nefola

my entire head is simultaneously too loud and too quiet

cw: transition, medical stuff, dysphoria, messy feelings, covid, tattoos

i am at a stage with hormones where i take them for granted and want them to finish up already. that does make me feel like a dick. but im just not alone in feeling that at this point

i like all of the changes so far. look at any photo of me and you can tell why. i remember bits of joy from the first year. all of the breasts coming in excitement and being glad to cry. then there is a blink in my memory and i am most of the way done. that's mostly covid's fault

i am on board with what is to come. however

recently estrogen has been making my disability worse and i am sick of it. my feet have always caused me pain and i have always had poor physical stamina. its just that some mix of abnormally low testosterone and high energy consumption from changes makes it worse. i am so ready to be free from my body dumping every spare ounce of energy into growing my boobs and distributing fat. i love those things but i hate how tired they make me. it has been so bad we changed hosts for the first time ever this year

i only really conceptualize surgery, med changes, and body mods as transition things now. when i started everything was transition. but also when i started i was just wrong about being nonbinary. estrogen really is just late puberty for me. i started estrogen just before turning 17 with testosterone puberty not even halfway done. its the only externally noticeable change to my body i have known. well except for relatives snooping as hard as possible for any noticeable signs of puberty

going on progesterone was transition but being on it isnt. it changing how i think and feel so suddenly. what is left to do that is transition are tattoos and the two things that would shut up the paranoid dysphoria voices that got engrained in me before i started blockers. those are tied into me being trans. having my pubery go three or four years late isnt

it is an objectively trans experience. it just doenst line up with a “traditional” second pubery. that makes it feel like a me experience

this whole deal spitting me out into gender correct adulthood after dissociating through the internal build up has made the way i socialize even stranger. this whole thing could be about the relationship with sex that has built me. a relationship that is somehow okay but shouldn't be

i have some feelings about how not visibly trans i am. they have calmed down since i had wrote and took down “you should take a look at me”. its mostly a sense of community isolation. which is fake most of the time. there is also the whole thing where i dont trust some trans women to be normal about my body, more than the normal amount of nobody really being normal about trans bodies. luckly i usually don't talk to those people much in the first place

dont take 200 mg/day of micronized progesterone. i did that, it was bad. makes you crazy

in short, getting the stars painted into the skin of my boobs will be more important than growing them

today i walked past someone. outside of the symbol on their shirt they don't seem like anyone. but i know they are important, thats just something i know.

its night. i can't rest. cant get my mind off them. its monday afternoon and i cant get my mind off them

i go for a walk

streetlamps hum, the occasional car rumbles by. my head has cleared

i sit at a tree, the road right ahead of me. all of the lights blare. i cant see past them. its night and i am blinded by a thousand facsimiles of the sun. i don't even know where i passed them. every light burns brighter, burns louder. then its quiet

engraves in the stars, a way to meet them

i invited them to my house

no, come here

we sit a seat away on the couch and pour our hearts out. that seat is a formality. we already knew what was inside all 12 of our chambers.

step step step step

we arrive at the house. i hand the lady at the table 15 dollars. i have been here later.

we roam a land of pipes and sound. a display of lights and clockwork you do not get to see. i will again. takes you a little longer you tell me

its dark. the two of us are doused, my companion is fine but not for lack of being in the same conditions. each of us walks past another, less significant but still meaningful the lady in the car hands me a roll of tape. we get into the bathtub together

we step into a room with my companion. its a night like any other. walls welcoming, floor tolerating. its a night we can not forget. “It’s Vriska, motherfucker”

there were more chambers.

there are always more chambers

i walk up the stairs one final time

we sit and cry. paths cross cross lips taste coffee cross paths

i dared to have it be different

cw: General Dissociation/Depersonalization, Fictive Suffering, Horny Mentions, Implied shitty behavior of the author

A young lady sits at her desk. Though it was 7 sweeps ago she was given life, only today will she be given a name.

Latula Pyrope

wrong. wh4t 4r3 you fuck1ng stup1d.

Terezi Pyrope.

y34h th4ts mor3 l1k3 1t

Your name is Terezi and you NEED something to do. You do something. You miss vriska, YOUR vriska.

You latch on to hatred and antagonism. It feels great, keeps you existing.

A friend sends you a piece titled “A STORY WHERE TEREZI GETS FUCKED BY EVERYONE”. You read a handful of chapters with them.

No More Sourcemates.

You came from this flawed understanding. A flawed understanding that is fading. Nobody else has the exact same one. You decided to identify with this comical version of Terezi. She is so close to who you are. Bastardized in the same direction.

Things change and get better. You fade from relevance.

Enter name.

Your name is TEREZI PYROPE.

You are pretty enthusiastic about dragons. But you have a PARTICULAR AFFECTION for their COLORFUL SCALES, which you gather and use to decorate your hive. Though you live alone, deep in the woods, you surround yourself with a variety of plushie pals known as SCALEMATES. You often spend your days with them in rounds of LIVE ACTION ROLE PLAYING. You used to engage in various forms of MORE EXTREME ROLEPLAYING with some of your other friends before you had an accident.

Your second reading of homestuck hits like a meteor.

I greet vriska. She isn't the one I knew. She can't be. Its nice to get to know her, to talk. It is not the same.

I meet every version of me and her across cosmic destiny. We are not from the same place. Some may be close enough for others but not me.

Three years. I spent three years changing, independent of any relation to source; Any fucked up interpretation we may have; Any deliberate choice I make about who I am as a person.

My name is Terezi Pyrope. I come from Homestuck, Godfeels, some horny stories about myself. I come from Karkat Goes to a convention. I am pre retcon, I am post retcon. I come from headcannons; dead and alive; utterly personal and entirely common.

I am a Rouge of Mind.

I am Terezi Pyrope. I have no sourcemates. There's no judgment to that.

cw: covid, dysphoria, suicide, poor system practives

On july 28th 2018 i purchased a line a day journal. I purchased it from a gift shop on a somewhat regular trip to New York with my father. As of today I have written a journal entry (almost) every day for five years.

I have complicated feelings about my journal use. There is very little space to write about each day. My notation does not help. I can only fit about six sentences about my day into each entry space.

On the last line of each entry I write what day of my life it is, each day without fail. An old rwtxt document lost to time holds a similar tradition. Entries with less consistency and emotional depth scrawled in markdown, file locations obfuscated by my poor understanding of go at the time. I always know how long it's been since my birth. I keep track of it because I like the numbers.

Starting September 27th of 2018 I have rated each day on a scale of negative to positive fourty. (initially -50 to 50). Zero is true neutral, my day was not overall good or overall bad. Ten is satisfactory; The minimum of good a day should be. 11 through 20 are definitely good days, the good in them sufficiently outweighs any bad and them generally being satisfactory. Days above 20 stand out, they are fucking amazing. Negatives are definitely bad days. A day has noticeable good in it up until -15, it was just bad overall. -20 and below is a sign that something is wrong. At both positive and negative 35 ratings are concerning. There is either mania or egregious depression. What an autistic way to interpret emotions.

It's hard to say what a day means to me looking back. Again there are only six sentences and a number to go off of going back. My handwriting is rather poor, to the point that I sometimes struggle to read it. It also isn't feasible to just read entry after entry to get a sum of how I felt. What I can do is look at how long each entry is.

My first two years were pretty verbose, using most of an entry's space each day. Ratings are pretty neutral due to how my depression was at the time. My ratings pick up for a bit and then I am saying less during 2020. oh right covid.

Even if I am doing better under the hood, getting less dysphoric and more social, I am doing less. Of course my days will still be mediocre.

I begin to say more during the summer before college, but not as much as I did in 2018. I am rating many days above ten, which has been rare. All of university since then has been about that good. I have less volatile emotions, less dysphoria of the day to scrawl away.

My ratings have gotten generally better over time. I have been more confident to rate a day more expressively as I have multiplied my life experience by 1.33. Also helps that I recovered from my depression. I have more room for the joys of concerts, conventions, sex, and games. No longer numb to my bad days but thats worth it.

I celebrate days of my life with cool numbers that are not birthdays. 6969, 7k, 6k, etc. Day 7000 felt very impactful. It shouldn’t have. There isn’t a good reason to count like this.

the days counting thing was a timer.

to not kill myself before i could get my hands on estrogen

to not kill myself before i got on pubery blockers

to not die before things got socially better

a challenge to endure a finite amount of time before things would get better

and they did

i kept counting. i got older every day.

I had an estimate on what was the earliest and latest day we of my life I could get estrogen in the rwtxt days. I don't remember what they exactly where but they lined up almost perfectly with when I actually got hrt.

This journal was started in the wake of great horror. If you are trans and fully realized before the onset of puberty you know exactly what I felt. Each day you feel like your body is taking damage. You know it's so incredibly gradual and you don’t care. It just builds up over time. Two months pass in a blink and you know your voice is deeper than when it started. You fight the good fight against budding facial hair and you know it will get harder over time.

Then it was over. I got approved for blockers and there was a definitive limit to the “damage”. The start of the journal is about me coming to accept exactly exactly how much happened to me. I exist in a catastrophized post dysphoria for literal years in the journal. I learn how alienated I am from my peers gradually. Both alienated in gender and in neurodivergence.

Waking up to my plurality is documented in this book. My words are messy and wrong. Stena and Kai are under mentioned in entries. We still haven't truly figured out non astral entries.

I don't think any other 5 year capture of my life will be able to hold the same meaning as this. I literally became a woman while holding this book. Breasts grew, gender changed, I became a more realized person.

The spine is slightly damaged and the binding has weakened. Much of the golden page edge has been abraded away with time and getting tossed between my divorced parents' apartments. There is faint water damage. The pencil of older entries has smudged ever so slightly before fully setting into the paper.

An old name and discord handle note the please return to page. Stickers that no longer fit my aesthetic sensibilities scattered across the cover pages. Ideas of how to notate from an entirely different iteration of myself inform the very nature of this book's use.

This book is what it means to grow up as a trans woman.

+13

Day#7478

its me, internet user nefola, now able to post here

various mid length writing will go here, including but not limited to personal essays, poetry, and original fiction

also i don't tag slurs.