My Thoughts on Pregnancy From Assault Pt.2, on Work Troubles Pt.1, on Pet Parenthood, and on Triggers

Started the morning with yet another panic/guilt attack. This whole natural life-bringer potential thing is kinda bullshit; why is the case that I, who choose not to birth children am faced with this unwanted dilemma while trans women who want biological children can never live their dreams on motherhood?

If I were in another position would I incubate for a trans couple/person or would the outcome remain the same: in termination?

Regardless, I ran late and arrived, to the horror of us both, that one of the two caregivers at the client’s home was not scheduled. This caregiver was (in typical fashion of my life) me, surprising no one. Scheduled caregiver, Christina, was super understanding; the sweetheart even offered to give up the shift due to the sheer inconvenience to me. I declined and drove to Lexington. After recounting this multiple times I am aware that it will upset me. I’ll continue the subject of this rant at a later time.

I cashed in my Common Grounds free drink coupon on a Pralines and Cream iced coffee, feeling like a true intellectual. Cat Guy Chris (henceforth CGC) met me and explained War Hammer ad nauseum . My fault: I did ask. We walked to the Cat Cathedral (henceforth CC) with the late morning sunshine peaking through the trees lining the downtown streets onto our faces. “The Boys” as he (and now I) call them, are gaining weight at long last. We spoke (CGC, not The Boys) of their activities (The Boys) and temperaments; their differences in personality remains astounding.

CGC tells me Mjolnir was never weened. Fuck. This explains, as CGC did to me, why Mjolnir feels the need to mew for attention. We will combat this with negative reinforcement in the form of straight up ignoring the little fugger’s cries. *Cue ugly waterfall of cat lady tears*

He tells me can keep them as long as I need on the condition that I maintain their flea, tick, and worm treatments independently. Far from a tall order. I’m fortunate he can afford their other essentials: he even insists on it. I’ll bring what I can, when I can, though we both know my caregiver pay is hella pathetic and covers nothing.

Flashback jab by a baseball commentator demonstrates daily mocking of PTSD triggers by the media and ablest strangers. Not surprised or disappointed, just angry. There’s a reason you’re a sports commentator and not an athlete: your ignorant mouth gets far more exercise than the rest of your fleshy physique. Would totally post this elsewhere, but I’m afraid I’d inadvertently offend and or hurt my disk jokey friends. Especially Gary. Uncle Gary (UG) and his longtime girlfriend-turned-fiancee split due to infidelity. This is according to my father. Maybe UG is polyamorous and doesn’t realize it or know what to call this possible inclination.

Still feeling like a burden to my new friends. This leads to more isolation leading to anxiety, depression, and the want of their or Sean’s company. Vicious cycle. Has my hyper social tendency spoiled me with endorphins from closeness to others? Does alone time help or hurt this feeling?

*I had to get to an appointment soon, so I will continue this later. Sorry to keep you hanging once more.


Mom came up behind me again Friday or Saturday afternoon. I reacted emotional. Then she did. Our interactions are strained since this and an apology would suffice to patch this gap. Unfortunately, it can’t come from me: not if I want to assert my need for their understanding and avoidance of my triggers. Concerning the procedure still not sure if I’m telling her before, after, or not at all. 

Nausea, mood swings, fatigue, vomiting, etc. remain ever-present symptoms of this. They impede my every thought and action whether through my work, home, and social lives. They are frequent reminders: this is a shit a situation.

God, I need sleep! I’ll have to blast the air and radio en route to Richmond. Home or chez Sam and Anna: that’s the question of night. I wonder what the music of the night will be.  


My Thoughts On A Missed Connection, Fulfilled

Seven years ago in August I went off to Western leaving everything I knew. I was however, holding onto the hope of something happening between a high school acquaintance and I. Dakota was in the band, chorus, and all of the musical productions in between. Tall, dark, and handsome: his talent pales in comparison to his passionate goodness. 

After five days of medicines keeping me from drinking, I returned to Third Street, my preferred watering hole. Having been there an hour I felt the need for some fresh air…spiced with various cigarettes. Sitting outside was the former friend with benefits. I didn’t expect to see him and our conversation was stunted at best. Tyler looked the same: long brown hair under a his signature beanie, Deftones t-shirt, and dark jeans. Only his eyes betrayed that my presence may not have been an entirely welcome surprise.

Dakota was with him; we reminisced about times past. There was definite sparkage of an old ember; I was unsure if anything would come of it. They were planning a show, maybe at Camp Catalpa if they could get permission in time. I stupidly assumed that it would be that same night. (No one laughed at me when they corrected me. I missed having a group of people that supported and never ridiculed me.)

He mentioned that his friend needed to get home. I offered them a sober ride which was, I’d imagine, more appealing than a PI and a night in lock up. We headed towards Tyler’s house, where everyone was staying. I’ll admit I was hoping for the chance to share some time and maybe a bowl or five. I left disappointed and without invitation.

After a round of pool and fruitless conversation with a romantic prospect of the feminine persuasion, I hinted to Dakota through messages that I wanted to smoke with him. Naturally, he saw right through my thinly veiled implication and asked me to come over. He warned me that there were a few bud bums there and we may need to go somewhere that was else. This was my first clue that some thing was happening between us. Something began seven years ago.

I’m exhausted from the rest of our evening together, so I’ll have to continue this later today. Stay tuned, my sole follower.


I arrived at Tyler’s house with my heart pounding in my throat. Shortly after I went inside I realized the bud bums outnumbered us and I was walking into an absolute sausage fest. He invited me outside with him while he had a cigarette. We sat in comfortable silence until he recounted how his latest down period lead him to wanting home. The way he said it had me thinking I was part of home. What happened next convinced me of it.

He walked me up to the toke cave; I told him about my previous condition over bud. His lack of emotional reaction was refreshing. Apparently mine was far from his only shared testimonial revealed to him and I was not the first with such a situation. By the second bowl I told him about Jesse’s episodes: the ones that finally convinced me to leave. As I was taking him through the last time and Tyler walked in. He too heard that I had to leave or die. I may have either hurt him or he finally understood why our time together was so needed. 

Around the final two words of the scenario their three or four friends joined. We played Texas Hold ‘Em until Dakota went down to play his guitar and write. After a few rounds of Bullshit I headed downstairs: he played until I was lying on the couch leaning on him. We drifted in and out of sleep until his friends came down, heading out to Waffle House. We joined them, only Dakota and I in Camille. The Keeneland location was dead. Dakota ended up not hungry yet kept me company while I ate an All Star Special. 

When we went back the guys headed upstairs: we split off to the downstairs guest room, where Dakota was sleeping. We didn’t get much in the way of sleep that night. We were on the bed with him pressed against my bad and the strangest thing happened: he asked to touch me without trying to first. This is something that has taken place precious few times before. Ruing the fact that I couldn’t give us what we both wanted, I made a choice. We’ll have to wait to find out whether it was the right one.

His hands were everywhere, but somehow still slowly mapping my body like he was committing it to memory. Like it was the last time he’d feel or even see it. Then his hands went to my breast and suddenly I couldn’t get enough of his touch. I turned over and we kissed like we were those teenagers again, first discovering what was then so new. I subconsciously wished that I’d first shared this part of me with him instead of Pat that next year. He took me a different way to a place I’ve been enough to know: know we may not be able to salvage a friendship if this didn’t turn into something else.

We sleep with his arm around my waist and across my chest. His breathing was all I heard until my alarm went off. I was still buzzing: unsure if it was from the bud or the boy though I was sure that I counted work like that. My text that the bleeding from surgery picked up in a manner that concerned me convinced my newly treacherous boss that I was in no condition to care for anyone else.

I remained in his embrace until around ten. I woke him and we recounted the previous night; neither of us broached the subject of what would come of said events. We couldn’t bring ourselves to confirm that we would be going separated ways: there was no chance of whatever could be keeping him in town. 

Sleep did not come when I arrived home; my bed felt utterly bereft of him and Buffy didn’t bring me the comfort it usually did.

He invited me back a few hours later after radio silence. The edibles they shared kept them lethargic all day but he was still happy to see me. He was not at all sick of my presence. He made me feel wanted and it felt new. We reconnected once more when I realized I needed food. I drove to Apollo’s only to bring home revenge pasta: I unknowingly ordered as they were closing up shop and I paid for it by crunching into uncooked onions. He took the pointedly doughy bread sticks as we took in some cheerfully, colorful anime. I went into the bed before he did.

When he came in I talked about a song sung by the recently deceased grunge rocker Cornell. “Like a Stone” had heavy religious connotation woven into his low toned lyrics and a part near the end told me the artist knew he’d die at his own hand. I played a few other songs including “Criminal” by Fiona Apple before he asked to show me the music of some new industry friends. One was the UK Voice champion bearing one of the largest ranges I have heard from a woman’s voice. She was magnificent. I shooed away a fleeting thought that I could be holding him back from that. That what we shared may get in his way. We went to sleep the same way we had before, in a comfortable physical and emotional embrace.

I realized I may have really fucked things up. Damn. Not again.



My Thoughts on Falling for Friends


Sean is flying to greener, warmer lands in a matter of weeks. He’s been so wonderful in giving me insightful advice. Talking to him, cliche as it sounds, reminds me that there are not only decent men, but extraordinary ones. I won’t pretend that his need for freedom of a significant other doesn’t dishearten me; believe me, I have tried. When we talk and I suppress my want for a different level of relationship; I feel like a fraud.

There is no doubt in my mind that he is aware of my feelings toward him. Despite this I will not sully our connection by pushing for a physical or romantic relationship at this time. Will I still hope that he changes his mind in the future: how can I not? But is it appropriate to use our confidence to worm my way into his heart or pants: absolutely not. His physical pointed distance at Pride Prom was all the sign I needed; I’m not what he wants. No one aside from his ex holds romantic space in his life.

He’s told me thins I highly suspect few, if any, know about his tumultuous life. I’ve told him he has a good twenty years on me in the life experience department. He was left with no choice but to grow up faster than I did. His home life was scary and I hope it’s improved since he’s been an official adult. It’s difficult to imagine someone coming out of such a situation as a well-adjusted adult. My mother, as a former social worker and my life troubles sounding board, has revealed to me that the majority of children from abusive or neglectful homes become criminals. I’m enormously thankful that he was spared this ill fate.

I will make a point to let him know through post cards, letters, and the occasional text that he was supported, though missed. Americorps will be so influential in his life. I’ve heard nothing but good things about it.

If I ever show this to him I truly hope he won’t hate, resent, or distrust me. I didn’t ask to be attracted to him: I’ve actively fought it. I’m in the position Michael Forrester was in when he decided my body was his for the taking despite my unconscious state and therefore lack of consent. While I would never do anything he didn’t want, the fact remains that I’m a mentor and confidant of sorts to his young man. I can bring myself to reality when I want to hold his hand or linger in a hug by remembering our age gap. I was learning cursive when he was first holding a bottle; I was leaving everything familiar for a shot at freedom when he was starting middle school.

Obviously age gaps don’t matter or are sought by some people when choosing a romantic companion, but this current life climate of ours is unstable for us both right now. Even if we had an embarrassingly cliche romcom airport scene in which he was blind to my affections and he’s had a grand “Eureka!” moment. That he’s somehow willing to sacrifice his need for independence to help heal my bruised disposition, in this case I would tell him to go. We can be the ones that got away as long as we still live our own lives.

I could see us, were he to love me, become hopelessly codependent and ruin each other’s lives. I need too much from a partner than someone else with unresolved past trauma could hope to provide. I believe the same could be said for Sean. This is, of course, largely no fault of our own. Despite this, risking the comfortable platonic companionship we currently enjoy would be quite possibly the worst thing we could do to each other or (especially) ourselves.

I won’t indulge the fanciful thought that we are some twenty first century, millennial star-crossed soulmates; that would be irresponsible and insulting to his autonomy.

My Thoughts On Pregnancy from Assault


The last nine days have been some of the best and worst of my life. While I’ve been dealing with the fallout of Jason bringing the nightmare of unwanted pregnancy to my door (or, rather, my womb), I’ve also made three new friends that I foresee being in my life for a while. Bonding over the scary situations we have encountered involving people (unfortunately) forcing themselves into our lives has brought us close, fast.

The speed scares me: the first time I’ve hastily added people into my inner circle. I fear this could end up going like last time. These people know my secret. They have the tools at their fingertips to destroy me. I’m not a terribly confident person. I’ve been drinking and smoking in this delicate condition, granted most of this was before that Thursday’s horror. They could tell the wrong person and my reputation is ruined.

Now I hold much doubt that they would take this opportunity to tear me apart. My PTSD-fueled anxiety is conjuring a heavy paranoia. I don’t get negative gut feelings from them as I do Kevin, who has proven himself an unstable stalker obsessed with one of my new friends.

I’m wearing my TARDIS socks in desperate hope that the Doctor will whisk me out of this dystopian political landscape and show me a future where my country does not marginalize. My health and overall well-being are being ceremoniously stripped from me, every layer depriving me of a fundamental right I took for granted. I may be walking through a landmine dense with birthers, but at least I can still do so. I may have to stay in a strange city hours away for an extra day to be choked with religious and sexist propaganda; I can still walk out of that clinic proudly not a mother. I may lose acquaintances for my choice of solution, but if they judge me at my worst for choosing my best they were never thinking of me.

Despite what Jessica and even Bella say, I am not becoming another struggling single mom. I’m not going to let myself and my life be broken down and intruded upon by an unwanted child and only gain friends ans strangers calling me “so brave” and “such an inspiration.” I will not bring about a vulnerable human that cannot take care of themselves that I could resent when I have not yet learned how to care for myself.