I’m getting sort of bored with the theme of this blog. It’s not useful to me anymore, and I’ve moved on for the most part.
Mostly though? I’m basically over identity politics. As an anarchist, they don’t interest me, especially of the single-issue variety. Fuck that. I’m ace/aro-spec, I’m trans-spec, I’m neurodivergent, mentally ill, white-passing, and chronically broke. And discussions of any of those things by liberals (which, lets face it, constitute 90%+ of the dialogue) don’t serve me anymore.
I don’t want the “right” to enlist in the military. I don’t want the “right” to get more government benefits. I don’t want the “right” to get arrested without incident. I don’t want the “right” to be able to pay off my student loan debts without going hungry.
I don’t want “rights” at all.
Rights are things given out by governments who lengthen the leash and hope that you forget that they’re holding it. Seeking rights is seeking assimilation into and approval by the state. Who in their right mind wants the state to like them? Especially a capitalist state, where your value is defined solely by your capacity to generate surplus value for your bosses, and the ease with which you’re willing to part with your meager earnings? Let’s stop kidding ourselves: every new “equality” measure and social breakthrough boils down to there being one more demographic to sell shit to.
Aces want a big-budget Hollywood coming out story? Okay, it’ll put asexuality in the spotlight for a few months. You’ll have urged all your friends and loved ones to go spend $20 to see this shit so that they can somehow, in a roundabout way, support you? How does stuffing the coffers of white, hetero, capitalist Hollywood execs help us exactly? How does it help aces not in western countries? How does it help aces living in poverty in developing countries? Aces in regions where marriage is often arranged and marital rape a given? Hint: it doesn’t. And before you try and say that anything helps, what you’re saying is that conscious consumerism is what counts here. That showing capitalists and the state (because states have a long history of fraternizing with filmmakers) that we care via our dollars (what if we don’t have dollars?) is the battle to be won here. Guess what, it’s not. Pride parades have already been co-opted by big business and fucking beer coprorations, when the first pride was an anti-capitalist, anti-police riot. STAR didn’t give a rat’s ass about identity politics; it cared about saving lives, and it cared about ending state-sponsored brutality. Follow the trail long enough, and all brutality ends up being sponsored by the state.
Enough with the hate crime laws that just put more power in the hands of a fucked up judicial and prison system. They are not here to protect any of us.
Eliminate governments, capitalists, the police, and you’ve eliminated most of the problem we face as minorities. Identity politics will make us feel better, but it is by its nature a dead-end trajectory. You bide time by asking your abuser to be nicer to you, but it will never be the same as escape.
This post has been brought to you by someone who is disappointed that I don’t care for stories about asexuality and would just prefer to have asexual characters in other kinds of stories because I’m not a fan of any one particular genre, arc, character archetype, setting, or anything. If it’s good and I have the time, I’ll expose myself to it, because that’s what adds to my existence. Not token books and sitcoms that vie for my money just like all the rest of them.
No, this isn’t a direct response to them personally, this is just the straw that broke the camel’s back. It provided an opportunity to realize that I just don’t give a shit anymore. There’s bigger fish to fry.
I’ve been thinking about that last post of mine for the past month; I’m going through the thing again right now, but I’m doing better at not letting it take over 24/7. What’s better is that I can focus on learning about it, too, figure out what, exactly, is happening and how it feels. A few observations so far:
– It’s almost entirely adrenaline that I’m feeling, and its endorphins are what trigger a HUGE dopamine hit for me, not necessarily other “cozy” feel-good chemicals associated with sex. This is probably why I don’t focus quite so much on orgasm and direct sexual stimulation:
“The power of dopamine and our reward circuitry are seen in classic experiments done on rats. Consider what happens when sadistic scientists put a starving rat on one side of a grid with electric current running through it and food on the other side. The rat will not cross the pain-producing grid. Yet put a rat with an electrode planted in her reward circuitry on one side of the grid and a lever she knows will stimulate her reward circuitry on the other, and she’ll dash across the grid to tap that lever nonstop. Stimulation of her reward circuitry becomes her top priority, because it’s telling her inner compass that a big reward is just around the corner. She will ignore food, even if starving, or abandon her unweaned pups just to tap that lever until she drops.If the rat is male, he’ll ignore a receptive female to tap it until he drops. Humans implanted with similar electrodes (decades ago) experienced a constant urge to tap their levers, as well as intense sexual arousal—but not pleasure or orgasm itself. They also reported an undercurrent of anxiety.”
This describes me when I’m in this brainspace pretty fucking well. Dis…concerting.
– My heart rate is elevated when I’m “here”, almost all the fucking time. I feel like I’m ready to fight almost every moment that I’m awake, except… it’s 100% sexually-charged energy. This is probably why I would drop so hard when it was all over years prior; my adrenal glands were EXHAUSTED after a few days of this. This time around, if I take things slow and don’t give in, then I can keep my heart rate lower. Still not normal, but lower.
– Because of the above, I’ve noticed this time around that I get cold and clammy a lot easier, my appetite is suppressed (I’ve only had 2 half-meals today), and I tend to tremble the tiniest bit at seemingly random intervals.
This is all I’ve got for now. I’ve been reading a fanfiction today and yesterday, though, that has not only been pretty hot, but has also somehow given me a lot to think about in regards to myself and my sexuality? It’s really long and some parts are boring, but it’s otherwise an utterly fantastic read, and wow, they feel like real fuckin’ people: After Hours on AO3 Something else that prompted me to write this is that I was replying to someone else, a longtime community member on a fetish forum I’ve been on-and-off with for a few years now, who was talking about their inferiority complex and how that is the biggest reason he has the fetish that he has:
Not at all man <3 Everyone’s got their demons, their secret things that they just fucking hate. I was on birth control every day for 7 years to keep my gonads from self-destructing. The amazing by-product of this medical necessity was that I found I wasn’t singlemindedly horny every month like clockwork. And it was soo freeing. But now that I’ve had my surgery, and after starting to develop some perimenopausal symptoms from my BC, I stopped because it was probably going to fuck me up way more in the long run than help. So now I’m left with this hormone fluctuation thing and it’s so maddening and I hate it but I don’t hate it because I guess it’s just part of who I am? And back before I went on antidepressants, I would basically curl up into a ball and cry every month because I wanted so so so bad to be small and have sex with a GT and it was never going to happen. I don’t miss that feeling of hopelessness and anger, but it still doesn’t feel quite right to not feel so intensely about it. But I’m still left to deal with the monthly horny thing. It makes me stupid and needy, like a dog when I’m like that, and it takes Jedi-level mental prowess from transforming me into a useless junkie for 4-5 days who doesn’t want to eat or even shower. But it’s still there and I gotta fucking deal with it. I’ve talked with the hubs about trying to integrate that part of my body chemistry into our relationship dynamic, and boy howdy it’s going to be damn awkward for me, but it’s better than just trying to ignore it or continuing with the self-loathing thing. Anyways, I guess what I was trying to say is that shit man, “alone” is a planet in another solar system and you haven’t even left earth. Beating yourself up really doesn’t help anything, yannow? (I know, I’d do well to take my own advice lol.)
After writing this today I realized that integration is going to be something that I really WILL need. And I have no idea how I’m going to go about it, but hubs said he did like the idea of me begging for play. So I’m hopeful. Anyways, gonna end with this chart, just for my own future reference since holy shit, I see myself in most of either of those unhealthy categories:
Dopamine Levels (or altered sensitivity to dopamine)
|Compulsions||Depression||Feelings of well-being, satisfaction|
|Mania||Anhedonia—no pleasure, world looks colorless||Pleasure, reward in accomplishing tasks|
|Sexual fetishes||Lack of ambition and drive||Healthy libido|
|Sexual addiction||Inability to bond||Good feelings toward others|
|Unhealthy risk-taking||Low libido||Motivated|
|Aggression||Erectile dysfunction||Healthy risk taking|
|Psychosis||Social anxiety disorder||Sound choices|
|Schizophrenia||ADHD or ADD||Realistic expectations|
|Sleep disturbances, “restless legs”||Parent/child bonding|
|Contentment with “little” things|
I occupy almost all of the left column when I’m “here”, and its an uphill battle to get to the right-hand column; this was much, much more pronounced, and much harder, if not impossible, to counteract prior to me being on antidepressants. When I’m not “here”, I’m between the middle and right-hand columns. Fuck, this explains a lot.
I really don’t want to write this entry. But I have to. It’s the right thing, the healthy thing, to do.
I think I’m a porn addict.
There. I said it. Now let me explain…
Actually, how to explain? Where do I even start?
I guess I could start with the fact that I’ve been both horrified and transfixed by erotic imagery and stories since around puberty. That my addiction switches on and off on its own, in concert with my monthly hormonal cycles.
I’ve always had a really difficult relationship with my hormones, fraught with both euphoria and deep, deep depression. During the few days of the month where I’m probably ovulating, I turn hypersexual. The addiction is switched “on”. In a matter of hours I start to think more and more about sexual imagery and scenarios, and by the next day I’m usually frantically scanning AFF.net or FF.net or AO3 for something, anything, “good”.
When I was a young teen, any kind of sexual content was “good”. But now, more than 10 years later, I find myself getting into all kinds of risky edge play, humiliation, degradation, and fear. My fantasy giants have gotten bigger and bigger over the years. When I first admitted to myself that I was a macrophile as an 18 year old, 10′ was tall enough for me. Now I’m writing smut featuring 100+’ men. Escalation in response to a building tolerance is a classic symptom of addiction.
Cambridge Neuropsychiatrist Valerie Voon was featured last year in the UK documentary Porn on the Brain. Her research demonstrates that the brains of habitual porn users show great similarity to the brains of alcoholics. A brain structure called the ventral striatum plays a significant role in the reward system of the brain—the pleasure pathways. It is the same part of the brain that “lights up” when an alcoholic sees a picture of a drink.
When having sex or watching porn, dopamine is released into a region of the brain responsible for emotion and learning, giving the viewer a sense of sharp focus and a sense of craving: “I have got to have this thing; this is what I need right now.” It supplies a great sense of pleasure. The next time the viewer gets the “itch” for more sexual pleasure, small packets of dopamine are released in the brain telling the user: “Remember where you got your fix last time. Go there to get it.”
Norepinephrine is also released, creating alertness and focus. It is the brain’s version of adrenaline. It tells the brain, “Something is about to happen, and we need to get ready for it.”
Sex or porn also trigger the release of oxytocin and vasopressin. These hormones help to lay down the long-term memories for the cells. They “bind” a person’s memories to the object that gave him or her the sexual pleasure.
The body releases endorphins, natural opiates that create a “high,” a wave of pleasure over the whole body.
After sexual release serotonin levels also change, bringing a sense of calm and relaxation.
This is powerful shit. And this cocktail of self-induced drug bingeing can last for days.
Being in that space… you’re basically high. You’re high but you’re cogent enough to be single-mindedly seeking out every way to keep the high going for as long as possible. More, more, more. Some sex or porn addicts call that headspace a haze. It’s very much an altered state, and I can tell you that it’s very dream-like in the way is causes you to detach from the real world and even from yourself in an episode of dissociation. Things that you cared deeply about, things that got you excited and happy 24 hours earlier? Suddenly completely flat and uninteresting compared to whatever erotic shitshow is going on in your head. (And it goes on 24/7.)
This haze has cost me sleep. It’s cost me homework assignments, it’s set me back at work. Once you’re there, it becomes impossible to concentrate on anything in the outside world that doesn’t remind you of sex. And it’s funny, because actually lots of things remind me of sex when I’m stuck in the haze. Music will turn me on. The way a shadow falls on something in just the right way. The stupidest fucking things will make me think of sex and push me further into the haze. I pushed a sponge into some water in the sink so it would rehydrate and I could wash a dish recently. That was sexual to me. And that’s actually the moment when I realized that I was fucked.
- You feel powerless over how you act sexually.
- Your sexual choices are making your life unmanageable.
- You feel shame, embarrassment or even self-loathing over your sexual acts.
- You promise yourself you’ll change, but fail to keep those promises.
- You’re so preoccupied with sex it becomes like a ritual to you.
- The negative consequences of your behavior are getting worse and worse.
I cried myself to sleep last night for the first time since I’d gone on SSRIs. It’s been over a year since I’d been in such a dark place. I’ve written here pretty extensively before how much I’d always hated my libido, and last night I hated it more than anything else. The thing is, I know how to get rid of it– the combination of anti-depressants and birth control pretty much squashes it completely; so completely, in fact, that I’m not even hardly interested in kissing. So my despair was more about how I hated what my libido is, what it’s always been, versus what it should be. How can I be healthy? I don’t even know what being healthy is like. If sex is to be part of my life, which is what I want, then how, dammit? All I see from where I’m standing is two equally shitty options: indulge, and continue to dance on the edge of addiction, or abstain, and turn away from intimacy with my husband indefinitely. I’m at a complete loss. I don’t know what the fuck to do.
What’s more is that I have no idea how this developed. My sex drive has triggered this like clockwork ever since I could remember. All I know, and this is something that exploring my nonbinary gender identity has taught me, is that there is something profoundly broken about the way I exist in my body. Something in me is so unhappy that it’s numbing me in every way it can. Since puberty I’ve also had some very close calls with anorexia, and more recently, I’ve turned to alcohol. Meanwhile, this porn/sex thing has been going on in the background.
Is it the testosterone? Am I spiraling into depression and dysmorphia every time my natural T levels spike in tune with the menstrual cycle? Or am I just like that all the time and the T makes it impossible to ignore?
I don’t know. I don’t have any fucking answers.
All I know is that I’m questioning a lot of things about myself right now. Things I’ve taken for granted over the past few years. Am I really ace-spectrum, or am I so sexually dysfunctional from over a decade of porn bingeing that I’ve accidentally trained myself to not be sexually attracted to real people? Am I really trans or are my hormones playing such havoc with my brain that I don’t know how to be cis?
Why am I so self-loathing? What part of me can’t I stand?
I don’t even know how to start bolstering my self esteem because I don’t even know what body part or aspect of myself I don’t like. I didn’t even know that I didn’t like myself to begin with. I thought that I thought I was pretty okay.
I remember crying once or twice after having perfectly fine and normal sex with him. I felt disgusting for some reason. I felt hideous for asking for I wanted. The same kind of disgusting and hideous that I would feel after crashing after a binge. After the haze couldn’t sustain itself anymore and my brain gave up, exhausted from pumping out an adrenal response and erotic high for almost a week straight.
I don’t know how to heal. I don’t know what to do.
Originally posted on First Time Second Time:
This Valentine’s Day, Transgress Press is coming out with the first essay collection of writings of partners of trans* people, titled Love, Always: Partners of Trans People on Intimacy, Challenge, & Resilience. I am excited to have an essay in this collection. Here’s a quote from my essay, which is titled “The Blessings of Change”
I could write about what is was like to support my partner through a grueling shift during which he doubted himself every step of the way, had to make decisions that terrified him, and coped with days seemed to alternate between presenting new kinds of pain and new kinds of elation. Or I could write about what it was like to shepherd my kids through this change. Our daughter Leigh was five when her little brother insisted that “Mama is a man!” Leigh fiercely stood up for Ezekiel insisting, “Mama is a woman” and looking to me…
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Originally posted on captainglittertoes:
Trigger Warning: transmisogyny, transphobia, non-binary erasure, violence against trans people
NOTE: I know not everyone uses the words “masculinity” and “femininity” for themselves (I don’t), but for the sake of brevity I’m using them here.
A few weeks ago, I saw a MAAB student start wearing some new clothes to school–a sparkly striped pink, purple, and blue shirt; a red sweatshirt with silver rhinestones. The clothes complimented their rainbow pink light-up shoes very nicely.
As I saw this student finally able to make some changes in their school wardrobe, I was excited, for sure, and scared for them, hoping it was going OK. I also realized something–I think I knew it in theory before, but it hit my gut that week.
This student wearing glitter and purple and pink and rhinestones–the censure they face is fundamentally different from the censure I face as someone who is (and is…
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I’ve had two women family members, just in the last week, separately offer to take me to Victorias Secret sometime before my surgery because “I deserve to treat/feel good about myself”. One of those women being my mom, who I came out to about being trans.
Am I missing something, or..?? How many times do I need to tell people how ecstatic I am about having this procedure done before they actually believe me?