I’ve just had the pleasure of reading three interesting pieces of discourse.

First up, Alyson Escalante’s 2016 piece “Gender Nihilism: An Anti-Manifesto”. There is very little about this I have to disagree with.

Then, her own 2018 response to that work, “Beyond Negativity: What Comes After Gender Nihilism?”. On the one hand, pushing for a more material analysis is excellent, though I feel like all the work is actually done here by Wittig and this merely restates it

On the other hand, what on earth is this ending? It reads just like any other wishy-washy proclamation, missing only a communism,-now!.88x31.gif to slap on your homepage in solidarity. This anti-anti-manifesto is decidedly a manifesto.

The comments, however, conceal a banger which I nearly missed. “blister” (@destroysound) starts, and then wow, they continue. I don’t trust Medium to continue existing for that much longer — or even the Wayback machine (which Medium very carefully tries to break :) love it) — so I’m reproducing it here in its entirety.

There is very little about this I have to disagree with.

12 years today.

Rheumatologist was distracted and not really listening. He had nothing new to offer at first, but after it was clear I wasn’t game for “what if we try more anti-inflammatories” round III, he suggested a ketamine infusion to try to reset my nerves. I don’t like the idea of a hospital stay but, y’know what? Fuck it, we ball. Consult with the anaesthetologist in four weeks. If nothing else I get to eat hot chip.

Qué sorpresa, the tricyclic’s side-effects ended up prohibitive even on minimum dose; seven weeks was the mark for “increase again and start reducing duloxetine, or abort”, and I have chosen abort. No end in sight for night sweating. Getting a hold of my psychiatrist again to see what his bag of tricks might hold.

Time skips along. I am unsure how I feel about the impressions I leave on this world; unsure about most things. The rise of LLMs at this particular juncture has been really depressing; I am starting to lose my patience to deal with their insertion in my life in any context. The next time someone at work suggests running something through ChatGPT I might just take the rest of the day/week/month off. A good chunk of my industry has fallen for the bait. I was already having trouble taking other people seriously, in general, as a concept. Now I have to deal with them coming off as less interesting than the automata they coo over. Please, tell me about your productivity gains. Tell me about the vibes. Tell me. I am listening.

There are a few things I am able to feel sure about, one of which is this: trans rights are human rights. I don’t run any analytics and don’t often think about my reach, but I have some, don’t I?

May we find the liberation, friendship, and family we deserve. May we become ourselves, unfettered by shame. May our arrows find their mark.

Those who oppose our right to peace, self-determination, and a life worth living, entirely on our own terms – may you eat shit and die.

The previous post is a message to myself, so I don’t need to justify it. But I’ll justify it here for anyone else:

These are the experiences of my gender I always wanted but never had. Like anything you identify with, there are these moments where you realise that you’re experiencing some fundamental part of that identity which makes you feel like you’re really a part of it. And for me, this is part of it.

You know what’s an awesome combination for a summer’s night?

Lying on your bed with your skirt down to your knees, stripy socks keeping your legs comfortable (and hair hidden!), liking who you are and how you feel.

Lots of love,

Not Afraid To Say Things Just As They Are

I have an issue which maybe will one day not be so dire.

Advance warning: I’m talking about sex, and specifically my behaviours regarding it, so you may regard part of this as “TMI”. Reader discretion is advised.

As you may know, my (wider) moods are largely dictated by cyclothymia, a mood disorder which shares a spectrum with bipolar. I didn’t really realise fully myself my own nature until I came to live with my friend, Alex. He’d heard about my problems for years prior to then, but once we were living together, regularly going for walks together, he started to tell me more and more about the patterns he was seeing.

I’ve certainly come a long way since then, in terms of managing my behaviour. That’s not to say I let the label define me, but nonetheless I take certain precautions when I understand that my mood is taking a turn (for no other reason that it wants to—and that is the frustrating thing), and usually my life isn’t taken apart by myself once I start to come back up.

Unfortunately, sexual drive is nearly impossible to regulate, as I’m messed up no matter what mood I’m in. As in any depressive state, I have nearly zero interest in sex when I’m in a down period. The thought never enters my mind, and if raised by my partner, it feels (to me) like she’s talking about something that’s just not installed. The concept makes sense, but actually doing anything like that? On reflection, it seems crazy just how asexual I feel. I guess I didn’t really realise that could happen to me, until I realise it does, all the time (eg. now!).

Of course, when I’m up, it’s a different thing, and it’s even more problematic. I don’t experience mania per se, but something like that watered down. Correspondingly, my sex drive increases. So too do my hormone levels (or my awareness thereof). So, too does my feeling of acute dysphoria. I know exactly how I’d like my body to feel, to myself, and it feels in so many ways the polar opposite. Disgusting is a word I rarely have need to use seriously, but I really do feel that way about myself at these times, because of my sex drive.

And thus it occurs that it’s really hard for me to enjoy what should otherwise be a nice way to bond with my partner, and sometimes difficult to live with myself.

A little bit of confusion seems to exist around what gender identity disorder (GID) is. As label-avoidant as I am, this is one that seems to be here to stay.

Recently, a few people have (accidentally?) made clear how they feel about it—or at least, what they think it is—which has been an interesting experience.

One person (who’s known about me identifying as at least gender dysphoric since I was 8 years old¹ or so) said, “but so what does [your wife] think about all this?”, and it turned out that the assumption was that, seeing as I married a girl, and am now a father, it means that I must have acceded to the role as a husband² and father by taking on my biologically conferred masculinity with open arms and .. I don’t know, doing something very manly with it. Crushing it under my bicep? Or something.

Another was encouraging of my writing web log³ posts on the topic if it helped me fix the problem sooner; this again seemed an interesting way to view the “issue”.

I guess my point in writing this now is to say that I don’t think this is something that necessarily will have a close. I wrote a letter to my mother to tell her about my feelings in ’05 or ’06:

I am a girl.

Here is the severity of what I feel: just writing that gives me an inner release, something that I could never have felt before. Just seeing that which I have written, right there, displaying it so plainly for anyone to see; it gives me a feeling of inner peace. Here’s Chloe⁴ on my lap; I’ll whisper it into her ear: Chloe, I’m a girl like you.

I feel gender dysphoria: like the (physical) sex assigned to me does not correspond to my (mental) gender. I can’t think of how many times people have told me that I’m effeminate, but that’s exactly the way that I feel on the inside, if not much, much stronger. It makes me feel uncomfortable to have this mismatch, and it’s been getting much, much worse.

That bit above about seven years wasn’t exactly true; a white lie. The first time I thought about girls in this way; not the way that pubescent boys think about them, or the ways that most typical teenagers, either; the way that I wanted to actually be one, and mingle with them, and be accepted as a peer, was ten years ago; 1996, prep. I can recall not much from my early days of school; but the strong feeling that something wasn’t right is something I can.

In 1999, in grade four, all of seven years ago, I distinctly remember thinking to myself; I wish I was a girl … The way I want to act around other people is the opposite of how I’m supposed to, and (almost) every day feels jarring as a result.

Yay, teenaged me! This was right in the middle of a long-ish letter I wrote to my mother (after a lot of text trying to outline that I was being serious), and I suppose that was a turning point: for the first time I actually discussed gender issues with.. anyone, really, and happily, it was with someone who would take the time to understand me and help me with it.

Twice, I nearly went down the road of actually transitioning physically. To date, I’m still not sure if I regret not following through. Had I done so, I’m sure I’d probably have the same lack of certainty about what I’d done. Damned if I do; damned if I don’t. All I can do is cater one way, or cater another. More ambiguity? Maybe.

So. More of that.

Some “aha” moments reading s.e. smith’s “Beyond the Binary: What to Wear, What to Wear”. Quoting:

One way to degender clothing is to see more inclusion of femme nonbinary people on sites dedicated to nonbinary fashion and identity. To celebrate femme transgender people and to showcase us in all our glory instead of hiding us away and telling us we don’t belong. For masculine genderqueer people to wear dresses when they feel like it instead of being afraid to do so because they worry about the messages it might send. To see more people who might be read on the surface as ‘male’ in skirts and dresses, heels and pearls, with fabulous hair, this would be a good thing that would break people out of the belief that the only way to do nonbinary ‘right’ is to do it in a masculine way, with men’s clothing, with breasts bound.

Clothing is such a complicated thing, and it is so coded and layered with meaning, that we can become quite snarled and tangled in it. Every now and then I convince myself that I should be wearing more clothes designed for men and I go and try some on and look dreadful, because they aren’t cut for my body, and I end up resenting my body, instead of the society that makes me feel like my body is wrong. Or the clothing manufacturers who cut clothing in very specific and limited ways. Or the community that makes it impossible for tailored clothing for queer folks to really be an option; there are places I could go in San Francisco to find clothing that will fit mybody, but I can’t find that clothing here because the stores that might be willing to stock it couldn’t sell enough of it to justify the expense.

I’m not too sure where I can say I fit into the gender spectrum; part of the reason, I suspect, is that I’m a bit shy to the terms “transgender” and more specifically, “transsexual.” It’s not a lack of willingness to accede to what it means to be TS, but instead underlying feelings of doubt and .. shame? I had a chance to start a transition in earnest years ago, and I gave it up! I’m married (to a cissexual woman) in a traditional nuclear family! How could I possibly be a girl? You’re kidding right?

In turn, I say: “oh, boy, i guess you’re right.” And then I sulk away and try to forget it all ’til I next find myself sliding off into despair somewhere and realise I can’t just ignore this.

Short on time, but in closing: how nice to wear a dress!

Firstly: golly, GNOME software can be bad sometimes. Like, bad. Surely there’s some curses-based WordPress client that’s not so bad? Usability is not simple, but it ain’t rocket science either. Guess you can’t use Linux and want usability too, though, because this talk inevitably cues the “if you want it, make (or pay for) it!” debate. Sadface!

I just tried a terminal (no curses!) program, and it sucked too. Well, that’s life.

Now for a quote to sum up the last week.

I experience gender dysphoria. I experience, often, active hatred of my body. I look at it in the mirror and I sneer at it and want to tear it apart; I spend much of my time, actually, avoiding mirrors, glancing only to make sure that no tags are sticking out and my tie is on straight. I do not recognise the person in the mirror, the face that stares back at me. It looks wrong because it doesn’t feel like my body, and because people tell me over and over again that this body is wrong.

Source: Beyond the Binary: Body Image — this ain’t livin’.

I’m still trying to negotiate “calm acceptance of what is” with “persistent emotional response”. Part of me tells me that this is something that can be overcome; but is it the feeling of dysphoria that needs to be overcome, or the inertia against setting (my) reality in line with my mind?

とは？

今日、同僚（あるいは友達）のブログを一飲みで読んでる。この人も私も性同一性障害にどうにか煩う。それで少なくともこの痛みは私だけの問題だわけじゃないかわかるのはできる。

g.i.d.について書こう。

私は男で生まれた。このようで生めれたいと私に言われなかったけどそう起こった。

八歳の時、それが違うと始めてわかってた。その日からずっと一緒に歩いてきた。

一回以上一口で（女に）トランスしたがってたけど、やっぱりしてしまうのはいやだ。女じゃないから。だが女と及ばないから男と及ぶわけは全然全然ない。ほんとうはもう少しニュアンスあり。

オフィスで、開発者の同僚は二人で男の人。最近ムービーやゲームとかのモデルが持ってきた。机以上にした。多数ははやっぱり女のモデル。おっぱい大きすぎて、気持ちわるいもん。しょうがないね。

オーダない考えなんだったわ。これからもアンネリと申します。よろしく。

… is?

I’m reading a friend’s blog in a single go today; we both suffer from gender identity disorder in one way or another. With this, at least I can know that this pain isn’t just my problem.

I’ll write about G.I.D.

I was born (physically) male. I didn’t say I wanted to be born this way; it just happened. At 8 years old, I started to realise that it wasn’t right, and since that day I’ve walked hand in hand with that knowledge ’til today.

More than once I’ve wanted to transition (to being female), but in the end I’ve not carried through with the process. Maybe it’s because I’m not female, but not being able to be addressed as female doesn’t mean that I’m male, at all. The truth is a bit more nuanced than that.

At my office, I’ve two male coworkers. Lately they’ve come into some models from movies and games, placing them on their desks, the majority of which are female models; big-breasted and in bad taste. Can’t be helped, right?

These have been unordered thoughts. I’m Anneli from hereon. Nice to meet you.