I was fooling around last night, re-reading my old stuff, and I came across "I woke", my first attempt at a longer story. Reading it again, I realized I might be able to make it a little better. So the edited and complete version is up, and you'll have to tell me what you think.

https://bigclosetr.us/topshelf/fiction/85183/i-woke-edited-a...

So I had my interview for Pride Month, and I think it went pretty good.

As soon as it is announced, I'll share a link where you can see it.

I feel like I'm a horrible person.

The stuff that is most upsetting to me, the gender dysphoria, the PTSD, they are so PETTY.

So insignificant compared to the suffering of others, especially right now.

Sighs ... I could use a hug or three ..

"I exist because you say I can"

That's a line from the latest chapter of "The interview", but it also describes the way I feel going out in public as a woman.

I'm extremely lucky here, for the most part people are too busy with their own lives to worry about the guy in a dress, but I am always aware that exceptions do exist.

I never forget I do not pass, that I exist as a woman because nobody cares enough to fight me on that.

That's puts me above what some trans people deal with, but the anxiety is always there, that's just the way it is.

I woke everybody in the house up at about 6 AM by screaming, thanks to a knee that decided to try and take a powder on me. Between that and a double gut-punch of PTSD and dysphoria last night, and today is not starting off well ..

Anybody who has gone through male puberty can tell you, it's stressful. It's stressful enough for a cis boy with no other major stressors, but it was worse in my case, as neither of those things was true for me.

The worst part was whenever I got aroused, and my male equipment did what it's supposed to do under those circumstances. Those moments were incredibly painful, both physically and psychologically, and I sometimes feel I barely survived them.

Its been a while since I've given an update on what stories I'm working on, so here goes:

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Dot:set in Amethyst's Hyperverse, its the story of a young man with gender issues, who is turned into a girly girl.

Rose the Bunny:Is it weird that I'm writing a Christmas story in May? This one is thanks to Rosy Redd, so when it comes out, blame her. :P

The secret of Myth:Its possible everybody gave up on this story, cause I had nothing for a long time. But its not dead yet ...

Finished my essay, and it's posted. You folks will have to tell me what you think;
https://bigclosetr.us/topshelf/fiction/84629/origins-1

My next piece, the "non-story" retelling of the backstory of one of my favorite book series, is just about ready. But I'd love someone to go over it, and see if I can improve it. Any takers?

I got something almost done, but its not a "story" per se.

Its a brief recounting of the background and history of one of my favorite fictional universes.

I have no idea how its gonna be received.

(Hides in blanket fort)

So last night, I got to thinking about a conversation I had a few days ago, where I mentioned I always found kissing someone on the lips upsetting. And in fact I used to say I'd rather kiss or be kissed anywhere but the lips. As I was mulling this over, it occurred to me that this sense of panic reminded me of the panic I got going into a shower, and I wondered if it has a similar cause - that at some point, a kiss on the lips got associated with something terrible, something I couldnt recall consciously recall but my body responded to.

Well, yesterday ended up going better than I could have hoped. Sharon and Sam cried after Po was put down, but Sam was no longer angry, and indeed seemed to be at peace with his passing. I am thanking God and breathing a sigh of relief.

Dysphoria, manic-depression, PTSD, grief, and anxiety. I'm getting hit by all of the above, plus one more. Guilt. Guilt that I'm struggling with petty problems while people are dying from this virus.

Sighs ...

So last night I dreamed I was at a church function. I was upstairs, cleaning up a bunch of toy trucks, and then went downstairs to see that all the girls had turned the dining area into a fancy tea party. My dysphoria hit me like a physical blow, and I dumped my load of toy trucks on a counter and staggered back upstairs. I woke weeping.

After I published my last little piece, I was informed I've been mislabeling them as "drabbles". I always thought a drabble was 100 words or less, apparently its 100 words exactly. So what do I do about the section of my stories titled "Dorothy's Drabbles"?

Suggestions please.