Shyness, what a biatch...

Friday began as a pretty fine day for me. I woke up to a phone call from my dad who announced that he’s found me a job in his offices. This is fab news! It means that I can now move out of my house and start affording all those pretty dresses that I’ve always wanted. Such exciting news for an oppressed trans person!

The only issue is that I’ve worked at my dad’s place before, however back then I was working night shifts in the warehouse. When I quit my job and returned to university last September, my colleagues often joked by saying that I’d be back in less a year and will probably get a promotion for being the bosses son (I was seen as the MD’s spoilt child who was given a job simply because daddy runs the place. They were probably right).  Well now a year has passed, and I have indeed been given a higher ranking position, so it means that I will probably receive countless comments from my ex-colleagues; damn.

Nevertheless, I’m so happy, and my dad is such an awesome guy for getting me this. He knows how depressed I get – sitting at home all day, doing eff all – so it’s brilliant of him to go out of his way to find me some work which pays well. 

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After hearing the lovely news, I then ventured down to the splendid town of Camden with one of my mates. He was down on business and wanted to go to a BDSM bar after he'd finished, so I decided to be brave and join him on such an adventure. 

I’m not into BDSM, however my friend did promise me that he’d go on a night out with me to a trans bar in the near future, so I thought it was only fair to return such a generous favour. 

When we first got to the bar, the ghastly presence of shyness crept back into my life and oh boy, what a comeback it made.  I looked on in envy as my friend went around, chatting so comfortably with everyone. I completely froze up; not knowing what the hell to do or say to anyone. In the end I decided to just follow him around like a timid puppy and pretend to look as though I was somehow a part of their conversations.

It’s so annoying. I hate being such an introvert. I just want to be confident and comfortable around strangers. I love making friends more than anything else in the world, however I constantly assume that everyone hates me, so I always freeze up and crawl back into my shell of silence. 

For the first few hours, I was stood there, despising my very existence. I just wanted to be like my mate. I wanted to make new friends, however it just wasn’t happening for me. 

But then, after a few more pints (about 8 if I'm being perfectly honest), Dutch courage came along to save the day. Suddenly, I was chatting, dancing, and actually able to hold conversations with people for more than five minutes at a time!

Whenever someone asked if I was into Kink, I told them no, but that I was transgender. For the first time in my life, I was telling strangers about my gender identity! Most of them looked shocked when I first told them, which I strangely enjoyed. It was quite funny. Some of the shocked people were being whipped and tied up as I told them. How ironic, that they were freaked out by my alternative lifestyle, despite their own unconventional tastes.

They were all so lovely about it all however, and told me that they think I’d make an incredibly convincing girl. I have terrible self-esteem issues, so when people say things like this I find myself feeling attractive for a very brief moment. A lot of them were asking me questions about being trans, and it was great to talk so openly about it. I love how comfortable I’m getting with the whole thing! To think, that just under a year ago I would not talk to a soul about this, now I seem to be telling everyone (well, except for mum and dad, but I’m going to very soon).

But it wasn’t all dandelions and daffodils. It turned out that one really hot girl was chasing me around the bar all night (that's not the bad bit of course). Naturally, I was completely oblivious her attraction toward me, as I automatically assume that every female finds me repulsive. Finally she grabbed me and told me that I had incredible hair. We then got nattering and it soon became clearly apparent that she was after me. But then, I told her I was transgender and she seemed to lose interest.

 “Why the hell did you tell her that you moron?” you may be screaming. Well, because if I am to get with any girl, I want them to know the truth from the get go. Like I’ve said in a previous post, I’m not going to act as though being trans is a bad thing. I will not keep this from anyone. It is who I am and if people have a problem with it then they can sod off. The girl still spoke to me after I told her – so she wasn’t being a bigoted idiot or anything – yet you could clearly see that the interest was no longer there. Shame really, because she was very attrative and had a lovely personality.

As the night wore on, my confidence took a nosedive once again. Suddenly, drunken people started bringing up the subject of my chronic shyness. “You need to be more confident” said the girl who previously liked me. One guy – who bought me a drink – said that I seemed like a frienly person, but that I was very shy and should try to relax around people more. Another woman said that I was in a world of my own and that I was as silent as a rock.

They meant no harm with their words - as they all seemed  to like me - yet such comments do hurt my feelings. What do people even mean by “you need to be more confident”? It’s not like I’m being shy on purpose. I’d love to be an extrovert, but my sheer self-hatred and paranoia makes it pretty much impossible. For all my life I have wanted to be as sociable as hell. I love people and I adore making new friends, but such a process is not easy for me. I’m not being shy on purpose, and reminding me of how timid I am does not make things any easier for me.

 

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Many pints later, my friend decided to call it a night and we both drove back up to Telford (he was driving and yes, he was sober). As we travelled up the motorway, a feeling of sadness came over me.

I suffer from ‘grass is greener on the other side’ syndrome. I’m convinced that if I lived in a place like Camden, then I would be perfectly happy. I tell myself that if I could just find a job in such a place then I’d never be alone or afraid again. I think that I’d meet tones of people like me there, and I would no longer feel isolated in regards to my gender identity. 

Naturally, this is most probably a delusion. Five years ago, when I went to an Aberystwyth University open day, I was convinced that this little Welsh town was the key to my happiness. I was certain that if I could just get the grades to attend this university, then life would be hunky-dory for me. I believed that I would find a beautiful girlfriend, I’d make millions of friends (not literally, that would be a dumb goal) and I would no longer be shy.

But when I got to Aberystwyth, none of that happened. In fact, I was more miserable during my four years there than I was in Telford (and I hate Telford!). By May 2012, I despised the place so much, that I vowed never to return again.

Despite my love of Camden, I’m sure I’d find many things to whinge about if my dream of living there did come true. I’d probably moan about the stresses of living in such a busy enviroment and the costs of everything (I mean it’s London for crying out loud. Far too expensive for us poor Midland folk). 

However I do adore the town and I shall hopefully be venturing down there many more times. It’s better than bloody Telford, that’s for certain, but then licking a lampost is more enjoyable than spending a day here.

Bye Bye Confidence, Do Return Soon...

Recently, I’ve been more confident than usual. 

For god knows how many years I've been a right shambles of a character; suffering from chronic shyness, extreme self-hatred and incredible narcissism. Back at university, I was often known by friends as the hopelessly timid kid who usually had to consume at least two bottles of red wine before even having the audacity to approach a nightclub. 

During the past month, however, things have changed somewhat. I’ve begun to actually like myself. No longer am I ashamed of who I am and I’m now able to comfortably hold a conversation with a stranger without assuming that they loath the very thought of my existence.

It’s been a wonderful month of self-acceptance and confidence growing. Today, however, saw that self-assurance drain away from my body; all thanks to the bloody job centre.

At 2:50pm this afternoon, I finally signed on for job seekers allowance. I’ve been home from university since last May and I’ve been putting this day off for a very long time. I promised myself that I'd find a job long before my savings ran out; yet such a task has proven to be unobtainable for silly old me. In the end I had no choice but to ask my fellow British tax payers for a bit of financial assistance.

My meeting lasted about 30 minutes, yet in that time I was patronised and made to feel as though I was doing something awfully wrong and criminal. 

“So before you sign anything, you must set yourself a job seeking goal. What kind of work are you striving to gain?” asked my condescending supervisor.

“Well, I’ve obtained sufficient knowledge in script editing, vision mixing, floor managing and studio directing from both my BA and MA in university. So ultimately, I’d like to find work potentially in a television or radio studio” came my naive response.

She looked at me for what felt like an eternity before responding to my choice of words.

“I think we need something a bit more realistic than that. What actual work experience have you had in the past?”

“Erm, well, I’ve only ever really worked in retail and warehouse jobs before.”

“Then I suggest that you focus on finding work solely in those areas” was her ultimate conclusion.

After that, she spent the remaining segment of the interview telling me that I should be looking high and low for job entries in those two categories, and that I should not turn anything down – no matter how strenuous or unpleasant it may seem – as it could very well result in me having my job seekers allowance cut.

I stumbled out of that building feeling like a slug in a salt factory. I was the lowest of the low and my world felt as though it was completely over. On the walk home, I convinced myself that I was an absolute waste of space who’d just squandered four years of their life and £25,000 on two superfluous university degrees.

I’m sure this feeling will fade with time, but right now, my universe feels as though it has reached its conclusion. I only went to university so that I could escape the horrors of the work which I experienced in those factory and supermarket environments. Of course there’s nothing wrong with such job roles, however I’m just not built for them.  

For years, I was certain that as soon as I finished my degrees, I would never have to work in these surroundings again, however my first job seekers interview seems to suggest otherwise.

Oh well, I’m probably just over worrying. I’m sure something positive will crop up eventually, even if I do have to endure a few more years of retail and warehousing. At least it will still supply me with money (the only thing that I seem to care about these days. How disgraceful of me). I have all the time in the world to focus on building up my dream career, so I best just take what I can find in the meantime.

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In other news (if you can call it that) I’ve been staying at my friend’s house for over a week now. Bless his caring soul. He's realised that I’ve been feeling pretty trapped and isolated at home with my parents, so he thought that it might be a good idea for me to spend some time away from them.  As a result the lovely darling offered me his spare room for a week: completely free of charge!

Having friends who care about you is such an extraordinarily wonderful feeling, though I do fear that I’m out welcoming my stay. I’ve been using his hot water, his espresso machine and his food supplies for over a week now; whilst he slaves busily away at work. 

 

Despite being incredibly grateful for his hospitality and assurance that I'm forever welcome, I still feel horribly guilty about using his house as an asylum for my domestic troubles. I almost feel like a leech; sucking him dry of his resources and privacy.

Nevertheless, it’s great to be able to escape from the chaos of home life and spend some time with people who are concerned for my wellbeing. I’m eternally thankful for the marvellous individuals that surround me in life.  

Anyhow, I'm off to Camden tomorrow. I absolutely adore that place, so the excitement is helping to drown out the frustrations of today. 

My Brain Is In Overdrive, My Fingers Are Not...

Today is one of those grisly days where my fingers simply will not respond to the needs of my overactive imagination. My head is in overdrive; full of countless script ideas. It has been profusely plotting my hypothetical 13-part Doctor Who series; my science fiction trilogy, Star Child; my second sitcom idea, Superficial; my novel, Finding Life; and my dystopian film trilogy, Nightmare Diamond.

Naturally, you’ll know absolutely nothing about these titles (accept for Doctor Who, probably), as I have not yet written about them (though I shall do soon). What they are, however, is a list of the screenplay/novel projects which I’m currently hoping to work on in order to get my writing career off the ground.

You see, the problem is that these ideas are all there – sitting happily inside my skull – dying to be written out into screenplays. I know how each project begins; what the characters do; what their universes’ look like; and how they all end. It’s all up there – growing more and more grand in detail as each day passes – but I simply cannot be arsed to write any of them up. 

Today my mind has been more active than ever. It is as though all cylinders are running at their full capacity. The structures of my projects are becoming more clearer than ever before; the characters are beginning to grow into three-dimensional beings and the worlds which surround these stories are expanding in ways that I never imagined were possible. 

This is incredible news to me. It means that my brain is still has the ability to be somewhat creative. But when I finally sit down to write up these brand spanking new ideas, my hands just do not want to start typing. 

They drift reluctantly over the keyboard, uncertain on what order the words should go in. I finally manage to force out one or two miserable sentences, but then I decided that I hate them. I become angry at the fact that my ideas look less electrifying on paper than a plate of soggy toast does at the breakfast table. Where has all the excitement gone from my stories? Where are the grand city skylines and enigmatic characters? Why does it seem so bland and unoriginal on a word document? What has happened to all the colours and excitement of my precious brainchildren?

Then, I look up for a moment and catch sight of the kettle. “Oooooo” I think to myself; “I haven’t had a coffee in like five whole minutes. Maybe it’s time to get another”. Instantly, I forget about the aggravations of my writing ability and spend the next few minutes brewing the strongest cup of coffee that is humanely digestable. 

Afterward, I sit down again; my head firing out an entire army of luxurious concepts. The fingers once again hover unenthusiastically over the keyboard. Again I instantly end up hating everthing that they type out.  I pop the kettle on to distract myself from such negative emotions a second time round.

For hours on end, this process repeats itself; going round and round like a dog chasing its own tail. I dream of seeing my stories in their finished text formats; yet I absolute despise the process of actually writing them out. I just wish that my ideas could be automatically downloaded to the page from the moment that I dream them up. That way I could cut all this bullshit out. 

Today, my Brain is in overdrive, however my fingers are not. The thoughts are there, yet the ability to type is elsewhere. 

Anyway, I haven’t had a coffee for at least five minutes. Just gonna pop the kettle on...

Doctors, Shopping & Job Seeking...

So today wasn’t exactly the most eventful of days, however it was more so than usual for daft old me. 

I began my morning by visiting my local GP to discuss my depression and next week’s therapy session. She seemed slightly annoyed that the therapy team in Telford refused to treat me due to being transgender; however I’m glad that they did decide to refer me elsewhere. The fact that they forwarded me to a gender therapist speeds up the entire counselling process and at least allows me to talk comfortably with someone who has an understanding toward transgender matters. 

My doctor was wonderful to talk to and was as sympathetic as could be toward me and my gender identity. She did, however, tell me that I may never have to tell my parents about being trans if I can quickly find a job and move out of their house; acting almost as though this would be a positive move on my behalf.

I do get a tad miffed when people tell me (or should I say suggest) that I shouldn’t tell my parents about being transgender. Why shouldn’t I? It almost sounds as if they are implying that there’s something deeply wrong with me; that being trans is nothing but a dirty burden that I should keep safely concealed from those who I love.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with being transgender and to hide in the closet for the rest of my life would suggest that I think my behaviour is somehow immoral and unsavoury. I’m not saying that I’m proud to be trans – it’s not as though it is some sort of exceptional achievement – it just so happens to be who and what I am. I should have the right and freedom to tell who ever I like; without having to feel as though I’m making a grave error in doing so.

So ok, I get that it’s going to be real tough on my parents and that I should think about the effects which it will most likely have on them. Of course I don’t want to upset and confuse them, but I have to think about my own feelings too. If I am to be happy and if I want to live my life expressing the gender that I’m most comfortable with, then telling them is the only way to achieve such a desire. I love my parents to bits, however they are not my masters and I should be at liberty to be honest with them. 

Could you imagine suggesting to a gay person that they should not come out to their parents because it may upset and confuse them? Such advice would quite rightly be grossly unacceptable. 

What I guess I’m trying to say is that I’m going to tell my parents about being transgender very soon; despite what doctors, therapists and friends may think. It’s something which I feel I need to do for the sake of my wellbeing.

But nevertheless, the ball is definitely rolling. I have my first appointment with a gender therapist on Monday the 20^th August and I’m very excitement about it. I can finally work on discovering who I am and strive to become more comfortable with my gender identity. I’ve hated myself for so many years, yet only now am I learning to love and accept myself. Roll on Monday!

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Once my doctor’s appointment ended, I decided to meet up with a few friends and mosey around the town centre for several hours. This was very naughty of me, as it meant that I did not get a single bit of writing finished today. I really should be focusing on my sitcom as its deadline is just over the horizon. Hopefully tomorrow I can pull my finger out and make some kind of effort.

I did, however, manage to drag myself into the job centre this afternoon. It turns out that my job seekers appointment was yesterday afternoon; however they failed to text me on Friday to confirm this. From the tone of their voice I assume they think that this was somehow my fault; however if they fail to text, call or email me, then I highly doubt that I’m the one to blame for such a lack of communication. 

Going on the doll was a difficult decision for my oversized ego. There’s a lot of stigma attached to claiming benefits, however I had no other choice. Since leaving university last May, I’ve applied for over 50 jobs. Not once have I received a single interview and over 40 of those 50 applications didn’t even bother to respond back.

I want a job more than anything else in the world right now. I’d love to have an income, to keep myself busy during the weekdays and to finally have something to get me out of bed in the mornings. The problem is that there just doesn’t appear to be any work going around here. I’m now at the stage where I'm applying for every type of job that exists under the sun; yet it just seems to be that employers don’t want me (probably because I have two art degrees. Damn them and their potential prejudice toward the abstract!).

But I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I know I’ll find a job eventually. I’m reasonably intelligent (I think) and I’m keen to succeed; which means something is bound to pop up for me sooner or later. All I'm saying is that I’m not just some idle sponge who’s making zero effort. I really want to work; people just need to give me a bleeding chance!

Oh Boy, Here We Go Again...

So here we go again. It’s Monday morning; the most tedious and repetitive day of the week for me (and for many others, I'm sure). Week in, week out, I do the same thing. I wake up around 10 o'clock, feeling like a barrel of decaying turds; I look online at a few sexy dresses that I want to purchase; I get huffy because I can’t afford those said dresses; I forget about what I can’t have and dive into the shower; I put on a pot of the strongest coffee imaginable and I then sit down to work on my ghastly screenplay.

Yes, I have no job; I’m an unemployed bum who’s leaching off my hard-working parents. Well, I’m currently in the process of signing on, so from next week onwards, I’ll be leaching from the government. But fear not! I’m not one of those doll dossers that spends their days arguing with one another on Jeremy Kyle. I’m searching high and low for a job – any job; just to keep me out of the bleeding house. 

Seeing as I have no job to get up and go to, I now dedicate my days to writing up my university summer project. I’ve just completed an MA course in screenwriting and must now write up a six part television sitcom in order to graduate next summer. 

At first, it all seemed like such fun. I mean how cool would it be if I could pull it off? Not only would I be able to write my own television show, but I’d also be seen as funny! Oh it was just too good to be true. That is until I actually started writing it. Because the main problem with me is that I’m not funny; far from it as a matter of fact.

Honestly, being funny is the hardest thing to do in the world; particularly if you’re trying your hardest to be amusing. You know what it’s like, when some idiot you know is trying too hard to be funny. They fail miserably; coming across as nothing more than an annoying scrotum dangling maddeningly in front of your innocent face.

Well that’s what writing a sitcom is like. You become that irritating jerk who’s striving desperately to be hilarious. With each line of dialogue I find myself pretty much writing ‘hey look at me, I’m really comical and ironic’. The whole process feels almost dirty, like I’m masturbating in public whilst singing the complete back catalogue of Celine Dion (I like Celine Dion by the way. I have no idea where that example came from). 

But nevertheless, I’ve managed to soldier on through this tiresomely soul destroying process and I now have both a pilot episode and episode two written up in the form of first drafts. But when I sent them to my tutor for proof reading, I get the most frustrating feedback imaginable.

Now don’t get me wrong, my tutor is a man of brilliance and that’s what makes his feedback even more wearisome; because I know that he’s 100% right! 

Firstly, my episode one has great plot and characters (his words, not mine); however there’s simply not enough comedy throughout. Naturally a sitcom should have a laugh a minute. However there’s a laugh once every ten minutes in mine, which is quite rightly unacceptable. 

The problem with my episode two, however, is the complete opposite. Apparently it’s very amusing (wehay, I can actually write comedy!) but apparently there’s simply not enough plot or character development.

So now I have the task of making episode one less plot heavy and more comedy driven, whilst episode to needs to be slightly less amusing but with a stronger narrative. Unfortunately, I have no idea how on earth to do this.

You see, the problem is, I don’t even know where the comedy comes from in my scripts. Even in episode two. I just write and write and simply hope that what I’m typing out resembles humour in at least some shape or form. 

When I start actively trying to be funny, that’s when I become a total toss bag. That’s when I start writing in silly flatulence jokes and unnecessary f-bombs to give it that superficial comical punch. Suddenly my script becomes a document of profanity and toilet humour which makes me want to chisel my own eyes out with a blunt kitchen knife.

So there we have it. Writing a situation comedy sucks. My scripts are either too funny or too bland. Next time I might just write something depressing and solemn. I’m good at writing stuff like that.

Anyway, I best get on and continue with my writing (by writing I really mean listen to my complete itunes collection multiple times over whilst downing countless cups of instant coffee. Procrastination is bliss).

A Bit About Dear Old Me...

Well, this is my fourth ever blog profile to date (I dunno why I keep writing these things: as if people don’t have anything better to do than read this narcissistic trash). I thought that this time round, I’d start off by giving a little bit of information about my jolly old self.

I guess I should begin by saying that I’m a 22-year-old aspiring screenwriter who’s just graduated from university. I’m now attempting to naively make my way into the thorny world of film and television. I’m currently writing my own six part sitcom (more on that later) which I hope to try and pitch to the BBC come this autumn. Naturally, like many aspiring writers, I’m finding it pretty much impossible to find work of any kind. Naturally, this means that I spend each and every day sitting around whining about how misunderstood and undiscovered my [blatantly non-existent] genius must be. 

Another thing about me is that I’m also transgender (whaaa?) and will most probably be writing numerous blogs on this subject. Nonetheless, I will try to keep such posts as optimistic as can be. I say this because in the past I’ve written many blogs on being transgender and a majority of them turned out to be pessimistic rants about how difficult and depressing my life was. Seeing as I’m now incredibly tired of playing the world’s smallest violin, I’ve decided that it would be a wiser idea to write from a more positive angle whilst reaching out to the wider world.

So, what can you expect from this blog? Well, to be completely honest, not much at all. It will act as my online diary (yes, I actually feel the need to make my personal journal public. Heaven knows what that tells you about my ego). I will not fill it in every day, as I’m far too lazy for that, however I shall try to at least update it once or twice a week. I shall most probably be discussing my writing, film/television ideas and the general events which take place during my day to day life. 

I will try my hardest to make this blog as entertaining and as thought provoking as can be, however I really can’t promise anything.  In fact, this blog will probably be just as un-entertaining and as un-thought provoking as a damp cloth on a winter's day. Nevertheless, I hope that you can at least find some sort of enjoyment amongst this neverending torrent of claptrap.