When I was a kid, I tried to distract myself from my gender dysphoria by listening to music, watching television or going to the movies. As I get older, and thoughts of suicide flood my mind, I’m desperately feeling the need to take it up a step.

The last month has been very trying. There’s the haircut. I’m mostly happy about it. But, I think it outs me and puts more of an emphasis on my face. I’m currently out of the medication I use to block testosterone. It should be here in a couple of weeks. It was an oversight by me. I decided to move checking accounts right when I needed to order another dosage. I’ve gained ten pounds. I don’t want to even talk about that. I’m wearing a hat every where I go. I don’t look people in the eye. I try to reach out to friends. But, they get mad at me. I’m having stressful interactions with an old friend on Facebook. And I think about suicide about 100 times an hour. And a security guard just called me sir.

Recently, I just noticed that I have been doing something very subconsciously. I think I started doing it a couple of days ago. I’ve been holding a coin in my left hand. Moving it between my fingers. Feeling every little groove and indentation with my thumb. I think, somehow, doing this little thing is helping me from spiraling out of control. Before I started typing this, I was spiraling. I was looking out a window at the fall colors on the trees, wishing I was out there feeling the breeze on my face. I wished I was typing this while grass under my bare feet. I feel sterile in here. Disconnected. I reached into my pocket, looking for a pen. But, instead I found a small, beat up penny. Without even knowing why, I felt compelled to hold it. Too turn it. I flipped it between my fingers. Over and under. And slowly, this little distraction helped me feel grounded. Although still upset, I was moving away from the edge. My fingers have stopped shaking. And I no longer feel the need to reach out for help.

Now, if only this lucky little penny could help with the dysphoria.


About Frogtosser

A former sailor and pizza maker who is done hiding from the world and is now living life to it's fullest extent. I'm a single speed bicycle commuter who enjoys writing and photography. I'm a voracious reader. And a huge geek!
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One Response to Distractions

  1. Sedulous says:

    My Oba carried a little piece of sodalite with her. It was an odd stone she found as a child waking along the cliffs. At about age 6 I inquired as to why she kept a rock in her kimono. I had seen her slip it in and out of its folds several times over the years and wondered why I didn’t have one when she dressed me in my kimono. I had all the other accoutrements but that.

    She sat next to my futon on the tatami and told me it was her worry stone. She pulled it out the folds of her kimono and let me hold it for the first time. It was half smooth, not fully polished, and warm. I turned it over and over in my left Hamden feeling it. It weekend to want to conform the shape of my hand.

    Oba said it was her ‘worry stone’. She told me how after finding it, some weeks later, she was stressed and found it while tidying her room. She began turning it over and over finally clutching it in her left hand and rubbing her thumb over its surface. It helped to calm her. She started carrying it around all the time and would rub it when worried. It was a jagged stone she found, nothing polished or smooth about it. After it cut her hand she had it lightly polished to take the sharpness off nothing more.

    She told me years later in my teens when visiting how it never left her hand when my mother told her she was pregnant. (High risk is our history in baby making area.) How it was she rubbed it until she heard we were safe on any trip we took. How it was my mother’s and my own teething ring.

    Over the years, she’s polished it through constant rubbing. I’ve seen it change. I’ve found a few worry stones for myself, they help, they balance. My father has one of sorts, it a knob off a panel from his beloved jet. Oba’s stone is in my mother’s custody. Mum admits to rubbing every moment of my coma, during ever mission my father was on, and every time she was away from us on assignment.

    When I confirmed my pregnancy to my parents, my father says mum started rubbing it furiously. Having some serious complications in my last three months, she has passed it to me, temporialy. My bigger adult left hand fits it like a glove. My thumb tracks the same path my female progenitors did down its side. Every stroke brings a memory of home, mum, Oba–peaceful happy times. It is keeping my BP down and me calm.

    No, it is perfectly normal your hand seeks it’s own worry stone. We all keep charms, trinkets, and fetishes that bring luck, love, peace and hope.

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