Gender stuff. (Warning: this is going to get GRAPHIC.)

EDIT: This entry is likely to be revised many times before I leave it alone.

In 2005, a psychologist gave me a test to see if I was suffering from gender identity disorder. The test consisted of questions such as, "Would you rather be a nurse or a mechanic?", and, "Do you enjoy wearing makeup?" The doctor said that the answers I gave did not indicate any gender identity issues, and she made me feel as if discussing the matter any further would be a waste of her time. The questions on the test were written from a hopelessly outdated and rigidly heteronormative perspective, and the psychologist was obviously uninformed and ill-equipped to deal with that kind of issue, so I dropped it. At the time, I just needed my meds, and, being without insurance, my choice of providers was limited.

But I didn't forget about it. How could I? I've had dreams that I was male ever since I was little. I still have those dreams on a regular basis. In dreams in which I have a male body, I feel free and unburdened and better than I have ever felt in waking life.

I reached out, talked about it, got to know many transgendered people. I even went to a transgender support group with my then-girlfriend. After a lot of research and some serious soul-searching, I made the decision to see how I felt presenting myself as male. That is why I originally changed my name to Morgan.

I had fun as a boy. I passed remarkably well, considering the size of my tits. I absolutely loved it when people addressed me as "sir," and kids referred to me as "that guy with purple hair." Ultimately, though, it felt artificial. I attribute this to the fact that, in order to pass as male, I had to turn the butch dial all the way past 11. When I was forced to move back home with my mother, I abandoned any attempt to present as male, because it just wasn't worth the hassle of trying to get her to understand.

Though I didn't present as male anymore, I had still "transitioned" from Heather to Morgan, and I consider that, in itself, a triumph. Morgan was me. Heather was someone else, someone my mother invented, someone my peers and teachers and bosses and partners had forced me to be against my will. Morgan is who I always have been. I often joke that I am a queer man in a woman's body who enjoys dressing in drag.

It isn't really a joke.

If you are stuck in a gender binary mindset, none of this probably makes any sense to you. If you have never encountered a man who dresses in drag for fun and not because he wants to be a woman, you're probably thinking, "So what's the probem?" (Also, note that it is nearly impossible for woman to dress "in drag" because ... well, I could write a paper on that.)

Imagine it this way. You have a favorite outfit that you wear when you go out for special occasions. You look great in it, and you always get compliments on it. You like the way it looks, but it's not the most comfortable thing in the world, and it requires lots of preparation, so it's not for every day. When you just want to relax, it stays in the closet (no pun intended), and you wear whatever is most comfortable. Now, imagine that you have to wear that outfit, or one very similar to it, for the rest of your life, and it doesn't disappear even when you take off your clothes.

If I had been born male, I would enjoy wearing a "special outfit" on weekends. I'd be the kind of guy who isn't ashamed to look fabulous. I might even dress in drag. But I'd shelve my tits and put my wig away when I was at home, just being me. I'd probably dress pretty plainly for every-day goings-on, only occasionally breaking out those cute pumps to go shopping in, just because. I would still date mostly men. Mostly. I mean, I get along with boys better than I do with girls for the most part, but I still find women very attractive. Who knows. Maybe I'd even date more women, since I'd have a cock of my own to play with. Whatever. Gender identity is not the same as sexual orientation. You knew that, right?

Fabulous or not, I fit the definition of transgender because I identify with a gender other than my biological one. Sometimes, I actually envy trans folk who happen to fit the gender binary. A really butch girl becomes a boy, a really femme boy becomes a girl. Of course, it's never really that straight-forward, and I don't mean to undermine the incredible fortitude it takes for any individual to transition. It's just that my gender does not exist in a list of neat little check-boxes, and in a world that is still largely stuck in a heteronormative paradigm, there isn't really a place for me, or those like me. (I do know of others.) I'm in the minority of a minority. Par for the course.

Outside, I am Morgan, the woman. Inside, I am Morgan, the man. I can't even climax during sex unless I visualize having a penis. (Freud would have a field day with me.) So why didn't I just go through with a transition? Get a double-mastectomy, maybe look into some hormone treatment, and possibly genital surgery? Why? Because I think that stuff would make me feel even more like a freak. I was "gifted" with a costume body resembling that of a fertility goddess. Big tits, big hips, big thighs. Flatten my chest and I'm just going to look like a flat-chested fat girl. As for the other bits, the surgery is risky, dubiously successful and prohibitively expensive. Though male-to-female surgery has come a long way, allowing trans women to have fulfilling sex lives, female-to-male surgery isn't nearly as advanced. To put it bluntly, I will never have a proper cock and balls, like I do in my dreams. I will never be able to ejaculate. I will never be able to write my name in the snow. (Go ahead, laugh. It's funny.)

Beyond any of that, probably the biggest reason I never sought a medical solution is because I care about the people around me. This may sound strange, but it's the same mechanism that has prevented me from attempting suicide in my darkest moments. If I were to fully, physically and legally transition, I would essentially be killing the girl to give life to the boy. Though many of my loved ones already know of my gender issues and would be supportive, there are other things to consider. How would I explain this to my in-laws? How would it affect my husband's well-being and reputation? I don't like my mother, but I must still consider her feelings, and having her drop dead of a heart attack isn't on my list of things to do today. But yeah, if it was just me, if I had no one to consider but myself (and I happened to be a millionaire), I probably would have done it years ago.

My spirituality is my saving grace in all of this. It allows for fluidity in gender and gender expression. Some Native American traditions may have identified me as a Two-Spirit, and I embrace this idea. I believe in reincarnation, if not in a linear fashion, then at least in shared memory. Perhaps I am remembering maleness from another life. Maybe this is the first time I've ever been a woman, and I'm just not used to it. Regardless, I cling to the idea that I have a purpose in this life as a female-bodied individual. In spite of all, I am happily married to a wonderful man. Maybe that's why I was born in this body-- because I was meant to marry this man, who is supportive and loving, but not gay. Even if he was gay, and I was legally male, we couldn't have married in Ohio, so there's that. But having a wonderful, stable relationship has not erased this part of me.

So what to do? I don't know. Probably nothing. It feels better just to get it out there in black and white, talk about it, let it breathe instead of denying its existence. I am nothing if not adaptable, and that is something I have always been proud of. I know who I am inside, and that's what counts.

Art

I decided last night that today I would make some art. My goal for today was that I would produce some sort of art by the time I went to bed tonight. I have accomplished that goal, and it feels very good.

I've actually been feeling quite good all day, for a change. I was a little icky when I woke up, like I always am, but I pushed past it and got myself dressed and out of the house. I was worried, because I didn't have much cash for the coffee house, and if I stay there for hours I run the risk of getting low blood sugar if I don't eat. I made myself a high-protein breakfast, and decided to go anyway. On the way there, I found $5 on the ground. I took this as a sign from the gods that They were pleased with my decision to get out and make some art today. That little "miracle" really picked me up and improved my mood.

I took my pens and paper, as well as my digital tablet, to the coffee house. I realized when I got there that I had forgotten the power cord for my computer. It forced me to shut the computer down for a while and work only with my pens, which I think was a good thing, because with a computer comes many distractions that are not art.

It is amazing how time flies when I am working on a drawing or other project. I put my pen to the paper and when I come up for air, two hours have passed in what seems like only a few minutes. I finished the line-work for a piece, which I will scan in later tonight for the purpose of coloring digitally.

Anyhow, I'm hoping that this feeling of accomplishment can nudge me into a pattern of productivity in terms of art and personal growth. Things have been stagnant for far too long.

Here we go again.

I have had a lot of blogs. Some of them still exist on the Internet, like this one (still active) and that one and this one and even that one over there, but most of them have been abandoned, unrecoverable and past the point of relevancy in my life.

I'm not good at finishing things I start. I tend to get bored, lose my way, have another idea, or get discouraged, until I find the next shiny thing to chase. Maybe that's one of my "symptoms," but it's also part of who I am. I know it, I appreciate it as both facet and flaw, and I roll with it. I might revisit this, you know, if I feel like it, but I have other stuff to write about now.

This blog is very likely to end up being mostly stuff I need to tell my therapist. She's a good therapist. I like her. I trust her. She knows that journaling helps me to put my ducks in a row, so I can get a clear shot at them, or something. So, if you're not into reading the introspective ramblings of a 35-year-old woman who has been variously diagnosed with borderline, bipolar, major depression, PTSD and anxiety disorder, go look at kittens or something.

So, to the task at hand. What's going wrong in my "right now":

1. My husband does not have cancer.

Oh, yes, this is a good thing, but I don't know what to do with all the stress and effort I stored up just in case the biopsy had shown malignancy. We've been dealing with this possibility since just before the new year, and before that, it was the general craziness of the holidays and my grandfather-in-law's illness, and before that it was moving again, and before that it was the bedbug infestation and the psychotic landlord, and before that it was the house not selling, and before that it was the wedding ... I don't even know if I remember how to actually relax. When I rest, I'm not really resting, I'm distracting my mind from the stress, which is a kind of stressor in itself.

2. Drugs.

I've been on Lexapro at various doses for the past 10 years. It doesn't really work anymore, but I'm scared to change to anything else because of my bad experiences with Celexa, Effexor, Prozac, and Paxil. (The only major SSRI I haven't tried yet is Zoloft.) All of them gave me side effects I could not live with, such as migraine, anorgasmia (that's the inability to orgasm), spontaneous crying spells and even compulsive yawning. I tried Lamictal for a mood stabilizer, but it gave me severe muscle cramps and a rash, and the only other mood stabilizer I've been offered is lithium, which I refuse to take on the basis that I like my personality and my liver, thanks. Alternating or in conjunction with anxiety, I also have episodes of deep, energy-sapping depression. I took Welbutrin for a while to help with my energy levels, but stopped because of concerns about exacerbating my anxiety. I am still dealing with bouts of crippling anxiety, for which I take Ativan very sparingly, even though it does not seem to be as effective anymore. Buspar does absolutely nothing, and I am afraid to ask for benzo anti-anxiety drugs because every psychiatrist I've been to in the last decade has assumed I'm going to OD or become a junkie, despite the fact that I have no history of drug or alcohol abuse. Oh, and my therapist has diagnosed me with ADD, a condition I've never been treated for. Obviously, I need a new psychiatrist, but I have not had any luck finding one since getting health insurance. This frustrates me. A lot.

3. Monthly horrors.

Though I have not kept as careful a record of my moods as I did when I was going through CBT, I have noticed that the worst of my episodes happen days before or during menstruation. I define "episode" as a period of extended anxiety, depression or, occasionally, anger, that affects my ability to communicate and function as an adult. If it's anxiety, all I want to do is curl up in a dark room and sleep until it goes away, and it's very difficult for me to leave the house for any reason. If it's depression, the same thing happens, except that the reason I can't motivate myself to move is that I don't see any point in doing so. If it's anger (which is the most infrequent one), it comes out of nowhere, and instead of saying or doing anything to hurt others around me (usually my husband), I turn it all on myself. The anger comes with mental images of cutting myself or hurting someone else. I have not given into those images since 2006, when I was hospitalized, but I'm really weary of it. I had actually convinced myself that my husband was going to leave me the other day, and of course that's ridiculous. I'm also very weary of needing to cry and being unable to.

4. Creativity constipation.

I need to make things. I can't find the inspiration or the motivation. This makes me really frustrated. I'm an artist, and I feel like I have all of these images and things that need to come out and play, but I just can't make it happen. My husband bought me a digital tablet and drawing paper for Christmas and I've barely touched them. It makes me feel guilty, which further dampens my creativity, and it's a vicious cycle.

5. I don't have a penis.

It doesn't destroy my sex life, it doesn't make me feel horrible every single minute of every single day, and I think I've mostly dealt with this gender identity/body dysphoria/need-to-be androgynous thing, but... it keeps creeping back. And I don't know whether to revisit it, or just leave it the hell alone, because I have enough to worry about, and that would just upset everyone and everything in my life again.