Remembering Our Fallen Trans Family

Tonight was the beginning of the Transgendered Right of Ancestor Elevation.

Today was also my testosterone shot.

Tonight I carefully made sure of my materials, my words, and then I showered. I showered physically and did more than a little spiritual cleansing. I grounded and centered. I shaved, so I would be smooth faced as I walked into this rite. I washed my hands, loaded up my syringe, and pumped testosterone into my body. It went in smooth, none leaked, no blood spilled. I felt my dead with me then.

My injections are weekly, and after almost five years I am remarkably bad at them. I have always injected myself. Initially, I had no problem. But these days, I usually bleed. I try not to bleed all over my bathroom floor, but it's my floor so I worry less than I would have when I did not live alone. I bleed, and they hurt. Not all the T gets into me.

Tonight's shot was not lined up perfectly, but it went smoothly. No blood. No minor seepage of my testosterone oil to wipe up even. Nothing. My dead were with me, celebrating in the glory of my injection.

I gathered things together, a white cloth for the alter cloth. A fabulous purple, sequined cloth from a lesbian wedding to go with it. A white candle I had on hand for ancestor work. Handmade incense to carry my words. Matches. A large cool glass of clean water.

The first night of elevation, and I was overwhelmed. Eight more glorious nights of specific attention. Of remembering. Of love and touch. Of comfort. Of carrying their tears and anger.

Hail to all those Fallen Trans Dead. May you drink deep. May you never thirst. May you find what you seek, and know that you are remembered. We miss you. Hail to our Fallen.

Weirdly Out of Options

It's interesting how something that is a serious problem and a massive inconvenience can also benefit my life.

For lack of anything better to do, I've been "forced" to meditate, ground and center every single night the last few nights before I go to bed. I know I should do this anyways. It's really helpful, I fall asleep faster, and sleep better when I do all three shortly before bed. As someone with serious sleeping problems (it's been called disordered before), anything that helps is a boon. Yet, for some reason, these three things are massively difficult to force myself into. And it is forcing. Sometimes violently forcing myself to do things.

It's partly a matter of focus. Getting myself to sit down and just do it can be almost an insurmountable task. There's an extent to which if you don't have ADD/ADHD, you don't get it. You don't get how massively painful it is to force oneself to do something that you can't seem to focus on. It isn't even a question of wanting. There are things I genuinely enjoy, but can hardly bring myself to do because the forcing, it hurts. Literally hurts. If my hyper focus decides that it won't chose a certain activity, then that activity is not on the list of things I can easily do.

It isn't about my mind not being able to calm down. It isn't even just fidgeting too much. It's getting up and doing the most random shit before I even realize "Oh yeah, I was going to ground and center." It's being halfway through getting out the eggs before I realize I was going to meditate, not cook. It's jittery, excitability, movement and racing thoughts, even when I'm so tired I can barely move.

Except right now I have nothing else to do.

No cooking, no logging onto my computer, no texting or calling, nothing. I can't even read or write after about 11 at the moment. Well, not without extreme visual difficulty.

There isn't anything else to get up and do so eventually, I'm able to force myself to meditate. Eventually, I ground and center. And then I meditate some more. Because I finally have the focus, the time, and the space for it. So, I do my offerings, and I take my time. I find ways to stay up and fuck up my sleep still, yet...

This way the meditations are done. I am grounded and centered. And despite the anxiety inducing disaster that has forced this weird time upon me, despite the literal anxiety attack consuming my evening, I am doing better because of it.

Maybe when things work out (and I get a new place to live), I can continue with my meditating. Maybe then it won't take as much forcing, because of this time when there isn't anything else. Sometimes, being out of options is the best option.

E is for Expressing Emotion

Oh, I wrote my previous E and D posts. They just never made it up onto this blog. Either written in my journal or in "unfinished" posts, they were done enough for me but not enough for public. Except all three were done in a manner that I eventually decided wasn't meant for public, that the need was to write them at all. 

Also, in case this wasn't clear. I'm trans, FAAB, and will refer to my youth as a girl and my present existence that isn't binary.

I hate crying in public. Not to say I haven't ever shed tears in public, after all, how would I realize I hated it if I had no experience with it? I hate crying in public but I've certainly done my share of it. Hell, I spent my last semester of high school crying almost every day through class. Or before class. Or after. Yeah, lot of tears then. A lot of tears that summer too. Tears from stress, tears from pain, and especially tears of heartbreak.

I never used to cry in movies. I was one of three girls in my seventh grade class who didn't cry when we were taken to see a (truly bad) movie that involved some pretty gruesome and depressing deaths. I just found the movie tedious and badly done. I never cried at/in a movie until I was 18. And that movie I went to see alone. Opening night, I sat in the theater, surrounded by strangers, glad that no one I knew could look over in the dark and see the tears on my cheeks. Outside of the movies, I cried far too easily. I cried when people yelled. Not because of any particular emotional response actually, just a side-effect of the way I grew up. Despite being good at handling pain and fear, they still made me cry. And tears made me feel weak.

I don't cry much anymore.

Tears don't come to my eyes. They haven't in the last three plus years since I started testosterone. My emotions express themselves without tears falling from my eyes and it is a massive relief. Pain can lace my face, fear or hurt lining my eyes without a tear falling. Shaking, trembling, shouting, whispering, I can chose my preferred methods of expression. Excepting movies.

At first, I thought it was just that the Star Trek reboot movie happened to have incredibly powerful emotional associations (to events that some of my closest friends are still coping with PTSD over.) Until I realized that the tears sprang to my eyes and my throat closed up at more and more movies. Films done right induce massive swells of emotion. Music and lighting can evoke so much, even when I don't give a shit about the characters. Maybe it's the bombast, or the sudden silence startling you into the realization of how much something has gone wrong... but movies bring tears to my eyes all the damn time.

Each time my throat closes up, each time my eyes start leaking, it hurts. It doesn't hurt in the sense that I'm in emotional pain and this is some of that pain leaking out, it hurts in that I am out of control.

Every tear is an ordeal.

I cannot control it. I do not always understand it. I am stripped of control and the masks I have so carefully constructed. I am stripped of defense and the armor of pleasant amusement that I have cultivated as my default expression. I am at a loss as to why I'm crying. I'm not brought to tears from a powerful scene exactly. It isn't the gut wrenching, knife twisting, moments that tend to do it. I'm just as likely to cry at a overly bombastic ridiculous action sequence as a class Joss Whedon tear-your-heart-out-and-chop-because-he-lives-on-the-tears-of-his-fans moment.

Every tear is an ordeal.

It may be witnessed if I'm watching something in public. It may be a private ordeal, alone in my room before I fall asleep. I cannot let the moment rest. I can't let it just be. And maybe that's why it keeps happening. I cannot let it rest until I understand, and I have yet to understand it. Maybe I'm supposed to be learning a lesson and failing.

Every tear is an ordeal.

One that I don't understand. I don't know what I'm supposed to be learning. Maybe even just to be more open and expressive. Maybe to let things be. I don't know. And, maybe there is no point. It isn't that I'm insisting that this comes from Someone. That this is because of Something. That this ordeal must be caused by the Universe for some purpose. I can learn something without all of that.

Not every ordeal is set up for you, not every ordeal is expected. Not everything is a path set before you, sometimes you trip and fall on your face, and end up breaking three ribs. Those random accidents, those genuine coincidences? Those can be ordeal too. The difference is in how you look at them. So, I chose this path.

I chose to make each tear an ordeal.

The alternative is for it to mean nothing. I've been an existentialist for longer than I can remember. The fact is, in the long run, none of it matters. Which is why all of it matters to me. Every tear, every tremor of my body, every coursing stream of self-hatred I feel as another tear slides down my cheek is of meaning to me. I inscribe each tear into my body and mind. I ask why. I search for meaning, for cause.

And so far, I've failed this ordeal. And that is okay too.

Just Do It (Pagan Blog Project)

Perseverance. Endurance. Dedication. Persistence. Diligence.

Basically, Dory had it right. I have to Just Keep Swimming (okay, I'm ignoring my utter dislike for actual swimming and/or being submerged in water because Dory is wonderful.) Motivation is not, and probably never will be, my strong suit. Nor is/will be joy. But I need to push through regardless.

Just do it. Like this blog entry for the PBP. Almost a week late, but hey, I'm doing it. And in my world that really matters. As does pretty much everything I do with my spirituality... both that my spirituality matters and also that it gets done. Just, that I do it. Even if it is late. A day, week, gods even a year late, it still gets done. Timing is not my virtue, but eventually I will get to it. Getting it done matters. Sometimes I have to do shit that I really don't want to do. Like stay up the extra half hour for an offering and meditation because I made the commitment. Like call someone who despises me because they are family and diagnosed with cancer.

There are days when getting out of bed to shower is a massive achievement, and leaving my apartment is unthinkable. If I'm lucky, I have enough food around the place to feed myself on these days. There are days when I'm on top of the world, starting my morning with push ups, running around all day, working, socializing, and no one has any clue what's going on. It varies that much. So, pushing through and "just doing it" even when I don't want to, have no interest in it, and would possibly rather fall out of existence than do it is a skill that is very important in my life. Not excelling at it, but it is there and I'm working on it.

It isn't glamorous and revelatory. Progress doesn't show up particularly quickly. Actually, it can be incredibly boring, which for an inattentive ADD creature like myself can be doom. But just getting it done, even if the intent is less than it could or should be, is still very important. There can be lessons learn through endurance. Maybe just that you can in fact make it through. Maybe you'll discover that this dreary task that was under the category of "just do it" because you were dreading the boredom turns out to be engaging and fulfilling. Maybe it doesn't, maybe you drag your feet and someone else is disappointed that you gave less than your best. Know what? Disappointment for less than one's best is still better than the anger and disappointment that comes from not having finished it at all. And when it is spirits and/or deities expressing that displeasure at having not even tried, well life will quickly get very unpleasant.

Even beyond the unpleasantness externally induced by spirits, deities and other beings, there is a lot of harm in not doing. There is shame, there is guilt, but more than that there is a profound absence of anything worthwhile.

So, maybe this entry is short, but it exists. So, maybe I know I've done less meditation than I should, but I haven't given up. So, maybe I need more diligence and patience, but I keep pushing myself through failure anyway.