Tina's not-so-secret diary 📓🔓

[03:54] I was worried sick. Literally, worried until I was sick. In the middle of the night on Friday, an online friend said she was throwing up parts of herself and passing out, but her parents refused to do anything about it. They wouldn't take her to emergency, they wouldn't call an ambulance, they wouldn't even let her call one for herself. I told her: this is the part where you either INSIST that they take you to emergency or you call the ambulance or request the Lyft yourself and get there. Reading that made something happen inside me. I worried so hard that for about an hour I would refresh my neocities dashboard every five minutes to see if there was an update on her condition. I opened tumblr in a new tab and tried hard to find that Tiktok video where they talk about how to get your bill reduced or forgiven by a hospital. I couldn't find it. I was so worried that I didn't even go to the bathroom for almost 4 hours in case she needed help. I sent her an email with the info I could find on tumblr about hospital billing practises, I worried, I felt it in the pit of my stomach, I felt it at the base of my spinal column, my temperature went up, my temperature dropped, I cried, I felt like I would throw up. I wanted to ask her where she lived so I could leap into the car and drive there. I wanted to hold her hand, I wanted to be in the ER with her, I wanted to sit up with her all night. I've never felt this way before. If I had to assign a label to this feeling, it would be "maternal instinct". I wrote the most scathing microblog post about her real parents neglecting her in this manner— and now I hear they're guilt-tripping her for manipulating them into getting medical care. Manipulating. On her dime, they're complaining about being manipulated. I'm still worried. Not as much now that she's seen a doctor and is taking some stuff, but now I'm worried she'll be able to foot the bill. Because this is America: Land of the No-Such-Thing-as-a-Free-Lunch, Home of the Depraved. We love money more than we love people in this country, and every doctor's office and hospital in the country is a business first, a medical practitioner second. My friend should not NEED to pay back anything at all; if the government spent 1% as much on reforming the medical system as they do on national security, we would have a centennial life-expectancy and the best healthcare the world has ever seen. The US gave Raytheon $15 Trillion to develop deadlier weapons in 2022; do you know what 1% of 15 Trillion is? 150 Billion. Do you know how much that would have lowered the Raytheon deal if they had diverted that $150 Billion to free healthcare for all Americans? Raytheon would have still gotten $14.85 Trillion. Imagine 2%. Imagine 5%. But people have run for office on this idea and got laughed out of the primaries. Number must always go up for billionaire, never down, because if number for billionaire go down, then you bad communist. God doesn't even know how much I hate this country.

[00:50] You ever read something that makes you so sad that you just shut down? It's not fiction-- it's not a story. If it were a story, you would think the person who wrote it was mentally unbalanced. It's a true story-- an anecdotal account, but it's not entertaining or quirky or pleasing or anything else that people think anecdotes should be. You can't do anything else but put yourself in the story as you read it, constructing locations from rooms you've been in before, casting people you know in the roles, but you take the starring role. You wonder how anyone could possibly go through that with even a glimmer of hope for a better future. You know that the person who wrote this has been traumatised forever, you feel like the only way to heal that trauma is to die. After you read it, nothing much matters anymore because such terrible people exist and have always existed and will continue to exist long after you're gone. You feel so sorry for the person who wrote the account but there are no words you can use that they have not heard twisted around to mean something else. There is no physical sympathy you can offer that they will not recoil from. You want to help them but you can't, nobody can. And as we're all taught by the corporate feudal state, sympathy when divorced from words and actions is invalid. You feel like sympathy is an insult in this situation; a programmed reaction entered into your brain by the same terrible people who would do harm on the kind of scale you just read about. You find it revolting that anyone could possibly behave the way this person claims they did. You want to find it impossible but, in the back of your mind, you remember just enough about being a child to realise that no, this is entirely feasible. This may very well have happened. And it did. It did happen. The realisation that you are reading someone's memories settles on you like a blanket of wet, dirty snow, and you just sit there, reading and reading, and getting sicker and sicker. Your thoughts begin to change, you begin to put yourself at the front door of the house, pounding on it loudly enough to be heard over the lifelong trauma being created inside, but no matter how much you pound on the door, you were never there. Nothing could stay the villain's hand. The scars were made in secret, and they would have remained secret if they had not been chronicled in text and published for all to see. Your own problems seem trivial in comparison; like a millionaire complaining that he couldn't winter in the Riviera this year and had to settle for Tuscany instead. There's nothing in your life that can even approach that level of trauma, so you can't do anything but read. You can't relate to the situation, you can't do anything to help, but you carry on reading anyway, because, at the end of the day, that's all you can do. They wrote it, you feel like the best help you can offer is reading it. They won't know it, and even if they did it probably wouldn't help anyway, but you do it. When you finish it, you feel so badly for the author that you wish you could just reach into their brain and physically remove their pain, but you are not Spock. You hope this trauma isn't enough to make them wake up one morning and plunge a kitchen knife into their own carotid artery, but if they did you could understand why. Nobody should have to go through what they did; you ask yourself why anyone would abuse their child in this manner, but you realise that they have been asking the same question and they realised the answer wasn't relevant. After all, what good can possibly come of that kind of reactionary thinking? Who cares "why" someone does anything? The fact is that they did it and the scars are there forever. Behind every good thing that comes to them, a bad memory relating to it waits in the wings to inject fear and doubt into everything green and good in this world. "There's good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and it's worth fighting for." How hard? How hard must one fight? At what point has someone fought so much for so long and seen no recompense do they fall onto their own sword in fatigue? I guess I can take solace in the fact that they are still alive, despite what happened to them in the past. But nothing makes sense anymore. No one told their mother to abuse her child, there was no Department of Government Elimination, no church groups preaching "children-as-property", no one telling her that she should abuse her own child in retribution for her own abuse, no outside force at work to cause this, and it happened all the same. I used to believe that there was nothing so wrong with humanity that it couldn't be fixed by exercising a modicum of self-determination and common sense. I no longer believe that. While there are still people who think they are entitled to become abusers in retribution for being abused, the Ideal Condition of the Sensible Human is nothing more than a fairy story.

[07:32] It's like I said once, I'm the "mom" friend. If you're hurting, and there's nothing I can do to help you, that's hard. That's really hard. Especially if you've been hurting for so long you've gotten used to it.

March 25 2025

[01:33] Okay, I think it's pretty evident at this stage that I'm going through another "domestic and maternal" phase. The last time, it lasted from June to about August. This is 2 stories in a row I've written now that involve teenage mothers... Maybe I should clarify something: I'm not advocating for teen pregnancy. The youngest ideal age for having children should be 24; not because of any pseudoscience like "the brain doesn't fully form until 24", but because you've lived a quarter-century and have experienced most everything that an average person in your position will experience by that time. You're more prepared because you've lived more; you have better job prospects and you're likely to marry for love rather than for sex. You're just better prepared for child-bearing by 24. It's just that... well... teenage pregnancy makes a better story. Back to "domestic and maternal" though. I guess it must have started back on the 6th after I threw up my HRT because of food poisoning and it knocked my hormone levels out of balance. I remember writing something about "mourning for a child I couldn't possibly have had". The problem with this time is, it's most likely going to last until October. I don't know if I can deal with that but I also don't know how I can avoid it. And, like. I know. I know this is a squicky topic with a lot of people, and my talking about it makes you uncomfortable. I'm sorry I keep bringing this up. I really REALLY wish I could just turn that bit of my brain off and never think about it again. Maybe my next AMS4 page should be about Jayson and Todd Sanders. I mean, I know I already wrote the BeauShack ManHouse backstory on my blog, but I feel like it's important to put faces to all the names.

[22:53] Lots more crying tonight. First, I felt spacey, had difficulty focussing on anything long enough to make sense of it. Roommate asked me a question, but I don't remember what it was, only that I replied, "Whatever you think is better." Then I cried while I was waiting for the oven to heat up so I could make dinner. I went into the bathroom and cried harder. I told myself "I need to get back into the kitchen before I'm missed." Focussed long enough to get the fish into the oven, then I fell onto the couch and cried some more. I cried myself stuffy; nose running, couldn't breathe through my nose, coughing; tried to stop crying long enough to breathe normally (or pant, anyway), it just made it worse and I cried even more. Managed to spend 18 minutes crying on the couch. I don't think I've cried this much since September. And we all know what was going on in September. I guess I was having problems reconciling my loneliness with Théoden's line in Two Towers: "No parent should have to bury their child." I had to carve that bit out of the video log. Ever since starting HRT, that line has always hit me like a train. I'm lonely, I should kill myself to stop being lonely; my mum would have to carry out my final affairs, and no parent should have to bury their child. I'm debating myself like two locomotives buckled together in the front, each pulling in opposite directions. Crying again writing this.

March 24 2025

[01:31] It's interesting how the Fairisle family pages tend to be a reflection of my state of mind at the time of writing. When I was making the Fairisle's in TS1 for Sunshine Acres, I was feeling extremely domestic and maternal, so I gave Melissa Fairisle the family I wished I could have at the time: a big strong geeky guy and triplet daughters. However, while I was writing lore for the Fairisle family in Newcrest yesterday, I was giving Cyndi Fairisle the life I wished I could have had in high school, looking back upon it as a 34-year-old: getting pregnant from my first sexual encounter and having a strong familial support structure to raise my daughter in. And then, while I was feverishly writing the alternative version of the Newcrest story this afternoon, I gave Cyndi a storybook/teen romcom kind of life that I always thought would have been fun to have: being the only girl on the chess team and meeting a cute, quiet, nerdy girl whose imagination is rated A-O by the ESRB and can kick your ass at chess without putting down her gay little iced coffee. Even though all of my Sims lore has bits of myself in it, the Fairisle family represents my ideal life at various levels of hormone concentration. Why did I revise the Fairisle story at all? Because I decided I was putting Cyndi into Situations when she wasn't the character I wanted them to happen to. And I was getting jealous of her. Getting jealous of my own OC--that's definitely something a sane and reasonable person would do, isn't it? So, yeah. I changed it.

[18:37] NERVOUS. NO REASON FOR IT. HAPPENS A LOT LATELY. WISH THAT WOULD STOP.

[12:14] Okay, normally I'm horny or crying or totally emotionless on my HRT, but today for some reason, I'm really irritable. Like, i stubbed 3 of my toes on the sofa chair just now and I retaliated by kicking it hard with the side of my other foot. I kicked it so hard, I lofted it about half an inch. It's totally irrational to seek vengeance for personal stupidity, especially against an inanimate object, but at the time I felt that was appropriate compensation for the chair having been in the way of my toes. I used to do that a lot pre-transition, but only to inanimate objects and only to punish myself for my stupidity. Even in a blind rage, I was always careful to make sure the only one I hurt was myself. I can't tell you the number of wrist-sprains I suffered as a result of pounding the wall; there's even an indentation next to my bedroom door I left shortly after I moved in here. I don't remember the exact circumstances, but something made me angry enough to pound the wall with my fist. I put a bulletin board over it the next week because I didn't want the reminder that, if I lost control, I could really hurt someone, even kill them if I wasn't careful. Now, before you use this anecdote as a rebuke of men and/or AMAB transgender people, please bear the following in mind: I was 15 at the time and most teenage boys are full of omnidirectional rage. Second, after graduation, I would make a point to only explode in private. My mum could tell I was mad about something, but no one else could. Usually by the time I could get someplace to be alone, I'd surfed the urge out and there was nothing left to do but stand there catatonically. And third, like I said, I never blew up at anyone except me. In all cases, the only acceptable casualty of my blind rage was me. I never lost control. Fortunately, I'm pleased to say that my tendencies have improved since coming out. I don't believe that my testosterone was causing the problem so much as constantly pretending to be a man. As for why I decided to kick the sofa chair just now? Irritability is different from blind rage, so I'm inclined to say it's just hormonal.

[15:47] I have to keep reminding myself that I need to be patient. This is a key component in any gender transition, but I seem to be treating it like a race. Like there's a deadline, and however I look by that time is how I'm going to look forever. No. That is not correct. I've heard of trans girls starting HRT in their 60s and 70s, and still seeing themselves change all the way up to the day before they die. There is no deadline except death, and I am not going to die soon. I'm going to carry on for 50 years, being the weird lady who puts up anti-fascist posters and showing teenagers how to play 85-year-old videogames on their personal computers or whatever data-recall device we're using then. I'm going to look stunningly voluptuous and feminine all the way up to the end, but not yet. I've only been on HRT for less than 2 years, and at least 4 are required to see any meaningful change in my fat arrangement and appear feminine enough to pass. Since I started so late, maybe a couple more years. In any case, it's a process, not a race. I can afford to be patient, wear clothes that either enhance or conceal my feminine appearance, and just look in the mirror everyday and trace the new stretch marks on my boobs with my index-finger. I can take pleasure in every little change I notice as I notice it and I can rest assured of looking more feminine tomorrow than I did yesterday. I just need to be patient. It won't happen all at once, but it'll happen.

[22:12] Questions to ask my gender care specialist:
How likely is it that gender-affirming care for trans women is going to become illegal? If this occurs, do I have to start getting my HRT directly from India, or is there still some insurance trickery up your sleeve?
If I start taking progesterone now, is it very likely to hinder any further breast growth?
What is it about my voice that still sounds masculine? What needs to change here?
What do I do now that all the support groups in my city have become alliances for gay/lesbian cisgenders only?
My nesting instinct has mutated into a primaeval urge to fill out a schoolbus. Is this something I can somehow control?
How are my medical records being protected from Donny, Elon, and the Funny Bunch? Are my medical records being protected from them in the first place?

[08:53] I'm wearing my most teacherly outfit right now: it's a floral pattern sundress, layered with a vent-sleeved striped sweater. GOD I FEEL CUTE IN THIS! I can also layer my purple hoodie over this dress and it looks good. I need a maxi skirt, though. Something I can just pull on like trousers.

[09:00] Once upon a time, I was trying to become a teacher for real. I was thinking high-school English, since that would have needed the least amount of certification. Also I suck at math, so there's that as well. If community college had let me in for my 2nd semester in 2015, I would be a teacher right now. Of course, if that be the case, then I'd have been here to see the funding get slashed so the state legislature could elevate charter schools (there's not a single one in this state that isn't operated by the Catholics or the Lutherans). Plus, as a transgender woman, I'd probably get held up as an example of how bad trans women are in the public sector. At the very least, I'd be put under scrutiny from the board of education, who (depending on the available funding and zeal) might even install an informant into the school to make sure I don't wear women's clothing to work.

[07:13] My transition has been full of surprises, but one that stands out at the moment is how I don't stink when I sweat anymore. Pre-transition, my pits would always smell, whether I was sweating or not. When I did sweat? There was no deodorant in the world that could cover it up. I could have fucked the Mitchum factory and still come away smelling like a quarterback at halftime (ooooff.... american moment there). But, afterward? Nothing. I can sweat and sweat and sweat and I still won't smell. I have to stick my hand directly into my armpit for 30 seconds before it even begins to smell like anything resembling BO. In a cruel twist of fate, my transition has also unlocked the ability to become sexually-aroused by scent. Not to say I didn't bury my face in my pit and jack while I was a man, but I would probably turn back into an animal if my partner radiated even the faintest hint of pitstink. Oh well. I guess it's a game of give-and-take, isn't it?

[16:35] I'm really nervous for some reason. It feels serious, but the most profound thing I can think to say about it is "I'm really nervous for some reason".

[00:51] Back in school when we were first learning about the Nazi Holocaust (which I never learned from Jewish teachers, only goyim), I wondered why the German Jews couldn't just hide all their Jewish stuff and pretend to be atheists or whatever it was that Hitler wanted everyone to be. Like I said, I learned all this from goyim, so they couldn't answer the question. The answer is, because you have to hold on to who you are, especially in times of crisis. That having been said, let me ask a question of cisgender people, especially those of you who don't consider yourself straight. Should AMAB transgender people detransition at this point; go back into the closet and pretend to be who Trump wants us to be just to survive? If your answer was "yes", you're part of the problem. Look for transphobia from within.

March 6 2025

[03:21] Ugh... my oestrogen levels are WAY out of whack. I got food poisoning yesterday which probably caused me to throw up my meds, plus the related muscle aches made it hard enough to turn over in bed, let alone get up and take my oestradiol, and then I slept until 15:00 which meant I had to take my morning e in the afternoon, and I took my other meds at 19:00 instead of 21:00, and... ugh. I can tell my hormones are imbalanced because I just spent 15 minutes crying about the fact I didn't get married and have a baby when I was 21. I whole-ass mourned for a child I can't ever possibly have. Does the new girl in #1 have something to do with that particular issue? Probably. Okay, yes. And I still have a whole year to wait to start progesterone! Oy.

[07:45] all this is just another depression-caused existential crisis. It wasn't the first one, and it won't be the last either. The best thing to do is stay active, play 3DS games, and power through it. You're strong, Tina... you can get through this.

[18:03] I decided ultimately that I can't control most of what sent me over the edge yesterday. But I can control whether I stay on HRT or not. So, I asked myself straight out: "What's it going to be? Are you going to carry on being Tina? Or are you going back to █████?" I couldn't even finish asking the question before I started crying again. When faced with the option of going back to being a boring man with nothing to offer except a vaguely threatening vibe because I don't talk about sports and cars, or a still somewhat nondescript trans woman feeling happier about myself than I ever did as a man; there is no option. I'll stay being trans until I die. Whether that will be tomorrow, courtesy of a Trump follower with a messianic complex, or 50 years from now when I fade away of old age; I have to stay true to myself, and my true self is a woman. The rest of it was just the same old shit i've been dealing with for 15 years, just wearing a different hat. So, what do I do? I decided to doll myself all up and look as feminine as I am capable of looking right now. Eyeshadow, lipstick, foundation, brushed hair in pigtails, yoga pants, and my new purple hoodie. I said once that I could look into the mirror and see one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen; so let's do it, I said. Let's be beautiful.