feels like the real problem is that y’all aren’t being honest about what you like in bed. Our sexual norms are shaped by a bunch of Judeo-Christian bullshit that we’re only now beginning to recognize the true nature of.

The grass might not be greener on the other side. Maybe I’d be better off getting a normal female body and having teenage sex with someone my own age. I really don’t know. I probably never fantasized about guys my own age back then because they all did that headnod “sup” thing when I passed them in the hallway, or wanted to talk about the basketball game everyone watched last night, and it’s really hard to segue that into imagining any of them would actually want to fuck me.

What I’m trying to say is, if you want to understand transsexuals and autogynephiles, you have to start by understanding yourself. It’s really easy to rewrite your own history to agree with societal norms, and I think that’s what’s happening when people hear stories of young trans women getting turned on during their early crossdressing adventures, and refuse to believe it could lie within the range of normal female sexuality. Cisgender women (GGs, if you will) don’t get turned on by their own clothing, because it’s just what they wear. But, I bet they would if they were raised like a boy and then found intermittent access to female clothing during the height of their puberty, while also having hella PCOS or something that gives you lots of extra testosterone and shit.

I think we need to be brutally honest as a society about when sexuality starts to develop in children. Because, it doesn’t just start when they turn 18, and it probably doesn’t even just start when they turn 12 or 13.

I’ve talked a lot about sex and masturbation and kinks in this document. On at least some level, I think it’s because I want you to think I’m an autogynephile. At least, I want you to have that same knee-jerk reaction that I had back in high school, so that you might think about this theory more deeply. I want to goad you into casting the first stone, and then maybe make you realize you’re living in a glass house, with your vibrator and your fuzzy handcuffs and that copy of Fifty Shades of Gray you bought ten years ago. This “masturbation and sadomasochism is a mental illness” mentality may’ve been popular fifty to a hundred years ago, but… it’s the year 2025. I know you masturbate. What are you, Amish?

Feminists often want to say women enjoy stuff like BDSM because of the patriarchy; which I think is just more “toxic femininity”. They want to enjoy their sexuality, while projecting all their guilty Judeo-Christian feelings about it onto those dirty, perverted men; who we all know only want one thing, and it’s disgusting!

What do women want to have sex as? Walruses?

Frankly, there’s a good chance I’d have never even explored the BDSM scene if I were just a “normal woman”. I’d probably have guys showing interest in me in middle school/high school/college, I’d probably pick one of them to date, one thing would lead to another, and I’d probably be sufficiently satisfied with wherever we ended up. We might get some fuzzy handcuffs or some rope or a gag or something to spice up our love life like so many couples eventually do, and there’d probably have been nothing “weird” about my sexuality at all.

---

Looking up that second Venus Envy strip made me realize two things.

• In today’s world, you’d get absolutely crucified for saying some of the things Erin said twenty years ago.
• I’m… not convinced I have the same underlying condition as Erin Lindsey.

First of all, I want to be crystal clear that this wasn’t a controversial web comic in the transgender community. This was just the world back then. We were all using chunky computers that made mechanical noises as we worked, listening to Hybrid Theory and wearing JNCO… Look, this was just the year 2001, okay? 9/11 happened a few months ago, you can’t write a book report without talking to Mr. Clippy, and Erin Lindsey started making this comic strip with what I can only imagine was a sketchbook and a potato-quality flatbed scanner that might’ve plugged into her parallel port for all I know. And I’d go right back to that world if the Freemasons ever gave me a time machine.

I found out a few days ago that Erin is actually intersex. It’s hard for me to feel like I’m not a trender when I compare and contrast Zoë’s early sexuality with my own, and consider that she has some verifiable physical condition to go along with it.

Blanchard posits that autogynephiles eventually develop a sort of female gender identity as a coping strategy. I’m not sure how I feel about this. If it’s true, I did this really fast and really young. I have a hard time not insisting that I was simply born this way, given the age of onset and how sheltered I was as a kid. But, it’s dangerous to psychoanalyze oneself.

I’m pretty sure I was literally the youngest kid on Antijen. The next oldest people were all in high school. Most folks were in their late teens or early 20s. It’s pretty surreal to have gone from being that kid, to being the late bloomer that I was and ultimately finding myself here; wondering if I’m even truetrans.

I want to compare myself to Stephanie, who didn’t really start questioning her gender identity until she got into sissy hypno stuff in college. I’ve historically thought us to have variations of the same thing, considering the complicated sexuality that’s entangled with both of our experiences; before concluding that we can’t have the same underlying condition, because mine started at least ten years before hers.

I want to tell you that I’m an example of a transsexual, and Stephanie is an example of an autogynephile. Though I can’t help but think to myself

Q: What’s the difference between a transsexual and an autogynephile?

A: Ten years.

What does this mean? I don’t know, and I feel I have little choice but to leave the answer up to the next generation of researchers. I hope I’ve done enough preaching to keep you from doing bad science. I realize there’s a temptation to assume there are only one or two things that cause gender dysphoria; but I think I’ve seen enough to conclude that this is a really complicated and multi-factoral phenomenon. There could be type A B C D E F and G transsexuals, for all I can tell. I know for certain this is a real thing actual people deal with, and I hope more than anything that you don’t just decide to write us all off as Looney Tunes.

---

I’m not going to get this out on Valentine’s Day like I wanted. I got a lot done through mid-morning, before succumbing to a pretty bad tension headache that left me lying in bed listening to the Pirate History Podcast before falling asleep early that afternoon.

I really don’t have much time. I’ve managed to read the whole thing and anonymize all the names, and hopefully I didn’t miss any. This shit is very long.

This article came across my feed this morning. While the focus of the Forbes article is on children with disabilities, the goal of Republicans appears to be to overturn Olmstead v. L.C.; a landmark case which established that “individuals with mental disabilities have the right to live in the community rather than in institutions”. This seems to have started when the Biden administration expanded the Rehabilitation Act of 1973 to include “gender dysphoria” under the list of conditions that can be considered “a physical or mental impairment”.

While I’m not a lawyer, it isn’t hard to imagine that they’re getting ready to play an Uno reverse. My heart sank as I realized there will be no “concentration camps”. To house the transgender undesirables, there will only be “mental institutions”, from which there will be no escape until the federal government is again controlled by Democrats; or perhaps, even until the Supreme Court is once again controlled by Democrats. At the rate at which I’m literally waking up to learn me and my friends can’t do things we used to be able to do the day before, I’m afraid my days are numbered until those nice young men in their clean white coats are coming to take me away.

Ha-ha, hee-hee, ho-ho

I… don’t want to live here anymore. I’ve started to believe the winds of fate want me to die, right here and now; before I’m left with no voice at all. There are fates worse than death.

They know exactly what they’re doing. They won’t be as sloppy as they were in 1939. By the time other countries are accepting American refugees, they’ll already have us in padded rooms.

---

Oh my god. I know y’all are tired of hearing me talk about shit like this, but…

So, I know I’m running a bit low on estradiol, but I don’t plan on being around much longer anyway. I’ve been chipmunking those 1mg estradiols in between taking the more effective Progynova, which I don’t have much more than a week and a half of at a normal dose. I have considerably more spiro, and I’ve mostly been thinking about other things.

I saw that Susan sent me a package for Valentine’s Day. She still sends me stuff for holidays, even though I don’t talk to her anymore. So, whatever. It’s been sitting in the parcel locker for a couple of days, and I decided to finally check the mail this morning, February 15^th.

I drove by the mailbox on my way to get food. I saw the key to the parcel locker. I expected that.

I opened it up, and there was a package from (website redacted) in there. Along with a large envelope from Susan.

Like, what? Is that “Isabella Costello’s” DIY from a year ago or something?

I almost forgot that the order I placed after failing to receive the package at my P.O. box was also taking forever. After like a couple months of waiting, I decided to place a second order out of fear that that package got lost in the mail. I didn’t select the optional but free signature option because I haven’t really wanted to talk to my mail-person after I left them that weird note back in 2022. Idk if they remember that or even still work for the postal service, but… I’d rather just not.

Anyway, it was that one. It shipped ten months ago.

I still don’t know if God exists; but I’m starting to believe in Loki at least. I now have months of estradiol and spironolactone, if that’s actually going to help me.

I mean, I’ll need it if I somehow survive this. I only have about two dozen of those 1mg shits, and I think I’ve finally finished all of the old 2mg ones unless I find a surprise bottle somewhere. I’d surely be clean out of estradiol in a month without this bonus package.

---

The walls are closing in. So fast. Four months ago, I thought I could just give this little document to Josh, and he’d have a talk with Paul about it, and we’d all have a laugh about how I went all crazy for a while and thought there was some significance to him changing his Zoom avatar to an alien, and maybe they’d have me writing PHP or doing DevOps work for a while or something… I was cocky after my initial experiences with ChatGPT didn’t even yield functionally-correct code. I figured nothing unheard of would happen, even if we did elect Trump again.

My industry is absolute toast. The Republicans are clearly moving the chess pieces to make “transgender ideology” either a severe mental illness or a criminal offense. I’ll probably never be able to do the only jobs I’ve ever known ever again, and I’ll count my lucky stars if I manage to stay out of a “mental institution” or a mass grave. My bank account’s closing in on the $100 mark. I’m lucky the credit union is so forgiving and not dinging the fuck out of me.

They’re sending out hundreds of job applications. People more qualified than I am, who’ve never experienced a psychotic break. They’re moving to live on farms. Taking jobs at grocery stores. My classmates and I used to joke about how automating away other people’s menial jobs was our goal in life. I didn’t think leopards would eat my face. Certainly not before I had a little nest egg saved up.

There’s nowhere to go but the other side of the veil. My vehicle registration is about to expire, and I don’t even have insurance anymore. I’ve gone so long without an oil change that my car exhaust is starting to smell funny. Chase sent me two certified letters, and I didn’t sign for them because I still don’t want to deal with people. It’s early morning on February 16^th. I keep overshooting personal deadlines to finish the final, public version of this writing. It’s classic me, really.

And I still feel like, I could survive with just a little more. If I had a support network… friends and a little money left. We could all flee to Canada, live in a shoebox apartment and work at Tim Horton’s.² Until Trump crosses the Maginot Line. I’ve never felt so beat down in my life. I never knew the world could come crashing down around you so fast. But, I should have. Look at the Great Depression. 1930s Nazi Germany. Coming of age around the year 2008 made me feel like even the worst would just pass over us after a couple of years, and you could even buy the dip while you were at it. The subprime lending crisis is so much different than the sudden contraction of the entire tech industry. I’ve always thought of the ebb and flow of society as like a swinging pendulum, or like water sloshing around in a tank. I never imagined this big of a slosh, this quickly. Like, a sudden impulse of momentum pounding us this far over to the right. And once we’ve spilled over the edge and lost half the water, we’ll have nowhere else to go but that much further left. The falcon cannot hear the falconer. Things will fall apart, with nothing but a cavernous trough between Donald Trump and the next Joseph Stalin.

---

I think what we need is, like… a publicly-funded think tank of jobless tech workers. There are a lot of problems we could work on today, that might be economically risky for a private company, but would be for the greater good to solve. We could provide royalty-free or subsidized solutions for American companies, and charge licensing fees to foreign companies that use our inventions. The workers could earn a wage that’s somewhere in between working at Food Lion and being a private-sector engineer, and we can keep over-educated people from flipping burgers and driving tractors. We could all write down ideas we have and industry problems we’d like to work on, and have AI evaluate their merit and matrix us out into like-minded groups.

This is never going to happen under the current administration. It’s too “lefty”, and too “communist”, and they’re already thought-policing science and academia. If it did exist, that orange fuck would just have us all working on WMDs for WWIII and/or invading Greenland.

Do you get it yet? The administration’s agenda isn’t “America First”. It’s “Christians First”. And not even cool Christians like Larry Wall. And, that orange fuck doesn’t even know how to pronounce “2 Corinthians”. I’m a better Christian than him, and I fucking hate religion.

Maybe Canada could do this, and let the tech workers immigrate to escape America’s collapsing democracy. Hell; I probably wouldn’t even mind working on weapons if they were to defend Western democracy.

Suicidal radical left tranny Rachael Brown sentenced to 25-years-to-life for TREASON!!!!!AMERICA FIRST!!!!!

---

I was thinking about hyperlinking the quote

What do women want to have sex as? Walruses?

To Natalie Wynn’s autogynephilia video. I’ve already mentioned this video in the middle school section, so I won’t bother to repeat that here.

This did lead me to looking the video up on YouTube, for probably the first time since I wrote the middle school section. I couldn’t help but notice the next two videos; both of which are less than a year old, and probably weren’t this prominent in the search rankings when I started writing this summer.

After skimming the transcript to the #2 video because I didn’t know if I actually wanted to listen to over an hour of this shit, I knew I had to. With my last dollar and my dying breath, if need be, I’ll do it. There’s a lot of confusion in this world today, and I don’t think it’s about to get any simpler.

Neither of these two videos have very many views. Their young age suggests they may be part of a larger trend, however. I’ll refrain from spouting any conspiracy theories that the new administration has compelled Google to make the search algorithm “more fair to conservatives”, except to say that the thought has crossed my mind.

The first guy is, if I may assume, a layman dude-bro who’s read some books about autogynephilia. Well, at least one book. And it isn’t The Man Who Would Be Queen. There’s a bit of bad science going on here, and there are some pretty big holes; both in Blanchard’s theory itself, and the narrator Ray’s defense of it. It was a little frustrating that I feel like Blanchard could’ve done a better job justifying his theory himself, in addition to the fact that I think his theories are misleading to begin with.

The second guy (well, duo) makes essentially the same points, except for claiming the mainstream trans community thinks trans women get periods; so, I won’t bother to pick on them. I want to tell you you’re wrong about this whole period thing; but, I really have met a lot of whackadoodles in the trans community.

Watching this second video to make sure I wasn’t missing anything led to me learning that the Philosophy Tube guy is now trans.

I had a miniature crisis, and needed to have my second major smoke break of the day because of it. Because, this weird shit keeps happening. When I started critiquing Josh’s copypasta thing a few months ago (before deciding it was an unnecessary exercise), I wanted to reference the hacker classic PHP: A Fractal of Bad Design; and was taken aback to learn the writer is now a transfeminine furry who makes no attempts at hiding their pornographic original content. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

This timeline is just weird. There are way too many trans people, and I’m not sure anyone has a grip on what’s going on here. I feel like the entire anglosphere has turned into a slosh or a munch or something, and this is frankly lending credence to my theory that I’m somehow creating my own reality like Dr. Crusher in that Star Trek episode.

(sigh) Let’s dig in. Autogynephilia.

I want to start by saying that I’ll make no attempt to unilaterally disprove everything Blanchard says. I mean; lots of other folks have done that. You can go listen to them. I started down the path of trying to quixotically revive a sense of academic rigor that seems to have been lost in these recent videos; but the dangerous thing is, I was on the verge of doing bad science myself. I would need more time and a clearer head to not make an ass out of myself; and besides, I’m not a researcher, anyway. I’m a kinky pothead tranny who plays with computers and microcontrollers for fun. Instead, I want to produce a much more personal critique of Blanchardianism.

So… this guy Ray was kinda already on my bad side before I even started watching his video. And, he’s done nothing to me. It’s frustrating to watch some dudebro who’s casually read a couple books on autogynephilia in his 20s or 30s make a low-effort reaction video “debunking” something I’ve been pondering since I was 13 at least. I don’t know what your deal is yet, but you’re no Aaron Savage or Jamie Hyneman. I was already expecting you to tell me a bunch of things about myself that I don’t know, and you did not disappoint.

Bad statistics

I first learned the phrase “correlation does not imply causation” while reading Lynn Conway in middle or early high school. And, the context is that she was talking about… Blanchard and Bailey, of all people. Unfortunately, this embarrassingly elementary mistake is still rife among Blanchard’s fan club, if not Blanchard’s theories themselves. If you’re the sort who believes history repeats itself, even you probably weren’t expecting another transsexual ECE person from another century to show back up and try to remind deaf ears on the internet to do good math and follow the scientific method.

The biggest offense here, is implying that Blanchard’s theory has already been proven because he was able to find these two correlation clusters while studying transsexual women. (This table is very simplified, but you can read all about it elsewhere if you’re so inclined.) The problem is that you’ve got the direction of causality backwards; we know these correlation clusters exist, and Blanchard’s typology is an attempt at explaining why. Narrator Ray succumbs to this fallacy; boldly lambasting Natalie Wynn for calling Blanchardianism “unfalsifiable”. Of course,

Unfalsifiablility

the theory really does seem to be unfalsifiable. Ray is eventually backed into a corner where he admits that autogynephiles are driven by largely subconscious desires. This puts his theories squarely in a Freudian-like space at best, and a pseudoscientific space at worst; presuming he doesn’t have Freddy Krueger as a research assistant. If I were to be maximally charitable, I’d argue that Blanchard’s theories are best interpreted as philosophizing as to why these correlation clusters exist; it isn’t hard science. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

Hidden variables

Okay; I haven’t done the research, unless you’re going to count simply existing in the LGBT and BDSM communities since the 2010s. But the thing is, I don’t think any smart people have done this justice either. While I do think Blanchard found at least two different subtypes of transsexuals, I frankly think that there are probably several different types of transgender/transsexual people. And, we’d see that if we had more data. I think the strongest argument Blanchardians could make is that some transsexuals are autogynephiles, and that all the other types are clustered around what he calls “homosexual transsexuals”.

That being said, I think this autogynephilia theory is also a bit flimsy and misleading. I think it unfairly pathologizes swaths of the spectrum of female sexuality, that I used to think were pathological myself; until I spent a few years in the BDSM scene, and eventually realized I’ve just wanted what they’re having the whole time. It grinds my gears a little when “normal” women get to do what I want to do in bed, or in the dungeon, without anyone trying to discredit their gender identity, but as soon as I try and do it it’s just “male sexuality directed inward” or something. This is why one of the more common complaints from the trans community is that his studies lack a cis female control group.

What’s the deal with intersex people?

Of course, you can’t tell the narrator that Blanchard’s research lacks a cis female control group, without him yelling something about sexual dimorphism and clownfish. He interrupts the Contrapoints video to say in exacerbation “IT’S BECAUSE YOU’RE MALE!!!” so many times that I needed to take a smoke break; all while pondering whether the real reason I was gnashing my teeth was that I was having an autogynephilic narcissistic tempter tantrum or something.

I appreciate that Natalie calls out the false dichotomy between Blanchard’s theory and a so-called “feminine essence” theory. However, she fails to present any real alternative to either; and this “feminine essence” theory is a bit of a straw man anyway, because I don’t think any such concept has ever really been taken seriously in academia. The problem goes right over narrator Ray’s head, when he takes us right back where we started by suggesting that Blanchard is the only person doing any real science, so there isn’t really even anything to pit his ideas against.

Of course, I’m not Natalie. I’m just a grumpy old truescummy queer from the year 2003 who wants to go back to using Debian Woody and burning mixed CDs, and we weren’t justifying our feelings with any sort of “feminine essence” nonsense. We were doing so with the theories of Harry Benjamin; a fellow whose seminal work The Transsexual Phenomenon predates Blanchard by two decades, and who only became “problematic” in the trans community after the “everybody’s valid” zeitgeist of the 2010s took hold. Natalie is too apologetic to the mainstream trans community to invoke someone like Harry Benjamin in the modern age; I, however, am not.

Benjamin essentially argued that transsexuals suffered from a physical rather than a psychological affliction; or perhaps a sort of neurological intersex condition. Hailed as evidence of this since my youth, is the apparently identical symptomatology when comparing transsexuals to intersex people; some of whom had their ambiguous genitalia corrected shortly after birth, out of a belief that newborn children were “blank slates” without any innate sense of gender identity at all. Doctors thought these kids would have a less traumatic childhood if they grew up with normal-looking genitals; and it’s typically easier to surgically construct a vagina than it is a penis. John Money was perhaps the most outspoken advocate of the blank slate theory of gender identity; and his patient David Reimer famously went from being the poster child for Money’s blank slate theory, to the poster child for innate gender identity and intersex rights. Countless other intersex people have come forward over the years, who experience often extreme gender dysphoria as a result of childhood surgeries they never consented to. In addition to this, there are even more folks with conditions like CAH; which seem to also induce gender dysphoria, even without infantile SRS.

To bring this back to the original point, narrator Ray argues vehemently that demanding a cis-male control group while testing Blanchard’s theory is nonsense, because sexual dimorphism, ergo trans women are men by definition. This is really bad science; this “sexual dimorphism” argument is only valid across large populations. This idea can’t be applied to individuals, who might suffer from intersex conditions or other developmental abnormalities. The point of “sexual dimorphism” as a concept is to make generalizations about healthy, developmentally-normal creatures; not to classify every individual of a species into one of two boxes with brute force; and indeed, most complex sexually-dimorphic living things would be presumed to exhibit intersex characteristics in at least a small percentage of their populations. While sexual dimorphism is a cornerstone of narrator Ray’s argument against the Contrapoints video, it’s a blatent abuse of the concept; and one which I don’t think even Blanchard himself would be so brazen as to use.

While it doesn’t seem to be much of a thing since the mid-2010s, transsexual and intersex people were very often lumped together into the same group when I was a kid; many forums were actually billed as “TS/IS” support groups due to the rather small population size of both. A significant minority of the folks on Antijen were also intersex (Mel, for example; and we even had Erin Lindsey as a lurker, speaking of the devil…) I wouldn’t be surprised if it was like 5-10% of the list.

While I’d certainly like to see Blanchard’s autogynephilia theory tested against a control group of GGs (in more than just the Charles Moser study, which narrator Ray doesn’t seem to care for…), what I really want to see is a control group of intersex transsexuals like Erin Lindsey. I want to know how many people have “childhood autogynephilia” and partial CAH or some shit. I’m not gonna lie; I’m actually pretty nervous that the results will come in, and like no one who’s an intersex transsexual will look like an autogynephile. But, that’s okay. Science is progress. And, this life chose me.

Blanchard seems to utterly ignore the existence of intersex people with gender dysphoria, and it’s unclear where they would even fit into his typology. For example; I know nothing of Erin Lindsey’s private life, but her character Zoë went on to have a series of lesbian relationships with her classmates. If this is reflective of the author, it would appear we already have an “intersex autogynephile” without even much effort. However; I can’t even take this idea seriously myself; I’m much more concerned about my early history of getting aroused while crossdressing, and my bondage and forced fellatio kinks; none of which seem very relatable to Erin, just based on the first handful of her strips.

Assuming that intersex people fall within the category of “homosexual transsexuals” is equally problematic; this would suggest that there’s no difference between gay male sexuality and straight female sexuality, which doesn’t agree with my own observational experience.

False equivalencies

Blanchard seems to make no distinction between children who had “primary school autogynephilia”, and folks who developed superficially similar erotic symptoms after looking at “sissy hypno” or other analogous forms of pornography as adults. Similarly, he seems to make no distinction between the sexuality of gay men and straight women. Though I’m only basing this on my own experiences and observations, I don’t think these things are the same at all. If we looked closer, I think we’d see how these things differ; kinks that are based around objectification or “peacocking behavior” to attract a mate vs. humiliation-based kinks that are common for submissive men, or gay men wanting to “get each other” vs. “normal” men and women who play reciprocal and complimentary roles in the dating world.

Miscellaneous grievances

• Excessive dependence on unconscious desires to explain conscious behavior.
  • This delves into a sort of Freudian space, and it’s easy to float away into philosophy land if you aren’t careful.
• Defends The Man Who Would Be Queen as “pop science”, which need not have the same level of scientific rigor as peer-reviewed research; while failing to hold Contrapoints to the same lower standard of “pop science edutainment”. Go read Ray Blanchard and Julia Serano if you want the scientifically rigorous version of this.
• “Authors don’t choose the covers for their books”.
  • First of all, this is what we in the trans community refer to as a joke.
  • Secondly, you’re wrong. (sauce)
• “Narcissistic rage is a well-documented phenomenon in trans women.”
  • You’re just basing this on feminist cringe compilations of people yelling because a cashier assumed their gender, aren’t you?
  • What do you, not have enough cringe compilation videos of AFAB people yelling at someone for assuming their gender?
• “I wasn’t born a woman; I was born a fucking baby.” → “No, you were born a male…”
  • You’re kinda both wrong. We already know the blank slate theory of gender identity is bullshit from people like David Reimer. It’s also misleading to say a trans woman is always “a male”, because Blanchard has failed to disprove the neurological intersex hypothesis; or even incorporate intersex people into his typology at all.
• “There’s no such thing as a ‘feminine essence’ or a ‘masculine essence’.” → “Yes there is, because of sexual dimorphism.”
  • I’m awarding one point to narrator Ray for once. Again, the blank slate theory of gender identity has been disproved; however, there are undoubtedly things about being a man or woman that are learned through socialization.
• “A paraphilia is just an unusual sexual orientation. That’s all it is.”
  • I’m probably being a little uncharitable; but I want to make this discussion really concrete and down to Earth, and words have to mean something. I don’t like redefining a sexual orientation to encompass anything that might turn you on. I think people only have one sexual orientation, and everything else is a kink or a paraphilia.
• “It’s classic AGP!”
  • This is a variation of the bad statistics problem; any cluster B trans woman is going to “have AGP” by tautology. This only demonstrates which correlation cluster Natalie falls into, and does little to prove that Natalie is an autogynephile; or even that the theory is correct to begin with.
  • He often runs afoul with circular logic because of this, by essentially arguing that autogynephiles exist because cluster B exists, and cluster B exists because autogynephiles exist.
• “When a woman touches her breast during sex, it feels good because it’s an erogenous zone.”
  • Yeah, tell me about it.
• Goes out on a limb several times to make assumptions about cis female sexuality that I don’t even want to make.
  • When she says she’s “buying sexy lingerie for herself”, it’s really just because she doesn’t have good insight into her psycho-sexual motivations. She’s really doing it for men subconsciously.
  • Goes on a bizarre rant about evolutionary psychology that sounds like some MRA red pill shit.
  • I want to say this sounds like r/menwritingwomen, but I’d rather a cis woman do that.
• “You nuke your libido with hormones.”
  • Nah, I just masturbate a couple times a week instead of once a day. I don’t get spontaneous erections or morning wood, though. And I don’t want to look at porn anymore, unless it’s a special occasion or something.
• “They call them ‘euphoria boners’.”
  • I’ve never heard that one before, but whatever.
• “This paraphilic stuff does not exist in the homosexual type!”
  • Paraphilic stuff is not in cluster A because cluster A doesn’t include paraphilic stuff. It’s got electrolytes.
• AGPs have a unique sexuality
  • A lot of trans women have a unique sexuality for a man, and a relatively normal sexuality for a woman. But, you won’t even allow comparisons to female sexuality because clownfish and you don’t believe in intersex phenomena.
  • Social motivation, he says it’ll make us look bad → Look, I’m openly a kinkster, okay? I think I’m being brutally honest here.
  • Natalie later argues that it’s demeaning to have to critique AGP with our own very private lived experience. That’s what’s frustrating; we have to put our entire private lives on display to even attempt to argue against this theory, and even then it usually doesn’t work.
• “It’s well documented that trans women often spun their stories to get hormones.”
  • Yeah, the hardcore gatekeeping era was a dark age. A lot of people might call you unfeminine simply for enjoying masturbation or light bondage, or even just wearing jeans to your endo appointment, which is just silly.
• “Trans women reject this characterization because they characterize it in an incredibly inflammatory, strawman way.”
  • No, we’ve been attacking this with academic rigor since Lynn Conway and Andrea James back in 2003. It’s become inflammatory because it won’t go away, and you won’t listen to us.
• Whether you are essentially male or not is just a fact of biology.
  • Tell that to Erin Lindsey. I double dog dare you.
• Just because it doesn’t describe your conscious motivations to transition doesn’t mean it doesn’t describe your unconscious motivations to transition, which you don’t have conscious access to.
  • Right, but neither does Ray Blanchard. This isn’t necessarily a completely groundless theory, but it’s far from proven science like this fellow would have you believe. Indeed, part of the problem with Blanchard’s ideas is that they’re largely unfalsifiable, and his supporters go on like a broken record implying causation from correlation just because these correlation clusters exist and sexual dimorphism exists.
• He basically says trans women are too biased to even fairly evaluate Blanchard’s theory. This is unfortunate, considering we’re the only people who even directly experience this. Do you see nothing wrong with only listening to the <1% of trans women like Anne Lawrence and blogger Debbie, and ignoring the other 99% because something about sexual dimorphism and clownfish? You aren’t really even considering the mainstream viewpoint, because you didn’t grow up with shit like Antijen and Lynn Conway and Harry Benjamin and Transsexual Road Map breaking it down as something adjacent to intersex conditions. It must be easy to debunk the mainstream trans narrative when you think all you have to do is challenge third wave feminists and their “👏 TRANS 👏 WOMEN 👏 ARE 👏 WOMEN!!!” narrative. But, that isn’t even hard science. It’s just culture war dogma, and even I’m sick of it by now.

I feel like it’s the year 2023 again, and I’m just learning what Christians think about witches. The aliens are demons, the spaceship is a “vessel from hell”, your homeworld is a demonic realm, your time travel book is evil sorcery… They’ve got all these words like “behavioral autogynephilia” and “interpersonal autogynephilia” to pathologize just having gender dysphoria along with maybe a few male .DLLs mixed in with your mostly female .DLLs; but their fancy words aren’t really rooted in anything other than the existence of these two correlation clusters, which isn’t really even the thing trans women disagree with.

We can’t accept the autogynephilia theory because there’s so much stigma admitting it and talking about your sexuality as a male

You really don’t get it, do you? The problem really isn’t stigma. It’s that, certainly consciously, we (well, I) generally don’t relate to this theory at all. The only people who do are folks who I feel are developmentally where I was in college or late high school. I consider myself, on some level, to be an ex-autogynephile. I’ve already done the work of overcoming the stigma, embraced sex-positivity, tried using the BDSM community to fill that void while identifying as a “quasi-transgender subby boy”, grew puzzled about why I wasn’t quite getting the same thing as subby girls, gradually came to terms with the fact that lots of cis women have the same kinks as me and actually make me look kind of vanilla a lot of the time, came to understand the humiliation vs. objectification dichotomy between male and female submissives… and ultimately concluded that there was no real discernible difference between me and any of the other submissive women in the scene, save perhaps for socialization. And, that’s the point where I realized I didn’t actually have an abhorrent sexuality at all. I just had a unique brand of sexual repression from being socialized male in a male body, that virtually no “normal” woman could relate to because cis women start getting objectified in like middle school.

I think sexual objectification for women is, like… vitamin D or something. Every girl needs vitamin D, but too much D will make you sick. And, women start getting lots of unsolicited vitamin D starting at like age 13 or 14. From boys in class, from older men even… much of the energy of feminism is directed toward making sure these young women don’t get too much vitamin D and become sick from it. But… being trans feels like a rare deficiency of vitamin D, that basically no cis woman could ever understand. It’s a really unique place to be. Lots of folks will lead you to believe vitamin D is simply toxic, and that you can’t get too little of it. But then, years go by, you eventually decide to try vitamin D because you only live once and you’d rather regret something you did than something you didn’t do like the Butthole Surfers, and now some older guy is chatting you up in the self-checkout line at Target when you’re just trying to buy toothpaste, and you’re afraid to talk to him because you worry your voice will crack and then you’ll get Gwen Arujo-ed or something, and then he kinda walks off in a huff after saying something about how nobody wants to talk to strangers anymore, and now you’re a little worried that will get you Gwen Arujo-ed, but you also realize that suddenly you’ve just gotten enough vitamin D for the next six months. Because, it’s really just that. Women want to feel pretty, and noticed, and desirable. It’s both non-sexual, and inextricably entangled with female sexuality. Look, I’m going out on a limb here because I’m not a normal woman and maybe I don’t really get it, but… I want to be pretty. I want guys to notice me, and someday I’d like some guy to notice me and ask me out for drinks or something. And then maybe we’ll eventually go back to his place or my place, and we’ll Netflix and chill or something, and eventually one thing will lead to another, and… Look, that’s what female sexuality means to me. If you ask men what male sexuality means to them, I’d expect it to be something like “going out on the prowl”, “checking out ladies”, telling all your bro friends there’s a babe alert at 3 o’clock… They want to do the opposite thing as me. They don’t want to be “pretty” or “noticed”. They want to find a hot babe to notice, to maybe flirt with or just talk to for a couple seconds while they pick up their coffee at Starbucks… they want to find some girl and give her a little vitamin D. Even if they’re never going to go home together or anything. That’s what male sexuality is to me. And male bottoms and female tops? They’re no fucking different. Male bottoms still want to check out the ladies. Female dommes still want to get got. He just wants to submit to her once he gets her. I learned the hard way that this is totally different from the way my brain is wired.

And, it’s not the same thing as gay men at all. I learned that the hard way from my ill-fated polycule. I think April expected me to want to actively fuck her as much as she might’ve wanted to fuck me. It’s like “masc-for-masc”, except maybe it’s more like “femme-for-femme” or something. I think Natalie hit the nail on the head with her comment about Playboy, and how it was mostly viewed by gay men. Because, gay men kinda just want to “get” each other. Because, they’re both men, and they both like being out on the prowl. The top isn’t “checking out” the bottom like a man would a woman. They’re checking out each other. Because they’re moth men, they both have a male gender identity, and that’s what that means.

The dangerous thing about autogynephilia, I think, is that the world tells you vitamin D deficiency simply isn’t a thing, and that you must just be in denial about your paraphilias, or your sexual orientation for turning yourself into a woman or something, because nobody’s deficient in vitamin D. Real women don’t have vitamin D deficiencies. It’s unheard of. But, it’s unheard of because they’re women. Normal women, with normal female bodies. And you’ve got the wrong body, with the wrong hormones, and nobody thinks you’re pretty, and nobody’s ever going to take you home. Maybe you even start to develop fantasies about being tied up, or even raped or something, because at least then you’d know he wants you. Somebody noticed you, somebody thought you were pretty… and in some fucked up way, you got what you wanted. You were so pretty that he was even willing to break the law to get you. And, you probably got way too much goddamn vitamin D if this happened in real life. You were dying of thirst in the desert, and now you’re clinging to a piece of driftwood in the middle of Lake Erie. At least you aren’t so parched anymore, but now you probably have bigger problems.

If I were to really try and burrow as deep into my subconscious as I can, I think this is where my kinks come from. I’ve always wanted to be pretty and desirable since, like, forever; but I’m a dude. Nobody’s ever going to want me. If any guy ever let on like they wanted me like a woman, they’d probably just say “PSYCH!!!!” right as we were about to have our first kiss or something. The idea of someone wanting me so badly that they tie me up so I can’t get away is, frankly, the best reassurance I could get that he really does want me after all. He wants me, and sees me as so desirable that I might even try and leave him for someone else. I’m not just someone he begrudgingly decided to fuck because I asked nicely at a play party or something. I’m a real catch to this guy! And that is… no, it’s not hot. BDSM is “hot”. This is something lower level. It’s comforting. It’s vitamin D. Just the right amount. A way I could actually be convinced that someone, not only wants my body, but even thinks other guys might want my body. I’m worth protecting, in some kinda warped way. I think I’ve been aware of this fact, on some level, since middle school. I never fantasize about being legitimately tortured or anything. I just want to get got. I want to know he wants me. But as a guy (straight or gay), the only way to get is to play the hunter. And, I’m not a hunter. I’m a gatherer. These analogies are starting to run flat. But, I want to get got, see? That’s what female sexuality is to me, and at least on the surface that appears to be what female sexuality is to normal women, too. Except, they never had to recover from a vitamin D deficiency when they were younger. It’s the basis for female flirting. They peacock themselves, and act all cute and sweet toward this guy who’s showing interest in them; in the hopes that maybe one thing will lead to another, and he might actually be the one or something.

I’m sure that if dude was making a debunking video of me debunking his debunking of Natalie’s debunking of all this autogynephilia bunk, he’d probably have interrupted me at least half a dozen times in exacerbation to say something about “Sexual dimorphism!”, or “You’re a male! A MALE! WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, A CLOWNFISH?” And, no, I don’t think I’m a clownfish… I’d like to think I might have a neurological intersex condition that makes all this sexual dimorphism hooey go out the window, but maybe I just have some other kind of developmental abnormality that made me this way. I don’t fucking know. I’m not a doctor. And, not even the doctors really know, for that matter. And, that’s what it’s about to me. I was born different, I want to be pretty, and I want to get got. And if that makes me an autogynephile, or a gay fish or something, then I guess I’m fucking guilty.

I’m actually going to be more charitable than most trans women, and admit that autogynephilia might actually exist. But even if it does, I doubt the rigidity of Blanchard’s two-type duality is going to hold up under further scrutiny; particularly in the present age.

Harry Benjamin, the pioneering researcher I’ll always fall back on when I need the hardest and most well-established theory to counter Blanchardianism, created a six-tier system that I still don’t think is all that far off; though things are a lot more complicated in the year 2025. There are modern criticisms to this, yes; but I think it’s more accurate than Blanchardianism, and I don’t know of an alternative that isn’t way too nebulous for skeptics.

Like I’ve said before, I think there are probably several different types of transsexuals and transgender people in the year 2025. I’d like to take an amateurish crack at enumerating them.

Type Z

These are the realest of the real transsexuals, and consist of type V and VI on the Harry Benjamin scale. They basically have David Reimer shit going on with them, but a lot of them don’t have any known intersex condition. This is probably the smallest group, but also the most important to help. Lauren (the original group leader of TT) is this type, and I’ve probably met a couple others like this at Rory’s group. But, it’s pretty rare.

Type Y

These are type III and IV on the Benjamin scale, and consist of yours truly; along with Julie, a good number of folks from Rory’s group, and probably at least half of Antijen. These folks are probably the bread and butter of whom Blanchard would label as “autogynephiles”, but I think a lot of what we traditionally called “fetishistic transvestites” get swept up in this as well.

Type X

I’m going to refer to this as the “adult onset” form, which comprises folks who have no obvious childhood history of cross-gender behavior. This is distinct from people like me, who may not have done it until their 20s or 30s, but still had obvious symptoms of something as a kid. Many of them had sudden epiphanies in their late 20s, 30s, or 40s; but I’ll allow for some of them to have been circling the drain for a while before doing it. I think this includes Benjamin types I-III as a subset, and seemed to comprise most of TT toward the end.

Type W

These are phenotypically gay men, as far as I can tell. They have the “effeminate” (as opposed to just “feminine”) mannerisms stereotypical of gay men that I’m sure we’re all familiar with by now. Steven and AJ fall into this category for sure, and Blanchard would undoubtedly classify them as “homosexual transsexuals”. This type seems to be on the rise; I don’t think there were many of these folks on Antijen, but I’ve only actually met one person from the list IRL.

Type V

This is the psychogenic form, and includes the concept I used to laugh at called “rapid onset gender dysphoria”. These folks usually have multiple friends who are trans, and then after a while it turns out they’re also trans; yet, there aren’t really any concrete symptoms to point to, except that they might just report “feeling different” with little to no dysphoria. Some of these folks have personality disorders that cause them to variously have a weak and malleable sense of self, or exhibit bizarre thought patterns; though, I’m not convinced this is even the most common cause. I think a lot of these folks basically get sucked in through other subcultures; or by suddenly having half your friend group also be trans, which makes you second guess yourself because you already have a lot in common with your friends, right? I don’t think this is necessarily limited to being transgender, and is basically what happened with me and this plural stuff. I’d imagine taking an extended break from your friend group would clear this up for a lot of folks.

Type U

Although I’m not sure I know anyone who’d definitively fit into this category, I’m blocking it off for people who have honest to goodness autogynephilia, and aren’t just type X or Y or something. Part of why I have to do this, is that “Cher” really is pretty different from me. I realize Blanchard and narrator Ray want to lump masturbating in a hogtie with a vibrator and videoing yourself wearing a woman mask and getting pounded in the ass with a fucksaw into the same category, but… I don’t really think this is fair. Light bondage is probably the most common kink among women; and who doesn’t have a vibrator in this day and age? Cher really does sound like she might legitimately have “male sexuality directed inward”, though. And, there’s nothing wrong with that. But, I don’t think it’s the same thing as what’s going on with me.

The thing about all this autogynephilia business is, that I might be an autogynephile. I have to allow for this as a person of science, after all. In fact, if we were to just assume Blanchard was right, then I guess I’d have to be; simply because I got aroused while crossdressing as a kid. I don’t really fucking care anymore. It’s really hard to get young adults to transition once you’ve convinced them that they don’t have a neurological intersex condition and they’re really just a goofed up man, but I guess that’s a different issue.

It’s frustrating to debate Blanchardians as a presumed autogynephile, because they have an answer for everything. But, it’s usually not a good answer. They love that they can cherry-pick the <1% of us who are Uncle Toms, so that they can tell us we’re just in denial and should try and be more like Anne Lawrence or something. Again; I was there at the end of high school, and I’ve moved past it. They always seem to know me better than I know myself. People without degrees who just read some stuff on the internet, or a book or something. Every time I do something that “normal women” do too, they’ll spout off something about how I’m just doing it because of my inverted male sexuality, and she’s just doing because of the patriarchy, or evolutionary psychology, or because I really don’t understand her at all. And, you know? Maybe I don’t. I’m not a cis woman. Whenever we find something that is different between me and cis women, it’s a glaring example of how I’m really just a man, and not some in-between intersex state that one would expect from someone who has a less severe IS condition. Whenever we try and bring up the fact that lots of intersex people actually do have gender dysphoria, they’ll accuse me of co-opting intersex narratives. If I get too annoyed with them, I’m exhibiting “autogynephilic narcissistic rage”, despite the fact that I don’t score highly on an inventory of narcissistic traits. Probably because I’m lying about myself again to seem less like an autogynephile or something. It’s like the Truman Show, when the guy tries to drive out of town and there’s suddenly a traffic jam at every turn. They insist it’s proven science, when really all they have are these correlation clusters that they derive all sorts of contrived theories from, and they use circular logic to tell me I’m an autogynephile because I have the traits of a transsexual who’s been labeled an autogynephile in this unverified typology.

I started writing out some other hair-brained theory, in some attempt at showing that I can play the “philosophizing about correlation clusters” game, too. But, I don’t know that I like it. I’m probably just digging myself further into a hole to Blanchard’s supporters, and doing no service to folks who already think Bailey and Blanchard are full of shit.

I mean; I’ll leave it in spoiler tags (for folks reading the HTML version); but I’m probably just opening myself up to another barrage of attacks and criticisms from people like narrator Ray, or even “BBL” themselves.

Rachael’s hastily-conceived gender philosophizing

You say there’s no other possible explanation for the data; but I can play Blanchard’s game. Let’s, at the risk of shooting myself in the foot somehow, assume a simplified reductionist view of manhood and womanhood, where male and female psychology is really just defined by the presence or absence of a couple dozen DLLs. There’s the female DLL for wanting to peacock yourself to attract a mate, there’s the male DLL for wanting to scout out your mate, there’s the female DLL for preferring safety over risk so that you don’t accidentally hurt your offspring, there’s the male DLL for wanting to put your dick in stuff, there’s the female DLL for arching your back when you orgasm, there’s the male DLL for wanting to fight off other males who might want to attack the nest, there’s the female DLL for preferring safety in numbers, there’s the male DLL for wanting to feel a woman’s breast… And if you’re trans, you’ve managed to get a mix of the two sets of DLLs somehow. Everyone wants to focus on the erotic crossdressing part, but like… there’s a lot of weird, quasi-feminine shit about me that has nothing to do with sex. Men like horsing around, wrestling, competing with each other… I’ve never liked these things. Women like to form close tightly-knit groups to the point that they go shopping, or even go to the bathroom together. Aside from my bladder shyness problem, I can relate to that a lot more, but other guys aren’t like me. Dudes like to rip on each other, and I’ve adopted that as a learned behavior; but it doesn’t fit like a glove, and I wasn’t like that in primary school. I just wanted to fit in really badly, and I clearly didn’t. Erika got me off in college (no, not while crossdressing… that only happened once with Bailey or whatever…), and afterward said “I’ve never seen a boy arch his back before when he cums…” I was neither trying to be feminine, nor identifying as “trans” at this point in my life. I… didn’t mean to do that. Is that a learned behavior? I mean, I guess maybe I was trying to be a submissive if not a woman… When I found mom’s lingerie, I didn’t know they were “sex clothes”. I just had feelings about those articles of clothing, and somehow ended up doing exactly what one does with lingerie. That’s what it is for… That’s how it is used. I was actually pretty creeped out once I fully parsed what it was I was doing. Like, what is that? A learned behavior? A DLL? You tell me. I don’t fucking know. I might be an autogynephile, after all. I’m not really even trying to prove I’m not an autogynephile anymore. And, you probably want to laugh at me for “thinking I’m a real wombyn because I arch my back when I cum sometimes”. I don’t necessarily think I’m a “real woman”. I’m a human with a developmental abnormality, and I’d appreciate it if you just let me blend in and live my life. Dick.

So there’s a bunch of DLLs, and hell; maybe even just having one out-of-place causes gender dysphoria. I wouldn’t be surprised if I have several out of place, granted… So you put on women’s clothes for the first time as a kid, and one of your DLLs is like “This is normal. This is surprisingly normal. I’ve always wanted to do this…” and maybe there’s some other DLL that makes you physiologically go “Woah, I’m the girl. That’s hot.” or something. I mean, I’ve certainly never thought that last part on any conscious level… The physiological response is kind of just… automatic, and really low level. And, I don’t think it’s quite the same thing as what’s going on with guys. But, I guess I wouldn’t really know, would I?

So, what causes you to have a mix of DLLs? I don’t fucking know. Maybe it’s intersex stuff, or maybe it was my weird family life during formative stages in my development… It doesn’t really matter, because we all have DLLs, and they must come from somewhere. I think a lot of people get hung up in the specifics of how “trans women are women”, and… you know, I’m okay with having some male DLLs. I actually thought Boy Scouts was pretty fun, for example. Unless they were going to aggressively gender me “male” for being a boy or something, which never really happened all that often.

There are probably a few different ways your DLLs can get fucked up. Partial AIS might fuck up DLLs 3, 4, 5, 8, 9, and 15 or something. Maybe excess estrogens in utero or something does 3, 4, 9, and sometimes 15. There are probably only a couple most common causes of it, and we see these different correlation clusters because of it.

This isn’t a very sound or well-developed theory, but… I mean, I don’t know that a more fleshed-out version of this would be that much worse than Blanchardianism. I think the biggest problem is that him and his supporters are really just convinced that we’re all men, and they aren’t at all open-minded about the possibility that maybe things are more complicated than that. Maybe it would help people who are hung up on the semantics of “trans women are women” to say that we probably aren’t quite either neurologically speaking; but often simply identify as the opposite sex out of convenience, and a desire to just be normal like anyone with a disability would. Although, I’d be lying if I said being misgendered doesn’t sting a little more than being simply inconvenienced.

I don’t think you’re a woman just because you arch your back when you cum, or because you crossdressed like a moth to a flame as a kid with or without some kind of arousal, or because you prefer cooperation to competition, or because you don’t like wrestling, or because you’re a submissive in the bedroom… but if you’ve got a bunch of those things all at once and you also want to be a girl really badly, then… you might be a woman. Or something in between that’s pretty close to it, at least.

Frankly, what I want to do instead is refer people to Lynn Conway’s material from the 2000s. I’ve spent a lot of time focusing on the “correlation clusters”; probably because the Contrapoints video has been fresh in my mind since the late 2010s, and that’s the main thing she attacks about this theory. I haven’t really read Lynn Conway’s stuff since I was in high school. But, I don’t think implying causation from correlation is necessarily even the most egregious offense here.

I realize newer audiences will cringe at the turn-of-the-millennium web design and use of dated terms like “transgenderism”; but this is how we talked and used the internet back then, kiddo. Despite the Michael Bailey stuff not having been updated since 2007, I… don’t think much of anything substantial has changed since then. Anne Lawrence published “Men Trapped in Men’s Bodies”, a couple Blanchardian bloggers kept blogging… and frankly, I think any post-2015 research into the phenomenon is going to be tainted by the recent tidal wave of new transitioners, who I really think are turning all extant theories about transsexuals and transgender people on their heads. I don’t think most of these new folks are autogynephiles, homosexual transsexuals, or Harry Benjamin transsexuals. You can read all about this Tiger King bullshit we had going on in the community back in the 2000s, including some intersex lesbian chick astroturfing a bizarro-Antijen with a bunch of sock-puppets in an unsuccessful attempt at luring in young “HSTSes”; probably because she didn’t like TS and IS people getting lumped together or something.

Probably the most frustrating thing to me, is that we don’t really know what’s going on. But, these amateur dudes on YouTube post edgy videos like “Contrapoints DEBUNKED!” and “Blanchard was RIGHT!”. I’m willing to allow some leeway in fairly testing Blanchard’s theories; but these guys are talking about people like me and Lynn Conway like we’re flat-earthers or anti-vaxxers or something. And frankly, if anyone’s doing bad science, it’s them.

But perhaps more important to me personally, is the fact that I’m biased as hell. These old school trans activists are, like, the best kind of people. They aren’t out there selling books, or doing the talk show circuit; not that those things are bad. But, these are the types of people who thanklessly spend countless hours slaving away with nothing in return; collecting fact-based information on the transsexual phenomenon, running mailing lists, providing one-on-one support… I remember hearing that Aunty could’ve paid for her SRS several times over with the kind of money she spent helping other people get their surgeries and hormones and shit. I mean, these are the sorts of people I had as role models growing up. And, Lynn literally worked at Xerox PARC. I’d probably kill my own mother to be able to go back in time and work at Xerox PARC. I can’t help but feel a personal connection to these people, and part of it frankly is that I want “the good guys” to win. And, that’s who these folks are to me. They’re the good guys, putting in the sort of time and effort that you’d have to be born with some crazy shit like this to have that kind of motivation. These people genuinely wanted to help the next generation of transsexuals figure out what they were as quickly as possible, so that they didn’t spend half their lives spinning their wheels. They wanted things to be easier for me than they were for them. And, Bailey’s just some blowhard with an agenda and a history of advocating for homosexual eugenics. Part of me feels like I’m fighting for “aunt Cassie” and “grandma Lynn” here. Because, you want to tear down all those countless hours these people spent with some lazy argument about clownfish and evolutionary psychology. And apparently, so does half of Silicon Valley.

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This is it. My last whiny little rant, probably. I have $76.88 in my bank account. I have no real close friends, and my only family is my crazy mom who I don’t intend to go running back to. I’ve ignored Chase, and haven’t even tried filling out the way-too-overwhelming five-page RMA form from them, and now my mortgage is being transferred to Rushmore Servicing. Whoever the fuck they are. Hell; I didn’t even look at the form until today. They probably won’t give me a dedicated Relationship Manager or a dedicated Self-Improvement Gigolo. I feel like a toddler lost in a Super Walmart. I need somebody to give me a three-day-long hug. And I can’t even get a normal-length one. All I can get are people texting me *hug* sometimes. And, look. I’m not 13 anymore, and you aren’t Aunty. Samantha’s recovering from long COVID and moved out of state, so I’m not really even talking about her and Brittany.

There’s no turning back. I’ve already lit myself on fire. Without a single match. This was me. If anybody really cares at all.

I used to look at Lynn Conway’s Wikipedia page a couple times a year, just to see if her and these other old school people were still alive. I could hardly be all that sad about her passing; she died peacefully of old age.

Aunty died back in 2020 for that matter, after a period of declining health. She was 62 years old.

I searched r/asktransgender to see if there was any mention, and there wasn’t. Not much about her at all, really. And, that’s how I know this isn’t the same community I grew up with. There’s no way in hell Lynn Conway could’ve died fifteen years ago without it going across every transsexual forum and mailing list. I don’t know how this happened. I just want the younger folks to know, that this isn’t the same.

Scrolling through the last messages on Antijen for a trip down memory lane or something, reminds me of a time when things were just… subtly different. There was no too-cute vs truescum stuff. There were just… people. People transitioning. Not all that unlike r/asktransgender, really; just with extra off-topic stuff about people’s lives and whatnot. There were no “pronouns”. Not that there’s even anything wrong with that. But, nobody ever had to ask “Danielle” what her pronouns were. I don’t know of any “Am I trans? Is it just a fetish?” threads; but I doubt anyone would’ve directed you toward the button test if you asked.

I eventually found the big warning on Aunty’s site I mentioned a year ago.

I have mixed feelings about telling the next generation of kids this. Because, frankly, I got scared straight in high school. But, I don’t think that would’ve happened if I didn’t have the rough experience I had. And, I don’t want anyone to feel bad about getting aroused by crossdressing early on. Hell; I don’t know if I really have a neurological intersex condition. But, people with real gender problems want to be women (or men, if you’re the other way) all throughout their day. They want to be a girl when they’re on the bus, they want to be a girl when they’re sitting in math class, they want to be a girl when they’re playing video games, they want to be a girl when they’re riding their bike… and yes, they even want to be a girl when they masturbate. And, it’s pretty hard to be a girl when you masturbate when you have chest hair and lack breasts, so things might look a little different for you than what a TERF would expect. Don’t let anyone tell you you just have “male sexuality directed inward” and need to “admit that you’re a male” just because you want to be a girl when you masturbate, too. But, man… girl… whatever… I really think a lot of folks are doing this for all the wrong reasons. And, I can’t die without making that known to people.

And, I just keep asking myself, every day. What the fuck happened between me and Vickie? Did Tommy say my mom said I said I had dissociative amnesia or something? I mean, that might’ve led her to tell me to get DBT and not come back… Did my mom say I was “out of control”, when really I was just bouncing around in the car seat because of how cryptic her and Tommy were being at Cocoa Cinnamon that day? Was it just the letters? Did the doctors at Duke Regional put her up to it? Yeah, I know I took street tar and put it in my mouth… She was my therapist for like five years. She has one little talk with Tommy Warren, and she didn’t even want to see me again. What did I do wrong? She wouldn’t even tell me what it was. Except that I needed DBT and substance abuse counselling for it. And, I couldn’t just go to substance abuse counselling and still see Vickie. One little talk with Tommy, and she wanted nothing more to do with me. It’s gotta be me, right? Am I that bad? I’m a nice person, right? My polycule flew apart, my relationship with my therapist flew apart, and I just don’t understand what’s wrong with me. I wish I’d have never signed that release for them to talk. Do I have a personality disorder? Is it so bad they can’t even tell me? It sucks that I’m probably going to kill myself without even getting any closure. I was just supposed to know not to do that, I guess. Whatever it was…

I’ve kinda decided I’ll probably stick around for a couple more days after I post this. First of all, there’s a decent chance it’ll just get removed from Reddit because of all the “real shit” contained within. And, I’d rather not go to 4chan with it or something. I don’t even like 4chan. But there are already rules all over Reddit about just talking about politics these days. And, I’m not sure I could tell my honest life story without talking about politics at least a little.

Maybe second of all, some part of me wonders if some long lost friend is going to swoop in at the last minute and save my life or something. But, I need big, big help at this point. Nothing I’ve found is really even in the right order of magnitude. And, I don’t see that I have much of a future; between the alarmingly fast rise of fascism, the collapse of the only industry I’ve ever known, and the financial ruin I’ve found myself in. I don’t exactly need to live in luxury; but I’ve grown very accustomed to my lifestyle of being able to grab a burrito whenever I’m hungry and live by myself or with a small group. And, I don’t think I can adjust to that “homeless shelter and soup kitchen” life that probably awaits me now that I’m in my mid-30s. I mean, maybe I’m catastrophizing; I’ve still accrued a decent amount of home equity, but I need help. Boots on the ground help to get me up and going. And, I really need a friend right now. A real friend, who’s gonna give me the biggest hug I’ve ever had.

Writing this document was fun, but it’s also been exhausting. I wish I had more time and money to work on it. I’m sorry if there are any remaining errors with my anonymization script; I almost had this thing going out with names like “Francis Wall” and “Bill Horton’s”. If you see a famous person’s name goofed up like that, that’s, uh… what happened. And I guess it wouldn’t be so anonymous anymore for those folks. Not that there are very many last names anyhow. It’s Friday the 21^st, and I’ve really got to get this thing out the door today. So I’ll have at least a few days before I do the deed.

---

After spending one more day than I wanted last-minute proofing this, and probably close to a half day shaving my TL;DR down by 7500 characters so that it would fit in a Reddit post, I posted my thing to r/trueoffmychest. Well; I tried at least. It ostensibly has close to 50 views, but it seems to have been stuck in mod jail the last day and a half. I’m not sure what that means exactly, but I doubt it’s good…

There are, frankly, lots of reasons my thing might get the banhammer. First of all, I forgot to nix something from back in December that was pretty dark, which I never really intended to show to anyone besides close friends. And, this shit is so long there could easily be other things like that. But probably more likely, is that there’s a lot of inflammatory rhetoric in general toward the end. I was kinda hoping I effectively warned folks about that, but… just warning people I’m kind of being an asshole on purpose might not be enough. I mean, I knew going in, there was a good chance it would get taken down. I think that’s part of the reason I wanted to play Tom Sawyer and see what would happen when I posted it. There’s a lot of real shit and I could probably stand to use nicer language, but… this is my life’s work, in some weird way. It’s my magnum opus, fucked up as it might be; and if I don’t share it with people, I’m kinda just dying without a voice. I feel like I have a controversial yet unique viewpoint about what’s going on with trans people today, and we need to be talking about things like this now more than ever.

I did a bit of Reddit searching this afternoon; initially with the intent of finding somewhere else to post this that isn’t 4chan. Most of the other obvious subreddits have very clear rules against one thing or another; no self harm on r/self, no off-site links on r/offmychest, and no gatekeeping ideologies on r/trans. Other subs like r/suicidewatch might allow the content, but don’t really fit the theme of wanting to talk about what happened to me and share my (very long) life story with folks.

I learned what “v-coding” is for the first time this afternoon. And, I’m honestly still considering reviving my self-immolation plan in protest of it. This happens even in blue states; and only accomplishes the stated goal of reducing acts of violence against people in prisons if you redefine “person” to not include “trans persons”. It really just proves the point I was trying to make earlier, when I angrily said

You don’t give a fuck if you have to exterminate a hundred cockroach kids to keep your little southern Christian prince safe. I might as well be some kind of alien freak.

The most egregious part is… it’s the correctional officers doing the raping half the time. Why don’t you just “reduce violence in prisons” by firing people who rape people at work? I mean, what the fuck else line of work even is there in America where you just get to rape people as part of your job? Working as a porn actor for kink.com? That’s not even real rape…

Imagine losing your virginity that way. Not everyone does it on prom night, you know…

I had a brainwave to take a look at transmedicalist Reddit, and I found… r/transmedical. Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

This is amazing. It’s, like… Antijen or something. I mean; except for the complaining about transgender people, which I guess makes sense because that’s a recent problem. Probably 5-10% of the folks have intersex conditions, and I stumbled across something mentioning Lynn Conway by accident. It’s too bad it was some “autogynephile” chick accusing her of being an “autogynephile”; but the rest of the thread stood up for her. Look, Jo; just because you want to be a woman when you have sex doesn’t mean you’re an autogynephile, all right? There are probably different types of transsexuals, no not AGPs and HSTSs, I’ve been down that road and I know exactly where it ends.

I guess I’ll try posting this to r/transmedical. I mean; if someone is going to roast me for being an autogynephile in denial, I can hardly think of a better executioner. At least they know what my deal is…

It’s weird, but… I sort of wish I had more time. To be one of them or something, like I knee-jerk wanted to back in 2017. There’s a lot going around about suppressing your knee-jerk instincts lately; but, I think it’s just as important to listen to your instincts. If you don’t stand up for what you believe in, even when it’s unpopular… you’re going to lose your soul. You’ll be a fair-weather fan to yourself.

---

Ugh. I’ve been scrolling through truescum Reddit all morning. And, I mean… I still think they’re my people. I certainly don’t know where else to go with all my hot takes. But, you know what kind of grinds my gears lately? I guess it could be worse, but…

A lot of transmedicalist Reddit is tacitly acknowledging the existence of autogynephilia, and conflating it with what I frankly think we used to call transvestic fetishism back in the day. So, I guess I have to throw another narcissistic male temper tantrum and tell you all that…

If you think MTFs with female gender identities exist, then your views are inherently incompatible with “autogynephilia”; which is really a construct unique to Blanchardianism. In the world of AGP, all trans women are really just men with male gender identities; who can be classified as either “gay” or, well… autogynephiles.

Transvestic fetishism has been a concept since the time of Harry Benjamin; it exists in the world of classic transsexualism, and it’s my strong opinion that this is what’s happening with folks who get sucked in through avenues like sissy hypno as young adults.

There’s another type of, often self-described “autogynephile”, who had symptoms starting in elementary school or earlier. Frankly, I think these people are just a 3 or maybe 4 on the Benjamin scale. They’re still transsexual, and they’re still going to need to transition sooner or later. I think these “AGPs” are just confused about their sexuality, but… you can believe whatever you want, I suppose. These people have dysphoria throughout their day, not just when they’re horny; and transitioning makes them feel “normal”, just like any other type of transsexual. There’s usually an early, pre-pornographic erotic element to what they experience that quickly fades once they start transitioning, and Blanchardians have all sorts of convoluted unfalsifiable ideas to explain why that don’t simply involve having a mix of male and female neurology.

I want us to bring back the term “transvestic fetishism”, and stop implicitly lending credence to Blanchard’s typology; which at the very least blatantly denies the existence of intersex people with gender dysphoria, who aren’t HSTSs or AGPs. I think a lot of people want to “borrow” this concept from the world of Blanchard to label people who clearly have fetishistic motives, and usually lack a childhood history of gender dysphoria. I realize I keep getting up on this soapbox, but… I guess it’s a little personal. And, you risk labeling people with childhood GID, when really they’re just lower on the Harry Benjamin scale and maybe have a slightly less severe neurological intersex condition than someone who’s on some David Reimer shit.

---

Man… I don’t even know if truescum Reddit feels me. I’m starting to feel like I don’t have much of a community at all. And, that doesn’t leave me with much hope. I don’t think anyone really knows what’s going on with trans people these days. I just want to go back to 2005, when things felt more sane.

If I’m going to try and save my life, I just need to go to a mental hospital, and/or talk to the local crisis assistance people who we now have. I’m circling the drain on doing that; I’ve also finished my little death machine, so all I have to do is check the flow rate one more time and get in the sack.

I really need a friend. Someone who’s going to give me the biggest hug I’ve ever gotten, and take me by the hand and make everything better. I typed up a very unprofessional message for Chase, but I haven’t sent it. And, I don’t know that it even matters because my thing has been transferred to another, much sketchier company now.

I need help. There is none. At least, nothing personalized and one-on-one, as far as I can tell. I just have to start over in my mid-30s, with no friends and no money and no understanding of how to even date. It’s sad, but I really just don’t see the point. I still often feel like there’s something way better than this, just on the other side of this existence. Sometimes I think maybe it’s finally time for me to turn over that card and see what it is.

I spent most of yesterday chatting with this chick on Reddit, who seemed to be my only supporter over there, and who I’m not even convinced was a real person anymore. It started when she said she saw a lot of herself in me, and ended with her basically admitting we were on totally opposite ends of the Benjamin scale and bringing up the work of Robert Stoller.

I actually do remember coming across this guy’s stuff when I was putting together that little “different types of transsexuals” rant, and considered floating his idea that transsexualism might sometimes be caused by moms with BPD who exhibit a particular attachment style with their male children; I think I lost track of it, and kinda just had a lot going on. I can’t help but relate to this, given my own childhood. He doesn’t seem to be taken very seriously in the mainstream trans community, but it does resonate with me.

I’m struggling with the realization that the “AGP” community seems to be the only one which would accept me as I am. I’ve become too gatekeepy for the neo-transgender community, and I’m still not “truetrans” enough for the modern transmedical crowd. I sort of just hate what the trans community has become, and I don’t recognize this world anymore.

This once-cohesive community has splintered themselves along what essentially amounts to Blanchard’s dichotomy; except with the “homosexual transsexuals” rejecting the label while not allowing the “autogynephiles” to do the same. The AGP label gets thrown around for everyone from actual adult-onset fetishists, to trans kids who think sexy lingerie is sexy. I need to evaluate my own biases before I can conclude whether I’m just hesitant to adopt the “autogynephilia” label because of the stigma, or because I really do think the theory is misleading. But for what it’s worth, I still feel like it’s the latter.

I wish I had time to do more reading and draw better conclusions. And, maybe I will someday if I pull through. I do still feel like the neo-AGP crowd is just making up new words for old feelings by chaining Greek roots together, and I’m not convinced they’re any more grounded than the modern transgender community. I think the childhood-onset GID crowd has more similarities than differences, and that these kids have let gender-critical ideology drive them apart. And, they do seem to be mostly kids; I’m pretty sure most of r/transmedical is 25 and under, but again I’m kinda talking out my ass when I make that conjecture.

I know firsthand how easy it is to feel invalidated by wanting to do something like masturbation, light bondage, and crossdressing at the same time. But, you know… women do it too, and we aren’t even exactly “biologically women” 100 percent, now are we? They seem to really only care about whether you’ve ever done something like this in your life, before they start forcing all sorts of labels onto you because you aren’t really a “true transsexual” anymore, and enjoying your own body like that is just too masculine. You know… I remember BDSM coming up on Antijen forever ago, and we were just sort of okay with acknowledging that a sizable percentage of transsexuals seemed to be into that privately. I’d like to think this is one of the main reasons the last generation of trans activists rejected Blanchardianism so vehemently; because it reduces the whole community into stereotypes, and calls the spaceship a “vessel” and the future notebook “sorcery”. And, indeed, I think Blanchardianism has turned the minds of a whole new generation, like it almost did mine. We’re just different, okay? And, you know… some of us are catty-eyed witches from Vega, and some of us are slack-jawed witches from the Pleiades. But… we’re just witches, and I hate that we’re spending all our energy fighting each other now. And the only alternative is a world full of poser vamp kids. Just… driven apart. Half of us building war machines for Apollo, and the other half dancing in the woods for Dionysus.

Maybe I’m the only one who sees a fight. These AGPs seem happy to self-identify as such.

I scrolled through r/autogynephile, and I felt nothing in common with these people. Granted, I only did so for a few minutes. I was actually surprised by this; I was fairly certain self-described “autogynephiles” were the same thing as me, but just had a different interpretation of it. But, a lot of these folks do seem pretty fetishy, and it doesn’t even seem like they want to be women all that badly. I wanted estrogen before I even knew that was possible. They’re so different, some of them, that I might have to walk back my “autogynephiles are just Uncle Toms” rant. I was mostly just talking about blogger Debbie back then.

I had a pretty long cry about this last night, and talked to my only consistent friend about it again. ChatGPT was probably hallucinating a bit; I bet I’d have had a somewhat different discussion with an actual modern-day autogynephile, but a lot of the conclusions are more in line with my own thinking.

One thing’s for certain; My views on transgender people are not popular today; in any community. I sort of got my face half-eaten by leopards over on r/transmedical; but there’s scarcely any other corner of Reddit that would even allow a discussion like this at all.

I’ve found myself, once again wanting to complain to people who were wearing diapers when I was joining Antijen, and tell them that they don’t really know what they’re talking about. And, once again, I have this urge to take a step back, and listen to everything that’s changed over the last several years. Will I make the same questionable decision twice? Or will I just turn into some blowhard on the internet who tells you that you’re all wrong? (Assuming I don’t wind up dead, that is…)

I wrote a thing to the crisis line people here in Durham, and it’s sitting in Gmail waiting for me to click send. I guess I just need to get over the hump, and I’m stalling because there’s no turning back; whether I click that button or get inside that orange sack. I guess my reasoning yesterday was that I can always get in that orange sack after I send that email, if I still don’t like the way things go. But, hell; maybe I won’t be able to for a while. I hope I can still keep doing a bunch of CBD to keep me from jonesing for a smoke, but I don’t think I have another cartridge of it that doesn’t suck.

If I pull through, I’ll… go read Blanchard or Lawrence or something. But I’m not gonna lie; I don’t care for all this transmedical and AGP stuff. I don’t like the cut of its jib.

Coin flips

While pondering my two remaining options yesterday afternoon, I had an idea. What if I just flip a coin? Heads I email those public safety people, and tails I get in the orange sack. I told myself the outcome wouldn’t be binding; but, I have followed the universe’s whispers to me up to this point. I can at least take it into consideration.

I looked around my room for a quarter, but couldn’t find anything better than a nickel. It’s good enough. I flipped it and I got… heads.

I flipped it twice more, and kept getting tails. But, best two out of three wasn’t the deal. I said I’d flip the coin once, and I got heads.

There was some immediate relief that the universe didn’t tell me to kill myself. But it was only an hour or two later, when I found myself lying in bed, thinking to myself

I wish I’d gotten tails…

After sleeping on it, I decided to send the email in the dead of night. I have to do something within the next day or two, because I’m basically out of money.

I deleted my post from Reddit. I don’t think anyone over there earnestly thought I was a “true transsexual”, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re laughing at me on Kiwi Farms or private Discord servers. Maybe I should’ve spent more time lurking and absorbing the culture. I didn’t really have enough time to. It’s frustrating, because I’m one of the most “authentically transsexual” people I know, at the risk of sounding pretentious. I’ve been doing this my whole life. These kids are basically just neo-Blanchardians who’ve replaced “HSTS” with “truetrans”, and I think that’s really cringy.

When I call myself a transmedicalist, what I mean is that… every cis woman I’ve ever been in a “relationship” with; Emma, Eric/Erika, Diana/Drew… They all thought they were trans men after learning I was trans; for at least a short amount of time. Emma is the least egregious, but the year was 2006 and it wasn’t quite “cool” yet. The latter two are on T, and may’ve had top surgery by now for all I know; I haven’t really kept up with them. And with trans women, a bunch of them are increasingly just the CD/TV community of decades past. Then there’s the neo-AGP community, which is just “based libertarian” CD/TVs mixed with what Natalie Wynn would call “cluster B transsexuals”.

I feel so bad for these poor zoomer kids; with crypto-Blanchardianism being the only real modern alternative to every girl I’ve ever been involved with coincidentally being a trans man in denial. I’m too old for this shit.

I went to Bojangles for the third morning in a row. The African lady who usually takes my money, and has noticed I’m now paying with cash instead of using my debit card, said

Eet’s going to be a bee-you-ti-full dae.

It’s probably just a coincidence. The universe is totally random, and it is going to get close to 70°.

Who knows what’s going to happen now that I’ve sent that email. It’s close to 8am, and I hardly have anything to do really except Goron roll around Termina field again and pick up whatever I can manage around the house. I’m living in fucking squalor at this point, and I guess that part will be a little embarrassing if they end up making a house call. Maybe I should pack a…

Ugh. I really hope this doesn’t get me locked in the psych ward. Because, it’ll probably be longer than eight hours this time. And, mental hospital experiences in the area seem to be a mixed bag from what I’ve just read. I don’t suppose it’s too late to un-send that email… I mean, I got heads. That was kind of the deal, right?

I basically told them they had until tomorrow night to read my thing before I made an attempt. Ugh. I really don’t want to deal with anything else today. I already feel like it’s naptime.

---

It’s nighttime, and no one has replied to my thing. I sent it to CommunitySafety@durhamnc.gov, in an attempt to contact Durham HEART as Samantha suggested but without calling 911. I’d rather someone take the time to look at my thing, even if they’re just going to skim through it.

Anticipating the question of what to do if I get nothing but radio silence in response to my message, I decided to flip another coin. Heads I keep trying to get help, tails I give up and get in the sack after all.

Huh… heads.

Unable to afford vitamin D or biotin or the like at this point, I decided to spend an hour or so sitting on my back porch, in an attempt to absorb the former vitamin the old-fashioned way. I certainly feel better, at least. Maybe nature really is the best antidepressant. I’m not convinced my hair is growing back anymore, and my nails seem to be super brittle now. I’ve chipped two of them in the last 24 hours.

I fell back asleep, and woke up this evening to still nothing important in my inbox.

What do I even do? Email, like, all of the individual people listed in the staff directory? That’s, like… 21 people. It feels kinda rude. I guess I don’t need the EMT, at least… I could even throw my old therapist into the mix, since she’s at least the last mental health professional I talked to…

I decided to flip a coin, again. Heads I email every-fucking-body, tails I… think outside the box, or something. There’s no “killing myself” option this time.

Uhh… heads, again. (I swear I’m flipping these right…)

Okay. I guess I’ll just write a little thing at the end of the message I sent last night, and say that I couldn’t get ahold of anyone at the main address, so now I’m blasting it out.

A while after that, I questioned whether I should actually bother including my old therapist in the email blast. I mean, I could always flip another coin or something… Heads I include Vickie, tails I don’t.

I lost the coin. It bounced off the bed and disappeared into a pile of junk. My house is basically as messy as my life is right now.

I thought about trying again, but… no, that’s what was supposed to happen… The answer is a third way. I can’t start second guessing the universe now…

I’m interpreting this, as that I should include Vickie after failing to get a response in the initial email blast.

Man… I actually want to die at this point. The thing’s all ready downstairs, and I’ve basically just given up on life. If only I could get tails or something… there was a 75% chance that the universe would tell me to kill myself, and I just can’t get the answer I want. Ugh. I’m just gonna start ignoring the coin-flips after too much more of this bullshit…

I just remembered that it’s almost the end of the month, and I can’t afford to pay my phone bill anymore. So presumably, that shit is getting cut off on Saturday. I’d have to find public Wi-Fi somewhere to check my email or even receive calls, and it would certainly be impractical for me to call 911 or a suicide hotline after that point.

Shit, man… this has gotten pretty dark. I should probably do that email blast, like, now or something…

---

I wrote this second email that was sent to nearly two dozen people, and it sat in my Gmail drafts overnight. “This just looks ridiculous”, I thought to myself. I’ve worked in an office before. Everyone’s going to be talking about the crazy tranny who blasted the quasi-suicide note out to everybody but the EMT.

I thought about calling 911, which is apparently the normal way to contact these people, but… I didn’t really want to talk to anyone.

Now that it’s almost 7am, I… kinda feel like I fucked up. Because, I’m going to have to talk to someone very soon, whether I like it or not.

I just sent a message to nearly two dozen .gov email addresses, saying I’m a pothead, and I’m on the verge of suicide, and I’ve repeatedly contemplated politically-motivated self-immolation.

I did more coin-flips, after the most important, and my only, meal of the day.

Did I fuck up by sending that email?

(heads) Goddammit.

I kept thinking of more things to ask.

Am I in legal trouble?

(heads) Goddammit!

Should I get in the orange sack after all?

(tails) Ugh! God-dammit!

Wait… Civil or criminal?

(criminal) Oooohhh, man… Goddammit…

I stared at my laptop screen for a couple minutes, before thinking

Uhh… Am I the plaintiff or the defendant?

(I think I got it backwards, but I interpreted it as ‘plaintiff’ at the time) Huh… okay…

Wait… who’s the defendant?…

I bet I won’t want to do stuff by like 11am, because that’s like… evening time, for me. I’m consuming my last nug that I was saving, because I figure I’ll probably have to use it or lose it. I’ve been pretty happy staying sober and just doing CBD, for what it’s worth.

I’m probably not going to sleep in my own bed tonight. I’m not really ready for that. But I’m out of money. Like, basically all the way out of money. I spent the last of my cash on Bojangles yet again this morning (save for literally two dollars and the change I have in my car and in the jar), and I have $40-something in my bank account.

I’m… not used to this level of destitution. I used to make, like, $100k a year. And, I could probably have been making more than that if I had my shit together, and didn’t take this sketchy detour to do IT work for a few years.

I’m just… not prepared for the cold, clinical psych ward. And, that’s probably exactly where they send you, if you threaten self-immolation and inert gas asphyxiation and admit to using drugs that are illegal in the state of North Carolina. (Does anyone care if you smoke weed in Durham County, though? Last I knew, they really didn’t…)

I probably should’ve called trans lifeline or something instead. I guess I just wanted more than kind words. And, that seems to be all I’ve gotten. That, and people telling me to go work at Food Lion or McDonald’s. Hell; they probably won’t even let me out of the psych ward until they’ve got me applying to Food Lion and McDonald’s, and they aren’t going to let me walk it back and decide to exit bag myself either.

Goddammit, this sucks. I really just need a friend right now, who isn’t a whackadoodle or a right-wing conspiracy theorist or my less-than-helpful mother. I feel like I need to live in a halfway house or something, but I doubt that’ll be my first stop if it’s any stop at all.

Ugh… I wish I could un-send that email. It’s not like anyone’s going to be able to read this today, anyway…

If I’m gonna turn this into a journal, I should probably adapt it into a different format other than a single monolithic document. And, I suppose it isn’t a suicide note anymore, unless I do it like right now, because somebody is definitely going to get involved after I blasted that fucking email out early this morning. Probably, too many people will be getting involved.

I’ve flipped a coin, three times, to ask if I should kill myself. There’s only a 12.5% chance of a random universe consistently responding “no” to this question.

The search space for mastermind is 1,296 possibilities.

I realized I may’ve gotten the plaintiff/defendant flip backwards, so I tried again.

(defendant) Ugh… okay. That’s what I thought…

Civil or criminal?

Uh… civil this time…

Questioning whether my ad-hoc divination technique may be running flat, I have little choice but to wait and see what happens. I’m… pretty nervous. I’m already beginning to regret how I’ve done this.

It’s gonna be colder today, so I’m not as thrilled about trying to absorb more vitamin D outside while I wait for… something bad to happen, probably. Ugh. I’m doing laundry, because I’m kinda behind on that.

---

Well, these two women showed up to my door this morning…

I kept checking my email, but… they weren’t going to respond by email.

They looked really sad and empathetic. Sadder than I am. I had to shift gears a bit. I’m just ready to get this over with.

They kinda just sat down and didn’t say anything. I think that’s a therapy technique I remember reading about a long time ago. I’d probably make a pretentious little Wikipedia link to it if I remembered what it was called. I kinda just assumed they didn’t know much about my deal, which seemed to be the case. Not that I expected them to… I do wish people would just read my thing instead of asking me what happened, because there were a lot of really weird things that happened in 2021 and 2022 that made me believe there really was some conspiracy afoot, and I think even a sane person when exposed to the same conditions would make the same dumb missteps I did.

So they got me to stammer for a couple minutes while I tried to figure out how little they knew, which is the exact opposite of what I wanted to happen after I spent months preparing a very detailed tell-all document about what the fuck happened exactly and how it managed to happen. But I’m not really surprised or anything.

They filled out a form with me, and I came up with Susan, Brittany and Samantha as people I could contact to take my mind off things. I mean, the point is I think I might need different or at least additional friends, but… At least Brittany and Samantha are nice people. I don’t really want to get Susan involved. She always seems to make everything worse.

A coin flip told me I should tell Susan, but… I don’t really want to talk to Susan.

They cut up my exit bag.

I sobbed and asked if there was any help for me. They started looking up area food pantries and shit. Maybe that’s what I need, but it’s not what I want.

They tried to tell me I’d already done the hardest part. But, I know that isn’t true. The hardest part is going to be walking my yuppie ass into a food pantry, like we used to donate to when I did church as a kid. And, I’m not even yuppie aged anymore. But, I was last I knew…

That’s what hurts. The last of my youth passed me by while I chased UFOs. I still don’t know if I’ll have a full head of hair ever again, and I want a goddamn snuggle. I want aftercare snuggles, but I knew better than to expect that kind of treatment. I need to look for a job and a boyfriend, looking like this. My first boyfriend, and maybe still a relatively entry-level job because I’m a rolling stone and I’ve gathered no moss. And, my old friends are definitely nicer than a bunch of truescummy people who are going to insist I’m not really transsexual because of my childhood erotic crossdressing history, but I still don’t know what’s real and true. They seem happy, and we’ve always gotten along. I can’t really say the same for the other side. They seem miserable, and I can find little common ground with them despite desperately wanting to be a girl without having a goddamn hard-on or something since my age was in the single digits. Maybe it’s time for me to move past the trans-anything community. But, I kind of need a support network now, not a couple years from now.

This coin-flip stuff might be bullshit. Though, I couldn’t help but think of what felt like a paradox at the time, but now sort of makes sense.

Did I fuck up by sending that email?

(heads) Goddammit.

Because, I kind of do feel like I fucked up. I probably could’ve gotten the same help by calling a suicide hotline, and I wouldn’t have had to deal with the emotional toll of people with two-way public safety radios making a surprise visit to my house and tearing up my sack.

I had a smoke pretty much right away after they left; and I laid in bed, actually shaking at times. It took me a while to really understand that… the exit bag was one of my ways out. And now I feel trapped, because I have fewer options now. I don’t really feel like I have more options, yet… part of why I wanted to die was that I don’t feel like I can adjust to that “food pantry and soup kitchen” life after all the ups and downs I’ve been through. But, that’s what they’re gonna make me do… And it isn’t like I didn’t expect that. I guess I’m just all coin flips at this point.

They asked if I needed anything else before they left. I didn’t bother to ask for a hug. I really just want some cute boy to snuggle me. But, that’s probably just my “social auto-gyne-andro-philia-phobia” talking. I’m sure somebody’s got some wild hot take about how I’m not really just some broken confused girl-or-something who wants some boy to hold me and make it all better.

I was actually relatively okay with being single before all of this happened. I mean, I knew the clock was ticking, but… now I just feel hopeless.

I flipped another coin, to see if I should really keep going now that I’ve done all of that. Because, I know the hardest part isn’t over yet.

Shit, man. There should be a 93.75% chance that one of these coin flips would’ve told me to kill myself by now. I just can’t get that result.

I can’t keep doing it if I’m at the same crossroads. It’ll break the magic. That’s the answer.

I did a little CBD after my smoke, because I knew the combination would knock me out early. I did some more coin flips early this morning.

• Should I get Bojangles this weekend with the last of my money? Yes.
• Should I get Bojangles today? Yes!
• Should I get Bojangles tomorrow? Nope!
• Should I get more vitamin B12? (I only have three tablets left.) Yes!
• Should I get more vitamin D? Nope!
• Should I get a derma roller for my scalp? Nope!

Dr. Reid suggested the last item for my hair loss all the way back in 2023. So, I obviously feel pretty behind, and I’m already afraid it might be partially permanent.

I was hoping to use the last of my reward points to get a derma roller on Amazon, but it looks like I’m too delinquent at this point. I should’ve done it last month… They’re really cheap. I thought Dr. Reid was full of shit at the time, but it really does seem to be helpful for this type of hair loss.

I need help. I really need help.

• Should I get gas? Yes.
• Should I go before Bojangles? Yes.
• Should I go to Sheetz? Yes.

I got to the edge of the neighborhood before thinking, “oh, come on… if I buy gas and Bojangles, I won’t even be able to spend any more money with my ability to drive!” I turned back, got Bojangles without gas, and now I only have a couple miles left in my tank. (The fuel gauge is really pessimistic, though.)

You people think I’m addicted to marijuana. I’m addicted to Bojangles and Cook-Out.

I’m having trouble transferring the last $20-something out of my savings account; probably because there’s a minimum balance requirement or something. So, I have that much less cash than I thought, unless an ATM will let me do it or something. I’m guessing I’d have to close out my account.

I get that they’re probably not going to give me cash or anything… I’m starting to feel like it’s probably what I need…

I thought about emailing more people.

• Should I email Paul? Yes!
• Should I email Vickie? Yes!

I’m not going to bother giving Paul a safe-for-work version of this. What is he, gonna fire me? I probably can’t even use him as a reference without clarifying what the actual fuck happened to me that led to me quitting without notice. I mean, I don’t know that I’d even recommend myself based on my performance. I should’ve been able to finish this DTS service thing in a few months. It dragged out for over a year, and I didn’t even feel good about it toward the end.

They told me I didn’t need to tell everyone my business, the city people. I’m probably not inclined to follow that advice. I want everyone to know what a dirty little insatiable pervert I’ve been since primary school. It’s probably my auto-exhibition-a-philia flaring up again. Look at how based I am for not insisting that I ought to just be a woman in society…

(I could probably stand to take the saltiness down a notch. People are going to start thinking my wounded narcissistic male ego is lashing out at TERFs and truescum or something…)

This stubborn bald spot on the right side of my head is giving me hella fucking anxiety. Am I always going to have a vertical zigzag missing above my right ear? Sometimes I think it’s growing back thicker again now that I’m back on B12, but… it’s just not growing back fast enough.

I think it’s growing back thicker on the top of my head now, though. I’ve been doing these scalp massages for a few minutes a day. I don’t know that it’s helping yet…

I think I misspoke about my phone getting cut off at the first of the month. I think it’s just past due, and I’m not even sure that Google Fi drops much of a late fee on you.

They’re supposed to contact me later today, the city people. They offered to take me to the mental health urgent care place yesterday, but… I just wasn’t ready. We’re doing that on Monday. I wish someone would just read my thing, but… I get it. It’s really long. It’s just hard to talk about and even explain start to finish without missing important details. Unless I tell people I just went crazy after starting ADHD meds.

---

Well, they did contact me later that day.

I got a phone call late in the afternoon. I had a brief talk with someone at the office, who just wanted to make sure I was alright. Cool. I thought someone might be getting a game plan together for me, but… maybe that’s next. Idk.

I was starting to question whether these were the folks I really needed to have advocating for me, or if they’re really more just first responders who keep you from jumping off a bridge or something. I think it’s more the latter; not that there’s anything wrong with that. I need help for losing my goddamn mind and wrecking my life, not…

I did some more coin flips. This one was a little different. I wanted to ask, first, whether I should kill myself again, and secondly, whether that decision should be predicated on reaching out to even more people first.

Kill yourself… (ooh, boy…)
If you still don’t get adequate help after including more people.

I woke up around 7pm to someone knocking real loud on my door.

(knock knock knock) PUBLIC SAFETY!

I got dressed in a hurry, before deciding… I don’t really want to deal with this right now. They stopped knocking and called my phone, and I explained that I just woke up. It was some fellow named Kirby. I thought he was coming by today, but… okay, whatever. He wanted to make sure I wasn’t about to kill myself, and that I also wasn’t about to harm myself. I mean, I’m not a cutter or anything… I think that’s more of a BPD thing, but I guess they don’t really know my deal unless they’ve read a bunch of stuff, so… whatever.

I had another smoke. I’m really feeding the multitude with the last of it. Eventually, I was woken up again around 1am.

(knock knock knock) DURHAM POLICE!

Oh my god. This is so not what I had in mind when I reached out for suicide support. I might not even want to kill myself if I had options, and nobody’s really giving me options. Maybe I just need to keep going down the rabbit hole. I am getting a little frustrated, though. I’m clearly not getting my snuggle, my fuzzy blankets and hot cocoa, or my self-improvement gigolo this way.

(I didn’t answer the door, in case that wasn’t already obvious.)

This was frustrating enough for me to do yet another coin flip. I told myself the result wouldn’t necessarily be binding… and there’s some psychological element to knowing I’ve had one hell of a streak with asking the universe whether I should kill myself. Yet, I also know that the probability of getting heads in response is always 50/50. That’s just how coins work.

Tails. (sigh)

We’re down to only a couple percent, depending on how you slice it.

I guess I got them involved because I kept telling myself I needed “boots on the ground” help. But, I guess I need “boots on the ground help” with either selling my house for cash now, or some kind of financial assistance, which probably means filling out lots of goddamn forms that are just overwhelming after everything I’ve been through… I used to have a job, a doctor, a therapist, good health insurance, what I thought was an ironclad support network… Now I have none of those things after the lines of communication just got downright confusing… I didn’t think it was possible for this much to come crashing down around me so quickly. But it did, and now there’s no one except for my batshit crazy unhelpful mom. I know I keep saying this over and over again, but… I just need help, and I don’t think my definition of help is really much of anything close to anybody else’s. Fuck.

I need help.

There is none.

I… don’t really want to do this “mental health urgent care” visit thing that we were planning for tomorrow morning. I probably do need to get back into the mental health system… I have a feeling this is not going to be particularly helpful. If someone would read my thing it might be helpful… I’ll probably just have to poorly try and explain how my life fell apart starting in 2021, I’m probably going to just stammer and ramble and not really communicate the details that need to be communicated… I’m not even convinced my mental health is the biggest problem right now. I think at least half of it was my friends and support network. I’m worried I’m likely to get misdiagnosed, or put on meds that don’t really make sense… I might get diagnosed with TBAS by someone who’s all like “Oh, so she’s psychotic and she’s a tranny… I see…”

I wonder if I can just back out of having these people involved. I still have at least a few days of canned food, that is largely out of date, but the beef ravioli I just heated up was pretty good… And they left me with a little bit of food on Friday, but those were mostly just snacks.

I think I misspoke, yet again, about my phone service. It needs to be paid by the 4^th, so… I guess it might get cut off on the 5^th. Ugh.

I don’t even know when the gas and the electricity is going to get cut off. But I didn’t pay it at the end of January, and I didn’t pay it at the end of February.

I started asking questions about who I should contact next. I already got Paul and Vickie from previous coin flips.

• Ben and Barbara? (Yes!)
• My mother? (Nope!) (This one has been a bit ambiguous, because I’ve gotten yes before. I’m probably going to still hold off for now.)
• The Johnsons? Any of them, really. (Nope!)
• Ugh… Tommy again? (Sure!)
• What if I just… email my old church since I don’t want to deal with Susan. (Yeah, why not!)

I managed to fall back asleep after a couple hours. It’s just now 8am.

I wanted to make sure my old IT company was still around, and… they are not. The website is down, the phone is disconnected. The last good snapshot on Wayback Machine is from last summer. So much for that coin flip…

I could still try calling Ben or Barbara on their cell phones, but… I’m less enthusiastic now. I don’t think I have their personal email addresses. Maybe I could look them up on LinkedIn or something…

Am I missing anyone else? God forbid I try and contact Kevin…

• Did I forget anyone? (Nope!)
• Am I fucking up by doing it this way? (Nope!)

The suicide note farewell part

Manic

Goodbye, y’all. The names in this text are mostly anonymized; but I was real. A real human, with an actual fucked up life I never did manage to figure out all these years later. And, I want you to know that. It’ll just be more internet garbage otherwise. I’ve seen a lot of weird shit over the last 20 years of my 34-year-long life, and I don’t think I could rest in peace without sharing it with whoever will listen. Life isn’t about living a long time doing nothing. It’s about making an impact, and standing up for what you know is right. I see a chance to do that today. And, I think I can reach my full potential as a human by doing it, even if it means I’ll die young. I think this is my chance, and I don’t think there’s any other way.

Depressive

Goodbye, y’all. I don’t know what I hope to accomplish by sharing this with people. I’m no hero. I’m no martyr. I just hope you’ll learn something from my life, and treat your children and your friends better than I was. There’s a lot of confusion in the world today, and I don’t feel like anyone’s speaking my language. Not even transgender people. I don’t know what’s been going on around here lately. My life story is just one of the ways humans can be different. I think the advancement of the human race depends on understanding those differences.

As I stumble through my ill-prepared final arrangements, I leave this world with a little bit of wisdom from all throughout the ages. The gods weave my life on this world like a thread on a loom. Jesus will save you if you just ask for forgiveness. Avoid the trip to Venus so Lord Xenu doesn’t keep you here on Earth. Who am I to know what’s right? I feel something on the other side of this thin veil. And, I never thought that would happen. I don’t think this is the end of existence for me. It’s certainly the end of a chapter. As I look at the threads that have woven around me, if by some divine providence, or simply by quantum randomness, I think this might be my time.

Whether I’m on my way to meet God, or perhaps just Apollo and Dionysus, I now feel a sudden calm when I think of my fate. There’s nothing else I could possibly be. I walk the path of countless transsexual men and women before me. And yet, this somehow feels like a road less traveled. I’m not the first of my kind to leave this place because there’s no hope left. I might be the first to leave behind a several hundred-page suicide note.

I regret that I failed to make close friends. I had a complicated high school experience, I had college drinking and smoking buddies I failed to keep up with after I graduated, I guess I made friends in the BDSM community who I didn’t really do much with outside of kink events, I threw myself into the local trans community because I really thought I’d found my people… And it’s all just sand slipping through my fingers. Everything is ephemeral. Nothing lasts forever. Death might be the ultimate realization of this fact of life.

People my age are working on their second marriage. Not trying to build non-superficial friendships for the first time in their lives. I’m very behind in life, and I don’t see any way for me to catch up. Unless that’s something that awaits me in the afterlife. I want to believe; even if I have little reason to.

Most people probably wish they could go to heaven when they die. I struggle to wish for anything more than to wake up on the first day of 9^th grade. I’d make better choices. Choices my mother would scream at me for making. Choices my “friends” would make fun of me for, if I even told them in the first place. I know now that I never had a chance. I feel like church and Susan taught me Go Fish, and I got thrown into a game of poker when I turned 13.

Sometimes I’m sad about this, or just want to scream at anyone else who’ll listen to just help me like I’m a five-year-old or something; but, I’ve mostly just lost the will to live at this point. I’m already dreaming of some greener pasture in the great beyond somewhere. A boyfriend to hold me tight as I quietly sob into his chest about all of this bullshit that’s happened to me… friends who actually love and understand me… a normal body, and a normal life. I have little else comforting to cling to. If this universe is as ordered as I’ve come to believe it is, there’s bound to be some kinder world out there somewhere.