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femalefail · 6 months

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It's that time of year. Snow is coming, Christmas decorations have taken over the seasonal aisles, and, oh-- Bells are ringing. You can call me the Grinch all you want but the truth is that I'm repulsed by it all.

I personally have not done extensive research on the Salvation Army's history in Australia and its apparent involvement in the US government. I will mentally note to do so. But the systemic discrimination of the LGBTQIA2+ community at the hands of the SA and their wealth-hoarding disguised as charity is enough to turn up my chilled nose at their bellringers.

Annual reminder that the Salvation Army:

is a church

operated Aboriginal missions in Australia, where Aboriginal people were confined and their children were subject to strict patterns of work and Christian education, until the 1960s

has had their own international pedophile scandal among their leadership at Alaska Native schools, in orphanages, and among their programs for children

systemically discriminates against LGBTQIA2+ people at their homeless shelters (and LGBTQIA2+ folks are highly over-represented among the homeless)

provides food and entertainment to Australian military in almost every war they have been in, and to the Indonesian military, which I. turn abused their own citizens

in 2019 they raised $126,000,000 with their bell ringing

Tried to take over the "Indian Affairs" Department in the US

Called African religions as "witchcraft" and tried to have any mention of it removed from the South African constitution

#salvation army #happy holidays #lgbtq community #lgbtqia2+

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femalefail · 6 months

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I can't sleep.

I keep thinking about my body. I want to tell its story and even if you will not open your mind or sacrifice your time to it, I need to get it out so I can rest.

TW: sh, ed, sa, su!c!de, gender dysphoria, hospitalization

When I was first given this body, I couldn't have imagined the trauma that would come along with (presumably) having XX chromosomes. I was an innocent child in my mother's arms. An early Christmas gift from the deity in Heaven my mother so often cried out to for hope. I couldn't have known that I was fated to experience a chain of events that some might say resembled body horror.

When I was a small child, I was fascinated with life. I loved to watch plants grow and seasons change. I wanted to know what made life take such forms as bugs and fish and ferocious beasts and humanity. I loved to learn about the same forces who created me. I couldn't have known that these were the same forces that would destroy me.

When I was 11, I would stand naked in front of the mirror and sob. I would run my hands over myself, hoping that I could tug and pull my tiny curves back into straight lines. When I couldn't, I would scratch my hips with thumbtacks and broken razors. I couldn't have fought the urge to hurt myself.

When I was 12, I was a quiet girl, but there was turmoil brewing inside me. I wouldn't give in to nature's curse. I ate as little as I could to show the forces that created me that I was in control of my body, not them. I would scroll through pro-ana Tumblr. I read posts from all over the internet about how other people struggled with their bodies and with their lives. I came across videos of people treating their gender dysphoria and I remember instinctually denying that I was like them. Yet I lingered on that content. I watched them experience the joy of outwardly becoming who they are inside and I would shed happy tears for them. I couldn't have known that I would feel that joy firsthand one day.

When I was 13, I found my first boyfriend. He was my age. He liked playing a game called 'firetruck.' I also figured out how to shave my legs. I still don't understand why I was expected to devote so many hours of my weeks to ridding myself of my excessive, thick body hair. I couldn't have chosen to leave it alone, because the last time I did, a boy called me Gorilla Girl. I couldn't have known that my efforts were literally in vain.

When I was 14, I started to get the hang of the 'period' thing. After years of bleeding through my favorite jeans and wrapping sweatshirts around my waist to hide the stains, I figured out how to blend in. I had it worked out despite having a cycle that, for most other girls, would land them in the doctor's office. The pain was immeasurable, but I was told that there were many other girls who felt the same pain. The doctors said my flow would be normal once I matured. I couldn't have known I'd been lied to.

When I was 15, life became a blur. My inner turmoil broke loose and my parents saw it. My mother, who saw me as a beacon of hope, learned that there was no hope for me. She brought me to doctors who tried every medication they could to help my psyche. Every medication helped sedate me for a short while and then I would spiral again. I would end up in the ER, wishing I wouldn't cling to my life. I wished I had some control over the forces that kept me alive and destroyed me. I wished I could destroy myself. I couldn't have known that this wouldn't be the end of me.

When I was 16, I felt I was already dead. All the memories and love for life that I had collected as a child were tainted by the fresh trauma of being in lockdown facilities. I was still on medication that didn't work. It only numbed me. It only allowed the inner turmoil to simmer undetected. The scars on my body grew in numbers. I couldn't have known that I would live to be an adult with those same scars.

When I was 17, I was trapped in a relationship with another boy. He would say he loved me and then call me a bitch an hour later. He would say he loved my body and then violate it on the same day. He said he would love me no matter what, but when I asked him if he would kindly stop calling me a woman, he laughed. I was with him for two painstaking years. I couldn't have known that the threats he always gave me when I tried to end the relationship were empty.

When I turned 18, I was freshly out of yet another psychiatric hospital. I cried a lot that day. I didn't want to be an adult. I never wanted to grow up in such a horrid way. I looked back at my teenage years and wondered what forces were really behind this. I wondered if maybe there was a deity and they hated me. I couldn't have known it would get worse.

After I turned 19, I told my parents I wasn't a girl. My mother said she already knew. She had stopped attending church due to the other members' hateful words towards the community she suspected her children belonged to, but she still often cries out to her deity whom she loves. My father didn't really understand, but that didn't stop me from going on HRT with the health insurance his job provides. He didn't seem to care to stop it either. My parents were desperate for anything that might make me their beacon of hope again. We couldn't have known that my curse would prevail even through male puberty.

I'm almost 20. My scars are healed and I refuse to make more. I have come to terms with the fact that I'm disabled. I've also accepted the fact that the many ways I hurt my body have stunted my growth. I'm still in the process of getting diagnosed, but I feel like I'm dying every day. I self-medicate at the beginning of every waking moment to numb the pain. My doctors say I should stop self-medicating and then run tests that tell us nothing about the specific horrors of my body. My joints hurt more and more as time goes on. Every single one of them. My muscles are always weak. Pelvic pains and bleeding persist even though I got an IUD inserted and my doctors told me that the intense dysphoria that plagued me monthly was a thing of the past. Now, instead of bleeding monthly, I bleed every day. Eating hurts. Walking hurts. Using the bathroom hurts, and on top of that, I have to use the women's bathroom when I'm in public and fear for my safety regardless. I don't sleep well. I don't think well. And I'm so exhausted. I don't know what to do. I know I will look back on this and think, "You couldn't have known." But it still feels so hopeless. For so many years all I wanted was to destroy myself and now that I'm falling apart, I don't want to be. I worry that HRT has worsened my symptoms but even if that were so, I would still be subjected to bodily horrors without it. I'm not sure there is a way to lift this curse.

I don't know what you, as the reader, are supposed to take away from this post. I just need to say something. I suppose if you are not a trans person, you could gain some sympathy from this post. If you wonder why puberty blockers work and are advocated for, here's an example of the trauma that puberty can instill in a child. I'm a walking example of it. I have the scars to prove it. If you are a trans person, I suppose you could take away from this that you are not alone. We all have stories and I say we should tell them, even if some people are not willing to hear. Even if they resemble body horror in some cursed way. I need to share my story before it eats me up inside.

Also, if you are a trans person, I want you to remember that in many instances, you couldn't have known what to do. I want you to continually remind yourself that you aren't to blame. I often wonder why this is my curse. I want to feel trans joy and I do, but I still hurt. I wonder what I did to deserve this. I wonder when this will be over. I guess I can't know that either.

The story of my body is with you, Tumblr. FF

#transgender #trauma dump #trans ftm #gender dysphoria #puberty

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femalefail · 6 months

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The last time I was active on Tumblr, it was probably 2016.

I can't commit to being particularly active in the future, but there's something about this platform that makes me feel like I'm free to speak my mind. It's comforting and I miss it. So I want to try, regardless of how often I can post.

I don't see myself as someone who could be an influencer, really. In that sense, I don't expect to have an audience. Whatever this blog might turn out to be, @femalefail is just the voice of someone who's been influenced.

From the moment I created my first social media account (on Tumblr circa 2014) to now, there have been so many voices telling me how to think, that it almost seems like I've forgotten how to do it myself. I don't think I've completely forgotten though; I've simply fallen out of habit. I got tired of thinking so now I sit back and allow people I trust to take the wheel. I nod along with people I agree with and argue in TikTok comment sections with those I don't.

It just doesn't feel fulfilling to sit back, though. It's jarring to feel like I'm along for the ride when I think I'm supposed to be the car or something. Maybe that's a weird comparison, but I don't want to be the driver. I'm an anxious driver, not metaphorically. Seriously, don't let me get in the driver's seat if you value your life. That could just be the anxiety talking but I don't want to take any chances.

Moving along. No more driving metaphor.

Anyway, I'm just a person. A consumer but not really because I don't have much money of my own. I'm more of a dependent, I guess. I'm also just one of the quadrillion people who have been influenced by the internet. I'm only here to say something and you, as another person who is influenced by the internet, do not have to stick around. At the very least, don't pity me. I just need somewhere to put my thoughts that isn't one of my many unfinished journals lying around.

It's enough for me to know that my words are out there somewhere. And I hope this post is enough to fuel my writing fire, however paperless it may be. It may not be enough and that's okay too, I'll be back on my own time. I know I have so much more to say but sometimes I feel trapped in the passenger seat.

I unknowingly lied about that being the last reference to the driving metaphor. My thoughts tend to work like that, I get stuck a lot. I want to get unstuck. I suppose this post wasn't a very good start, but I have to start somewhere.

My thoughts are with you, Tumblr. FF

#thoughts #word vomit #first post #I did it! I rejoined Tumblr.

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