Fuck me up

(When I initially wrote this, I thought these thoughts were going to become way too personal and risky to share, as I hadn't formulated them properly in my head before yet, but as I got further and further with my writing, it didn't feel so bad to make it known, and I wanted to share it. It doesn't change anything I've already decided. It doesn't mean I've changed my mind or that it would be the wrong decision. It just means I have some unfinished business I need to take care of first. Bare with me, if you will.)

I know I won't ever want to post this anywhere, but I should probably write it just for myself. The thoughts won't form on their own, they're pushing in one direction as I'm pushing in another. What now? I know I still have some doubts about getting SRS, shit I don't want to recognise or already have and came to the conclusion it could safely be discarded. But it keeps clamouring me. I don't even know what the fuck it actually wants. It's like a child saying "daddy?" every third second and every time you say, a little more frustrated and annoyed each time "yes, honey, what is it that you want?" because the kid's answer every time is "nothing" but he/she looks sad or upset by something they won't tell you.

That constant reminder of how good it used to feel to get fucked in my pussy, over a decade ago now. And mind you, I've kept on doing it ever since, up until a little over a year ago. And it's so weird cause I just thought of Chase Ross on youtube once talking about how he had to mourn the cis dick he never had and never could have, cause now I'm thinking maybe I have to mourn the death of my pussy, what I had but now doesn't work anymore and have to get rid of. Not because of me wanting and going for a vaginectomy though, but because it's already dead. Just not buried yet. It's a broken machine that can only malfunction. It's like my old laptop that I kept trying to start and use, but it just kept crashing, and I kept trying because I wanted to have a functioning laptop. And now I have to put my pussy behind me like I did with that laptop. I should toss it, wherever the fuck you're supposed to toss broken computers. The laptop, I mean. Cause maybe, since the metaphor corresponded so well, if I can toss that laptop so that I'll never bring it up to my lap again for another desperate attempt to get it to work, then maybe it would be easier to also toss my pussy in the trash.

I have difficulties moving on even when I so desperately both want and need to. I have a habit of keep trying in the same way over and over expecting a different result each time but it only results in another failure, and another, and another. I yearn for a release from this burden, yet I somehow hold onto it. Because nostalgia is a fucking deceitful thing, telling you that it can be good like that again if you just kept trying to achieve it, with no concern for the fact that sometimes what was once good can never become good again. A once beautiful house destroyed by a fire cannot possible return to its former glory again. The only thing you can do is to either try to renovate it or tear it down and build a new house if the damage is too severe.

And my pussy is like such a house now. I keep being pulled back to the nostalgia of its former glory. But it's history, it's history that cannot repeat and I don't even want to live there anymore. I hated that damn house! I wanted for it to burn down, I prayed for it, I was the fucking one to lit the torch! But now I hold on to it like a broken childhood toy, trying desperately to put it back together again. Like I just can't give up, I just keep screaming "I give up this is useless I give up I give up" over and over but I never actually stay true to my words. I want to give up, but I'm stuck in a repetitive motion of undivided stubbornness.

It reminds me of that teddy bear I once had as a small child, when I was around 4 or 5 years old, until I unintentionally left it in the vestibule where the dogs stayed. Found it the next day and broke down in tears on the floor cause the dogs had completely chewed up its entire face. It chilled me to the bone, as if I was looking at something from a horror movie. It etched into my spine and raised the hairs on my back while my stomach turned. And I still remember that my father picked up the teddy and took it away from me. Some time later he gave it back to me. He had made a new face for it. I was very grateful and thought it was the sweetest thing anyone could ever have done for me, but the teddy wasn't the same. It looked weird somehow and still smelled like wet dog, I couldn't hold it close to me anymore. I felt sorry for the poor thing and told it I still loved it, but it was too difficult, so it ended up somewhere in a closet where I could forget about it, or at least try to. It wasn't a favourite and I had many teddies and other stuffed animals that were much more dear to me. It was just one of many others that I didn't ever really care about. But after that, after what it had been through, I felt so horrible for the love I could never give it. It broke something within me. I felt inadequate, shallow, like a betrayer. Both to the teddy and to my father, and even to the dogs who never meant any harm. I still think I had way too many and way too big emotions for a kid when I was one. It felt like I carried the weight of the world on my shoulders, from birth.

And now I start crying when I think about it. Sometimes I just feel so broken with all the thoughts I still can't really allow myself to entertain. That now my body is fake, that it's artificial and altered, and sometimes it gives me that same feeling as I had about that teddy. That it's not real, that it's unnatural and made up. A costume. I don't feel like a real man. It feels like I'm just pretending to be a man cause I couldn't stand being a woman, cause of self hatred or trauma or whatever, cause I couldn't stand what I was born with. And I've always felt weird about people who have gone through a lot of medical or cosmetic procedures to change their looks. Scary, somehow. Like an imitation of life. Like a doll or robot trying to look human but something is off about it. You know what I mean, I hope. That it's creepy somehow. That you think it's human, but then you stare into its eyes and you see a mechanical, dead stare inspecting your every move. I was too fucking young when I watched the "Terminator" movie about killer robots as well... about 8 or 10 years old. It gave me ideas, fears... and nightmares.

I don't truly feel that way about myself though, I'm not scared of my mirror reflection, but I think it. I question myself to the point of not knowing anything anymore, but this thing about feeling fake has always been around. I guess I've just kept hoping it would go away at some point. Maybe it will, maybe it won't. It doesn't matter, but I still need to think about it and try to figure out what it means. I know it's not a rare feeling/thought to have as a trans person, cause on literally every online forum for trans people some fucker always brings it up in one thread or another. It seems like very many of us struggle with the same fear, or insecurity. But I keep asking myself why do I think I'm male? Is it only because of my past life or have I woven that idea into it later on? Yes I must have. I didn't know about who or what I was in Dala until sometime in 2010, and by that time I was already into my transition. I know it's probably a weird question to hear from a trans guy who's been transitioning for the past 9 years, but it's unfiltered, it's raw and it's how I feel it. And just because I know I'm trans and that transitioning is right for me, doesn't mean I have any god damn understanding of what it really means, or what it actually is. So the question still stands, why do I think I'm male?

I know the answer is simple, but that's just it. It's too simple to satisfy me. Cause I want a dick, that's why. And all the secondary sex characteristics that males have. Except from possibly back hair. And it's because I like it when other people see me as a guy, refer to me with male pronouns, use my male name. But none of that satisfies me as an answer cause it's just physical, biological, dysphoria related. And I'm looking for a spiritual answer. An answer that confirms that my soul is somehow male.

Oh my god, this song is fucking horrifying to listen to. Just get this chorus:
"We are the ones you should be fearing
Come in the night and take your teeth away
Now sew up your mouth, and go to sleep, 'cause
We'll be there soon to break your heart and spite your face"
Really makes me want to check my teeth, you know? I've been listening to a lot of songs like that these past some amount of hours now. Another song text keeps repeating "this is motherfucking torture" in a calm telephone-operator-voice, and yet another has a very upset and scared-sounding male voice speaking "don't you give up" repeatedly to someone else who's crying. I think it's from a movie but google wouldn't find it for me. Very dark industrial songs with horrifying lyrics that crawl into the marrow of my bones and fester in it. Somehow I find it soothing, like finding a creepy stranger in a dark alley who you somehow end up sharing strange drugs you don't know the names of with while you're talking about something otherworldly that you can't grasp the concept of but you hold his hand and his kisses are soft. Why do I keep dreaming about meeting a stranger like that? Maybe because I like mating with my demons.

Somehow that does seem like a very fitting figure of speech for what I'm doing. Like, okay, people keep saying you should "face your demons" by which I assume they mean doing harmless things that scare you for some irrational reason until they're not so scary anymore. But I say I "fuck my demons" by which I mean I dive right into the actually harmful things that do scare me cause I'm looking for a thrill. And no one gives better orgasms than the masters of sin. Of course they tickle my fancy and I let them tickle it all night and all day. God damn it, now I'm horny again.

Anyhow, what I wrote earlier about my pussy, I'm not exactly done trying to release my thoughts and feelings about that. Just got off track a bit. I started thinking about it just now cause I just wrote a really quite dirty poem inspired by those dark industrial songs I've been listening to. It's probably the most direct, yet still somehow poetic, dirty poem I've ever written. I think it screams desperate casual fucks, sex addiction and low self worth, along with some odd form of suppressed self love, gender dysphoria and not feeling man enough for my own standards. If it had a smell, I'd say it smells like some nasty, dark alley in a Stockholm slum quarter, oil, gas, muddy boots and sex. I thought I'd include it here for context:

~Entangled from the start~

"I'm damned if I don't, for nothing chafes more against my soul
I'm damned if I can't, for it's the only thing that can console
this gutting misalign at the heart of where pleasure should be
my constant reminder that I'm not the man I within myself see

This permanently attached road block, and whinging cock block
forged in a biological mishap, now I'm loading up the stock
of unsavory desperation, a fight and flee response
wanting to tear it all out, what I'm meant to ensconce

Bewildred by the drama of my heart
a love entangled from the start
I know that when every orgasm ends in disgust
I'm torn apart between my dysphoria and my lust

Come crawling in between my thighs, I shun you I desire
your fervent touch that upon contact burns me like fire
it's not how I remember it, it's not even what I want
but I'm held back by what I need and what I flaunt

I have no shame for what I've got
it's not a dick but you like it and it's hot
somehow your attraction leads me on
and once again I'm lost before I'm gone

And then I close the door between us and in my solitude I fear
that my reality-detached fantasies could interfere
with the realism I pursue
to awake anew

My force of will, grants the power to fulfill
any desire I may possess, and I must confess
that I'm damned if I do, break as I reach through
and damned if I don't, find what I need to confront"

But the thoughts about my pussy did start earlier than that. I have to go back over 24 hours to when I was about to go to bed yesterday, or some hours before bed. I started watching some porn like I usually do and I've been trying harder to kinda force myself to only look at gay porn with just cis guys in it, cause if there's a trans guy or a woman, I keep imagining that I'm in the position of whomever has that pussy which is getting penetrated. And right back I am reliving exactly that nostalgia from the past that I can't let go of.

I only ever focus on it when I masturbate cause that's what gets me off like nothing else ever can. And it's fucking annoying. Cause I really don't want to still have to imagine I have female genitals AFTER my surgery. Fuck. If the thought of me having male parts can't even turn me on, how would it turn me on when that's literally what's between my legs?! I know it's just a memory that is fucking with me. A memory of eleven orgasms in one go. From a G-spot I no longer can stimulate, cause all that gives me now is dysphoria and pain and more dysphoria. I wish I never did lose my vag-virginity. I wish I never knew how good it could feel. Or, at least I wish I hadn't tried until after dysphoria and testosterone destroyed that erotic sensation there. Then all I would have known about vaginal penetration would have been discomfort and pain. Then I wouldn't have been so conflicted now, so stuck between my past and my future.

I kind of wish I could just keep the hole and not be bothered by its existence, and have all the other procedures, to leave the option open for whatever unforeseeable future. But I can't, cause just knowing it's still there makes me literally incapable of relaxing even somewhat during sex. With anyone, no matter how good the communication ever could be. Cause I can't trust anyone. Cause I just keep being tense up to the freaking roof by the constant thought that "what if he puts his fingers or dick or tongue in there" and can't enjoy myself because of it. I wish the damn thing had a zipper or something. That I could put a padlock on. But the thing is I can't even trust myself. Cause how many times have I been so dangerously close to letting him, whichever dude it was at the time, just to get it over with cause I knew that was what he wanted, so at least one of us would get something out of it. As some kind of really idiotic sacrifice that would certainly only have ruined my night instead of it having just been kinda ugh.

I get that thought every time I'm with a guy and he wants to fuck me there. Like when I do want to have sex with him, but just not in there. Like literally anywhere but there. Any god damn millimeter of me, but not in there. And I just keep banging my head to splinters against the wall in my mind echoing "why can't anyone accept that I hate it in there, that I don't like it, regardless if they believe in my dysphoria or me being trans or a guy, regardless... why can't they just accept when I say I don't like the feeling?" but I guess they don't care. I guess they can't imagine what it's like to be born with certain parts but wish your fucking heart out you had the opposite and that your actual parts give you so much emotional torment that you can't possibly find any pleasure in using them the way nature intended for you to. I guess that's what I can't communicate to any random, horny stranger.

Is it a sacrifice just to make my sex life easier for me? I guess there are worse reasons cause my GOD do I yearn for being free of that burden. That constant fear of "please don't put anything in there" while struggling to force myself to relax enough to actually enjoy having my pussy licked or tongue kissing another man who lies heavily on top of me while I'm on my back, or when I gently caress his dick with my wet tongue and lips while he's masturbating me, or whatever's going on in all those moments. Cause I wish to just being able to let go of that fear, of not having any reason to fear it anymore, and that useless hole is just dead meat that I hardly need for any kind of survival. I think reproduction might just be the least necessary biological function of the human body for any each individual. At least at this point when there's over 7 billion of us. Everyone who is alive today will still live just as long if they got infertile. It's as useless as the appendix, in terms of your own survival.

But whatever, I wouldn't need an entire vaginectomy if my only issue was wanting to become infertile. I need it to get rid of that fear and to stop it from constantly leaking which only that spirals my dysphoria out of control every time I even just masturbate and I'm sitting in a fucking pool of that icky goup in an amount equivalent to what my pee bladder can contain and that's just what's on the outside, or it's literally running down my legs all the way to the floor into a puddle if I'm standing. It's that much of it, and I can never feel clean. It's as though I wasn't able to close my mouth and would have drool in my entire face where all kinds of bacteria would collect and start to smell, but between my legs and into my clothes instead. Every minute, every hour, awake and asleep. Doesn't matter if I'm horny or not, masturbating or just writing an angry hate comment on youtube. And that horrible cold wet feeling every time I've been to the bathroom and have to pull up my underwear again, even if they were prefectly clean just an hour earlier, cause of what's collected in them during just that one hour.

No I won't stop, I need for you to understand what a fucking torment my crotch has been causing me for at least the past seven years and it's all thanks to the testosterone (of all things?! Why oh why didn't it dry me up instead...) which I don't want to fucking live without. I don't care how gross it is, I won't stop telling you that it does collect in my underwear immediately after I've put on a clean pair directly after shower which I'm reminded of every time I go to the bathroom and put on the same underwear again, cold and sticky wet against my crotch again, and it gets yellowish and literally bleaches the fabric over time until all of my underwear look like a fucking nightmare from Elm's street even when they're newly washed cause that discolouration doesn't come off again. And it doesn't bloody matter what colour underwear I use either. White ones get yellow, all other colours get a much lighter and slightly yellowish colour where the goup has been. Can you imagine how disgusted I am by it 24/7 and knowing there's absolutely nothing I can do about it except from getting that entire hole completely sewn up? Do you see my frustration? And how much I just want to shove up a whole god damn roll of toilet paper in there, until I remember that just gently placing a lubed tampon in there hurts like the ever living hell. There's nothing I can do but scream into an abyss that doesn't even respond with echo.

And I need the vaginectomy cause the hole serves no purpose anymore and is only causing me pain and suffering, in case that still wasn't clear somehow. It's a giant, gaping fucking wound that's constantly leaking and hurts by the slightest touch, it's incredibly gross to me and it's just a constant god damn mind fuck to have it there. I literally feel like I'm some kind of highly dysfunctional chimaera. Like a half octopus, half leopard creature who needs to both be on land and in water but it can't be eitherwhere without killing the other half. It's time to get this wrong purchase back to the hellhole store it spawned from and get what I was supposed to order from the start instead. It has become something like malware at this point. But fuck me what I'm harping on today. Jeez, can't I ever just get to the bloody point?! So let's just get it over with then: yesterday while I was trying to masturbate to some hot gay porn vid, I couldn't even focus on it and my clit was just "meh, get this party going, for fucks sake, I don't have all day before I go numb from overstimulation" while my thoughts were taking me elsewhere. They took me to a fantasy in which I imagined I was with one of the guys I've been with in the past, and in that fantasy he was nagging to stick it in my pussy and my response was hesitation before letting him. And NO this isn't just me giving you smut for no reason, I do have a point this time, I promise. My point is that I wanted that. I wanted it for real, I wanted to force myself to feel that agony in someone else's pleasure until it would completely break me. So that maybe then I'd fucking learn to stop wishing back a memory that I can't fuck back. For it to stop tormenting and haunting me. For it to stop being the most prevalent fantasy and the most important aspect of me reaching orgasm more than 99% of the time every god damn day. No fucking wonder I feel like utter shit as soon as I'm done. Cause that's really talking about self-induced mind-rape. I think I was born to be self destructive. It's just one way or another, one way dumber and more complicated than the other.

I want to fuck the pain away by forcing it upon myself. To scare myself away from forever. Like forcing myself to sit on a hot stove to remind myself to never wish for hot stoves on my butt again. How fucking dumb can I be? How fucking retarded is my frontal lobe (is it even connected to the rest of my brain cause it seems to have gone way off to lala-land) to need to get tortured to understand that "no, we don't WANT to be tortured, you complete dumbass!" but ugh. Sometimes tough love is the only way, apparently. So that I never want it again. I don't even know if that would be considered a form of self harm, or just the purest and dumbest form of desperation I ever could experience. Like almost as dumb as deciding to jump off a high building just to check if you really can't fly, to make sure you'll fall straight down and land like a human being by becoming meat-farce connected to asphalt and not lift to the sky, just a test, then we continue life as normally. I'm having problems...

Because the point wouldn't be to cause long-lasting harm, it should be temporarily painful, preferably incredibly fucking painful to the point of hyperventilating and nearly passing out while feeling like I'm getting my entire reproduction system pulled out, stuffed back in again, pulled out again and so on until it's literally impossible to hold any tears back or screaming (good thing that me having a really good time during sex compared to me being in horrible pain during it actually both sounds and looks pretty much the same), but it would be for the goal of achieving a long-term result of relief from what's been haunting me all these years.

It seems like that could potentially be the worst thing I ever could do to my own mind even though my body would probably be fine or just a little bit sore after, considering it would more or less be self-rape, if there even is such a thing. And I think that would tear me up like nothing else considering my already existing traumas of rape and sexual abuse. But what the fuck am I supposed to do? My mind won't budge, and obviously if I decide not to, then have the surgery, and still am tormented by that memory, then there's no way I can do it. Then I'd literally be chasing a ghost. A dead and buried ghost. It may already be dead, but at least now it's still corporeal. Tangible. There. Usable. A lifeless body, but still a body. This was a terrible metaphor. Instant regret! Sorry about the necrophilia reference, my mind obviously isn't connected to its senses like it should be. The fuck is up with me and being attracted to literally anything that even just barely resembles a human being as long it's male and it doesn't matter if it's 150 years old, 2 days old, living or dead?! Oh, that's right: the sexual desire centre of my brain has no inhibitions whatsoever. Let's keep that in there, shall we? *stuffing the shit back where it came from again*

Fuck, I should do it. Rape myself back to sanity, if there's any left of that somewhere in my head. I think that specific demon I really do need to mate with just one more time. Or it will never leave me alone. I should hurry up. Might take a few weeks to find someone willing, or months if I'm unlucky. Hoping a lot of guys get "spring fever" soon maybe. Should probably use a condom that time though, especially. Cause it would certainly be a very bad idea to show up for surgery while pregnant with STD's. If you catch my drift. Cause it would most certainly be annoying if I'd have to postpone it even more just to have an abortion and get treated for whatever STD's first. Even though I know it's extremely unlikely I'd get knocked up, considering how much testosterone I have flowing through my veins, blocking my body's own estrogen and making my ovaries kinda sleepy. But they wake up sometimes! Like that 6 months long period I had just over a year ago. So you never fucking know with that.

I guess I needed to vent out my frustrations, fears, nasty cringey jokes, sad childhood memories, poems, music inspirations and letting my juices flow freely for a bit. And I don't think I would mind posting this. Why should I? Cause if this would make anyone else start thinking I'm not ready to have my SRS, then here's my answer: no one is ever truly ready for anything. Especially decisions for permanent, life-changing things that you can't possibly undo should you change your mind. You're always gonna have a few "what if's". It's scary as hell, but I'm still sure that this is what I want and I want it so badly I'd give both my legs for it if I had to. I'd give a kidney and a lung for it too. I wouldn't be able to keep living the rest of my life with my current genitals. I'd rather take an axe to them.

I dream of a future with them looking more like something resembling male parts, even if it wouldn't be quite 100% like it. I yearn for it. It's something much better than a hell that I'm trying to grab, and it's so close now I can almost touch it with my finger tips. I just need to deal with my pussy-madness in some creative and effective way. And I can't think of anything more effective. I need to give back that teddy to the dog that ate it and watch it tear it to pieces entirely while I cry my heart out. Then, and only then, I can give it a proper burial. I have an itch to scratch and I need to scratch deep. All the way into my bones. Because... and this is not just metaphorical, but also literal for me: itching is always so much worse than pain. Give me chronic pain that never goes away, I rarely even complain about it, but give me one mosquito bite and I'll tear my entire fucking skin off.

Enough wall-texting for now. I only edited once, but it has to be enough or I'll be up all night and the next day if it continues to just become more and more like this... Sweet dreams.