Five Things I Really Don't Want To Tell You - Taboo Tuesday #3

First things first, I know I told you I'd talk about suicide next, but:

 ... it turns out that that's not the MOST fun thing to write about. Plus, I've talked a lot about that in general, and I'm like... come on, let's try not to beat a dead horse.

Except for, instead of a horse, it's my dead mom.

So you'll just have to wait for that little joy nugget.

Yay! Suicide!

No, this week we're going to talk about something I want to talk about a whole lot less than killing myself.

I'm going to tell you five of my deep dark secrets.

Shhh... don't tell anybody.

I wanted this post to be "five things I haven't told anyone" until I realized that I tell my Todd everything.

I also tell the people I'm dating most things.

And sometimes I use it as dinner talk when the other person has been quiet for too long.

But other than that, no one knows these things.

I honestly tried to pick topics that I really don't feel comfortable making public because the whole point of Taboo Tuesday is owning those things that we unnecessarily feel embarrassed about, right?

So, before I change my mind...

FIVE THINGS I REALLY DON'T WANT TO TELL YOU

1) PORN

I watch porn.

That's not much of a secret. Right Kobe?

I rape people!

Right.

But I'm pretty much of the mindset that everyone watches porn, and if you say you don't than you're either a liar or are unable to type porn urls because you're missing your hands and/or your "x" key.

Her greatest struggle.

Back to the point -- 

--or should I say, the pornt.

Yeah, so I watch porn. Porn is one of my oldest friends, circa blowjob popups from 2003.

Because I was of the mindset that if you actually visited an porn site, you immediately got a virus.

I soon realized that that was not true and threw my sexual caution to the wind!

Turns out some viruses are more catchable than others.

I'm not too embarrassed though, because porn is nice.

If you too haven't accepted porn into your heart, well, you might be missing out, because porn loves everyone.

"Hey there! Can we come in and talk to you about the screaming, gurgly words of Tori Black?"

The thing I don't usually tell people is what I watch. And the answer to that is -- some super weird shit. I'm not going to get into the details in case my Mormon Grandma is reading this. But it gets pretty weird.

You can ask me specifics, but overall I'd say that my philosophy is that if it isn't hurting kids or animals, and everyone has consented, it's A-Okay.

Squidchard Roeper says two tentacles up.

2) I Fantasized About My Mom Dying

Super awkward placement of this one, so I'll clarify.

Not that kind of fantasizing.

Ya fuckin sicko!

I mean the "wouldn't life be so nice" kind of fantasizing.

Huh. I guess that doesn't sound a whole lot better.

Let me start at the beginning. My mom was hard to live with. Her mental illness made her life miserable and that misery would bleed out into those who lived with her.

And I'm not going to lie, there were times, especially during adolescence, that I fantasized about what it would be like without her.

I would imagine how much sympathy I'd get and how I could get out of homework and... frankly how much easier my life would be.

Turns out life is not easier when you're mom dies.

Life Hack: But it does make for a heck of a college essay!

I felt a lot of guilt after my mom died, and those fantasies were a big reason why. It took me some years before I realized that lots of people have similar thoughts. Usually they are fleeting, and because your mom doesn't ACTUALLY die, you don't worry about it.

Then it's not so bad.

Life Hack: Just don't have your mom die!

  3) They call him Lester,  Mo Lester.

That's the humorous way of telling you that I was inappropriately touched as a child.

I'm here all night, folks!

I could probably write a whole post about this one too, but basically my mom was crazy, and for a period of her life (when I was in elementary school) she wanted to date men who had the same illness as her. 

As a result, she associated with some pretty questionable people from the time I was 3 to the time I was 13. One of these men tried to kill my dad by breaking into our house and strangling him. Another one touched my hoo-ha. There was even one who thought it was okay to cook with cilantro.

I know, but we're not talking about that maniac right now.

I honestly don't remember much of it. I remember that sometimes we would stay at his house, over the period of a few years when I was in elementary school , and that if I told him I had a tummy ache (I had a lot of tummy aches) he would sneak into my room and give me his special "remedy." 

I have flashes of what he did. I can sort of remember when it would happen, but my main memory was just thinking that I was so, horrifically embarrassed about the whole thing.

No! Not the hoo-ha!

I was a super shy kid. I couldn't even tell my parents when I had to go to the bathroom (but we'll get to that later). At five-years-old, the idea of telling anyone that someone had invaded my personal space like that was just too much. 

I was fortunate in that this Mr. Lester seemed to be a bit nervous about the whole thing. 

I wasn't threatened, and I wasn't raped, so when I stood up to him about it, he eventually backed down. 

I recognize that not everyone is that lucky. A lot of people scoff at the "1 out of three women are sexually abused in some way" fact, but if you get to talking to people, you'll find out how horrifically accurate it is. Men and women alike. And I think the biggest disservice that can be done to these people is to treat sex and sexual assault victims as being taboo. 

That, of course, was my problem. I stuffed the memory away. 

I honestly don't think that my mom ever knew (though she incidentally broke up with him for watching child porn, apparently). 

I'm shocked.

I ended up suppressing it until many years later when it suddenly came back to... and proceeded to only tell one friend. It wasn't until college that I told my family. 

Even now, of all the things I feel obligated to tell new boyfriends about my series of unfortunate events, this is the one I'm inevitably most nervous to bring up. 

Which is pretty fucked up if you think about it.

I didn't do anything wrong, and for some reason I'm too ashamed to talk about it.

I've dealt with several serious traumas in my life, and I can tell you that it isn't the sexual abuse that continues to bother me. It's how people react when they hear about it. 

Plus, suuuuure, when I was in Kindergarten it was all great, but now that I still look like a child no one's into it anymore! 

Loooooveeee meeeeeee....

What's up with that? Ammiright?

But I'll talk about that more on another day , you get the gist. 

*If you do have further questions/comments, feel free to contact me though. Again, open book.*

4) Makeup

I'm not even kidding when I tell you that this is the item on the list I really, REALLY did not want to tell you.

So, you remember when I went to that German therapist to rid me of my phantom penis?

Well that Nazi bitch kind of might have mentioned that I probably have a little bit of body dysmorphia when it comes to my monster face.

"But Queen, you dun't haff a monsta face."

Yeah. Because there's makeup on it.

Stupid Nazis.

But so that whole extra testosterone thing--which is great for making me happy and have abs--gives me acne and a man jaw. 

*~*~ JuSt NeCkBeArD tHiNgS ~*~*

I refused to date in high school because I figured that if someone ever saw me without makeup they would be so upset/embarrassed that they'd instantly break up with me.

I also was scared that if they ever saw my weird, muppet-like pear body that they'd tell everyone I had a weird, muppet-like pear body.

Joke's on high school me. Turns out dudes love muppet-like pear bodies.

My therapist made me do a bunch of things that scared me, so that I wouldn't be scared of them any more (but I'll talk about that in ANOTHER post), and the only item on the list I didn't complete was going out without makeup.

But frankly, that's because I'm a humanitarian.

Hey Guys!

Now adays I'm much happier with my face. I still just like makeup though. It's pretty. 

Plus, I've done some studies, and it turns out that dudes like 100% of things, regardless of makeup and fruit-shape, so long as they are naked and less than an erection-length away.

So that's nice

5) Poop

Ughh... this last thing is something I have been keeping secret since I was conscious of Eve's sins.

Which is to say, the sin of Swag.

I poop.

Oh god, now the world knows.

You don't understand how deep down the pipes this secret goes. As soon as I could take my first steps, I would hide myself in the closet when I had to do Satan's business, leave my diaper at the crime scene, and hope that no one suspected the cute blonde one.

No one ever does.

They knew.

People always know. But I keep it to myself anyway.

In fact, I went all fucking out.

I refuse to use unfamiliar bathrooms without a strong escape strategy. 

I never go at school/work.

And just in case, I mapped out all of USC with appropriate, hidden toilet locations. 

Sometimes I still visit and make sure they're still safe, because you never know when an emergency situation will arise.

One of my exes seriously questioned whether or not I did--

Of course, he never found out, because, like a true sane person-- 

I never reveal my secrets.

But, I'm baring all in this stupid fucking blog. So for the sake of the truth and honor.

Yes... I do... poop.

But only like once a year in Spring. And it comes out as a chain of beautiful flowers that I then send to women in a war-torn countries so that they can weave my flower-chain-poop into baskets that they sell to unwitting tourists. 

And that's all I've got for now.

I have more secrets, but that's just a sweet, sweet taste.

Happy Tuesday.

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The Year I Thought I Was a Man (And Other Things With Phantom Penises) - Taboo Tuesday #2

WARNING: This is in no way an account of someone who actually suffers from serious Gender Dysphoria. This is an account of someone who feels a tingling in her nethermostbits sometimes and thinks it might secretly be a ghost penis. If that is of interest to you, carry on.
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I don't pretend to know many things, but for 22 out of 23 years of my life I could definitively say that I didn't have a penis.

2010 just wasn't my year.

This bullshit should have been a sign.

To really understand the rest of the story though, you're going to need a quick recap of 2009...

In 2009, I was 17. 

Or medically speaking, somewhere between a Katniss and a dirty, hairy feminist.

That year, my mom either confused a bottle of pills for a Pez dispenser or committed suicide.

Jury's still out... side the cat door, playing with butterflies!

THEN, my dog died, my other dog died, my grandma died, AND they reduced the size of Girl Scout cookies.

Oh you think that's cute, little girl? Well I'm going to Caramel deLight your fucking house on fire.

Then it was 2010... and things got weird. I graduated high school (as the momless little wretch I was), 

Immediately after, my dad up and moved away from beautiful, perfect, sunny Santa Barbara to highly questionable Los Angeles. There, I began my freshman year at USC as a nondrinking, nonblonde, nonfootballplaying virgin.

AKA: The Life of the Party.

I honestly can't count the number of parties I went to my Freshman year at USC on my fingers.

That's because I don't have zero fingers.

I can, however, count the number of friends I had. 

That number is one. 

His name is Todd.

AKA: Dad.

Thursday night I would pack my suitcase full of dirty laundry, have Todd pick me up, then return to USC on Tuesday with clean clothes and pilfered toilet paper. 

Cause I'm addicted to that sweet, sweet two ply.

It was, admittedly, pathetic, and I was 99% sure that life was ruined forever. Thus began my daily, debilitating anxiety spiral. 

But to really understand my daily, debilitating anxiety spiral, you need to understand my first panic attack...

Let me paint the scene for you: I was nine-years-old, and I was watching the 1982 film "Tootsie." (Where Dustin Hoffman pretends to be a woman and makes questionable career decisions.)

AKA: Becomes a woman.

So yeah, that's it. I had a panic attack. 

For a couple years there, my anxiety was pretty bad, but I learned to manage it so that by the age of 12 I could give speeches and pee at school (usually at different times). Life was pretty sweet. Then I started college, and the anxiety came flooding back.

This time though, the anxiety manifested itself in bizarre ways. Instead of simply getting the usual symptoms: racing heart, looming dread, sweaty-dirty-hairy-feminist arm pits... I started to also fall into obsessive thought patterns. 

And I don't mean "obsessive" like...

OMG I'm obsessed with the Avicii band!1!1

I mean it like, the second you wake up you start thinking about one single thought, then you think that thought all day, then you finally get to go to sleep where there is reprieve... until you wake up and start thinking that same fucking thought again until you're sobbing and literally hitting yourself in the head to try to rid yourself of the same goddamn thing over and over again.

By about November, my obsessive thinking had hopped around a few topics before settling on one highly unnerving certainty.

That I was secretly a man.

My obsession with being a man began after reading an article about a trans-woman who committed suicide. Suddenly, as if I was a bomb and my wick was lit, my head exploded.

Every waking second I argued with myself about how I had to be a man and how very horrified I was about it.

I didn't WANT to be a man... I desperately, needfully hoped that I wasn't a man.

But the evidence seemed so clear. My handwriting had always been masculine, I had enjoyed Power Rangers and Blink 182 as a child... I never even liked pink!

I'm not exaggerating when I say that more than 90% of my waking hours were spent obsessing over whether or not I was truly a man.

Eventually I built up enough courage to ask Todd. 

Todd was fairly certain I wasn't a man.

Cis scum.

So I argued with myself -- day in and out. After arguing one point so thoroughly, for hours and days, I'd eventually tire myself out or come to some sort of half-assed conclusion ("well there were girl Power Rangers..."). Then the madness would start all over again. 

Was I a tomboy because I was counterculture, riffraff youth? Or was I a boy whose name should be Tom?

Was this early Photoshop an expression of my Freudian desire for a "little me" -- or was it simply a hilarious image of a tiny Quinn brushing a giant Quinn's hair?

Do I really think Logan Echolls is attractive? Or do I want to be Logan Echolls?

But I mean, who doesn't?

If I wasn't a man, then why would I ever question it? I MUST be a man!

I couldn't remember how to get to class, because as I was walking, I'd be obsessing the entire way there. Instead of beautiful daffodils, I'd see giant, pollinating stamens. I'd get to class and instead of listening to the lecture, I'd be feeling for my Adam's apple. When I'd get home, I'd look up the specific size differences between clitorises and micro penises. 

I honestly don't know how many of my classmates had any idea of the debates going on in between my ears.

Once at the computer again, I took every. possible. test. there is to determine one's gender. And let me tell you something... that shit is not always the most reassuring.

After approximately all the quizzes, my answers were all over the board. At this point I had absolutely no CLUE what my gender was. Because of this, I regularly sent Todd many, many messages:

Todd was not amused, and soon only worsened my concerns by refusing to answer my questions. I realized I was pushing away my only friend... and so I needed new friends. Friends who understood me. 

There was only one place to go. It was a dark place, I had heard terrible things, but these were the only people who might be able to help me.

I joined... the message boards.

Pretty much I joined every message board dedicated to gender identity. I then spammed the hell out of them with questions about how to know whether or not you're a man.

These people were no help. Apparently they just KNEW whether or not they were men.

Through the message board I learned many, many things about gender identity -- or, as I preferred to look at it, zillions more things to obsess about. I would read articles and personal stories about coming to terms with one's identity... and I would find some way to manipulate them into my own life. Among these things is something that haunts me to this day.

One thread, one lonely, probably-helpful-to-some-people-but-fucking-horrible-for-me thread talked about the sensation of a phantom penis.

Moments after reading it... I felt a tingle. Then, to my horror, that tingle turned into a itch. That itch became a jiggle.

There it was. I had my very own phantom penis. I could feel it, flopping in the breeze. The only way to get rid of the awful, tickling sensation affixed to the front of my nethers was to stick a hand down my pants and ensure that Free Willy hadn't jumped in there.

This wasn't so bad. Todd gave me weird looks, but I'm pretty sure he understood. My roommate might have had the wrong idea, but that bitch drank Aloe, so who is she to judge? No, the worst was when I was on my way to class. I'd get that little tickle, which would start to itch violently if I didn't stick a hand down my pants within minutes. 

I'd like to think I was subtle, but frankly, I think most people noticed when I slipped a palm down for a quick cupping. 

The looks I got implied that touching your genitals in public is always inappropriate. 

So anyway... now I was constantly, mentally and physically tormented... but my new message board friends were supportive (if not a bit too chatty about this whole 'gender identity' thing), but for some bizarre reason people refused to label me. They suggested I do some soul searching or some shit. 

I don't need a soul. I need to know if my penis is real or not. (I tried jacking off my phantom penis once. It resulted in me feeling like a dumbass.)

After a few weeks (or was it days? hard to know when you only think about one thing nonstop -- time isn't so useful anymore), one kind lady suggested that I check out a "Pure O" message board instead.

I believe she posted it to my question about whether or not I could be a female child trapped in a gay man's body, trapped in an adult woman's body (I felt that this was appropriately explaining my seemingly significant ennui).

After reading about Pure O, I excitedly realized that that is exactly what I had.

To keep it brief -- Pure O stands for "Pure Obsessional Disorder." It's a form of OCD--

Not the "I HAVE to clean my sock drawer or I get SO annoyed. Plus I HAVE to wash my hands after I even TOUCH dirt." OCD.

--where your compulsions are thought-based. My understanding is, you obsess about something, and to complete your ritual, you have to argue an unarguable point with yourself as a compulsion, which you'll in turn obsess about, creating a never ending loop. 

People suffered from sexuality-based Pure O, relationship Pure O, pedophilia Pure O, murder Pure O. Basically your loops last the longest if what you're obsessing about is something that you would be most unhappy to learn about yourself. 

Like, if you're scared you will murder your Todd, then you will obsess about it, making you more scared, making you obsess more... and there's no PROOF you won't murder your Todd, so it never ends.

My greatest fear was apparently becoming a man. (Even more than murdering my Todd, because I only thought about that for like a week.)

This self-diagnoses was relieving, but it didn't relieve the thoughts. I continued to obsess. I continued to research. I continued to talk to friends who had undergone their own gender transitions. 

I realized I might need professional help.

Long story short: enter the German psychologist who I was afraid was making me a lesbian.

God damn it Germans, not again!

Second long story short, the Sauerkraut had me create a list of the things I found most frightening regarding my obsession (beginning with watching TOOTSIE and ending with dating a real man). 

I had to complete this list. 

I'm not going to get into every item, but I will say there was an awkward occasion when Todd had to take me to Macy's to try on men's clothes. 

It turns out that I, a (then) 5'3", 100 lb female, did not fit into men's clothes.

Todd and I had to shop around the little boy's section, to my humiliation. I picked out cargo shorts, skateboarder shirts, and backwards cool-kid caps. I scampered off, side-eyeing every stupid little boy that got in my way. Safe from prying eyes, in the dressing room I tried on an outfit that probably would have been worn by one of the surfer kids I had a crush on in elementary school.

Needless to say, I did not think the style suited me.

Blah, blah, blah, I finished (most of) my list and here I am today -- a woman without a penis (though when I get anxious, I still get a bit of a tingling down there).

I have finally reached that once seemingly impossible point of knowing my own gender.

Some time after, I started to feel better and later learned that most of my anxiety was relieved after I stopped taking birth control pills. It turns out that I had high testosterone all along.

It also turns out that my "am I a man????" obsession (along with the dozen others) was a part of an overarching obsession about me thinking I would commit suicide, like my super dead mom. 

But I'll talk about that next week in my blog:

The Year I Thought I'd Commit Suicide

 (Like My Super Dead Mom)

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This blog is probably very confusing. I apologize about that. Feel free to ask me questions on Facebook or in the comments. I will answer them with utter Taboo Tuesday honesty.

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