All posts by tearsnotweakness

I fear

I fear if I were to look inside myself, would listen to, acknowledge, my emotions, that I wouldn’t find myself in a good place right now…



I have a crush.

I’ve had it for quite some time now, but didn’t become fully aware of it until a few months back.

I won’t be doing anything with or about it. I won’t try to persue anything, won’t tell them or anybody else about it. I won’t deny it either, try to eliminate the feelings or dwell on it really. It won’t affect my behaviour against them, and I’m not disillusioned into reading stuff into their behaviour against me.

I won’t even waste time daydreaming about what won’t happen anyway.

And I know nothing will come of the crush, not only because I’m sure they do not see me as more than I friend – which I’m totally fine with, I’ll gladly stay their friend forever, no expectations, demands, bad feelings or buts around it.

No, I know nothing will come of it because I have no real desire for there to be anything else between us than friendship.

They’re hurting and going through a rough time right now, and I’ve never really allowed myself to dig deep enough in my own mind to heal from my past.

I doubt I’ll make a good partner – a lot because of my “refusal” to heal properly. I don’t know if I’d be able to give the positive, the realness, the love, a lasting relationship needs. I have trouble feeling if I actually, really even feel love for my cats – and if I logically “feel” that I do, I still don’t feel it in my heart. As far as I can tell.

I’m not sure I know how love feels.

And I do not listen to my heart – every emotion has their origin in the brain anyway.

And this mentality wouldn’t be fair to a potential partner.

No, I think I’ll keep my crush to myself. It’s a nice feeling to have for a wonderful person, anyway, no need to make a big thing out of it ❤

Tired, but not

I’m constantly tired, but seldom feel like sleeping.

I almost always out of energy, but can’t stand not doing anything.

I’m constantly doing stuff, but feel like I never get anything done.

A lot of my time I long to spend time with people, want to have them around me, but I don’t want my space to be invaded.

I wish I could be two of me at once, but I can hardly handle being one.

It wasn’t love

Read a post from a friend just a moment ago – read plenty around the same subject these weeks – that brought me closer to an anxiety/panic attack than I’ve been for a long time.

“No. You never loved me. Not even a little. Love is meant to stop everything you did.” (somewhat paraphrased)

It hit really close to home. It made me think. Made me aware of my every breath, every blink of the eye, every heartbeat. It made me think.

I’ve questioned my own ability to love, to really feel and live my emotions. I’ve questioned how a person can do what he did, and if I’ll ever truly, deeply will trust someone close to me again. But I’ve never thought about his feelings for me…

I still have the “knowledge” etched in my brain that close family loves you – I don’t trust their love, I can’t really feel it, but of course that’s true, everybody knows that. Right?

But that can’t be true. Can it?

My friend’s correct; you don’t really love the ones you do this, or other shit, to. And if you still insist you do, your idea of love is too warped for this world.
How the hell can you destroy a person; their soul, the very core of their being; and still love them? It speaks about the opposite of love. It speaks of disregard, of your pleasure over their, our, my life!

I admire my friend, for their strenght and courage to be open about their past, their struggles and hopefully their recovery. I wish I had the courage to be completely open about mine, the strenght to perhaps confront him about it – but I don’t. I’m still more stuck in the damage it might cause those around me, than the damage it has and does cause me not to tell.

Most of all though, I think I wish it never happened. Or at least that I was still suppressing it. But it scares me to think about what kind of person I would be today without the background I have. Or just what kind of person (or mess really) I would be if I never recovered any memory of the abuse.

(And I think that’s the first time I’ve ever used the word abuse for it – but I guess it actually is a kind of abuse I’ve been through. Though I do not want to write more about that right now, because my heart gets stuck in my throat with that word.)

I guess he didn’t really love me. Not the way love is supposed to be, at least. But if he didn’t love me, what emotion made him act like he did? What emotions possessed him during those moments? What did he really feel for me? For his brother’s child?
Makes me wonder what he feels about me today, 20+ years later. Though I shouldn’t wonder about that. It doesn’t matter.

What matters is how I feel about him. And about me.

I have no clear idea about the first part of that. It’s muddled. Mixed. Complicated.

The second part I only get more and more sure about over time. And I like me, even most of my flaws.


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.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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! ❤


I started my hormone treatment in August 2015 – got my first injection of testosterone August 26 to be exact. Thereafter I got an injection every 12th week.

I was lucky – very lucky, I’d say – in the sense that my menstruation/period decided to leave me alone right after that. And it stayed away too, I never had any trouble in that area. Until now…

Took some blood samples at the beginning of this year – as ordered by my doctor, to check that the treatment doesn’t mess with anything. A few (one?) values was a bit higher than recommended, so my doctor thought I should try taking the next two injections every 14th week instead – the next injection then landing in week 17, instead of week 15 – and then I’ll take new blood samples before the second injection (that’s week 31).

Something in their paperwork ended up wrong though, so I got information for taking new samples during week 21 – and a scheduled phone time with my doctor a week later (June 2) – instead of before week 31. I didn’t get any helpful answer when I tried to contact them about this, so I went and took the tests and talked to my doctor. Which I’m glad for right now, since it saved me the trouble of trying to get a time to talk to him about my new problem.

Five days ago (three days before the phone call with my doctor), I started to feel weird and I couldn’t figure out why – I wasn’t sick, so what was going on?

My stomach was slightly upset, bubbly if you will, my acne was worse, my back hurt without reason, and I had to go to the bathroom all the time and switch underwear too often (or try to clean/dry them with paper during work, when I didn’t have extra underwear available). Thursday night it hit me. I knew what was wrong.

My period’s back. These days I’ve been menstruating – with all it entails, except the blood. And I mean all; I need to use pads, because I’m leaking whatever that’s usually mixed with the blood during a period. And yesterday and today, the cramps decided to join the party too…

So, it’s good I got to talk to my doctor. I’m going back to taking my injections every 12th week again – so next time is week 29 – and before the second injection from now, I’ll be taking new blood samples.

Unfortunately, this probably means I’ll be having my period again in about a month – and if the injection doesn’t work miracles, I run the risk of having it at the end of July, beginning of August too (which would be really annoying since that’s the only time durint the summer I have plans to be away a few days).

So, I’m not the happiest person right now. I’m nearing two years on hormone treatment and haven’t had any mestruation problems, until now. All because my doctor thought it’d be a good idea to try switching up my injection schedule.

Am I allowed?

Am I allowed to be not completely satisfied?

I finally had my mastectomy – just a week and a half ago – and I oscillate between being thrilled and being not-quite-satisfied. And the second feeling usually leads to feelings of guilt and anxiety.

I couldn’t be happier about having had my mastectomy – and I’ll get another visit with my surgeon in a few months, during which we’ll see if there’s anything more that needs to be done, like e. g. liposuction. But I can’t help not being completely satisfied yet, even though I know I should give it more time before I make a final judgement. I’m still healing – my chest is yellow and blue, and it’s still a bit swollen. I’m not sure how much is swelling that will go down as the healing proceeds.


As it looks right now, I’m not completely satisfied. I still have boobs. They may be tiny, especially compared to before, but it’s still boobs. I don’t want boobs. Not even small ones. I want to be able to wear a tight shirt, or no shirt, without feeling self-concious about boobs I shouldn’t have.

And yes, I know. Not all guys have flat chests. Most people have some padding (or whatever you want to call it). But trust me, this is not padding. This is boobs. And I’m skinny. I’m the underweight kind of skinny. So even small boobs – that might be small enough to just be natural padding on some people – will not feel, or look, like padding on me. It will look like small boobs. I’m feminine-looking enough that people won’t even question it. They’ll probably just see a regular girl with small boobs.

“Why care what other people think?”

I try not to. And a lot of times, I don’t. But it’s not only about what other people thinks. It’s about what I think and, more importantly, what I feel. And if I don’t feel right, if I feel that my chest is more boobs than just a chest, that will affect my confidence around other people. And when your confidence is playing against you, it’s hard as hell not caring what other people think.

It’s hard going against the norm when it comes to a thing like gender – most people grow up with the notion that you don’t need more than to look at a person to know their gender. And it’s exhausting to find the courage to correct people all the time – most exhausting is to correct those you see on regular basis, like co-workers. It’s not easier if you’re not satisfied with your own body, on top of that.

If your body doesn’t conform to the norm and you’re satisfied and happy with that, I couldn’t be happier for you!

I don’t care how somebody else’s body looks, no matter gender or non-gender. But I care about how my body looks in relation to how I feel it should look. And I’m not talking about whether it’s fit, healthy and with good skin, and the like – believe me, I couldn’t care less about calories, lotions etc – I’m talking about body parts.

I need my body parts to make sense to me. And boobs does not make sense on me, they’re unnecessary, in the way and just useless blobs of fat. I’m in no hurry to even make a decision regarding whether or not I want genital surgery – that’s not an area anybody else has any business being – but my boobs I’ve wanted to get rid of since my teens. (I’m close to 30 now, so it’s been a while.)

But I’m seriously nor sure I’m actually allowed to feel not-quite-satisfied-yet – I’m not unsatisfied, far from it, and I definitely don’t regret anything, and I know it might look different in a few weeks time. Not everyone gets the opportunity to even do a mastectomy, despite wanting to. And I’ve gotten no negative comments on my decision to do it, not from friends, family or work. I’ve been away from my work almost two weeks now, without problems, because of the surgery. I’ve gotten a lot of positive words and feelings from friends, family and work, during and after the surgery. A friend travelled to me and helped around my place the first few days after the surgery. Everything’s gone pretty smoothly over-all during and since the surgery.

So I should be satisfied.

I should feel satisfied just with having had it done.

I should at least feel satisfied with all this until the healing is done, and then see if I’m not-quite-satisfied.

But I can’t put the feelings off. I can’t help feeling them. I don’t want to feel anything but happy and satisfied right now. But I can’t help it.

It’s hard to have patience and not feel too much too soon, when it comes to major points in your life.

Hopefully it becomes less and less boobs as the swelling goes down. The dream is that it won’t look at all like boobs, and just like a chest, when the swelling’s disappeared – but I’m not counting on it. I don’t believe in that kind of luck.

Well, I’ll stop complaining now and go back to trying to stay on the happy side of things.

Have a nice weekend, everyone!

We’re all individuals!

I think there’s a huge misconception about trans* and ace people (including, but not limited to, asexuals, aromantics, demisexuals…) out in the world – despite more and more people trying to educate the masses, and more people being willing to listen. There’s still too many out there that think they know more than they do about individual, or all, trans* and/or ace persons. They know the “reason” behind why trans* and/or ace people are the way they are. It’s obviously because they’ve been raped or sexually assaulted in some way earlier in life…

I’m a transguy. I’m also ace, asexual to be exact. And I actually suffer from childhood trauma of the sexual kind – I wasn’t raped, but I was used in ways a child never should be used. It happened on several occassions, over a span of a few years, more exactly from around my seventh living year until I was around ten years old. I’ve written shortly about it in an earlier post (Dreaded appointment) and I have plans to write at least one other entry focused on it, when I feel mentally strong enough.

So, I have the kind of background that many believe is the norm for trans* and/or ace persons: sexual trauma.

But just because I am a transguy with trauma, doesn’t mean every other trans*person has a similar background!

But just because I am ace with trauma. doesn’t mean every other ace person has a similar background!

And my trauma isn't the reason for my gender or my sexual orientation!

Sure my childhood, and therein the unwanted sexual attention, has a lot to do with who I am today as a person. The trauma is probably the biggest reason for my social anxiety and my near-fear of body contact with other people.

And I can’t know if it’s had any impact on my feelings when it comes to gender and sexuality – but I know it’s not the reason behind my gender or my sexuality! Even if I can’t prove it or be sure of what kind of person I would be today without my experiences.

And if I can’t know for sure which impact the trauma has had on me, then you as an outsider sure as hell can’t know either. And this applies for every other trans* and/or ace person out there too – as an outsider you can’t possibly know more about them, their gender or their sexuality than they do themselves.

So just stop assuming things. Not everybody has the same kind of background. And one’s background – trauma or no trauma – isn’t up for discussion or there to be used to “explain” or “excuse” a trait of a person that differs from your norm.

I’m done for now. Have a nice weekend everyone!

Special day cancelled

Today was supposed to be a special, wonderful, scary day. But it didn’t go as planned.

I was supposed to finally have my mastectomy – but the hospital called on Friday last week and rescheduled it. Because they don’t have enough beds.

Sure, I only have to wait until March for my new time, but it’s still annoying. And it’s definitely affected my mood these days.

The weekend didn’t really help either – I went to visit my family (parents, siblings, nephews, the-like) – and spent most of the weekend being misgendered and dead-named.

Well, I can’t say the whole weekend was bad, because it wasn’t. I had fun with them to – played games among other things and we celebrated my little sister having finished her studies becoming a teacher – and I met up with a couple of close friends.

Enough about the weekend. It’s not really important. Or relevant. I just don’t like thinking about the cancellation to much, since it gets my mood very much down. But at the same time, I need to get it out of my system. I don’t like bothering my friends over and over with the same thing. And I don’t seem to be able to get stuff out with just talking and complaining about it. I need to write it down. And I need to start utilizing this blog more for that purpose. It’s not always as helpful as I’d like it to be to just write for and to myself. Here I can write for and to myself, and at the same time writing for and to whoever feels like reading.


I was supposed to get rid of the bothersome clumps of fat called breasts today. But now I have to wait for March to get rid of them. So I have over a month to agonize and worry about them rescheduling again. Yay…

I spent most of last week’s evenings sewing a few new shirt to use after the operation – since I probably won’t find it too comfortable pulling a shirt over my head for a while afterwards. I’m pretty happy with them and looked forward to using them. But now that have to wait. Technically I could still use them, but they’re made for no breast so using them now would mean; tight over the chest and breast too visible. So not a comfortable option.

Well, I’m going to spend the rest of the evening watching shows and ignoring my sadness as much as possible.

Hopefully you’re all having a greater night/day/week than I am.

Good night!