Mental Dust-Bunnies

As usual I see ghostly strands of thought and oddly shaped puzzle pieces connecting myself to the wider world. It would be satisfying to think of myself as wholly self-contained, and yet I’d be mistaken. My friend’s latest blog post, the articles on agoraphobia I downloaded years ago, even today’s heart-jolting awakening by unannounced tradespeople, they all contains bits and bobs that bind me together.

Do you experience agoraphobia? Have you ever? I’ve tried to explain it to numerous people over the years and yet some still encourage me to go for a relaxing drive, or to travel unaccompanied to see family, as though it were no great thing. Once again they prompt me to question my communicative abilities along with their listening skills.

Those who have experienced it, however, truly get it. And those with uncommonly wonderful listening skills, well, I’m thankful beyond measure for them. Without them I felt formless, unfathomable, and sad.

Today I was rereading the academic papers I’d downloaded and printed snippets of, and all manner of connections were pealing like bells in my head. I started thinking of traditional Maori healing and what I’ve heard about its holistic nature. I remembered how thankful I’d been for the feminist bookshop, even though my experience of working there was dire. Feminists and feminist literature had made so much sense of my own experience, during my early adulthood, that I’d thought I could stop searching and start enjoying life. Now I connected dots between identity, personal relationships and cults, sensitisation to invalidation and coercion and shopping malls, and between my interests in bio-biologie, Temple Grandin and outdoor pursuits. I started seeing my ‘affliction’ in a whole new light. And I wanted to write again, after a period of wondering what’s the point.

At this point my lovely new cat is making alarming editorial decisions, forcing me to cut this post short. Here’s a link to one of the helpful scholarly items, and here’s another. Please share any links that you think I’d enjoy or find helpful. Thank you!

After much deliberation I adopted an adult cat.

I considered rats instead, since I’d been denied that pleasure as a child. My siblings and I had enjoyed pet mice, guinea pigs, rabbits, cats and birds galore, so I’m not too bitter, but I always wanted rats. Sigh. But I know where I am with cats and I had to consider who might look after my pets if I ever managed to go away somewhere. I can just imagine my friends’ faces if confronted with friendly long-tailed rodents. Hmm…

My new pal had been surrendered to the animal shelter for reasons unknown. I know the stated reason. I just don’t believe it. But that doesn’t really matter because I’m not here to judge. Things happen. She’s obviously been well treated and is now quickly adjusting to her new home and purring up a storm. She’s a corker.

She also has a strange name that I can’t share here. Not sure I’ll change it on the paperwork because agh, bureaucracy, but at home she’s Meg or Mog.

People here were so sweet about the death of Puss. Thank you, thank you. It was much appreciated. ❤

Fair warning: this is a long one, so I’ll give you the short version first:

In my youth I was involved in a cult and in some special interest groups that exhibited cult-like qualities. I later left an abusive relationship with a person who had plans to become the charismatic leader of their own cult – motivated, I believe, by their traumatic experiences in an evangelical church/cult. So when I encountered accusations of cult-like behaviour in transgender communities, I was alarmed and did my own research. I now believe that my own trans-centric, transfabulous social experiences do not qualify them/us for cult status.

Now here’s the long version:

One of the things I truly, madly, deeply appreciate about my trans community is the phrase “you do you.” This is conveys a message of inclusion to people who are frequently subjected to exclusion by the wider community. The message is that you don’t have to pretend to be anyone but yourself with us. You are great as you are. We celebrate diversity. Welcome!

I’d like to emphasise the point that we are often subjected to exclusion (and worse) by the wider community. As a result, many of us have depression, anxiety and post-traumatic stress.

Early on in my decisionmaking process, I noticed that there were people who were detransitioning. For those who aren’t familiar with the lingo, detransitioning is when someone who started gender transition (otherwise known as gender affirmation) decides to stop medical treatment and reverse the process as far as possible. I say as far as possible because some aspects are irreversible. This was all discussed with me in depth, as part of my hormone approval process.

Because I am nothing if not thorough when making decisions, I paid attention to what people said about their own experiences of detransitioning. I read their blog posts and sought out YouTube videos on the subject. I like need to think ahead and factor in Plans B, C and D. Just in case.

Some people had been excluded from their straight/gay/lesbian/religious communities when they came out as trans, and that had been highly distressing. It had left them without suitable support while navigating the inevitable ups and downs of transition, and sometimes it was too much to handle alone. Upon detransitioning, they were welcomed back into the fold, with or without recriminations. Or they remained in the trans community. Or they were left with nowhere to turn, because humans can be grotesquely cruel.

Some had reluctantly detransitioned due to complex and unforeseen medical complications, and I made a note of what they were, given my own age and medical history.

Others had come to the realisation that they had made their decision to transition prematurely, without thinking it through clearly enough. Or the information they’d based their decision on had been inadequate. Sometimes they blamed others for this.

And then there were those who had made the best decision possible at the start, only to discover that their priorities had changed with age. Maybe they wanted to start a family and hadn’t been able to afford to freeze eggs/sperm at the outset. Or they were thrilled with some side effects and struggled too hard with others. Or they could no longer afford the hormones. Or their partner/family/children/employer needed them to perform a different role. There are shiploads of reasons why people choose to detransition and I was pleased to know that it was possible. Just in case. You know, because I’m a worrier.

I was interested in the themes of blame. In those who did not accept responsibility for their own decisions. It’s not new, I’m sure tattoo artists hear similar stories, as do plastic surgeons, teachers, AA members and so on. It was the booze, my mum, the dog, my boyfriend. I may be an adult but don’t you dare hold me responsible for my own behaviour. I know, this sounds harsh and I’m tempted to edit it out for that reason. I don’t want to poke anyone in tender places. I guess I just don’t understand.

What interested me most in all these stories was the occasional assertion that trans communities are cults. Apparently we recruit (queers, does this sound familiar?), we coerce, we manipulate, etc. To what end, though? I needed to investigate.

I hope you have a refreshing beverage at hand.

First, let’s look at the key elements of a cult. I’ll quickly do an online search and see if it matches my personal experience.

These are from an article, ‘What makes a cult?‘ by Rick Ross of the Guardian.

1. Charismatic leader
2. Process of indoctrination or coercive persuasion (brainwashing)
3. Economic, sexual and other exploitation

They are the three primary characteristics of a cult, according to psychiatrist Robert Jay Lifton, as detailed in the article. It summarises all I’ve read to date.

In one religious group I was briefly part of, all three aspects of this list ring true. We had a charismatic guru and our days were full of activities dictated by him. Every aspect of our lives was monitored. Sleep deprivation contributed to my submissiveness. Although personal interaction with loved ones in the outside world was discouraged, we were sent out into that big bad world to fundraise and we received none of the proceeds for our private use. Instead, it was considered selfless service and part payment for our (spartan) housing and food. I was often barefoot and inadequately dressed for the weather. It could be argued that I was a victim of a cult. However I did not feel like a victim. It was my choice to join and I chose to leave when I recognised the red flags. Although people tried to talk me out of leaving, I was not punished for it.

One of my family members belongs to a religious group that I consider a cult. Again there is an authoritarian leader and a strict set of rules to obey. Members are threatened with being shunned if they leave, and can be shunned for transgressions including spending time with family members who are ‘sinful’. They are sent out into the sinful world for the purpose of recruiting and there are negative consequences for not participating in this. My relation’s beliefs regarding creation vs evolution, and many other topics have radically changed over the years as a result of their indoctrination. While privately horrified, I support them doing what’s right for them. So far it is working out ok.

I’ve written before about being in groups that fostered conformity rather than diversity and critical thinking. If you’ve ever fallen off the vegan/animal rights wagon, switched political parties or come out as bisexual after living with lesbian separatists, you’ll know what I mean about possible negative social consequences. I’ve come to distrust groups that are exclusively inward-looking and insular. I distrust organisations, spiritual or otherwise, that encourage submerging your own needs in the cause of the common good, especially if those needs involve adequate food, housing, clothing and recreation. And I distrust groups and individuals who insist that their theories are Truth, while discouraging discussion or dissent.

A lot of these red flags were common to my experience with an abusive partner. They wanted me socially isolated and sleep deprived and obedient. They believed that they were the way, the truth and the light, and woe betide me if I wanted to leave. I’m sure that rings bells for other survivors. My ex had a traumatic history involving a charismatic leader and an evangelical religious group that punished people for being gay or gender non-conforming. When they spoke harshly to me, I could hear those words being dredged up from past trauma and recycled. Recognising this made it easier to leave. I learned much from that experience.

When it comes to trans communities, I find them completely different. Yes, we sometimes bond over the shared experience of being mistreated or misunderstood. They are very real experiences, rather than the imaginary threat of eternal damnation or promises of enlightenment or eternal life. Nobody is encouraging me to cut ties with loved ones or other groups, or to pledge obedience. Yes, there are individuals who get off on power trips and superiority, but there are no charismatic leaders as such. Unless I’m totally out of the loop or we are including YouTube personalities in that category? Some would argue so I guess, but good luck enforcing any perceived authority. As far as I can tell there is no systematic exploitation either. Nobody has pressured me to do anything except refrain from being a jerk. Does that sound cultish? Yeah, nah.

As for the indoctrination aspect, well, maybe there’s a case to be made. I’m not saying I was brainwashed, but learning the lingo was one of the hardest parts for me. All I wanted was a Transgender for Dummies booklet, letting me know the basics and how to access non-judgemental and informed people with whom I could talk things through. Instead, for the longest time I felt as though I would never measure up and never get the hang of the language. That can still be daunting but it’s not a necessary element of membership. I still couldn’t pass an exam if anyone set one. It just slowed me down.

It does help to learn which words are painful for others to hear, and when people are in pain they often lash out at those closest, so I’ve been told off a few times for inadvertently hurting others. Having said that, empathy and consideration are greatly appreciated. Diversity is celebrated. Plus, I can leave at any time. If anyone dared tell me otherwise, I’d see them for the insecure/immature person they were and ignore them. It’s my life, I’ll be me, thanks.

The last thing I was ever going to do was listen to anyone who wanted to control me. There were a couple of non-trans (cis) friends who wanted me to shut up about the trans thing or accept their own prejudiced interpretation of what I was feeling. That was never going to happen, so they left. I learned the hard way to remove coercive, manipulative people from my life. So that’s why this ‘trans cult’ idea surprised me so much. I’d have run a mile! But that’s just my own personal experience and I’m interested in others’ stories.

Outside was where I wanted to be when I worked in an office. Even when working in bookshops, I couldn’t wait for my lunch break, to go sit in the park, eat and read, and hug trees. I brought leaves back to sticky tape to the wall by my workspace. Outside was freedom, was air, was possibility and adventure.

On weekends I caught the train from Sydney Central Station to the Blue Mountains, to bushwalk. I had the guidebook and snazzy daypack, purchased from an outdoor adventure shop in the city, and spent hours planning the next walks. None of my friends were into such things, so instead of giving up, I travelled alone. I’m proud of myself for this. I didn’t let anyone know exactly where I was headed though, which now horrifies me. I could have so easily been targeted by any number of predators, so consider myself lucky. But those long train rides and long walks, alone with the birds and wildflowers and crisp mountain air and waterfalls, they were perfect.

One weekend I travelled to a small Permaculture nursery in the foothills and returned home to my parents’ house with a wildly inappropriate selection, my enthusiasm and curiosity having obscured my judgement. My father, seeing how happy I was to explore this new hobby, kindly indulged me, and while I later travelled further afield he tactfully informed me of certain plants’ removal. The lab lab beans had taken over the suburban backyard and been ruthlessly dispatched. The carob tree had required ground-level pruning. The yellow-flowering bansksia rose, so vigorously Triffid-like that it had made a bid for world domination – it too was neutralised. What survived and were appreciated for many years were the native banksia tree and the blueberry ash. Slow-growing, ecologically suitable and attractive to both humans and wildlife, they were the better choices I’d made.

Don’t Fence Me In became my theme song and I started to resent the dictates of roads and footpaths. Naturally that led to musings on forging my own way in life and to that popular poem about the Road Less Travelled. So I headed out of town for increasingly longer periods.

Camping trips, whether at the beach or at Down to Earth festivals, were minimalist affairs. Kitchen sinks were later versions, with partners, but all I needed then was a tent, sleeping bag, change of clothes, drinking water, camping stove, cooking pot and bowl and cutlery, and dried food. I hitched rides, shared lifts with friends of friends or with the mail delivery truck, when public transport was unavailable. I just wanted out and away. I slept on couches and floors en route if necessary.

This astonishes me now, as a perpetually anxious older person. I don’t even really enjoy going inside others’ homes any more, let alone appreciate sleeping on their floors or riding with strangers to unknown locations. I’ve become a strange old goose. That’s why I love these memories and am thankful I travelled so much while I still could. So long ago, and so far, far away that it seems a dream.

The work experience my high school arranged was a pivotal experience and not in a good way. I’ve often thought about how it shaped many of my later decisions and how redolent with humiliation and disappointment it was.

And yet, given all that, I’m pleased that the vet’s arrogant dismissal of me, the backroom menial tasks allocated to me and his scathing performance report ultimately set me upon a more suitable path. Not one that enjoys the same income and social status, granted, but one better suited to my values and abilities. It’s been a rough, Spartan road, but it’s my road.

What would I say to that young, naive, shattered person? “It’s ok. You’re ok. It’s one person’s opinion and let’s face it, how long did he actually spend with you in those two weeks? Was he encouraging? Did he ask you anything about your own pets, your academic history or hobbies? Did he share anything meaningful about his work day or the years of training? Did you gain any useful insights into that career, or was he, let’s face it, inadequate? Who else would you like to talk with? I’m more than happy to organise it and debrief with you. We can repeat the process as often as you need, in order to gain enough information to base your next decisions upon. I’m here for you. You’re not alone. And by the way, you’re a wonderful kid – ok, wonderful young adult. I love you. Oh, and it’s ok to make mistakes. I’ll say that last thing as often as you need to be reassured, because I can see it’s been eating you up. To be human is to make mistakes, and there’s no getting round it. With practise it’s sometimes fun!”

The recent extended experience of shame that I wrote about in my last post has enabled me to look at some earlier painful situations without flinching. In doing so, I’ve noticed more and reclaimed a little more of myself. It’s an oddly liberating thing, to up my ‘distress tolerance’. It’s a pity we’re not taught how to sit with painful feelings as kids, or how to sit with others who are hurting. It’s a pity so many of us are shamed for what are very natural responses. Yet mid-life is not too late to learn such things, and a mid-life crisis seems perfect for reassessing values and behaviour. There’s hope for the old fart yet.

PS: It’s the first time I’ve tried to add a link to an external resource, so here goes…

https://www.cci.health.wa.gov.au/Resources/Looking-After-Yourself/Tolerating-Distress

I may not be in paid employment now (ok, I’m not), so it’s fun to remember that I’ve experienced a few different types of work. Here’s a selection:

Paid employment:

Junk mail delivery

Saturday and school holiday paper delivery

Babysitting

House cleaning

Clerk at insurance company

Stock tidying at fabric shop

Back room junior at children’s bookshop

Back room dogsbody at women’s bookshop

Residential care of children with disabilities

Residential care of adults with disabilities

Child care at Toy Library

Labourer in recycling area of municipal rubbish tip

Casual in vocational facility for people with disabilities

General labouring and gardening at private educational facility

General labouring and gardening at private homes

Gardening and animal care at biodynamic mixed farm

Growing plants and selling them at markets

Selling cards that feature my own photography

Rubbish collection after community market

Bartering:

Gardening at private homes, as a member of a Local Exchange Trading System (LETS)

House sitting, which often included pet sitting (LETS)

Working for my keep on organic farms (WWOOFing)

Voluntary work:

After school and weekend recreation support for children with disabilities

Meals on Wheels

Tree planting

Charity collector

Preschool dogsbody

Lawn mowing

Community garden committee

Women’s drop-in centre worker

Plant propagation at community nursery

Banner painting at community centre

Fruit and vegetable shop assistant (social enterprise)

Contributor at community newsletter

I’m currently reading Stephanie Land’s book about being a maid and reflecting on my own experiences of being one of the working poor. And although the full time insurance company job had a liveable wage, I would have rather died than stay there. The corporate life does not spark joy for me.

What work brings you joy? I would love to hear, if you want to tell…

Before coming out to others, I complete a complicated dance that includes second-guessing, double-checking, scanning for safety, scanning for understanding, scanning myself for the energy to answer questions, scanning myself for emotional stability, and assessing the cost:benefit ratio. It’s a time-consuming yet essential dance that usually results in me deciding not to come out.

I don’t like coming out.

At twenty-three I came out as a lesbian to my family, five years after coming to that conclusion myself. I’d waited until I had my first girlfriend and until I lived far, far away. How far away? Overseas.

For five years, back in the good old days of card catalogues, I’d ‘researched’ alone in quiet libraries far from my home where nobody we knew would see me. Among the psychology textbooks that spoke of deviance, and the tasteless B-grade schlock novels, were a few autobiographies, a few short story compilations and a few cheesy novels.

Amid those bookshelves I slowly came to terms with the words others had shouted at me in high school. The only lesbians on TV back then were in Prisoner, and I was nothing like them. At night I listened to community radio, where the cloistered questioning queers like myself could access validation and comfort. I kept the sound down low.

In my first share house and while working for progressive organisations full of hippies, I kept the information to myself. The Sensitive New Age Guys, SNAGS, were still sexist and homophobic, though in veiled ways. I met a lot of great feminists and lesbians and became close to some. I didn’t want to be gay. I hoped that I’d just find the right guy.

Meeting my first girlfriend was a revelation. There were no further questions. Of course I loved women. What followed was twenty-five years of loving women, and being open about that. It was necessary for me to be out, as hiding was too close to shame and I carried enough of that about other things. But it was tough. It was a choice that carried its own consequences, and the ubiquitous homophobia, veiled and blatant, wore me down.

Now, for me, coming out is on a need-to-know basis.

It’s not necessary that everybody be out; that’s a decision for the individual alone. Sure, being out means you’re visible for youth and your peers, which can help everyone feel less isolated or peculiar, but it’s not a law. Everyone has their unique circumstances and their reasons. It’s not for others to judge.

After top surgery everything about me was raw and squirmy and I found it all funny. Almost daily I sat down and just let the words pour out until they stopped. Then I typed it all up and emailed it to a few trusted mates. Months after that, my usual reserve kicked back in and my writing languished in a folder, unedited.

This is a snippet of one daily outpouring:

I’m finally sitting here after a long break, wondering what the hell to write. I notice that I haven’t yet touched on the subject of surgery. That subject still feels raw. Last night as I sipped chamomile tea and felt myself gradually relax, I realised that my body still holds some terror about the surgery. I’m still avoiding it mentally, recently changed the subject when someone veered off my own well-worn conversational path, and still feel squirmy when touching my own chest. So I wouldn’t mind exploring that subject.

I wrote to a friend today about phantom nipples – the tissue above the scars on either side of my chest that crinkles up in the cold and has some sensation. I didn’t mention hairiness because it’s funny to me but not necessarily appealing to others. But I do enjoy the squirmy fascination of the regular close-up photos I take when changing the micropore tape strips. And when I was applying silicone gel directly to the scars, I took a perverse enjoyment in that discomfort too. It’s taken me a long time to feel as though my chest wasn’t going to break from mishandling. I don’t think I’m a hypochondriac but I sure was worried I’d ruin things and … (insert worst case scenario). Yep, typical anxiety disorder catastrophising, LOL. At least I’m consistent!

I seem to be working my way backwards to the day of surgery.

The bruises on my chest remain as shadows, even now. I would like to hear from the surgeon, without fainting, what exactly he did to the tissues in that area to cause that amount of bruising. To understand the cause and effect of it all, because the extent of my ignorance is staggering. I refused to take any photos until they’d started to fade. The original magenta and indigo colours horrified me and I had to laugh and dissociate a little to avoid being sad. 

No, all my energy back then was directed at healing and maintaining basic levels of hygiene and sociability. I had no spare energy for emotionality beyond bouts of thankfulness. I was immensely grateful for friends who checked in on me, for the friend who fed and entertained me, for family kindnesses, random displays of tenderness, and the thoughtfulness of neighbours. Not to mention the reliability, humour and gentleness of paid home helpers – they were amazing. Especially K, who shall remain an initial here for privacy reasons. Dwelling on thankfulness was a pleasure.

K went above and beyond, bringing turmeric lattes and odd snippets of news from the outside world that were guaranteed to make me smile. She seemed to intuit just what I needed – the jokes, the self-deprecating anecdotes, the reassurance that she understood that being naked and helpless and reliant on others was not necessarily fun but had its funny aspects. I never felt awkward with her and let’s face it, there was no room for modesty. I needed her help with showering and drying me off afterwards, before tucking me back into the bondage garment otherwise known as the compression vest. 

My ample belly was extra puffy from painkillers and the compression garment emphasised its size to a hilarious degree. I felt like a Santa impersonator, or that I’d fast-forwarded to a post-transition life as a bloke with a bugger of a beer habit. Either that, or as a neighbour suggested, my substantial chest had slid south. Thank goodness for laxatives!

Let me see if I can pin down the events that my body-mind would rather forget, and name them so that they lose their power over me. Hmm, the hospital time, basically.

I struggled with the distance from home and lack of familiar elements (besides my internal commentary and hyperventilation and physical trembling when alarmed).  These were predictable, having lived with an anxiety disorder and agoraphobia for so long. I was scared when they said I had a post-surgical haematoma and needed further surgery, because I didn’t understand what it all meant and didn’t have the available brain cells to ask, let alone understand. And I struggled with the helplessness and my reliance on the kindness (and availability) of others. I doubt that anyone enjoys those, let alone fasting and later, the dearth of decent digestibles. Then there was being given minimal notice to pack and evacuate my room, so that they could change the sheets for the next person. Wobbly, dizzy and with zero upper body strength, I was expected to accomplish this alone, with my support person stuck in traffic.

A week later, swollen like a beach ball and needing to return to hospital in the city by 8am, we got lost. These were all bearable and obviously I survived, so the next step might be to observe and release. Acknowledge that it was hard and it’s over. I won.

The searching, waiting, fretting, planning, researching, saving and healing phases are far behind. Overthinking continues in bursts. Coming out is sporadic. I’m happy. Such a prosaic word, and so satisfying to use.

It’s been a heck of a ride and now I’m gleefully coasting. The roughest parts are behind me.

Am I tempting fate by saying this? Tut-tut, quit catastrophising.

Thanks for joining me!

I’m here to explore my personal history. The more queer stories out there, the better chance of people finding those they can relate to. I speak only for myself – I’m not a trans spokesperson and have no intention of becoming one.

Sharing my process here is a gesture of trust. It’s mainly so that others on that questioning path might find recognisable signposts or comfort, but it’s also for my loved ones to understand me a little better. Some thought that my gender transition came out of the blue, because I’d not shared until the last minute. Some thought it a whimsical or trendy choice, despite my utter disregard for trends in general.

Thoughtful, compassionate questions are welcome and I will do my best to answer them in a way that respects both parties. I will not be engaging with trolls, as it is a blatant waste of everybody’s time.

If you are trans and find any of my posts offensive, please let me know via comments or, preferably, the Contact page. I’m always open to learning.

If you are a grammar nerd, please feel free to leave your corrections in the comments. I mean that in all seriousness. Constructive criticism of any variety is welcome. I wish to do better. Thank you for caring.

All photography is my own.