I was feeling down today. I'd spent most of the day sitting around the house, doing nothing, eating a little too much; basically mixing all of the common elements of sloth. I realized that remaining inactive any longer would probably make me depressed, so I went out and took a bike ride. It was great; I worked some of my tension off and I found a pair of super-cute angel wings lying in front of a Salvation Army drop box. Well, I guess that's technically stealing, but I'm not above stealing the inconsequential from the oblivious.

I've been wavering between determination and melancholy as of late. The revelation of my desire to transition from man to woman has had a lot to do with it. I feel so happy that I'm finally on the road to understanding a large part of myself that went mostly ignored, and that's improved my mood. But whenever I think about how very far I have to go to really put my decision into action, I get down on myself. I try to make strides every day, but many times I avoid certain essential elements. For instance: electrolysis. The only reliable method of permanent hair removal, and absolutely necessary for any male-to-female transsexual. I'd love to start; it's a painful process, but I know that I have an extraordinary tolerance to pain. The problem is that it's quite expensive, and I have no inward cash flow to speak of right now.

Of course, that's just the cosmetic side of things. I need to see a therapist, both so that I can get a referral to an endocrinologist for hormone therapy, and so that I can work out a lot of issues I have surrounding the big transition. The mind is a web, wholly intertwined within itself. I have issues, this I know. I want to work out as many of them as possible before beginning an undertaking of the magnitude that I am about to. It takes bravery, determination, and a clear sense of purpose; I know that I have the first two in spades, but the amount of old issues I'm dredging up merely by acknowledging my feelings of gender incongruity is large.

I'm having doubts, too. Part of this is due to the classic definition of Gender Identity Disorder in the DSM-IV (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 4th ed.) - it states that one must have a persistent, unavoidable feeling of their current sex not being right. I feel an unhappiness with the role I've been given to play, certainly. I know that, were I to have have a choice, I'd prefer to be a woman. But I wouldn't say that I've regretted my time as a boy and then a man; I've learned a lot of lessons that I might not have had I been born a girl. I feel more complete to be and feel both man and woman.

But if I were told in no uncertain terms that I had to live the rest of my life as a man, I know I would survive. I'm strong enough inside that I can handle anything. Ah, but do I want to pursue the rest of my life as a guy? Isn't that the question? Well, yes and no. On one hand, when I thought I'd be a guy forever, I expected to die early and violently. I felt this unreasonable, violent presence within myself, always fighting with my happy, loving, giving side. Every so often one or the other would become dominant for a while, and I'd become the bastard within or the redeeming healer.

Eventually, I decided that, to keep myself from being torn apart, I'd stike a deal between the two: I'd utilize my lust for violence to help others, somehow. As time went on, I realized that this was mildly unfeasible, as the only group regularly given opportunity or license to use violence for the greater good were the police/military, and I don't think I could enforce anyone else's ideal of justice. Now, I'm beginning to realize that the conflict of the aggressive and passive was partially the unspoken, subconscious conflict of the male and female pieces within me. The process of resolving this conflict is achievable alone, but it would be expedited and the confusion would be lessened if I were to seek the aid of a psychiatrist/psychologist/counselor/headshrink's relative objectivity.

The real problem is finding someone well-trained. Transgenderism, transsexuality, et. al are not common in-depth subjects necessary for a degree in the psychological disciplines. I don't want to be my shrink's first transgendered patient; it will limit the advice and care s/he will be able to give me, and I may run the risk of simply not being understood. I've asked around, and I've found a couple people in my city who are well-recommended, but I'm not sure if I'll be able to afford their rates. My alternative is to go through my HMO, which leaves the question of finding someone qualified to help me within the limited pool of doctors it makes available to me. So far I've been too afraid to go forward on this matter, even though it is most vital to my transition and my very survival. But the great advantage of the blog-as-psychotherapy is that, after writing my fears, I can get past them. Tomorrow begins the hunt for help. My fingers are quite crossed.

Well, today's update shall be briefness itself. While recent entries have taken my verbosity to a new height, I don't think that constancy is a good thing for one's writing. As I grow, this Neue grows, too. It's a good feeling.

Alienation, eh. Yesterday I told my best friend that I'm starting the transition from man to woman. Wait, let's go back.

I remember coming out to him. When coming out to a straight guy, as a rule, you really should expect the worst. Not from Nick, though. While it took some time for him to get used to it, he was pretty supportive. You know, I felt so comfortable being myself around him. I would go to his house, sprawl out on his couch, let his little sister paint my nails, and rest. No need to force normality. I could just be weird and perky and happy.

Okay, Fast Forward now. To the present. He tried to talk me out of it, tell me that I just need therapy, explain that I don't really understand the decision I've made. It's the worst when you can pinpoint the exact moment where something falls apart. It was that kind of conversation.

Look, the upshot is that my best friend, my confidant told me that he didn't know if he could continue our relationship, accept my "weirdness". An arrow, a blow straight to the heart. I didn't really trust him to support me through everything; he's not especially responsive to the needs of others. But I wanted, maybe needed, so desperately for him to try to understand. I've spent a good three years of my life in a close relationship with him; I thought that he might be able to look past all the cosmetic, stupid shit and realize that I am me, irrespective of anything else.

It wouldn't hurt quite as much if I hadn't loved him. It's a word people throw around like so much oblong confetti, but, dammit, I would've traded my happiness to give him whatever he needed. The worst feeling in the world, I think, is realizing that someone you love doesn't love you. Maybe I assumed too much thinking that he felt like I did. I guess that's the burden of a woman's heart - loving a man who doesn't, can't love you back.

The situation has yet to reach its conclusion, but I'm not holding my breath. Whether or not he loves me enough to get past it, I've learned a sadly valuable lesson. I can count on no one to support me as long as I pursue life as a gender deviant. I always knew the day would come when I'd have to abandon my old life and everyone within it, but I never quite imagined it would happen like this.

I feel like the hero in every RPG I've ever played, right on the cusp of being thrown out of the idyllic bliss of his hometown and into a violent world. For the hero, entering the world of uncertainty and risk is the only way to grow to his innate potential. I dream of it: the constant struggle, the uphill battle leading to acquiring some fragment of the ultimate primal power. The power to defeat any enemy, to transorm oneself. This knowledge will stay with me no matter what. I can't kill myself, I can't deny myself, I can't stop now. I've got to plunge into the darkness, travel through the land of twilight to the paradise of the complete self.

God, I feel so much better now. I guess it's time to go back to dealing with the real world.

In the vast majority of my life, I've lacked a clear sense of identity. I've always maintained a few very distinct personas; I can easily identify the traits of leader-me, addict-me, antisocial-me. But whenever I tried to take in the whole picture, it was as if I was looking through a glass darkly. The distortions of my own self-perceptions and biases made it a Herculean task to approach objectivity in regard to myself, so I stopped trying.

Many times I've subconsciously tried to counteract this by identifying with others or with groups, but that unsettles me to no end. I've never really trusted people as a whole, so tying up some vital part of my personality in their existence seems like too dangerous a gambit, with very little possibility of causing anything positive in the long-term. In my estimation, it's a tack that's saved me from a lot of hassle and stifled as many opportunities for interesting new experiences. C'est la vie.

Today, though, I feel an uncharacteristic urge: to state who I am. So that I may understand it a bit more. Maybe even to introduce a bit of vulnerability to this somewhat sterile, if ultimately fulfilling, record of my human progress.

Okay. Inventory. Here's where I'm at:
(note: after writing this, I realized that each subject went from the most superficial to the most private in descending order. I guess self-disclosure takes a while to work up to. I'm glad that I have this Neue instead of a psychiatrist, though; here, extraneous verbage is free, whereas a shrink would charge me for it.)
I've been thinking a lot about the art of the rice. Japanese imports, general theory, basic automobile information has started to intrigue me to no end. Plus, I'm sad to say, it functions as a rudimentary barometer of masculinity. I really don't like ascribing to conventional gender rules/demands, but at the same time I recognize that they're easily manipulated, convenient factors for low-effort, easily understood social coding. Well, that and I like driving very fast.

I'm a college student now. Huh. I highly enjoy researching medical terminology. It combines three things I love: memorizing complicated-sounding compound words, gaining functional understanding of a useful field, and cultivating a more complete understanding of my body and its workings. My interest in medicine doesn't define me, but at many times it does compel me.

I'm coming to identify more as a gay man. It's a fairly long uphill battle, as I don't have any gay friends or anything much that could be termed a support network. As a mostly closeted homosexual man, gravitating mostly around circles of straight men (with all of the subtle and explicitly oppressive homophobia that comes with) is an easy way to feel that one will never belong, no matter the situation. As I matured, I realized that I could choose to relate with the world by identifying more wholly with others, at the cost of sacrificing some portion of my personality. An unsatisfactory option. I realize now that by cultivating my own identity and sense of belonging, I can learn to relate to people on a much healthier, happier basis, even where this new growth runs counter to mainstream acceptance.

And out of this grew something different. For the duration of my life I've felt . . . dispassionate towards the roles expected of me. As a man, I don't wish to fulfill the heterosexual stereotype. Particularly, I feel minimal attraction to women and little desire to be the dominant partner in a relationship. The masculine image is rubbish; while I prize within myself many of the qualities associated with the male gender-image (strength, constancy of persona), I find the physical trappings and lack of emotional depth unappealing. To put it more simply, I'm considering whether I'd rather live as a woman. I've dreamt about it as long as I can remember, but only recently have I conceded that the possibility is within my reach.

Of course, with such a statement comes a host of questions, none of which I feel like asking right now. Currently, I'm in the process of adopting the female trappings that can be had without anyone questioning my XY phenotype: panties, pantyhose, painted nails, and bras. It feels natural, more natural than I really could have imagined. I feel so free, really; I've fnally taken the first step by allowing myself to question, to explore. Of course, that's only the first step. Right now I'm living with my mother, which places a lot of strain on the expression of the in-between parts of my personality.

The next challenge is the quest for self-sufficiency. Once I'm able to live on my own, the application and exploration of my new meta-identity will be able to enter their terminal stages. I'm excited, like a seasoned world traveler finding out that there's a half of the world she has yet to explore. At the same time, apprehension grasps at me, a vague feeling of being lost. I mean, I'm sure that I have it easier than most; I'm not really unsure of myself, but I'm as yet uncertain of how to proceed with this new knowledge. I'll muddle through, I guess; I always have, I always will. Reconciling the harsh need for independence with my desire to be submissive in a relationship is hard, though. I want to be a good fighter, a great fighter, world-class, but would that be too masculine?

I read once a male-to-female transsexual describing their gender identity as not fully male or female, but containing elements of both. Gender seems to be viewed by most as being like the two poles of a magnet - opposites defined simply by their differences. I'm growing to understand that I'm more of a pastiche. This I can live with.