Trans Trending-Who is Transitioning

marisbananaba-Age 19

Seth-Age 18

Sammy-Age 21-Mother of a 2 y/o

Marshall-Age 15

Riley-Age 15

TheWesleyGiovanni-Age 18

Sid-Age 21

Pat-Age 16

Charlie-Age (youth)

This will be the last Who is Transitioning posts of the year 2013. Looking back on the Who is Transitioning posts of this year and years previous, two things stand out like the proverbial sore thumb-the strong presence of lesbian youths and the growing absence of older lesbians transitioning.

I attribute the growth of lesbian youths transitioning due to the combined catastrophe of an acceptable hyper feminine female idea, a declining unacceptable feminist DYKE role model and social media reinforcing both, signaling a new silent unnamed lezbophobia.

I ascribe the declining transition of older lesbians to the increase in state sanctioned "gay marriage", giving older lesbians a sense of "polite society" normality/acceptability. This normality decreasing familial homophobia giving both family and dyke a new sense of dyke worth/pride/love.

So while my feminist dyke soul is highly against "gay marriage", there has clearly been a silver lining I missed. But while there is a conspicuous absence of older lesbians filling the trans pit, homophobia and the male medical machine are making up for it by shoveling in more dyke children and dyke youths. None the less I still count this as progress, especially when I have seen with my own eyes, some of those older lesbians who detransitioned or whom turned away from the trans chopping block and are now vocal about their trans experiences, opening windows and doors for more dyke youth to climb out or run through!

Great job! Be your own best example and then be an example for someone else!


The Beginnings of an Autogynephile

From a very recent Google search that hit this blog:
While I cant definitively say the above is a teenage boy on the path to destination female fetishizer land, given the circumstantial evidence gleaned in this search/search mobile device together, were this a court case there isnt a jury in all the land whom wouldnt declare guilty as charged.

That this NintendoWii boy is searching the net to understand his feelings/confusions around the sexualized IDEA of "female" and how that IDEA pleasurably affects his penis is acceptable and understandable. Hell, I foolishly went to the net seeking out answers for my own medical issues and diagnosed my condition (by chance rightly) as having a fibroid. So while anyone seeking good medical help (psychological or physical) from the internet is foolish at best, ignorant at worst, to anyone seeking helpful intelligent information on anything that falls into the growing trans realm will find it near impossible!

This (I presume) young man stands about as much chance of real net help from the over crowded sardine packed trans misinformation ignorant information wrong information pudding headed information as a snowball stands in the fires of hell. And were he, like me able to turn to the medical world for help, a cure, there would be some acceptability there, but unlike me, he (unacceptably) cannot! Like the butcher leading a lamb to the slaughter house, the trans/scribed information leads straight to the medical community waiting with glittering cleaver in hand. In the words of Jim Steinman "in the land of the pigs, the butcher is KING!"

But when the king raises his scientific biological staff in one hand to the people and in the other hand a metaphorical patchwork of constructed crazy, his lazy logic shouldnt keep him upon the throne, but committed to the nearest bedlam. All this to say, this boy pig will likely be butchered in silence.


The Misunderstood

The Stone Boy
by Gina Berriault

Arnold drew his overalls and raveling gray sweater over his naked body. In the other narrow bed his brother Eugene went on sleeping, undisturbed by the alarm clock's rusty ring. Arnold, watching his brother sleeping, felt a peculiar dismay; he was nine, six years younger that Eugie, and in their waking hours it was he who was subordinante. To dispel emphatically his uneasy advantage over his sleeping brother, he threw himself on the hump of Eugie's body.
"Get up! Get up!" he cried.
Arnold felt his brother twist away and saw the blankets lifted in a great wing, and, all in an instant, he was lying on his back under the covers with only his face showing, like a baby and Eugie was sprawled on top of him.
"Whassa matter with you?" asked Eugie in sleepy anger, his face hanging close.
"Get up," Arnold repeated. "You said you'd pick peas with me."
Stupidly, Eugie gazed around the room to see if morning had come into it yet. Arnold began to laugh derisively, making soft, snorting noises, and was thrown off the bed. He got up from the floor and went down the stairs, the laughter continuing like hiccups, against his will. But when he opened the staircase door and entered the parlor, he hunched up his shoulders and was quiet because his parents slept in the bedroom downstairs.
Arnold lifted his .22-caliber rifle from the rack on the kitchen wall. It was an old lever-action that his father had given him because hobody else used it anymore. On their way down to the garden he and Eugie would go by the lake, and if there were any ducks on it he'd take a shot at them. Standing on the stool before the cupboard, he searched on the top shelf in the confusion of medicines and ointments for man and beast and found a small yellow box of .22 cartridges. Then he sat down on the stool and began to load his gun.
It was cold in the kitchen so early, but later in the day, when his mother canned the peas, the heat from the wood stove would be almost unbearable. Yesterday she had finished preserving the huckleberries that the family had picked along the mountain, and before that she had canned all the cherries his father had brought from the warehouse in Corinth. Sometimes, on these summer days, Arnold would deliberately come out from the shade where he was playing and make himself as uncomfortable as his mother was in the kitchen by standing in the sun until the sweat ran down his body.
Eugie came clomping down the stairs and into the kitchen, his head drooping with sleepiness. From his perch on the stool Arnold watched Eugie slip on his green knit cap. Eugie didn't really need a cap; he hadn't had a haircut in a long time and his brown curls grew thick and matted, close around his ears and down his neck, tapering there to a small whorl. Eugie passed his left hand through his hair before he set his cap down with his right. The very way he slipped his cap on was an announcement of his status; almost everything he did was a reminder that he was eldest--first he, then Nora, then Arnold--and called attention to how tall he was, almost as tall as his father, how long his legs were, how small he was in the hips, and what a neat dip above his buttocks his thick-soled logger's boots gave him. Arnold never tired of watching Eugie offer silent praise to himself. He wondered, as he sat enthralled, if when he got to be Eugie's age he would still be undersized and his hair still straight.
Eugie eyed the gun. "Don't you know this ain't duck season?" he asked gruffly, as if he were the sheriff.
"No, I don't know," Arnold said with a snigger.
Eugie picked up the tin washtub for the peas, unbolted the door with his free hand and kicked it open. then, lifting the tub to his head, he went clomping down the back steps. Arnold followed, closing the door behind him.
The sky was faintly gray, almost white. The mountains behind the farm made the sun climb a long way to show itself. Several miles to the south, where the range opened up, hung an orange mist, but the valley in which the farm lay was still cold and colorless.
Eugie opened the gate to the yard and the boys passed between the barn and the row of chicken houses, their feet stirring up the carpet of brown feathers dropped by the molting chickens. They paused before going down the slope to the lake. A fluky morning wind ran among the shocks of wheat that covered the slope. It sent a shimmer northward across the lake, gently moving the rushes that formed an island in the center. Killdeer, their white markings flashing, skimmed the water, crying their shrill sweet cry. And there at the south end of the lake were four wild ducks, swimming out from the willows into open water.
Arnold followed Eugie down the slope, stealing, as his brother did, from one shock of wheat to another. Eugie paused before climbing through the wire fence that divided the wheat field from the marshy pasture around the lake. They were screened from the ducks by the willows along the lake's edge.
"If you hit your duck, you want me to go in after it?" Eugie said.
"If you want," Arnold said.
Eugie lowered his eyelids, leaving slits of mocking blue. "You'd drown 'fore you got to it, them legs of yours so puny," he said.
He shoved the tub under the fence and, pressing down the center wire, climbed through into the pasture.
Arnold pressed down the bottom wire, thrust a leg through and leaned forward to bring the other leg after. His rifle caught on the wire and he jerked at it. The air was rocked by the sound of a shot. Feeling foolish, he lifted his face, baring it to an expected shower of derision from his brother. But Eugie did not turn around. Instead, from his crouching position, he fell to his knees and then pitched forwad onto his face. The ducks rose up crying from the lake, cleared the mountain background and beat away northward across the pale sky.
Arnold squatted beside his brother. Eugie seemed to be climbing the earth, as if the earth ran up and down, and when he found he couldn't scale it he lay still.
Then Arnold saw it, under the tendril of hair at the nape of the neck--a slow rising of bright blood. It had an obnoxious movement, like that of a parasite.
"Hey, Eugie," he said again. He was feeling the same discomfort he had felt when he had watched Eugie sleeping; his brother didn't know that he was lying face down in the pasture.
Again he said, "Hey, Eugie," an anxious nudge in his voice. But Eugie was still as the morning around them.
Arnold set his rifle on the ground and stood up. He picked up the tub and, dragging it behind him, walked along by the willows to the garden fence and climbed through. He went down on his knees among the tangled vines. The pods were cold with the night, but his hands were strange to him, and not until some time had passed did he realize that the pods were numbing his fingers. He picked from the top of the vine first, then lifted the vine to look underneath for pods, and moved on to the next.
It was a warmth on his back, like a large hand laid firmly there, that made him raise his head. Way up the slope the gray farmhouse was struck by the sun. While his head had been bent the land had grown bright around him.
When he got up his legs were so stiff that he had to go down on his knes again to ease the pain. Then, walking sideways, he dragged the tub, half full of peas, up the slope.
The kitchen was warm now; a fire was roaring in the stove with a closed-up, rushing sound. His mother was spooning eggs from a pot of boiling water and putting them into a bowl. Her short brown hair was uncombed and fell forward aross her eyes as she bent her head. Nora was lifting a frying pan full of trout from the stove, holding the handle with a dish towel. His father had just come in from bringing the cows from the north pasture to the barn, and was sitting on the stool, unbuttoning his red plaid Mackinaw.
"Did you boys fill the tub?" his mother asked.
"They ought of by now," his father said. "They went out of the house and hour ago. Eugie woke me up comin' downstairs. I heard you shootin'--did you get a duck?"
"No," Arnold said. They would want to know why Eugie wasn't coming in for breakfast, he thought. "Eugie's dead," he told them.
They stared at him. The pitch crackled in the stove.
"You kids plain' a joke?" his father asked.
"Where's Eugene?" his mother asked scoldingly. She wanted, Arnold knew, to see his eyes, and when he had glanced at her she put the bowl and spoon down on the stove and walked past him. His father stood up and went out the door after her. Nora followed them with little skipping steps, as if afraid to be alone.
Arnold went into the barn, down the foddering passage past the cows waiting to be milked, and climbed into the loft. After a few minutes he heard a terrifying sound coming toward the house. His parents and Nora were returning from the willows, and sounds sharp as knives were rising from his mother's breast and carrying over the sloping fields. In a short while he heard his father go down the back steps, slam the car door and drive away.
Arnold lay still as a fugitive, listening to the cows eating close by. If his parents never called him, he thought he would stay up in the loft forever, out of the way. In the night he would sneak down for a drink of water from the faucet over the trough and for whatever food they left him by the barn.
The rattle of his father's car as it turned down the lane recalled him to the present. He heard the voices of his Uncle Andy and Aunt Alice and they and his father went past the barn to the lake. He could feel the morning growing heavier with sun. Someone, probably Nora, had let the chickens out of their coops and they were cakling in the yard.
After a while another car turned down the road off the highway. The car drew to a stop and he heard the voices of strange men. The men also went past the barn and down to the lake. The undertakers, whom his father must have phoned from Uncle Andy's house, had arrived from Corinth. And then he heard everyone come back and heard the car turn around and leave.
"Arnold!" It was his father calling from the yard.
He climbed down the ladder and went out into the sun, picking wisps of hay from his overalls.
Corinth, nine miles away, was the county seat. Arnold sat in the front of the old Ford between his father, who was driving, and Uncle Andy; no one spoke. Uncle Andy was his mother's brother, and he had been fond of Eugie because Eugie had resembled him. Andy had taken Eugie hunting and had given him a knife and a lot of things, and now Andy, his eyes narrowed, sat tall and stiff beside Arnold.
Arnold's father parked the car before the courthouse. It was a two-story brick building with a lamp on both sides of the bottom step. They went up the wide stone steps, Arnold and his father going first, and entered the darkly paneled hallway. The shirt-sleeved man in the sheriff's office said the sheriff was at Carlson's Parlor examining the Curwing boy.
Andy went off to get the sheriff while Arnold and his father waited on a bench in the corridor. Arnold felt his father watching him, and he lifted his eyes with painful casualness to the announcement, on the opposite wall, of the Corinth County Annual Rodeo, and then to the clock with its loudly clucking pendulum. After he had come down from the loft his father and Uncle Andy had stood in the yard with him and asked him to tell them everything, and he had explained to them how the gun had caught on the wire. But when they had asked him why he hadn't run back to the house to tell his parents, he had had no answer--all he could say was that he had gone down into the garden to pick the peas. His father had stared at him in a pale, puzzled way, and it was then that he had felt his father and the others set their cold, turbulent silence against him. Arnold shifted on the bench, his only feeling a small one of compunction imnposed by his father's eyes.
At a quarter past nine Andy and the sheriff came in. They all went into the sheriff's private office, and Arnold was sent forward to sit in the chair by the sheriff's desk; his father and Andy sat down on the bench against the wall.
The sheriff lumped down into his swivel chair and swung toward Arnold. He was an old man with white hair like wheat stubble. His restless green eyes made him seem not to be in his office but to be hurrying and bobbing around somewhere else.
"What did you say your name was?" the sheriff asked.
"Arnold," he replied, but he could not remember telling the sheriff his name before.
"What were you doing with a .22, Arnold?"
"It's mine," he said.
"Okay. What were you going to shoot?"
"Some ducks," he replied.
"Out of season?"
He nodded.
"That's bad," said the sheriff. "Were you and your brother good friends?"
What did he mean--good friends? Eugie was his brother. That was different from a friend, Arnold thought. A best friend was your own age, but Eugie was almost a man. Eugie had had a way of looking at him, slyly and mockingly and yet confidentially, that had summed up how they both felt about being brothers. Arnold had wanted to be with Eugie more than with anybody else but he couldn't say that they had been good friends.
"Did they ever quarrel?" the sheriff asked his father.
"Not that I know," his father replied. "It seemed to me that Arnold cared a lot for Eugie."
"Did you?" the sheriff asked Arnold.
If it seemed so to his father, then it was so. Arnold nodded.
"Were you mad at him this morning?"
"How did you happn to shoot him?"
"We was crawlin' through the fence."
"An' the gun got caught on the wire."
"Seems the hammer must of caught," his father put in.
"All right, that's what happened," said the sheriff. "But what I want you to tell me is this. Why didn't you go back to the house and tell your father right away? Why did you go and pick peas for an hour?"
Arnodl gazed over his shoulder at his father, expecting his father to have an answer for this also. But his father's eyes, larger and even lighter blue than ususal, were fixed upon him curiously. Arnold picked at a callus in his right palm. It seemed odd now that he had not run back to the house and wakened his father, but he could not remember why he had not. They were all waiting for him to answer.
"I come down to pick pease," he said.
"Didn't you think," asked the sheriff stepping carefully from word to word, "that it was more important for you to go ell your parents what had happened?"
"The sun was gonna come up," Arnold said.
"What's that got to do with it?"
"It's better to pick peas while they're cool."
The sheriff swung away from him, laid both hands flat on his desk. "Well, all I can say is," he said across to Arnold's father and Uncle Andy, "he's either a moron or he's so reasonable that he's way ahead of us." He gave a challenging snort. "It's come to my notice that the most reasonable guys are mean ones. They don't feel nothing."
For a moment the three men sat still. Then the sheriff lifted his hand like a man taking an oath. "Take him home," he said.
Andy uncrossed his legs. "You don't want him?"
"Not now," replied the sheriff. "Maybe in a few years."
Arnold's father stood up. He held his hat against his chest. "The gun ain't his no more," he said wanly.
Arnold went first through the hallway, hearing behind him the heels of his father and Uncle Andy striking the floorboards. He went down the steps ahead of them and climbed into the back seat of the car. Andy paused as he was getting into the front seat and gazed back at Arnold, and Arnold saw that his uncle's eyes had absorbed the knowingness from the sheriff's eyes. Andy and his father and the sheriff had discovered what made him go down into the garen. It was because he was cruel, the sheriff had said, and didn't care about his brother. Arnold lowered his eyelids meekly against his uncle's stare.
The rest of the day he did his tasks around the farm, keeping apart from the family. At evening, when he saw his father stomp tiredly into the house, Arnold did not put down his hammer and leave the chicken coop he was repairing. He was afraid that they did not want him to eat supper with them. But in a few minutes another fear that they would go to the trouble of calling him and that he would be made conspicuous by his tardiness made him follow his father into the house. As he went through the kitchen, he saw the jars of peas standing in rows on the workbench, a reproach to him.
No one spoke at supper, and his mother, who sat next to him, leaned her head in her hand all throught he meal, curving her fingers over her eyes so as not to see him. They were finishing their small, silent supper when the visitors began to arrive, knocking hard on the back door. The men were coming from their farms now that it was growing dark and they could not work anymore.
Old Man Matthews, gray and stocky, came first, with his two sons, Orion, the elder, and Clint, who was Eugie's age. As the callers entered the parlor where the family ate, Arnold sat down in a rocking chair. Even as he had been undecided before supper whether to remain outside or take his place at the table, he now thought that he should go upstairs, and yet he stayed to avoid being conspicuous by his absence. If he stayed, he thought, as he always stayed and listened when visitors came, they would see that he was only Arnold and not the person the sheriff thought he was. He sat with his arms crossed and his hands tucked into his armpits and did not lift his eyes.
The Matthews men had hardly settled down around the table, after Arnold's mother and Nora had cleared away the dishes, when another car rattled down the road and someone else rapped on the back door. This time it was Sullivan, a spare and sandy man, so nimble of gesture and expresson that Arnold had never been able to catch more than a few of his meanings. Sullivan, in dusty jeans, sat down in another rocker, shot out his skinny legs and began to talk in his fast way, recalling everything that Eugene had ever said to him. The other men interrupted to tell of occasions they remembered, and after a time Clint's young voice, hoarse like Eugene's had been, broke in to tell about the time Eugene had beat him in a wrestling match.
Out of the kitchen the voices of Orion's wife and of Mrs. Sullivan mingled with Nora's voice but not, Arnold noticed, with his mother's. Then dry little Mr. Cram came, leaving large Mrs. Cram in the kitchen, and there was no chair left for Mr. Cram to sit in. No one asked Arnold to get up and he was unable to rise. He knew that the story had got around to them during the day about how he had gone and picked peas after he had shot his brother, and he knew that although they were talking only about Eugie they were thinking about him and if he got up, if he moved even his foot, they would all be alerted. Then Uncle Andy arrived and leaned his tall, lanky body against the doorjam and there were two men standing.
Presently Arnold was aware that the talk had stopped. He knew without looking up that the men were watching him.
"Not a tear in his eye," said Andy, and Arnold knew that it was his uncle who had gestured the men to attention.
"He don't give a hoot, is that how it goes?" asked Sullivan, trippingly.
"He's a reasonable fellow," Andy explained. "That's what the sheriff said. It's us who ain't reasonable. If we'd of shot our brother, we'd of come runnin' back to the house, cryin' like a baby. Well, we'd of been unreasonable. What would of been the use of actin' like that? If your brother is shot dead, he's shot dead. What's the use of getting' emotional about it? The thing to do is go down to the garden to pick peas. Am I right?"
The men around the room shifted their heavy, satisfying weight of unreasonableness.
Matthew's son Orion said: "If I'd of done what he done, Pa would've hung my pelt by the side of the big coyote's in the barn."
Arnold sat in the rocker until the last man filed out. While his family was out in the kitchen bidding the callers good night and the cars were driving away down the dirt lane to the highway, he picked up one of the kerosene lamps and slipped quickly up the stairs. In his room he undressed by lamplight, although he and Eugie had always undresssed in the dark, and not until he was lying in his bed did he blow out the flame. He felt nothing, not any grief. There was only the same immense silence and crawling inside of him; it was the way the house and fields felt under a merciless man.
He awoke suddenly. He knew that his father was out in the yard, closing the doors of the chicken houses. The sound that had wakened him was the step of his father as he got up from the rocker and went down the back steps. And he knew that hiw mother was awake in her bed.
Throwing off the covers, he rose swiftly, went down the stairs and across the dark parlor to his parent's room. He rapped on the door.
From the closed room her voice rose to him, a seeking and retreating voice. "Yes?"
"Mother?" he asked insistently. He had expected her to realize that he wanted to go down on his knees by her bed and tell her that Eugie was dead. She did not know it yet, nobody knew it, and yet she was sitting up in bed, waiting to be told, waiting for him to confirm her dread. He had expected her to tell him to come in, to allow him to dig his head into her blankets and tell her about the terror he had felt when he had knelt beside Eugie. He had come to clasp her in his arms and, in his terror, to pommel her breasts with his head. He put his hand upon the knob.
"Go back to bed, Arnold," she scalled sharply.
But he waited.
"Go back! Is night when you get afraid?"
At first he did not understand. Then, silently, he left the door and for a stricken moment stood by the rocker. Outside everything was still. The fences, the shocks of wheat seen through the window before him were so still it was as if they moved and breathed in the daytime and had fallen silent with the lateness of the hour. It was a silence that seemed to observe his father, a figure moving alone around the yard, his lantern casting a circle of light by his feet. In a few minutes his father would enter the dark house, the lantern still lighting his way.
Arnold was suddenly aware that he was naked. He had thrown off his blankets and come down the stairs to tell his mother how he felt about Eugie, but she had refused to listen to him and his nakedness had become unpardonable. At once he went back up the stairs, fleeing from his father's lantern.
At breakfast he kept his eyelids lowered as if to deny the humiliating nights. Nora, sitting at his left, did not pass the pitcher of milk to him and he did not ask for it. He would never again, he vowed, ask them for anything, and he ate his fried eggs and potatoes only because everybody ate meals--the cattle ate, and the cats; if was customary for everybody to eat.
"Nora, you gonna keep that pitcher for yourself?" his father asked.
Nora lowered her head unsurely.
"Pass it on to Arnold," his father said.
Nora put her hands in her lap.
His father picked up the metal pitcher and set it down at Arnold's plate.
Arnold, pretending to be deaf to the discord, did not glance up, but relief rained over his shoulders at the thought that his parents recognized him again. They must have lain awake after his father had come in from the yard: had they realized together why he had come down the stairs and knocked on their door?
"Bessie's missin' this morning," his father called out to his mother, who had gone into the kitchen. "She went up the mountain last night and had her calf, most likely. Somebody's got to go up and find her 'fore the coyotes get the calf."
That had been Eugie's job, Arnold thought. Eugie would climb the cattle trails in search of a newborn calf and come down the mountain carrying the calf across his back, with the cow running behind him, mooing in alarm.
Arnold ate the few more forkfuls of his breakfast, put his hands on the edge of the table and pushed back his chair. If he went for the calf he'd be away from the farm all morning. He could switch the cow down the mountain slowly, and the calf would run along at its mother's side.
When he passed through the kitchen his mother was setting a kettle of water on the stove. "Where you going?" she asked awkwardly.
"Up to get the calf," he replied, averting his face.
At the door he paused reluctantly, his back to her, knowing that she was seeking him out, as his father was doing, and he called upon his pride to protect him from them.
"Was you knocking at my door last night?"
He looked over his shoulder at her, his eyes narrow and dry.
"What'd you want?" she asked humbly.
"I didn't want nothing," he said flatly.
Then he went out the door and down the back steps, his legs trembling from the fright his answer gave him.

the end

Some are born misunderstood and some like Arnold, through circumstance, become misunderstood. In the long run it makes little difference because the pain endured remains very much the same. How many many many of us like Arnold didnt act in accordance to the correct expectations parents teachers friend foe society authority expected of us? Even in our blackest hours gripped by unspeakable pain and loneliness, we bravely dare to reach through the suffocating darkness toward another, only to find our voice has gone silent our outstretched hand crumble to the bare floor. 

I read The Stone Boy when I was 15 and Arnold's uncommunicative pain guilt and grief remains with me still, and for that my ironclad hand will always be outstretched to the misunderstood among us. 


Being your own woman doesnt make you a Man

A recent comment:
If I didnt know first hand, right hand, left hand or any hand just how deeply deeply deeply entrenched society is invested in the Gender Straight Jacket I would suspect the compounding accumulative ignorance doled out in this comment, inauthentic. But that I have bore witness to this exact garbage heap beginning with my first breath lends it complete credibility and despite how fundamentally ignorant the points in this comment may seem to some of us, believe me you, it aint so for most!

Just this morning I saw this picture
a feminist xmas shopper took reiterating ten fold many things this young female commenter spoke of for her reasons to believe she isnt merely less than female BUT non-female altogether!

Sadly or perhaps scarily the Gender Straight Jacketed points this gal makes arent limited to the garden variety pink-girl-blue-boy nonsense, hers going into women's health issues as well. I have no way of knowing where her knowledge of women's health comes from, but she clearly (like the rest of her world) didnt bother to look beyond what she was either told or foolishly assumed. Because the gist of her comment is pedestrian GSJ notions warranting no further comment from me, I'll just briefly address her women's medical health points.

Regarding preventative non cancerous breast removal from the Susan G Komen website:
and with regard to how easy it is for women to obtain the tying of their tubes etc, this is what comes up when Googling articles on doctors refusing to do so:
So much for scientific masculine reasoning, which by the way maintains the GSJ to the HIGHEST degree to the detriment of all.


Treating Girls like Boys Equals Feminism, NOT Transition

From the article: "A 6-year-old girl who wants to be treated as a boy has been given a support worker to make sure she is treated as a member of the opposite sex at school".

My first thought after reading this was 'why are or would a child be treated/educated differently because of their sex, in school'?? The immediate second thought that followed was 'if this same girl and her mother declared her a lesbian, would she still be given a "support worker" to ensure her lesbianism was being properly upheld by her teacher and fellow student body'??

The mother claims she well knew her daughter was truly a boy because by age three her daughter refused to wear dresses and tried cutting her hair short, including the girl later telling the mother she was a "boy". Ignorant simplistic Gender Straight Jacketed thinking that would have millions upon millions of girls past, present and future deemed boys, including myself!

The teacher of this girl apparently declined to treat the girl like a boy-again, this in itself makes ZERO sense and if this particular teacher is treating the girls and boys in her class differently she should be fired outright!-but I digress-the miffed mother took her cause lezbophobia to the NHS in order to acquire an "authority" that would back her narrow delusions of the sexes. The NHS Proper Sex Behavior Relegaters went so far as to install a "support worker" behavior nazi in class, policing both teacher and student body, in effect coercing them into maintaining the mother and child's delusions or else!

I cannot even begin to imagine the utter confusion this insanity would be causing the other children in class, especially the other girls. Girls whose little worlds are further circumscribed by their sex while this particular girl's world is widened to the unlimited world boys live in, simply because this girl's mother deems her behavior male and insists everyone else does as well. NOT because any of these girls should have their worlds constricted, BUT the price for a world of possibilities shouldnt be dependent upon their/their parents calling them boys!

The mother also stated I’ve neither encouraged or discouraged it, I’m just going with it. I just want her happy and confident with who she is”, she added. It is clear from this article and other articles on this girl that the mother has done nothing BUT encourage her daughter's confusion, beginning with planting the idea that her daughter is a boy based on shit like hair length and pants! The mother screams of lezbophobia. I would bet my very fucking life neither this woman nor the NHS has done anything to investigate this child's possible lesbianism anymore than they explained to her she didnt have to be a "boy" to be herself. No they instead explained and encouraged the exact opposite, that in order to be herself she MUST be a boy!

Last from the article: "In October The Times newspaper reported that the number of children wanting a sex change in 2012 saw an increase of 50 per cent compared to the previous year". 
As has been sadly predicted here far too many times and for too many years. Numbers which have also been predicted to sky rocket post publication of the DSM V, have and continue sky rocketing.


Female Dysphoria-OB/GYN Fears-An Ongoing Conversation

I received this kind email from one of my favourite queens:
First off, thanks a bunch Petie, I'm grateful for your well wishes. Over all have been recovering nicely, other than over extending myself Saturday with trying to Xmas shop and paying for it!

I post this because of what Petie says here: I fought with her to not let her butch identity override the needs of her female body. Living in a world that forces and reinforces the hatred of all things female and anything associated with female, it is scarily almost natural for any female who does not or cannot comply with the Gender Straight Jacket, to feel alienated from her body. That alienation ranges from uncomfortableness to hatred, all of which can fluctuate periodically.

I post this because THIS is a conversation we need to continue, because no matter where you are in your level of female body shame, that female body still needs to be cared for, ESPECIALLY if you notice something is wrong. I waited more than TWO years to get medical attention, TWO years of my quality of life slowly eroding all because I couldnt fathom going to an OB/GYN. I was lucky, my situation was fixable, granted its a slow road back to full health. But I have known and read plenty through the years of Butch women, who like me waited and waited and waited. But unlike me, their tumor/s werent non cancerous, theirs killed them because they were beyond help.

If you think something is wrong, find someone you trust more than life itself, tell them, let them help and support you and get you to a doctor. There is NO shame in being female, the only shame is in hating our sex to such a degree it creates a shame in being female.


Define "Trans" in the Real

Minus every conceivable external, what makes one a sex they biologically are not?


When Fear Creates Hate

Still very much in the process of recovering my health and this is some of the ignorance, hate and putrid vile aimed and fired at me, albeit behind the cover of a computer:

I'll briefly address all underlined points.

The subject listed is "dirt hates her body"- a curious subject title considering this is a space that dismantles how misogyny attacks the female body to such a deep extent that females turn that external misogyny within and on themselves. I and many other women have been quite forthright regarding how dysphoria made our teen and young adult lives nearly unlivable. And how feminism and loving lesbian friends and lovers helped us to steal our female lives back from misogyny, to achieving a powerful female pride and an eventual boring comfortableness. I suspect the remark is the typical fear inspired "trans in denial" remark so often applied to any lesbian who lives outside the Gender Straight Jacket comfortably.

Next up is the chosen email name "teabag your face"- If not familiar, this is meant to be a degrading sexual act of a male placing his testes on or near the eyes of a female partner and his penis in or near her mouth. Its prime aim is to degrade, not to initiate any pleasure for the female. That a woman would use such a degrading, misogynistic male phrase illustrates a deep sense of shame and weakness in herself, specifically herself as a woman.

Next is something that makes no sense at all to me regarding being "sexually abused". As I was fortunate as a female not to have been sexually abused on any level, I can only speculate that either she hasnt read this blog for any length or the more likely culprit, pure transference.

Then we have "hating other people"- Outside of despising the systems of patriarchy/misogyny and all systems spawned from either, not having even a person or persons in my personal life that I have "hated" this remark makes zero sense to me.

Moving on to "you deserve to be raped"- this smacks of some serious self female hatred. No woman would EVER wish rape on anyone or thing unless so deep into self loathing from perhaps having been raped themselves or angry at their own fears of being vulnerable to rape. No matter how you slice it, it bespeaks of horrific internalized misogyny.

And then we have her wishing a trans female would "strangle" me and rape my dead body "tear your vagina to shreds"- Interestingly she doesnt put herself in the place of doing so, clearly she sees herself as much too weak and scared for the job. Again, this remark clearly illustrates this woman's notions of herself as powerless/weak simply because she's a woman. She needs a woman who has taken on a male role to do the killing and the raping because she as a woman is incapable.

Last but not least she says she would like to "jizz" on my "ugly face"- interestingly for the climax she momentarily puts herself almost in the male role in wanting to ejaculate IF she were a male, but because she isnt all she can do is wish.

Its interesting to break down comments that at first come across as nothing more than hate filled nonsense, but once we deconstruct such remarks the truths revealed underneath belie pain, fear, shame, self loathing and a host of other sordid emotions such comments seek to hide. I find it also interesting that dismantling misogyny leads some woman into perpetuating it.


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