I cry a lot.

I cry an awful lot. Well at least I think that it’s an awful lot, it may actually be a very normal amount for any human being. So maybe it would be more accurate to say that from my point of view I cry a lot. And I cry for all sorts of reasons.

I cry because I’m happy.

I cry because I’m sad.

I cry because I lonely.

I cry because there’s no milk, and I really want a glass of milk.

That’s the thing, it’s not rational, or even all that predictable. And that annoys the frikkin’ hell out of me. But this week I’ve cried so much I’m starting to wonder just how many tears a body can hold. Even a body as large as mine. I keep thinking there has to be a limit, there has to be a point where my body will just stop. It never happens though.

Why this week? Well in a life that has always been filled with pain, and illness I’ve had a week from hell. For four days I managed to keep down a couple of spoonfuls of food a day. While my bum did an even better than normal impression of an inverted chocolate fountain, and let me tell you, that takes some doing. Rooms have spun, headaches have been experienced. And through it all I’ve been upset because my Partner in Crime has had the dubious pleasures of living with me at my physical worst, without the benefits of my being at my kinky worst.

The latter is what upsets me the most.

I have always believed that a human being without the sexual expression which is appropriate to them (lesbian, gay, asexual, furry, whatever expression of your particular flavour might be), is probably not really entirely sane. At the very least it can’t be healthy. And yet there’s this sexually appealing, and expressive woman who I know adores me, and all my get up and go, has got up and gone. It upsets me, it makes me feel horribly guilty. And I think that’s what people who aren’t permanently sick, or otherwise physically challenged often don’t understand.

The guilt.

The unending feeling that the person, or persons (for those poly-folk lucky enough to have another partner) that you don’t deserve them, and that they are wasting their lives with you. That they are wasting their (relative) youth on someone who might in some ways be far too old, far too young.

I’m a deeply sexual person. I think there may be 30 seconds in a row when sex doesn’t cross my mind in some form. I can’t be certain of it, but there might be. But I have a pretty limited sex life, simply because so much of the time I’m physically unable. For example, it’s been four years and three months since I was shown my place by my Miss in that delightful BDSM way, because my body can’t take it. Which leaves me continuously walking around with two questions chasing each others tails in my mind.

Why in the hell is she still interested in me at all? Yes, I know love. But contrary to what The Beatles had to say ont he subject, love is not all you need.

And.

When will I lose her? Yes I know on 99% of the levels of my mind that I won’t. But try telling that to the 1% that’s a frightened 12-year-old huddled in the corner wondering when the one person who makes her feel safe is going to say “Go away, I don’t love you, you’ve been replaced.” Go on, try to, ’cause believe me I’ve tried, and she ain’t listening.

Of course the stress from that feeds into the other stresses in your life, and that makes you feel sicker, and that stresses you more, so sicker, and so on, and so forth. Until the day when your body liquefies and you end up flushing down the toilet with the rest of the effluence.

I don’t know if there is a solution to this. Crying helps while it’s happening. But the guilt, and the fears are still there when I stop, they’re only overwhelmed by the physical sensation of crying, not healed. Talking about it…not so much, there’s only so many times you can be told that you’re silly before it stops helping, and that time is long past. In the end like so many other things in a persons life, it’s just another cross to bear. Just another trial to overcome.

I just wish for once that something would be easy.

Internet Trolls, I think I want my mommy!

Last weekend I took a short trip home to my mom. It was badly needed as I hadn’t seen her in almost two months, and while I’m no mommy’s girl I do still need some time with her now and then. Time in my mom’s is useful though, and not just for time with her.

When I stay with my mom I usually sleep alone, even when I’m down there with my Partner in Crime. Nothing to do with my mom being a prude, really 34 years of being my mother has definitely cured her of any prudishness long ago. No, I sleep alone because her spare theoretically “double” bed is more like a very large single, and its mattress bruises me (which is weird since it’s an extraordinarily good mattress, but there ya go.). So instead I sleep in the same bed I slept in when I was 15.

Now when I sleep alone I tend not to sleep very well the first night, and when I don’t sleep well I get sort of thoughtful. And usually those thoughts lead in one of two directions, either I get super creative, plotting out whole chapters of whatever book I’m working on at the time in my head, or I get super self-assessing.

Last Friday night I ended up both.

Over the course of the night I figured out huge swathes of missing storylines from the novel I’m currently working on. A very good thing as I had been very worried that while the core story was pretty good, the secondary plots were kind of weak. It’s a big relief to have much more solid ideas.

However over the course of the night I also got thinking about my own life, not just the lives, and deaths of imaginary people. And more to the point about my worries at the moment. There aren’t many…

Will I ever have a slavegirl again?

Will “insert person’s name who I love” be okay?

Should I kick “insert name”‘s ass for being a selfish prick?

How do I modify a really crap airsoft springer rifle so that it’s going to make other airsofters claim I’m cheating?

Why do I keep putting off my video blog?

So, would you like to guess which one pulled me up short? Yup, that’s right the last one. I’ve wanted to add a video component to this blog for a long time. I think it’s important to do so, because there are so many topics which I would like to speak about that need to be spoken about, not merely written about. The difference is important, some topics are too complex, too emotionally loaded, or simply too personal to truly convey what I want to say purely through written words. They need the sound of an impassioned/annoyed/pissed to high hell voice, they need body language, they need facial expressions. And to be honest they sometimes need a huge amount of swearwords beeped out to really bring across what I want to say.

So why have I been putting it off? After all I have a really amazing webcam now. I know how I want to make them. What program I intend to use to edit them. The format, I even have a few scripted. I know what I want to use as a background, and no my bedroom won’t be the background, I’ve no intention of letting strangers see where I sleep thank you…Yeah that’s the problem do you see? Strangers.

Even in real life I’m hardly a shy retiring wallflower. Frankly if I’m any type of flower it’s something like a Triffid you know, moves around quite quickly, is can be poisonous and is definitely carnivorous.

But I am also a transgirl. One who is less than totally confident about her voice, even if I am completely confident in my appearance (at least for this). This matters because, well have you ever actually read the comments by men on YouTube when a woman posts a blog type video?

Do I really want to end up seeing comments where some guy tells me in excruciatingly precise language where he wants to stick what in my body?

Or the comments about how because I don’t have a cervix I’m just a guy, but hey he’ll fuck me anyway cos I’m a very pretty guy? Gee thanks buddy.

Or of course those who just spend their time in my comment section explaining why I’m wrong. Because I have tits in case you wondered, because no-one with breasts are ever right about anything according to these particular men.

We won’t even get into the people who think that a relevant comment on any topic is “You’re hot wanna go on a date with me?”

My conclusion is that I’m holding off because I haven’t figured out how I’m going to cope with this yet. Not what will I do about it? They’re trolls, aside from not feeding them there’s not a whole lot you can do, not if you actually want to interact with your audience. No I really do mean how will I cope emotionally? Or probably more accurately, can I cope with it?

Sure my health has been an issue, who wants to be seen by the world when they feel like total crap? But figuring out a coping mechanism for internet trolls is definitely the core problem.

I know that in the end I’ll do what I always seem to do with these sort of situations. Make a positive out of a negative. I know I will get a video blog up sooner rather than later. But to expose myself to the world in the way I want to…that’s a scary thought…*pulls blanky up* I want my mommy!

What worries me about all this Euro-anger.

Shortly we here in Ireland are going to vote in a referendum. With that vote we are supposed to be voting against, or in favor of something called the Stability Treaty. Now, I’m not going to actually write about the treaty, because frankly that’s not what this is about, we should each make up our own minds on this. Instead I want to write about a related worry of mine.

We’ve been told that this referendum will decide if Ireland stays in the Euro zone. That’s fine, that makes sense, and it makes sense that if we leave it we can, like others who never adopted the Euro in the first place, remain in the European Union itself. But there have been rumbles about a “No” vote also meaning that we as a nation might leave the E.U. entirely. I’m not here saying that a “No” vote means we must leave, only that I’ve witnessed a lot of people voicing “we should if…”‘s.

There’s a lot of anger in Ireland right now. A some of it is justified. But like all anger of this type at least some of it is baseless, simply a nations frustrations spilling over. But regardless of whether that anger is based in fact or not it is a real emotion, and angry people tend not to think rationally. I fear that as a nation we’re not thinking beyond our anger. Not realising one of the costs of leaving the E.U.

A major part of being an E.U. citizen is the right to travel freely within the E.U., along with the right to be employed in any other E.U. country without a work visa.

So my worry is that in our anger we as a nation vote “No”. And this somehow leads to us not only leaving the Euro, but in a spasm of national anger also the E.U. But what happens to all the E.U. nationals living, and working in Ireland? What happens to the Irish citizens living, and working in other E.U. countries? What about the lives they’ve created for themselves? The homes they’ve found. The relationships they’ve forged? Does the politics of the situation just tear them apart?

I don’t know what way this referendum is going to go. I don’t think anyone does really. I don’t know if this fear of mine has any real basis in potential fact. But for the first time I really fear for our humanity to each other here in Europe, all based on how a club of scared, angry nation’s may cast their various votes in the coming months, and years.

I honestly don’t know whether a Yay or Nay will ultimately prove to be in our best interests. Everything in Europe seems to change day by day at the moment. I just hope that when it’s all over, and the dust has settled that we haven’t destroyed too many people’s lives. Though let’s face it, even one destroyed life will be too many.

A short letter to Mom, (who thankfully doesn’t read my blog in part because she still thinks of the internet as magic.)

You rang yesterday mom. It was so great to hear from you. I miss you when I don’t see you for so long, but I will get down to see you soon I promise. I’m sorry your body is causing you so much grief at the moment, but maybe it’ll improve in time, and if not well you can always make a hobby out of seeing how miserable you can make the doctors who deal with you.

I’m writing because you laughed at me yesterday. I told you I was going on a date with a really special guy on Saturday evening, and you laughed. I told you he was handsome, charming, sweet, sexy, smart and that I’m excited about it, and you laughed.

I do get that almost everyone finds my discovery of my bisexuality amusing. But it’s becoming very old for me when people laugh at my sexuality, and I thought you at least would listen without laughing. I was wrong in that I guess. I know that in the past ten years I’ve gone from hating men, loathing them, to being indifferent, to now being open to the possibility that not all of them deserve to be dropped head first into the event horizon of a singularity. Worse that a few of them might even be worthy of trust, attraction…who knows maybe even love? I get that it’s a big change for you to take on board, but imagine what it’s like from my side? Just for a moment, please?

I’ve gone from decades of being absolutely certain of my sexuality, to not knowing what way is up, or down. I’ve gone from feeling safe in who I’m attracted to, to being attracted to a handful of members of a particular gender. You know the gender that my abusers were, that all of my bullies were…that gender. Yes, I know it’s unfair to tar all males with that brush, but you know that’s why it’s a phobia. It’s not rational, it’s not fair on them true, but it’s also not fair on me either.

But here I am all the same, excited to be going on a date with a handsome, charming, sweet, sexy, smart guy. And it’s so funny right? Amanda, the man-eating lesbian isn’t a dyke after all, get this she’s a bi-girl, and she’s interested in dating a guy, what a laugh. I needed support mom,

I’m excited yes, but I’m nervous. No scratch that, I’m scared.

This isn’t just a first date with a handsome, charming, sweet, sexy, smart guy. It’s my first date EVER with a guy, after 34 years of life on the planet. It’s the first time I’ve ever pursued something with a guy. It’s the first time I’ve ever wanted something to happen. But I’m so aware of how broken I am underneath all the mental armor I present to the world.

I’m scared of being hurt. I’m scared of him being hurt. Hell I’m scared of getting the bus home afterwards. After all, a gothic futagirl on Saturday night with Dublin Bus, what could go wrong there?

I didn’t need you to laugh at me. I’m fine with amusement. I’d be fine with teasing, I probably deserve a little. But this is my life, my sexuality, my excitement, my nerves, my fear. It’s not funny. It just isn’t.

Your loving and adoring daughter,
Amanda.

P.S. I’m not travelling to Cork to dog-sit for you when you get your new mutt. I don’t want my New Rocks puked into like last time.

The fear in following dreams.

Let’s talk about fear, and dreams. They’re both intimately linked after all. No really they are, think about it. You’re wandering semi-randomly through life, sort of happy with your lot. But as you bounce from day-to-day you run into someone who holds in their hands the ability to alter your life in a profound way. They turn around, and offer you your dream house/job/date.

First you get hit by a wave of excitement, “Oh my Gods! This could be so amazing!”

Then you get a good dose of the old-fashioned self-doubts, “Nope, no way I can do this. I mean come on, who am I kidding? Me, move into the Horror Channels mansion (In my imagination it’s based in a mansion. A mansion where all the Horror girls live together in a huge, and hot group of bisexual femme-subs.) as the Horror girl’s Mistress, with Emily Booth as my Alpha? I’m just not that good.”

Then you get hit by the fears, “Oh hell, what if I do get the job as Bee Armitage’s personal baby oil applicator? I’ll just make a fool of myself, and let everyone down, and ruin my future.”

Dreams that are in the process of becoming reality are scary. I know this with certainty. I am right at this moment in the process of living one. After almost 11 years of living in apartments I am finally going to live in a house again. No neighbours upstairs, no neighbours downstairs, plenty of space, plenty of storage, no management companies, and best of all an honest to Goddesses upstairs! I’ve wanted a place like that for as long as I can remember. And now that the move is well underway, in fact at this point it’s essentially irreversible, and despite the fact that this new home will be very good for me, I’m actually rather scared.

I’m not scared of the hard work involved in moving, a large part of it is already done, and it’s now more about unpacking boxes rather than moving them.

I’m also not gripped by that fear of moving to another new town that I know nothing about. I’ve done that way too many times to find it fear inducing anymore.

No I’m actually scared by how potentially good for me this new home can be. Because it can be taken away. Because in my imagination it could possibly all blow up in my face, and turn from a dream into a nightmare.

It won’t though, and I have to keep reminding myself of that this is the right thing to do. ‘Cause quite simply the fact that it can actually inspire precisely that type of fear shows that it is the right action to take. Doing the right thing for ourselves is virtually always scary to some degree, how could it not be when it seems that a happiness which could be taken away is more painful than having never felt that happiness at all.

Except that’s bollocks, paying too much heed to your fears is a stupid reason not to take fate by the balls, and shake a little happiness out of the world for yourself. Even if that happiness should prove somewhat fleeting.

How did the post become something to fear?

At a tender 33 years of age, like I’m sure most of the people reading this, I can remember a time when getting a letter in the post was something to look forward to. Friends, and family from far away sending messages to you. Just a little note to let you know that they were happy, healthy, and safe. Perhaps at worst you would receive a message to let you know that someone had died. But if they were someone truly close to you a phonecall would have been made, so sad but not horrifically so. Yes of course you would get your bills in the post. But with a little planning you would be prepared for all but the those bills which were unpredictably expensive. But usually a letter was something to look forward to.

I know I did.

Now though a good day begins with the postman not putting anything in my letter box. It begins with him just keeping on walking past my home. I don’t want him to bring me anything, because it seems to almost always be bad news he brings. Another bill, another interrogatory missive from one government department, or another. The news that a hospital appointment I’ve waited months for has been canceled. In short unexpected mail tends to feel like it’s something to be feared.

The title of this article asks a question I already know the answer to. It became something to fear when the internet became our primary means of interpersonal communication. It became something to dread when email took over in our personal lives. I can’t remember the last letter I received. People just don’t send letters anymore because it’s simply so much easier to drop a line, online. After all you can type it quickly, there by ensuring that the intended recipient will actually be able to read it. You can then edit it before you click send, thereby avoiding having to rewrite the entire thing when you realise that you accidentally insulted their mother with a misplaced comma. You can even easily add photos, pieces of music, a short video greeting. And best of all you won’t have to buy a stamp, that’s right it’s free. In the face of all that utility how can the regular mail compete?

So now, Christmas cards and those increasingly rare postcards aside, the standard ground mail seems to have become the sole territory of the things we all fear. That dreaded letter from the taxman. The “Overdue” notice from the electricity company, the gas company, the oil company. And a good day starts when the postman walks on by.

A writers fear of success.

As some of my readers will know, I am an aspiring novelist.  In fact I am just about finished my first manuscript, there’s about one hour of editing left to go at this point.  This proximity to success though, has raised something very unexpected inside me.  Bone chilling terror.

I guess I should start at the beginning.  I started writing my novel, a trisexual poly amorous love story, about four years ago.  I actually started it by accident.  I had started writing a short story about a lonely transsexual woman, but somewhere in the first five hundred words that short story decided it was going to be a novel.

This was all well and good except, at that point in time I didn’t have the slightest clue as to how to write a novel.  Queue four years of very intensive study and learning by doing.  From the beginning writing a novel was for me a step into the unknown.  I knew I could tell a story, where the wheels started to come off the wagon, was when I was forced to ask myself if I had the technical language skills needed to write that same story.  Truth be told, I didn’t at the time and when I was honest with myself, I knew I didn’t.  While my grammar wasn’t terrible, my punctuation was truly awful.  I think if there was a court for cruel abuse of the common comma, I would probably have been put on a par with Herman Goering.  I was seriously that bad.

So with that knowledge I simply started by embarking on a journey which could best be described as a semi-conscious, stream of consciousness.  I just made every effort to get my story down on paper, good grammar and punctuation be damned.  Back then this was an act of desperation.  I needed to tell this story before I forgot it, and well feck it, I could fix everything else later on, when I knew how to.  I didn’t realise it at the time, but I now know that I was right to do so.

After about a year I had the first, incredibly rough draft of my manuscript.  It had the story I needed to tell in words, which were, mostly in the right order and full stops which were also mostly in the right places, but not a lot else.  I handed a print out of it to various friends, each with a different outlook on the world, just to find out if it was actually interesting.  It turned out it was.  So I started to study how to edit, how to punctuate and how to use word processing software to format properly.  All of this means that as of now my manuscript has been rewritten about a dozen times, some times with very few or subtle changes, sometimes with whole chapters being rewritten.

After two years of unlearning what I was taught in primary school, I can now use a comma, well sort of.  I wouldn’t say I get it right all the time, but at least I actually use them now, and some of them must be in the right places, even if only by accident.  The easiest thing to learn was formatting, but then I always find computer based skills easy to pick up.

All of this leads finally to today.  Today I am scared.  Not though because very, very soon I have to start looking for an agent or a publisher to take on my manuscript.  Like, probably all writers, I truly believe my manuscript, despite being a kind of chick lit, has some important things to say.  I believe it’s pretty well written, it certainly matches up well to the standards of the authors I prefer to read myself.  I truly believe in my heart of hearts, that it will sell and what’s more that it will sell extremely well.

No, I’m scared of it being successful.  I’m scared of what being a successful author might mean for my life, for my friendships, for the family I’ve created around myself.  I’m scared of what my very real and unfortunately severe health problems might mean for my career.  I’m scared that being successful will paint a bullseye on my back for  people who hate what I am, or who I am.  Most of all I’m scared that at thirty-three years of age I may have peaked.  That my first novel is as good as my writing will get, that I will never live up to the potential my partner, my little sisters and my friends  see in me.

I’m not used to being scared.  I’m generally pretty fearless, you kind of have to be to change gender, to be a dominatrix, and to do all the other crazy things I’ve done in my life.  So I don’t cope well with being afraid.  Especially when it’s a fear of something which I never even imagined I could be frightened of.