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10:11 p.m. - 08/10/03
time passes; I add another brick to the wall.
I'm going to stop checking my reference page if I don't start having some *good* google searches again soon. There was one long ago regarding "what angels eat and drink", and there have - for whatever reason - been quite a few over the months hitting the words "trannygirl" or "trannyboy." Lately, all coolness has fallen into pain. I like knowing that, even if they're searching for pain, it's not necessarily what they find when they click to come here. Shannon said the most beautiful thing a few days ago...about the pain in atomgirl, and the progress in chord. She said that atoms without chord is scary, but atoms with chord is inspiring. I've felt too wrecked to believe in my ability to inspire, but with all these girls telling me such kind and gentle things, I may end up believing it again. I'm looking forward to the day when my life finds a pace that's comfortable again. I can't even say what these past few weeks have been. I'm frightened of the doctor tomorrow, of what he said about how the ability to cry somewhere or with someone suggests a feeling of safety. I've cried so little this week, and felt the need to so often, and I'm scared about breaking down again tomorrow. It's not like it will throw him at all...I just don't like how intense this all is. I'd like to have a way to calm the feelings...other than feeling them, of course.

Not. gonna. happen.

I've been trying to go out as often as possible. I've been in public several of the past days, something I can rarely say. My most active weeks, I generally leave my reclusiveness one or possibly two days. I've lost count of how many times I've gone out, and I know that probably seems like it's a good thing, but I'm getting more freaked out as it continues. I feel like I have to take a break or I'm going to break myself. I (barely) knew a woman once who (had agoraphobia and) used to compensate for going out by restricting before and after... I'm scared that this "I have to take a break" is less like being kind to myself and more a form of making up with my disorder. Of re-entering it, even. I do need introvert time, but nearly everyone in the world interacts with other people every day, and the days they don't are exceptional...not the other way around. Given my tendency for depression in isolation, it's important that I follow that example. I think I'm just freaked because today and yesterday, my anxiety just exploded (and I'd taken meds) while we were out, so that things were really, seriously difficult. And when I realized that tomorrow isn't a "down" day - a day without interaction - I freaked. Amid all the "back to school" craziness, I think I've been thrown into thinking that this Sunday that doesn't lead into a "relaxed" (i.e. socialization-free) Monday means I'm going back to school. I've been having nightmares about Neverland... I woke up yesterday with my heart pounding, and the day before I jolted awake by smacking into an invisible wall in my dream. Fun...

I seem to have gotten off track with my optimism. Erm, let's see if I can find my way back into it.

I just had a very weird experience with my mom. I was watching cartoons, after having fallen into a dead sleep when we arrived home, and she came in during a commercial when I had stumbled onto a movie. (The Object of My Affection.) She seemed a little hooked by the movie, so I switched shows to watch the last hour. It has Paul Rudd, after all, and I had the pleasure of meeting Paul Rudd after seeing him in "The Shape of Things." (When I was in New York for YPI.) Coming in halfway through, at least, the movie was terrible. I mentioned that the writing was horrible; my mom suggested that no one had written it. Characters' lives magically better themselves without any reason. Character in bad situation refuses to recognize why they are in bad situation, and ta-da!, gets out of it. Roll credits. So, ok, I felt affirmed as a writer, which annoys me. (If I can write something better than this script, it should not have been given a million dollar budget and theater space. But that's just the frustration talking.) The weird thing is more related to my mom than the movie.

About halfway through the hour we watched, it went to commercial, and I started talking about what an amazing play "The Shape of Things" was, and how we did a Q and A with the cast, and how Paul Rudd was really fabulous in it, and so forth...I talked about the experience of just not really believing I was actually doing what I was (something that went on often during the week or so I spent hobnobbing with the bigwigs) and she said in a dreamy-teenager voice, "You're just so talented and cute and everything; I can't believe this!"

...Um...if everything inside me was on shelves, that moment would have been me trying to look copacetic as everything toppled slightly. Everything fell down a notch or two. I tried to play it cool and said something like, "No, it wasn't that. It was just that he did a really amazing job, and it was so incredible to have the opportunity to talk to him about it." Internally, the little housemaids were skittering about attempting to restore order, and this booming voice was going, "And why did that seem so weird? Hmm? Because you're 'asexual'? Ha." I remembered this one time a few years ago when I was seriously into Ally McBeal - it was during the Robert Downey, Jr. days and I think I was in love with the way their characters related; it was also during the Billy phase in my life, which was wonderful and fell apart almost entirely in sync with the show. Anyway, at one point a few years ago, I started talking about Ally McBeal yet again, and my mom said something about how you can only go on "how totally cute Robert Downey, Jr is for so long." After this movie ended she said something about the premise of "a guy so hot that gay men and straight women are both falling for him" and I was just completed floored. I wanted to stop her just then and be like, "Um, Mom? I don't know what my sexual orientation is. And I know I'm a teenage girl, but it doesn't even occur to me as I watch this that this actor is cute. I don't know that I've ever called any actor 'hot' in my entire life...and it's not why I'm watching this movie. Even in part." Basically, I wanted to come out as questioning, something that's been itching at the surface of me for awhile, restrained by the following facts: 1) There would be some similar fall-out to coming out as gay. 2) If I end up understanding that I'm straight, they'll minimize this period as "just a phase." 3) If I give them any fuel on the possibly-gay front, I'm going to end up back in the ever-so enjoyable position of fighting to protect my reality. That's the whole problem actually. I really, really don't want to further complicate my life by having to fight them on points like "the confusion over sexuality and the possibility of being gay are *not* why I got sick" et cetera. It's so anoying because on the one hand it seems like the perfect solution; I wouldn't have to watch my steps so carefully. I could relax a little and not worry what they'll read into my discussion of this author, actress, comedian, book, movie, song, so on and so forth until I can't keep track anymore. I'm just nervous that it means exchanging those worries for the ones that come with giving my family information that says, "I might be different from you." Differentiation equals rejection, remember? And I can't imagine they'd hate me...but then...they make those homophobic jokes.

Not really homophobic. More like judgmental. More assholish than ignorant. Godd, why did I go into this? Now it's just all over my mind again, and you know I needed something else to think about... Hey, look; I forgot about the divorce for a whole two minutes.

On that front...my dad stopped by Thursday to see me, and it went really poorly. I was seriously depressed, and although he kept saying otherwise, he didn't look well either. I pushed for him to see the doc again, which fell flat as always. He can't seem to put together that right after he tells me there's no need, he stares off into space, sighs a bit angrily and says, "I got a letter from Mom's lawyer yesterday. I can't believe she's going through with it." Because that's what you say to your daughter. That's what you share with your *daughter*. And the thing is, he's so fragile that I'm afraid to even call him on it. I mean, if I call him on it, I don't think it will stop. He'll be (more) hurt and (more) worried that he's not doing a good job with me. And what's he going to do? He's not going to see the doc. He'll probably say he can't afford it, which may very well be true, though I guarantee the doctor would work with him regardless of money problems...and he won't work to make it happen, which leaves him talking to - no one. Because he doesn't have friends...not truly. He doesn't talk about feeling anything, ever. So the people who would be there for him can't be. Because he has no idea how to speak up for what he's feeling, what he needs.

I guess I had to pick that up somewhere... which is not to say I blame my dad for it or believe that he's wholly responsible. I don't. At all. I'd like to be able to yell at him, though. I'd like to know he's strong enough and certain enough that I love him to handle my yelling. And my mom - even though she's a bit more able to endure me right now (because she's leaning on friends, in therapy, and being told constantly that this is about how I feel, not about her...even by me...I'll be the first to admit - though maybe not when I'm screaming at her - that the last thing I want is for her to be damaged by what I say. I need her strong enough that I can keep saying it. Same from my dad. Just once I want them to be taken care of well enough that I can be a rotten, confused adolescent who has horrible outbursts and throws tantrums and slams doors and yells things she doesn't mean... It's not fair, having to stay quiet. It's not fair of them to be so frail, and it's not fair of me to pretend that's grounds to keep from sharing how I feel.

I defended my reality (in better news) probably the most firmly that I ever have, yesterday. With the exception, possibly, of the "Rogers is home" doctrine that I've had to protect so vigilantly. It was the very beginning of my post-hilarium meltdown; my brother Joe was discussing attending a high school reunion. I asked if he'd do me the favor of beating up a former teacher, and my mom started saying again and again how she hadn't known about the (abuse, essentially) that was going on, at the time, and I said she did. "I didn't." "Yes, you did." "I didn't." "You did. I told you." "I didn't." "You did. Maybe you didn't know, maybe it never sunk in, but I did tell you." Just like I told you I was suicidally depressed. Just like I told you I needed help. Just like all those other things you managed to forget.

She conceded, though. She heard the threat in my voice and saw my eyes flashing, and she agreed that I must have told her. I couldn't have it any other way. Not last night, not about that. I couldn't be told for the millionth time that - if I'd just spoken up when I was in such pain, I could have had an easier time...when I *did* speak up. I really did. Just like that damn general pricktitioner who said, "Do you think you're maybe in a little more pain than you've let on?" No. I don't. I think I'm in more pain than anyone else is willing to admit.

And I don't know why this is important right now...maybe because I'm in such a painful spot with my parents, again...but it's just surfacing for me. And I won't stand to hear she didn't know. She is not the school guidance counselor who used my desperate trust to slap me hard. I've been failed too many times by too many people, and all I'm asking of her is to tell me she could have done differently. Not to feel guilty, not to punish herself, but to take responsibility for the situation. To say she knew, and didn't want to. To say she knew, and tried to forget.

...I've been rereading the point in atomgirl when this all started and I need to cry now. I don't know if I can, but I would like to summon that. ...I've come a long way and I have the feelings, means of accessing them, ways to be quite safe. I just don't have the safe place and the people, other than that one (or really, one to two) hour(s) a week. Which is tomorrow. Therefore I should go to bed and sleep.

I'm glad I'm getting better. The things that are hard suck truly...but none of this life-pain is worse than the illness-pain. None of this hurts so hopelessly as before.

chord

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