- Working from ~0600 - 2000 for days on end is tanking out my (and ours, in the end) energy reserves.
- Brain is broke.
- Desperately trying to clean house after ignoring it for nearly six months.
- Can't think of what to write on account of current events being too complicated/uncomfortable/probably boring/insert reason here.
However, one thing that's been developing slowly over the past few months has been my realignment of our Outside gender presentation to male, as much as possible. I now own a packer, harnesses, and binding tops of no-shit quality, and have been trying to discipline myself such that I go out in male mode on weekends whenever I go out, the better to practice. (This is an enormous pain in the ass because, due to pressure from various authority figures, I have spent most of our life up until now drilling myself mercilessly in female-type social interaction styles to the point where they are now muscle memory. Having fought the war to get myself to that place, I now get to fight the war to escape from it. Such is life, I suppose.) I like to think that I pass at a distance, but fail utterly as soon as I open my mouth because I talk and gesture way too much like a girl.
The plan was for this to remain strictly a weekend thing for the next three years because trans-folk are not allowed in the Army. (Not sure about other branches, as I heard a story about someone transitioning while in the AF Academy?) Every time I go out in male mode, I realize that I am taking a chance and hope that I am obscure enough, personally low-key enough, and generally lucky enough to not run into anybody who knows me and might catch on. I've been wonderfully fortunate for a few months now.
While I was out tonight at the grocery store, shopping for bulk OTCs to treat the undiagnosed fibromyalgia that I am also not allowed to have in the Army, I ran into my boss. Not just one of the higher guys who tells me what to do on a daily basis, but the actual battalion commander, the lieutenant colonel. It turns out that a whole bunch of higher-ranking folk live in my hood, according to him, and I'm now trying to figure out an alternate grocery-shopping strategy to try and avoid places where said highers may be lurking--where would majors and colonels not go to buy food...?
He seemed distracted, which was good. Hopefully he wasn't paying too much attention to the outlines of my torso. The binder that I was wearing at the time has mystical powers that vanish our B-cups like a pair of chubby ninja; I would never have believed, until I saw the might of this binder, that fat was so malleable that it could be squished into hand-sized pancakes against one's ribs. Downright fascinating. As for the packer, it makes a bulge, but I'm under the impression that most men don't stare pointedly at people's groins during conversations. The bulge needs to be there in case of closer inspection, so to speak, at least from what I'd gathered. (I am still getting over this terror of my bulge being too big, which I suppose is ironic, since there are products that men can buy that are designed to make one's crotch look cartoonishly enormous. :P)
...I think I probably don't need to worry about an investigation being opened or anything. It just scared the hell out of me, but thanks to me having that female social programming still solidly in place, I seem to have dodged the bullet.
A GID/transgender diagnosis, at least in the Army, leads to medical disqualification for military service. It's basically an honorable discharge, the same as if we'd had our legs blown off by an IED (which is kind of darkly amusing). I would rather not tip my hand until it's about time for me to get out, though, because a medical discharge is still a discharge and will still equate to us having no job. :/
I have been trying to adjust our diet to eat more like a poor person, just in case I get kicked out for PT failure or side effects from one of our invisible ailments. We are not all the way there yet because eating this way makes my fibro angry, which messes up too many other things. Every day, I eat a little of each of the four main food groups:
1) Maruchan ramen ($1.25 for a 6-pack!)
2) Cream o' Wheat/Instant Oatmeal
3) Canned wild Alaskan salmon (our sole luxury, as going entirely without protein seemed like a bad idea)
4) Vitamins/supplements/OTC meds, eaten by the handful
I'm able to eat on about $6 per day, which still seems too high. People at work have been noticing the diet change and are wondering what the hell is wrong with me (although the big point of contention seems to be that I cheerfully eat cold insta-oats/Cream o' Wheat by just pouring water in and mixing it--it is apparently the mark of the infidel to not microwave hot instant cereal :P). Perhaps I am being way too paranoid in preparing for the absolute worst, particularly since kicking someone out of the Army takes a very, very long time even for obvious offenses like beating your family members or snorting crack in the barracks, meaning that I'll have a good long time to see it coming if it actually happens. But it is hard to live in the shadow of the axe and not speculate about what will happen when/if it falls, I suppose.
The bosses said that this week will be a bad one. I am already laughably behind on everything due to people sending me to duty classes that no one else wants to attend; thanks to all of that, I would need at least a month of no new taskings to be able to clear my plate. (The oldest untouched task I have has been around for about that long.) Shit's hilarious around here. Fourteen-hour days plus working at home on a personal laptop that I sacrificed to government work? When I am on my deathbed, a decade or so from now, surely I will cherish all this quality time I spent at the office. 9_9 Three more years, three more years...-_-
...I know we never post anywhere anymore. Mostly it's because one or more of the following are true: