miyako73
07-17-2012, 02:52 AM
I have been like this since I told my father not to push me to play balls with my brothers because I was not like them and begged my mother to heed what the fairy behind her said that I had to learn ballet.
I received private messages from some men who wanted to know me. In literature or in anthropology forums, it seems, I have been viewed as rude and mean. I am not a snob. I am just scared, and that is the truth. Rejecting a reject is like stabbing the wounded. I refuse to welcome such pain again and again in my life.
I have been repressing my transsexual thoughts because I do not want people to reject me and my works without knowing me and without reading what I write. I have been forcing myself not to post any of my poems about transsexual longings and deprivations, my stories about struggles and failures of a transsexual, and my essays about myself before and now. Most still judge the box not the content.
My schizophrenia is mild. I have five invisible friends: a suicidal poet who hates death and dying, a manic short story writer who wakes me up at night asking for a right word, a blind painter who loves red, a Buddhist monk who knows tantra and talks a lot about eroticism, and a singing cat. The fairy left a long time ago when I failed to do fouettes and pirouettes and gave up.
I am a transsexual who goes to work, jogs in the park, and lives a normal life. I am a transsexual only in my mind. If my heart can speak, it will say the same thing what my lips have been whispering: that I am a woman, but biology is my tough enemy. My mind, the reservoir of reasons, always reminds me that I will never be a woman, even though Simone de Beauvoir said or wrote, “One is not born a woman, one becomes one.”
I am only schizophrenic in my bedroom and when I have the itch to write. My friends are understanding. When I have enough of the cat's singing, it knows it is time to go outside and catch a mouse. The monk usually leaves after a transcendental sex or masturbation. The blind painter does not appear when I wear black. The short story writer bothers me every Summer. The poet, silent and still like a frozen ghost, is almost my shadow-always behind or beside me trying to remain speechless.
Writing this confession is very liberating. Maybe I can now share my transsexual thoughts and writings. Maybe I can now acknowledge the cat for the lyrics of its songs that become my poems. I open up so those who think I am rude and mean will understand a transsexual's fear of rejection. I reveal my secrets because my friends have been telling me to be myself-honest, sincere, and hopeful.
I received private messages from some men who wanted to know me. In literature or in anthropology forums, it seems, I have been viewed as rude and mean. I am not a snob. I am just scared, and that is the truth. Rejecting a reject is like stabbing the wounded. I refuse to welcome such pain again and again in my life.
I have been repressing my transsexual thoughts because I do not want people to reject me and my works without knowing me and without reading what I write. I have been forcing myself not to post any of my poems about transsexual longings and deprivations, my stories about struggles and failures of a transsexual, and my essays about myself before and now. Most still judge the box not the content.
My schizophrenia is mild. I have five invisible friends: a suicidal poet who hates death and dying, a manic short story writer who wakes me up at night asking for a right word, a blind painter who loves red, a Buddhist monk who knows tantra and talks a lot about eroticism, and a singing cat. The fairy left a long time ago when I failed to do fouettes and pirouettes and gave up.
I am a transsexual who goes to work, jogs in the park, and lives a normal life. I am a transsexual only in my mind. If my heart can speak, it will say the same thing what my lips have been whispering: that I am a woman, but biology is my tough enemy. My mind, the reservoir of reasons, always reminds me that I will never be a woman, even though Simone de Beauvoir said or wrote, “One is not born a woman, one becomes one.”
I am only schizophrenic in my bedroom and when I have the itch to write. My friends are understanding. When I have enough of the cat's singing, it knows it is time to go outside and catch a mouse. The monk usually leaves after a transcendental sex or masturbation. The blind painter does not appear when I wear black. The short story writer bothers me every Summer. The poet, silent and still like a frozen ghost, is almost my shadow-always behind or beside me trying to remain speechless.
Writing this confession is very liberating. Maybe I can now share my transsexual thoughts and writings. Maybe I can now acknowledge the cat for the lyrics of its songs that become my poems. I open up so those who think I am rude and mean will understand a transsexual's fear of rejection. I reveal my secrets because my friends have been telling me to be myself-honest, sincere, and hopeful.