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…
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.
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?
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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…
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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.
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?
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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).
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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.
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.
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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:
By yourself or with the help of others – it’s all up to you! ❤
I live a pretty boring life. Most of my life I live through reading. I read almost all the time. It’s a great way to experience different things, without having to do anything. Without having to spend money I don’t have. Without becoming a victim for my social anxiety. Without having to really live.
But it’s a terrible way to live life. Because I don’t really experience anything. I don’t do anything. I don’t live. I hide away and ignore.
I don’t want to live a boring life. I have a lot of things I want to do. The thing I want to do soon, is travel to London and stay there 3-4 weeks. And I want to do this alone – or at least mostly alone, wouldn’t complain if someone I know is there only a few days too – because I want to enjoy it my way. By walking around and do nothing. By being able to make up my mind as I go. And at the same time, live, experience and make to most out of the trip. If possible I’d like to do this next year. But I don’t really think I’ll be able to do that, since I don’t have an income that allows for me to save money.
So, I live a boring life. But my life hasn’t really been boring, if you see to things I’ve been through (though I haven’t been through anything if you compare to others, but I try to not compare myself or my life with others). I’ve lived through being bullied, being sexually taken advantage of by my uncle, depression, moving far away by myself several times, being practically homeless, lost one of the most wonderful people I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing, coming out as transgender, and in over the years I’ve found a great community, rekindled a dwindled friendship, made great new friends, become stronger and developed as a person. And I’m currently working on my transition.
I might not have lived through big events or changes, or had an eventful life if you compare to some or if you look at the lives people live in books and movies. But I’ve been through both good and bad stuff, and if I were to write it all down, I might see that I’ve had an eventful life – even if it’s been smaller events. And I’m young still. So I’ll probably live through a lot more good and bad stuff.
My life feels boring, it feels like nothing ever happens and like I don’t even live sometimes, but if I really think about it? My life’s not really boring, it might be in a slump at the moment, but that’ll change. I’ll just have to do my best and work through it in the meantime. And look forward to the time when I actually can do the things I really want to do.
Until then, I need to learn to enjoy the lazy days and to let go of the pressure to find a job and to do this and that. Even as unemployed, I have the right to not think about it all the time. I have the right to do things, no matter how small, without feeling guilty or stressed over it. And it’s also alright for me not to have the energy to do things, or to not have the money to do things. I have my reading. And I have friends who understand my situation. I can live a boring life at the moment.
I just need to understand that boring isn’t necessary bad. And a day spent reading, doesn’t equal boring either. It is what I make it. And if I want to make my boring life less boring through reading, then that is what I’ll do.
I believe I’m in denial (partly, at least) about having to go to the gynecologist on Tuesday. I don’t think about it, and pretend it’s not going to happen. But whenever I consciously think about it, I get anxious and have the feeling of oncoming panic in my chest, throat and head. I really, really don’t want to go there. I don’t want anyone to touch my genitals – I got enough of that shit as a child! But I don’t have a choice. And that sucks! Big time!
I mean. why do I have to? Why do transguys have to visit the gynecologist, when other guys don’t have to? It should at least be optional – as it is for females! But no, we have to! At least where I live, I can’t speak for the rest of the world, but quite frankly, I don’t care about the rest of the world right now.
I’m panicking and just want it to be Wednesday now. That way, I’ll already be done with it, and hopefully will never have to do it again!
(originally posted at my old, and misbehaving, blog and was posted on May 16, 2015)
May 19:th I’m having my first ever visit to a gynecologist. Yes, I’m still a man, but since I’m transgender and pre-op (I’m actually going through my gender investigation right now), I have to do this. It’s a part of the investigation before I’ll be permitted to rectify my gender. I’m nervous as hell. I get serious anxiety whenever I think about the upcoming visit there. And I’m hoping that writing it down, will settle the fear some.
The reason I’m terrified of this visit isn’t because I’m transgender. And it has nothing to do with me being asexual and having no interest with sex and never having been sexually active. It partly has to do with me not being comfortable being naked (or partly naked) around people, much less strangers.
It has pretty much everything to do with the fact that I was molested as a child. By my uncle. That I still have contact with and see a few times a year – though I’ve made it a habit to never be alone around him anymore.
I don’t remember the exact number of occasions, but it happened more than once, and at least three-four times over a span of a few years.
Sometimes he used to watch me and my siblings when my parents weren’t home, or be staying the night after a night of drinking, since we lived closer to the city centre than he did. It were mostly during these times that he came into my bedroom after I’d fallen asleep. The usual thing for him to do, was to pull out his own dick and put my hands on it – some time he put it against my lips. Some times he let his own hand travel into my underwear.
How do I know this?
I wasn’t always asleep. I sometimes woke up as he came into the room, or maybe I hadn’t even had time to fall asleep – I don’t remember exactly, I was after all only around 7-10 years old (making it around 20 years ago). I never made it clear that I was awake. I was too afraid, nervous, small…
I learned to “move around in my sleep” in a way that made it harder for him. I would curl into myself and turn around so my back was towards him. I didn’t know what else to do.
The only time (that I remember) he did something when I was awake, was when I visited him one day. I used to give him foot massages. This time he said he’d give me a body massage back. He started with my back, from top to bottom, or the other way around, I don’t remember. Then I was to turn around. And he did the same thing on my front. Including the breast area and the genitals. All outside the clothes. Afterwards, he gave me some money and told me that this was between us, that I’m not to tell anyone else. And I didn’t.
I didn’t tell anyone about any of it. Not until a few years back, when I couldn’t manage life without feeling bad all the time, or without reoccuring nightmares all the time.
It might not sound like much, might not seem like such a big deal – it’s not like I was raped or anything – but it affected my whole life. It still affects me, even though I’ve worked on it and actually can write/talk about it now.
Now I have to go to a gynecologist. For the first time. And hopefully the last. People have said that it’s not a big deal (they don’t know about my background). That it’s over quickly. This doesn’t help me. I’m still terrified. And I don’t even know the gender of my gynecologist – I believe I’ll have an easier time with a female one – because the name is foreign for me and I can’t tell from it. So I’ll have to wait until my appointment to find out. This does not help my anxiety over the matter.
I really would like to cancel the appointment, but I need to do it. And it’s better to get it over with, rather than prolonging the inevitable.
But I don’t know what to do, to make it as easy as possible for myself. If you have any advice, I’ll gladly listen. Most valued would be advice from people that’s been through similar situations, and really can understand my feelings.
So far it hasn’t really helped any to write this down. I think I need to talk (or chat) about it, for it to help. But the only persons I have that I could talk about this with, doesn’t know about the molestation – one of them probably have a general idea that I’ve been through something negative in the sexual sense, but I haven’t felt like telling them all of it. So I’m in a bind. I don’t want to tell any of them right now either. It’s enough to worry about the appointment, I don’t want to worry about how to tell someone the rest of it too.
I have nothing more to write right now. I might try to write more about this closer to the date, to see if it helps then.
(originally posted at my old, and misbehaving, blog and was posted on May 7, 2015)