Death

Angst

I never used to concern myself too much with the idea of my own death. It didn’t really scare me. I don’t believe in an afterlife (or at least one where your consciousness continues fully intact), so the thought of “one minute you’re there, the next you aren’t”… well, what does it matter? The seconds before death might be hella scary, but you’re not going to worry about it once the lights go out.

But that all changed for me as a parent and in light of this ongoing, possibly resurging pandemic – every time I think that I or someone else has put me in any danger of catching this thing, I spend two weeks barely sleeping, nightly panic attacks and tears, because the thought of what my death will do to kiddo is all I can think of. I don’t want to devastate her.

Ugh. I only *just* stopped having nightly panic attacks/nightmares and sudden crying jags over her family being broken up and her losing her childhood home, both things that hurt her terribly despite her brave front.
I just don’t want her to go through any more pain. 

It’s the same thing with relationships. I haven’t been in one since my marriage was ended. I used to think Lorelei on Gilmore Girls was crazy. Now I get it. Maybe in a few years, when Kiddo is older.

Anyway, I’m a mess, but I manage to keep it together during the day, at least. Last two nights were brutal. My face is so swollen from lack of sleep I look like I’ve been in a fight.

JFC

Max

I think of the brutal separation anxiety I went through when my time with Kiddo was cut by half… how, for months, most days I could just not function at all when she wasn’t here—crying, sleeping, drinking… staring at the ceiling wishing I could just be numb. Then I think about all those poor fucking kids being ripped away from their parents and put into cages and I feel sick to my stomach and full of horror and rage.

I never thought I would use the word “triggered” for myself, but I am fucking triggered, friends. I can’t stop thinking about those kids and their parents. Inconsolable. Terrified. And I can’t help but think about what would happen if Kiddo was taken away from me with no explanation and no way to know if she’s all right. Or if she’s warm enough… and fed… and… and… See? I’m in tears again. How does someone survive that? Certainly not intact.

These are evil times. Christ, I thought my level of horror about the US was bad six months ago…

Dysphoria

Wall Skull

Exactly this except for one part. I’ve been researching transitioning since before the internet, waaay back when I came across something in a medical journal/book about sex reassignment surgery. Even after the internet gave me more info, the surgery/hormones just seemed so imperfect that it was the motivation for me to try to live with the body I was given. I’d never have a fully functioning cock. I’d never be 5’10 (which is how tall my mind thinks I am). I’d never be able to have XY chromosomes. I’d always be in the wrong body, die in the wrong body, be buried in the wrong body.

Like the OP, pregnancy and the time after—eight months of nursing my kiddo—made me feel the most aligned with my body I ever have. I could hack it. Had I finally beat the dysphoria? But no… it was just the hormones. The minute those petered out, the dysphoria came back with a vengeance, and I knew it was time to stop fighting it. My female body had served its purpose to have a kid, and now I was free…

…but not really. It’s been years now, and I’ve only told a handful of people. I have the green light for sexual confirmation surgery… but still, I stall. I feel I will lose my extended family. I’ve already lost my partner because he isn’t gay and isn’t interested in trying to make it work. But that’s fine – we remain friends. My kid is so proud that she and I are “girls” that every time I try to start the conversation about who I really am, I chicken out because I don’t want to disappoint her.

It’ll work out. I know it will. I just have to stay the course.