kyburg: (Default)
When I'm this angry about things I have no control over, the end result is usually a long blanket party involving my psyche.

Maybe you'll notice, maybe you won't - but I will stop asking for things after the first request, and at times like this, be far more vigilant about doing just that.

Because if I'm not interesting, at least I don't have to be a whiny, needy ass.

I'm sure I'll be better soon. Right now, I'm just mad.
kyburg: (Default)
When I'm this angry about things I have no control over, the end result is usually a long blanket party involving my psyche.

Maybe you'll notice, maybe you won't - but I will stop asking for things after the first request, and at times like this, be far more vigilant about doing just that.

Because if I'm not interesting, at least I don't have to be a whiny, needy ass.

I'm sure I'll be better soon. Right now, I'm just mad.
kyburg: (Default)
When I'm this angry about things I have no control over, the end result is usually a long blanket party involving my psyche.

Maybe you'll notice, maybe you won't - but I will stop asking for things after the first request, and at times like this, be far more vigilant about doing just that.

Because if I'm not interesting, at least I don't have to be a whiny, needy ass.

I'm sure I'll be better soon. Right now, I'm just mad.
kyburg: (Default)
Here's another quirk you probably won't see in the general scheme of things.

I don't like autographs.

I'll let that sink in for a moment. No, I don't want it signed. No, I don't want some stranger to feel obligated to write their name on something, some such or another. It kind of creeps me out.

And if I know you well enough to form an opinion based on other things besides that book, DVD or photograph in your hand?

*shivers* I don't need proof that you are another warm-blood sentient being with hands and know how to spell your name. I don't need proof that you existed.

What else is an autograph for?

I've met many a person who thought an autographing their works was a more-than-larger 'thank you' - I swear, Alton Brown would have signed *anything* I put in front of him - and just about did - I have signed DVDs (inside the box, I never thought of that, but he did and had it done before I could think twice about it) and he asked me if I wanted all of them signed. I hugged him instead, with permission. I am a GOOD hugger. And from that interaction, I take away something more valuable than an autograph - I get to talk to you. And really, that's what I want. I don't need a lifetime -

I want to thank you - and see if you have questions for me. I know I only have five minutes, tops. I can do a lot in five minutes.

This is one of the reasons I really love going to the LAT Festival of Books, because that's the largest draw. They bring out the authors to talk about their Stuff - and plan to host short signing sessions after each and every panel discussion. Buy as many of the books as you wish - Borders has it covered, really. And they are good about the signings - they've done many many festivals, so they have it down to a science. Nobody wears out, nobody gets shorted. You're in, you're done and you move on. Thanks for coming!

So grateful to meet Pico Iyer. I finally got to tell him how grateful I've been for his books - they've saved my good name more than once, and I had information I couldn't have gotten any other way that kept me from being a jerk. Autograph - eh. I'll have to go back and read the inscription (and I don't direct anyone what to write - 'do what you like' is the only direction I'll ever give) - because he just kept writing as I spoke to him. I love his books - after meeting him, I adore him.

Jim and I went to a book signing for Emeril Lagasse once - Jim got recipe tips, but the only thing I really wanted him to hear was 'thank you for putting up with all of us.' That got a look right in the eyes - why yes, I'm aware this is work. And thank you for doing it for me. (It also got a smile. He'd stayed far, far over his scheduled time to sign everyone's books that night. His reward from some idiots was flash photography without asking. Dicks.)

I loved having that five minutes with the three women hosting the parenting panel this last festival - for that five minutes, I had some of the best minds local to me talking to me about parenting, but even more, it was about becoming a parent under less than fair circumstances and having a legitimate vent about it. And all I got were nods, suggestions and yes - validation. They knew I wasn't big on autographs, but there I was - and I explained as much. It got a wry grin from one author with an atta girl.

I like it when people get to be people, after all.

More than once, someone has gone to a con and sent me a signed photograph they'd gotten for me. Aww. And then I didn't have a clue what to do with it. (Yes, yes - I know you can sell such things. Eww. No, really. EWWWWWW.)

People threw their programs onto the stage when Paul McCartney performed here last. Uh, someone *hit* him with one. No, I don't want anything with Paul McCartney's autograph on it. No words large enough for the wrong THAT is. Don't buy third-party gained autographs, guys. Just. Don't.

Swear to God, I'd do anything I could to take the demand out of a market that turns people into monsters like that. (We can talk about people taking pictures without permission another day. There's a post with profanity in it for you.)

It hits my trigger on treating celebrities as inanimate commodities even when we're dealing with the real flesh and blood person - and I really wish someone would take this up as a constitutional issue based on the 13th amendment, because it's just wrong. You may make a bundle being a celebrity, but you are never SOLD, body and soul, to the public, in any fashion - and I'm reminded often that there's a large segment of my culture that thinks an autograph is part and parcel of that concept and that it's very real.

I do not own you - any part of you - if I bought your work. I bought a book, that's it. If I get to talk to you, person to person while you sign it as a gift to me - that's worth the trouble. The autograph is not the reason I'm there. I liked the book, I *might* like you (at least, I respect your ability enough to mention it as such) and that's what I want you to know.

I don't need anything signed and sent to me. I'm also pretty certain you know your books are real, too and that you've been around many copies of them. I don't need proof that you actually saw *this one.*

If I see something signed that I wasn't there for? All I can think of is that you were made to work, without thanks - because I wasn't there to give it.

I don't want it signed. I don't like autographs.

I like your stuff. And that's plenty, for both of us.
kyburg: (Default)
Here's another quirk you probably won't see in the general scheme of things.

I don't like autographs.

I'll let that sink in for a moment. No, I don't want it signed. No, I don't want some stranger to feel obligated to write their name on something, some such or another. It kind of creeps me out.

And if I know you well enough to form an opinion based on other things besides that book, DVD or photograph in your hand?

*shivers* I don't need proof that you are another warm-blood sentient being with hands and know how to spell your name. I don't need proof that you existed.

What else is an autograph for?

I've met many a person who thought an autographing their works was a more-than-larger 'thank you' - I swear, Alton Brown would have signed *anything* I put in front of him - and just about did - I have signed DVDs (inside the box, I never thought of that, but he did and had it done before I could think twice about it) and he asked me if I wanted all of them signed. I hugged him instead, with permission. I am a GOOD hugger. And from that interaction, I take away something more valuable than an autograph - I get to talk to you. And really, that's what I want. I don't need a lifetime -

I want to thank you - and see if you have questions for me. I know I only have five minutes, tops. I can do a lot in five minutes.

This is one of the reasons I really love going to the LAT Festival of Books, because that's the largest draw. They bring out the authors to talk about their Stuff - and plan to host short signing sessions after each and every panel discussion. Buy as many of the books as you wish - Borders has it covered, really. And they are good about the signings - they've done many many festivals, so they have it down to a science. Nobody wears out, nobody gets shorted. You're in, you're done and you move on. Thanks for coming!

So grateful to meet Pico Iyer. I finally got to tell him how grateful I've been for his books - they've saved my good name more than once, and I had information I couldn't have gotten any other way that kept me from being a jerk. Autograph - eh. I'll have to go back and read the inscription (and I don't direct anyone what to write - 'do what you like' is the only direction I'll ever give) - because he just kept writing as I spoke to him. I love his books - after meeting him, I adore him.

Jim and I went to a book signing for Emeril Lagasse once - Jim got recipe tips, but the only thing I really wanted him to hear was 'thank you for putting up with all of us.' That got a look right in the eyes - why yes, I'm aware this is work. And thank you for doing it for me. (It also got a smile. He'd stayed far, far over his scheduled time to sign everyone's books that night. His reward from some idiots was flash photography without asking. Dicks.)

I loved having that five minutes with the three women hosting the parenting panel this last festival - for that five minutes, I had some of the best minds local to me talking to me about parenting, but even more, it was about becoming a parent under less than fair circumstances and having a legitimate vent about it. And all I got were nods, suggestions and yes - validation. They knew I wasn't big on autographs, but there I was - and I explained as much. It got a wry grin from one author with an atta girl.

I like it when people get to be people, after all.

More than once, someone has gone to a con and sent me a signed photograph they'd gotten for me. Aww. And then I didn't have a clue what to do with it. (Yes, yes - I know you can sell such things. Eww. No, really. EWWWWWW.)

People threw their programs onto the stage when Paul McCartney performed here last. Uh, someone *hit* him with one. No, I don't want anything with Paul McCartney's autograph on it. No words large enough for the wrong THAT is. Don't buy third-party gained autographs, guys. Just. Don't.

Swear to God, I'd do anything I could to take the demand out of a market that turns people into monsters like that. (We can talk about people taking pictures without permission another day. There's a post with profanity in it for you.)

It hits my trigger on treating celebrities as inanimate commodities even when we're dealing with the real flesh and blood person - and I really wish someone would take this up as a constitutional issue based on the 13th amendment, because it's just wrong. You may make a bundle being a celebrity, but you are never SOLD, body and soul, to the public, in any fashion - and I'm reminded often that there's a large segment of my culture that thinks an autograph is part and parcel of that concept and that it's very real.

I do not own you - any part of you - if I bought your work. I bought a book, that's it. If I get to talk to you, person to person while you sign it as a gift to me - that's worth the trouble. The autograph is not the reason I'm there. I liked the book, I *might* like you (at least, I respect your ability enough to mention it as such) and that's what I want you to know.

I don't need anything signed and sent to me. I'm also pretty certain you know your books are real, too and that you've been around many copies of them. I don't need proof that you actually saw *this one.*

If I see something signed that I wasn't there for? All I can think of is that you were made to work, without thanks - because I wasn't there to give it.

I don't want it signed. I don't like autographs.

I like your stuff. And that's plenty, for both of us.
kyburg: (Default)
Here's another quirk you probably won't see in the general scheme of things.

I don't like autographs.

I'll let that sink in for a moment. No, I don't want it signed. No, I don't want some stranger to feel obligated to write their name on something, some such or another. It kind of creeps me out.

And if I know you well enough to form an opinion based on other things besides that book, DVD or photograph in your hand?

*shivers* I don't need proof that you are another warm-blood sentient being with hands and know how to spell your name. I don't need proof that you existed.

What else is an autograph for?

I've met many a person who thought an autographing their works was a more-than-larger 'thank you' - I swear, Alton Brown would have signed *anything* I put in front of him - and just about did - I have signed DVDs (inside the box, I never thought of that, but he did and had it done before I could think twice about it) and he asked me if I wanted all of them signed. I hugged him instead, with permission. I am a GOOD hugger. And from that interaction, I take away something more valuable than an autograph - I get to talk to you. And really, that's what I want. I don't need a lifetime -

I want to thank you - and see if you have questions for me. I know I only have five minutes, tops. I can do a lot in five minutes.

This is one of the reasons I really love going to the LAT Festival of Books, because that's the largest draw. They bring out the authors to talk about their Stuff - and plan to host short signing sessions after each and every panel discussion. Buy as many of the books as you wish - Borders has it covered, really. And they are good about the signings - they've done many many festivals, so they have it down to a science. Nobody wears out, nobody gets shorted. You're in, you're done and you move on. Thanks for coming!

So grateful to meet Pico Iyer. I finally got to tell him how grateful I've been for his books - they've saved my good name more than once, and I had information I couldn't have gotten any other way that kept me from being a jerk. Autograph - eh. I'll have to go back and read the inscription (and I don't direct anyone what to write - 'do what you like' is the only direction I'll ever give) - because he just kept writing as I spoke to him. I love his books - after meeting him, I adore him.

Jim and I went to a book signing for Emeril Lagasse once - Jim got recipe tips, but the only thing I really wanted him to hear was 'thank you for putting up with all of us.' That got a look right in the eyes - why yes, I'm aware this is work. And thank you for doing it for me. (It also got a smile. He'd stayed far, far over his scheduled time to sign everyone's books that night. His reward from some idiots was flash photography without asking. Dicks.)

I loved having that five minutes with the three women hosting the parenting panel this last festival - for that five minutes, I had some of the best minds local to me talking to me about parenting, but even more, it was about becoming a parent under less than fair circumstances and having a legitimate vent about it. And all I got were nods, suggestions and yes - validation. They knew I wasn't big on autographs, but there I was - and I explained as much. It got a wry grin from one author with an atta girl.

I like it when people get to be people, after all.

More than once, someone has gone to a con and sent me a signed photograph they'd gotten for me. Aww. And then I didn't have a clue what to do with it. (Yes, yes - I know you can sell such things. Eww. No, really. EWWWWWW.)

People threw their programs onto the stage when Paul McCartney performed here last. Uh, someone *hit* him with one. No, I don't want anything with Paul McCartney's autograph on it. No words large enough for the wrong THAT is. Don't buy third-party gained autographs, guys. Just. Don't.

Swear to God, I'd do anything I could to take the demand out of a market that turns people into monsters like that. (We can talk about people taking pictures without permission another day. There's a post with profanity in it for you.)

It hits my trigger on treating celebrities as inanimate commodities even when we're dealing with the real flesh and blood person - and I really wish someone would take this up as a constitutional issue based on the 13th amendment, because it's just wrong. You may make a bundle being a celebrity, but you are never SOLD, body and soul, to the public, in any fashion - and I'm reminded often that there's a large segment of my culture that thinks an autograph is part and parcel of that concept and that it's very real.

I do not own you - any part of you - if I bought your work. I bought a book, that's it. If I get to talk to you, person to person while you sign it as a gift to me - that's worth the trouble. The autograph is not the reason I'm there. I liked the book, I *might* like you (at least, I respect your ability enough to mention it as such) and that's what I want you to know.

I don't need anything signed and sent to me. I'm also pretty certain you know your books are real, too and that you've been around many copies of them. I don't need proof that you actually saw *this one.*

If I see something signed that I wasn't there for? All I can think of is that you were made to work, without thanks - because I wasn't there to give it.

I don't want it signed. I don't like autographs.

I like your stuff. And that's plenty, for both of us.

Tit envy

May. 20th, 2010 03:25 pm
kyburg: (Ooops)
Seanan hits one out of the park again. (She does that on a regular basis - no, go on over there and see if I'm lying.)

This is one of those 'nod and smile' subjects for me, though.

Because I could buy a rib brace from Duro-Med (no, go ahead and buy the male one, it's cheaper and it won't matter) and do just as well.

Talk about it all you want - I may be female, but as far as looking 'feminine?' I guess I don't.

I have no tits.

No, no - don't make me fell better about it. I've been here a while, so I know how this song goes. That line from A Chorus Line - "SHIT! Made it through high school without growing tits!" Uh huh. *raises hand*

I can remember wishing I had underwear that didn't lie flat when you folded it up. At that point, you didn't do surgery - plastic surgery was restricted to repairing injuries You Didn't Talk About and to the face. Mastectomies were *just* being talked out in open conversation, and oh what a tragedy THEY were. The shame!

There were creams, pills, exercises (we must, we must increase our bust!) and other stupidity. Thankfully, I was bright enough to see right through the whole mess - I mean, I'm a biokid - I had relatives who also had no tits, so if any of this stuff ever worked? Dude - Mom would have been *right there* with it at age 13, telling me how it worked.

I got The Talk at nine, for crying out loud. By the time I was 14, I was completely fed up with the whole growing up thing - it just wasn't coming together here.

Let me tell you. Hidden Playboy magazines? Fascinating. I'd never seen anyone who ever looked like that. Both the girls and the boys I played with growing up were just as intrigued - even though the boys claimed we could 'just look at ourselves, sheesh' - none of us had ever dreamed that was under the clothes and stuff. Look at ourselves, right - we laughed in their faces. I had all of Mom's nursing journals to read - and I did, though she found it odd that I would (I knew far more about caring for post-op choleostomy patients than any teen should, for example) - and there were pictures, once in a while. Barbie had a doll's body, and I never equated that with reality - I never knew anyone who looked like that, who couldn't figure that out? A doll's a doll, come on.

I'm also straight. There was the obligatory locker room experiences in junior high and high school, but outside of 'oh shit DON'T LOOK that's RUDE,' I haven't seen tits. I tend to look more closely at times at costume design because frankly? How the HECK does that work?

It's not a matter of hating your body. You don't have tits and you claim to be female, you're going to get told very matter of factly that the world doesn't have a place for you, and/or just outright pities you and is going to give you adaptive equipment as a matter of course. I've been this tall and 96 pounds, and then at another time in my life, 183 pounds. When you're still wondering if you're not an A cup either way? You have no tits and nothing is going to fit you without padding. Oh yes, the padding.

Would you like gel, foam or air? I think it was Ann Landers who said you needed a bra if you could support a pencil under your breasts. If you can't, well - you're a girl, aren't you? Here, fake it. No, really. This is what you're supposed to look like.

Yes, they think underwires help. What, I have no idea. When everything rides up to your collarbone, you can imagine the rest. There was a stint where the fashion was looking like you weren't wearing a bra - and believe it or not, they sold Mom on it! Here's something without a cup and only a few seams! A bra! But don't tell anyone! Sheeyit.

Nobody works for fashion like good foundation garments anyway. Everyone knows you're faking it, come on. Whole family, guys. No tits. Wonderbras. Wonder no longer. I tried one on, looked down and laughed. Then bought another sports bra. That kind of stuff just doesn't apply here. (I wonder what people think who wear thong underwear - because that's the only thing I can equate it to. Here's some firm, hard elastic straps to wrap around your chest REALLY TIGHT. Now, who can't behind that? Um.)

Corsets? Well, I guess you might be able to turn my chest into a shelf, but how appealing is that? It kind of reminds of those chinese finger puzzles - or a pencil in traction. So while I could wear one? Boy, that's a pretty piece of engineering gone to waste. Go spend the $$ on a girl with something to shape.

I have microcalcifications in my right chest wall. Note, I don't say breast - because trying to do a mammogram? Take the ball of your thumb, there at the base at your palm? Flatten that. There's nothing to shoot film of. But I guess I have all the appropriate structures. I got my baseline at age 35. Bully for me. I have all of the risk factors everyone with tits has for breast cancer - and the techs just hate doing my films. "This might hurt more for you than the average person." Well, since I've never been average, that's helpful for you, missie doodle. I'll try not to cross my eyes or scream. The first time, we must have shot twelve films.

"You've got a dancer's body." "So cute and gamine!" I can shop in the boys department, and don't think I won't. Much cheaper over there, y'know. That really cute strapless dress? Mom once told me about a dress she wore in high school they sewed elastic in at the top so it wouldn't fall down. Elastic. In a strapless dress. Like, pull up pants elastic. I've had exactly two of them. One of them required a specific - you got it - foundation garment that allowed it to stay up. (Maybe I should have gone with the rib brace and some baby pins.) The last one, I had enough underwear on I couldn't bend over and breathe at the same time. Pass.

Anything that ever had a bustline, had padding. That includes swimsuits. Go ahead, you wear a couch cushion in the water. Be my guest. I buy one piece suits with all the sex appeal of a tube sock. Bite me. I can get wet and not lose my mind.

Because here comes the truly annoying part - you don't have tits, you're going to be strongly encouraged, walked into it, talked into it, forced into it - because you want to be a girl, don't you? You're not gay, are you? Or worse yet - trans. "You're built like a boy, what a shame!"

Like my bust is going to determine THAT. *eyeroll*

Now you know why so many people sewed silicone bags into their chests. And still do.

I get envious of people who can wear girly things - at times. I listen to a lot of tit-related issues, and can be appropriately sympathetic because I do, after all, have a good imagination.

But the old Playtex commercials? Lift, separate and all that? No idea what you're talking about, no direct experience to speak from.

I can wear a kimono like nobody's business, though. No padding required.

Tit envy

May. 20th, 2010 03:25 pm
kyburg: (Ooops)
Seanan hits one out of the park again. (She does that on a regular basis - no, go on over there and see if I'm lying.)

This is one of those 'nod and smile' subjects for me, though.

Because I could buy a rib brace from Duro-Med (no, go ahead and buy the male one, it's cheaper and it won't matter) and do just as well.

Talk about it all you want - I may be female, but as far as looking 'feminine?' I guess I don't.

I have no tits.

No, no - don't make me fell better about it. I've been here a while, so I know how this song goes. That line from A Chorus Line - "SHIT! Made it through high school without growing tits!" Uh huh. *raises hand*

I can remember wishing I had underwear that didn't lie flat when you folded it up. At that point, you didn't do surgery - plastic surgery was restricted to repairing injuries You Didn't Talk About and to the face. Mastectomies were *just* being talked out in open conversation, and oh what a tragedy THEY were. The shame!

There were creams, pills, exercises (we must, we must increase our bust!) and other stupidity. Thankfully, I was bright enough to see right through the whole mess - I mean, I'm a biokid - I had relatives who also had no tits, so if any of this stuff ever worked? Dude - Mom would have been *right there* with it at age 13, telling me how it worked.

I got The Talk at nine, for crying out loud. By the time I was 14, I was completely fed up with the whole growing up thing - it just wasn't coming together here.

Let me tell you. Hidden Playboy magazines? Fascinating. I'd never seen anyone who ever looked like that. Both the girls and the boys I played with growing up were just as intrigued - even though the boys claimed we could 'just look at ourselves, sheesh' - none of us had ever dreamed that was under the clothes and stuff. Look at ourselves, right - we laughed in their faces. I had all of Mom's nursing journals to read - and I did, though she found it odd that I would (I knew far more about caring for post-op choleostomy patients than any teen should, for example) - and there were pictures, once in a while. Barbie had a doll's body, and I never equated that with reality - I never knew anyone who looked like that, who couldn't figure that out? A doll's a doll, come on.

I'm also straight. There was the obligatory locker room experiences in junior high and high school, but outside of 'oh shit DON'T LOOK that's RUDE,' I haven't seen tits. I tend to look more closely at times at costume design because frankly? How the HECK does that work?

It's not a matter of hating your body. You don't have tits and you claim to be female, you're going to get told very matter of factly that the world doesn't have a place for you, and/or just outright pities you and is going to give you adaptive equipment as a matter of course. I've been this tall and 96 pounds, and then at another time in my life, 183 pounds. When you're still wondering if you're not an A cup either way? You have no tits and nothing is going to fit you without padding. Oh yes, the padding.

Would you like gel, foam or air? I think it was Ann Landers who said you needed a bra if you could support a pencil under your breasts. If you can't, well - you're a girl, aren't you? Here, fake it. No, really. This is what you're supposed to look like.

Yes, they think underwires help. What, I have no idea. When everything rides up to your collarbone, you can imagine the rest. There was a stint where the fashion was looking like you weren't wearing a bra - and believe it or not, they sold Mom on it! Here's something without a cup and only a few seams! A bra! But don't tell anyone! Sheeyit.

Nobody works for fashion like good foundation garments anyway. Everyone knows you're faking it, come on. Whole family, guys. No tits. Wonderbras. Wonder no longer. I tried one on, looked down and laughed. Then bought another sports bra. That kind of stuff just doesn't apply here. (I wonder what people think who wear thong underwear - because that's the only thing I can equate it to. Here's some firm, hard elastic straps to wrap around your chest REALLY TIGHT. Now, who can't behind that? Um.)

Corsets? Well, I guess you might be able to turn my chest into a shelf, but how appealing is that? It kind of reminds of those chinese finger puzzles - or a pencil in traction. So while I could wear one? Boy, that's a pretty piece of engineering gone to waste. Go spend the $$ on a girl with something to shape.

I have microcalcifications in my right chest wall. Note, I don't say breast - because trying to do a mammogram? Take the ball of your thumb, there at the base at your palm? Flatten that. There's nothing to shoot film of. But I guess I have all the appropriate structures. I got my baseline at age 35. Bully for me. I have all of the risk factors everyone with tits has for breast cancer - and the techs just hate doing my films. "This might hurt more for you than the average person." Well, since I've never been average, that's helpful for you, missie doodle. I'll try not to cross my eyes or scream. The first time, we must have shot twelve films.

"You've got a dancer's body." "So cute and gamine!" I can shop in the boys department, and don't think I won't. Much cheaper over there, y'know. That really cute strapless dress? Mom once told me about a dress she wore in high school they sewed elastic in at the top so it wouldn't fall down. Elastic. In a strapless dress. Like, pull up pants elastic. I've had exactly two of them. One of them required a specific - you got it - foundation garment that allowed it to stay up. (Maybe I should have gone with the rib brace and some baby pins.) The last one, I had enough underwear on I couldn't bend over and breathe at the same time. Pass.

Anything that ever had a bustline, had padding. That includes swimsuits. Go ahead, you wear a couch cushion in the water. Be my guest. I buy one piece suits with all the sex appeal of a tube sock. Bite me. I can get wet and not lose my mind.

Because here comes the truly annoying part - you don't have tits, you're going to be strongly encouraged, walked into it, talked into it, forced into it - because you want to be a girl, don't you? You're not gay, are you? Or worse yet - trans. "You're built like a boy, what a shame!"

Like my bust is going to determine THAT. *eyeroll*

Now you know why so many people sewed silicone bags into their chests. And still do.

I get envious of people who can wear girly things - at times. I listen to a lot of tit-related issues, and can be appropriately sympathetic because I do, after all, have a good imagination.

But the old Playtex commercials? Lift, separate and all that? No idea what you're talking about, no direct experience to speak from.

I can wear a kimono like nobody's business, though. No padding required.

Tit envy

May. 20th, 2010 03:25 pm
kyburg: (Ooops)
Seanan hits one out of the park again. (She does that on a regular basis - no, go on over there and see if I'm lying.)

This is one of those 'nod and smile' subjects for me, though.

Because I could buy a rib brace from Duro-Med (no, go ahead and buy the male one, it's cheaper and it won't matter) and do just as well.

Talk about it all you want - I may be female, but as far as looking 'feminine?' I guess I don't.

I have no tits.

No, no - don't make me fell better about it. I've been here a while, so I know how this song goes. That line from A Chorus Line - "SHIT! Made it through high school without growing tits!" Uh huh. *raises hand*

I can remember wishing I had underwear that didn't lie flat when you folded it up. At that point, you didn't do surgery - plastic surgery was restricted to repairing injuries You Didn't Talk About and to the face. Mastectomies were *just* being talked out in open conversation, and oh what a tragedy THEY were. The shame!

There were creams, pills, exercises (we must, we must increase our bust!) and other stupidity. Thankfully, I was bright enough to see right through the whole mess - I mean, I'm a biokid - I had relatives who also had no tits, so if any of this stuff ever worked? Dude - Mom would have been *right there* with it at age 13, telling me how it worked.

I got The Talk at nine, for crying out loud. By the time I was 14, I was completely fed up with the whole growing up thing - it just wasn't coming together here.

Let me tell you. Hidden Playboy magazines? Fascinating. I'd never seen anyone who ever looked like that. Both the girls and the boys I played with growing up were just as intrigued - even though the boys claimed we could 'just look at ourselves, sheesh' - none of us had ever dreamed that was under the clothes and stuff. Look at ourselves, right - we laughed in their faces. I had all of Mom's nursing journals to read - and I did, though she found it odd that I would (I knew far more about caring for post-op choleostomy patients than any teen should, for example) - and there were pictures, once in a while. Barbie had a doll's body, and I never equated that with reality - I never knew anyone who looked like that, who couldn't figure that out? A doll's a doll, come on.

I'm also straight. There was the obligatory locker room experiences in junior high and high school, but outside of 'oh shit DON'T LOOK that's RUDE,' I haven't seen tits. I tend to look more closely at times at costume design because frankly? How the HECK does that work?

It's not a matter of hating your body. You don't have tits and you claim to be female, you're going to get told very matter of factly that the world doesn't have a place for you, and/or just outright pities you and is going to give you adaptive equipment as a matter of course. I've been this tall and 96 pounds, and then at another time in my life, 183 pounds. When you're still wondering if you're not an A cup either way? You have no tits and nothing is going to fit you without padding. Oh yes, the padding.

Would you like gel, foam or air? I think it was Ann Landers who said you needed a bra if you could support a pencil under your breasts. If you can't, well - you're a girl, aren't you? Here, fake it. No, really. This is what you're supposed to look like.

Yes, they think underwires help. What, I have no idea. When everything rides up to your collarbone, you can imagine the rest. There was a stint where the fashion was looking like you weren't wearing a bra - and believe it or not, they sold Mom on it! Here's something without a cup and only a few seams! A bra! But don't tell anyone! Sheeyit.

Nobody works for fashion like good foundation garments anyway. Everyone knows you're faking it, come on. Whole family, guys. No tits. Wonderbras. Wonder no longer. I tried one on, looked down and laughed. Then bought another sports bra. That kind of stuff just doesn't apply here. (I wonder what people think who wear thong underwear - because that's the only thing I can equate it to. Here's some firm, hard elastic straps to wrap around your chest REALLY TIGHT. Now, who can't behind that? Um.)

Corsets? Well, I guess you might be able to turn my chest into a shelf, but how appealing is that? It kind of reminds of those chinese finger puzzles - or a pencil in traction. So while I could wear one? Boy, that's a pretty piece of engineering gone to waste. Go spend the $$ on a girl with something to shape.

I have microcalcifications in my right chest wall. Note, I don't say breast - because trying to do a mammogram? Take the ball of your thumb, there at the base at your palm? Flatten that. There's nothing to shoot film of. But I guess I have all the appropriate structures. I got my baseline at age 35. Bully for me. I have all of the risk factors everyone with tits has for breast cancer - and the techs just hate doing my films. "This might hurt more for you than the average person." Well, since I've never been average, that's helpful for you, missie doodle. I'll try not to cross my eyes or scream. The first time, we must have shot twelve films.

"You've got a dancer's body." "So cute and gamine!" I can shop in the boys department, and don't think I won't. Much cheaper over there, y'know. That really cute strapless dress? Mom once told me about a dress she wore in high school they sewed elastic in at the top so it wouldn't fall down. Elastic. In a strapless dress. Like, pull up pants elastic. I've had exactly two of them. One of them required a specific - you got it - foundation garment that allowed it to stay up. (Maybe I should have gone with the rib brace and some baby pins.) The last one, I had enough underwear on I couldn't bend over and breathe at the same time. Pass.

Anything that ever had a bustline, had padding. That includes swimsuits. Go ahead, you wear a couch cushion in the water. Be my guest. I buy one piece suits with all the sex appeal of a tube sock. Bite me. I can get wet and not lose my mind.

Because here comes the truly annoying part - you don't have tits, you're going to be strongly encouraged, walked into it, talked into it, forced into it - because you want to be a girl, don't you? You're not gay, are you? Or worse yet - trans. "You're built like a boy, what a shame!"

Like my bust is going to determine THAT. *eyeroll*

Now you know why so many people sewed silicone bags into their chests. And still do.

I get envious of people who can wear girly things - at times. I listen to a lot of tit-related issues, and can be appropriately sympathetic because I do, after all, have a good imagination.

But the old Playtex commercials? Lift, separate and all that? No idea what you're talking about, no direct experience to speak from.

I can wear a kimono like nobody's business, though. No padding required.
kyburg: (Default)
I encourage you to be angry at me. With me. Seriously.

About the only thing I warn you is that I might notice the fact, note it for future reference and move on to my next task.

That's all.

If I actually have anything to do with your ire, I will do what I can about it. You can be fairly sure I will cop to it. Even if it's only a 'sorry that made you mad' and slap a disclaimer on the back end of it.

But if you are insulted or further infuriated by my perceived lack of concern? I don't suggest getting angry at me as a way of making your argument.

I don't automatically get angry at people angry at me.

I mention a long history with depressive issues - there are real reasons for them, but there are also real solutions to same I've been taught over the years.

My first encounter with the couch was before the age of ten. My last was over twenty years ago. I consult with trained professionals these days for very nuts-and-bolts issues with finite need for their services - but before I was 27? I fought a battle to simply avoid being institutionalized. I was that anxious.

It was so very crucial that nobody hate me. If they got angry at me? HORRORS. No, really.

What finally set me free was getting up close and personal with the concept that other's people's issues? Belonged to them. And I had no control over them, and attempting to gain control? Icky. Manipulative. Pretty damn sucky, if you look at it. And none of them were things I was comfortable doing. It's not that I had lost anything by coming to this place - it was liberating, because this was something I'd never had the power to influence. And that was the truth - it really can set you free.

People can think anything they want about me. Ditto, in reverse. It changes nothing.

So one of the first thing I had to get comfortable with was other's people's displeasure, perceived or real, with me. It took practice. And to be honest? Initially, my closest relationships shifted considerably as it was discovered I would not be pushed by threatening me with anger. I had to get comfortable with the idea of being alone - possibly - if I stuck it out.

I discovered I was more stubborn than I ever realized. Add being as fair as possible, thinking things through and an innate lack of mean (I don't have time for it), and you come up with something pretty close to what I work with now. I can spend extended periods alone, by the way. It's not scary. Or an indication of personal failure.

You'd be amazed at how much more successful you can be in relationships when you're not frantic about being out of one at the same time.

I've had mean tossed at me. I can replicate it. I don't do it. It hurts and I don't respect people who, having experienced the same, reserve those *exact* tactics to hurt others. It's not even original. Feh.

And I don't give people who do that access to me.

Now, to the good? I'm okay with calling Marines out on bad behavior. Cliff was also good about teaching me the value of being Absolutely CRAZY as a offensive/defensive posture, and I kind of sit back sometimes and watch it in action with disbelief.

To the bad? I can come off stone cold and impassive. You do raise my ire, the ground may actually move. Very few things, people or otherwise, deserve that. Hence, my rule of 'if I can't be excellent to you, I will be nothing to you.'

Only thing I have control over - what I say and what I do.

What other people think usually has more to do with them, than with me. If there is something to be done? Fine. But I get to decide that.

Get angry with me. Knock yourself out. I just may not join the party - I get to decide that part.
kyburg: (Default)
I encourage you to be angry at me. With me. Seriously.

About the only thing I warn you is that I might notice the fact, note it for future reference and move on to my next task.

That's all.

If I actually have anything to do with your ire, I will do what I can about it. You can be fairly sure I will cop to it. Even if it's only a 'sorry that made you mad' and slap a disclaimer on the back end of it.

But if you are insulted or further infuriated by my perceived lack of concern? I don't suggest getting angry at me as a way of making your argument.

I don't automatically get angry at people angry at me.

I mention a long history with depressive issues - there are real reasons for them, but there are also real solutions to same I've been taught over the years.

My first encounter with the couch was before the age of ten. My last was over twenty years ago. I consult with trained professionals these days for very nuts-and-bolts issues with finite need for their services - but before I was 27? I fought a battle to simply avoid being institutionalized. I was that anxious.

It was so very crucial that nobody hate me. If they got angry at me? HORRORS. No, really.

What finally set me free was getting up close and personal with the concept that other's people's issues? Belonged to them. And I had no control over them, and attempting to gain control? Icky. Manipulative. Pretty damn sucky, if you look at it. And none of them were things I was comfortable doing. It's not that I had lost anything by coming to this place - it was liberating, because this was something I'd never had the power to influence. And that was the truth - it really can set you free.

People can think anything they want about me. Ditto, in reverse. It changes nothing.

So one of the first thing I had to get comfortable with was other's people's displeasure, perceived or real, with me. It took practice. And to be honest? Initially, my closest relationships shifted considerably as it was discovered I would not be pushed by threatening me with anger. I had to get comfortable with the idea of being alone - possibly - if I stuck it out.

I discovered I was more stubborn than I ever realized. Add being as fair as possible, thinking things through and an innate lack of mean (I don't have time for it), and you come up with something pretty close to what I work with now. I can spend extended periods alone, by the way. It's not scary. Or an indication of personal failure.

You'd be amazed at how much more successful you can be in relationships when you're not frantic about being out of one at the same time.

I've had mean tossed at me. I can replicate it. I don't do it. It hurts and I don't respect people who, having experienced the same, reserve those *exact* tactics to hurt others. It's not even original. Feh.

And I don't give people who do that access to me.

Now, to the good? I'm okay with calling Marines out on bad behavior. Cliff was also good about teaching me the value of being Absolutely CRAZY as a offensive/defensive posture, and I kind of sit back sometimes and watch it in action with disbelief.

To the bad? I can come off stone cold and impassive. You do raise my ire, the ground may actually move. Very few things, people or otherwise, deserve that. Hence, my rule of 'if I can't be excellent to you, I will be nothing to you.'

Only thing I have control over - what I say and what I do.

What other people think usually has more to do with them, than with me. If there is something to be done? Fine. But I get to decide that.

Get angry with me. Knock yourself out. I just may not join the party - I get to decide that part.
kyburg: (Default)
I encourage you to be angry at me. With me. Seriously.

About the only thing I warn you is that I might notice the fact, note it for future reference and move on to my next task.

That's all.

If I actually have anything to do with your ire, I will do what I can about it. You can be fairly sure I will cop to it. Even if it's only a 'sorry that made you mad' and slap a disclaimer on the back end of it.

But if you are insulted or further infuriated by my perceived lack of concern? I don't suggest getting angry at me as a way of making your argument.

I don't automatically get angry at people angry at me.

I mention a long history with depressive issues - there are real reasons for them, but there are also real solutions to same I've been taught over the years.

My first encounter with the couch was before the age of ten. My last was over twenty years ago. I consult with trained professionals these days for very nuts-and-bolts issues with finite need for their services - but before I was 27? I fought a battle to simply avoid being institutionalized. I was that anxious.

It was so very crucial that nobody hate me. If they got angry at me? HORRORS. No, really.

What finally set me free was getting up close and personal with the concept that other's people's issues? Belonged to them. And I had no control over them, and attempting to gain control? Icky. Manipulative. Pretty damn sucky, if you look at it. And none of them were things I was comfortable doing. It's not that I had lost anything by coming to this place - it was liberating, because this was something I'd never had the power to influence. And that was the truth - it really can set you free.

People can think anything they want about me. Ditto, in reverse. It changes nothing.

So one of the first thing I had to get comfortable with was other's people's displeasure, perceived or real, with me. It took practice. And to be honest? Initially, my closest relationships shifted considerably as it was discovered I would not be pushed by threatening me with anger. I had to get comfortable with the idea of being alone - possibly - if I stuck it out.

I discovered I was more stubborn than I ever realized. Add being as fair as possible, thinking things through and an innate lack of mean (I don't have time for it), and you come up with something pretty close to what I work with now. I can spend extended periods alone, by the way. It's not scary. Or an indication of personal failure.

You'd be amazed at how much more successful you can be in relationships when you're not frantic about being out of one at the same time.

I've had mean tossed at me. I can replicate it. I don't do it. It hurts and I don't respect people who, having experienced the same, reserve those *exact* tactics to hurt others. It's not even original. Feh.

And I don't give people who do that access to me.

Now, to the good? I'm okay with calling Marines out on bad behavior. Cliff was also good about teaching me the value of being Absolutely CRAZY as a offensive/defensive posture, and I kind of sit back sometimes and watch it in action with disbelief.

To the bad? I can come off stone cold and impassive. You do raise my ire, the ground may actually move. Very few things, people or otherwise, deserve that. Hence, my rule of 'if I can't be excellent to you, I will be nothing to you.'

Only thing I have control over - what I say and what I do.

What other people think usually has more to do with them, than with me. If there is something to be done? Fine. But I get to decide that.

Get angry with me. Knock yourself out. I just may not join the party - I get to decide that part.
kyburg: (Default)
A mimosa as big as my head. Refillable, please.

Some classes in stained glass, complete with kiln privileges. Ditto ceramics, and please have a wheel that works.

A place to lay out fabric and patterns that I don't have to walk on later because I always lose pins in the process and guess how I find them later. No, really. Guess.

A place to take all of my dolls out of storage and display them. This hasn't existed since I was 12. When I was expected to put my dolls aside and grow up, I tossed Life the figure and kept them. But they've been in storage almost as long as that decision. *sigh* (People would probably be shocked at my fashion design skills - I had to make all the clothes for the dolls, sometimes even the dolls themselves - and sometimes, even out of toliet paper and paper towels. Missed my calling much? Hey, I like eating.)

Even the ones I made myself when the house burned down when I was 13. Out of torn sheets we were using for rags, faces colored in with colored pencils I dipped in water.

Someone with patience enough to practice sign language with me. I literally sit on my hands when in the presence of a deaf person. I am THAT bad. And if you know how much I love words and being able to express them properly, you know the shame that brings me. I can't talk to you. And I can't even say how sorry I am about it.

I'd like a few more days off. I don't need many. Just, perhaps one a month or so.

Think I'll go get some chocolate before I go home. That, I can have.
kyburg: (Default)
A mimosa as big as my head. Refillable, please.

Some classes in stained glass, complete with kiln privileges. Ditto ceramics, and please have a wheel that works.

A place to lay out fabric and patterns that I don't have to walk on later because I always lose pins in the process and guess how I find them later. No, really. Guess.

A place to take all of my dolls out of storage and display them. This hasn't existed since I was 12. When I was expected to put my dolls aside and grow up, I tossed Life the figure and kept them. But they've been in storage almost as long as that decision. *sigh* (People would probably be shocked at my fashion design skills - I had to make all the clothes for the dolls, sometimes even the dolls themselves - and sometimes, even out of toliet paper and paper towels. Missed my calling much? Hey, I like eating.)

Even the ones I made myself when the house burned down when I was 13. Out of torn sheets we were using for rags, faces colored in with colored pencils I dipped in water.

Someone with patience enough to practice sign language with me. I literally sit on my hands when in the presence of a deaf person. I am THAT bad. And if you know how much I love words and being able to express them properly, you know the shame that brings me. I can't talk to you. And I can't even say how sorry I am about it.

I'd like a few more days off. I don't need many. Just, perhaps one a month or so.

Think I'll go get some chocolate before I go home. That, I can have.
kyburg: (Default)
A mimosa as big as my head. Refillable, please.

Some classes in stained glass, complete with kiln privileges. Ditto ceramics, and please have a wheel that works.

A place to lay out fabric and patterns that I don't have to walk on later because I always lose pins in the process and guess how I find them later. No, really. Guess.

A place to take all of my dolls out of storage and display them. This hasn't existed since I was 12. When I was expected to put my dolls aside and grow up, I tossed Life the figure and kept them. But they've been in storage almost as long as that decision. *sigh* (People would probably be shocked at my fashion design skills - I had to make all the clothes for the dolls, sometimes even the dolls themselves - and sometimes, even out of toliet paper and paper towels. Missed my calling much? Hey, I like eating.)

Even the ones I made myself when the house burned down when I was 13. Out of torn sheets we were using for rags, faces colored in with colored pencils I dipped in water.

Someone with patience enough to practice sign language with me. I literally sit on my hands when in the presence of a deaf person. I am THAT bad. And if you know how much I love words and being able to express them properly, you know the shame that brings me. I can't talk to you. And I can't even say how sorry I am about it.

I'd like a few more days off. I don't need many. Just, perhaps one a month or so.

Think I'll go get some chocolate before I go home. That, I can have.

Some days?

Apr. 6th, 2010 01:28 pm
kyburg: (facepalm)
You can teach lessons to others.

Other days, YOU are the lesson, intentional or not.




My younger brother has a Facebook - and I just sent a friend request? Should I fear?

Mom can see the kite flying pictures from Easter - that'll be to the good.

And I know what bait smells like.




It occurs to me that two of the most comprehensive pictures we have from Jim's family are group shots taken prior to the units disintegrating spectacularly through divorce. It's akin to saying 'now this is Aunt Betty before she spontaneously exploded into flame, we really don't know what happened, but wasn't that a pretty Easter bonnet?'

My side of the family? Three house fires. 'Nuff said. I can measure the shots in handfulls. I have ONE picture of my father.

We're trying to get in the habit of taking pictures, because yanno - cute kid - but it's not coming to us easily. I'm going to have to run home and shove some pictures to Fedex to get them to Hemet, because Mom's travelling to see family - and she wants bragging material. We've only had them for months, of course, and promised them long ago, of course...*facepalms*...yuck foo. About as good as I am about sending thank you notes, which is true suckage indeed.

I got out of the habit of cards for any reason when there was no money for them. And I'm still out of the habit, I admit freely.

I have two weekends before the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books weekend that I've volunteered to work Saturday of, and Sunday is looking mighty tasty. I'm seriously considering a sitter for Sunday tasty. Anyone who wants to go with me? I HAVE FREE PARKING SATURDAY. But before that? Two weekends with no commitments and I'm vertical. Hit me.

I'm thinking road trip out to the desert to look at wildflowers.

Some days?

Apr. 6th, 2010 01:28 pm
kyburg: (facepalm)
You can teach lessons to others.

Other days, YOU are the lesson, intentional or not.




My younger brother has a Facebook - and I just sent a friend request? Should I fear?

Mom can see the kite flying pictures from Easter - that'll be to the good.

And I know what bait smells like.




It occurs to me that two of the most comprehensive pictures we have from Jim's family are group shots taken prior to the units disintegrating spectacularly through divorce. It's akin to saying 'now this is Aunt Betty before she spontaneously exploded into flame, we really don't know what happened, but wasn't that a pretty Easter bonnet?'

My side of the family? Three house fires. 'Nuff said. I can measure the shots in handfulls. I have ONE picture of my father.

We're trying to get in the habit of taking pictures, because yanno - cute kid - but it's not coming to us easily. I'm going to have to run home and shove some pictures to Fedex to get them to Hemet, because Mom's travelling to see family - and she wants bragging material. We've only had them for months, of course, and promised them long ago, of course...*facepalms*...yuck foo. About as good as I am about sending thank you notes, which is true suckage indeed.

I got out of the habit of cards for any reason when there was no money for them. And I'm still out of the habit, I admit freely.

I have two weekends before the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books weekend that I've volunteered to work Saturday of, and Sunday is looking mighty tasty. I'm seriously considering a sitter for Sunday tasty. Anyone who wants to go with me? I HAVE FREE PARKING SATURDAY. But before that? Two weekends with no commitments and I'm vertical. Hit me.

I'm thinking road trip out to the desert to look at wildflowers.

Some days?

Apr. 6th, 2010 01:28 pm
kyburg: (facepalm)
You can teach lessons to others.

Other days, YOU are the lesson, intentional or not.




My younger brother has a Facebook - and I just sent a friend request? Should I fear?

Mom can see the kite flying pictures from Easter - that'll be to the good.

And I know what bait smells like.




It occurs to me that two of the most comprehensive pictures we have from Jim's family are group shots taken prior to the units disintegrating spectacularly through divorce. It's akin to saying 'now this is Aunt Betty before she spontaneously exploded into flame, we really don't know what happened, but wasn't that a pretty Easter bonnet?'

My side of the family? Three house fires. 'Nuff said. I can measure the shots in handfulls. I have ONE picture of my father.

We're trying to get in the habit of taking pictures, because yanno - cute kid - but it's not coming to us easily. I'm going to have to run home and shove some pictures to Fedex to get them to Hemet, because Mom's travelling to see family - and she wants bragging material. We've only had them for months, of course, and promised them long ago, of course...*facepalms*...yuck foo. About as good as I am about sending thank you notes, which is true suckage indeed.

I got out of the habit of cards for any reason when there was no money for them. And I'm still out of the habit, I admit freely.

I have two weekends before the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books weekend that I've volunteered to work Saturday of, and Sunday is looking mighty tasty. I'm seriously considering a sitter for Sunday tasty. Anyone who wants to go with me? I HAVE FREE PARKING SATURDAY. But before that? Two weekends with no commitments and I'm vertical. Hit me.

I'm thinking road trip out to the desert to look at wildflowers.
kyburg: (Default)
It's been all over the place lately - at least, it's getting more attention than I'm used to, even if it's after the fact. After someone has died. Again.

I think I can count on both hands the number of young children and teens the number of deaths reported - bemoaned - and documented to a fare-thee-well in the media lately, and not have many fingers left over.

This is to the good. It's not just you. It NEVER was just you, and if you're still alive to read this, you found a way through. Somehow.

But the children are still dead, and it was not just one incidence of abuse that sent them to take their own lives. Often, it went on - well-known to the legitimate authorities - for years. Days into months into years, and that's what infuriates me. (Does it not anyone?)

Those of us who found our way - remember.

I'll be blunt - I'm one of those who was a very easy target. Up to the age of 8 or so, I'd lived seven miles away from town, in one of five houses where I knew every person who lived in them. And they adored me, and I adored them. (One family moved out briefly, and I was molested by one of the boys in the family that rented the house during that span, but they came back, the icky family left, and my old friends came back with a new last name. I'd tried to tell on the guy, but I only got as far as 'you don't hate anyone' with Mom and that was the end of that. No why. You just don't. Got it.)

Then Dad died. And we moved. Into a neighborhood that had been built post WWII as tract homes, and there were few spaces inbetween them. All of a sudden, I wasn't getting on a bus to go to school with a handful of kids...I walked to it, surrounded by them. And they knew where I lived.

Third grade, I remember chasing the boys when they poked fun at me by going 'ewwww' and taking steps backward. Okay, then. I can play that game. The girls just snubbed me. I liked bugs and frogs or something too much. (I found one of the boys on Facebook recently - and was amazed at what he remembered about me. 'Didn't take crap from anyone.' Mrrr?)

Fourth grade, I had a cadre of boys who made my life miserable. And some of my older sister's 'friends' (She was far more able to co-opt her way into be popular by being mean to others. It worked. Blame her? For what? Survival?) did much the same.

About that time, the first really nasty depressive issue showed its head (I told you I had things on my chart that would make me a really good candidate - PTSD in today's vernacular being a big one) and I became 'special' - as in 'damaged goods weirdo kid.' Shit, I knew. Didn't help, but I knew what they thought.

It was easier to spend time with the adults in the classrooms and library during recess, to be blunt.

Fifth and sixth grades saw me playing by myself on the playgrounds not being used by the younger grades. I'm not sticking around to entertain you - I can go entertain myself just fine, thanks.

Cried the last day of school one year because I knew I'd be coming back in the fall, three months later. Don't tell me kids have no concept of time.

Seventh grade, I was put into a middle school six miles away from home, with no bus. It an hour to get home, sometimes more. And about this time, there stopped being food to pack for lunches. And no money or programs for school lunches. I don't think I'd eat lunch again until I was in college. That was MY responsibility, of course. If I didn't pack something, I deserved to go without. Nevermind there might have been bread, but no peanut butter or anything else you could make a sandwich with...fruit? What? Everything was frozen in the freezer, if you could figure out how to cook a roast - and then pack it in a paper sack. Somehow.

Share lunch with a friend? What friends? I didn't trust anyone enough to attempt the idea.

I got pushed into puddles if anyone noticed me at all. I spent a lot of time in the library - except our librarian got hepatitis and took an extended leave of absence. Yes, I noticed.

Junior high. No lunch. No friends (I actually tried to have a birthday party turning 13. I had to cancel it due to lack of interest. ONE person - who was sufficiently shocked at the cancellation - wanted to come. Last time I ever tried to have one. No, really.) I took typing so that I could stop handwriting things nobody could read. Then took up residence in the typing rooms in the library and began writing stories.

And I cheated on the bus. Yup. Even further away from home (12 miles was the boundary, I was at 11.75) I was expected to walk it daily. I found out where the bus left off half a mile away from home and audited it. I got home first the day the house burned down because of that.

The place we stayed while the house was rebuilt? Back out in the middle of nowhere and nobody begrudged me the bus the rest of that year.

But did I ever feel safe enough approaching my peers? Nope. I suspect Sis had a hand in some of it (hey, how would you like to be part of a family with such a trial and burden...no food, no nothings in it?) but when you get sent off for in-depth psychiatric evaluations your sophomore year, it's clear YOU are the problem.

Sis was brutal. She wanted NOTHING to do with me, and was outright mean to me. She was in drama...and what the $#@!% was I doing there? I embarrassed her by simply existing!

To this day, I avoid any profession that would overlap hers in any way. I don't need it.

I stayed in the typing room in the library, and wrote. I was editor of the school newspaper and aced everything that was associated with writing (hell, I was put on independent study for English because I got through the class list too fast) but was put in the lowest class in math. Just get her through and get her out of here.

One day a boy asked if he could walk me home. I didn't mind, he was a perfect gentlemen and when I got home, I was teased mercilessly about it. Poor guy. I did my best to not encourage him without hurting his feelings and eventually, he stopped.

I didn't do prom. None of the sock hops, dances or whathaveyou. Never cast in a school play. Yay high school. I hated my teens.

When most of my friends were boys, Mom was sure I was doing them. When it was made clear I wasn't? I was gay. You tell me how you win that argument. Guess what I did. NOTHING.

I don't like attention. I'd like to be accomplished, but damn if I want to be noticed. Noticed is not a good thing. Getting married to Jim? Crap. Just let me be married - I don't need to be this year's Princess At The Altar. People tend to pick at you over who you invited, what you're wearing or who made your cake. I don't need it. (I have a larger post to do on my healthy discomfort with weddings. That's another day.)

But if you try to bully me now? I'll ruin you. Once I got out of the house, earned my own way and bought my own lunches? I've never looked back.

Had to confront a bully my last year of college. I won.

Found out what was REALLY at the bottom of the depressive issues? NEVER AGAIN. (And so it has been.)

For so many years...I believed them. With nothing else to base my decision on, I just took it in that I was weird, quirky, stuck-up, boring...and those are the nice things...and they didn't want me around.

I'm very good at spending long periods of time alone. It was better than what I would have gotten at the hands of my peers, which included my sister. To this day, I don't trust women. At all. Would like to do something about that, but so far? No luck. (Don't take it personally.)

What would I do for the kids who killed themselves? If I'd known?

There's no way. No, really. Try me sometime. I have no trouble making life miserable for the people who allow this stuff to continue. Kid's immediately out of there - and I can STAND on your last nerve - go ahead, call a cop - until I get what I want, and what I want is an END, visible and real, to the issue.

Fearful? Maybe. At some point. It's lazy work to simply say 'don't let them get to you.' (Ultimately? When they're gone, and you're still here? It IS your responsibility to put it in perspective....) But so help me? Physical issues? If ever I found about some place where it happened...I don't think I would be gentle. Meek, or quiet.

That got me through when nobody would stand up for me. Today, I'll be the person I wanted then. Needed then - and didn't have.

If I know about it. *sighs* I really dislike hearing these stories because I never got a chance to do anything about it - and someone else has died.

There's always a way out - and that is through. Dead is forever. And a completely unacceptable solution...let me tell you more about a better one.

Kid's coming up on five, and I can see some of the beginnings of trying to navigate socially in a group trying to make everything 'fit' into where things belong, including people. Pink and purple is for everyone, not just girls - and if someone teases you, get LOUD (get the teacher? No, you get loud and the teacher gets you!), don't hit. And don't call people names, I don't care what they are. It's rude and not nice. So it goes.

There's always a way. Come here and I tell you how I did it. I'm still here, right?
kyburg: (Default)
It's been all over the place lately - at least, it's getting more attention than I'm used to, even if it's after the fact. After someone has died. Again.

I think I can count on both hands the number of young children and teens the number of deaths reported - bemoaned - and documented to a fare-thee-well in the media lately, and not have many fingers left over.

This is to the good. It's not just you. It NEVER was just you, and if you're still alive to read this, you found a way through. Somehow.

But the children are still dead, and it was not just one incidence of abuse that sent them to take their own lives. Often, it went on - well-known to the legitimate authorities - for years. Days into months into years, and that's what infuriates me. (Does it not anyone?)

Those of us who found our way - remember.

I'll be blunt - I'm one of those who was a very easy target. Up to the age of 8 or so, I'd lived seven miles away from town, in one of five houses where I knew every person who lived in them. And they adored me, and I adored them. (One family moved out briefly, and I was molested by one of the boys in the family that rented the house during that span, but they came back, the icky family left, and my old friends came back with a new last name. I'd tried to tell on the guy, but I only got as far as 'you don't hate anyone' with Mom and that was the end of that. No why. You just don't. Got it.)

Then Dad died. And we moved. Into a neighborhood that had been built post WWII as tract homes, and there were few spaces inbetween them. All of a sudden, I wasn't getting on a bus to go to school with a handful of kids...I walked to it, surrounded by them. And they knew where I lived.

Third grade, I remember chasing the boys when they poked fun at me by going 'ewwww' and taking steps backward. Okay, then. I can play that game. The girls just snubbed me. I liked bugs and frogs or something too much. (I found one of the boys on Facebook recently - and was amazed at what he remembered about me. 'Didn't take crap from anyone.' Mrrr?)

Fourth grade, I had a cadre of boys who made my life miserable. And some of my older sister's 'friends' (She was far more able to co-opt her way into be popular by being mean to others. It worked. Blame her? For what? Survival?) did much the same.

About that time, the first really nasty depressive issue showed its head (I told you I had things on my chart that would make me a really good candidate - PTSD in today's vernacular being a big one) and I became 'special' - as in 'damaged goods weirdo kid.' Shit, I knew. Didn't help, but I knew what they thought.

It was easier to spend time with the adults in the classrooms and library during recess, to be blunt.

Fifth and sixth grades saw me playing by myself on the playgrounds not being used by the younger grades. I'm not sticking around to entertain you - I can go entertain myself just fine, thanks.

Cried the last day of school one year because I knew I'd be coming back in the fall, three months later. Don't tell me kids have no concept of time.

Seventh grade, I was put into a middle school six miles away from home, with no bus. It an hour to get home, sometimes more. And about this time, there stopped being food to pack for lunches. And no money or programs for school lunches. I don't think I'd eat lunch again until I was in college. That was MY responsibility, of course. If I didn't pack something, I deserved to go without. Nevermind there might have been bread, but no peanut butter or anything else you could make a sandwich with...fruit? What? Everything was frozen in the freezer, if you could figure out how to cook a roast - and then pack it in a paper sack. Somehow.

Share lunch with a friend? What friends? I didn't trust anyone enough to attempt the idea.

I got pushed into puddles if anyone noticed me at all. I spent a lot of time in the library - except our librarian got hepatitis and took an extended leave of absence. Yes, I noticed.

Junior high. No lunch. No friends (I actually tried to have a birthday party turning 13. I had to cancel it due to lack of interest. ONE person - who was sufficiently shocked at the cancellation - wanted to come. Last time I ever tried to have one. No, really.) I took typing so that I could stop handwriting things nobody could read. Then took up residence in the typing rooms in the library and began writing stories.

And I cheated on the bus. Yup. Even further away from home (12 miles was the boundary, I was at 11.75) I was expected to walk it daily. I found out where the bus left off half a mile away from home and audited it. I got home first the day the house burned down because of that.

The place we stayed while the house was rebuilt? Back out in the middle of nowhere and nobody begrudged me the bus the rest of that year.

But did I ever feel safe enough approaching my peers? Nope. I suspect Sis had a hand in some of it (hey, how would you like to be part of a family with such a trial and burden...no food, no nothings in it?) but when you get sent off for in-depth psychiatric evaluations your sophomore year, it's clear YOU are the problem.

Sis was brutal. She wanted NOTHING to do with me, and was outright mean to me. She was in drama...and what the $#@!% was I doing there? I embarrassed her by simply existing!

To this day, I avoid any profession that would overlap hers in any way. I don't need it.

I stayed in the typing room in the library, and wrote. I was editor of the school newspaper and aced everything that was associated with writing (hell, I was put on independent study for English because I got through the class list too fast) but was put in the lowest class in math. Just get her through and get her out of here.

One day a boy asked if he could walk me home. I didn't mind, he was a perfect gentlemen and when I got home, I was teased mercilessly about it. Poor guy. I did my best to not encourage him without hurting his feelings and eventually, he stopped.

I didn't do prom. None of the sock hops, dances or whathaveyou. Never cast in a school play. Yay high school. I hated my teens.

When most of my friends were boys, Mom was sure I was doing them. When it was made clear I wasn't? I was gay. You tell me how you win that argument. Guess what I did. NOTHING.

I don't like attention. I'd like to be accomplished, but damn if I want to be noticed. Noticed is not a good thing. Getting married to Jim? Crap. Just let me be married - I don't need to be this year's Princess At The Altar. People tend to pick at you over who you invited, what you're wearing or who made your cake. I don't need it. (I have a larger post to do on my healthy discomfort with weddings. That's another day.)

But if you try to bully me now? I'll ruin you. Once I got out of the house, earned my own way and bought my own lunches? I've never looked back.

Had to confront a bully my last year of college. I won.

Found out what was REALLY at the bottom of the depressive issues? NEVER AGAIN. (And so it has been.)

For so many years...I believed them. With nothing else to base my decision on, I just took it in that I was weird, quirky, stuck-up, boring...and those are the nice things...and they didn't want me around.

I'm very good at spending long periods of time alone. It was better than what I would have gotten at the hands of my peers, which included my sister. To this day, I don't trust women. At all. Would like to do something about that, but so far? No luck. (Don't take it personally.)

What would I do for the kids who killed themselves? If I'd known?

There's no way. No, really. Try me sometime. I have no trouble making life miserable for the people who allow this stuff to continue. Kid's immediately out of there - and I can STAND on your last nerve - go ahead, call a cop - until I get what I want, and what I want is an END, visible and real, to the issue.

Fearful? Maybe. At some point. It's lazy work to simply say 'don't let them get to you.' (Ultimately? When they're gone, and you're still here? It IS your responsibility to put it in perspective....) But so help me? Physical issues? If ever I found about some place where it happened...I don't think I would be gentle. Meek, or quiet.

That got me through when nobody would stand up for me. Today, I'll be the person I wanted then. Needed then - and didn't have.

If I know about it. *sighs* I really dislike hearing these stories because I never got a chance to do anything about it - and someone else has died.

There's always a way out - and that is through. Dead is forever. And a completely unacceptable solution...let me tell you more about a better one.

Kid's coming up on five, and I can see some of the beginnings of trying to navigate socially in a group trying to make everything 'fit' into where things belong, including people. Pink and purple is for everyone, not just girls - and if someone teases you, get LOUD (get the teacher? No, you get loud and the teacher gets you!), don't hit. And don't call people names, I don't care what they are. It's rude and not nice. So it goes.

There's always a way. Come here and I tell you how I did it. I'm still here, right?

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