Topic: Of the accepted, proven, certain 196 genders...
The Witch Doctor !6W1Zpe4MCM started this discussion 9 years ago #62,844
...which are you?
brie !kGoudaMCFA joined in and replied with this 9 years ago, 3 minutes later[^] [v] #788,950
penis-haver
Catherine !TGirlYJKXM joined in and replied with this 9 years ago, 2 minutes later, 6 minutes after the original post[^] [v] #788,951
Woman.
The Witch Doctor !6W1Zpe4MCM (OP) replied with this 9 years ago, 3 minutes later, 9 minutes after the original post[^] [v] #788,952
McWalker™ joined in and replied with this 9 years ago, 8 minutes later, 18 minutes after the original post[^] [v] #788,955
McLover
Catherine !TGirlYJKXM replied with this 9 years ago, 12 minutes later, 30 minutes after the original post[^] [v] #788,958
kook !!OPZbEQMT1 joined in and replied with this 9 years ago, 48 minutes later, 1 hour after the original post[^] [v] #788,962
Dogwoman
Z !!CQHwQtG/0 joined in and replied with this 9 years ago, 3 minutes later, 1 hour after the original post[^] [v] #788,963
The Witch Doctor !6W1Zpe4MCM (OP) replied with this 9 years ago, 52 minutes later, 2 hours after the original post[^] [v] #788,972
The Witch Doctor !6W1Zpe4MCM (OP) double-posted this 9 years ago, 15 seconds later, 2 hours after the original post[^] [v] #788,973
Haselgrove !MLHqI35Srs joined in and replied with this 9 years ago, 41 minutes later, 2 hours after the original post[^] [v] #788,992
Speaking of it chronologically is far more useful in my instance as it certainly was wavering, to which extent I don't deny; I'm highly suspicious of never-neverland "I've been transsexual since age 3" types, though I can, even in people I dislike, conceive of it to be beleivable in certain cases:
1991-2004: To the best of my knowledge, I took for granted that I was a cisgender male (mostly, with occasional swings to crossgender identification in mostly fantasy/play settings; that's a lot more people than there actually are trannies).
2004-2007: I start privately questioning my gender under the influence of some of the earliest TG-activism materials (well, pre-tumblr as opposed to 'very earliest') online. Some of those did involve vague pornographic influences. To deal with this usurpation of my conception of identity in an uprooting from the seams (I mean by this usurping, not me deliberately), I deal with it by stating of my sexuality that I was ace, with the implicit assumption conveyed that I also lacked a gender identity full-stop (I internalized the rote-automatic robota stereotypes of autism most strongly at this stage, whilst still being insidiously affected on a level by outward feminine influences in life).
2007-2008: I kind of break down under the pressure partially of being unable to reconcile the public representation of my gender and sexuality (a cold, unfeeling, physically masculine robot devoid of sex) with my privately reconceptualized one (which was taking on an increasingly female mode and started even developing bi-philic sexual undertones).
I don't come close to consciously acknowledging it except to my mother, and, for all intents and purposes, neglect mention in a dismissal of it as a continuation of previous stages where similar problems occurred.
late-2008/early-2009-2011: The internalization is effectively complete. I, for all intents and purposes, consider myself basically female. But, for the sake of maintaining appearances, grasp tenaciously under pressure to appease others my male exo-identity. I announce this fact to immediate family members but, partially their own imposed limitation, partially my reluctance, I'm reluctant to enact upon it fully.
This is when the first referral to a GIC is filed by my GP.
mid-2011-2014: I fail, under persuasion by a trolling acquaintance, to meet the obligation of a GIC appointment: Overcompensation begins. Under the influence of friends accrued in the trolling crews, I'm emboldened to act more masculinely and present myself as such, again for appeasement. Further is this perpetuated in part by a partner (yes, the same Emma Quigley) who, although privately accepting and understanding of my real predicament, refuses to really acknowledge it, even going so far as to take the literal advice of a friend of hers who dismisses it as a "fetish" (when infantilist undertones are mentioned, this seems to be the immediately conflated dismissal by anyone, whether it be this person, Cuntster or whomever: they can't extricate the two properly). I'm eager to take this further still in 2012 when finally ridding myself of this social circle, inspired somewhat by a genuine desire to improve wholesale physical fitness also; I take up weight-lifting and some cardiovascular training. (It will have been the first time I took exercise to this level in my entire life, and in truth, never thought I would entertain this ever in my childhood years).
My sex-drive does increase in a masculine direction. I remain hopeful this is the death of any feminine internality (really, I wish people could see that I wasn't consciously being trans; nobody really wants this). To my creeping and stinging unfortunacy, it really wasn't. My sexuality takes an interesting shift, however: my attraction shifts significantly away from women (barely attracted to them as I was), to men (which I grow in my fervour for), under testosteronic influences, which I think was partially mediated by estrogenic influences as, being fat, it converts thereas.
In truth, I always had little stages where I liked "the cawk" on a fetishistic level, from ages 13-16, and then again briefly in my very late teens, mostly as a form of petty humiliation (such that the only act I'd ever privately entertain in fantasy was fellatio and seminophagia). But this took a far different level; I was able to relate to the masculinity of such cock on a romantic level for the first time (I'm overusing the word 'level', I'm sorry; I'm writing this on zopiclone). This had further reinforcement of the best fit for me personally on how I should do this, and so feminine undertones resolve, growing in intensity, until it finally dawns upon me that I am, for all intents and purposes, a submissive, camp homosexual male, although I'm not out about it.
But this would be to miss the point. The conception of myself as male is deliberately contrived or rather, just lazily acquiesced I guess you could say, but in a more latently effeminate way, I was more than willing to accept it. I get into masculinism during this period, resentful and deeply hurt by feminism's demonizing portrayal of men. David Chac then imparts neuro-hypermasculine pride, which I begin to embody.
It's a really difficult and intense period for me, having undergone so many rejections: John Thomson of the CQMP (Contempo-Quarternary Marxist Party), whom we had met through ScottishSocialist1's circlejerk, was someone for whom I sought prospecive acquaintance. In retrospect, I wasn't sure if he took as a faceitious joke my badly phrased faux-proposition to him on the couch at Occupy's secret Edinburgh hide-out whilst I was mildly tippled. Still, that friendship ended particularly harshly; he had threatened petty litigatory action for what was essentially nothing (the misplacement of a few hundred pounds worth of items, advised to us by a community police officer that I wasn't actually outwith my bounds to do so), leaving me completely torn at the core of how trustworthily I could consider the world.
That remains, for quite a good few years... It's hurtful to know that of everyone, only David actually believes and entrusts your every word, and similarly, can you his.
This trust becomes the basis for a deep romance starting around May 2012 when his mother died and he was finally socio-economically liberated, which was recognizably homosexual male at first; certainly, however, still a secret. There was no insipid talk of "submissivenes" or "domineering" parties as with Walter, who seemed to be convinced of their gender-conferred significance. We deeply relate and connect over our resentment of maternal social control, and the fears and neuroses these had imparted us. That he believed the autist was capable of something far more emotionally grand than the crassly reductionist screeds of Cuntster (known to us in different ways at the time, more generally a radical feminist academic espoused notion, typically) was enthralling, exuberating, and refreshing. I felt reborn under the embrace of his guidance.
Under growing intensification of pressure to reconcile intrinsically feminine nature with an overtly masculine one, I fall to a deeply distressed duress, and so I do something quite simple: I did phrase a bunch of things in a mixture of anecdotal and hypothetical ways to engage his potential interest in somebody who was trans-female, and he showed no contention with the proposal. It was in about November 2012 that I spill fully my feelings in this regard to him privately. In this one specific setting, I'm transgender female, in the eyes of someone individually, for the first time.
I'll skip past the traumatic experiences of the various dramas entailed in my relationship with David, ultimately underpinning upon the promise to bring me to America to realise these feelings, informing him of my awareness that MtF transgender autistics are seen as "non-existent" here, and, that if I dared so much as try to present publicly as one, they (my AI Edinburgh tard 'wranglers) would've most certainly pathologized it through forced incarceration.
The relationship tragically falls through; in an incredibly distressing suicide gesture involving a misdose of diphenhydramine which sends me on a psychotic episode re-invoking some of the daemons I had with respect to identity, seeing caricatures of transsexual-activists admonishing me (and conversationally, these were quite vivid experiences; they spoke perfect English grammar in precisely feminine intonations and everything, proving my mind not to be a waddle of pretension) for my open transphobia under the Autphag persona, and so on, I end up sitting on the ground, simply wanting to die in the freezing cold.
I'm saved, and although appreciative of it at the time, I regret it.
2014: The mental hospital at St. John's is extremely pathological to such notions on the second and third occasions of that year in which I end up attending. I make unclear the full extent of my problems, simply speaking of a spiritual "death" (which I'd meant far more figuratively than they'd interpreted), and of some of my other qualities compared to the autistic pabulum usually dealt with by them, which go unacknowledged and ignored. One conversation between myself at a nurse in Huntlyburn emerges on the desk of a chattering gaggle of NHS psychiatric scum; well-earned, considering how they spoke about it. This incites the sort of suspicions about the futility of persuading the NHS as to the true nature of my predicament that I end up making a suicide attempt gesture to a support worker in July 2014, spelling the third period of my incarceration there; it was relatively uneventful comparatively speaking.
My secrets are all out on the internet, whilst acknowledgement of my true nature is denied to me by the system; of course I feel doubly resentful, of course I feel doubly aggreived.
2015: Haselgrove obsequiously misrepresents herself as amiable. Instead, she uses the opportunity to take from a small remark made in implicit hint as to why I wish to re-attept an America emigration plan (although they yet do not know of the first) to write pathologizing anti-hagiographies about me in revenge for a situation she failed to de-escalate owing to her pathologically aggressive retaliatory tendencies of refusing to contain herself when perceiving some sort of challenge, all of which emerges from an incident between herself, myself, and my mother, in which the foremost and lattermost co-conspiratorially imprint in each other in that matriarchal, socially-gaming way; snippets of the medical record read down at the police station reveal these to be inherently projective in nature, thanks to the fact Haselgrove is shit at hiding implicit intentions in his (sorry, I hold firmly to the idea he's an intersexual MAAB) writing.
January 2016: I can no longer bare continuous denail of my identity on a systemic level as various implicit hints by a number of professionals both in contact and outwith contact but within earshot suggest to me, or the memories these imbue, which were becoming quite post-traumatic in nature. Then, the debacle with my mother's assault happens and it is a pretty terrible indictment on my personal humanity which deeply affects me, in that I'd, in one impulsive gambit, threw everything of my (necessary) evasion from the NHS's conspiratorial wiles away, not only imprisoning me or keeping me in trouble temporaneously, but, as the effect connotations were at the end of eventual legal resolution, forever. If I couldn't be a transsexual woman, I was better off dead.
So in an instantaneous flight of panic caused by the regretful altercation with my mother, I run just before the police have enough time to come; I'm already in grevious tears, with the compound misery of even something like purgatorical damnation not coming to comparison (although it was what I was fully expecting). They (the police) finally arrive and knock at my door incessantly before realizing that the door was unlocked already; they just barge in, seeing me in the midst of consuming diphenhydramine pills I had previously bought in preparation for an act of just this sort, simply finding the right time to do it. I take the entire bottle, or, near enough, sans a few pills the police did manage to prevent me from swallowing. They had tried moving physically the class from my face, but were too weak to. I have to laugh at the patheticness of Celtonegroid muscle power before such a miscegeneated Celtoslav as myself.
I don't recall an awful lot about an hour thereafter. My last conscious memory is that I felt like I was in a perpetually repeating recurring time-loop sort of thing, an effect upon the perception of time where all emotions had just died there and then, the feigned nicedness of female doctors manifest in 2 A&E staff's professional demeanour and Arachnid expressions, in repeat of simple instructions I had forgotten and then would re-remember had happened, as if I was basically stuck in a badly holograpically re-enacted generic nursing scene ad infinitum. My consciousness erodes from there, and I have next to no recollection of much else which did happen.
Put short: my life ended before the Haselgrove debacle. It has been used as an excuse to legitimate the proscription of my transition for too long, but was something he in his deepest of agendas had pre-planned anyway. So it was, that my life was to effectively end just short of 25 years of age.
Fin.
1991-2004: To the best of my knowledge, I took for granted that I was a cisgender male (mostly, with occasional swings to crossgender identification in mostly fantasy/play settings; that's a lot more people than there actually are trannies).
2004-2007: I start privately questioning my gender under the influence of some of the earliest TG-activism materials (well, pre-tumblr as opposed to 'very earliest') online. Some of those did involve vague pornographic influences. To deal with this usurpation of my conception of identity in an uprooting from the seams (I mean by this usurping, not me deliberately), I deal with it by stating of my sexuality that I was ace, with the implicit assumption conveyed that I also lacked a gender identity full-stop (I internalized the rote-automatic robota stereotypes of autism most strongly at this stage, whilst still being insidiously affected on a level by outward feminine influences in life).
2007-2008: I kind of break down under the pressure partially of being unable to reconcile the public representation of my gender and sexuality (a cold, unfeeling, physically masculine robot devoid of sex) with my privately reconceptualized one (which was taking on an increasingly female mode and started even developing bi-philic sexual undertones).
I don't come close to consciously acknowledging it except to my mother, and, for all intents and purposes, neglect mention in a dismissal of it as a continuation of previous stages where similar problems occurred.
late-2008/early-2009-2011: The internalization is effectively complete. I, for all intents and purposes, consider myself basically female. But, for the sake of maintaining appearances, grasp tenaciously under pressure to appease others my male exo-identity. I announce this fact to immediate family members but, partially their own imposed limitation, partially my reluctance, I'm reluctant to enact upon it fully.
This is when the first referral to a GIC is filed by my GP.
mid-2011-2014: I fail, under persuasion by a trolling acquaintance, to meet the obligation of a GIC appointment: Overcompensation begins. Under the influence of friends accrued in the trolling crews, I'm emboldened to act more masculinely and present myself as such, again for appeasement. Further is this perpetuated in part by a partner (yes, the same Emma Quigley) who, although privately accepting and understanding of my real predicament, refuses to really acknowledge it, even going so far as to take the literal advice of a friend of hers who dismisses it as a "fetish" (when infantilist undertones are mentioned, this seems to be the immediately conflated dismissal by anyone, whether it be this person, Cuntster or whomever: they can't extricate the two properly). I'm eager to take this further still in 2012 when finally ridding myself of this social circle, inspired somewhat by a genuine desire to improve wholesale physical fitness also; I take up weight-lifting and some cardiovascular training. (It will have been the first time I took exercise to this level in my entire life, and in truth, never thought I would entertain this ever in my childhood years).
My sex-drive does increase in a masculine direction. I remain hopeful this is the death of any feminine internality (really, I wish people could see that I wasn't consciously being trans; nobody really wants this). To my creeping and stinging unfortunacy, it really wasn't. My sexuality takes an interesting shift, however: my attraction shifts significantly away from women (barely attracted to them as I was), to men (which I grow in my fervour for), under testosteronic influences, which I think was partially mediated by estrogenic influences as, being fat, it converts thereas.
In truth, I always had little stages where I liked "the cawk" on a fetishistic level, from ages 13-16, and then again briefly in my very late teens, mostly as a form of petty humiliation (such that the only act I'd ever privately entertain in fantasy was fellatio and seminophagia). But this took a far different level; I was able to relate to the masculinity of such cock on a romantic level for the first time (I'm overusing the word 'level', I'm sorry; I'm writing this on zopiclone). This had further reinforcement of the best fit for me personally on how I should do this, and so feminine undertones resolve, growing in intensity, until it finally dawns upon me that I am, for all intents and purposes, a submissive, camp homosexual male, although I'm not out about it.
But this would be to miss the point. The conception of myself as male is deliberately contrived or rather, just lazily acquiesced I guess you could say, but in a more latently effeminate way, I was more than willing to accept it. I get into masculinism during this period, resentful and deeply hurt by feminism's demonizing portrayal of men. David Chac then imparts neuro-hypermasculine pride, which I begin to embody.
It's a really difficult and intense period for me, having undergone so many rejections: John Thomson of the CQMP (Contempo-Quarternary Marxist Party), whom we had met through ScottishSocialist1's circlejerk, was someone for whom I sought prospecive acquaintance. In retrospect, I wasn't sure if he took as a faceitious joke my badly phrased faux-proposition to him on the couch at Occupy's secret Edinburgh hide-out whilst I was mildly tippled. Still, that friendship ended particularly harshly; he had threatened petty litigatory action for what was essentially nothing (the misplacement of a few hundred pounds worth of items, advised to us by a community police officer that I wasn't actually outwith my bounds to do so), leaving me completely torn at the core of how trustworthily I could consider the world.
That remains, for quite a good few years... It's hurtful to know that of everyone, only David actually believes and entrusts your every word, and similarly, can you his.
This trust becomes the basis for a deep romance starting around May 2012 when his mother died and he was finally socio-economically liberated, which was recognizably homosexual male at first; certainly, however, still a secret. There was no insipid talk of "submissivenes" or "domineering" parties as with Walter, who seemed to be convinced of their gender-conferred significance. We deeply relate and connect over our resentment of maternal social control, and the fears and neuroses these had imparted us. That he believed the autist was capable of something far more emotionally grand than the crassly reductionist screeds of Cuntster (known to us in different ways at the time, more generally a radical feminist academic espoused notion, typically) was enthralling, exuberating, and refreshing. I felt reborn under the embrace of his guidance.
Under growing intensification of pressure to reconcile intrinsically feminine nature with an overtly masculine one, I fall to a deeply distressed duress, and so I do something quite simple: I did phrase a bunch of things in a mixture of anecdotal and hypothetical ways to engage his potential interest in somebody who was trans-female, and he showed no contention with the proposal. It was in about November 2012 that I spill fully my feelings in this regard to him privately. In this one specific setting, I'm transgender female, in the eyes of someone individually, for the first time.
I'll skip past the traumatic experiences of the various dramas entailed in my relationship with David, ultimately underpinning upon the promise to bring me to America to realise these feelings, informing him of my awareness that MtF transgender autistics are seen as "non-existent" here, and, that if I dared so much as try to present publicly as one, they (my AI Edinburgh tard 'wranglers) would've most certainly pathologized it through forced incarceration.
The relationship tragically falls through; in an incredibly distressing suicide gesture involving a misdose of diphenhydramine which sends me on a psychotic episode re-invoking some of the daemons I had with respect to identity, seeing caricatures of transsexual-activists admonishing me (and conversationally, these were quite vivid experiences; they spoke perfect English grammar in precisely feminine intonations and everything, proving my mind not to be a waddle of pretension) for my open transphobia under the Autphag persona, and so on, I end up sitting on the ground, simply wanting to die in the freezing cold.
I'm saved, and although appreciative of it at the time, I regret it.
2014: The mental hospital at St. John's is extremely pathological to such notions on the second and third occasions of that year in which I end up attending. I make unclear the full extent of my problems, simply speaking of a spiritual "death" (which I'd meant far more figuratively than they'd interpreted), and of some of my other qualities compared to the autistic pabulum usually dealt with by them, which go unacknowledged and ignored. One conversation between myself at a nurse in Huntlyburn emerges on the desk of a chattering gaggle of NHS psychiatric scum; well-earned, considering how they spoke about it. This incites the sort of suspicions about the futility of persuading the NHS as to the true nature of my predicament that I end up making a suicide attempt gesture to a support worker in July 2014, spelling the third period of my incarceration there; it was relatively uneventful comparatively speaking.
My secrets are all out on the internet, whilst acknowledgement of my true nature is denied to me by the system; of course I feel doubly resentful, of course I feel doubly aggreived.
2015: Haselgrove obsequiously misrepresents herself as amiable. Instead, she uses the opportunity to take from a small remark made in implicit hint as to why I wish to re-attept an America emigration plan (although they yet do not know of the first) to write pathologizing anti-hagiographies about me in revenge for a situation she failed to de-escalate owing to her pathologically aggressive retaliatory tendencies of refusing to contain herself when perceiving some sort of challenge, all of which emerges from an incident between herself, myself, and my mother, in which the foremost and lattermost co-conspiratorially imprint in each other in that matriarchal, socially-gaming way; snippets of the medical record read down at the police station reveal these to be inherently projective in nature, thanks to the fact Haselgrove is shit at hiding implicit intentions in his (sorry, I hold firmly to the idea he's an intersexual MAAB) writing.
January 2016: I can no longer bare continuous denail of my identity on a systemic level as various implicit hints by a number of professionals both in contact and outwith contact but within earshot suggest to me, or the memories these imbue, which were becoming quite post-traumatic in nature. Then, the debacle with my mother's assault happens and it is a pretty terrible indictment on my personal humanity which deeply affects me, in that I'd, in one impulsive gambit, threw everything of my (necessary) evasion from the NHS's conspiratorial wiles away, not only imprisoning me or keeping me in trouble temporaneously, but, as the effect connotations were at the end of eventual legal resolution, forever. If I couldn't be a transsexual woman, I was better off dead.
So in an instantaneous flight of panic caused by the regretful altercation with my mother, I run just before the police have enough time to come; I'm already in grevious tears, with the compound misery of even something like purgatorical damnation not coming to comparison (although it was what I was fully expecting). They (the police) finally arrive and knock at my door incessantly before realizing that the door was unlocked already; they just barge in, seeing me in the midst of consuming diphenhydramine pills I had previously bought in preparation for an act of just this sort, simply finding the right time to do it. I take the entire bottle, or, near enough, sans a few pills the police did manage to prevent me from swallowing. They had tried moving physically the class from my face, but were too weak to. I have to laugh at the patheticness of Celtonegroid muscle power before such a miscegeneated Celtoslav as myself.
I don't recall an awful lot about an hour thereafter. My last conscious memory is that I felt like I was in a perpetually repeating recurring time-loop sort of thing, an effect upon the perception of time where all emotions had just died there and then, the feigned nicedness of female doctors manifest in 2 A&E staff's professional demeanour and Arachnid expressions, in repeat of simple instructions I had forgotten and then would re-remember had happened, as if I was basically stuck in a badly holograpically re-enacted generic nursing scene ad infinitum. My consciousness erodes from there, and I have next to no recollection of much else which did happen.
Put short: my life ended before the Haselgrove debacle. It has been used as an excuse to legitimate the proscription of my transition for too long, but was something he in his deepest of agendas had pre-planned anyway. So it was, that my life was to effectively end just short of 25 years of age.
Fin.
Anonymous H joined in and replied with this 9 years ago, 43 minutes later, 3 hours after the original post[^] [v] #788,996
Is "minichanner" on that list?
Sheila LaBoof joined in and replied with this 9 years ago, 2 hours later, 6 hours after the original post[^] [v] #789,029
science fiction
Meta joined in and replied with this 9 years ago, 33 minutes later, 7 hours after the original post[^] [v] #789,038
Anonymous K joined in and replied with this 9 years ago, 1 hour later, 8 hours after the original post[^] [v] #789,041
@788,992 (Haselgrove !MLHqI35Srs)
> Speaking of it chronologically is far more useful in my instance as it certainly was wavering, to which extent I don't deny; I'm highly suspicious of never-neverland "I've been transsexual since age 3" types, though I can, even in people I dislike, conceive of it to be beleivable in certain cases:
>
> 1991-2004: To the best of my knowledge, I took for granted that I was a cisgender male (mostly, with occasional swings to crossgender identification in mostly fantasy/play settings; that's a lot more people than there actually are trannies).
> 2004-2007: I start privately questioning my gender under the influence of some of the earliest TG-activism materials (well, pre-tumblr as opposed to 'very earliest') online. Some of those did involve vague pornographic influences. To deal with this usurpation of my conception of identity in an uprooting from the seams (I mean by this usurping, not me deliberately), I deal with it by stating of my sexuality that I was ace, with the implicit assumption conveyed that I also lacked a gender identity full-stop (I internalized the rote-automatic robota stereotypes of autism most strongly at this stage, whilst still being insidiously affected on a level by outward feminine influences in life).
> 2007-2008: I kind of break down under the pressure partially of being unable to reconcile the public representation of my gender and sexuality (a cold, unfeeling, physically masculine robot devoid of sex) with my privately reconceptualized one (which was taking on an increasingly female mode and started even developing bi-philic sexual undertones).
> I don't come close to consciously acknowledging it except to my mother, and, for all intents and purposes, neglect mention in a dismissal of it as a continuation of previous stages where similar problems occurred.
> late-2008/early-2009-2011: The internalization is effectively complete. I, for all intents and purposes, consider myself basically female. But, for the sake of maintaining appearances, grasp tenaciously under pressure to appease others my male exo-identity. I announce this fact to immediate family members but, partially their own imposed limitation, partially my reluctance, I'm reluctant to enact upon it fully.
> This is when the first referral to a GIC is filed by my GP.
> mid-2011-2014: I fail, under persuasion by a trolling acquaintance, to meet the obligation of a GIC appointment: Overcompensation begins. Under the influence of friends accrued in the trolling crews, I'm emboldened to act more masculinely and present myself as such, again for appeasement. Further is this perpetuated in part by a partner (yes, the same Emma Quigley) who, although privately accepting and understanding of my real predicament, refuses to really acknowledge it, even going so far as to take the literal advice of a friend of hers who dismisses it as a "fetish" (when infantilist undertones are mentioned, this seems to be the immediately conflated dismissal by anyone, whether it be this person, Cuntster or whomever: they can't extricate the two properly). I'm eager to take this further still in 2012 when finally ridding myself of this social circle, inspired somewhat by a genuine desire to improve wholesale physical fitness also; I take up weight-lifting and some cardiovascular training. (It will have been the first time I took exercise to this level in my entire life, and in truth, never thought I would entertain this ever in my childhood years).
> My sex-drive does increase in a masculine direction. I remain hopeful this is the death of any feminine internality (really, I wish people could see that I wasn't consciously being trans; nobody really wants this). To my creeping and stinging unfortunacy, it really wasn't. My sexuality takes an interesting shift, however: my attraction shifts significantly away from women (barely attracted to them as I was), to men (which I grow in my fervour for), under testosteronic influences, which I think was partially mediated by estrogenic influences as, being fat, it converts thereas.
> In truth, I always had little stages where I liked "the cawk" on a fetishistic level, from ages 13-16, and then again briefly in my very late teens, mostly as a form of petty humiliation (such that the only act I'd ever privately entertain in fantasy was fellatio and seminophagia). But this took a far different level; I was able to relate to the masculinity of such cock on a romantic level for the first time (I'm overusing the word 'level', I'm sorry; I'm writing this on zopiclone). This had further reinforcement of the best fit for me personally on how I should do this, and so feminine undertones resolve, growing in intensity, until it finally dawns upon me that I am, for all intents and purposes, a submissive, camp homosexual male, although I'm not out about it.
> But this would be to miss the point. The conception of myself as male is deliberately contrived or rather, just lazily acquiesced I guess you could say, but in a more latently effeminate way, I was more than willing to accept it. I get into masculinism during this period, resentful and deeply hurt by feminism's demonizing portrayal of men. David Chac then imparts neuro-hypermasculine pride, which I begin to embody.
> It's a really difficult and intense period for me, having undergone so many rejections: John Thomson of the CQMP (Contempo-Quarternary Marxist Party), whom we had met through ScottishSocialist1's circlejerk, was someone for whom I sought prospecive acquaintance. In retrospect, I wasn't sure if he took as a faceitious joke my badly phrased faux-proposition to him on the couch at Occupy's secret Edinburgh hide-out whilst I was mildly tippled. Still, that friendship ended particularly harshly; he had threatened petty litigatory action for what was essentially nothing (the misplacement of a few hundred pounds worth of items, advised to us by a community police officer that I wasn't actually outwith my bounds to do so), leaving me completely torn at the core of how trustworthily I could consider the world.
> That remains, for quite a good few years... It's hurtful to know that of everyone, only David actually believes and entrusts your every word, and similarly, can you his.
> This trust becomes the basis for a deep romance starting around May 2012 when his mother died and he was finally socio-economically liberated, which was recognizably homosexual male at first; certainly, however, still a secret. There was no insipid talk of "submissivenes" or "domineering" parties as with Walter, who seemed to be convinced of their gender-conferred significance. We deeply relate and connect over our resentment of maternal social control, and the fears and neuroses these had imparted us. That he believed the autist was capable of something far more emotionally grand than the crassly reductionist screeds of Cuntster (known to us in different ways at the time, more generally a radical feminist academic espoused notion, typically) was enthralling, exuberating, and refreshing. I felt reborn under the embrace of his guidance.
> Under growing intensification of pressure to reconcile intrinsically feminine nature with an overtly masculine one, I fall to a deeply distressed duress, and so I do something quite simple: I did phrase a bunch of things in a mixture of anecdotal and hypothetical ways to engage his potential interest in somebody who was trans-female, and he showed no contention with the proposal. It was in about November 2012 that I spill fully my feelings in this regard to him privately. In this one specific setting, I'm transgender female, in the eyes of someone individually, for the first time.
> I'll skip past the traumatic experiences of the various dramas entailed in my relationship with David, ultimately underpinning upon the promise to bring me to America to realise these feelings, informing him of my awareness that MtF transgender autistics are seen as "non-existent" here, and, that if I dared so much as try to present publicly as one, they (my AI Edinburgh tard 'wranglers) would've most certainly pathologized it through forced incarceration.
> The relationship tragically falls through; in an incredibly distressing suicide gesture involving a misdose of diphenhydramine which sends me on a psychotic episode re-invoking some of the daemons I had with respect to identity, seeing caricatures of transsexual-activists admonishing me (and conversationally, these were quite vivid experiences; they spoke perfect English grammar in precisely feminine intonations and everything, proving my mind not to be a waddle of pretension) for my open transphobia under the Autphag persona, and so on, I end up sitting on the ground, simply wanting to die in the freezing cold.
> I'm saved, and although appreciative of it at the time, I regret it.
> 2014: The mental hospital at St. John's is extremely pathological to such notions on the second and third occasions of that year in which I end up attending. I make unclear the full extent of my problems, simply speaking of a spiritual "death" (which I'd meant far more figuratively than they'd interpreted), and of some of my other qualities compared to the autistic pabulum usually dealt with by them, which go unacknowledged and ignored. One conversation between myself at a nurse in Huntlyburn emerges on the desk of a chattering gaggle of NHS psychiatric scum; well-earned, considering how they spoke about it. This incites the sort of suspicions about the futility of persuading the NHS as to the true nature of my predicament that I end up making a suicide attempt gesture to a support worker in July 2014, spelling the third period of my incarceration there; it was relatively uneventful comparatively speaking.
> My secrets are all out on the internet, whilst acknowledgement of my true nature is denied to me by the system; of course I feel doubly resentful, of course I feel doubly aggreived.
> 2015: Haselgrove obsequiously misrepresents herself as amiable. Instead, she uses the opportunity to take from a small remark made in implicit hint as to why I wish to re-attept an America emigration plan (although they yet do not know of the first) to write pathologizing anti-hagiographies about me in revenge for a situation she failed to de-escalate owing to her pathologically aggressive retaliatory tendencies of refusing to contain herself when perceiving some sort of challenge, all of which emerges from an incident between herself, myself, and my mother, in which the foremost and lattermost co-conspiratorially imprint in each other in that matriarchal, socially-gaming way; snippets of the medical record read down at the police station reveal these to be inherently projective in nature, thanks to the fact Haselgrove is shit at hiding implicit intentions in his (sorry, I hold firmly to the idea he's an intersexual MAAB) writing.
> January 2016: I can no longer bare continuous denail of my identity on a systemic level as various implicit hints by a number of professionals both in contact and outwith contact but within earshot suggest to me, or the memories these imbue, which were becoming quite post-traumatic in nature. Then, the debacle with my mother's assault happens and it is a pretty terrible indictment on my personal humanity which deeply affects me, in that I'd, in one impulsive gambit, threw everything of my (necessary) evasion from the NHS's conspiratorial wiles away, not only imprisoning me or keeping me in trouble temporaneously, but, as the effect connotations were at the end of eventual legal resolution, forever. If I couldn't be a transsexual woman, I was better off dead.
> So in an instantaneous flight of panic caused by the regretful altercation with my mother, I run just before the police have enough time to come; I'm already in grevious tears, with the compound misery of even something like purgatorical damnation not coming to comparison (although it was what I was fully expecting). They (the police) finally arrive and knock at my door incessantly before realizing that the door was unlocked already; they just barge in, seeing me in the midst of consuming diphenhydramine pills I had previously bought in preparation for an act of just this sort, simply finding the right time to do it. I take the entire bottle, or, near enough, sans a few pills the police did manage to prevent me from swallowing. They had tried moving physically the class from my face, but were too weak to. I have to laugh at the patheticness of Celtonegroid muscle power before such a miscegeneated Celtoslav as myself.
> I don't recall an awful lot about an hour thereafter. My last conscious memory is that I felt like I was in a perpetually repeating recurring time-loop sort of thing, an effect upon the perception of time where all emotions had just died there and then, the feigned nicedness of female doctors manifest in 2 A&E staff's professional demeanour and Arachnid expressions, in repeat of simple instructions I had forgotten and then would re-remember had happened, as if I was basically stuck in a badly holograpically re-enacted generic nursing scene ad infinitum. My consciousness erodes from there, and I have next to no recollection of much else which did happen.
>
> Put short: my life ended before the Haselgrove debacle. It has been used as an excuse to legitimate the proscription of my transition for too long, but was something he in his deepest of agendas had pre-planned anyway. So it was, that my life was to effectively end just short of 25 years of age.
>
> Fin.
Oh yeah?
> Speaking of it chronologically is far more useful in my instance as it certainly was wavering, to which extent I don't deny; I'm highly suspicious of never-neverland "I've been transsexual since age 3" types, though I can, even in people I dislike, conceive of it to be beleivable in certain cases:
>
> 1991-2004: To the best of my knowledge, I took for granted that I was a cisgender male (mostly, with occasional swings to crossgender identification in mostly fantasy/play settings; that's a lot more people than there actually are trannies).
> 2004-2007: I start privately questioning my gender under the influence of some of the earliest TG-activism materials (well, pre-tumblr as opposed to 'very earliest') online. Some of those did involve vague pornographic influences. To deal with this usurpation of my conception of identity in an uprooting from the seams (I mean by this usurping, not me deliberately), I deal with it by stating of my sexuality that I was ace, with the implicit assumption conveyed that I also lacked a gender identity full-stop (I internalized the rote-automatic robota stereotypes of autism most strongly at this stage, whilst still being insidiously affected on a level by outward feminine influences in life).
> 2007-2008: I kind of break down under the pressure partially of being unable to reconcile the public representation of my gender and sexuality (a cold, unfeeling, physically masculine robot devoid of sex) with my privately reconceptualized one (which was taking on an increasingly female mode and started even developing bi-philic sexual undertones).
> I don't come close to consciously acknowledging it except to my mother, and, for all intents and purposes, neglect mention in a dismissal of it as a continuation of previous stages where similar problems occurred.
> late-2008/early-2009-2011: The internalization is effectively complete. I, for all intents and purposes, consider myself basically female. But, for the sake of maintaining appearances, grasp tenaciously under pressure to appease others my male exo-identity. I announce this fact to immediate family members but, partially their own imposed limitation, partially my reluctance, I'm reluctant to enact upon it fully.
> This is when the first referral to a GIC is filed by my GP.
> mid-2011-2014: I fail, under persuasion by a trolling acquaintance, to meet the obligation of a GIC appointment: Overcompensation begins. Under the influence of friends accrued in the trolling crews, I'm emboldened to act more masculinely and present myself as such, again for appeasement. Further is this perpetuated in part by a partner (yes, the same Emma Quigley) who, although privately accepting and understanding of my real predicament, refuses to really acknowledge it, even going so far as to take the literal advice of a friend of hers who dismisses it as a "fetish" (when infantilist undertones are mentioned, this seems to be the immediately conflated dismissal by anyone, whether it be this person, Cuntster or whomever: they can't extricate the two properly). I'm eager to take this further still in 2012 when finally ridding myself of this social circle, inspired somewhat by a genuine desire to improve wholesale physical fitness also; I take up weight-lifting and some cardiovascular training. (It will have been the first time I took exercise to this level in my entire life, and in truth, never thought I would entertain this ever in my childhood years).
> My sex-drive does increase in a masculine direction. I remain hopeful this is the death of any feminine internality (really, I wish people could see that I wasn't consciously being trans; nobody really wants this). To my creeping and stinging unfortunacy, it really wasn't. My sexuality takes an interesting shift, however: my attraction shifts significantly away from women (barely attracted to them as I was), to men (which I grow in my fervour for), under testosteronic influences, which I think was partially mediated by estrogenic influences as, being fat, it converts thereas.
> In truth, I always had little stages where I liked "the cawk" on a fetishistic level, from ages 13-16, and then again briefly in my very late teens, mostly as a form of petty humiliation (such that the only act I'd ever privately entertain in fantasy was fellatio and seminophagia). But this took a far different level; I was able to relate to the masculinity of such cock on a romantic level for the first time (I'm overusing the word 'level', I'm sorry; I'm writing this on zopiclone). This had further reinforcement of the best fit for me personally on how I should do this, and so feminine undertones resolve, growing in intensity, until it finally dawns upon me that I am, for all intents and purposes, a submissive, camp homosexual male, although I'm not out about it.
> But this would be to miss the point. The conception of myself as male is deliberately contrived or rather, just lazily acquiesced I guess you could say, but in a more latently effeminate way, I was more than willing to accept it. I get into masculinism during this period, resentful and deeply hurt by feminism's demonizing portrayal of men. David Chac then imparts neuro-hypermasculine pride, which I begin to embody.
> It's a really difficult and intense period for me, having undergone so many rejections: John Thomson of the CQMP (Contempo-Quarternary Marxist Party), whom we had met through ScottishSocialist1's circlejerk, was someone for whom I sought prospecive acquaintance. In retrospect, I wasn't sure if he took as a faceitious joke my badly phrased faux-proposition to him on the couch at Occupy's secret Edinburgh hide-out whilst I was mildly tippled. Still, that friendship ended particularly harshly; he had threatened petty litigatory action for what was essentially nothing (the misplacement of a few hundred pounds worth of items, advised to us by a community police officer that I wasn't actually outwith my bounds to do so), leaving me completely torn at the core of how trustworthily I could consider the world.
> That remains, for quite a good few years... It's hurtful to know that of everyone, only David actually believes and entrusts your every word, and similarly, can you his.
> This trust becomes the basis for a deep romance starting around May 2012 when his mother died and he was finally socio-economically liberated, which was recognizably homosexual male at first; certainly, however, still a secret. There was no insipid talk of "submissivenes" or "domineering" parties as with Walter, who seemed to be convinced of their gender-conferred significance. We deeply relate and connect over our resentment of maternal social control, and the fears and neuroses these had imparted us. That he believed the autist was capable of something far more emotionally grand than the crassly reductionist screeds of Cuntster (known to us in different ways at the time, more generally a radical feminist academic espoused notion, typically) was enthralling, exuberating, and refreshing. I felt reborn under the embrace of his guidance.
> Under growing intensification of pressure to reconcile intrinsically feminine nature with an overtly masculine one, I fall to a deeply distressed duress, and so I do something quite simple: I did phrase a bunch of things in a mixture of anecdotal and hypothetical ways to engage his potential interest in somebody who was trans-female, and he showed no contention with the proposal. It was in about November 2012 that I spill fully my feelings in this regard to him privately. In this one specific setting, I'm transgender female, in the eyes of someone individually, for the first time.
> I'll skip past the traumatic experiences of the various dramas entailed in my relationship with David, ultimately underpinning upon the promise to bring me to America to realise these feelings, informing him of my awareness that MtF transgender autistics are seen as "non-existent" here, and, that if I dared so much as try to present publicly as one, they (my AI Edinburgh tard 'wranglers) would've most certainly pathologized it through forced incarceration.
> The relationship tragically falls through; in an incredibly distressing suicide gesture involving a misdose of diphenhydramine which sends me on a psychotic episode re-invoking some of the daemons I had with respect to identity, seeing caricatures of transsexual-activists admonishing me (and conversationally, these were quite vivid experiences; they spoke perfect English grammar in precisely feminine intonations and everything, proving my mind not to be a waddle of pretension) for my open transphobia under the Autphag persona, and so on, I end up sitting on the ground, simply wanting to die in the freezing cold.
> I'm saved, and although appreciative of it at the time, I regret it.
> 2014: The mental hospital at St. John's is extremely pathological to such notions on the second and third occasions of that year in which I end up attending. I make unclear the full extent of my problems, simply speaking of a spiritual "death" (which I'd meant far more figuratively than they'd interpreted), and of some of my other qualities compared to the autistic pabulum usually dealt with by them, which go unacknowledged and ignored. One conversation between myself at a nurse in Huntlyburn emerges on the desk of a chattering gaggle of NHS psychiatric scum; well-earned, considering how they spoke about it. This incites the sort of suspicions about the futility of persuading the NHS as to the true nature of my predicament that I end up making a suicide attempt gesture to a support worker in July 2014, spelling the third period of my incarceration there; it was relatively uneventful comparatively speaking.
> My secrets are all out on the internet, whilst acknowledgement of my true nature is denied to me by the system; of course I feel doubly resentful, of course I feel doubly aggreived.
> 2015: Haselgrove obsequiously misrepresents herself as amiable. Instead, she uses the opportunity to take from a small remark made in implicit hint as to why I wish to re-attept an America emigration plan (although they yet do not know of the first) to write pathologizing anti-hagiographies about me in revenge for a situation she failed to de-escalate owing to her pathologically aggressive retaliatory tendencies of refusing to contain herself when perceiving some sort of challenge, all of which emerges from an incident between herself, myself, and my mother, in which the foremost and lattermost co-conspiratorially imprint in each other in that matriarchal, socially-gaming way; snippets of the medical record read down at the police station reveal these to be inherently projective in nature, thanks to the fact Haselgrove is shit at hiding implicit intentions in his (sorry, I hold firmly to the idea he's an intersexual MAAB) writing.
> January 2016: I can no longer bare continuous denail of my identity on a systemic level as various implicit hints by a number of professionals both in contact and outwith contact but within earshot suggest to me, or the memories these imbue, which were becoming quite post-traumatic in nature. Then, the debacle with my mother's assault happens and it is a pretty terrible indictment on my personal humanity which deeply affects me, in that I'd, in one impulsive gambit, threw everything of my (necessary) evasion from the NHS's conspiratorial wiles away, not only imprisoning me or keeping me in trouble temporaneously, but, as the effect connotations were at the end of eventual legal resolution, forever. If I couldn't be a transsexual woman, I was better off dead.
> So in an instantaneous flight of panic caused by the regretful altercation with my mother, I run just before the police have enough time to come; I'm already in grevious tears, with the compound misery of even something like purgatorical damnation not coming to comparison (although it was what I was fully expecting). They (the police) finally arrive and knock at my door incessantly before realizing that the door was unlocked already; they just barge in, seeing me in the midst of consuming diphenhydramine pills I had previously bought in preparation for an act of just this sort, simply finding the right time to do it. I take the entire bottle, or, near enough, sans a few pills the police did manage to prevent me from swallowing. They had tried moving physically the class from my face, but were too weak to. I have to laugh at the patheticness of Celtonegroid muscle power before such a miscegeneated Celtoslav as myself.
> I don't recall an awful lot about an hour thereafter. My last conscious memory is that I felt like I was in a perpetually repeating recurring time-loop sort of thing, an effect upon the perception of time where all emotions had just died there and then, the feigned nicedness of female doctors manifest in 2 A&E staff's professional demeanour and Arachnid expressions, in repeat of simple instructions I had forgotten and then would re-remember had happened, as if I was basically stuck in a badly holograpically re-enacted generic nursing scene ad infinitum. My consciousness erodes from there, and I have next to no recollection of much else which did happen.
>
> Put short: my life ended before the Haselgrove debacle. It has been used as an excuse to legitimate the proscription of my transition for too long, but was something he in his deepest of agendas had pre-planned anyway. So it was, that my life was to effectively end just short of 25 years of age.
>
> Fin.
Oh yeah?
Sheila LaBoof replied with this 9 years ago, 18 minutes later, 9 hours after the original post[^] [v] #789,043
rocky horror picture show?
I didn't like the main character in that
he was a fuckin weirdo
I didn't like the main character in that
he was a fuckin weirdo
(Edited 35 seconds later.)
