If I examine why I avoid things, it’s the fear of criticism. I know this old demon from social anxiety disorder, and I’ve always found it strange I can share things with people I’ll probably never meet face-to-face on the Internet. I need to stop doing this, and in fact, I’ll have to go out of my way to start re-posting transgender updates and political posts on Facebook. No one who knows what I’ve been through in the past year should be all that surprised that my views might have changed. And I’d be surprised if the Terre Haute Mind’s Eye Society people don’t already know that I’m transgender. Testosterone has already done its damage, and it’s hard to hide at my age, even though it is not impossible. Besides, I also believe Mystique was right when she said “I shouldn’t have to” in the second X-Men movie.
Avoiding health status updates is more complicated. I tried to at one time because I thought people were getting annoyed. Then I started getting probing, concerned, and somewhat ridiculous questions from my grandmother like, “Will you still be able to walk?” (Uh, why wouldn’t I? I only had bone spurs removed from my big toes.) I’ve gone back to doing some health status updates just so the family information network gets to where it needs to go.
I found out something I did not know about low-income housing in Terre Haute. Not all of it is connected to HUD or Section 8. If this extends to other places as well, other than the small towns I lived in long ago, it may give me a chance to go someplace where the safety net programs aren’t quite as restrictive or unsupportive as Indiana. I will have to look into this further. Now, where do I want to go? Pennsylvania is familiar, and I’ve wanted to go to New Mexico for a long time. I might avoid the desert southwest, however. I don’t think the drought is going to end until the region’s population declines
And an unrelated note, I found out my ankles have an unusually large range of mobility. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with this information. It’s nice to explain the ankle problems. She also said it might be why soft-tissue inflammation is showing up on the ankle X-rays that have been taken this year. Does it mean I should switch from low-top sneakers to high tops otherwise?
First, there’s the housemate. I don’t really know how to thank her for what she’s done. She’s given me a place to stay. This place has allowed me to transition. Cathy may almost be as stubborn as a Pennsylvania Dutchwoman, and I’m slowly trying to adopt her into this tribe, particularly with food offerings, but she thinks it’s better to remain a Hoosier. Let’s boil this down to the basic facts. Without her, I’d be on the streets right now, and things would be much worse for me than they are. She is one of my transgender sisters, who I often fail to appreciate. It’s hard to realize that the people closest to us suffer with us, even if they cannot fully understand what is happening inside of our bodies.
Then there’s my biological sister. She may be stubborn, opinionated, and a Fox News devotee, but she’s almost always been there when I needed her. 700 miles may separate us, but she’s always been the biological family member I’ve been closest to. I know she does not think much of people who have my diagnosis, and does not necessarily understand the invisible part of the illness, but I think she acknowledges something is wrong. I think she might think I’m exaggerating, and sometimes I wonder if I am. Usually when I get this way, a really bad pain day will come along to remind me that I still have issues.
Before I forget them, my brothers. I was going to separate this into half- and full-, but I realized that’s ridiculous. They’re still blood relatives, no matter how many of my parents’ DNA we share. Andy and I may not get along or see eye to eye, but there are still times when he has been there for me, and my actions – particularly regarding refusing to use State Farm because of what his State Farm agent did while he was in Afghanistan – have surprised him. Bill probably would like to have known his other siblings better when he grew up, but circumstances prevented this. He is trying to reach out now, and that is what counts.
My family in general. My grandmother has tried to be supportive, even though I have kept information from her. I don’t want to worry an 88-year-old woman unnecessarily. My father still tries, even though he thinks what I’m going through is merely the result of getting older. (I’m getting tired of hearing this from people, by the way. The only normal part of aging out of this has been the need to wear eyeglasses constantly.) The remaining aunts and uncles have offered as much support as they can, if they’ve paid any attention to my Facebook page.
Online Friends. I have always felt more comfortable sharing my feelings online in semi-anonymity than I do in real life. Partly, this is the whole socialized as male thing, which I hate in more ways than I can describe. Even though I hate it, these behaviors have long become habit. Vlad has been there to offer a shoulder to cry on the most throughout this process, and I’ve probably adopted them as an unlikely mentor who guides me through unfamiliar territory.
Online support groups have been helpful, and I’ve tried to focus a lot of my complaining there. At first, I told everyone, but that started to get old, even for me. The people I chat with regularly in the Fibro support group I’m in, who I know as Poolgoddess, Quilter’s Way, E1989 and QueenPink know the struggles and the ups and downs of going through the disability process. One of them, Quilter’s Way, managed to get it on the first time through. PoolGoddess and I are going through reconsideration, and QueenPink, who lives in Ireland, has not had to go through the social security administration to get disability benefits.
I will post this to my Blogspot and Dreamwidth blog, so everyone who knows about either blog can read them.