Reflecting on 2020 seems like too much of a task for me tonight. I will share some of my visions for 2021.

I’d like to experience a lessening of generalized anxiety. This is still pretty bad for me. I’d like to be able to sit with myself, most of the time, and feel grounded and safe and stable. Right now I have racing thoughts and a racing heart all too often. I want this to be a more rare state for me, and not a general way of living.

I want to connect with other people. I have some ideas up my sleeve. I want to build genuine community and friendships. One thing I have in mind is a writers’ retreat on our property, and I know Joey has ideas of bringing people here as well. I’m very excited about this. I’m hoping to surround myself with people often, with space to retreat of course, because I am an introvert. But I want to feel connections in 2021, like I never have. This will include branching out to see what offerings are available in my new town. I’m interested in taking lessons in all kinds of creative things if possible.

I want to use writing as a tool for healing. I really want to focus on this above all other things. I don’t want to focus on whether it is clever enough for an imaginary audience, or worse, marketable. I want to really express myself and create beauty in the act. I want to explore other art forms too, like pottery, clay, guitar, songwriting. I want this to be the year I do things without judgement and pressure from myself.

This is specific, but I want to have a website that better showcases my art, and not only my writing. I might be able to do that with this site. I’d also like to figure out how to get rid of the ads on this site.

I want to use my body more in 2021 and be more in tune. I bought an elliptical for the cold months, and I want to keep up my mindful walks and yoga. I want to focus on releasing trauma that has been stored in my body for years and years. I want to be physically freer.

I hope in general it is a year of healing energy and inspiration. Happy New Year, reader.

And now as promised, my reasons for going off testosterone. As you may have read several entries back, I had a heart attack in February 2020. This was a shock and still hasn’t been explained. But I found after I left the hospital that I gave a lot less shits what people thought about me. I think it was the brush with death.

The day that I went, I had decided that morning I was going to dress how I wanted and try not to care if people looked at me. I had on skinny jeans, a red camisole, and some makeup and nail polish. I planned to go downtown to Ithaca for therapy. So when I ended up at the hospital, there was even more confusion about my gender than there already usually is….After I said I was trans, they seemed to think I was a trans woman sometimes and were very frazzled. So I had to just grin and bare all that discomfort. Standing out with gender has historically felt unsafe to me. Or should I say, has been unsafe for me. Especially in medical scenarios.

Earlier that fall, after my depression started lifting, I was finding myself wanting to dress up again. I wasn’t just wearing the same plaid shirt and jeans everyday changing only my tee shirt and underwear (on a good day). I was showering or shaving….well, never, from when Joey broke up with me until when I started on ketamine treatments. That was a lot of months. That was how bad my depression had gotten.

I’ve always been someone who likes clothes. I enjoy putting together outfits that express myself. Have since I was a kid. After my depression lifted, I was able to start doing this again, and most my outfits got much more feminine. If I’m dressing more gay or fem and my hair and beard is styled, it’s usually a sign I’m doing well. Anyway, I started feeling even more comfortable after I left the hospital. I was just like, “fuck it! Life is too short.” I bought some new androgynous women’s clothes for our trip to Florida, and I felt great the entire time, even around Joey’s evangelical, pro-Trump parents.

When we returned from Florida, covid became a thing and we started quarantining. It was a weird time, obviously. I lost my job. I was doing a lot of hand-building with air dry clay and painting my sculptures. A lot of walks with my headphones on busy roads, yoga, and workout in my room. I was also struggling with a lot of body dysphoria. I was hating the masculine characteristics of my body. And they were becoming exaggerated in my mind. What’s funny is, as a teen, I wanted to be less curvy and I was so insecure that my butt was too round and large. Now I wanted the exact opposite. It was an obsession. This is awkward to talk about because it seems so shallow. But body dysmorphia is a type of OCD and becomes all consuming. It was a serious struggle. My body felt like it wasn’t me.

Then it occurred to me to go off testosterone. I never considered this; I did not wish to transition into a woman-presenting person. I didn’t really wish to shave my beard or be called She in public. Though I have wanted that, sometimes. More often I want to be a feminine/androgynous gay boy person. That sits the most correct with my soul and always has. Even as a young person, I conceived of myself as a girly boy, not a boyish girl.

I apologize if the way I talk about gender is confusing. I’ve kind of come up with my own language. It’s hard to explain how it works in my head. And established ways of talking about it don’t work for me. But I suppose you could say I am genderfluid and nonbinary or genderqueer. Many people would identify me as transmasculine. I have a lot of discomfort with that label. I conceive of myself as trans and feminine. But I also think of myself sometimes as a guy who transitioned from female (or FTM). Or a feminine trans boy. But I see myself on the feminine end of the spectrum. I have a lot of trouble with the word “man” though I want to be an adult, unlike the term “boy.” Not that I don’t also have masculine characteristics I suppose but….I mean, not really many. Of course this is all just gender stereotyping…….Argh!!!! I am sinking into the dreaded existential GenderHole!

Back to the point. I was uncomfortable in my body. It occurred to me that having a period once a month might be worth it. If it meant having a body that was less hairy and more shaped how I wanted.

So, I went off T. And every month I’ve been happier with how I look. I’ve only been misgendered as a woman once and it didn’t upset me. My face and clothed body pretty much just read as a feminine, somewhat androgynous guy. The change has been just dramatic enough. I’m lucky that it worked the way I wanted.

The people that I identify most with are femboys. The internet definitions would excluded me from this identity because I am over 30 and was not born male. But fuck that. I’m an adult, AFAB femboy.

Next time, I will write about the ways that I feel different: mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. This was a surprise, as I was skeptical this would happen for me. Also I will continue about what happened next with the whole “trapped by covid in a shitty apartment without a job” thing. Kinda crazy how I went from there to living where I do now.

Anyway. Good night, dear readers. Peace.

When I was a teen, I hated my body and any of it’s feminine characteristics. However, I have changed. I have been off testosterone now for about 6 months and I’m very happy with the results. Having a period sucks, but not as bad as it did back as a teen. To be clear, I don’t see myself as de-transitioning. This is just a journey with estrogen. Nor am I simply a woman now. I still pass as male and I am keeping my beard most the time. I don’t identify as a man or male or masculine. The only word I like is “boy” but that get a little weirder for me as I age. I need to invent a new word.

I went on testosterone therapy as fast as I could as a young adult. I knew I was trans at 16 and I wanted to start then. Unfortunately my parents were combative, and you needed their consent up to age 18. But as soon as I was able to I got started on the process, and when I was 20 and in my second year of college, I was finally able to start getting the injections. 

It was so different then than it is now. As I understand it, you can not just get your script for T online! This would have been life changing. I had to go though all this psychological testing to prove I wasn’t going to change my mind. And yet, 10 years later, here I am. But I don’t regret any of it in the slightest. Well, that’s not entirely true. I have times I wish I had left my chest alone and not had surgery. 

It was such a battle back then. There’s more room for fluidity now, but not back then. Not if you wanted hormones. At least at the clinic I went to, you had to be a very typical, straight male inside. It was suffocating and abusive, being bullied into that toxic false idea of what masculinity is (and as I said, I’m not even masculine in my mind.) 

I guess I just feel I am living proof that it’s OK if someone goes on hormones and changes their minds. I mean, on days when I want to look like a woman, its not exactly easy, and some work needs to be done, but it’s not so bad. Plus I prefer looking androgynous lately. Anyway. People need to not freak out so much about “what if trans people change their mind.” I wish we could almost just remove hormonal preferences from gender identity. 

Back to the whole “boy” question. Maybe this will change, but I really only feel right when I think of myself as a feminine boy. A femboy. Even though I’m 32, most people see me as in my twenties. Some have even thought I was a teen, like when I was working. I don’t want to be a child forever, but I really identify with boy, especially being someone’s boy. 🙂

I think in my next entry I will try to get into the reasons why I went off T, followed by some of the changes I’ve noticed. I want to be careful because as I feel more in touch with my femininity I also try to be aware that I could just be falling prey to stereotypes (ie: easier to cry, feel my emotions). But there are some truths to those things. I’ve experienced it, bodily. At least for me.

Eventually I’d like to get into what I feel spiritually about my gender. Spirituality is hard for me, and I honestly am yearning for a feminine spiritual guide. But this is a whole other point. This is where I will end this first part of the series on my journey with estrogen.

I’m an artistic perfectionist. I’d like to just be an artist. Artistic perfectionism leaks over the other areas of my life. I find myself miserable that I’m not working on something I “feel good about.” To give you an idea, this is the current state of my artistic affairs:

1. A romance novel that is supposed to be fun but I’m finding it impossible to get into writing. 

2. A blog that I update regularly with stories about life on the farm as well as creative pieces and general reflections on life. But this isn’t interesting enough and not enough people read it.

3. Usually a poem or two a day, at least started. They may be coming together for a collection. But I don’t know what I’m doing, and people won’t want to read poetry

4. A song I’m writing that I’ve decided is irritating, plus I can’t play guitar well. I am at least taking lessons soon and therefore not completely passive on this front. Oh, but recording music is too technical and difficult, so I’ll never be able to make an album. 

5. A journal I write in every few days, just about my feelings. I don’t do this often enough and I never write enough when I do. 

6. I have a pottery wheel and clay. But I forgot how to do it, and looking up lessons seems overwhelming. Plus the whole thing just seems overwhelming, especially setting up the ideal space.

7. I take photos daily, many of which are artistic in nature, and post them on Instagram. But this doesn’t count. 

8. I love drawing animals and plan to do a portrait series of our farm animals. But this is not speaking to me right at the moment, so I beat myself up that I’m not really even still a visual artist.

It’s easy to fall into artistic perfectionism. While this may seem desirable, it in fact stifles creativity. At the very least, perfectionist tendencies need to be saved until the final draft. Otherwise, why not just let it all out, and ride the momentum while it’s there?

Another trend I’m noticing is artistic pessimism. And like I said, this attitude seems to cloud over my entire life. I realized this today. While on a walk, I wasn’t even taking any of it in. It’s said that nature is healing, but not if you aren’t even seeing it, because you are so wrapped up in your frustrated thoughts. I was going over several of these projects, angry that I don’t feel like working on them. It’s no wonder why when I make it so negative for myself. And when I did realize I wanted to write poetry today, I felt frustrated anyway because where was it all leading? A poetry book? Who would buy it? How would I promote it? It just sounds like work, so I don’t even want to get started.

Another trend is the difficulty creating art for my own enjoyment. Appreciating the process, rather than thinking of it as a finished, consumable product. I’m completely wrapped up in if other people will like it, and it squashes my desire and enjoyment. Even when I am creating, which is most days, it is a waste of time because none of it may get used in a finished product. 

My goal in life is to create for my own sake, and maybe even learn to collaborate with others (I’m so bad at this with a few exceptions). Then, after I create what I love, by my standards, I want to share it with people because I want to share, not because I’m seeking something from them to make it all seem worthwhile.

This gets me thinking about all kinds of addictive behavior I engage in. I’m a strong believer that one can be addicted to most anything. Some things I’m addicted to now and have been in the past include drugs, alcohol, individuals, attention, sex…I could write another entry on all that. A tell-tale sign of addiction is perfectionist anticipation. “I will only be happy once ____.” It is also the desire to escape the present moment.

Why do I hate the present so much anyway? My gut reaction is, “It’s painfully boring.” But is that really it? I’m going to have to reflect more on it. I have a feeling it has to do with trauma and illusions of control. And just structures of the human mind. The kind that make meditating so difficult for most people.

Anyway, I want to work on this. Haikus have been a cool way of writing about what is in front of me. I will try other things as well.

Here’s the draft of a poem I wrote on the subject of artistic perfectionism while on that walk. 

Untitled

Let’s start an art of presence: What’s right in front of me?

Grassy soaked puddles reflect bare trees,  interrupted as I slosh through in my black rain boots. Brown dead leaves on the ground, coyote tracks in the snow, and two deer in the distance I almost missed with my head down 

writing this. 

there is a path, a longer way, and I take it, to think more on the futility of art to make you feel better. It is an addiction that doesn’t feed unless it is the art of enjoying the show, joining in, documenting the present. The art of enhancement, at least for me.

So much time and effort to escape the moments of my life.

The grey still pond. The patchy snow. The red Chevy pick-up juxtaposed with the dull-hued grasses. The old farm machinery on the horizon.

Let me use my genuine voice. Let me see things as they are. Let me enjoy myself, creating.

I.

I sit at the fire and see the hills of my home. Or rather, not my home, for they belong only to our eyes (as much as anything can belong to anyone). But I’m beside the point which is about when I look at those hills. I think about the haphazard crossings of other lives with mine. I think about the reflection of the trees on the pond. There’s a row of pines and red berries on branches. This is my home. I think that I’ll look at these same hills when I’m dying. But mostly, I think about chickens. 

II. 

Chickens in the cold, pecking, fretting, and groaning. Chickens running and tottering, flapping their small wings. Chickens huddled in the shed, making their comforting sounds. Chickens’ eyes get heavy as they fall asleep with the warmth of their sisters. Thinking of them, I won’t have nightmares tonight. 

III.

But often I do have nightmares. Looking at the yellow and grey evening sky, I think how chickens, sadly, do die. A mink’s massacre… A kindness after injuries… Accidents. “This is why I’m not ready to have a child,” I say over breakfast. But I accidentally became a chicken mother. 

IV. 

If I told you to picture a bird, I bet you would not think of a chicken. Chickens are seen as commodities, not animals.

But did you know?

They can tell apart over a hundred different chickens.

They have close friends.

They solve problems.

They grieve, and they love.

Chickens are people. We are chickens in other forms.

VI. 

Six remain this morning. 

I swear their eyes got wider. 

Some have blood on them.

Layered cream feathers. 

Hefty yet delicate. 

Red faces, gold eyes. 

In those eye I’ve seen

myself, since they were babies.

They aren’t stupid. 

I think of chickens.

I wonder what it’s like

inside their minds.

I cry for the flock.

How they clung to the bodies.

(How they search and call for each other, still.)

All we can do now is heal.

VII.

I sit at the fire again. The cherry trees stand out dark and curvy on the skyline, stretching towards the long clouds and silhouetted by the white hills. I hear the chickens in the distance, clucking and cooing. The rooster crows. My hands are white and cold as I write in my notebook with my cherished pen.

When things go wrong, we must come together. When bad things happen, we are drawn together, huddling to stay warm. We tend to our flock. We are creatures of instinct. If we cannot do this, the hurt is deep. I’ve known that hurt. I belong now.

I belong with the forest, the hills, the garden, my rabbits, the deer, the grass carp and largemouth bass. I belong with the cherry trees, the maples, the ducks, the chickadees, the harriers, the swallows, the coyotes howling in the distance, and the foxes yipping. I belong with the grove of pine trees, the dirt, the clay, the rain, the snow, the sun, the meteors, the stars, and the moon. I belong in the woods, in the pine grove, in the lake, warm in my bed, in his arms on the couch, typing at my desk, walking across the fields, and here by the fire. I belong with the chickens.

When you love, life is brutal. When life is brutal, you must love.