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reordered some medication

called City Council about Boston being a “sanctuary city” and talked to a staff member about what rights undocumented immigrants have here

went rock climbing and successfully did a circuit of tiny handholds

failed to do any really successful climbs after that but I had fun and that’s the most important part
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Trying to write while also trying to fight the ennui in my brain is not a good combination. I have a day off and I’ve wasted most of it and I’m frustrated with myself for not being able to fucking concentrate for more than two minutes at a time.
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Went to a Victorian-themed gender-free contra dance with M. Danced with a lot of well-dressed old men and some people closer to my own age. Everyone was lovely, most people were queer, I’m very happy and very tired.
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It’s gotten to the point where the war between “I want to be well-informed” and “I want to have a good day” has become more like “I want to be well-informed” vs “I want to be a functional human being”, so … that settles that. I’ve voted, I have my “don’t you fucking dare vote third-party” rant ready for facebook on Monday, and I’ve blocked all mentions of politics on tumblr. Now it’s time to focus on whatever the fuck it takes to not have one long uninterrupted panic attack from now until Wednesday.

…so, nanowrimo, and fanfiction, and podcasts, and a lot of baking and cooking. And trying to spend more time around other people because I am feeling a slightly frantic need for more human contact lately and these things are probably related.
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I’ve been scouring the internet for other people’s transition narratives, and I couldn’t really explain to myself why it was so important to me … but I think that at least part of the reason is that my memory is really shitty. I’ve moved around a lot since leaving for college, and it feels like every time I move, I need to reinvent myself. Everything else that isn’t the Present Time fades very quickly into a nebulous past and it’s very hard for me to draw any sort of conclusion about the people that I used to be because … what the fuck even was I? What was I like? I remember only in the foggy way that I also remember dreams. It’s making planning for a future very difficult because I know there are things that I like and want now, but they’re not the same things that I liked and wanted when I was still in school, and which one of those is “real”? Which one is more valid?

Knowing what the problem is likely to be means that then I can work on a solution. Right now, my solution is to track down all of my blog posts and journal entries and try to get them together in one spot. I kept a journal religiously from the ages of 8 to 20 or so. It dropped off after that, but I still have my blogs, my photographs. I used to have hundreds of text messages saved - I wrote them out onto paper, tangible proof that I had friends who cared about me. I printed out IM conversations that I had with my then-girlfriend to prove that she was real.

Once I’d … recovered from that period of my life, for lack of a better word, I threw out those pages of text messages, and most of the IM conversations. I now kind of regret that, even though I know it’s healthier this way to not be able to pore over interactions from the past. But I’m so grateful for those blog entries. I’m grateful that I have my journals, even if they’re spectacularly unhelpful at times.

The really Type A part of me wants to create a massive binder of photos and scrapbooking pages and journal entries organized by year so that everything will be in the same place next time I have an identity crisis and forget who I am, but that would be a lot of effort and a lot of dead trees, so we’ll see.
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I’m scared because I assumed that I’d stop missing Lima once I’d been gone for a year, and I’m afraid that it’s just going to be one more thing that periodically crushes me under a wave of longing for years to come; and I feel guilty talking about it because it’s all very White Girl Goes To Africa, isn’t it?

I’m scared because in a weird way it feels like breaking up with my ex: we sat down to plan out what our lives together would look like, and I realized that it would be the better part of a decade before we were even remotely likely to live on the same continent. I’m unlikely to ever live there again; I might not even be able to visit for a long time, and it hurts.

It’s not like I miss everything - I was lonely and I stood out, my food went bad really quickly, and my house was really freaking weird. But I miss going outside at night and being surrounded by people. I miss the skyline and the stores and I miss being able to go anywhere in the city and find my way back home.

New England is incomparably gorgeous in the autumn, and I’m happy to be here for it because being in the city of perpetual cloud cover when everything was beautiful here was genuinely depressing. I just … want to take some elements of there, and bring them here. Boston is good for its people and for its dumb New England architecture, but as a city it’s not my favorite.
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Sent an email to my manager asking for the day after elections off because I’ll probably be a nervous wreck the night before and/or not sleep, and I’m going to want to either bake a really elaborate cake or curl up in a ball and watch TV forever. We’ll see if that’s a valid enough excuse for a day off.
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Sorry for clogging up dashes with obnoxiously personal shit that no one cares about, but …

… holy shit I think I actually have regular-people levels of social anxiety most of the time now, not ‘curl up in a ball and hide from the world because the world will stomp on your everything’ levels of anxiety, for literally the first time in my life. (I can tell you about the time I crawled under the kitchen table to cry when I was in kindergarten because I didn’t have friends like other people, so when I say as long as I can remember, I mean as long as I can remember.) It is like … wow. I feel like someone took an enormous lead backpack off my shoulders, and it was the first time I even realized that the backpack was actually this heavy-duty external-frame monster packed with a years’ worth of lead bread, instead of a dinky drawstring bag with a couple of notebooks inside like I’d been lead to believe.

I do feel a little guilty, because what right do I have to be happy when other people are still anxious, and need medication to deal with it, because it doesn’t just go away like that for them? But fuck it. In a lot of ways my life has been very easy, but this is definitely not one of them, and I am going to publicly celebrate this while it lasts.

I wrote this in the spring of 2013, if I recall correctly, and I just want to say that whenever the question comes up of “what‘s the happiest moment of your life?” it is unequivocally this day, walking up the hill from my apartment to campus and realizing that I wasn’t terrified of running into someone I knew on the way to class. I have had top surgery, I’ve started dating someone really important to me, I’ve done successful conference presentations, and nothing stands out quite as much as the moment I realized that my anxiety was under control for the first time in my entire life.
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*whine whine whine* it’s been a while since I’ve had an actual crush on anyone and I forget how to deal with being mopey about it

laaaaaaaaaaame
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I have the house to myself today for the first time in weeks (!!!) and my first day not working or traveling in a month (!!!!!) so I spent 4 hours today cleaning and dusting and putting shit away in the living room and kitchen because they were grubby and dusty and cluttered; went grocery shopping; organized my closet; and hung some things in the front hallway. And swept every common area in the house. Once I’ve wound some yarn, I’m going to sort through the Collapsible Laundry Hamper of Holding in my closet and then make lasagna. And then possibly cry with joy before going to sleep. I wish I’d thought to take before/after photos of the living areas, they look 1000% better.
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Tried to distract myself from a dysphoric panic attack by coming to tumblr, have just redirected the panic from gender to Trump.

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