November 11, 2005
God, I’m such a Drama Queen! What a Whiney Bitch! I
just re-read some of my entries, and lordy, lordy, do I complain, complain,
complain!
So when did this happen?
When did an honest and sincere desire to explore inner truth become a
Pity Party, a Soap Opera, or even perhaps, a Sop Oprah?
Or (foreboding low-budget 1950’s sci-fi music)…
Was it ALWAYS that way?!
Naw, fuh-get about it!
What do you write when you’re all out of angst (at
least for a day)? Why for an
author, there’s always something to write about!
So, you write about being surprised at the lack of angst. You write about what a sniveling narcissist you are.
And best of all, you look back at everything else you wrote and
reevaluate the evaluation!
See, there’s always something to write!
But is it worth reading? Not
my call. Not my job, man. I
just write the words. You
decide to read them or not. What,
you want me to do everything for you?
Okay, okay….
Back to brass tacks, as my mom used to say.
Obviously, I’m feeling a lot better about myself and
life in general today. But when
I woke up, there was some shit in my life.
The cat had diarrhea and was racing from one end of the house to the
other, leaving little “droppings” of the most disgusting smelling stuff
every to emanate from an organic life form.
(“Did that come outta you?!”)
Aside from that, however, it’s actually quite a nice
day so far, though I’ve only been up for 45 minutes.
(See, the seeds of discontent might yet be sewn!
Woo Hoo!)
In the meantime, I’m just stoked. Still at 159.5, and that feels REAL good!
The view in the mirror is good.
It’s a full-body experience.
Got one of those sets of shelves assembled last night.
And I even put one thing away. I
have a lone set of headphones really and truly sitting on a shelf instead of
heaped in the pile around my desk.
So what now? More
shelves! Perhaps a trip to the
store. Breakfast… definitely
breakfast.
FFS type stuff? Not
much to say on that today (obviously).
But if I must… After
all, that’s what this journal is about…
Well, even exhausted as I am, I don’t look readable to myself in
the mirror at this weight. And
I don’t see myself as that angular creature I described yesterday.
Don’t know why, so don’t ask.
Okay, I’ll try….
I don’t see myself as angular because…
uh… because… BECAUSE
I DON’T, ALRIGHT!!!!
What I can tell you is that in losing all that
weight, I’ve just reached a point where the jowls are receding.
Sounds like a call from Paul Revere, doesn’t it?
“The Jowls are receding! The
Jowls are receding!”
But, let me tell ya kid, it really makes a
difference! Let me give you
some advice (from someone who obviously never gives advice…).
If you are contemplating FFS or have a poor female self-image for any
reason. Of if you are still
living as a fucking guy and just want to feel better about yourself without
embarking on the forbidden road of the ol’ Transgender Trail, the first
and best thing you can do for yourself is lose a little weight.
Get down to the point you really don’t have a belly.
Get down to the point those love handles are history.
And on the way, your arms will become thinner, your legs will get
slim, and your face will improve as if you had it lifted.
Not stolen, mind you, just raised.
And it will knock at least 10 years off your age.
Yep, the weight’s the thing.
Now, based on that, I can only imagine what I’ll be
like even lighter. I have 9.5
pounds to go to the point at which I reevaluate my goal.
But, I expect, at this point, to want to drop another 10 beyond that.
I think I’m looking at about 140 pounds for my 5’10” frame.
If I had done that first, I never would have made the
appointment with Dr. O. for the lip. Wouldn’t
have needed it. But
since I’ve made that appointment, I still want it.
I want it for the bad days when I’m depressed to give me
confidence. I want it for the
good days to feel younger and cuter and softer.
And most of all, I want it so that the face in the mirror will look a
little more like me and a little less like the Pretender who used to pull
the strings.
Final thought… When
I had my sea-change moment at Cocoon House, I let go of the old male persona
once and for all. And I
embraced the fullness of my female spirit.
But I hadn’t realized that I still had that well-practiced Melanie
persona in place.
There were two false personalities – the Dave one and
the Melanie one. Dave was my
response to life as a male. Melanie
was my response to life as a transsexual.
Each was based on living as my impression of a man.
Dave as a full man, Melanie as a half-man.
Melanie was what Dave thought a woman should be.
But neither of them could really know until that Cocoon House
moment. Now that I do
know, I am a different person.
(Do to contractual obligations, I must still remain
Melanie in name, but I think in my own mind I’ll adopt the moniker that
Mira placed upon me and Teresa picked up on.
It is a softer, gentler version of The Melanie, and she is known as Melanie
Anne.)
With the vision this morning in the mirror, with the
news sense of self in my mind, with some feminizing surgery on my lip, I
actually believe I, too, will soon be wearing velveteen flats with
gracefully curved bows.
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