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No caption needed! PC: Jose Galletti …

Polly and Dragon by Sarah Joule A delightful soothing children's story about kindness It is perfect for reading before bedtime as well as for reading for fun Vivid illustrations take your child to the world of colors & funny adventures

RT : When the weather outside is frightful🌨️ A hot🔥💕book is delightful Read DEADLY DECEPTION to make it so Let it snow❄️let it snow❄️let it snow …

אצל חברים שלי .f.f#

Central MS Tea Party Meeting Monday, February 11, 2019 - 6:00 pm Flowood Municipal Courtroom 2101 Airport Road N, Flowood, MS 39232 SPEAKER - Cheramie Mitchell CANDIDATE FOR MS SENATE District 35, Rankin County

Never too late to share this moment post our memorable recording session last week with at @shaalevenue Specially notable was the insanely fast dinner run by …

. . . 우앍 한비너 ㅠㅠㅠㅠㅠ 짱이지 않습니꺼

A photo from a recording session a few years ago (pre beard) with Jools Holland and English singer, songwriter and actress, Paloma Faith! …

Recognising an incredibly brave and loyal performance with Waqas are Jakir, his Manager and Gina, B&Q store DM. &Q

Prosjektsjef søkes til Drammen kommune eiendomsutvikling AS (DKEU). Som Prosjektsjef vil du få ansvaret for å utvikle Tangenkaia som er utpekt som et av de større byutviklingsområdene i Drammen de nærmeste årene. Del/tips gjerne. &A

曲名:OH! GIRL アーティスト:B'z 音域:mid1F#~hiB その他の曲の音域はこちら→ 'z

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compare and contrast

he loved me with a passion

you may love me with gentility

i was scared to leave him

i am scared you’ll leave me

i tried to make him happy

i try to make you laugh

we were night and day

you are the moon to my stars

he was fire 

you are warmth

he was passion

you are peace

Angel Mine (David Blyth, 1978)

a sailor washes up on the beach and walks towards a naked woman on a toilet. he feeds her a spice-into-marriage-reinducing pill. from there, different personas trapped within or seeking to destroy the suburban heterosexual married ideal. all attempts at escape return to zero, guided by marketing aphorisms, religion, the body. wild and imaginative but never that insightful/interesting. and kind of annoying in that “we’re the first people ever to talk about sex frankly and openly, aren’t we great” way.

I feel so much pain, so much sorrow for the people that loved me while I was incapable of receiving it. Friends who I did not get to know me any further than the blackout drunk on the edge of the friendship circle, friends who I pushed away through acts of sabotage. Partners who saw light in me where I could not, who loved me in the hope it would help me see it too, and surely suffered deeply seeing their love, efforts, and support fail to take root. My family who worried while I all but ignored them. I was help captive by my own self hatred, my denial of the truth of myself.

It was an immeasurably vicious cycle, I hated who I was so much I didn’t believe I deserved anything that might have resulted from being honest about who I am, like the huge amount of support I needed to wrench myself out of a life built using self hatred as a survival mechanism. Truly I hated myself so much, that the only thing preventing me from killing myself was the absolute belief that I did not deserve the relief of death. The good parts of my life, my relationships and occasional moments of faith in a better future, were entirely superficial. They could not begin to penetrate and overcome the consuming void of my self hatred. It was nigh impossible to locate myself within this void, define my personality, goals, anything really.

My relationship with my body was obviously one of violent contempt. I thought all I was good for was sex. I only accepted that people I liked would want to spend time with me if I gave them sex. I asked little else, just please fuck me, and I will do whatever else it is you want me to do, be funny, be interesting, act out other aspects of myself that I had no faith in whatsoever. My work was fuelled by self hatred. It doesn’t bear thinking about the amount of bookings I went through glassy-eyed with my head filled entirely of thoughts of self loathing, self debasement, self destruction. How often I would sit in the girls’ room imagining being stabbed, having my bones broken, being tortured. That was how I got by.

If I had to live in my body, I had to suffer. I had to put myself outside myself and objectify myself entirely, let others assist with externalising how violently little I cared for living in my body. It was a release and a trap in which I was bound. Sex was my sole purpose; all I enjoyed, and the tool I used to involve oblivious others in my self harm. I was steadfast in my defence of this cycle. I saw no way out, and I didn’t dare ask for help, so I lied. It was always fine, I was always fine. Getting further away from those around me, getting harder to love, getting closer to oblivion. And I guess this is why transition literally saves lives. I am amazed that I wasn’t one of the casualties, and I can barely comprehend how lucky I am to be here now. I did have love and support, only as much as I accepted, but it was enough. Most of all I had my strength.

I started considering the possibility I was trans when I was about 20, but I simply brushed it off. It kept popping up, and I would think to myself: it doesn’t matter, it’s probably not true, and it’s so extreme and drastic, it would be way too hard. I was scared of thinking about it, I had a sense that it would be too much. So I didn’t. I grieve for the years I spent repressing it, when I could have done something, even just fucking thought about it, until repressing it was the entirety of my mental energy expenditure. I didn’t take it seriously, even after I reached the point where I knew it to be true. I was too conditioned by my self hatred and how it manifested with sex: to give up my desirability would be to give up everything. I couldn’t give up the only love I could accept, physical, and I wasted away so much bigger love in the process.

In order to maintain the intimacy I had, I had to hold back from revealing the size, the importance, the urgency, the immense pain, the conflict, the terror of being trans. I could barely scratch the surface of it myself. The voice of my self hatred overpowered a lot of attempts to seriously focus on doing this thing for myself. Vicious cycles. Anyway, I made it through. I am full of love now. I am still in the process of learning to live in the world as though I belong here, as though my very existence does not grate against everything and everyone around me, as though I am as human as anyone else. I feel love to its fullest extent, I know it is truth, it is light, and it is everywhere. And I am so, so sorry to the people who tried to extend this energy to me before I was genuinely capable of accepting or understanding it.

It is hard, trying to communicate to people who I knew before, the change that has occurred in me. I couldn’t explain the conflict before, I can’t explain the peace now. I can’t apologise enough to the people I hurt through my own self destructive behaviour. I can’t apologise enough to myself. It would be dishonest to omit the role my mother’s abuse played in creating this specific, sex focused psychological profile of self hatred, but as with everything else, it’s in the past. I’m alive, I’m living my truth, and because I am, there is little room for regret in the sea of love that I am. Cisnormativity kills, and not just finally. It kills the material of the lives of people suffering through trying, in whatever way they can, to be something they are not. I find it hard to talk about what transition means to me, always have. But it’s something like this.