Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Just Your Friendly Neighborhood Lunatic

That's me. It's apparently Mental Health Awareness Week and a friend inspired me to do something for it. Specifically, this is a coming out of sorts. I've alluded to some mental health problems, but I haven't outright owned this stuff to all that many people.

I'm weird. I know I'm weird. But I think I'm normal-weird, not going-to-shoot-up-a-school weird. People who struggle with what I do often get ignorantly tarred as the latter category. So I guess I'm here to say: Hello, my name is Rachel, and I'm a perfectly mostly harmless lunatic.

There are names for what my damage is. I have bipolar disorder with mixed and psychotic features, rapid cycling and complex post-traumatic stress disorder. They're labels, they make it easier to grasp what I'm dealing with due to its similarities to what afflict other people, but they're just labels. Let's break down what they actually mean.

Bipolar disorder: My moods can vary wildly, and I don't mean the garbage people call a "mood swings." I mean they can vary between weeks-to-months-long suicidal depression; or grandiose, sleepless hyperactivity; or uncontrollable hair-trigger rage; or unquenchable lust with an unstoppable sex drive; or batfuck insanity (it's a technical term); or any combination thereof. Sometimes things can trigger it, like sleep deprivation or emotional trauma or just the change of seasons. Sometimes it just happens because fuck you, that's why. When it does happen, I can see it happening, but that doesn't diminish its power at all. So I know I'm easily angered - great, that doesn't make me any less easily angered. I have to be constantly on guard against my emotions, my sleep patterns, my energy levels, and my libido. If any of them get too high or too low, too much or too little, that's a sign of an episode. And episodes always end poorly sooner or later, one way or another.

Mixed features: This means I have the kind of bipolar where I can get "mixed" episodes - manic and depressed at the same time. These are the most dangerous bipolar episodes, because they combine the suicidal feelings of depression with the manic impulsivity. You have the depression to want to kill yourself and the energy and inclination to actually do it. It can also involve rapid fluctuation in the span of seconds. Laughing and crying at the same time is pretty stereotypical, especially if you combine that with dancing and howling in rage. If you're mixed, you're all over the damn place, and really only get the worst of both the mania and depression, none of the redeeming qualities.

Psychotic features: I hallucinate. I have delusions. I hear music, whispers, muffled voices, chanting - none of them actually there. I see shadow people moving in the edges of my vision, or sneaking around outside my window when I'm not looking directly out of it. They're not really there, not even visually; they're just kind of there, always just at the edges of my ability to discern them. I'm sure my activities are being tracked by someone, my every click and scroll on the computer, the time I spend on what page, by some entity who wants to use it to (successfully) divine my inner thoughts and feelings. Yes click on this, that'll look good; don't click on that, they'll figure you out. Anything feminine or female-oriented used to be in the latter category - I didn't want them to know I wished I was a girl. This kind of thing tends to happen when I'm manic. I'm not schizoaffective (I don't think... there are troubling signs I might be somewhere in the vicinity), but I do get raging psychosis and inward-turning antisocial patterns in some of my manias.

Rapid cycling: Strictly speaking, this means I can have four or more depressive, manic, mixed, or hypomanic episodes in the span of a year. As a practical matter it means that I might be in a euphoric mania and a couple weeks later I crash into crippling depression when it burns out, only to fly into a psychotic, dysphoric mania after a month of stability. When I'm not medicated, I probably average 5-10 episodes of various sorts per year, ranging from a few weeks to a few months, with stability sometimes in between them. A good chunk of my life is spent jumping from episode to episode if I'm not treated.

Complex post-traumatic stress disorder (C-PTSD): A variant of PTSD with some distinct differences. For starters, it doesn't happen from a single traumatic event. Instead, it's from prolonged trauma without hope of escape, or at least the perception of no escape. It's most common in two groups of people: torture survivors / POWs, and domestic abuse survivors. It has a lot in common with PTSD - night terrors, hypervigilence (being hyper-alert to danger and "jumpy"), dissociation, amnesia or hypermnesia (the opposite, where the memories are unnaturally vivid), and flashbacks. The flashbacks tend to be different, however - not always, but usually. "Atypical flashbacks." Sometimes called "emotional flashbacks," instead of hyper-realistically re-living the experience, you re-live the emotions and feelings of the experience, as though experiencing it all over again. It can be completely debilitating when it happens. My cat has had to snap me out of the dissociated sobbing of these flashbacks by nuzzling her cold nose to my face. Another "feature" distinct to C-PTSD is attachment issues. It causes sometimes crippling problems with the ability to form and maintain relationships. All of them are tainted by the relationship with one's captors or abusers. It results in a push-pull not unlike borderline personality disorder, due to a tension between defense mechanisms (push) and a sort of echo of Stockholm syndrome (pull). It can promote dependency and co-dependency. It can cause one to seek a rescuer or savior to liberate them from the pain and isolation. Basically, it can cripple the ability to have healthy relationships.
Your bloghostess has suffered most of these effects. Without medication, I wake up screaming almost every night, sometimes multiple times a night. Some painful memories are hyper-vivid and others are dissociated to the point of being remembered in the third person. Without medication, I practically jump out of my skin if I hear a sudden noise behind me. It took me a long time to be at all okay with human touch; it was panic-inducing and the opposite of comforting. And my ability to form and maintain relationships is something I continue to struggle with; in some regards, my development is stunted at an adolescent level on that front.

I tried to "hack" some of these things for a while, turn them to my advantage as I stupidly thought possible. You know, things like deliberately triggering, prolonging, and exacerbating hypomania to avoid sleep and be extra productive. Makes sense, right? Of course, I'd always crash even harder when it inevitably ended, and I dropped out of school after being reckless and all over the place for years.

I attempted suicide twice in one day when I had a psychotic mixed episode. I tried to slit my wrists, then I hanged myself. It made perfect sense at the time. It was the only way out of my intractable situation of constant chronic pain and a hopeless, meaningless life. The psychosis and mania took me from thinking it might be a good idea to knowing it was the one right thing to do and impulsively acting on it. (It's fortunate I was so out of my mind that I was ineffectual and able to be stopped.)

I almost committed suicide again in another mixed episode. Everything just hurt so bad, life hurt so bad; everything was hopeless and miserable and lonely. So I was going to jump off a ~20 story building. I was fortunate a friend talked me down.

I came close to attempting a fourth time in yet another mixed episode. I was going to take everything in my medicine cabinet and try to overdose. It made complete sense, even though it shouldn't have. My future was looking up for once. I was back in school with a shot at real research. I was finally me - Rachel, not Ryan. I had a loving and supportive girlfriend for the first time in my life. Life was good. But it didn't feel good. It felt absolutely miserable and terrible and hopeless. Life felt so awful I wanted - really wanted - to die. My girlfriend got me to delay my plan - just postpone it. Then she dragged me to my psychologist. 

Suicide, and the constant prospect of feeling suicidal, is a normal part of my life. You'll notice all those were mixed episodes; that's when I have the inclination to do something with those feelings. But when just plain depressed, or my C-PTSD is triggered, the thought is always there. When I'm sane, like now, I know I'd want anyone to beat me into submission if they had to in order to save me from myself. But when I'm feeling it, it's what I "really" want - to die. "Just fucking kill yourself," directed at myself, has spilled out of my mouth unbidden more times than I can count.

That last close call, I was already fairly well medicated - all that was missing from the cocktail was my antipsychotic (see below). It's what's called a "breakthrough episode" - it breaks through the otherwise effective medication. Even stable now, I always have to fear that prospect. And if it happens, I have to fear that it will render one or more of my medications ineffective for me from then on. There are indicators I look for. One is that I have trouble sleeping and staying asleep. Another is that my legs become painful and hypersensitive once again. These are indications of mania. Or maybe everything stops being pleasurable and I can't sleep less than 12 hours. That could indicate depression. 

So that's my damage. I'm a wreck. Or I would be without the lovely friends I have helping me. No, I don't mean therapists and the like (though they are helpful). I mean my medications. They patch me up and hold me together. With them, I have no flashbacks, no night terrors, minimal hypervigilence, no depression, and no mania. I'm on 7 (count 'em), plus 2 I take as needed. Let's go through what it takes to keep a lunatic sane, shall we?

Lamictal: I actually take this for two things. First and foremost, it acts as a mood stabilizer, primarily warding off depression but also combating mania. I also take it to deal with "partial" seizures in my temporal lobes that cause hallucinations and synaesthesia, and may trigger bipolar episodes. 

Lithium: The classic bipolar medication. I take this as a mood stabilizer that primarily works to combat mania, also working less so against depression. 

Viibryd: This is my antidepressant, which also generally reduces anxiety (like the hypervigilence). So for both my bipolar and C-PTSD. My psychologist calls it Prozac+BuSpar. This is a new one still under patent, so it costs an arm and a leg. (All the rest of these are out of patent, mostly long out of patent. Like, generic since the 70s.)

Risperdal: An antipsychotic. Ooh, scary! It wards off my psychosis and helps keep my mania in check. It also probably helps with the C-PTSD related dissociation and flashbacks. 

Prazosin: I take this to get rid of the night terrors (thing super-nightmares) that wake me up. It's a goddamn miracle drug. 

Estradiol and Spironolactone: These actually aren't for insanity - they're to make me hormonally female. The spironolactone eliminates testosterone from my system and the estradiol is metabolized into estrogen. 

Propranolol: I take this as needed for "actute" (short-term/spike in) anxiety. It works like a charm. I was shaking and my voice quivering while practicing before a presentation, then it kicked in and I gave the actual presentation no problem. I also take it if I get a fine motor tremor, which can happen if I don't drink enough water with the lithium. 

Benztropine: One problem with Risperdal is that increasing the dose, especially too quickly, can cause a painful neck spasm. This eliminates that spasm, so I take it whenever I increase my Risperdal dose. 

That's a lot of drugs, but I wouldn't give any of them up. On a day to day basis, I have zero side effects. These drugs are just perfectly compatible with me. It's a pharmacological miracle. 

That wasn't always the case. I've had some terrible experiences with drugs. Neurontin, Elavil, Paxil, Zyprexa, Depakote, Seroquel... It took a lot of trial and error to get things right. And it was hell at times. I gave up on treatment for years when I wasn't given other options, and I'm still not sure there was anything wrong with that decision. Paxil landed me in the psych ward and Depakote robbed me of my ability to feel feelings, think thoughts, or do anything but shamble around like the walking dead.

But being unmedicated was its own kind of hell, and I will never go back to that. While still figuring out what your own special pharmacology is, though, it's really a matter of picking your poison. Want to kill yourself, or be unable to brain? Hallucinate and have paranoid delusions, or be an emotionless zombie? Decisions decisions...

There's also therapy, but that only goes so far. Traditional therapy works great for my gender dysphoria issues, and my C-PTSD has significantly improved with the help of exposure therapy and cognitive behavioral therapy. But a lot of things just aren't amenable to that. There ain't no therapy in the world gonna do shit about my psychosis or episodes. Might help me cope with the mild ones, might help me identify the others, but that's as far as it goes.

Anyway, now you know just how crazy I am. I can stop trying to soft-pedal it or conceal any of it.

This is me. This is who I am. I'm not proud of it, I don't like it, but this is an honest picture of me.

I hope I don't frighten you too much.

Sunday, October 5, 2014

Storytime Sunday: The Wrong Kind of Squirter

After starting hormone therapy in February, my libido disappeared almost entirely. This tends to happen when you lose all your testosterone. For months I could still drool (literally drool) over pretty girls, but there was really no inclination to do anything. Like, I might drool thinking of sucking on some titties, but I had no desire to touch myself or feel any sexual stimulation - it was all purely conceptual.

In July, my libido started to come back and it really came back. It was like I was a teenager all over again. (Right... I sometimes forget I'm literally going through puberty.) But there was a problem: I could no longer get erections (no testosterone, remember?) and stimulation didn't feel the same even without, so I had no idea how to satisfy the itch. I knew what to do, though: I'd ask /r/asktransgender. The responses were overwhelming. I was best off getting assistance from a "helper" - a helper named the Hitachi Magic Wand:
For scale, end to end is from my elbow to the middle of my hand
I was so excited when it arrived. I ripped it out of the box and immediately got down to figuring it out. It was pretty easy. So I pulled up some eye candy from my hard drive and checked /r/dykesgonewild for anything new, and got comfortable on my bed. I laid a towel out, applied some lube, and started testing it out using one of the methods I'd been told.

It felt really good. Like, leg spasms good. But after a couple minutes it became seriously overstimulating. I wouldn't have stuck with it if that's how it started, but I felt close to orgasm, so I kept going. Just bite your lip and power through, I told myself. 

That was a mistake.

So close, so close. Just a little more. Suddenly I felt an ecstatic release. It felt like 1/2 an orgasm, and I figured it might just be dulled by the hormones. Something shot out of my penis and I thought it was cum. But it continued to keep coming. It shot into the air in a big, clear, spurting stream. Oh shit!

By the time I realized what was happening and managed to stop the flow, I had pissed all over my belly, my tits, my legs, my arm, my bed, and of course the vibrator. It soaked through the towel, through the sheets, and into the mattress. So instead of an orgasm I got my bed and half my body drenched in piss.

The best part is, I went to the bathroom right before starting to make sure that wouldn't be a problem. Less than 10 minutes from "bladder empty" to "the fucking Nile river."

Of course, the first thing I did after cleaning myself up was post the story to /r/TIFU. Some girl in comments tried to convince me I squirted, not pissed myself. Bless her heart. Lulzy commenters ran with it. Comments like, "Always wanted to be a girl, never knew you'd be a squirter." I replied, "Always wanted to be a squirter, but not that kind!"

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

Did I ever mention how I realized I was trans?

I know this has occasionally come up so some readers are certainly aware of at least the rough outline. But seeing that it's nowhere on the blog, I figure I should put it here for the posterity and the benefit lulz of others.

May 10th, 2013, I had the first date of my life. It went well, to say the least. You know the joke "what does a lesbian bring to a second date? A moving truck"? Well, that pretty much happened. And all of a sudden I had a girlfriend.

I can't remember if it came up on my screensaver or if she found it on Facebook (probably the former), but a week or so later she saw a picture of me that caught her attention.

Pre-alpha Rachel prototype

I was horribly embarrassed that she saw that. "Is that you," she incredulously asked. I turned bright red. "Uh... yeah," I stammered. "It was a thing they did, up at my last college," I hastened to add, "Dragfest, everyone dressed in drag and got wasted." Yeah, that justified it.

May 24th, two weeks after our first date: she's sitting on the couch out front and I'm in the kitchen for some reason. She calls to me. "So, uhm... those pictures of you in drag."

I freeze. "Yeah..."

"Well, you know I'm bi. And... I like having a girlfriend."

'Is she asking for this relationship to be open,' I'm wondering, 'and what does that have to do with those embarrassing pictures?' "Okay..."

"So I was wondering if you might be willing to dress up and be my girlfriend sometimes."

Time stopped. My heart pounded in my ears and my temperature shot up a few degrees. This couldn't be happening, but it was. That's it, now or never. This is my one and only chance. "Can I be your girlfriend all the time?"

My mind was so reeling I don't even remember quite what she said next. But she quickly got to asking me if I was trans. "Yeah... I'm sorry." I couldn't help but apologize.

Her response, in effect? "Well that explains a lot." I was confused by that; I asked what she meant. She told me I kissed and made love like a girl, that it explained my 'issues' with using my hardware in bed, that it explained some of my quirks and anxieties, why she was attracted to me after having written off guys and decided she was a lesbian. Less seriously, she joked about how I and our relationship were conforming to lesbian stereotypes.

She said if I wanted to be her girlfriend all the time, I could be. She loved me as her boyfriend and she'd love me as her girlfriend.

And that's how I realized I was really trans, that it wasn't just idle ideation. I had my chance to make it happen, and I took it. And for giving me that chance (and for helping me start to transition, and teaching me how to be a girl, and helping name me, and...) I am eternally grateful.

Sunday, September 28, 2014

Remnants

Remnants of my twisted inner life.

I've mentioned my intrusive thoughts before - the sick, twisted thoughts that would obsessively take over my mind and wouldn't leave until I, to be blunt, masturbated to them. These left me, seemingly for good, when I started hormone therapy. But in the time from age 14 to 31, I'd accumulated quite a collection of related images. See, I wasn't the only person with such sick thoughts, and plenty of others drew or rendered representations of them. I savored and collected these representations, to the tune of 6.5 GB compressed.

I had forgotten I had kept these, in a single one-piece RAR archive. I only remembered because of the pedo priest with his 131,000 pedophilic images. Let me be clear: there is nothing pedophilic in my archive. I am not a pedophile and never have been, even in the worst throes of my sickest intrusive thoughts. Just to be clear. It just reminded me of it.

I packed these images (and stories) up in that archive, and deleted the uncompressed files, when I felt the intrusive thoughts leave me 7 months ago. But I kept the archive. Initially it was because I thought I might want to decompress it and view the images again in the future - that the intrusive thoughts would come back. But now, knowing almost certainly that they're gone for good (as long as I keep estrogen instead of testosterone in my veins), I still keep them. Why?

I feel like that lone file - CAKE.rar - is a reminder to me. A reminder of what I once was, of what my mind is like with the wrong hormones. Of what I am naturally, without medical intervention. I never intend to open or decompress it. But seeing it, sitting there, it won't let me forget. And I feel like I have to remember the consequences of not being my true self.

I probably should delete it. No, I know I should delete it. But for some reason I can't bring myself to. It feels like deleting a part of myself. A part I absolutely despise and run away from, but a part of me nonetheless.

Someone please talk me into deleting it. Because I just can't bring myself to on my own.

Friday, September 5, 2014

Expectations, Excitement, and Disappointment (pointless ramblings)

I have some bad habits. Things that aren't good for my mental health. I won't get into all of them; the relevant ones here:

  • I look at /r/transtimelines
  • I look at /r/transpassing
  • I read other MtF girls' accounts of their progress
  • I let myself get excited about every little bit of my own progress
These habits conspire to set me up for guaranteed disappointment. I've been on hormone therapy for 6 months now; my boobs are AA (yes, it's a real size, smaller than A) and show no signs of continuing to grow. The fat distribution on my face and in my body is still fairly masculine - especially in my body. 

Don't get me wrong, I've made a lot of progress. But sometimes it doesn't feel that way. When my nipples started to grow, I jumped with joy; that just prepared me to despair when they stopped. Same with my boobs, which I'm now despairing over for their lack of soreness, a sure sign of growth. I was just so excited when I could say "I have boobs," it never occurred to me that it wouldn't be constant growth. Even though I know it's in fits and starts, I'm constantly afraid this is as big as they'll get. I can see changes to my face when I compare pictures, but when I look in the mirror I still see a man. My belly flab isn't going much of anywhere, least of all to my hips. Even though I've seen tables and graphs of normally expected timelines, and I see that I'm basically within normal range (though these expected values put hormone changes as happening for 4 years - I want to be ready for SRS long before that, dammit!), I despair.

My other bad habits get in the way of feeling good about that sometimes. I see timelines and read about progress where girls are looking totally female at 6 months, or have B cup breasts before this point. I look down at my AA's and I'm not a happy girl. I see timelines where 2 months of progress puts my 6 months to shame. I rationally know these are outliers, but inside they hurt.

I get frustrated. Girls talk about their endocrinologists giving them 8mg of estradiol a day; mine won't let me go higher than 4mg and I worry what I'm missing out on, how much better my progress could be. Mine started me at 50mg of spironolactone; 100mg sounds like it's a more typical starting dose. And again, I wonder what I missed out on in those first months with all that testosterone still afflicting me.

Of course, the second my boobs start hurting again, the second my nipples become tender again, I will light up in incandescent optimism. And when it stagnates, just look at a few timelines and I'm back to despair. That's how I'm feeling down after all the excitement at 6 months. And again, excited going to 200mg of the spiro, feeling my boobs get a little soreness, now down again after it goes away.

I get excited and it sets me up for disappointment. I see better-than-average timelines and it sets me up for disappointment. I hope too hard and it sets me up for disappointment. 

I should learn to expect nothing, and then be happy (not excited) with everything I get.

/angst

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Half a Year

This is a milestone. Half a year since I began hormones.

This update won't be like the others. It won't be an itemized list of the minutiae of the past month. Instead, prepare for some rambling musings on the whole experience, where I started, where I'm going, and what it all means.

Beginnings

Wednesday, February 26ᵗʰ. I put on my skirt, my frilly top, my high-heeled boots, and way too much makeup. I gobbled some of my anti-anxiety medication, paced around, and finally got in my car. My appointment was right behind the physics building, where I spent all my time at UNM; I parked right next to the LIDAR array our research group is working on. I don't pray, but I certainly hoped to myself, “oh please don't step outside to work on the damn thing now” (re: my boss). My heart was pounding the whole way to the clinic; I scrupulously avoided eye contact.

I checked in, a truly cringeworthy experience. Internally I had a bitter chuckle at the irony: I was there as Rachel, to see a doctor about being Rachel, and I had to check in and interact with everyone as Ryan (because paperwork). I was so nervous waiting in the exam room for the doctor. When he got there he started asking me questions about what I expected from the hormones. No, I’m not expecting it to get rid of my facial or body hair. Yes, I know there’s only so much it can do for appearance with immutable bone structure. No, I don’t expect it to change my voice. He suggested I might want to get a laser ablation procedure done on my vocal folds to undo some of the damage wrought by testosterone during puberty. Basically, he wanted to make sure my expectations were realistic.

I was afraid I might answer something wrong and he wouldn’t give me the hormones. But 15 minutes later I walked out of there with two prescriptions – spironolactone to get rid of my testosterone, and estradiol to replace it with estrogen – and a spring in my step (yes, even in heels). I went home, switched to boy mode, and went straight to the pharmacy. That Wednesday afternoon, I took my first doses, and my first step toward physically becoming Rachel.

Friday, August 22, 2014

Retcon


Comic book fans will be familiar with the term 'retcon' in layman's terms means that the writer waves his hand and tells you 'Remember when we said this? We screwed up, forget about that.' 
 Retroactive Continuity: rewriting past events to be consistent with the new present.

My brain is doing this to me now and it's a very strange experience. Some of my memories are being amended to be consistent with the present. The memories stay almost completely the same, except one or two things are different. The other day something reminded me of walking around the neighborhood in high school. It was a vivid memory, as my random memories tend to be.

Two things were retconned, though. First, my CRPS has been written out of existence in that memory. Gone, entirely. Like it was never there. I see this as consistency with the fact that it's been in remission for a decade. It's no longer really a part of my life, so why would it be there in a memory that had nothing to do with it?

Second, I've been rewritten as a girl. Not a trans girl in transition or anything. I was a girl and always had been. This is incredibly detailed retconning, too. I "remember" what I was wearing; I "remember" my sense of what I looked like; I "remember" my stride, completely different from how I actually walked at the time.

So now I'm remembering my life as it wasn't, subconsciously replacing the actual me with an alternate me more consistent with my present self-image. It's almost like I don't actually remember me in any of those memories - I remember my interactions with the world around me, then insert myself into it.

I'm not completely sure how to feel about this. On the one hand, I hate the failure of memory and the fundamental dishonesty of my brain. What I consider fantasy is replacing reality. But is it really? The only thing that seems changed is me - the rest of the memory seems intact. And is a change of "me" to maintain better coherence with the present me really so bad? Besides, it feels really good.

Regardless of the merits of the confabulation, my brain is being pretty clear about things:
Remember when you were a boy? That was a mistake, forget about that.