Six
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T R A N S S P E C I E A L I T Y
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A special PRIDE MONTH true-life novelette
By Petal Chatoyance
⚧
SIX
According to my high school history class, the Equestrian Worldgates opened almost simultaneously around the world. The humans of the 1200's suddenly had extraversal neighbors, and no amount of prayers or violence could close the portals. Different nations dealt with the problem in a variety of ways. Some welcomed a chance at trade and commerce, others built huge structures to wall up the Gates as best they could. Ponies, for their part, soon learned which Gates led to potential opportunity, and which to death, torture, or a sealed-off dead end.
Some historians have claimed that the Worldgates are wounds in time and space, punctures in the cosmic fabric. There are still humans that want those wounds to 'heal'. I don't think the Gates are injuries to the cosmos. I think they are blessings.
I, at least, had healed nicely (so they told me), and the overall swelling was much less. But, now I finally got to see just how my magically ravaged body had come together as my bandages were removed. My fur was mostly back now, white and soft. My bones were all correctly proportioned for a true Equestrian pony. My skull now properly fit my huge pony eyes. My tall pony ears were finally in the right place, up top, and I could move them easily. Yet still, with the bandages removed, excess black necrotic lumps of dead me hung from various patches, but overall I now looked less like hamburger, and more like steak. I finally realized that Dr. Biber had been observing the whole thing. He assured me that everything was normal, and that I was healing remarkably quickly. Then he informed me about the catheter. It was to be removed. I had needed to lay quietly while my permanentized body solidified and adjusted. That time was over.
There was something I should know about all of this. The catheter had to be removed, because the longer it stayed in, the more likely were my brand new urinary muscles to lose the ability to function. If that occurred I could face being incontinent for the rest of my life. If I had suffered permanent nerve damage, this could also be the case, but it was not too likely. I had a limited number of hours to learn how to urinate, providing that the swelling permitted it. If I failed, the catheter would have to be replaced. I did not want that to happen. I would find out why, when they removed the catheter.
At the end of a catheter is a little balloon of sorts, that keeps it from falling out of the bladder. Even deflated, it has mass which trails the tube of the catheter itself. All of this has to be pulled carefully out the bladder, and the body, through the urethra. Once I had felt this exquisite sensation, I realized that the one thing I wanted most in life was to teach myself how to pee.
After the fifth attempt, the nurse suggested standing in the shower. Running water helped, she said. I agreed to the plan. It was very hard to stand up, for I was utterly weak. With the door open, shaking from the effort of fighting gravity to support my own weight, I attempted to urinate for the first time as a fully transmogrified Equestrian. The warm water ran down my flanks, feeling very good. I tried to figure out what internal ‘switch’ to pull, what nerve to trigger. Everything was new. It was like being thrust into the cockpit of a 747 and expected to land the plane without ever having even driven a car.
I imagined streams and rivers. I tried to follow my own nerves inside my own body. I tried to feel what I could of my new construction from the inside; I dared not project my magically energetic hornfield to sense around myself just yet. I had no idea what to do.
I began to feel worried and hopeless. What if I could never control my urine? I became frightened.
Then I had a brilliant thought. I felt all swollen inside. Hmmm. I remembered all those awful involuntary functions I had suffered as a human, long ago. I remembered how I willed them to go away, in embarrassed horror. I started to apply the same internal trick, concentrating on making the swollen feeling go away. I reasoned that the nerves had been traumatized deep inside. Even if that was not true, maybe the same inner control would work on any swollen tissue. I felt the water, and I imagined making everything human just drain away.
I began to pee. I was urinating under my own control! I could feel part of the muscle that started and stopped the flow. It felt weak, so I practiced stopping and starting my urine. I was so happy! It was like Christmas in Yellow!
* * *
By day seven, I was near rebellion. It was just too much. They had gone too far! Every meal. Low salt. My total salt intake came from two, count them two, tiny pimento-stuffed green olives. Every day, I dreamt of those olives. They were served with the bland alfalfa broth and bread that made our meal. Two wonderful green orbs, so succulent, so precious, so sweet. They did not even taste salty, just sweet, like honey, like nectar. I savored both, nibbling them in microscopic bits for an hour, then licking my equine lips over and over.
I was feeling my oats. I was a paying customer, and I deserved better, dammit! But those foul razorbacks in the nutritionist's lair refused us anything good. So something had to be done. I was the pony to do it! I was on a mission from Celestia after all!
I demanded my saddlebags. I demanded a phone. I asked politely for a phonebook. What was I up to? After a bit, my call was made. I smirked. I laughed. I chortled. Cumulus, my roommate, was both worried and intrigued. The nursing staff started hanging around our room. Something was afoot and they all knew it.
A very nice human arrived, my savior. He brought with him heaven. I paid him with demonic glee. PIZZA TIME!
Cumulus was in ecstasy. I was beyond that. The pickled, salty artichoke hearts floated on cheap, melted cheese. Rich piles of sliced pickled eggs (ponies are lacto-vegetarians, after all!) mocked all hospital nutritionists everywhere. I didn’t even like pickled eggs. It was the principle that mattered. It was the salt that mattered most of all. The other transspecies patients ambled in, drawn like pony salt zombies to a kill. The nurses threw up their hands. A couple of them asked for a piece. I shared joyfully with everyone. This was a triumph of the Equestrian soul. This was the overthrow of nutritional tyranny. This was crappy, cheap, vegetarian cardboard delivery pizza, and it was GOOD.
The pizza incident brought a call by Sister Roberta Marie. It was very improper to do that. I shouldn’t incite the other ‘special’ patients that way. I should be grateful that the hospital was even willing to treat farm animals like us at all.
This only made me more sure I was doing the right thing.
It was required that we hobble about a bit every day. We clopped around somewhat shakily, because we were still swollen and sore from the massive magical reshaping and material transmogrification of our bones and flesh.
I decided I was going to see some more of the hospital. I could trot pretty decently now. I wanted to visit the gift shop and buy a stuffed animal for myself (I was hoping for a doll of Celestia, if they had one!). Cumulus was afraid we would get in trouble if we left the ‘special’ ward. I no longer cared. I was tired of being so damn ‘special’.
I had no trouble leaving the ward, nobody was looking. There were no locks. I began to explore my hospital world. I found the gift shop, but saw nothing I liked. I decided to head back. Along the way, I saw a waving hand through an open door.
It belonged to a very old human woman, in for a kidney stone. She was just being friendly, and was lonely because her daughter and granddaughter had not come to visit yet. She was sure they would, soon. She had hoped they would come yesterday. The day before that they also had not come. She was sure they would come today. Or maybe tomorrow. I could see a tear.
I sat with her for quite a while, as best I could, holding her withered hand delicately with a carefully crooked hoof. We chatted about how pretty her granddaughter was and how she had been in Trinidad as a little girl, back before the hospital, or even any doctor or Equestrian mage at all. She liked the mountains and (earthly) horses. She did not mind that I was one of Biber’s special patients. She knew it must be tough for us. I stayed with her a long time, until the pain of trying to use a human chair was too much. I excused myself, and apologized for leaving. She said I had made her day, and she thought I was very nice. She thought I looked like her granddaughter's favorite Shetland.
I walked carefully back to the transspecies ward. The nurses got me back into my bed. It felt good to lie down. I had not found a stuffed animal. I had done better than that. I had helped someone.
The next day was the ninth day, the day I was to leave. One of the nurses took me aside and told me that I had a slight elevation in my temperature, and a minor negative energy indication from her thaumometer. It was probably nothing, but she was concerned. She told me that about 20 percent of Biber’s patients get demonic possessions, because, well the guy is getting a little old. She did not want to get in trouble, but she did not want anyone to be hurt either. She told me that she was going to do something for me, but never to speak of it, because she could lose her career if anyone found out. She handed me a bottle of antidemonics. She told me to take them carefully, and finish them all if my fever got worse. I thanked her very much.
Sister Roberta Marie was furious as she escorted me from the hospital to the waiting taxi. She told me in no uncertain terms what she and her Jesus thought of perverted "whorses" like me. She felt that going out of the ward was a severe breach of the rules and it was unforgivable that I had corrupted a poor old woman with my vile evil. She was glad to see me gone. I was a bad influence and a troublemaker.
I had truly had enough. I told Roberta Marie that I thought her religion was an evil, spiteful, hypocritical lie. I told her that she was a bitter old woman whose heart was filled with hate.
She responded the only way she was programmed to, with the inevitable threat of the hell I would burn in for all eternity, good riddance.
Better hell, than to worship a hate-mongering tyrant. Besides, I was Equestrian. Hell didn’t exist for me. Tartarus, maybe, but I wasn't planning on ever trying to conquer Equestria, so I doubted it would be an issue.
My last sight of Sister Roberta Marie was her waddling angrily back to the hospital.
Taxi to train, and the countryside was rolling by. I had a sleeping bunk, and I needed it because I was feeling trainsick and dizzy. I was very weak. As the day went by, I felt increasing nausea. The train really bothered me for some reason. I wanted to get off. I wished I could get off.
I never felt the wreck.
It happened far ahead of my car, and was not very serious. The engine had slipped the tracks, some cars had fallen over, and the train had come to a halt. I was in a stupor, so I was awakened by some sharp jolts. We all had to disembark. My car was one of the tilted ones, I had to be helped up the angled floor to get out of the door. A fleet of taxis took us to motels and hotels. I was really woozy and very confused, so I did not remember how I got into my room or on my bed.
I woke up to find myself in Albuquerque, New Mexico in a strange hotel room. I felt terribly bad. I was dripping with sweat, which was matting my fur, and I felt funny. I called room service and asked for some soda and an aspirin. I telekinetically dug in my suitcase for my traveling stuff. In a baggie, I had my toothbrush, toothpaste, the last of my serum, and even my little plastic-cased thermometer. I figured I had a slight fever. I had better check. First I had my soda though, because by the time It arrived I was feeling slightly better. The aspirin helped my throbbing head. I was so tired. I fell asleep again for awhile.
I awoke. The room was all twisted. Everything looked slanted sideways 45 degrees, but I could not interpret which direction it was slanted. My head pounded like a jackhammer. Everything sounded far away and also with an odd echo effect. I tried to move. Bit by bit, I inched to the edge of the bed. Every movement made the world swim. It was hard to tell up from down.
I made it to the edge of the bed, and somehow got my hooves on the floor. I could not stand up. So I crawled on my belly to my suitcase. I got my thermometer. I took an antidemonic. It was obvious I had a post-ritual possession of some sort.
I was dripping sweat, then freezing every few minutes. I had better check my temperature. It was hard to put the thermometer in my mouth. No, that was backwards. Better. I startled awake. The thermometer was still in my mouth. How much time had passed? Enough for a reading, surely. I took out the thermometer. The room was even worse, all twisty and pale. I could barely read the numbers. 103? - no that was not right. It was all blurry. I crawled to better light. 105? No - it was 106. I had a fever of 106, I was utterly alone in a strange town, and I was virtually immobile. I was dying, and I knew it.
I tried to use the phone several times. It was very hard. Finally I got the number right. Sandy Shores? Sandy, I need help. I have a fever of 106, yes I checked. I cannot stand up. Everything is all twisted. I feel bad. Help me.
Ginna was put on. She assessed my situation. I was to go to the bathroom and apply cool water, not cold. Pour a little cool water in the tub and lay in it. Not more than an inch. Stay awake. Take another aspirin. Sit there until she called back. She would do what she could. Keep trying. Sandy Shores again. Sandy told me to hang on, just keep hanging on. I wanted to live. Sandy wanted me to live. I would live for Sandy, because she wanted me to. Sandy wanted me to come home! I took another antidemonic.
The tub made me sick. I wanted to throw up because of the cool water. I had nothing to throw up, and the action almost made me pass out each time. The phone rang. Ginna told me that I had a flight home. The hotel staff would come to my room and help me. Could I get out of the tub myself? I said I would try.
A blurry shape shook me awake. Somehow I ended up in a cab. On the way I started feeling better. Things were not twisty anymore. I was sweating and freezing less. I thought of Sandy Shores. I was so tired. I rested my head. Somehow, I was on a plane now. I felt even better yet. I was going home to Sandy! My heart raced. I would see Sandy Shores soon. I felt better and better. Sandy wanted me to come home!
When the plane landed, I was almost well. My demonic fever had broken, and I could stand and walk. That nurse, breaking the rules by giving me a bottle of antidemonics very likely had saved my life. Tralala and Ginna and Sandy Shores were there. I kissed and hugged Sandy. I thanked Ginna and Tralala. I was home. How did I feel? Amazingly better! I was hungry! I wanted Pizza!
We went and had pizza. I was alive, I was physically complete and magically self-sustaining as a unicorn, and I was home!
In the many years that have followed, my life has just improved. Sandy Shores and I had our share of hard times, of being poor, of having to find unhappy jobs. A year after we moved out on our own, sweet, gentle Equestria-born Aedina joined our family, now a polyamory, or 'herd marriage' - a common family unit in Equestria. A year after that, My high school best friend and genius programmer Esteban joined us as well, and this completed our little herd. Always we care for each other, help each other, encourage each other. Thus we have lived, loved and shared until the present day. There are so many adventures beyond this point, such incredible stories to tell. Hundreds of pages worth. But the point of them all would be to show that after transmogrification, there is life. Transmogrification is a wonderment, but it is not a goal. Transmogrification is a means to an end, a way to find the beginning.
This then, at this point, was the beginning of my life. I had been entombed in human flesh. Resurrected as a unicorn, I began my life for the first time. This has been the story of how I came to be born. At last I was myself, at last my body fit my identity.
I have never regretted my transmogrification. It is truly a blessing to have the correct flesh to wear. Not a night goes by that I do not hug my barrel or whip about my lovely tail before I fall asleep, and say a silent prayer of thanks to Celestia for the utter relief that I feel. I have been freed from the prison of the wrong life in the wrong species, and there is everything good about it.
Oh, but it is wonderful to be myself.
Oh, but it is wonderful !
The End
The Lost In The Herd Series:
One: The Big Respawn,
Two: Euphrosyne Unchained,
Three: Letters From Home,
Four: Teacup, Down On The Farm
The Conversion Bureau Novels:
27 Ounces: A story of eight and one half ponies
The Taste Of Grass
The Conversion Bureau: Code Majeste
The Conversion Bureau: The 800 Year Promise
The Conversion Bureau: Going Pony
The Reasonably Adamant Down With Celestia Newfoal Society!
Recombinant 63: A Conversion Bureau Story
HUMAN in Equestria: A Conversion Bureau Story
The PER: Michelson and Morely
Little Blue Cat
Cross The Amazon
Adrift Off Fiddler's Green: The Final Conversion Bureau Story
The Short Stories:
Her Last Possession
The Conversion Bureau: PER Equitum
The Conversion Bureau: Brand New Universe
Tales Of Los Pegasus
The Poly Little Pony
The very first and original
Conversion Bureau Group
archives only the best Three Rules Compatible stories!
Optimalverse Works:
Friendship Is Optimal: Caelum Est Conterrens
Leftovers: A Friendship Is Optimal Story
IMPLACABLE
My Life In Fimbria
Injectorverse Works:
I.D. - That Indestructible Something
The More Conventional Fanfics:
The Ice Cream Pony Summer
Around The Bend
PRIDE related works:
Transspecieality
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thank you for you story, I am sure it wasn't easy to write this, I will read it as soon as possible.
I hope that that sword wound heals well and soon, and that this story helps people. Myself, I'm not sure when I'll have time to fit all twenty-seven-plus words of it in (And I'm pretty sure I read the non-ponified version of this years ago, on your website -- quite possibly, in fact, as, along with other things on that website, my introduction to the fact that trans people existed.), but I'll put it on a list. :)
(...I mean, unfortunately, a lot of your work here is still on one of those lists for me, but this'll be going on a... slightly higher priority list? Buut I've basically had a backlog of things to read since shortly after I learned to read, I think, so... yeah, don't know when(/if) I'll get to this; sorry.
But I do, as I said, hope that this story does good, and good luck to you in general. :))
Ooh I'll have to give it a read
Is there a word for dys-everything-ia? I'm thinking it would come in handy for me. Looking forward to reading this.
Well, call me moved. Putting this with my Adventure favorites, instead of Slice-of-life, because damn if this wasn't a harrowing journey you experienced. Whenever I read an autobiography like this, I almost feel ashamed at how relatively nice my own life has been, and my drive to rebuild the world into one where such suffering need not ever happen again is renewed.
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Huh. Maybe... what I went through counts as an 'adventure'? I'll have to think about that. Interesting.
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It's certainly an interesting way of looking at it, I'll give you that. But "adventure" is generally a description for something, applied after the fact by those who weren't there at the time and going through grueling experiences, or otherwise fighting for their lives. The riots following the Rodney King verdict would certainly constitute an adventure, but those who were getting their homes and businesses burnt down at the time, or dragged outside into the streets and beaten simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, they wouldn't describe the situation as being an adventure. They'd describe it as hell on earth! The same goes for those who were present for hurricane Katrina and the months of aftermath that followed.
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That makes me think of Bilbo Baggins statement: "We are plain quiet folk and have no use for adventures. Nasty disturbing uncomfortable things! Make you late for dinner!”
Maybe an adventure, like comedy, is just tragedy plus time?
TW: Religion below. If offense is taken to any part of this, apologies.
I am a Catholic, and hearing about how cruelly, inhumanely, evilly, and just stupidly some of my coreligionists acted towards you fills me with disgust. Yes, I understand some of their potential objections, and yes I have some concerns of my own regarding transitioning, but their response was so wrong that it makes me reel. For one thing, the religious sister who suggested you commit suicide seems to have forgotten the whole "doing evil, even to try to bring about good, is a no-no" thing (that's the scariest part; they quite possibly believed that they were doing good. The way some people interpret 'doing good' is more horrifying than anything of Lovecraft's), and constantly hitting you over the head with threats of condemnation proved to be the opposite of effective, driving you to do exactly what they wanted you not to. The whole thing just leaves me wanting to claw my face off.
On the other hand, while I don't agree with all the choices you made, I do agree with two very important ones you made; that you are worthy of living (you are) and that you are worthy of love (you most definitely are). While I have my concerns about the road you've walked, I cheer that you walked it and refused to simply lie down in death. Your story of overcoming adversity is a story of great hope, of the reassurance that, with determination, great things are possible.
Thank you for baring your wounds for us. I weep over them as you do, and wish you peace and consolation as fervently as you sought them in your youth. I apologize for the actions of my coreligionists, and ask your forgiveness. Though my concerns bid me be judicious in my support of my LGBTQ+ brethren, know that my concerns are out of love, desiring the highest good for them, not hate. I would be among the first to have counseled you against your transitioning, but I would also have been the first to your defense; I would try to advise you against making the choice you did, but I would fight to the death to defend your freedom to make it, and your value whatever choice you should make. You are not worthy of being shouted or screamed at; you are worthy of being loved, no matter what you do. Sometimes love may mean trying to stop someone from doing something harmful, but it is still love, still willing the highest good of the other.
I am sorry if this makes me seem like I am siding with your tormentors; rest assured, I am not. Their behavior is shameful, a stain on humanity and their faith, a stain I hope my meager words can help wash out somewhat. I love you, and while I may disagree with them, I respect that your choices are your own. I hope that you find the harmony you sought, and the joy you are long-due.
Shalom.
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Thank you for your kind words, and thoughts.
As to my 'choices', well, from where I sit, I had none. That is why I kind of balk at media statements that sometimes call trans people 'courageous' or 'heroic'. Yes, we do encounter a rather large amount of abuse, hatred, and violence toward us as a rule, but I don't think it is necessarily 'heroic' to save your own life. Saving someone else's life, sure. But I don't think I had any choice at all. I had to get my carcass fixed or get dead, one or the other. For a textbook transsexual - not transgender, transsexual - the utter agony is literally unbearable.
It isn't just discomfort or a desire for freedom of expression - it is a deep, aching, constant misery that is difficult to even properly describe. You fix your situation or you die. In the 80's, fifty percent of transsexuals did die - that was the morbidity, and all involving those denied the hope of getting their bodies fixed. It's just survival, like any animal.
The religiously-based abuse I enjoyed was nothing special - in the intervening decades running my Transsexuality support website, I have been contacted by hundreds of folks like me and my story is pretty average in that respect. In a lot of ways I was very, very fortunate and blessed. I have had a lot of serious advantages compared to most transsexuals. Imagine what it is like for a transsexual in the deep South, in the Bible Belt, in Mormon territory, or isolated amidst some cult-like Megachurch! A lot of them get dead, a lot of them get convinced to try to deny their nature and end up destroyed for life.
And as for those in certain very religious Middle Eastern countries with specific beliefs... they are pretty much beyond all hope of survival. I've faced pleading letters that have left me in tears, so hopeless that I literally could not write them back - even though I should have. I had nothing I could say that could help. By comparison to that, I enjoyed a golden happy fun ride to glory.
I've spent forty years now as myself, as a woman, and to me, I have only truly had forty years of life. I am sixty-one, but I am only forty years old. I feel completely cheated out of my first two decades. They were a complete write-off, just endless nightmare suffering. The only positive thing I can say about my first two decades on this earth is that hiding inside of science fiction books and science books gave me a lot to draw on when I tell stories in whatever medium.
When I read about those rare young transsexuals nowadays who are fully supported by their parents and communities, allowed to have a full childhood as themselves, I must admit I feel the most bitter envy. I am happy for them - oh, god, puberty blockers before the age of nine, if only, if only - but wow, do I feel doubly cheated by life. I turned out fine enough, but I will never be beautiful. I will never be without some slight tell. And I missed out entirely on having a childhood, and I suffered constantly for my first two decades. I shouldn't be envious, but I would be lying to deny it.
This is the bottom line for me: my last forty years have been just wonderful. Seriously glorious. Oh, I've had my sorrows - bad business deals, internet abuse and attacks, having to move for work and losing my favorite house because of it, the death of a beloved pet - but in every other way, each day I have experienced I can honestly say was golden. Fixing my wagon was the single best thing I ever did. It didn't just keep me alive - it definitely did that, I would absolutely be dead without getting to go through transition - it granted me a proper and decent life I am grateful to have lived.
But, to be fair, I have been incredibly fortunate. Perhaps most MtF transsexuals like me never get the golden ticket like I did. My story was the easy road, despite how it reads. I was lucky. I am so very lucky.
As for religion - yeah, my lifelong experiences have made me no fan of any organized religion. At best, I tolerate some of the more gentle ones - like the Unitarians, who don't seem to hate anyone, and who permit groups like the Gateway Gender Alliance to have a space with no judgement, or Neopagans, who, usually, are pretty generous, kind, and accepting - but I have a bad taste in my mouth for religion in general. My worst experiences have always come from the various flavors of Christianity, but I know that is only because it is the dominant religion in the Americas. I always hold onto the hope that every person can unlearn bigotry and overcome dogma to reach true and accepting compassion. I have to believe that. I just have to.
If I have any faith left, it is in that. Just that, and only because without it... I would be left with despair.
I've blathered too long. Thank you for your kind words.
This story really hit me hard, particularly from someone who has also questioned their gender in a similar situation. Love this so far. I'm reading the second chapter now. I love your stories, Chatoyance.
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Thank you for reading my words, Mystery Muffin!
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Religion is a tricky, sensitive, volatile subject to discuss.
But religion is not the only topic, or subject, or whatever you want to categorize it as, that has members who demand outright lockstep groupthink loyalty to a specific ideology from fellow members. That sort of narrow, monolithic belief of being is unfortunately present in many, many walks of life. Regrettably even the trans community is plagued by that particular way of thinking.
One artist I follow, at the start of the month, posted a blog comment voicing how even though they're bisexual, they're tired of all the commercialized marketing push and virtue signalling being seen during pride month. Within two hours his blog was being bombarded by folks calling him a nazi and treating him like he and his outlook were directly responsible for how gay and trans people are more likely to be victims of hate crime than any other minority in the country.
The artist also received message of support from other members of the gay and trans community who shared their tired outlook with not only how commercialized everything has become, but also with how hostile and militant they feel their own community has become around them. This is a direct quote from there:
I'm not trying to claim that one group of people is better than the other by comparing their respective levels of toxicity to say one could be considered a lesser evil based on outlook. I'm just saying that toxicity is present everywhere that people are found. The human species excels at toxicity, especially wherever there's more than one person to be found. We thrive on conflict for the stupidest of reasons, and crave finding differences to fuel and justify that desire for conflict. I've long held the belief that if we didn't have matters like race and religion to justify our destructive nature, we'd use stuff like height and eye color as justification for attacking or killing others.
You, I don't hate. I might not agree with you on everything, but that's not the same thing. Even those I don't agree with, I still want to see them treated with the same dignity and respect as everyone else.
Incredible. I mean this in the best way I can, but I'm amazed you lived to see twenty-five. Your endurance is matched only by that which you had to endure. Thank you for sharing something so deeply personal.
i would read your entire life story written out and published, Jen. You've done and seen so much, and every trace i've found of you, from your old interviews with gaming magazines to your ancient writings lamenting on the paradox of immortality has made me giddy to find. Here's to many more long years for you, no matter what others say. Godspeed, JDR!
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Wow - I've thought that exact, same thing. I can imagine a futuristic civilization, nearly perfect in every way, entirely beyond all scarcity or want, where possessing a skin blemish, or failing to properly greet someone is a crime worthy of death or endless incarceration: unforgivable. There seems to be quality of most of humanity that seeks any difference, however small, and desires to destroy anyone who possesses it.
Religion - or politics, which is often basically the same drive - is just an excuse for that awful quality. Or so I have sometimes thought.
When we are children, life sucks and we are powerless. But beyond that, most people aren't 'ruined' yet. They haven't been taught strong beliefs, powerful prejudices, or absolute stances. They haven't 'hardened' yet. Kids can be totally evil bastards, of course. But it seems almost always about selfishness and spite, not ideology or arbitrary beliefs, which means that rifts can sometimes still be mended with an apology and a cookie.
To me, strong beliefs - about anything - are the cause of most of my suffering in life (well, beyond the basic existential horror of an uncaring universe!).
I try hard not to believe anything. I just hold best guesses I hope are as close as I can get to reality.
And I think hatred is always a mistake.
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I had a doctor once, just the regular kind, who said pretty much the same thing. I have come close to getting dead a lot in my life. I guess, so far, I keep rolling my saves?
10855740
Thank you for your kind thoughts, Str8aura. Thank you.
10854378
"To live would be a great adventure." - Robin Williams as Peter Pan - Hook
10855770
That idea you just presented is even scarier than the idea of the shorties vs the tallies trying to kill each other for being different from them.
From my perspective, a lot of what goes on in the world, be it politics or something else, is driven and motivated by spite. Simple, pure, petty, vindictive spite. "You don't agree with me, so I'm going to do everything in my power to make you as miserable as possible and pay for disagreeing with me!"
10855949
Yeah... there does seem to be a lot of vindictiveness, I have to agree. Spite. Humans do that a lot. And it makes me very sad.
OH BOY!!!
Chatty ninja wrote a story when I wasn't looking!
When you got that fever, you should have called an ambulance. You are lucky to have survived.
So I read through your story, and goodness gracious I am sorry you had to deal with that. The breadth of hate directed towards queer people is astonishing, and I can't even imagine how demoralizing and downright awful it must have been to live through the AIDS crisis and witness the sheer lack of compassion present in the mainstream politicians and society. Thank you for the bravery you've shown in spite of all the hardships and suffering thrown upon you. I don't know what else to say to thank you, I don't believe I can convey it through computer text.
Your story also struck a chord with me. With my own transition being very, very near. I think I'm ready to write my own story. I've been wanting to write it for quite some time, but I think your story finally made something click in my scatter-brained head.
10861211
I hope everything goes easily and nicely and kindly for you. I wish you only all good things, SweetBanana.
10859018
I barely had the money to take the trip and have my surgery. I didn't even begin to have enough money for an ambulance, much less hospital care. You misunderstand my situation. Literally all the money I had, in all the world, went into that trip to Trinidad. I was flat broke otherwise, beyond some petty cash I had on me. I couldn't afford medical insurance - I didn't even have a job at the time. But even if I had - any job I could have gotten back then would not have paid me well enough to afford medical insurance even so.
In America, there is no guarantee of free medical care. One hospital trip can impoverish a person for a lifetime, and that is if they even let you in. You could easily die while they shuffle you from one hospital to another, trying to get a different corporation to take the financial hit of saving your life. Ambulances are for rich people. Hospitals are for rich people. In America, you always have the option of dying for Capitalism, and you are encouraged to get on with it. Time is money, after all, and in America, money is the true god.
I'd say I'm impressed by your bravery here, both in living these events and writing them, but that doesn't really begin to cover it. I can't express my sympathies toward the start of your life (and it wouldn't mean much if I could), so I'll just put my thoughts on the story itself here, instead:
When I started this, I wasn't sure how well the analogy of transspeciesism to transsexuality (to use your preferred term(?)) was working. At the end of it, I'm still not sure. There are elements that work really well, especially the body horror and alien culture shift stuff, and elements that don't quite match - in some cases, the same elements - which can cause a bit of a "hang on, how does this track?" reaction. Obviously it's not a perfect match, but honestly that doesn't even matter, with how powerful the story is despite - because of - it. The result is a bare nerve, raw, and ugly, and even lovely, by the end.
You say this was an excerise in spilling your guts, and in that it's utterly successful. Red and writhing and unpleasant, yes, at times difficult to read, but completely mesmerising, deeply personal, and shockingly honest.
I loved this. Thank you.
10865555
Thank you for reading it.
Yeah, trying to ponify this issue was a little strange, and I agree not all of it works entirely. Too often, I think, I just couldn't effectively transform (heh!) my experiences into science fiction involving ponification. I think the original experience bleeds through too much: I wasn't able to disguise it well enough.
Science fiction can be useful to understand current things - abstract them into some future, and it becomes possible to look at them anew, without all the baggage. I don't think I can do that entirely with this - though, as you saw, I did try, really hard - because I am way to close to it. It isn't abstract to me, or, rather, I can't think of it abstractly enough.
After doing this, I'm just amazed I survived it. I haven't thought about all of this for a lot of years. This was pretty intense for me, to revisit it.
.... сcurrently reading this. Well, I definitely happy to recognize this story, yet all your other world-works give it additional power. Alt-history line where Celestia never (up to date this half-fictional, but half VERY real tale set in) gained ability to change High Way of Humans .... this is bold and sad thing to read. Almost like your Red cryptonite stories....
Also, I probably must say I found it hard to imagine you as.. a boy. Guess in my mind you 'always were' girl, even if your story was exactly my first introduction to trans.. sexality/transgenderism (both in your case + something else... someghing than disallows me to read this story as *just* metaphor for real-life events...). You have amazing artistic power, and I *like* to be stormed by it.
---
For some reason autogenerated epub version does not display end-of-chapter animations, at least not in mobile reader called ReaderEra. But if I click on link it loads in external broswer tab...
From ch 3.
it seems we have this thing in common... as well somewhat different look at The Human World. If only more (much more!) humans were able to discover science is not about far-away Tv show or corporate job - but about way of thinking and relating with world with uncharacteristical for us *honesty*
10861645
And as of Wednesday, I've been on hormones!
10867857
Congratulations, SweetBanana! I am really happy for you. Yay!
10861653
I get that, but the worst they could do is not treat you. Since you had no money, they could not collect anyway, if they treat you on speculation.
10867916
If an ambulance takes you to the hospital, you are fucked because now you owe 3500 dollars you cannot pay. I could not afford that. Not even close. So, if they didn't treat me, I would have been in deep debt for no benefit whatsoever. Then, I would need a ride back, or to the airport anyway. Which I would also have to pay for.
Ambulances are not free, and they cost insane amounts of money. Insane.
10867971
I know. I got a bill for 11,068.00 U$D for an ambulance, but blood and turnips. The company realised that it could not collect that outrageous sum, so settled for 100.00 U$D for pickup and a dollar for mi lewhich cme tao a total of 123.00 U$D (I wonder whether it was really 23 miles or someone in billing just liked the 123).
Well, hello there, yet another emotional sledgehammer to the head.
Strangely enough, that pinch of ponies you added really works. Well, not really in the world building stuff, but as a tool to look at the sides of the conflict from another angle. This is why I love sci-fi as a genre, it nudges your biases and expectations, forcing you to look all around you in a new light. But this was quite a leap, to represent different parts of humanity as a literal aliens to each other : )
Still, great story depicting not so great events, thank you for your bravery.
10870335
Thank you, Numinos. Thank you for reading my words.
10861653
Capitalism breeds competition, since the goal is making more money than the other guy. If we had a patient-to-doctor ratio of 20 to 1, meaning there was a doctor to every twenty potential patients, it would literally be a buyer's market as patients could easily choose which doctor to see, and doctors would have a motivation to have reasonable prices for their services since they'd know they aren't the only option in the area.
But we don't have that sort of ratio going on because our government decided that it knows better, and has placed caps on how many individuals can actually become doctors. The government is deliberately maintaining and enforcing an artificial shortage on how many trained medical personnel can legally exist at any given time in the US.
This was all done back in 1997 with the Balanced Budget Act, limiting the number of graduates that could be hired on as residents so they can become physicians. And right now the damn democrats that call themselves the champions of the poor, impoverished, downtrodden folks, won't even take the time to propose allocating more funding for physician hiring in the midst of the worst pandemic the country's had in a century, because they're focused on a discussion about voting that won't go anywhere. They refuse to change the subject to something that might actually accomplish something, because they're too busy posturing.
It was a true pleasure reading this. Chat, because I can remember most part of your original story almost from memory, and it was a pleasant variation. Years ago, when there were online journals and the whole web writing wasn't limited to 5 words tweets, I used to read life stories of brave people living difficult moments. I read a lot of literature, but these were REAL people that had REAL problems and were able to overcome them. It gave me a better perspective and I sort of absorbed strategies to face my own life, that was pretty troublesome at the time.
Thanks again for sharing your stories.
10878106
Thank you, Gardenia, for reading my story. It was an intriguing task to ponify my own history, and it was strange revisiting those memories after so many years of not thinking about them.
Here, take an "upvote." 👍
Wow, an amazing story to read. I could feel the pain writing this must have caused you in your words. I’m not good with fancy praise, all I can say is thank you so much for having the courage to share your story with us. It was wonderful to read and I wish you happy days and dreams ahead.
That explains much.
FIrst, the Conversion dreams. I was pretty sure they are based on real mystic revelation expirience. But didn't had a proof. Now i know that for sure, cause i was in a pretty close situation: years and years on the brink of suicide. And I had too, instead of going to that side, saw a glimpse, and — Now i know, there is something beyond. And this 'something' is much, much better, than this world. And this, somehow, stopped me. We are not stuck here for eternity. Therе are better worlds, that wouldn't go anywhere. So, there is no reason to hurry
Second, about the personality of Chatoyance. From the very first pages of very first her novels i wondered who she is, with that millenia wisdom, masked by childishness. With that special strain of kindness that is born when strong soul comes through the hellflames on earth; this is special kind of hell that is our day-to-day life, legal and socially accepted right to be boiled alive in human toxicity. Obviously that was someone who get from life a kiloton of crap. Now i know, what kind of crap that was exactly.
P.S. And she also responsible for my personal wow-monent. You see, I had next to no non-hetero person in my social circle before. I had a few shitty stereotypes in my head. And one moment, when i already worked on translation of her books, i recognized, that...
For about a day, I had a process in my mind. I had stories about perverted monsters, spread by TV. I had all the masculine culture around. And finally I had these books that touched my very heart. I had to choose, as one of these points must be a lie. I thought... And thought...
And said "F*ck that, she is my friend". Aloud. So, add this to the long list of your deadly sins: one man no more perceives LGBT as monsters anymore. All by your books.
10994765
Wow - thank you, very much, Shai-Halud. That was a powerful post, and it affected me.
Thank you for letting me know your thoughts and feelings.
Thank you.
I have spent the last 6 months homeless and unmedicated and dysphoric in ways I cannot begin to describe and, and I always feel so silly writing comments for your works because I can never quite explain what I am grateful for, beyond that they exist and you gave them to us all so freely.
It's been so long, and yet, your words remain such a comfort.
So, thank you.
11001915
Vergess - fuck. I have been there, and I wish I had something cogent and supportive to say to you. A stupid 'hang in there' seems completely ass to me, hearing what you're going through. I guess, well, I hear you. I know I can't do anything worth a damn, but, I hear you. And, obviously, I hope you get to a better place, and faster than yesterday. For what my silly words here are worth.
And thank you for reading my stuff.
Heck, that made me cry. I very, very much hope to one day get to that point. Four months into the rest of my life since starting HRT and I can only hope I have another four decades of this nice feeling I'm having, of being able to stand who I see in the mirror and of being able to like myself. Thank you for this story. I appreciate it, and can say it's a wonder.
11061183
That is the one good thing I can say about my life. As hard as it is, I'm very glad to have been born in 1999 and not 1959. I cannot imagine having to deal with what you've dealt with, and for that, I'm glad.
Something else that came to me. I can imagine that man standing before God's judgement and him asking, "Why wouldn't you let me be who I wanted to be? Why didn't you take the pain away after all of my prayers?" And God would say something like, "I offered you HRT, and FFS, and SRS. I gave you a solution and yet you turned away. Now I ask you: Why was it your mission to convince others to continue to live in pain?" I'm sure he would have no answer.
Thank you for telling your story like this. It’s important to have perspective on what a trans experience from several decades ago looked like. You’ve been through a hell of a lot to get where you are, and I’m glad that you’re able to be proud of the incredible progress you’ve been able to make for yourself. :)
There was one part of this story that really struck me. It made me think back to when I was first exploring my gender. I wanted to search online to see if these feelings were things others felt too. So I went to the first site I found in the search results.
It was your site.
I remember taking the COGIATI at least a dozen times over in the next month or so, so desperate for someone to just listen and tell me that the things I was feeling were real and valid when there was no one I could talk to at the time.
I obsessed over it for that brief while, terrified at the possibility of it saying “no” at any point. “Oh no, I couldn’t imagine rotating this cube in this question! That must mean I’m not a real woman!”, “Only a 4/5 ranking? Why only that? What does it mean that I’m missing one point?”, or “Well then I don’t think I’m as suicidally dysphoric as other trans girls, maybe I’m just crazy and making all this up”.
So I pushed it all down and ignored it for the next half decade or so. I was so afraid of not being able to live up to every item in an arbitrary checklist I found on a single website that I convinced myself that whatever I was feeling, it wasn’t serious enough to justify doing anything about it.
So when I read through the part of your own personal story where you had to convince a cis gatekeeper you were a “normal” trans person, I remembered back when I was crying at my computer, trying to make sense of myself. Because you too had to convince some rigid checklist to let you continue and be yourself. I guess most of us trans people have to deal with the gatekeeper in our own minds along with the actual people doing so.
But I want to say though that I'm not trying to like, blame you for that test at all. I don't want to seem like I'm coming into your comments to chastise you for something you made, especially something from a long time ago. It was certainly a useful tool when your site was one of the few places a trans person could go online for information and answers! My fearful, anxious mind from back then just took a bad message from that test. Your site was still really important, and I thank you for that.
Since then I’ve learned how to accept my trans-ness even if I don’t meet some clinically-perfect outside definition of it. In recent years, I’ve even realized that I’m otherkin, too. I’m proud to be a trans Pegasus mare!
Anyway, sorry for rambling about myself, I just thought it was kinda funny how things played out. I hope that you and your partners are doing well in this crazy world. ^_^
EDIT: Okay now that I read that through it makes is sound like what I dealt with during gender exploration was anywhere NEAR as heavy as what you went through, and I apologize if it comes off that way because I do not want to imply that at all >~>
11070174
Thank you, Ristar, for you kind post.
And for reading my ponified transition story! I guess I kind of have been through a lot in my life. I can't say I have had a boring life!
I am sorry my test gave you a bad message. That was never, ever my intention. I meant my test to be a suggestion, and a warning, but not any kind of absolute Answer to anything.
The COGIATI was never meant to be authoritarian, just to be clear. There were some - really shitty - officially recognized 'gender tests' that people like my own doctors used, or more accurately, their psychologist minions used. Things like the BEM inventory and Rorschach tests. Those things only have the crazed ideas of wealthy men behind them - no science, no research, just the ideas of men.
I made the COGIATI as an answer to these terrible, very expensive tests. Something free, something based on brain-sex research at the time. And I made it for only one kind of person: the MtF textbook-type transsexual... someone just like me, basically. It was never intended to be a test for transgendered people to use. It was never intended to be a definitive proof of anything. It was - and it was carefully labeled - to be a tool to see if just maybe, just possibly, a person might have some basis to take being a MtF transwoman seriously enough to seek some help. That's it. Nothing more, and nothing less.
I cannot tell you the shit I have gotten - only in recent years - about that damn test. People complaining about it because it doesn't correctly address being, say, a demigirl, or a transman, or agender. It was never supposed to be for any of that! Textbook MtF transsexuals, that's it, nobody else! And even with that - even for a textbook definition transsexual - it was only supposed to be either encouragement, or a reason to second-guess a potentially permanent, life-altering decision. I have met a person who regretted their surgery, for example - they considered their life permanently ruined. They were miserable. Indeed, they were like a textbook transsexual after all - only going back the way they started, with no hope of true reversal.
People took that test waaaaayyyyy too seriously, and applied it far to broadly. It's very specific, and, at the time, as accurate to the science as possible. Unlike everything else that existed at the time.
The bottom line in dealing with gender identity is always this: you are, you truly absolutely are, what you honestly know yourself to be. Transsexuality is the only medical condition where the patient must diagnose themselves.
Now, that sounds very 'transmedicalist' because it is. Because, if a person is going to change their body - literally shapeshift - with hormones, and then get full surgery to permanently resculpt their genitals forever and ever into that of the opposite physical sex, then by definition - that is a medical matter. It has to be medical, because it involves cutting, and slicing, and blood and guts, and pulling things out, 'skinning them like a rabbit' (as my surgeon described his work), and then sewing it all back together. One should hope that is a medical matter! One should hope the medical effort it absolutely top quality, too.
I fully support people living in any gender role they wish to exist within - including none at all. I support the validity of self definition.
But when that crosses the line of literal dissection of the flesh in an operating theater, I always will stand with those gatekeepers who say: think carefully. This cannot be undone. This is forever. If you don't like the result, you can never, ever, ever have it reversed. Not really. Not like it was. Be sure. If you aren't sure, don't do it, because you literally could die from this. And... there have been a few that have... and worse. The bad endings can be pretty horrific. It is, after all, major surgery. I myself nearly died from it!
And that is why my COGIATI can produce results that are discouraging, too. Not to tell a person they aren't trans enough - but to get them to seriously, deeply question for themselves if they are willing to lose their life before they go under the knife. If you are willing to die, rather than face another day with the wrong genitals, then - then you are ready to face sex reassignment surgery. If you aren't willing to accept the possibility of ending up dead or ruined for life, then... maybe you really should think about it longer. There really is a value to some gatekeeping.
Because, if you truly want something so dangerous, then you will fight for it. That fight is how you know you mean it, and are not fooling yourself. When you cannot be dissuaded, not by anything - yeah, then you are a textbook level transsexual. You are for real. You are willing to die to get what you need to live. You are willing to face being dead or crippled, which are real possibilities.
I am glad you accept your trans-ness. And welcome to the Otherkin folk, too - which, while I will never admit it publically - I can relate to far, far too well.