I am problematic

I don’t believe the horrible gender junk I was raised with that prioritized male bodies and minds over anything female. I don’t believe it; yet it plagues me.

A more accurate description of my feelings from the end of the last post:
I hate that I was termed female at birth.
I hate that the doctors had the power to render me either female or male based on what they perceived as my ‘stronger’ gender identity.
I hate that I was born into a system that is committed to reinforcing a strict and segregated binary that my body knows is wrong.

I found this article very helpful this week. “Non-Binary” is much closer to the way that I feel than either of the two ‘defaults’.

And yet.

I feel this resentment at my own existence. I feel that all that knotted up anger that I had to fold away needs to be untangled and seen. My self needs to be allowed to find my identity. The horribleness of the first 18 years of my life is snowballing; tumbling towards me. This time it needs to be melted and experienced.

I remember. Every time I would try to be my own person, I would be forced to assimilate. Every time I would start feeling differently than the group I would panic because I had to find a way to divert the energy if I wanted to survive. So I’ve been basically directing lava flows my entire life and now I just hope that I can somehow hike all the way back to the source without dying a fiery death. Sometimes I can’t even hope for an end to this process because it’s too painful to think of all the damage that’s been done. There’s so much to undo. And it will never be fixed. The things that have happened to me have already happened. We can’t unring that bell, we can’t fix the way my body grew, we can’t remove all the scars, we can’t ever have a ‘me’ who is untouched by the tragedy that was my family.

I feel bruised. There is an identity inside of me somewhere. (I have a problem with applying pronouns to myself so until I figure out what to do about that, we’ll just go with “they”) They are somewhere deep inside of me infected and alone, desperately trying to bear up beneath the giant seed-shaped weight that has settled inside of my body cavity.

Why seed-shaped? Because whenever I recall memories of abuse I remember the feeling of overwhelming hurt. The pain is so intense and terrible that I can’t understand it or experience it and my perceptions black out. I just feel this nugget of pain, distilled and dense like a black hole, that settles down inside of my chest to wait until it’s safe to come out. I have many of those and I’ve always pictured each like an oversized sesame seed, the same seed every time.

I have noticed the correlation between the word “seed” and the sexual abuse I’ve experienced. “Seed” is very often used in the Bible stories that talk about rape or sexual congress, too. I don’t know quite what else it may imply but the obvious connection is perhaps the only one.

Which, of course, would tie back to why I was so frightened that I might be pregnant. I’m not sure when that fear started; in fact, I don’t remember a time when that wasn’t a fear of mine.

I had a lot of reasons to develop dysfunctionally. This actually gives me an appreciative perspective on my depression: I question my right to exist and take up space because I was treated as a toy and was resented openly. I have deep depression and suicidal thoughts because I fight the notion that I am a problem, unloveable, unlikeable, gross. In fact, my persistence that I should be allowed to exist is what helped me survive this long! I should be giving myself credit for that instead of beating myself up for having a mental illness.

I’ll work on that.

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