logancausingproblems

[logancausingproblems]

cis detransitioners do not have experience being trans.

if you are a cis detransitioner you were never trans. you do not have experience being trans.

[logancausingproblems]

they literally are though??? what??? terfs rally around excluding trans people to the point it becomes problematic in our day to day lives, healthcare, our wellbeings, our standings as people, ect. as another trans person you should know this well, should KNOW our standards of living are lowered simply by being trans. terf ideologies push this, that and this idea that we’re too ‘stupid’ to understand our *own fucking identities* and that we must be sick and twisted in the head to have a separate concept of ourselves outside of what they see us as. this line of thinking even hurts cis women, especially black cis women or cis women who don’t fit eurocentric beauty standards. saying “I’m trans and I don’t think terf ideologies exist :/” doesn’t change the fact they do and they cause real fucking harm. as another trans person what the FUCK do you mean they don’t exist and how the hell do you think this line of thinking, AS WELL AS ACTIONS MADE IN SUPPORT OF THAT LINE OF THINKING THAT AFFECT REAL ASS PEOPLE AND REAL ASS LIVELIHOODS, don’t hurt us??? take a fucking look around.

An Open Letter: ‘Gender Critical’

I get on my bus just about every weekday. I hear people talking about gender: “people can’t just change their chromosomes”. We never wanted to. “They’re insane.”  It takes fifteen minutes to get to school. The comments don’t stop. At six fifty we get off the bus and sit in the lunchroom. The comments continue. People are accused of being gay. Those of us who are trans keep our heads down. The day rolls by. Not one goes by without another comment made by some teacher or faculty member. They give me strange looks when it takes a moment to respond to she, her, miss, ma’am. My reflection is blurry. We have no windows. The mirrors are warped, I think. That must be it, right? I cannot recognize myself. My face is not my own. My hands are small, not quite hairy enough. My legs feel wrong. I’ve been bleeding for three weeks, I call it the red wave. The blood is green and yellow and reeks of death. I know I am rotting from the inside out. That organ was never supposed to be there. It causes so much trouble because it too knows it’s wrong, it was not supposed to exist. Not in me. People comment about my hair. They call me Logan – some of them do – after a hard won battle over six years. My hair is green now. It’s dead, fried from bleach and chemicals. I like when it falls out.  “This is Logan, she…” The day ends. I come home to my mother. She is my only parent. She’s on the phone with my aunt. Both of them use my deadname. I am called she, girl, even my old nickname flies around between the two. I’ve been out to both for six years. I shower with the lights off. Surely, that way I can deal with my grotesque form. I am heavier around the middle. That does not bother me, I love how the hair grows on my stomach and makes a little racetrack. The binder comes back on when I get out. I can’t look at my bare chest anymore. It comes back on before the lights. I go online. Back into my studies, it’s easier than listening to the same words be repeated in my ears over and over. My mother likes to talk about how ashamed she is that I ‘hate’ my female anatomy. How she must have failed as a mother. “You can’t encourage delusions!” “She. Her. Female. Thing. You disgust me.” “You must be perverted, why else are you trying to go in the men’s bathroom?” “You’re already autistic, you must just be retarded.”  It buzzes like flies, the same ones crawling out from between my legs, from the rot that drips out. The little maggots turn into flies and say meaningless things in my ears.  I tune it out, it happens every day after all. Social media provides nothing better. Everything is the same, with the taste of battery acid soaking my tongue. I can feel those bitter words rising up my throat, tearing out my insides. The maggots slip out from between my lips. “I hate this body. I hate this skin. I am unnatural. I am not human. I am disgusting. I am subhuman. I am filthy. I am wrong.” My voice makes me nauseous. It is not mine. Trying to find the owner is a useless chore. Sometimes I wish I was like the stereotypes. I wish I was the way they portray us. I wish I was delusional to my own sex. I wish I was pretending. I wish it was all for attention, and that a hug would make it all go away. I wish endorphines would send the dysphoria flying when I cut my wrists, I wish and I wish and I wish.  Online I am called a trans rights activist, whatever that means. I see those who hate us everywhere. Tiktok, twitter, tumblr, instagram, the list goes on. “You are blind to sex.” I wish I was. Please, gouge out my eyes. I will give them to you freely. Make me blind, I beg of you. A long time ago I was called ‘it’ as an insult. I have since taken those pronouns on, wearing them like any other decoration with my outfit. I am a thing, crawling and slithering in human skin. Billions of maggots, rotting from the inside out and walking around in this filthy, rotting carcass. I am an it. I am subhuman. Look at me and tell me I am human, for you will see you are wrong. I have been told it is for our safety. That we should not transition. The regret will be too much. We will become statistics, suicides, bodies in holes. Those holes will have the wrong names on the headstones, I assure you, if they have headstones at all. I am mentally ill. I have hallucinations. I have delusions. I was sexually abused as a child. I was raped by a classmate, sexually assaulted other times, had child porn filmed by a friend and watched by a relative. I have cPTSD. I am autistic. According to the watching folk, these things make my identity false. I must listen to them, they must determine what I am. Am I a woman to you? If I tore off these hazards, if I gave you my arteries, would I be a man?  “A woman has a uterus.” Would you like mine? “A woman has breasts.” Would you like mine? “A woman has a period.” Would you like mine? “A woman has ovaries.” Would you like mine? “A woman has a dainty, high voice.” Would you like mine? “A woman comes in many forms.” Would you like mine? Please. Take it. I have no use for skin, for a body or a form. My mother told me not to shave my legs as a child, that the hair would grow back darker. I nodded, listened to her speech, and did it anyway. She grew angry with me when that razor didn’t stop there. It travelled up my neck, accompanied by strawberry-scented shaving foam, to shave away the peach-fuzz on my face.  The hair hasn’t grown back darker there yet. I keep trying, though. Is this your cis gender dysphoria? I carved a scar on the top of my navel as a child. It’s covered by hair now. I used that to justify my feelings of wrongness, that I must have had something cut off. Now, it’s just a scar. I’m more aware than ever that it is just a scar. I have never had something there. I have never wanted it more. Packing doesn’t satisfy me anymore. I am missing flesh. A phantom organ rests against my thighs. I have never been a woman. I thought that would change when I started a period. It did not. I have been lied to about transgender people as a child. I was told they were all rapists, murderers, beasts and shadows in man-skin stolen from good, god-fearing people. Families were robbed of parents and siblings because of this gender thing. Societies were torn apart, they told me. But they would never tell me what ‘transgender’ was when I asked. I have been hit more than once for asking. If I kill myself will it end? We mostly end in suicides, after all. They say hormone therapy will not change it. I will never feel right in my own body. I will always hate myself. I will hate this skin and throw up maggots and taste that battery acid every day of my life. The surgeries won’t change it. The name will not change it. The pronouns won’t change it. So when does it end, o great viewers? You seem to know the most about us animals. Tell me, the curious filth, when does this stop? I will never be human to you whether I ask to be seen as I am or not. I ask for a separate place to go and you spit fire at the thought. An alternative makes you sick, you claim. And yet, so does the idea of us existing. So where do we go? Do you want us to all die? You claim to want to fix us, sometimes, but your fixing is torture. Volts of electricity to shock the animal out of us. Sit down girl, behave. Grow your hair out and claim the title of tomboy again. Keep the gag in your mouth. Dry heave, starve yourself so the maggots won’t come up. Do anything but be what you are, you goddamn animal. 8:30 pm rolls around. I take my night meds, roll over, and wait for the dawn to break as the pattern continues tomorrow.

[logancausingproblems]

Hate to say it but unless you are trans your opinion on how terf ideologies affect trans people and our mental health are pointless. You can’t see it from our side of things nor see how much this hurts and that’s fine, I’m not expecting you to. But you don’t get it. Best of luck to you too.

An Open Letter: ‘Gender Critical’

I get on my bus just about every weekday. I hear people talking about gender: “people can’t just change their chromosomes”. We never wanted to. “They’re insane.”  It takes fifteen minutes to get to school. The comments don’t stop. At six fifty we get off the bus and sit in the lunchroom. The comments continue. People are accused of being gay. Those of us who are trans keep our heads down. The day rolls by. Not one goes by without another comment made by some teacher or faculty member. They give me strange looks when it takes a moment to respond to she, her, miss, ma’am. My reflection is blurry. We have no windows. The mirrors are warped, I think. That must be it, right? I cannot recognize myself. My face is not my own. My hands are small, not quite hairy enough. My legs feel wrong. I’ve been bleeding for three weeks, I call it the red wave. The blood is green and yellow and reeks of death. I know I am rotting from the inside out. That organ was never supposed to be there. It causes so much trouble because it too knows it’s wrong, it was not supposed to exist. Not in me. People comment about my hair. They call me Logan – some of them do – after a hard won battle over six years. My hair is green now. It’s dead, fried from bleach and chemicals. I like when it falls out.  “This is Logan, she…” The day ends. I come home to my mother. She is my only parent. She’s on the phone with my aunt. Both of them use my deadname. I am called she, girl, even my old nickname flies around between the two. I’ve been out to both for six years. I shower with the lights off. Surely, that way I can deal with my grotesque form. I am heavier around the middle. That does not bother me, I love how the hair grows on my stomach and makes a little racetrack. The binder comes back on when I get out. I can’t look at my bare chest anymore. It comes back on before the lights. I go online. Back into my studies, it’s easier than listening to the same words be repeated in my ears over and over. My mother likes to talk about how ashamed she is that I ‘hate’ my female anatomy. How she must have failed as a mother. “You can’t encourage delusions!” “She. Her. Female. Thing. You disgust me.” “You must be perverted, why else are you trying to go in the men’s bathroom?” “You’re already autistic, you must just be retarded.”  It buzzes like flies, the same ones crawling out from between my legs, from the rot that drips out. The little maggots turn into flies and say meaningless things in my ears.  I tune it out, it happens every day after all. Social media provides nothing better. Everything is the same, with the taste of battery acid soaking my tongue. I can feel those bitter words rising up my throat, tearing out my insides. The maggots slip out from between my lips. “I hate this body. I hate this skin. I am unnatural. I am not human. I am disgusting. I am subhuman. I am filthy. I am wrong.” My voice makes me nauseous. It is not mine. Trying to find the owner is a useless chore. Sometimes I wish I was like the stereotypes. I wish I was the way they portray us. I wish I was delusional to my own sex. I wish I was pretending. I wish it was all for attention, and that a hug would make it all go away. I wish endorphines would send the dysphoria flying when I cut my wrists, I wish and I wish and I wish.  Online I am called a trans rights activist, whatever that means. I see those who hate us everywhere. Tiktok, twitter, tumblr, instagram, the list goes on. “You are blind to sex.” I wish I was. Please, gouge out my eyes. I will give them to you freely. Make me blind, I beg of you. A long time ago I was called ‘it’ as an insult. I have since taken those pronouns on, wearing them like any other decoration with my outfit. I am a thing, crawling and slithering in human skin. Billions of maggots, rotting from the inside out and walking around in this filthy, rotting carcass. I am an it. I am subhuman. Look at me and tell me I am human, for you will see you are wrong. I have been told it is for our safety. That we should not transition. The regret will be too much. We will become statistics, suicides, bodies in holes. Those holes will have the wrong names on the headstones, I assure you, if they have headstones at all. I am mentally ill. I have hallucinations. I have delusions. I was sexually abused as a child. I was raped by a classmate, sexually assaulted other times, had child porn filmed by a friend and watched by a relative. I have cPTSD. I am autistic. According to the watching folk, these things make my identity false. I must listen to them, they must determine what I am. Am I a woman to you? If I tore off these hazards, if I gave you my arteries, would I be a man?  “A woman has a uterus.” Would you like mine? “A woman has breasts.” Would you like mine? “A woman has a period.” Would you like mine? “A woman has ovaries.” Would you like mine? “A woman has a dainty, high voice.” Would you like mine? “A woman comes in many forms.” Would you like mine? Please. Take it. I have no use for skin, for a body or a form. My mother told me not to shave my legs as a child, that the hair would grow back darker. I nodded, listened to her speech, and did it anyway. She grew angry with me when that razor didn’t stop there. It travelled up my neck, accompanied by strawberry-scented shaving foam, to shave away the peach-fuzz on my face.  The hair hasn’t grown back darker there yet. I keep trying, though. Is this your cis gender dysphoria? I carved a scar on the top of my navel as a child. It’s covered by hair now. I used that to justify my feelings of wrongness, that I must have had something cut off. Now, it’s just a scar. I’m more aware than ever that it is just a scar. I have never had something there. I have never wanted it more. Packing doesn’t satisfy me anymore. I am missing flesh. A phantom organ rests against my thighs. I have never been a woman. I thought that would change when I started a period. It did not. I have been lied to about transgender people as a child. I was told they were all rapists, murderers, beasts and shadows in man-skin stolen from good, god-fearing people. Families were robbed of parents and siblings because of this gender thing. Societies were torn apart, they told me. But they would never tell me what ‘transgender’ was when I asked. I have been hit more than once for asking. If I kill myself will it end? We mostly end in suicides, after all. They say hormone therapy will not change it. I will never feel right in my own body. I will always hate myself. I will hate this skin and throw up maggots and taste that battery acid every day of my life. The surgeries won’t change it. The name will not change it. The pronouns won’t change it. So when does it end, o great viewers? You seem to know the most about us animals. Tell me, the curious filth, when does this stop? I will never be human to you whether I ask to be seen as I am or not. I ask for a separate place to go and you spit fire at the thought. An alternative makes you sick, you claim. And yet, so does the idea of us existing. So where do we go? Do you want us to all die? You claim to want to fix us, sometimes, but your fixing is torture. Volts of electricity to shock the animal out of us. Sit down girl, behave. Grow your hair out and claim the title of tomboy again. Keep the gag in your mouth. Dry heave, starve yourself so the maggots won’t come up. Do anything but be what you are, you goddamn animal. 8:30 pm rolls around. I take my night meds, roll over, and wait for the dawn to break as the pattern continues tomorrow.

[logancausingproblems]

Thank you, but again I’d like to point out that I’m not speaking bad about myself. The letter illustrates how terf ideals affect myself and other trans men around me or with similar experiences. The whole concept terfs push is the idea that we have to be accepting of our sex, even if it’s damaging or quite literally painful to recognize. The general idea I get from almost all terf content is “even if you were what you claimed to be, transitioning isn’t worth it”, which translates to my mind as: “It’s better to not try at all. You will always feel this way even if you achieve the body you want. It will only stop when you die.” Which, as we can see, is not a good mindset.

An Open Letter: ‘Gender Critical’

I get on my bus just about every weekday. I hear people talking about gender: “people can’t just change their chromosomes”. We never wanted to. “They’re insane.”  It takes fifteen minutes to get to school. The comments don’t stop. At six fifty we get off the bus and sit in the lunchroom. The comments continue. People are accused of being gay. Those of us who are trans keep our heads down. The day rolls by. Not one goes by without another comment made by some teacher or faculty member. They give me strange looks when it takes a moment to respond to she, her, miss, ma’am. My reflection is blurry. We have no windows. The mirrors are warped, I think. That must be it, right? I cannot recognize myself. My face is not my own. My hands are small, not quite hairy enough. My legs feel wrong. I’ve been bleeding for three weeks, I call it the red wave. The blood is green and yellow and reeks of death. I know I am rotting from the inside out. That organ was never supposed to be there. It causes so much trouble because it too knows it’s wrong, it was not supposed to exist. Not in me. People comment about my hair. They call me Logan – some of them do – after a hard won battle over six years. My hair is green now. It’s dead, fried from bleach and chemicals. I like when it falls out.  “This is Logan, she…” The day ends. I come home to my mother. She is my only parent. She’s on the phone with my aunt. Both of them use my deadname. I am called she, girl, even my old nickname flies around between the two. I’ve been out to both for six years. I shower with the lights off. Surely, that way I can deal with my grotesque form. I am heavier around the middle. That does not bother me, I love how the hair grows on my stomach and makes a little racetrack. The binder comes back on when I get out. I can’t look at my bare chest anymore. It comes back on before the lights. I go online. Back into my studies, it’s easier than listening to the same words be repeated in my ears over and over. My mother likes to talk about how ashamed she is that I ‘hate’ my female anatomy. How she must have failed as a mother. “You can’t encourage delusions!” “She. Her. Female. Thing. You disgust me.” “You must be perverted, why else are you trying to go in the men’s bathroom?” “You’re already autistic, you must just be retarded.”  It buzzes like flies, the same ones crawling out from between my legs, from the rot that drips out. The little maggots turn into flies and say meaningless things in my ears.  I tune it out, it happens every day after all. Social media provides nothing better. Everything is the same, with the taste of battery acid soaking my tongue. I can feel those bitter words rising up my throat, tearing out my insides. The maggots slip out from between my lips. “I hate this body. I hate this skin. I am unnatural. I am not human. I am disgusting. I am subhuman. I am filthy. I am wrong.” My voice makes me nauseous. It is not mine. Trying to find the owner is a useless chore. Sometimes I wish I was like the stereotypes. I wish I was the way they portray us. I wish I was delusional to my own sex. I wish I was pretending. I wish it was all for attention, and that a hug would make it all go away. I wish endorphines would send the dysphoria flying when I cut my wrists, I wish and I wish and I wish.  Online I am called a trans rights activist, whatever that means. I see those who hate us everywhere. Tiktok, twitter, tumblr, instagram, the list goes on. “You are blind to sex.” I wish I was. Please, gouge out my eyes. I will give them to you freely. Make me blind, I beg of you. A long time ago I was called ‘it’ as an insult. I have since taken those pronouns on, wearing them like any other decoration with my outfit. I am a thing, crawling and slithering in human skin. Billions of maggots, rotting from the inside out and walking around in this filthy, rotting carcass. I am an it. I am subhuman. Look at me and tell me I am human, for you will see you are wrong. I have been told it is for our safety. That we should not transition. The regret will be too much. We will become statistics, suicides, bodies in holes. Those holes will have the wrong names on the headstones, I assure you, if they have headstones at all. I am mentally ill. I have hallucinations. I have delusions. I was sexually abused as a child. I was raped by a classmate, sexually assaulted other times, had child porn filmed by a friend and watched by a relative. I have cPTSD. I am autistic. According to the watching folk, these things make my identity false. I must listen to them, they must determine what I am. Am I a woman to you? If I tore off these hazards, if I gave you my arteries, would I be a man?  “A woman has a uterus.” Would you like mine? “A woman has breasts.” Would you like mine? “A woman has a period.” Would you like mine? “A woman has ovaries.” Would you like mine? “A woman has a dainty, high voice.” Would you like mine? “A woman comes in many forms.” Would you like mine? Please. Take it. I have no use for skin, for a body or a form. My mother told me not to shave my legs as a child, that the hair would grow back darker. I nodded, listened to her speech, and did it anyway. She grew angry with me when that razor didn’t stop there. It travelled up my neck, accompanied by strawberry-scented shaving foam, to shave away the peach-fuzz on my face.  The hair hasn’t grown back darker there yet. I keep trying, though. Is this your cis gender dysphoria? I carved a scar on the top of my navel as a child. It’s covered by hair now. I used that to justify my feelings of wrongness, that I must have had something cut off. Now, it’s just a scar. I’m more aware than ever that it is just a scar. I have never had something there. I have never wanted it more. Packing doesn’t satisfy me anymore. I am missing flesh. A phantom organ rests against my thighs. I have never been a woman. I thought that would change when I started a period. It did not. I have been lied to about transgender people as a child. I was told they were all rapists, murderers, beasts and shadows in man-skin stolen from good, god-fearing people. Families were robbed of parents and siblings because of this gender thing. Societies were torn apart, they told me. But they would never tell me what ‘transgender’ was when I asked. I have been hit more than once for asking. If I kill myself will it end? We mostly end in suicides, after all. They say hormone therapy will not change it. I will never feel right in my own body. I will always hate myself. I will hate this skin and throw up maggots and taste that battery acid every day of my life. The surgeries won’t change it. The name will not change it. The pronouns won’t change it. So when does it end, o great viewers? You seem to know the most about us animals. Tell me, the curious filth, when does this stop? I will never be human to you whether I ask to be seen as I am or not. I ask for a separate place to go and you spit fire at the thought. An alternative makes you sick, you claim. And yet, so does the idea of us existing. So where do we go? Do you want us to all die? You claim to want to fix us, sometimes, but your fixing is torture. Volts of electricity to shock the animal out of us. Sit down girl, behave. Grow your hair out and claim the title of tomboy again. Keep the gag in your mouth. Dry heave, starve yourself so the maggots won’t come up. Do anything but be what you are, you goddamn animal. 8:30 pm rolls around. I take my night meds, roll over, and wait for the dawn to break as the pattern continues tomorrow.

[logancausingproblems]

terfs will use trans suicide rates as a ‘gotcha’ argument and not even a post down talk about how we don’t need to transition, we won’t find happiness in it, we’re all mentally ill and there’s no fixing us, we need to accept it, we’ll never be happy, ect. y’all will tell us there’s no point in transitioning while digging our graves.

[logancausingproblems]

An Open Letter: ‘Gender Critical’

I get on my bus just about every weekday. I hear people talking about gender: “people can’t just change their chromosomes”. We never wanted to. “They’re insane.”  It takes fifteen minutes to get to school. The comments don’t stop. At six fifty we get off the bus and sit in the lunchroom. The comments continue. People are accused of being gay. Those of us who are trans keep our heads down. The day rolls by. Not one goes by without another comment made by some teacher or faculty member. They give me strange looks when it takes a moment to respond to she, her, miss, ma’am. My reflection is blurry. We have no windows. The mirrors are warped, I think. That must be it, right? I cannot recognize myself. My face is not my own. My hands are small, not quite hairy enough. My legs feel wrong. I’ve been bleeding for three weeks, I call it the red wave. The blood is green and yellow and reeks of death. I know I am rotting from the inside out. That organ was never supposed to be there. It causes so much trouble because it too knows it’s wrong, it was not supposed to exist. Not in me. People comment about my hair. They call me Logan -- some of them do -- after a hard won battle over six years. My hair is green now. It’s dead, fried from bleach and chemicals. I like when it falls out.  “This is Logan, she. . .” The day ends. I come home to my mother. She is my only parent. She’s on the phone with my aunt. Both of them use my deadname. I am called she, girl, even my old nickname flies around between the two. I’ve been out to both for six years. I shower with the lights off. Surely, that way I can deal with my grotesque form. I am heavier around the middle. That does not bother me, I love how the hair grows on my stomach and makes a little racetrack. The binder comes back on when I get out. I can’t look at my bare chest anymore. It comes back on before the lights. I go online. Back into my studies, it’s easier than listening to the same words be repeated in my ears over and over. My mother likes to talk about how ashamed she is that I ‘hate’ my female anatomy. How she must have failed as a mother. “You can’t encourage delusions!” “She. Her. Female. Thing. You disgust me.” “You must be perverted, why else are you trying to go in the men’s bathroom?” “You’re already autistic, you must just be retarded.”  It buzzes like flies, the same ones crawling out from between my legs, from the rot that drips out. The little maggots turn into flies and say meaningless things in my ears.  I tune it out, it happens every day after all. Social media provides nothing better. Everything is the same, with the taste of battery acid soaking my tongue. I can feel those bitter words rising up my throat, tearing out my insides. The maggots slip out from between my lips. “I hate this body. I hate this skin. I am unnatural. I am not human. I am disgusting. I am subhuman. I am filthy. I am wrong.” My voice makes me nauseous. It is not mine. Trying to find the owner is a useless chore. Sometimes I wish I was like the stereotypes. I wish I was the way they portray us. I wish I was delusional to my own sex. I wish I was pretending. I wish it was all for attention, and that a hug would make it all go away. I wish endorphines would send the dysphoria flying when I cut my wrists, I wish and I wish and I wish.  Online I am called a trans rights activist, whatever that means. I see those who hate us everywhere. Tiktok, twitter, tumblr, instagram, the list goes on. “You are blind to sex.” I wish I was. Please, gouge out my eyes. I will give them to you freely. Make me blind, I beg of you. A long time ago I was called ‘it’ as an insult. I have since taken those pronouns on, wearing them like any other decoration with my outfit. I am a thing, crawling and slithering in human skin. Billions of maggots, rotting from the inside out and walking around in this filthy, rotting carcass. I am an it. I am subhuman. Look at me and tell me I am human, for you will see you are wrong. I have been told it is for our safety. That we should not transition. The regret will be too much. We will become statistics, suicides, bodies in holes. Those holes will have the wrong names on the headstones, I assure you, if they have headstones at all. I am mentally ill. I have hallucinations. I have delusions. I was sexually abused as a child. I was raped by a classmate, sexually assaulted other times, had child porn filmed by a friend and watched by a relative. I have cPTSD. I am autistic. According to the watching folk, these things make my identity false. I must listen to them, they must determine what I am. Am I a woman to you? If I tore off these hazards, if I gave you my arteries, would I be a man?  “A woman has a uterus.” Would you like mine? “A woman has breasts.” Would you like mine? “A woman has a period.” Would you like mine? “A woman has ovaries.” Would you like mine? “A woman has a dainty, high voice.” Would you like mine? “A woman comes in many forms.” Would you like mine? Please. Take it. I have no use for skin, for a body or a form. My mother told me not to shave my legs as a child, that the hair would grow back darker. I nodded, listened to her speech, and did it anyway. She grew angry with me when that razor didn’t stop there. It travelled up my neck, accompanied by strawberry-scented shaving foam, to shave away the peach-fuzz on my face.  The hair hasn’t grown back darker there yet. I keep trying, though. Is this your cis gender dysphoria? I carved a scar on the top of my navel as a child. It’s covered by hair now. I used that to justify my feelings of wrongness, that I must have had something cut off. Now, it’s just a scar. I’m more aware than ever that it is just a scar. I have never had something there. I have never wanted it more. Packing doesn’t satisfy me anymore. I am missing flesh. A phantom organ rests against my thighs. I have never been a woman. I thought that would change when I started a period. It did not. I have been lied to about transgender people as a child. I was told they were all rapists, murderers, beasts and shadows in man-skin stolen from good, god-fearing people. Families were robbed of parents and siblings because of this gender thing. Societies were torn apart, they told me. But they would never tell me what ‘transgender’ was when I asked. I have been hit more than once for asking. If I kill myself will it end? We mostly end in suicides, after all. They say hormone therapy will not change it. I will never feel right in my own body. I will always hate myself. I will hate this skin and throw up maggots and taste that battery acid every day of my life. The surgeries won’t change it. The name will not change it. The pronouns won’t change it. So when does it end, o great viewers? You seem to know the most about us animals. Tell me, the curious filth, when does this stop? I will never be human to you whether I ask to be seen as I am or not. I ask for a separate place to go and you spit fire at the thought. An alternative makes you sick, you claim. And yet, so does the idea of us existing. So where do we go? Do you want us to all die? You claim to want to fix us, sometimes, but your fixing is torture. Volts of electricity to shock the animal out of us. Sit down girl, behave. Grow your hair out and claim the title of tomboy again. Keep the gag in your mouth. Dry heave, starve yourself so the maggots won’t come up. Do anything but be what you are, you goddamn animal. 8:30 pm rolls around. I take my night meds, roll over, and wait for the dawn to break as the pattern continues tomorrow.

[logancausingproblems]

"who tf is gonna use your neos? I won't!" okay and? lmao

[logancausingproblems]

“being trans isn’t accessable to all languages!!! It’d be too much effort to make up new sets of pronouns!!!” and? just admit you’re disappointing and move on

[logancausingproblems]

actually it is not okay to be cis or straight. cishetties no longer have rights

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK

IT’S OKAY TO BE CIS (I’M CIS).

IT’S OKAY TO BE STRAIGHT.

IT’S OKAY TO BE A FUCKING HUMAN BEING. GET YOUR “YOU’RE OPRESSING ME” SHIT OUT OF HERE, TUMBLR.

[logancausingproblems]

“ Ooooooooookay… I’m gonna be attacked because I’m making this post but here goes nothing.” Ohohohooho you fucked up today buddy here we go “People wont respect you just because you are trans, lesbian, gay, bisexual, asexual, etc.Sure, if they are a proper human being they would use the pronouns that you asked them to, or wont talk about the topics that you are sensitive about because they understand your problems and see you as a normal human being.“ Here’s a not so gentle reminder that in every fucking country in the world, every single fucking day, we get killed for existing. I cannot fucking stand you painfully jaded bitches, “Why can’t we all just get along?” I’ve almost been hit by a car for being transgender, Rachel. I have had to leave public places and have even had kidney infections due to the lack of bathroom access. I have one I’m fighting right now, as a matter of fact. My experiences are NOT singular, these are experienced by literally every trans person to fucking exist. “If you have an attitude that screams “I can shit on you but you have to respect me because I’m x, y, z” , if you shit on them because they are cisgender and heterosexual, don’t expect them to respect you.”  Hi, welcome to the south. At the only pride event we had in 2019, I saw the fucking KKK in person, white hoods and all. They were protesting lgbt people existing. I have been disowned by my father for being trans. I have lost friends for it. I have lost family members for it. Just the other day my own fucking mother became angry at me when I said a cis girl crying over being asked if she was trans is transphobic, because the cis woman equated trans women to men or being inherently masculine.  I have lost all respect of cissies and heteros because EVEN WHEN THEY CLAIM TO BE ALLIES they end up not seeing us as human. We are an other in every single fucking way. Not to mention, congrats but the US is actually really fucking progressive! And we still get killed here! There is no reason to respect cis people or heteros because they inherently do not respect us from the getgo. They have to learn to respect us, if they happen to develop that respect at all.  “Like what is your issue with each other? Y'all had no chance of chosing your sexual identity or sexuality. What us your issue with each other?“  How many times have you seen a straight person called a slur aimed at them being straight specifically that when they hear someone use it they don’t even react?  How many weddings have your parents barred you from attending because the couple is straight? How many times have you been called a sexual predator for being transgender? How many times have your teachers openly mocked your pronouns, your name, and then wrote you up for “disrespect” when you tried to defend yourself? How many cases can you name off the top of your head of bars or clubs being targeted simply because the target audience was straight people? How many murders happened in 2021 of cis people for being cis? What is the average lifespan of a cis woman? Is it over 24? How about average lifespan for cis men? Is it over 35? This doesn’t even begin to cover the struggles nonbinary people face. I get this shit as a binary trans person. You do not know what the fuck we’re dealing with. Shut your mouth.

Ooooooooookay… I’m gonna be attacked because I’m making this post but here goes nothing.

People wont respect you just because you are trans, lesbian, gay, bisexual, asexual, etc.

Sure, if they are a proper human being they would use the pronouns that you asked them to, or wont talk about the topics that you are sensitive about because they understand your problems and see you as a normal human being.

However

If you have an attitude that screams “I can shit on you but you have to respect me because I’m x, y, z” , if you shit on them because they are cisgender and heterosexual,

Don’t expect them to respect you.

No.

Just no.

Respect is earned baby.

Sometimes i think about this and just…

Why are we trying to push each other away and just throw shit at each other

Why

I mean, the fact that these kind of people actually exist and say shit like this, is just sad and depressing. Same thing goes for homophobics.

Like what is your issue with each other? Y'all had no chance of chosing your sexual identity or sexuality. What us your issue with each other?

[logancausingproblems]

hotter take: you should be

Hot take but you can be heterophobic and cisphobic

[logancausingproblems]

Here’s my hot take: Make it worse, actually. Make these people fucking hate themselves. Make cisphobia a thing, make heterophobia a thing. These people want to be oppressed so bad? Okay. Lets go. Let’s fucking oppress them. Kill people just because they’re straight, come up with slurs specifically for men, call white people genetic fuckups, tell cis people you consider sleeping with them rape if they don’t disclose they’re cis first. They really want to taste the same shit we do? You think you know what it’s like to be in our shoes? You really want a spot in the limelight, you want a headline on a newspaper? Alright. But don’t be mad when you don’t get a golden star and the results leave a bitter taste in your mouth.

Hot take on cisphobia, blancophobia, misandry, and heterophobia

It's stupid, it's unessecary, don't fight fire with fire. It'll just make homophobia worse. Do you really want them to feel the pain you had to go through? Best you can do is forgive and move on. Same thing with blancophobia and misandry, you can hate on men and white people too. Don't do any of the 3, it will only tear us apart, not bring us together.

Cisphobia is real.

Heterophobia is real.

Blancophobia is real.

Misandry is real.

None are ever ok.

[logancausingproblems]

I am now cisphobic. Cis people are unnatural and disturb me. Get some help <3

[logancausingproblems]

for another comparsion: I have seen the KKK in person. They were protesting a pride parade one June downtown while I was out nostalgia-driving with my mom. I didn’t even know we had pride parades here, but I had already known the KKK was around. y’all have no idea the shit that goes down here.

fucking tired of people not understanding how VERY far behind the southern corner of the US is. My school still paddles kids. My sixth grade, I went to an all white private school with colored and white water fountains. I have had my pants pulled down in a publix and had my ass beat right then and there and the parents around us laughed. I have seen children going into gas stations to pick up cigarettes for their parents simply because we as a society in the deep south have not moved past that. I don’t know what it’s like for y’all, but I’m still learning. I live in an area where being disabled, mentally ill, black, hispanic, or poor is a death sentence. There is raw sewage in the ditches while preachers tell us we’ll go to hell if we don’t go to church every sunday but still bar black people from getting past the front porch. Every other house here has a confederate flag hanging up, including inside our schools and state sanctioned buildings. I grew up like this. I am still learning. Not even four years ago I thought it was uncomfortable but overall didn’t matter if a white person said the n word, but I’ve been learning more every day and am continuing to do so. I’m not asking for a pass or an easy way out, but I’m saying y’all need a serious fucking wakeup call when talking to people from the south because you do NOT know how bad it is down here, especially in the poor areas of town like mine.

[logancausingproblems]

fucking tired of people not understanding how VERY far behind the southern corner of the US is. My school still paddles kids. My sixth grade, I went to an all white private school with colored and white water fountains. I have had my pants pulled down in a publix and had my ass beat right then and there and the parents around us laughed. I have seen children going into gas stations to pick up cigarettes for their parents simply because we as a society in the deep south have not moved past that. I don’t know what it’s like for y’all, but I’m still learning. I live in an area where being disabled, mentally ill, black, hispanic, or poor is a death sentence. There is raw sewage in the ditches while preachers tell us we’ll go to hell if we don’t go to church every sunday but still bar black people from getting past the front porch. Every other house here has a confederate flag hanging up, including inside our schools and state sanctioned buildings. I grew up like this. I am still learning. Not even four years ago I thought it was uncomfortable but overall didn’t matter if a white person said the n word, but I’ve been learning more every day and am continuing to do so. I’m not asking for a pass or an easy way out, but I’m saying y’all need a serious fucking wakeup call when talking to people from the south because you do NOT know how bad it is down here, especially in the poor areas of town like mine.

[logancausingproblems]

“hehe op is white also black women experience misogynoir” yeah I know that. I am. aware of that, thank you. Can confirm both of those as fact. I’m trying to say transmisogynoir is a thing, which I learned about from black women, trans and cis alike. Saying I’m white isn’t the point you think it is.

[logancausingproblems]

how tf is this still blowing up? I literally used ONE wrong word and that’s what y’all are focused on instead of the entire post. No one has said anything that actually counters what I have to say, just people saying I’m racist because I used overmasculinization instead of masculinization. I’ve already admitted my wrongs there and moved on. I did not compare them to men, also aren’t y’all the same ones saying presentation doesn’t equal gender???? I’m so confused.

this is gonna make a lot of terfs mad but a little tidbit of information that some of y'all don't realize, transphobia is rooted in white suppremacy and racism, actively contributes to the overmasculanization of black women, and by upholding it you are actively upholding one of the many pillars of white suppremacy. Also, for those of y'all pretending like gender doesn't exist and focusing on sex, it's fucking racist to pretend gender identity and race don't intersect. They do, and y'all really need to examine why you are so quick to dismiss that fact.