OW OW OW F'ING OW

So, I sliced the hell out of my left index finger last night.

No, I wasn't being careless with a knife. Some idiot* left a razor lying face up under a pile of things, and when I reached down to grab things from that pile to sort them, my finger caught and dragged across the blade at just the right angle to slice off a wide strip of skin from my fingertip. It's not deep, but it's broad, and it hurts like a mofo (because it's on my fingertip, where so many nerves are). Imagine a skinned knee, but on my fingertip instead.

It also bled like a stuck pig, soaking through bandages like crazy. I managed to stop it last night by wrapping it in several paper towels** and taping them in place because Band-Aids just weren't up to the task. But when I changed the bandage this morning (because I couldn't get anything done with a freaking clown nose around my finger), it started bleeding again.

This is the second bandage, applied by a family member. You can see how the
cotton is completely soaked through.  You DON'T want to see the first bandage. 

I say this not for sympathy (although I'll gladly take well-wishes) but to say the following:

1. Don't bury sharp things under other things. Just... don't. 
2. It's amazing how much blood a superficial cut can make. My bathroom looked like an abattoir by the time I was finished. 
3. It's really hard to open first aid supplies without an index finger. Band-aids, apparently, need two functioning hands to properly open and apply.

*Sadly, I was that idiot.

** Why not gauze? Because as I discovered last night, it's hard to open those glued paper packages with just one hand and a couple fingers from the other. It's even harder when blood is running down my hand, dripping everywhere, and generally getting that paper wet so that it just tears off in little pieces like soggy tissue. Paper towels, meanwhile, I could just grab and rip off by the handful.

My Origin Story

(Hi, Erin from the future here. Most of you know me as transgender, and will be curious or confused why I'm calling myself genderqueer in this essay. The short version is that I've evolved from who I was when I was trying to define myself. The longer version is too long to explain here, so please go to this blog post of mine and read the section titled "Genderqueer vs. Transgender", if not the whole article. Thanks!)

I don't talk much about being genderqueer, because on the whole I don't think it's particularly relevant to this blog:  people come here for my ideas and opinions on guns, gaming, and the like, not for gender politics or social justice or to hear me talk about my plumbing.

But earlier in this month I asked if people wanted to hear my origin story about how I came to realize I was genderqueer, and I was surprised by the number of "yes" answers I received. So, since there's interest, I'll talk about it, and the curious can ask questions and I'll happily answer them.

If this is not your thing, I will understand and not have my feelings hurt if you leave now without reading. 

However, progressing past this point indicates you are willingly crossing a potential TMI threshold, and if you become offended, that's on you and not me. 

Owning It

Warning:  In this post I talk about gender and identity issues. Folks with nervous dispositions or Victorian levels of morality may not be comfortable with what I have to say. 

It has come to my attention that some folks took exception to my presence at the NRA Annual Meeting. (No, I'm not going to link to the post(s) in question as I don't believe in feeding the trolls, but those who are suitably curious should be able to find it without too much trouble.)  Sure, the words are couched in terms of "We don't like how Erin acted in this situation," but I find it a bit curious that:

1. No one said anything about this to me, personally, either while I was "disturbing them" or afterwards.  All of this only came to light once people were safely ensconced behind their computer screens, miles away. Since no one communicated their displeasure to me until well after the fact, despite me being right there, I can only assume people are upset that I can't read their minds. 
2. The words "attention whore" are being bandied about by people who weren't even present.
3. These same people are calling me "he" -- in one notable case, right on my Facebook page. I even gave her the benefit of the doubt that it might have been a typo and asked her to "please change that pronoun, thank you very much."  I was told, quite specifically, "Not going to happen."

And yet they claim that it's my behavior which is inexcusable. Harrumph, I say. One does not descend to this level of rudeness out of dissatisfaction with my sense of propriety.  Instead, I say it's pretty clear to me that these people are disgusted by my mere existence. It's the only reason I can think of for people -- who have not met me, and to the best of my knowledge I have neither offended nor interacted negatively with -- have decided to eschew basic human courtesy by insulting me and choosing to use terms with which I do not identify.

And you know what?  Good.  This means I stand for something they find uncomfortable, and rather than attack my position and look like a bigot,  they have chosen to attack me personally and couch their petty hatred in socially acceptable terms.

There's a saying that you can judge someone by the quality of their enemies, and given the levels of pettiness to which my opponents are stooping, I'd say I come out looking pretty good in comparison.

I could argue the applicability of being called an attention whore by other bloggers (who, by definition, are just ordinary folks who expect other people to look at them, follow them, and read what they write -- pot, meet kettle), but instead of refuting their points I'm going to do something they won't expect:  I'm going to own it.

Hi, my name is Erin Palette, and I'm a genderqueer attention whore.

Squeaky still needs our help, by the way. 

I want people to look at me, listen to what I have to say, and think about my words. What's more -- and this is probably what is chafing everyone's buttocks -- I am an effective attention whore. When I came out last year, I did so specifically to raise money for a member of our community who needed life-changing surgery.

This attention whore raised over six thousand dollars, bitches. 

When is the last time you helped anyone so significantly? I'm guessing never, and with your attitude of "Let's make fun of the people effecting positive change within our community rather than do anything about it ourselves,"  I doubt you ever will. Did any of you so much as post a link to Squeaky's fundraiser?  No? Then your opinions are quite frankly irrelevant.

So that's the attention whore part settled -- now we get to the fun part of identity politics.  Last year, as the deadline for revealing my face (and therefore my genderqueer nature) loomed, I had quite the freak-out. I was terrified that people would react with disgust and horror, and they would mock me and make me feel like a freak. I was frightened that I would be rejected by the community that meant so much to me.

To their credit, 90% of the gunblogger world replied with a shrug and a "So what?  You're one of us. As long as you aren't trying to drag me into your bedroom, what your gender and sexuality is and how you display it is none of our business."  And when you think about it, this makes sense; when a community is founded on the principle that the individual is important enough to defend with lethal force, it also follows that the other rights of that individual are similarly sacred. For this, and for the acceptance I was shown, I thank everyone who offered support.

But as I've discovered over the past week, apparently there are some people who did not accept me, and have been nurturing resentment towards me for the past nine months or so, just waiting for an opportunity to bash me. I am particularly fond of one commentor's suggestions that "If he wanted attention so damn badly, he should have worn a damn tutu."

Well, you know, I suppose I could have. It really did occur to me to bring along some of my feminine clothes, but I decided not to because I didn't want to make things weird for those people who are uncomfortable with that kind of in-your-face expression of alternate sexuality.  In other words, this attention whore decided to dress in a manner that would make OTHER PEOPLE comfortable. What a terrible person I must be.

So here we are, a week later, and people are taking cheap shots at me for, essentially, being someone they don't like in too close a proximity to them.

Well, guess what, folks?  By mocking me for being me, by not accepting me for who I am and reacting with contempt when I don't fit into your rigidly designed mold, you've fulfilled my worst fears. This means I have nothing left to lose at this point. You took your best shot, and not only am I still here, I know who my friends are. What's more, I'm pretty damn sure my supporters outnumber my detractors.

So since the worst has already happened, I might as well be fully out and proud and post things like this:

You thought you'd seen whoring before?  You haven't seen anything yet. Perhaps I will become the poster girl for all the queer, transvestite and transgender gunnies out there (oh, they do exist, and probably in greater numbers than any of you imagine).  And once again, I will be doing it to promote our cause, showing that gun owners, as a whole, are accepting of alternative sexualities and genders and lifestyles. What's deliciously ironic is that YOU are the ones who empowered me thus:  by fulfilling my worst fear, I have gone from running away from it to running straight towards it, with the express goal of knocking that fear directly on its ass and then trampling it as I run over it.

So now, my dear detractors, you are faced with a decision:

1. You can continue to mock me as I continue to promote our cause, in which case you end up fulfilling every negative stereotype about gun owners (being insecure, bigoted, intolerant, etc) that the Brady Campaign, CGSV, Moms Demand Action, et al. perpetuate;
2. Or you can quit the high school drama and get out of my way.

Do whatever you like, darlings. Just keep in mind that doing the former gives aid to our political opponents, and doing the latter paints us as an inclusive, non-kneejerk community. It's your call.  Just remember what happened to Dick Metcalf and Jim Zumbo, and what gunnies do to folks who hurt our cause...

But above all, you need to realize that no matter what you choose, I WIN.   I am no longer afraid of what you may do or say.  In fact, I'm going to anticipate the vile hate I'll get for this and beat everyone to the punch:

Look at that. Give it a good, long look, and realize that I did this to myself.  I've already thought of all the horrible things that can be said, because I think them every time I look in a mirror.  Look at that picture and understand that you have no power over me, because you cannot possibly hate me any more than I hate myself.

And yet, here I am, unafraid, because I realize that I can be a force for positive change. And it was all thanks to you!

So in conclusion:

• You cannot stop me
• You cannot hurt me
• You caused all of this by not being able to keep a civil tongue. 

So go on, talk more trash about me.  I'm dying to see what else I can do to make you uncomfortable in the name of tolerance and gun rights advocacy. 

Duality

Let's play a thought game. 

Imagine you wake up in the morning after a rough, sleepless night. You stumble into the bathroom feeling like nothing more than deep-fried shit in a skillet, and you look in the mirror.  Now, what you see isn't likely to be pretty, but it's still recognizably you, isn't it? If you're a man, you have stubble. If you're a woman, you need makeup. Regardless of how messy you are, you still look like you.

Now let's try it again. 

You stumble into the bathroom, and you look in the mirror... and something alien is looking back at you. Maybe you changed race during the night. Maybe you switched genders. Maybe you are covered in blue fur.  Regardless, that thing you see in the mirror is not you... and yet, you're stuck inside of it. It moves in symmetry with your thoughts. It encases you, traps you, imprisons you.  How horrified would you be to see this thing? To be this thing?

Worse, how terrible would it be to see this thing, this prison of flesh, every time you looked in a reflective surface?  How awful to know that people who see you see it instead? How utterly discouraging to have well-meaning friends and relatives tell you "Honestly, sweetie, you look fine. I don't see anything bestial or reversed about you.  You just have low self-esteem."

How long before you start thinking of that body as just a mechanism of flesh that the real you -- the you stuck behind that thing's eyes -- operates? You don't go to the doctor, you go to the flesh mechanic.  You don't eat food, you consume fuel.

How long until this utterly warps your sense of self until you can't stand to be yourself any more?

This is my life. 

Weirdly, I was fine growing up. I had a mostly normal childhood, and while I can look at certain events and, with hindsight, see how they shaped the insecurities or neuroses I have today, none of them seem especially crippling. Besides, no one gets out of childhood unscathed.

Adolescence, though. Puberty. The change of life from child to adult, and along with the hormones that changed and twisted my body came the intense narcissism of paying close attention to those changes, along with the certainty that everyone else could see my multitudinous flaws as easily as I could. Couple that with typical teenage desires of wanting a lover, wanting to fit in, wanting to be socially accepted by a population that was not only equally self-absorbed, but also cruel in the way that only hierarchies based on social dominance can be...

Let's just say that I remember all too well looking at my naked body after a shower, and suddenly needing to vomit. I sickened myself because I wasn't myself... I was this thing. Worse, my body actually hadn't changed all that much, but still it was loathsome to me in a manner that I can't really describe. It looked like me -- sort of -- but I felt as detached from it, and sickened by it, as I would feel by looking at the carcass of a dead animal by the side of the road.

Corrupt meat. 

Who would you be if you never saw yourself? If the only way to judge your appearance was based on the reactions of others, and not your twisted sense of self judging your reflection in the mirror? I daresay it would be different from how you perceive yourself now. I say this, because for 10 years I have been trying to live my life this way.

God bless the Internet. Online, people judge you by the quality of your output, and not by appearance. They get to know your soul before they let the prejudices of the eyes and the flesh influence their judgement. It was on the internet that I finally found not just acceptance, but solace:  people liked me for me, and they weren't looking at me or judging me. I was safe. I had found my armor, my mask, my perfect little seashell, and I polished its interior until, shining like a mirror, I could fool myself into thinking my social prison was boundless and infinite.

A mirrored cage is still a cage. 

Thus I toiled, happy in my self-induced solitude, until I stumbled upon the world of the gunblogs. All it took was for me to say "Hey, I like shooting too!" and suddenly I was one of you. It didn't matter what I looked like or who I wanted to have sex with; I was part of the Tribe of the Gun. That I could write well only made me popular, but it didn't make me any more likable.

And that's when I noticed the walls of my cage were keeping me from meeting people who wanted to meet me, and that made me ache in ways I thought were no longer possible. I had rediscovered loneliness.

Slowly... very, very slowly... I started to come out of my shell. I decided to take a chance on people who seemed like good sorts, expecting that every time I made myself vulnerable that I would be hurt beyond my capacity to recover.

This never happened. I was accepted, with comforting arms, and told that I was still the person they knew me to be.

One by one, I was destroying my mirrors. 

Like any new experience, once I tried it and like it, I wanted more. Observing life from behind the safety of the keyboard seemed too limiting. I wanted to actively participate in life again. I started having dreams of meeting people, strangers, and having them applaud me just for being me.

For someone who hates her body, applause for just showing up is a hell of a drug, even if that applause is purely imaginary.

I knew I wanted to leave my shell behind, but I didn't know how until Squeaky's fundraiser failed to raise enough money. I was furious at my inability to make a difference until I realized that the mystery of my face was something that I could sell. Not only would it help her financially, but it would be the push I needed to finally break out of the rest of my shell -- my sense of honor, of duty, of obligation would not allow me to back out after making such a bold public proclamation.

"Do it?"

As you may have guessed, this post is the one where I reveal my face. Many of you are wondering when I'm going to put up my picture.

Well, to answer that question...

...you've already seen my face. I posted it yesterday.

I'm now going to pause to let you process that.





You have questions. I have answers. 

Many of you are no doubt baffled, shocked, horrified. I will attempt to explain as best I can. If your question isn't answered, please leave a comment below, and I will address your concern as soon as I can.

"What are you?"
I honestly don't know. This is what makes it so damnably hard to get a date -- if I open up immediately, I am put into the "weird sicko" category and shunned, and if I wait for someone to get to know me, I am accused of "keeping secrets" and "springing it on them".  Online dating isn't any easier, because I cannot figure out what to put on the profile -- am I a gay woman with a penis, or a straight man who wishes he could be Eddie Izzard?

"No, I meant what's the term for this condition?"
Well, a while back I mentioned I have Body Dysmorphic Disorder. In my case it manifests as "My thoughts and emotions are female, but I have a male body."   This is not quite the same thing as being transgender, in that those folks are Gender Dysphoric.  The pithy term for what I am is "genderqueer."

"I don't get it."
TL;DR:  Boy parts, girl brain.  I'm not fully transgender because, even though I hate my body, I don't hate it so much that I want to cut it to pieces or kill myself. Besides, my sexual orientation does match my plumbing, so it seems a waste to remove it, and I'm not at all fond of the notion of having a procedure done that would completely sterilize me.  Also, the ability to pee anywhere is nice.

That said, if I could have a fully-functioning female body, I would take it. It's the choppy-uppy that bothers me, not the thought of having a vagina.

"How did you realize you are what you are?"
Hoo boy. That is a long answer to a simple question, and this is already a big-ass post. I'll address it later, if you don't mind.

"What's your real name?"
Now that's an interesting question. As far as I'm concerned, Erin is my real name, because I've been answering to it online for about 10 years now. Most of my friends call me Erin, my readers know me as Erin... the name on my birth certificate belongs to the meat mech that I drive, and has as much meaning as knowing the Jaeger in Pacific Rim is named "Gipsy Danger".

"Why the beard?"
Three reasons:

1. I hate looking at my face in the mirror. The beard covers most of the awful with hair. Trust me, I look so much worse clean-shaven. I mean, even my parents agree I look better this way. 
2. Shaving sucks. I think both men and women can agree on this. 
3. It's camouflage and a mask. "Why no, I am not a fucking faggot, and you have no reason to kick my ass in a drunken rage in order to prove your manhood. I am a normal human being. Please drive through."

"Whose voice sang the songs for Tier 1?"

That's all me, baby. I don't use any software for it -- people just think I'm female on the phone. I have a naturally high voice (I sing tenor) and maybe one in a hundred think I'm male when they listen to me.  What's funny, though, is that if you meet me in person and THEN talk to me on the phone, you'll swear I have a male voice and cannot understand why anyone would think otherwise.  Isn't that weird?  Humans are such visual creatures that what they see influences their other perceptions.

"Do you do X, Y, or Z?"

Probably. I'd prefer to keep the more salacious bits of my life off the internet. I will say that everything I do is legal. As to questions of morality, that's between me and my God. He gets to judge me; you don't. 

"So you've been lying to us all this time?"

Nope. I said from the very beginning of this blog that I had my reasons for not showing my face, and never once did I ever say "When I was a little girl" or anything like that.  I just picked a female name, presented myself as such, and everyone accepted that as truth... because it is true, in every sense except biological. And if you're hung up on my biology, I think that's your problem and not mine. 

Besides, it's not like I haven't been giving hints.

"How dare you lead us on, making us think you're a woman blah blah woof woof wharrgarbl?"

Excuse me, but are we dating?  No?  Then it's no business of yours what's in my pants, and I don't need to tell you. 

"You disgust me."

That's nice. I'm glad you have an opinion. 

"I'm gonna..."

No, you aren't, because 1) I am a concealed carrier, and 2) there are lots of people in the gunblog community to whom I've already come out (notably Oleg), and they support me 100%. You'll see their posts about me popping up after this. Go on, start some shit, I dare you. 

"I have a question that hasn't been answered. May I ask it?"

Of course!  I encourage questions. Just keep in mind that I may decide not to answer them for personal reasons, but that doesn't mean I think any less of you for asking them.  Unless you're a jerk in how you ask. In that case, I am totally judging you. 

"So how should we treat you?"
The way you always have. Treat me like a female, because that's how I feel. I realize that this will be awkward if you ever meet me, and I accept that. I understand that it's difficult to think "girl" when your eyes are saying "boy."  I get that. You don't need to be perfect, you just need to try. Cool?

To conclude:

Aren't you glad Squeaky talked me out of the bikini/cheesecake pics?  I TOLD YOU that you wouldn't want to see that. I was right, wasn't I?

Also, I know lots of folks are going to reply with "You're very brave."  I'm going to try to accept this compliment as gracefully as I can, because I know you mean it. I don't feel very brave, though, as a brave person would have just announced what she was to the world.

Tell you what, though:  you can tell me how brave I am by donating to Squeaky's Surgical Fund. I'd really like for her to make it to $5,000 before the end of the month.

A big THANK YOU in advance to everyone who has supported me and made this possible. I owe you more than you realize. Special thanks in particular to those who have made posts of support on their own blogs:

Brigid
Squeaky Wheel
Jennifer
Evyl Robot Michael
Shelby (A Girl and Her Gun)
Linoge
Sean Sorrentino
The Jack
Lokidude
Roberta X
Kevin Baker
Phlegmmy
McThag
Larry
Claire  (Newly added to each other's blogroll!)
Gay Cynic
Thirdpower
American Mercenary
Nicki
Chris
Garand Gal
Laura
Spike
MSgt B
Da Tinman
Firehand


Kisses,
Erin Palette

Confession Time

This came up  last night on #GunBloggerConspiracy, so I might as well make it official and talk about on my blog:  I have body dysmorphic disorder.

I'm not going to get into the specifics of this, because it's taken me five years just to get to the point where I feel safe enough to mention this online, however vague it may be.

This is the real reason I hide my face and legal name. Yes, I get the added benefits of pen name, such as the ability to talk crap about my family without it blowing back on me, and the fact that those of you inclined to develop crushes on my can imagine me as your perfect fantasy without harsh photographic reality getting in the way.

But the brutal truth of the matter is that I think I am hideous, and am scared beyond reasonable measure that people will look at me and vomit. Or point and laugh. Or become enraged and want to hurt me.

This doesn't so much hurt me in daily life, because I couldn't give a shit what random people think -- mostly because I have a low opinion of people to begin with. But it's terrible when it comes to forming relationships, because it's the opinions of people who I like and respect that matter. It's like fear of rejection, only ramped up to a million.

In other words, I like persons but hate people. Conversely, the opinions of people don't bother me, but the opinions of persons do.

So normally this is something I can deal with on a regular basis, because I am effectively a shut-in hermit without any real-life friends. But then I read about the awesome hijinks that occurred at this year's Blogorado, and I ache. A deep, throbbing pain in the heart and the gut, like I'd been sucker-punched and dumped at the same time.

I desperately want to meet people who think I awesome, but at the same time the though of it is pants-shittingly terrifying. I am trapped between a need to protect myself and the need for human contact.

Before you ask: No, I'm not in therapy. I have no health insurance. We can't afford it, but neither is my family poor enough to be on assistance that I can get it for free. And frankly, given my family's attitudes about psychology and perceived weakness, I would quite honestly rather die than open myself up to the verbal abuse that would result if I admitted to them that I have this condition.

So I'm stuck. And that's why I am a writer:  I can create worlds where I am welcomed and not judged. I live inside my head because living inside my body is too painful. I want to be loved, but I am afraid of rejection, so I put on this mask to hide my face in the hopes that you come to love my anonymous heart and mind and soul.

I need help, but I can't bear to be looked at.