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Journal Entry – March 14, 2017

TRIGGER WARNING – blood

I just woke up; my throat so dry that I couldn’t scream though my body was trying… Sweat pouring off my body, I’m trying to force my breathing to slow… I’m so tired; my eyes are burning, but my latest nightmare still chases me, so I know I can’t close my eyes, or it will overtake me again…

I dreamt that I had finally become a Marine, and they had deployed me for six months to the gods only know where. I had just arrived home and was so excited to see my wife.

Yes, those of you who know me did read that correctly, my wife. In this dream, I was presenting as fully female and married to a woman.

I went to our favorite place, an out-of-the-way bookshop, located in an old cabin in the woods. Beautiful building, high gables, rough cut exposed beams, the whole nine yards…

As I strolled into the building, the clerk motioned with her thumb, indicating I should go in a back room. Walking past the shelves in the small movie section, I notice they actually carry VHS tapes, in addition to the DVDs that line the shelves. It strikes me as odd. Nevertheless, I continue past them into the back room. As soon as I enter, the door slams shut behind me and the lock clicks…

Again, odd, but I have other things on my mind as my wife steps out from between two bookshelves. She is beautiful, curvy, dirty blonde hair pulled into pigtail braids that fall just below shoulder length. I run to her to give her a hug, but she stops me: a hand pressed firmly against my sternum.

“What did you bring with you?” she asks. I baffled by the question, but I pull out my knife. It’s a black five-inch tactical-style blade. The sharp edge glistens as it springs open, and I hand it to her, handle first. She looks it over, appraising, as I watch, one eyebrow raised in confusion.

“I brought a knife as well,” she states matter-of-fact, and places my now-closed knife in her left pocket before producing a box cutter from her right pocket. Four clicks echo in the small room as the razor sharp edge is produced, and she places it against her wrist.

“Baby, no!” I beg, and I reach out to stop her. She just laughs.

“You think I brought this for me?” That cold laugh rings out again, chilling me to the bone. “Oh, baby, have you got it wrong.” She turns the blade on me. I quickly back away and move behind a queen-sized bed in the corner: unassuming, it doesn’t really seem to fit in here amongst the bookshelves, but a beautiful handmade quilt adorns it anyways.

I get the strange feeling that there is someone else in the room. Pulling a bottle of perfume from my pocket, I bend down and spray several shots along the underside of the bed. A commotion comes from under the bed, and a large stuffed giraffe, the kind you might win at a carnival, is pushed out towards my feet, and a large man crawls out, cussing, and rubbing his eyes. He’s about six foot tall, brown hair, dressed in jeans, a red flannel shirt, and a camo hat.

“You see this?” He motions with a small, revolving handgun that fits neatly in his palm. “It’s a 45.” I reach for it, and he laughs, stepping closer, and snatching his hand out of my reach. “Don’t worry about that little ol’ thing. You should be worried about my 1911.” My eyes search his hip and land on a chrome glint peeking around his left side. I step back into the corner, as my wife steps forward and hands him the box cutter. The blade glints as it comes down, scoring my chest. I manage to catch his wrist as I scream.

“Go ahead and scream,” my wife laughs, again that cold laugh. “No one cares.” My hand drops in shock, and the man tries to cut me again, but I turn, catching the blade on my right shoulder. Vaulting over the bed, I make for the door and kick it open. A paper sign, flutters to the ground, as I run out, it reads: “Horror Movie Screening”.

“No one would care,” I thought as I headed for the door, but the clerk blocked me, laughing maniacally.

“There’s no where to run!” she screamed, but I turned and ran up the ladder, as blood poured from my arm. Reaching the loft filled with bookshelves, I searched for an escape. Climbing on top of an exposed beam with my left arm, I run toward a window in the front wall of the store. I crash through it and roll down the roof, landing on my feet in the grass below, and I begin to run towards the woods.

A shot rings out, and pain blossoms in my left side. I try to run, but the forest safety is elusive. The man and my wife overtake me, each wielding a blade. She tears into my left thigh, betraying me with my own knife, as he slices across my forehead, my right eye soon useless.

My subconscious is screaming by now that this is just a dream. “Wake up! Wake up!” Kingair screams as Kit whimpers.

My body jolts awake, mouth frozen in a silent scream.

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A Letter to Everyone Who Thinks Their Lives Are Turned Upside Down Because I Have Decided To Leave My Husband

To whom none of this concerns:

I have spent five years worrying about your opinions.  Dreading the “I told you so” that is going to come from my side of the family.  Dreading the “You can stop the cycle of divorce” from his side of the family.  And honestly I am tired.  Tired of being hurt. Tired of allowing this bullshit to affect my health, my job, and my life.

It is so sad that although I was exhausted at 8 pm last night that I forced myself to stay up until almost midnight waiting on even just a reply to know what time he who cannot find his own fucking keys was planning on coming home so that I wouldn’t neglect the safety of the other three people, including myself, who live in this apartment by leaving the door unlocked all night.  When I didn’t get a reply, I left my keys hidden by the door all night long and attempted to get some sleep.  At this point, I don’t even know if by some chance someone else managed to find them and steal them.  I then woke up a little after 4 am and realized my husband never came home.  I have no idea where he is.  He is not responding to my messages.  He never bothered to call.  If I had a phone right now, I would honestly be waiting on phone call from the police telling me he was dead.  And guess what, I still haven’t been back to sleep.  I got maybe four hours of sleep, but I am more worried about where he is and if he is ok to get any more sleep.  And this is typical!!! This may have been a Saturday to Sunday incident this time, but the time before that was a Sunday to Monday.  I had to go to work and listen to my boss tell me that I cannot let my home life affect my job performance.  I had to go to work and put up with eight screaming potty-trainees.  I physically can’t anymore.

I just had this conversation with a friend:

6:28AM

me: At this point, should I just go get my keys?
friend: About 10 am ish, go get em
me: I’m still worried that my keys could get stolen
friend: Also…. *hugs* morning Eh…. true, at least go check on em
me:What should I do? He obviously has no desire to tell the truth, no regard for how worried I get when he doesn’t show, no regard for how much sleep I get at night because I’m worrying about him…
friend: It… might be time to stop worrying about him. If he’s not going to worry about you, why should you to him?
me: How do you stop worrying about someone you love?
friend: If he’s putting you through this, it’s not love he’s showing

I love him, but I have to take care of myself.  My mental and physical health has been seriously neglected, and I refuse to let that happen any more.

I am sorry to put you through whatever imaginary reputation damage, my life choices have thrust upon you.

Sincerely,

Phares

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Journal Entry – January 25, 2017 – Hindsight Is 20/20ish

Everyone always says that hindsight is 20/20, but is it really? You can think about all the things you could have done differently, all the things you should have done differently, all the things you would change, but you can never gauge someone else’s reaction.

You think you know a person, but can you ever really know them?

All I can say is that I miss you, all of you…

I want to know if you miss me too, but I would not wish this kind of broken heart on my worst enemy…

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Super Phares

So, I’d like to request one of you more artistic guys to draw a picture for me…

Yesterday morning, I was pulling on my binder, and in my rush, I got stuck in the Superman position: arms over my head like I was getting ready to fly, and my husband had to help me fix it… And I got to thinking, what if Superman were a transguy like me? I’m stuck in the closet at work, too many transphobics; so I spend most days at work in a skirt and being called Ms. [dead name], it can get so frustrating… and when I get home and I can switch into my binder and guy clothes, I feel so free it’s almost like I’m flying…

I imagine my Superman like that… Stuck at the Daily Planet in a pencil skirt, but whenever the day needs saving, he can run into a phone booth, pull on his binder, with some minor difficulties of course, and fly off free to be his true self…

Would someone be willing to draw something like that for me? Maybe three images: before (going to work disguised as a woman), during (struggling to put on binder in phone booth), and after (flying free as Superman)…

Also, are there any transgender superheros? I know there are gay ones, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a trans one…

~ a Facebook post I made in an FTM group I’m in

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Journal Entry – August 27, 2016

Cinderella was such a dork. She left behind her glass slipper at the ball and then went right back to her step-monster’s house. It seems to me she should have worn the glass slipper always, to make herself easier to find. I always hoped that after the prince found Cinderella and they rode away in their magnificent carriage, after a few miles she turned to him and said, “Could you drop me off down the road please? Now that I’ve finally escaped my life of horrific abuse, I’d like to see something of the world, you know?… I’ll catch back up with you later, Prince, once I’ve found my own way. – Rachel Cohn, Dash and Lily’s Book of Dares

Am I allowed to find my own way?  I am simply trying to process everything.  I put each of my relationships in its own box, hoping that the problems in one box would not spill over and destroy the contents of another box.  Yet, I am bombarded as the boxes tilt and fall.  I must go to work every day with a smile on my face to protect the young lives I mold.  It is my prayer that I can make a difference in their lives no matter what is destroying me on the inside.  I once was that suffering child, begging for attention, for help, for someone to notice, and maybe, just maybe, I would not be where I am today if one teacher forgot about everything else for five seconds and asked me what I wanted to play, helped me build a tower of legos, even just colored with me.

Maybe, maybe not…

Thank you, Tia.  You were the best babysitter.  You made the times I felt abandoned and rejected by my parents seem not so bad.  I had fun playing Little House on the Prairie, no matter how many times the Indians kidnapped us.