A. K. Fitzgerald

    Tag: Writer

    • Androgyny and Being Nonbinary

      Hey Internet Peeps, it’s A. K. again. Today, like many days, I woke up to my wife joining a live on TikTok. This one, like most that she joins, was on the validity of trans women, or trans people. Like, what the fuck is that even? How are trans women or trans people not valid? They always say my gender, nonbinary, is invalid as well. It got me thinking about several things. I have trauma from bullies all throughout grade school asking if I was a boy or a girl in a degrading tone. But also, there was the dreaded “shim” or “he she”. When they found out my given middle name was Amanda, it turned into “A man duh”. I’ve always had an androgynous look to me. Though most would’ve taken me for a boy because I wore, and still wear, more masculine clothing. I definitely would’ve failed the three article law as the only gendered item I wear is a bra.

      I have a memory of being in like first or second grade and having my friends tell me I should use the boy’s room. Not because they were being mean. They genuinely thought that’s the bathroom I should’ve been using. Then there’s the memory of being at Balboa Park in the fifth grade, (all the schools in San Diego go to Balboa Park for a week for extra learning) and one of the boys in my group, who I thought I had made friends with, “misgendered” me by saying “he”. The instructor corrected him and said “No, she”. He lost his shit and was just like, “No, he. He. He.” Like thanks for bringing the attention to me asshole. I just remember feeling so awkward and uncomfortable with all the other kids looking at me.

      Middle school was the most instances of “shim” and “he she”. Middle school was hell. I wanted so much to fit in, and these people hated me. Not all of them. That’s where I met my wife, after all. I’ve never been able to help the way that I look. My mom forced me to wear a dress to my eighth grade promotion. It just felt wrong. Everyone was so surprised. I don’t remember the exact comments. I just wanted to disappear. My mom always tried to push femininity on me. Occasionally forcing me into dresses and having my sister do makeup on me. I hated every minute of it. Why couldn’t she see I would look better in a suit? I would feel more like myself in a suit.

      Now I’m all grown up and I do own a suit. It’s not tailored, but it fits me alright. I look pretty good in it, too, if I do say so myself. Now most people know I’m AFAB. They can tell. They just think I’m a masculine woman. I wish I had the balls to tell everyone my pronouns are they/them. Everyone calls me “she”. And it stings just a little. Because somehow that feels just as inaccurate as “he”. It’s not like people can tell from looking at me what my pronouns are. I would have to speak up. I just feel so awkward doing it. People in my life on a regular basis don’t even use they/them for me. Why would a stranger? And people get so weird about pronouns. Like it’s some monumental task you’re asking of them. Is it really that difficult to use they instead of she? Then there are the angels out there who automatically know somehow to use they/them. Goddess bless those people.

      All my paperwork and documents still say “X”. I’m not changing it. That is my gender. I’m not invalid. I’m nonbinary. I float between. I am both.

      I guess that’s all I really have to say about that. Remember to like and subscribe. That way you’ll get me in your inbox. 😉

    • Fear of Failure (And LGBTQ+ History)

      Hey there Internet Peeps! It’s A. K. again.. I’ve been thinking a lot about failure lately. I always feel like I’m failing. Largely because I still base my metrics off of my mother’s scales. I got a 96% on my Statistics midterm. It’s still an A. But somehow, I felt like I had failed because it wasn’t 100%. When I told my sister, she said it was because our mom would’ve said, “Why didn’t you get 100?” or something along those lines. I’ve always felt like a failure. Like I wasn’t doing enough. Now I still feel like a failure. I expressed to my incredibly intelligent and caring wife these feelings that I’m going to fail. That I’m a failure already. She asked me to point out when I had failed, when it was not because of fucked up extenuating circumstances at home. She asked me to point out when I had failed since we had been together. Because she couldn’t think of anything. I sat, dumbfounded, tears streaming down my face. Do I really just think I’m a failure because my mom implanted that in my head?

      I’m really stressed, maybe overthinking this Newsletter idea of mine. I want to research and write awesome things from History. I want it to be History Uncensored. A lot of Gay and Lesbian and Trans History. But other stuff too. There’s so much interesting stuff that’s happened. I want the Newsletter to be the correspondence for The Witches’ Guild, too. So, there will definitely be a witchy vibe to it. What I’m afraid of is that no one will read it. I’ll research and write it out and there will be no need to print it. No wax seals to pour and stamp. No envelopes to address. Because there will be nowhere to send them. I have about a month. I know a few people that have said they would read it. Family mostly… My goal, though, is to reach a broader audience. To grow an audience. To get people interested and informed and excited about the events of the past because they’re still relevant today.

      I have a feeling that Trans history will be the focus at first, in one way or another, because it needs to be. Because Trans people have been around since the dawn of time and it’s crazy to me that they’re trying to erase them. Us. I fall under the Trans umbrella. For those that can’t tell from my previous posts, or haven’t read them, I’m nonbinary. Some days I feel more Trans than others. But I very much fall into that category. To have the president of your country say you don’t exist. To have the gender marker on all your documentation, “X”, suddenly be invalid. To not know if your passport is valid when you have an international trip coming up. It’s maddening. It’s heartbreaking. Mostly, it’s infuriating.

      The only way I know how to do something is to write. So, I have my little blog. Where I process my trauma. But also talk about the issues that mean a lot to me. But I want to expand it to the Newsletter. I want to put more information out there. Historical information. Because there’s power in knowing the past. I have a Gay and Lesbian History book. I love the edition I just got because there’s actually pictures in there. Great pictures from history. Of old timey gays and lesbians and trans people living their lives as best they could. I want to find more resources like this. Maybe online resources will be easier. There don’t seem to be a lot of books like this one by Neil Miller. Maybe one day I’ll write my own LGBTQ+ History book so there will at least be one more. But I’ll go further back than 1869. Because that’s just when the term “homosexuality” came onto the scene, according to said history book. But we’ve been here the whole time.

      Will I fail? Maybe… But I have to try. I have to have this lofty goal. Among all my other lofty goals. Because it’s important to me. But bigger than that, it’s important to have the information out there. I remember what it was like for me to find that gay history book in the bookstore. The elation I felt. I felt seen. Validated as a human being. Here was MY history in a book. If I can do that for someone else, why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t I do that with this Newsletter? And who cares if my mom thinks I’m a failure. SHE’S a failure! And she’s dead. So, who cares what she thinks anymore. She can’t hurt me anymore.

      Well, I guess that’s enough for today, Internet friends. Don’t forget to like and subscribe. Those actions really do help me. So please don’t forget to do it if you enjoy my writing or if you want to make me smile. All it takes is liking this post. And putting your email address up in that subscribe box. Then you’ll get me delivered directly to your email. No spam. Just my blog posts. I appreciate you reading to the end. Leave a comment, too. That would really make my day. Ok. That’s really all for now.

      -A. K.

    • What I’ve Been Up To

      Hey there Internet People!! It’s A. K. again! I’m hopeful today. I finally started actually talking about my mom in therapy. I cried y’all. I just cried when I even mentioned wanting to talk about my mom. She’s such a touchy topic for me. It’s hard to even write about her right now without crying. And I’m writing this at school. And how embarrassing would it be to just start crying while sitting in the Business building as students walk by me??? Anyway… I’m hopeful. I have a future now. Without her. Despite her and the trauma she inflicted upon me. Upon us. My sister is building her business and I’m so fuckin proud of her!! She’s following her calling and I’m trying to follow mine… writing…

      I want to put out a Newsletter. Like… A physical Newsletter that people subscribe to and look forward to getting each month. Something that’s well written and researched. Something I pour my heart and soul into. Not that I don’t pour my heart and soul into this blog… But y’all know what I mean… I’m really excited about this Newsletter idea. I’m just unsure how to get subscribers…  Marketing… I’ve never been so good at marketing myself. I’ve been trying to gain momentum with this blog… The Newsletter is going to be published through, or rather, presented by, The Witches’ Guild, our café/lounge/business that we’re opening. We, being my wife and I. We’re going to start making chocolates and candies well before we open the brick-and-mortar business. But we’ve been talking and we’re going to publish the comics/graphic novels I’m writing, too. So it only makes sense that the Newsletter would be through The Witches’ Guild as well. Plus, great advertisement, right?

      I want the first “issue” to come out for May, Beltane. It’s going to introduce The Witches’ Guild, my wife and I, then dive into Beltane, and then a new personal favorite of mine, Inanna. She’s an Ancient Sumerian Goddess. The reason I chose her is very simple: She was said to “turn men into women and women into men”. That’s right, she was basically a Trans Goddess, among many other things. And her priestesses were trans women and nonbinary folks. I had already done some research into her separately from this and discovered her on my own for other reasons. But then when researching trans people in the ancient world, her name came up again. It seemed meant to be when I saw her name. I knew I had to do my first issue on her and her followers. I hope you all that choose to subscribe find her as interesting as I do.

      Like I said, I’m hopeful… I see a future for myself… I met with a counselor here at school yesterday. He thinks I’ll be done at the Community College and ready to transfer to the University by next Fall. Not this Fall… Next Fall… But ready to apply this Fall… What a fuckin trip! I thought it would take me three years to complete what I wanted to do (double major, essentially, Business and English) at the Community College before I transfer to University. In my College Success class, we had an assignment to make affirmations. Mine was, “I am Creative, I am Consistent, I am Hopeful, and I am Grateful for the Life I have now.” I repeat that to myself basically all day, every day. I get real bad intrusive thoughts, especially when the PMDD is getting real bad. This affirmation helps. But it’s actually starting to change something within me. I’m starting to believe it. I AM Creative… I AM at least starting to be Consistent… I AM Hopeful… And I AM incredibly fucking Grateful for the Life I’m living now…

      I encourage y’all to make your own affirmations. Then repeat them over to yourself. Out loud or silently in your head, like I do. Make them inspiring. Manifest your future. I also encourage you to like and subscribe to me. 😉Leave me a comment. Would you be interested in subscribing to my physical Newsletter?? It would come with a small fee for physical costs and shipping. But I promise it’ll be worth it. I’m into wax seals. Keep that in mind. It wouldn’t just be plain white paper and some forgettable junk. Anyway… Drop me a line.. Leave me a like.. And please subscribe.. Thank you to those that have.. I appreciate the fuck out of YOU!! That’s all for now Internet Peeps… Til next time..

      -A. K.

    • Worthy of Being Seen

      Hey y’all, it’s A.K. again. I’ve been contemplating something my wife said to me. My whole life I never felt seen. I was always in my room playing solitaire listening to music while my mom and sister were hanging out in the living room. I didn’t really mind it so much, I guess. I don’t really like attention being on me, unless it’s academic. Teachers saw me. I liked that. But I didn’t like being put in front of the class. I just liked good grades, positive notes, academic accomplishments. My mom was never there for the big stuff, like awards. No one was. I remember she went with me to visit UCSD when I was in this program in middle school that could’ve led to me going there, possibly. But taking me to the Saturday school that was part of the program was too big of a deal, so I only went to the first week. I, obviously, didn’t go to UCSD. All she talked about afterward was the boy on the school bus that watched her boobs jiggle, she didn’t even talk about the program that I was so excited about.

      Now, I do everything I can not to be seen. Even, and especially, at school now. I do everything not to be seen or noticed in class. By the students, and sometimes even the teachers. I want to make a good impression on the teachers with my homework. But I don’t want to be noticed in class. I don’t want to be seen. Is that because I actually don’t want to be seen? Or has it just become my new normal? Is it leftover from Utah and not wanting to be seen by the bigots there, and their hateful looks and comments? Do I really think I’m so insignificant that I don’t deserve to be seen? Is it the trauma of living in a house where no one wanted anything to do with me for so long? Unless I was in service to them… Why am I afraid of people seeing me? Why am I afraid of going outside? I can’t even take my dog outside to potty most days and it falls on my poor wife…

      Even now, as I write this, as you read this, it’s under a pen name. I would never put my real name out there for everyone to read my innermost thoughts and traumatic shit. I’ve always related to the Tupac line, “I want money, fuck the fame, I’m a simple man.” I want to be a famous author. But I want A.K. to be famous. I want to personally be able to walk around and use my real name and no one know who I am. What a nightmare for people to know who I am. No one wants to know me anyway, do they? Does anyone really read this blog? Will anyone read my writing? When I finally, one day finish writing my comics and novels, will anyone read them? Will A.K. Fitzgerald become famous? Will I be able to remain in obscurity if they do?

      Some people are just recluses… I related to them when reading about them in books as a child. I knew I’d probably end up being like that. But is it by choice or conditioning? That is the question posited by my wife this morning. And I don’t know the answer. Certainly, I’m an introvert and always have been. I blush when any attention is on me. It makes me feel uncomfortable. Unless it’s one on one or small groups. And even then, sometimes it still feels uncomfortable. I guess it’s something I’ll have to get used to. In school, tomorrow, I have to give a four-minute presentation in front of my Business Communications class. I was supposed to Monday, but I didn’t go Monday. Anxiety… And my wife loves to be seen. She deserves to be seen. She’s a fuckin Goddess, after all. This is the biggest place we differ. She, an extrovert, me an introvert. When we go out, I have to remember, they’re looking at her, not me. We do look good together, though.

      I don’t know if I’ll ever know whether it’s conditioning or choice that I don’t want to be seen. I don’t know if I’ll ever change that I don’t want to be seen. It’s so engrained in me. Hopefully, though, I will feel that I deserve to be seen. That I am worthy of being seen. If you are reading this, I see you. Really, I check the stats constantly. I know there are a few. I appreciate you. You are worthy. You are loved. You are amazing.

      That’s all for today.

      -A.K.

    • You Can’t Take the T Out

      I have always had a complicated relationship with gender. I’m AFAB, but even when I was a baby, people said what a cute little boy I was. My mom would dress me in pink dresses and they would say how cute her baby boy was. I didn’t have hair until I was two years old, so I’m sure that didn’t help. As a child, I grew up with the dreaded question, “Are you a boy or a girl?” Mostly from kids being little shits on the playground. I heard it in their tone. When I would answer, they didn’t believe me, or they would say something rude. So, I started responding with, “Why?” They would counter with, “Because I want to know,” I would say “Why?” again, over and over until they gave up, exasperated. I was exasperated, by fourth grade. I was a girl, wasn’t I? That’s what my mom said I was. Sometimes I felt like I was a girl. But I wanted to dress in boy clothes. I didn’t like pink or dresses or sparkles or any of the girl stuff. I wanted short hair. I was labeled a tomboy. Tomboy. TomBOY. Yes. I liked this term.

      I was lucky enough to grow up with an elder lesbian as a friend of the family, part of the family, really. I have a very distinct memory from when I was maybe 5 or 6. She was babysitting us, me and my older sister. We were driving somewhere. On the way, we stopped to see her friend, or at least she went in to see her friend. It was a girl. I saw her use breath spray before going to the door. I knew in that moment I was going to be like her. I was going to go see girls who were special friends. For whom I needed fresh breath. To impress. To be with. I didn’t have the word lesbian yet. But I knew that’s what I was. I have another memory of being maybe 9 or so. My family, parents, grandparents, my aunt, the family friend mentioned previously, were all at dinner at the Corvette Diner. Someone had gotten a drink that came with a cherry. I didn’t even know how I knew I could do it, but I announced that I could tie a cherry stem into a knot in my mouth. Then I proceeded to do so. My family laughed, somewhat uncomfortably. Someone asked if I liked eating Rice Krispies. I did. I didn’t quite understand though. I still don’t understand the correlation. But I do love me some Rice Krispies.

      I thought my gender issues were explained by the fact I’m a lesbian. That’s why I feel boyish, right? Because I like girls. It wasn’t until being with my wife that I realized I even had a girl side. Then I was more confused. She makes me feel feminine. Sometimes. Then sometimes I feel my most masculine. We balance each other. I’m growing my hair out for her. For me, too. But for her. Being with her made me realize I hold both masculine and feminine genders within. I realized I’m nonbinary. It varies which gender shows itself day to day, or even during the day. Does this make me trans? At first I didn’t think it did. But the more I sit with my gender(s), the more I realize I DO fall under the trans umbrella. There’s definitely a boy inside here. But sometimes a girl. Sometimes both.

      I read a section in a Gay History book. It was about the history of Two-Spirit acceptance in many Native American communities, pre-colonization. I forget the Native word for it listed in the book, and I don’t know which tribe it was talking about specifically at that point. They were revered, though. Seen as connected to the divine. There was a story about a Two-Spirit woman. I don’t remember her name, nor her tribe, and I don’t have the book right now (it’s being sent to me from Utah as I write this). It was the time during manifest destiny, I believe. When the government was making contact with tribes, just to give them the boot and take over their land. Somehow the president became aware of this particular Two-Spirit woman. And he became so intrigued by her, she was invited to the White House and had tea with the First Lady. I don’t remember which president it was. The history book is Gay and Lesbian History, 1869-Present (It’s called Out of the Past, if you’re interested). Reading about the Two-Spirit people. Reading her story. That was when I had the first inkling that I was nonbinary. Again, I didn’t have the word for it yet. Just Two-Spirit. Which is what I feel in my soul I am. But I read somewhere that it’s cultural appropriation to use that term if you’re not Native. So, nonbinary, I am. Trans, in a way.

      Now, there’s a lot of trans hate. They’re trying to take the T out LGBT. WTF?! Marsha P. Johnson is the reason we have the gay rights movement. Well, Stonewall. But Marsha. You can’t just remove the existence of people that have always been around, throughout ALL of history. And the hate. The vitriol. It hurts. It makes me sad, but angry, too. And a little scared. How do you erase a whole population of people? That’s what the president is trying to do. But where does he think we’re going to go? And the courage it’s giving to despicable people to do despicable things. It’s fucking scary. Because, I am trans. People see me and think “boy”. And, for the most part, I feel like a boy. I’m still trying to find the balance between the two. That’s always made me a target for bullies. But the bullies are in the White House, now. And they’re emboldening the rest of the bullies to be louder. I guess that means I need to be even louder than them?

      I’ve never really been loud. I’m quiet. I keep to myself. I try not to make any trouble. But I used to be a rebel. I used to be, not loud, but intentional. I lost that, through the trauma over the years, from my mom. But I feel like now, especially, I really need to get that back. I need to be loudly angry. I need to be unapologetically, authentically myself. I thank my wife and am so incredibly grateful to/for her for showing me everyday how to do that. That I CAN be that. To anyone reading this, be YOU. We’re not going anywhere. We will get through this. We will fight this bullshit. And we will prevail.

      -A. K.

    • An Actual Step in the Journey AKA I’m Glad My Mom is Dead

      Hey y’all, it’s A.K. I came to a revelation today, after watching a video on YouTube about narcissistic relationships, that if my mom weren’t dead, I’d be no contact. That makes me feel… I don’t know. When I was young, I was always plotting about how I was going to get away from her. Then, when I was 14, she tried to kill herself. I almost lost my mom. I remember my sister and I went into survival mode when they took her away in the ambulance. We raided the change stash and took all the quarters. We didn’t know how long we’d be away from home; our grandmother was coming to pick us up and we were going to stay with her.  I remember all the blood on the bed. My mom kept the mattress; changing the sheets was a recurring reminder. That was my first day of Freshman year of high school. My mom always ingrained into us that we were all we had, the three of us. I felt responsible for my mom. And this wasn’t the first time she had cut herself. For some reason, my instincts to flee my abuser were being overwhelmed by my sense of responsibility for her. My dad had “abandoned her” (us). We had to stick together. She needed me. (Recently, while talking to my dad about my mom, he revealed to me that at one point my mom said to him that she “needed us to take care of her,” as children.) I was already being groomed to be my mother’s caretaker while she guilted away my instincts to get the fuck away. The whole time, further suicide attempts sprinkled in. She was never happy with her lot in life. She said she always wanted to be a mom, but she sucked at that. She didn’t make a good wife. She didn’t do anything. She was a horrible example of what to do and be. She was a narcissist. I’m terrified of becoming her. I always have been. She tried to make me into her for a long time. And for a long time, I just went along with whatever she wanted. Because at some point I stopped fighting.  I go back to that day. That’s also around when the isolation started. A year later she was pregnant, and her future husband (not the baby’s dad) told me I was responsible for taking care of the baby. I remember that day very well, too. I remember dropping down to my knees in the kitchen, in tears, being told I was responsible for this child. I didn’t get pregnant, yet I was responsible for a baby. I lost my fight. I’m sorry to say. I’m ashamed to say. And for 16 years, I took care of that kid. I did my best, at least. I turned 16 right after he was born, for Pete’s sake. I moved out when he was 16 and I was 32. And he was pissed. Pissed that I was so old when I finally moved out; pissed that I moved out at all and “abandoned them”; pissed that I left him in my place for Mom to turn on. To be fair, he had always been the golden child, and I hadn’t the slightest clue that she would turn on him when I left. When I moved out my mom said she was “mourning the death of her daughter”. Like it’s not normal for adult children to move out of their parents’ homes. Especially dysfunctional ones. She wouldn’t speak to me. I was disinvited to Christmas. It was fucked up. Then they moved to Colorado. We started talking a bit on the phone. Then she had the stroke. And I came running. To take care of my mom. Because I was responsible for her. She had a tracheotomy and couldn’t talk at one point. So, she wrote in a notebook. She asked if I would come back and take care of her. I told her I would. She wrote something along the lines of I have been blessing her life since I was a baby. And then not a couple weeks later she died. She never took accountability. She never made things right. She was just gone. If she weren’t I wonder where I would be now. Would I be lucky enough to have my wife still? Would things have still gone the same? Things leading up to that would’ve gone differently. Suffice to say, I’m glad my mom is dead. I wouldn’t be living the life I’m living now if she were alive, and that’s pretty fucked up to think about. If she were alive, I wouldn’t be able to have contact with her, so it would be no different than it is now anyway. Though, now there are probably less complications because she’s not producing drama.

      I hope you enjoyed my rambling about my mom and my complicated feelings toward her. What’s your relationship like with your mom?

    • Allow Me to Re-Introduce Myself

      Hello out there, Internet! It’s me, A. K. This is my new location for my blog. We’re trying to move away from Google, so no more Blogger. To re-introduce myself, I’m A. K. and I’m on a Journey through the healing process from all the trauma I’ve been through in my life, mostly at the hands of my mom in a dysfunctional, “cult-like” family system. She was a total narcissist. I have a few mental illnesses; depression, anxiety, cPTSD, BPD, ADD, “broadcasting thoughts”, a touch of the ‘tism, some other stuff I’m sure I can’t think of. I’m a full-time student. I recently married my middle school sweetheart. We went on an epic honeymoon cruise over Winter Solstice. I’m a nonbinary lesbian alien. Nibby to my dog. I’m a writer, obviously. Just not consistently. (I’m working on that.) I’m also working on being an artist. I have hopes of writing and publishing a comic and/or graphic novel. That’s about the gist of who I am. This space is where I write my thoughts, when they come up, about my healing journey, my anger for my mom, who I can’t process with, because she’s dead, or just my thoughts about life in general. I’ll repost my latest blogpost. Maybe I’ll post a couple. Anyway, it’s nice to meet you. I hope you enjoy my ramblings. Maybe leave a comment so I know you were here.

      -A. K.