Man, I feel like a… well like a man actually.

If you haven’t read the first post I did about this then you can read that here: https://waggcomedy.wordpress.com/2012/10/26/man-i-feel-like-a-woman-every-day-of-my-life/

Alternatively, you can just not read that and I can save you some time by telling you that I’m trans and, at the time I wrote that post, I was in so much denial.

Last summer I dislocated my knee and spent a lot of time alone in the house. My friends came to visit me and offered me loads of support via messages but something wasn’t right. I realised that I had depression and that I had had it for a long time. (You can read more about that here: https://waggcomedy.wordpress.com/?s=Depression+nearly+&submit=Search

I have always thought about being trans. I mean I repressed it a lot but it had always played on my mind; in the middle of the night when I was wide awake. My therapist helped me to talk about what I described as “the biggest can of worms ever”. 

It is the biggest can of worms ever. It has shocked me and it is the most difficult thing to come to terms with.

People often talk about friends and family having to go through a grieving process but I’m grieving too. I plan to do a post on that at some point, but I’ll just say now that this isn’t an easy thing for me to get my head around.

I question it. Of course I do. But I’m a man. I’m a man who likes Tegan and Sara and that’s ok. I mean I was an honorary lesbian for 24 years. I am a straight man who likes a “lesbian” band. That feels weird. I guess I’m going to have to explain why to people but I doubt explaining my music tastes will be the hardest thing to do. 

I hope you all likes blogs about being trans because this blog is about to be full of transness! 

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Oh hi WordPress!

I bet you’ve forgotten that I existed and I couldn’t blame you!

I was horrifically sick for a week and went away for a week (more on that soon) but apart from that there are no excuses!

I have lots of posts already written just waiting to be published so expect a bit more content from me soon!

Say thank you more.

I hear a lot of people telling their tiny humans to “say thank you to the bus driver!” and they normally do. Whether it’s a quick thanks, a shy thanks or a bold, almost shouting thanks I always appreciate it.

We could all say thank you more.

Here are my current thank yous:

  1. Thank you to everyone who has stood by me recently. Notable thanks to close friends (that drunkenly ring me to tell me they love me), my mum, a couple of colleagues and my therapist.
  2. Thank you to every single person who works in any emergency service. Paramedics. PCSOs. Fire fighters. Coast guards. Mountain rescuers. Police officers. Don’t listen to what “The Sun” says. Have your cup of coffee in a public place; you deserve it. Every single day you leave your house not knowing what the day will bring or whether you’ll even return home. 
  3. Thank you to doctors and nurses and physiotherapists and porters and cleaners and receptionists in hospitals all over the world. The world simply would not exist without you.
  4. Thank you to my goddaughter who reminds me that happiness can be found at the top deck of a bus or at the bottom of a tub of poster paint.
  5. Thank you to the musicians who have managed to say all the things I can’t say and better.
  6. Thank you to my favourite poet who has changed my life beyond comprehension.

Say thank you more.

That sting.

This week I’ve felt that sting a lot. (Not that water infection kinda sting, thank goodness!) I’ve felt that sting of hurt when someone has said something that I find offensive.

A colleague told me that the only way I could have kids would be adoption (not true) and a friend undermined a situation which, for me, was very real and very serious but for her was little more than a passing phase.

And so I feel stung.

How does one deal with feeling stung?

A year ago I would have been bitter and angry but, as anger is a secondary emotion, I want to allow myself to feel hurt.

And boy do I hurt.

I’m not very good at being hurt. I hate being vulnerable and I associated being hurt with being vulnerable. I struggle to, rationally, admit that something has upset me.

Right now, I’d take a wasp sting over this emotional sting that is happening inside me. 

London.

Last week, I saw a video of people running away from the area where the terrorist act took place.

One of those people running was a woman wearing a hijab.

She was running for her life.

She was running for her life yet some people will say that last week’s terror attack was an act carried out in her religion’s name.

No.

I am fed up of hearing such things.

Every day millions of Muslims go to work and school and live their normal lives. They forget to get petrol on the way home and they help their kids with their homework and they fall asleep midway through a programme and have to watch it all over again. They tread on an upturned plug, have to untangle their headphones and they get crumbs in the butter. They miss work deadlines, get caught out in the rain not wearing a coat and they take their unwell pets to the vets.

They lead normal fucking lives.

Muslims are not terrorists. Muslims are people who believe in Islam.

Terrorists are morons who do not represent a religion.

No more intolerance. No more easy scapegoats. No more fear.

More love, support and unity.

Places I’m drawn to. 

My nan moved to a flat and out of the “family bungalow” about 6 years ago yet, for some reason, when I thought about visiting my nan today I was thinking of going to said bungalow. 

Why?

I have loads of extremely happy memories from the bungalow; including hundreds of my grandad who died before my nan moved out. However, I also have unpleasant memories from it and I’m realistic to know that the building is just bricks.

Having said that, when I found out she was selling the bungalow I was fuming. I had spent a lot of my childhood there and it felt like a second home to me. I would go there after school when my mum was working late and I’d had learnt to ride a bike in the back garden.

But without my grandad it wasn’t the same.

Her new flat, whilst spacious and light, is missing a presence for me.

Similarly, I’m drawn to Derby where my paternal grandmother lives and where my dad spent a lot of time.

I was talking to a friend recently and I expressed a yearning to go to Derby, even though I don’t feel like going there fulfils me. 

“You’re looking for your dad.”, she said “But he’s not there.”

It’s true. He’s not there. Pictures of him are scattered everywhere and half of the person who created him is there but he isn’t.

I stopped myself from making a last minute hotel booking in Derby recently and the yearning to go has gone.

I feel like Derby is where I run away to when my actual life (the monotony of work and the stress of relationships) gets too much. 

So how do I find peace with all of this loss and no substance to fill the space? 

Adult life.

I thought that, at 23, I’d be married to my teenage crush and that we’d be living in our own house with little versions of us running about causing havoc.

In reality, at 23, I’m drunk texting my teenage crush at 3am to tell her that I love her. We’re friends, it’s fine, she obviously thinks it’s platonic…

I was wrong about adult life. I had visions of me effortlessly drifting through it, ticking off adult goals on the daily.

Nope.

Adult life is me eating a “funsize” bag of popcorn for breakfast in the car on the way to see my therapist.

Adult life is me updating my union membership to premium even though I don’t know what it includes and it costs £10 more a month.

Adult life is me trying to find songs I like for my goddaughter to dance to that don’t involve words like “fuck”, “pussy” and “bitch”. 

Adult life is painting pottery on my day off when I’m hungover and trying not to vomit up 5 pints of cider.

Adult life is getting excited when my Tesco vouchers come through and then spending them on Pokémon cards. Pokémon cards for me. That I collect. At 23.

Is this what life is like at 30? Does Christmas ever become dull? Will I spend my pension money on cat toys for the cats that they don’t even play with?

Is anyone actually an adult?

From the outside I think I seem fairly mature and like I’ve got my shit together. I have a responsible job and people trust me with their children. Underneath that am I just an 8 year old who wants to nap, eat pizza and play in the snow? Yes. I’m not an adult. I’m a fraud.