My main feeling is indifference. I’m just very good at faking everything else – I even fool myself.

So, if you think my feelings of, for example, gratefulness doesn’t feel quite right, it’s because they aren’t. If you’ve done something for me or given me a gift, I’m grateful. I really am. I just have trouble sincerely showing the actual feelings, even for myself. They’re hiding in the far back of my mind – along with most of my other feelings – I know they’re there; I can feel the shadow of their existence. I just can’t get them out.

So I fake it.

And when it gets too crowded amongst the real feelings, they push out – mostly in the form of tears and sadness. Even in situations that should elicit positive feelings.

It’s like all the things I should feel for real at all times gets crammed into a small storage in the far back, constantly building up over time. Cramming ontop of the feelings already residing there, pressing them together. Until the once on the bottom, the once farthest back, gets crammed into an unrecognisable mush. And as yet another feeling tries to hide itself away and fit into the storage , the mush gets pushed further down; leaking, seeping out through cracks on the floor – leading to them getting forcibly leaked to the front of my mind.
And since it’s just a mush of who-knows-what, my brain interpret it as sadness and tears.

All this – the faking and the mush – makes it hard to know what’s real and what’s not sometimes.

This is not to say I don’t feel things like real happiness. I just believe I don’t feel the full aspect of those feelings – if the original feeling is strong enough, not all of it tries to hide away. Some of it actually takes a peak at the front, while the rest presses onto the mush. Which ends up me feeling sad and tears streaming, even when I feel happy.

It gets quite confusing some moments. Other times, I do not feel like caring. I go back to my default. Indifference.



I know #Metoo is created for women – they’re after all the most afflicted group when it comes to sexual harassment and worse – but since I’ve been gendered female for most of my life and my experiences are from that period of my life, I’m going to share my story too.

I wasn’t going to do a #Metoo-update, I’m not sure I’m actually ready for people I know to be aware of my past to this extent. But I’m doing it anyway – and I’ve made a short status on my facebook, with a link to this update, available to only some of friends there. Because I’m definitely not ready for any of my family or relatives to see this. And I doubt I’ll ever be.
So to those that know me: if you for some reason, any reason, feel like sharing this post or this blog with others, do it in a way that it can’t be directly connected to me (unless I’ve given permission for a connection). Do not mention me in context with this or share my original facebook-status (though I doubt that’s even possible). I hope you respect that I don’t want this to reach my family.

The big question now is: how do I begin? Where do I begin? I can’t really begin at the beginning. I’m not sure myself where that is. And I know I’ve written about some of this earlier on this blog, it’s the very reason for its existence. So I guess I’ll somewhat be repeating myself, but I don’t care.

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During my early school years I was betrayed by one of those closest to me. I was molested over an unknown period of time. By my uncle.

I can’t tell you if it started when I was 6, 7 or 8 – I’ve suppressed most of it – but it was a recurring event for a few years. Until I was around 10-11 and moved city.

He would come inte my bedroom during nights he was staying at our place, when he thought I was asleep – and I don’t know, maybe I was for a lot of time, probably for the first time/s. He would put his hands on me. Touch my genetalia. And he’d take his cock out and put my hand on and around it. It even happened that he’d touch the tip of it against my lips.

I soon developed a strategy for the nights I woke up to this – I was not brave enough to show that I was awake, but I still wanted it to stop. I pretended to move around a lot in my sleep. I moved my hands around and under myself, so he couldn’t grab them. Moved around so I ended up on my side turned away from him. Curled inte myself. Made as little as possible of myself available.

I was not brave enough to tell anybody about this, so it continued like this for a few years.

One time when I was visiting him alone – I don’t remember if it was just for the day or if it was overnight – I was massaging his feet and shoulders. Nothing unusual. This time though he suggested he’d return the favor. Except he’d give me a fullbody massage. I wasn’t really interested, but didn’t know how to turn it down. So I ended up stomach-down on the carpet, with him massaging me from my neck down to my feet. Not missing a spot. Thereafter it was time for my front, so I turned so I was on my back instead. He started with my face and massaged downwards. Once again not missing a spot.
When he got to my legs he first made sure to quickly massage between them, before moving on down. I was already uncomfortable and that did not make it better. Afterwards he took out his wallet, gave me some money and basically said “We don’t have to tell anybody else about this, right? Let’s keep it between us.” That made me feel really uncomfortable. Wrong. But what could I do? I put on a smile and pretended everything was normal. I’m just a kid, of course I didn’t notice the wrongness of the situation. Right?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I still see him. Talk with him. Laugh with him. Pretend like nothing. Never alone though. I do not trust him anymore. I’m still scared around him. Even after having turned 30. I’m terrified of my uncle. Even after 20+ years. And I think this is the first time I’ve put that feeling into actual words.

My uncle is probably the one in my family that I have the most in common with. He’s the one I’ve always talked poems, books, writing, movies etc. with. The that’s always shown the most interest in my writing. That always have, and still do, believe in me. He’s always supported me, encouraged me. He’s the one I’ve borrowed money of during down periods. He’s taught me different games. Introduced me to whiskey – the one alcoholic beverage I really like.
He’s always been a big part, a close part, in my family. He’s always been a big part in my life. And we used to be close. But then he betrayed my trust. Destroyed me. Broke my soul. Probably broke my heart. But I don’t listen to my heart. I don’t trust my heart. I don’t know if I believe in the feelings that sooner or later leads to heartbreak.

Until a few years ago I suffered from PTSD because of this. I got rid of that diagnose before I began my transition – which i good since I probably would have had a harder time to convince them to let me transition with PTSD. I do not believe I’m completely rid of my PTSD yet. I’m pretty sure it’s still a part of my life. And probably will continue to be if I don’t resume contact with a therapist, and this time actually allow myself to open up. But I’m good at faking my way through stuff…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I don’t let people too close to me. I don’t believe in happy endings. I’m always tense and have my guard up. Whether I’m around other people or not. I do not relax around strangers. I do not fully relax around those I know. I do not count on others. I do not expect to be trusted, because I do not fully trust. I can’t allow myself to trust completely, the betrayal only gets bigger with trust.

I have issues because of my childhood.

It’s hard working through them. It’s hard to let go of the past. And I wouldn’t wish this on anybody else.

I sometimes get the thoughts “it could’ve been worse. I could’ve been raped.” “It could’ve gone on even longer.” “I could’ve accidently told somebody…”

The last part I struggle a lot with. Why would it have been worse if I told somebody? It might have put a stop to it. It might have saved me a lot of scars.

It might have torn apart my family.

Would it be worth it?

It would drag everybody else into it. It would be word against word. It would forever destroy my relationship with my uncle.

But was it not, is it not, already destroyed? Yes.

But as long as I pretend otherwise, I’m the only one who know that. The only one affected by it.

Which is messed up!

I shouldn’t have to punish myself for my uncle’s crime. I shouldn’t have to feel guilty about our strained relationship – I shouldn’t have to blame myself for not having put a stop to it.

I was a kid.

Not even close to a teenager.

A kid.

It wasn’t my fault it happened. It wasn’t my fault it didn’t stop. A kid should not have to carry the burden of others’ sins. A kid should not have the have the courage to stand up to an adult. A kid should not have to have the strenght to live with an adult’s bad decisions. The adult should know better. My uncle should’ve known better than to put his hands, his cock, on his brother’s child!

It wasn’t my fault.

I was a kid.

It was not my fault.

It’s still not my fault.

I do not have the strenght to confront my uncle. I do not have the strenght to let this be known to my family.

Why couldn’t somebody just notice something? Why couldn’t another adult notice that something was wrong? Was he that good at hiding? Was I that good at pretending?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I’ve had to deal with other things too, mostly during my teens. Guys that think an experimental kiss means they can grab boobs and more, that it’s meant to lead to more. Guys that think talking to them is an invitation to groping, and thereafter sex.

Though in that regard I guess I’ve been lucky, because I’ve never had any problem stopping other guys, both telling and showing that it’s enough.

I’ve also had my fair share of guys that’s refused to belive me when I – after being asked – say I’m a virgin. “But you’re x years old.” “You’re lying.”
I’ve been told they can “help” me fix that. That I don’t know what I’m missing. “How do I know I won’t like it if I don’t try?” That it’s probably because I’m too ugly, so nobody wanted to have sex with me – like how much other guys desire me, is more worth than my own wishes and wants with my own body.

Strangers have groped me in school. Catcalled after me.

One guy, a stranger, during the beginning of my transition, started talking to me and a guy friend of mine. After some time the relationship between us came up, and when the stranger found out we’re just friends his tone changes. It’s revealed that he “didn’t hit on me because he thought my friend was my boyfriend”. So not only did he misgender me, he only let me be because he thought another guy already had a claim on me.

But I can ignore and deal with all that stuff – it doesn’t face me, didn’t face, really. Not enough to make a big impact. I guess that’s a “positive” side effect of being stuck with childhood trauma. Not much else can reach the same level.

But it’s all bad stuff, of course. And my story doesn’t invalidate anybody else’s story. Just as anybody else’s story doesn’t invalidate mine (even though it’s hard not to compare and trivialize one’s own story – I do it all the time).

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

My wish today is that people talk to their kids. Tell them what to do if anything ever happens to them. Who to talk to – it’s often easier to talk to somebody besides one’s immediate family. That it’s not their fault. No matter what or who it pertains. Tell them that it doesn’t matter if it’s a stranger, a relative or a friend – it’s never okay, it’s never their fault. They do not have to keep quiet. A potentially torn apart family is worth it if they’re safe – and it’s not their fault. It’s the offender’s fault. Always.


But that’s easy to say. It’s far harder to live by, if you’re the child.

I have very mixed feelings about my uncle today. He’s family, and you’re supposed to like, love, your family. And he’s still the one I have the most in common with. And I like playing games with him. I like having somebody to talk about books, poems, poets, writing etc. with.

But I’m afraid of him. I avoid being alone with him. I didn’t accept his friend request on facebook. I have a hard time answering messages from him. A hard time calling him. I think I hate him. But you’re not supposed to hate family. But I should be allowed to hate him.

It’s hard.

Every time I think about this part of myself, I detach myself from my feelings. I think I’d be crushed otherwise. I’d end up crying, hugging myself in a corner. And I do not want that.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

This is my #MeToo-story – at least the major basics of it.

Now I’m back to trying to be strong for myself. Everybody else:

Keep strong!

By yourself or with the help of others – it’s all up to you! ❤