I sit in my basement, downloading music, passing time. Trying to keep within the frail bubble of eternity that exists between midnight and five am. It's quiet, and in the quiet I find peace. I was moved to write via interpretation of the I Ching. But that's a lie, as I needed to write; whatever internal mechanism I have that prods me to spill thought to medium has been tripped, and I have words that ache to ravage the page. I feel to calm to write ardently right now, so this entry shall be as blissfully lazy as possible.

Even though I take them for granted, the changes that have been taking place in both my body and mind are pleasurably painful. My skin feels especially soft and sensitive, which leaves me more prone to injury. I always said to my therapist, "Humankind cannot gain anything without first giving something in return." An old animé phrase. The first rule of alchemy. But is it worth it? I don't know. I'm tempted to just say 'yes,' as that would validate all of the efforts I've put into getting this point. I'm very satisfied with the way I feel, but with that comes the fear that I won't be able to defend myself when I need to. The feeling of power beyond the restriction of authority is intoxicating. And corrupting.

It all comes back to the mental conflict that I felt embroiled in as an adolescent: shall I be good or evil? It's a culturally weighted question. All the movies, books, and TV shows I've consumed in my life instruct that evil is nice, but good is just better. Evil is attractive, though. The dark side of the force, of human emotion, promises that you get to wear black all the time and swear even to teachers and priests.

... I've failed to write with blissful laziness. The words become forced as the quiet peace goes to its grave. The sound of clanking machinery and stirring life somehow set me at odds with myself. If only I could get a job where I didn't have to be near people. Ah, it's all a waste to want for such improbabilities; best to make do with the best I can get. I'll write again soon.

I've had a trying week. I've begun to realize I push myself away friendships that I feel are ephemeral. I fear that I'll invest a lot in the interaction and lose everything, so I tend to quit and walk away. I think it's why I don't manage to make new friends easily. In social situations, I'm always overanalyzing the ways in which the situation may go wrong, and calculating my possible losses as higher than my probable gains.

Right now, I'm avoiding writing a paper due in thirteen hours. I'm also writing to try and pull inspiration from the ether. While I feel that I can craft legitimately powerful essays, my ability to do so isn't a constant. I don't tolerate mediocrity when it comes to my written works, so I'll often postpone handing in a paper rather than finishing it. While I would appreciate the ability to toggle my muse from dormant to active as the weather requires, I feel that it would lessen my ability to produce quality work. Whenever in my mind I grant myself some talent, I react with displeasure at my own perceived egotism. It's a response that I feel comes from a young age, when my precociousness was rewarded by adults and peers with both praise and scorn.

... even dubbing myself precocious sets my teeth on edge.

Tuesday, an appointment with a doctor about that very special time in a girl's life. Perseverance furthers success. I've taken to using a randomized online Book of the I Ching. It's great because I consult it for advice, twist it to mean whatever I think it should mean, do what I was already going to do, and am that much happier for it. Armchair psychology and precognition are a self-defeating combination.

At my current vantage point, I view the past, the present, and the future equally. While true parity is impossible to verify, I feel balanced. When I tried to live in the past, I reaped only bitter black sorrow, a pain that I drowned in clouds of fragrant white smoke. My future kept me from seeing my present, and living in the now just depressed the hell out of me. I understand now that whatever path I take does not begin today nor end tomorrow. Coming to understand this has put me at a new peace, interrupted every so often by the thorny cloud of self-doubt. It'll always hover over my shoulder, no matter if my decision to transition is right or wrong.

But now I'm at a point of decision: I've been at my current therapy venue for about 3-4 months. At every point along the way, I've reserved a tiny spot at the back of my mind for the dim hope that they would recognize my plight (and partially that I would come to believe in my own suspicions) and allow me access to hormones.

As a child, I played role playing games and read fantasy novels endlessly. Something about the concept of a journey to unlock one's own mystic power excited me. To claim the holy sword, the artifact of God's presence on Earth seemed the greatest calling any one human could hope for. Even if it meant giving up my life in the process; if I could die as an act of love to my companions, to the human race, what more could I ask for?

At seventeen, I read Joseph Campbell's The Hero with a Thousand Faces. In the archetype of the monomyth, I saw the very thing which fascinated me. It is to me the essence of beauty, that which can be named but never shackled by mere words. The ultimate boon he spoke of, that is what I view hormones as. It's not the end purpose of the process, but the process itself wouldn't exist, I believe, without them. The conception of gender transition only appears in medical literature after the synthesis of testosterone and estrogen had become possible in the 1930's. Maybe it's due to a historical demarcation of differing medical philosophies, but I believe that transsexuality would not exist without the possiblity of hormone therapy.

At first, I was wary; what if my background of fascination with myth made me want to seek estrogen as a tool to change myself and my world? At the same time, what if my transsexual dilemma was the root of my fascination with the monomyth? I implicitly understood that the two possibilities contradicted each other. Now, I'm not so sure that either need be correct. Dwelling around the edges of my internal debate and seeing it within others, I think I might realize that neither option need be true, and that both could be true to varying extents.

The heroine discovers his true identity, something at his and her core that cannot be destroyed. Campbell said that the enlightened being produced by the ultimate epiphany is equal parts man and woman, and yet above both. I understood this, and I think I worshipped it, wished to embody it. I can't say that I don't still. It's not wrong, even if it feels perverse sometimes. At first, I viewed gender transition as moving from one's birth gender to a bi-gendered state and then to the target gender. Now I understand that my target gender is that beautiful state of truth (for me, 75% female, 25% male - the energies are not divisible by such simple math, but, eh).

Our memories of childhood are fickle things; even when submerged, they speak in voices unable to be silence. As I child, I wished fervently to be a girl, but I got over it. Or did I? Energies repressed always come return to the light of day. It's a fact which touches me viscerally.

I don't feel right that the decision of when I will be able to go on hormones is in the hands of the establishment that I pursue psychotherapy through. This unease can be traced to two primary causes: impatience, part and parcel of any immature personality, and something a bit more intellectual: wariness of gatekeepers. I have the unspoken suspicion that there's some test I must pass, some rubric I must match up to before I can proceed within this structure. I'm sure that someone is deciding my fate from behind the scenes, and I don't like it.

I don't like the feeling of jumping through hoops, because the mere fact that there are hoops invalidates their effectiveness as a measure of anything worth measuring. I don't like it because, now that I feel confident in my identity, I have no way to earnestly communicate this without coming across as somewhat disingenous. I want to get it this whole thing done of my own accord, but that takes money that I don't have. Once I have the hormones in my hands, I'm sure that they'll be willing to help me, but this whole situation seems bass-ackwards.

I wouldn't mind if it felt like just another obstacle, because the hero/ine must clear all obstacles and journey to the bottom of night before obtaining the god-power. But I've fought off everything I could so far, and no heroine may defeat the greatest evil without the power to change reality, the sword of evil's bane, the power within herself. I feel this power pulsing within me; I've nurtured it as best I can. Whereas before, if completely denied the option of hormone therapy, I wouldn't have transitioned, now I know that I would have to anyway. The person within me is real, and I can acknowledge this now. The fact that I cannot grow into her physically as I do so mentally troubles me.

My distrust of my caregivers is paranoid, but with reason; I've read enough horror stories of transpeople dwelling within a system indefinitely, and advisories to pursue other resources if one feels one's needs aren't being met. I haven't done so because of a fear of wasting the energies I've already expended here and a lack of money. I feel that I've done everything that I can within my current situation, and it's not enough for them.

What I haven't done is changed the parameters of my life to extend my boundaries, at least in the sense of getting a job and moving out. I have complications that arise around doing so, but more than that I have a fear that is paralyzing me from stepping over that threshold. Now that I'm starting to put this fear to the light of day, I can see that it's without substance, and that I needn't heed it. Once I have a job as a woman, it's all over.

Not! But, relatively, this phase of inability to completely transition will end, and I will finally be at terms with fighting the Final Boss: living the rest of my life. Surviving is truly the ultimate goal of transition, which is alright with me. If, through maintaining my survival, I can find within myself something beautiful, some power and grace above what I currently possess, even better for me. The hormones may be an effective shield, but my mind is my sword, and my will my armor.

...fuck. Is that what they're goading me into? I hate mindgames.

Extinction. The most potent method of preventing behavior. A new landscape beckoned me that day, one which interpolated natural beauty with terrible danger. My thoughts aren't mine, yet, but I will return when they are.

I need some form of blow-off, some method of dealing with the feelings I have right now. Writing here helps, but ultimately writing on a blank wall lacks the real impact that something more meaningful would impart. I'm now employed after many months in a state of uncertainty, both of my financial/professional status and of my own identity.

Now I have an recurring feeling of intense unease at work. I attribute it, superficially, to a profound sense off not belonging around my boss and the other employees. I feel sort of above it and yet sort of unqualified to do the job. I know that one can never be above doing the task put before them, but my visceral experience says that I am sort of too much and sort of not enough. I just took an examination that may allow me to qualify for a much better career, but it's hard for me to live in the 'now.' Which may be one of the reasons it's been so hard for me to start transitioning from male person to female person.

Digging deeper, I find myself afraid I'll go insane if I stay at the job. For the first time I'm seeing of my adult life as a male in microcosm, and it scares and repulses me. I feel myself being pressured constantly through the expectations of others into following this path that seems most logical for the self around which I have formed my persona, and in many ways my own expectations. Though I know some parts of my transgendered nature incontrivertibly and consistently, I can't help but feel inauthentic in my own stated self-perception of a boy who wishes to be a woman, yet is perceived as a man. It's due in large parts to being made to feel like a man very often, I believe. While I somewhat resist taking my own choices so far out of my hands, I feel like everyone around me is subtly pressuring me away from taking the individual steps towards my goal of living and (here's the important part) feeling like a woman.

And yet, now I feel truly free in subtly changing my own mental landscape towards something I could be more satisfied with. It's a confusing duality. Perhaps the resistance from other people is partially my own token resistance to the change I feel ocurring within me, which scares and excites me.

Still, happier I feel with my progress, the more I have to fragment my personality to effectively deal with the numerous situations I face daily where I'm called on to act as masculine as possible (within certain limits) or face the consequences. It keeps me in perpetual void, holding out for those moments when I feel able to exist.

Bah. Six hours until I must go to work. Think I'll go to sleep.

For the past week, I've been working on my car. I crashed it one rainy night, deforming the driver's side. That was two months ago. For a month it's been sitting in my garage in varying states of undress. It vexes me, knowing that it's out there, waiting to be driven, but handicapped because of my stupidity. By now I've replaced the door and taken new window glass from the junkyard, but one major problem stands in my way: the door won't lock. I've spent hour after hour hammering away, but it feels like I'm no closer to being finished now than I was a week ago. I feel so powerless; I know that there must be something I can do to fix it, but I can hardly tell if I'm making any progress.

I've been going to therapy for two months now. It's an interesting experience, really; at times it feels like this cooperative collaboration aimed towards self-growth, and at others it feels like being vivisected. I don't really feel too enthusiastic on the concept anymore. While it's necessary to go through the whole therapeutic process to get gender reassignment surgery, I can recognize the subtle feedback I get from the counselors I'm paired with. It's not quite doubt, not quite confusion, but ... a certain ambivalence. Which is, ironically, what they tell me that they sense in me.

In further analysis, the whole thing seems ludicrous. Earlier in the game, I felt that the 'transsexual' model was the only valid model of variant gender expression. Therefore, I changed my perceptions to fit what I believed to be the one true schema; if only transsexuals got to change their bodies, then I was to be a transsexual. Not the best way to operate, but my overriding principle of dealing with the world seems to be, "Sometimes you have to change yourself to fit your situation."

When I look at it, though, the clinical vocabulary I used/use to describe being a boy who wants to be a girl ... it's all a way of distancing myself from having to ask any questions, critically analyze myself. Or take a hard look at what I can't help but view as the medical structure that keeps all of these classifications in place. When I was simply a student of psychology, I viewed it as having a bad rap; very few people want to be psychoanalyzed, which I interpreted as a fear of learning the ugly truth about oneself. But now that I've had psychiatry applied to me (consensually, if not fully willingly) I see another element to it.

Perception creates reality. How we are perceived many times governs how we act, even how we feel, and most especially how we view ourselves. If you're told that you have a sickness, you certainly begin to feel ill. I once read somewhere that it's most advantageous to have a self-image slightly move positive than realistic. I can believe it, really; my best moments of introspection don't really coincide with high motivation or self-esteem. For me, the process of therapy creates a feedback loop. I feel pressured somewhat to conform to whatever sort of behavior the counselor unwittingly lets on to be acceptable to them, and suddenly I'm torn: I can follow their expectations and get closer to one of my specific goals (hormones) or I could be and do as I feel internally motivated to, continuing to wrestle with presenting myself in an acceptable light to those who have been put in a position of judgement.

It gets on my nerves! I mean, I didn't have to go through x months of therapy to be male in the first place; that was a non-choice. I'm entirely willing to accept the negative consequences of any decision I make, because, dammit, it's my decision to make. No one else has to live my life; while some people may ultimately be affected by my choices, I'm the only person who has to live with them 24/7. While I respect the stated goal of the gatekeepers to prevent me from making a decision that I'll ultimately regret, I can't help but recognize that they're also trying to cover their asses from any liability that could be incurred. When you're coming to a shrink willingly, you've already been marked in some way. The paradigm of the reluctant, long-suffering transsexual is deeply rooted into the psychiatric consciousness, I think, which also means that it's deeply rooted in the consciousness of the psychiatric patient. Am I paranoid for believing that I'm suspect for earnestly wanting to transition?

Then again, the entirety of what I just wrote smacks of some misplaced energy. I've had very little held back from me by the psychiatric profession and most of my observations are second to third hand at best. There's a kernel of truth to my ranting, but I think I'm really more angry at myself for trying to adhere to a black/white male/female dynamic and failing. And I'm scared that if I give it up and recognize my own fluidity of gender, that I'll also give up my ability to transition from male to female, which is my paramount desire. What I've realized most potently is that only my own intercession will provide me with any security, any truth in my life. I can't look for outside validation of some sort of medical diagnosis to legitimize my need to become female-bodied, because then I'm setting myself up to rely on some external source of motivation/control.

But does this mean that I should work my shit out independently of any establishment? I wouldn't be averse to it, really; while it lacks the smack of official sanction, I truly do detest formality and implied authority. I'd still be able to obtain hormones (probably more easily than if I were to muddle my way through a full course of diagnoses) and, more imporantly, I think I might be able to more easily own my femaless if I didn't feel that it required someone else's validation.

Ack. My prejudices show clearly when I allow myself to write freely. It's a good thing, I guess. My only talent when self-analyzing is my ability to be mostly honest with myself, something that a lot of people seem to lack. Is life a narrative, or is it a non-linear, non-fictional jumble of events? I don't really know what's going on here, but I've got more than an inkling now. My victory lies not in seaching searching searching for some type of answer, but in letting it find me as I live my life.

Look, here's my unnecessary, somewhat cowardly (I mean, no one even reads this, but I guess it's all about principle) declaration to the world: I'm your she-male, you boy who wants to be a girl. I'm not afraid.

Most of the time.

All my life, I've felt a lingering loneliness. Even when with other people, I didn't feel like I was being with them; there was something removed, something remote. The part of me that nobody knows, the part of me I assumed no-one would ever know. I looked in others for traces of myself; I sought out the people who most reminded me of how I felt, every day. Seeking a reflection of myself to confirm that I existed, that I wasn't just the 1 in 100,000, that there was some possible way for me to fit, even if with only one person. It wasn't necessarily a romantic search, in that sense; I wanted companionship, something that could assure that I wouldn't have to feel like I was adrift in the sea of humanity and barely treading water.

Now, though, the feeling is intensified by that much. In the past, I've been quite the cynic, and that distrust manifests itself now more than ever. It's just getting harder and harder to relate to people, to put the energy into managing interpersonal situations. Before considering transition, I viewed any type of social interaction as a dance, to hide one's true self, play up the aspects of the persona, guard the inner self while leaving enough vulnerability to be conversant and presenting enough cues to make others believe in your authenticity.

A big primer on issues of identity for me was the experience of coming out as a gay man. I found that people wouldn't treat.me much differently if I assured them that I was the same person and, more importantly, acted as mostly in the same role. Thing is, my methods of interacting with the world were structured around not seeming 'gay' (I'm referring here to the whole gamut implied by the word 'gay' as epithet), effeminate, or female, even when I felt that way inside. I automatically suppressed all of that, after a while, because I didn't know anyone I could interact with in that mode. By then, the near-invisible mask of assimilation had been grafted to my face; it couldn't come off without some sort of gigantic shock to the system. When I realized that I was constantly in a state of un-being due to my own constant self-imposed estrangement, things got even harder. After I started growing away from the boundaries I've set for myself, the gap grew wider, and now maintaining it takes more and more energy.

To keep living in my current situation, I must pretend that I'm still the same person. I feel so frustrated that, having discovered this place in myself, I can't visit it save for in my own mind. I understand now the mental consequences of trying to be something you aren't; I used to revel in the power I could exert over people with artifice and deception, but now I desire only authenticity, the ability to simply exist, honestly, whollly. I can't nurture my female side because I can't bring her into the open, lay her and I out before the world and say, Well, this is it. If even only for now, I must remain cloistered, unhappy for so many reasons, able only to find solace in the spaces where I'm alone. Now that I've made the decision to go beyond the clearly demarcated danger zones, I find it infuriating that I'm feeling all of the dissociation from the majority of others and reaping none of the comforts derived from being able to just be.

I just feel that, right now, I need to find someone who isn't ambivalent about my existence, someone whom I can clue in with total honesty about my situation. I guess that's what psychiatry's for, but it doesn't seem like enough. I know that I need to grow beyond whatever's making me hold myself back, but it's hard. Every time you think you've destroyed your last fear, another one becomes visible. Problems hide behind other problems, creating a big psychological Gordian knot, layered, intertwined, impossible to untie unless one realizes the trick, the chink in the invincible armor. The flaws are hard to find, though, when you're wearing the armor every second of every day; it becomes too familiar to be stripped down to its component parts. You can only see the gestalt, your subjective experience of life, after a while, and it hamstrings you.

I feel myself relying on my negative emotions, gradually becoming the face I see when I look in the mirror. I can't maintain this duality anymore, because I realize that I'm doing it. Before, I was lying to everyone, including myself; now that I'm in on my own oppression, I feel like I've allowed myself to become a little shadier, accelerate towards my shadow, cold and uncaring, and I let myself play the role of the hateful, hated outlaw more and more. Ah, to be well-adjusted.

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.