This May Sting

Getting something over with is kinda like making the decision to rip a bandage off. It's going to hurt like fuck and you know it but you do it anyway because the alternative is possibly more painful.

I don't like this analogy.

Be fascinated to know that there is a darker side of my mind, always, and instead of the "ripping a bandage off" analogy for getting over something unpleasant, it takes a... possibly more dramatic perspective. Because even ripping it off quickly doesn't always work out. Maybe you tear a scab off, or fresh skin. Or rip out some hair.

No. My brain prefers: "the easiest way to jump off of a cliff is to just jump."

See? Yeah. Darker. But I never pretended to not have intrusive thoughts like that, particularly where suicidal ideation is concerned. But more on that analogy later

I don't know who you think I am but I am going to be real here; so it's high time I shatter some of y'all's illusions about me.

This may sting.

Ninety percent of my social media presence is as Miranda, because I am happiest presenting as female here. The truth is, I'm genderfluid, and I realistically outwardly look and act male most of the time.

I also tend to act, online, younger than I really am. This is not out of some sick fetish. But my reasons are a story unto themselves, later, probably. As of today (mid 2022), I'm 45.

If you thought I was naturally female, and maybe in my early 20s or possibly late teens:

1. I'm sorry you were wrong but I never said I was either.

2. I love you, thank you.

I'm 45. Was male assigned at birth. I've been married for longer than some of the people I talk to have been alive. I have two kids that are of an age that they would rather die than actually do anything with me (despite what they say), but I love them harder than they understand. They think they understand. They are wrong.

I work in IT. It's not as exciting as it sounds. Even if some of our customers are large social media platforms that you yes you are familiar with. Mostly it involves being angry at project managers and existing solely on coffee and sarcasm.

I'm allergic to shellfish and get severe migraines from the scent of roses and peaches.

I'm overweight. Essentially, I self-deprecate and call myself a fatass and my daughter hates it when I do it but I really am; whereas she thinks she is a little chubby and frets over her physique when she thinks we're not looking and in truth is underweight for her age.

My wife had an eating disorder when she was my daughter's age. So I'm terrified of the same happening. And daughter can swear all she wants that she's not, but I see how she looks at herself.

Both of my parents are dead.

My mom died several years ago from brain cancer, that metastasized from her lungs. Don't smoke. Actually idrc if you smoke. It's your funeral. Possibly literally. But if I love you and that means anything to you, don't smoke.

She was also a "survivor" of breast cancer earlier in her life, but cancer doesn't work like that..

My dad died more recently, only a couple of years ago, and I'm pretty sure it was from COVID but it was two months before that disease "officially" was supposed to exist in this country, so the gospel is he had unrecoverable respiratory complications.

I will die someday and I want my children to have had a chance to be closer to me in ways opposite from how I chose to not really be closer to my own parents.

If I pray real hard, maybe they will.

But life doesn't work that way.

I contemplate suicide often. I know I'll never actually do it, because I tried it once and couldn't go through with it and now I know it's the cowards way out. But it doesn't mean I don't have that voice whispering there all the time.

It makes me manic. It makes me paranoid. It makes me terrified of all the darkest possible bad endings I can see for the people I love. (That those endings will probably never come to pass is irrelevant.)

My femme side is marginally tolerated by my wife. That is also a story on it's own. But I am keenly aware that I am more in that direction than she thinks I am, and it is only that I still like being the male mode dad and husband (sincerely enjoy it) keeping me from considering fully transitioning. That, and the cost. If we were to divorce... who knows?

Tbh I probably wouldn't. I'm also lazy and personal inertia is a fucking addicting drug.

I'm not going to use my real male name here, because it's not relevant and like I said I don't LIKE being seen that way online. So I'll use Andrew when I need to. It's a nice name.

Ok, that's about it for now. Did you survive the bandage? Did you survive the fall?

Because that's why I like the cliff analogy. It's a jump, it's probably going to be fatal (to your body, or to your way of thinking, and maybe I killed some of your incorrect preconceptions aboht me); it will almost definitely hurt when you hit the ground even if for only a moment.

But then once it's done, it's done, and nothing will be the same as before.

And if you're lucky,

you may jump

and fly.