Vlog: How long should a human live? Musings on death and the promise of medical science

 

Vlog: On quitting hormone therapy as an intersex person

 

The dystopian world of identity politics

 

 Video transcript:

 Identity as it pertains to human beings is an interesting concept [1]. What, after all, makes a person that person? Perhaps most essentially, which components of a human being can be subtracted or added without affecting that person's identity? Perhaps one of the most basic and fundamental discriminations made by humans is that between male and female individuals. Yet in a study by Joel et al. [2] involving fMRI scans of the brains of both male and female subjects showed that this division does not extend to the brains of individuals. In fact, this study showed a distinct mosaic of features and patterns for each subject.

We can thus conclude that every individual has a unique brain structure, which presumably affects an individual's identity in some fashion. We can also conclude that the suggestion of a base identity in the form of a male or female person has no basis in reality. What sex chromosomes and related do affect are one's genitals, one's reproductive organs and along with it one's chances of being colour blind or getting specific types of cancer. Much of which is simply due to the presence of back-up copies of genes on the second X-chromosome which can compensate for defective or recessive genes on the first X-chromosome.


Here an interesting question is that of whether identity is affected by the alteration of one's body, or the experience of the alteration. In the case of a traumatic injury, such as the loss of a limb, the effect is both physical and psychological. The traumatic experience itself, followed by the recovery from the loss and the continuing reminders of one's loss in daily life, all of it form challenges, but does this change one's identity? What if said limb could be miraculously restored, just the way it was before?

Obviously our experiences will affect the way in which we will respond to future events, but does this change who we are, as in our ego and sense of self? Here the question that presents itself is whether a person's identity can be considered to be permanent, or changing. If we consider the concept of 'personal development', then it seems reasonable to assume that a permanent identity is impossible, and thus that what we perceive as our 'identity' is ever-changing, following our experiences in life.


If we take that reasoning, and then apply it to the concept of what is known as 'identity politics' [3], we can see the formation of a highly problematic picture. Defined according to Merriam-Webster as: 'politics in which groups of people having a particular racial, religious, ethnic, social or cultural identity tend to promote their own specific interests or concerns without regard to the interests or concerns of any larger political group'.

The terms which come to mind at such a description are 'tribalism', 'nationalism', as well as 'discrimination'. Each of which should be rather familiar terms to most, along with their negative connotations. It uses discrimination to segregate individuals based on quantifiers such as skin colour, sexual preferences, cultural and ethnic background, and so on. This type of discrimination is explicitly forbidden in Article 2 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights [5], which reads:

"Everyone is entitled to all the rights and freedoms set forth in this Declaration, without distinction of any kind, such as race, colour, sex, language, religion, political or other opinion, national or social origin, property, birth or other status. Furthermore, no distinction shall be made on the basis of the political, jurisdictional or international status of the country or territory to which a person belongs, whether it be independent, trust, non-self-governing or under any other limitation of sovereignty."


At this point we have to consider whether positive discrimination, inverse discrimination, or its more euphemistic term of 'affirmative action' [6] is truly the solution to what ultimately is a problem which can be summarised as the annihilation of the individual. Instead of accepting that any human being is their own person, and can freely choose with whom and how they associate with others, they instead are subjected to discrimination before they are even born, whether it is about their biological sex, involves their biological parents, concerns the environment and circumstances of their birth and upbringing, or any of a countless other factors.

Article 1 of the Declaration of Human Rights reads: "All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood."

If we are to accept this, and strive to make it into a reality, then the practice of identity politics, 'positive' discrimination and other forms of discrimination, nationalism and related can never be compatible with such a basic statement. Even as one declares human beings to be the equal of one another, the other declares that some are more or less equal than others.


To this I can add my own experiences to further the theory that a direct consequence of identity politics when it comes to biological sex and the associated (binary) social role, or gender, is that it too is merely a way to eradicate the individual.

As I fought for years within the medical and political systems of my own country of birth to learn the physical identity of my body, and to establish an official identity within the rigid political system, I got offered essentially three choices: the first was to maintain the male identity which I had been assigned at birth, but which matched poorly with my outward appearance. The second was to accept the pseudo-scientific theory [7][8] of transgenderism which I found myself steered towards by the medical professionals whom I consulted, the acceptance of which would have resulted in me having my body remoulded to fit a socially acceptable female pattern using invasive surgery.

The third option was to keep fighting for a third option, which ultimately materialised in the medical finding that my body is in fact that of a true hermaphrodite, as in the intersex condition. Unfortunately, this physical identity is heavily contested and barely known, and carries no official weight in society. Thus it is that to the world I am now of the female persuasion, even as my body is that of a hermaphroditic intersex individual, and my mind is that of my own. The latter two of which are quantifiers which society and with it identity politics do not discriminate on, rendering them practically useless and requiring suitable substitutions which are recognised by identity politics.


Thus it is that we reach this impasse in a rather dystopian system. If nations can sign the Declaration of Human Rights, yet practice identity politics and nationalism, with discrimination not only allowed but even encouraged by the supporters of both, then what hope does the individual have? The individual isn't a group. While groups are made up out of individuals, the latter should only be in the former out of their own volition.

There are only two types of groups which we can find ourselves a part of without explicitly applying for them, and out of these only one type which robs us of our individuality. The latter type consists out of any groups which we get forcibly grouped into, whereas the only group which we all find ourselves in and which we can never leave, but which leaves our individuality intact is that of humankind itself.


Ultimately, it is the human identity that connects all of us.


Maya


[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Personal_identity
[2] https://www.pnas.org/content/112/50/15468?fbclid=IwAR1yvJl4c2vdLroc_gu23Blx2Cv1RwfJswrqhvT7ljoV5Wus6tClqKgIQpA
[3] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Identity_politics
[4] https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/identity%20politics
[5] https://www.un.org/en/universal-declaration-human-rights/
[6] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Affirmative_action
[7] https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/what-is-pseudoscience/
[8] https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/pseudoscience

A true love story, or: on relationships and childhood abuse

When I look back on my childhood, there is one memory that increasingly haunts me. In it, child me is sitting on a couch, and my mother comes up to me and tries to hug me, only for me to shake her off. When I talked about this topic with my mother a few years back, she told me that I had started doing this all of a sudden when I was about five years old. Before that I loved nothing more than to be hugged and hug back, being the kind of child who would run into a room with strangers and end up hugging them. Until I suddenly turned inwards and began to reject all forms of physical contact.

It's only now beginning to dawn on me that my mother never stopped trying to break through this shell of rejection that had formed around me. Never stopping to hope that one day I would respond again to motherly love, even if she did not know what had happened to me to have caused this change in my behaviour.


In that regard it is interesting to look at what else happened between then and now, to try and understand a bit more of past 'me' based on those events. What kind of contacts I had, what relationships with others I built up, and so on. There a pattern forms of me being essentially taken in by various people like an abandoned puppy, some doing it out of pity and compassion, while for others there appear to have been... other expectations.

The low point there was undoubtedly the eight month period where while I was recovering at my mother's place after my failed suicide attempt, this one woman contacted me after seeing me in one of my media appearances on the topic of intersex. I guess I must have felt pretty lonely at the time, so when she asked for help with fixing some issues with her laptop, I agreed. She ended up visiting me, with a laptop that had some minor issues from what I recall, but nothing serious.

For some reason it ended up getting pretty late by the time she was supposedly leaving, and she insisted that her parents would not let her inside the house when it was that late, and she had forgotten her keys. This led to her staying the night, sleeping in my room. The next morning, she left, but would inundate me with messages, and call me at night, to hold entire monologues that lasted until the battery in my phone ran out. She also told me that I loved her. I guess part of me must have believed that, or was just happy to get some kind of attention.

I was searching for a new job at the time, and somehow she'd end up accompanying me to job interviews, even trying to convince the interviewer that she should also be present during those interviews. When I found a job (one I did attend just by myself, fortunately), I had to find a place to rent that was somewhat close to the office. Unfortunately due to Dutch rental practices, even my decent salary wasn't enough to rent more than a hole. Understandably, there was a lot of competition for such apartments, which meant that I spent a month or so travelling over two hours each day to and from my work with public transport.

Then this woman suggested that she could put her income from social security on top of my salary, so that we could rent something better. Together. Part of me figured that it'd be cool to help her out. We would be flatmates, was the idea. Sharing the apartment, but each with their own room.


I still cannot really write in too much detail about what happened afterwards, as it's too much to cover, and very upsetting. Summarised, she told me that she wanted to date me, that we were now each other's girlfriend. I guess this made me feel happy, as now I was more 'normal'. More like other people.

The real-estate broker who showed us around showed two places, one with two bedrooms, the other with one bedroom. We ended up with the latter. I remember thinking that I still wanted my own room, but with the choice for that place, it was settled. I spent the last of my savings on getting carpet laid in the apartment (another quirk of Dutch rental properties: you can expect a kitchen, but nothing on the bare concrete floors) and getting not only my stuff, but also her stuff moved to the apartment. This was also when I met her parents. I had been told to pretend that I was just 'a friend' who was helping her move to her own place. Her parents warned me for her, telling me to be wary of her, and showing me all the medications that she was taking for mental issues. Initially when we arrived with the moving truck, her parents refused to let her in, insisting that she should first talk with her, that they had a right to know what was going on.


The next months are a nightmarish blur. I'd get up during week days at 6 AM, go to work, return just in time to cook dinner, to then try to do something for myself and relax. She was glued to the television. Pretty much every waking moment, based on the power bill. When pushed, she'd tell me that she was afraid to go outside, that her family would figure out where she lived and would do something to her. When she had to go somewhere, she'd force me to accompany her. I used up most of my few vacation days at work to take time off for her on these trips. Other than groceries, I paid for everything else.

She'd force me to stay up well after midnight each working day to watch late-night TV. This led to me getting four, maybe five hours of sleep during the week each night. At work I was having enormous trouble trying to stay awake, with me dozing off in the midst of work when it became physically painful to keep my eyes open. That was the time when I first began to suffer sciatic pains in my right leg, with the painful sensations and numbness that would last for hours. When taking more days off for hospital visits, I began to discover another psychotic side to the woman I shared a flat with.

She hated doctors, hated psychologists. She got very upset and angry every time I had to go to a hospital appointment. She'd berate me, and yell at me, tell me that she would take care of me instead. I just had to trust her. Similarly, every time I talked about other people, she'd get angry, telling me in a loud voice that those people were all stupid and dumb. I remember when talking about me playing soccer as a teenager, she got angry and began a half-hour long tirade about how soccer is the most stupid sport ever and that everyone who plays soccer is a complete idiot and moron. If I dared to interrupt her, she'd get even more upset.


She'd always be around. Always knew where I was. Often, when I took a shower she'd be standing there, watching me. She trusted me in a sense, when she showed me her medical file, and the reports from psychiatrists which had led to her being marked as being completely unfit for any kind of work based on her severe mental issues. She was adamant that those conclusions were wrong, that there was nothing wrong with her, but everything with the world around her. She'd tell me about this older guy with whom she had had a relationship, telling me how he had just used her and how she'd take revenge, showing me invoices for wardrobes and other things she supposedly had been forced to buy for this guy.

This world collapsed when I had found a new job, working for a German company who had asked me to drop by for a week to get acquainted. My new boss then contacted me, telling me how he had been contacted by this woman, that she had insisted that she absolutely had to accompany me to Germany. He had refused, obviously. After this point her ire turned towards me. How could I let this happen, how could I not call up my boss and tell him firmly that he should pay for her to come along as well.

That last night involved hours of yelling and screaming from her at me. I couldn't interject, I couldn't do anything but cover my ears, walk away while she followed me. What could I do? Walk out of the apartment? I ended up barricading myself in the bedroom while she tried to push her way in, yelling that she would help me, that I was obviously unwell, that she would fix this.

Then she left. Moments later I heard her talking to my mother via the phone, telling my mother that I wasn't doing well, but that she would take care of me. This was the point where my mother felt all her misgivings come true. After somehow getting the phone to be handed to me, my mother told me that I should pack anything I really needed and leave the apartment ASAP. She'd come pick me up as soon as she could drove over from half-way across the country. And that she did. Over an hour later I was safely inside my mother's car, enjoying the peace and quiet.


Months later, I tried to get my belongings back, but the woman had changed the lock on the apartment and was apparently living there with some guy. The moment the door opened after we rung the doorbell, she took one look at us and immediately attacked my mother, raking her face with her nails. The moving company guys who were with us told us later that they had never seen anything like this before. That was the day when I lost almost everything. No money, no belongings but what I had taken from the apartment and what my mother had kept.

In hindsight my mother was absolutely right when she told me at the beginning that she didn't trust this woman. There never was 'love', or a relationship. A relationship is built upon mutual trust and understanding. Here there was none. I do not wish to express any conclusions or definite statements about these months of agony, but I do feel that I learned a fair bit about this person which struggled through those months.


If I had to change anything, or rather if I could change anything, I would have gone back to my child self and changed whatever led me to reject true, unconditional love back then. It's very hard to see oneself struggling through life without such connections with even one's own family. Maybe processing the horrors of the intervening years and giving everything a place will help me there in some way.

It still galls me that I cannot remember exactly what happened to me as a child which led me to change my behaviour so dramatically. I got a few fragments from which I can deduce a lot, but without knowing the exact circumstances, it's hard to do much with it. Yet even if I do not have that information yet, I am grateful for the love I always got from some people close to me, even if I didn't realise it until now.


My apologies if this blog post reads as more of an unhinged rant. It's been very tough to write, and there is probably a lot I didn't cover, or not well. Nobody said that dealing with trauma is easy, I guess. Consider this another small step forward in that process.


Maya

The torn thread between child and adult self

 You look at yourself in the mirror. You see a woman who is not a woman. Hermaphrodite. That was the word. Intersex. Neither male nor female. Yet a body that looks female but for some minor details.

Flashes of what could be memories or fragments of nightmares. Cold doctor's offices, soul-less hospital wards and uncaring, emotionless eyes and voices. A feeling of being cast aside and called terrible things that hurt so much.

Memories of a child you. Mostly unaware of existing trauma. Still living a life that is mostly care-free and happy. Scenes of happy family life. You want to reach out, touch the memory, connect to it. But you cannot.

The child is male. You are not. The child never was male? What happened between then and now? Are you the child, now, today?


A flood of memories. Fragmented. Shattered. Incomplete. Just so many loose threads shattered in the winds of time. Memories of terrible things that happened to you. Terrible things that you did. No cause or reason. Each piece of thread, each memory seemingly disconnected from the others.

Looking at yourself in the mirror now, you can look at your hands, flex them. Feel that they are really there. That they are truly a part of you. That this is all real. Everything before was a dream? A nightmare?

Most of it likely really happened. Maybe all of it. As well as the bits of thread that are now lost forever. The emotional agony when you reconnect the pieces of thread, try to trace back the path to childhood. Feeling the pain inflicted on you and by you for the first time. Is this what one wants to remember?

You do not remember being this person, this... thing that inhabits these thread fragments between that memory of the child and the you today. You do not want to be that person. That person frightens you, disgusts and revolts you. Even as you pity it as you would a wild animal that is trying to survive in a world completely foreign to it.


Others do not see the torn thread. Others see your self as an unbroken thread from birth to your final days. Yet you look at yourself in the mirror, and that is not what you see. Your body changing over time in ways that should have been impossible. The harsh response from society at each change and discovery.

You look in frustration at this mirror image which seems to taunt you with your lack of understanding, of knowledge and acceptance. You feel sickened by the realisation of what lies between the child you and adult you. What does life offer you?


You feel anger at this past self, at the world that let things get out of hand so far. But it's futile to be angry at the past. There is only the now and the future that still has to be made.

You can look at the past, force yourself to mend these pieces of thread. Ignoring the pain and suffering that this brings. Or you can let the thread between child and adult mend itself, over time, fed by the energy from a new, unbroken thread that spans into the future.


Looking at your hands again, feeling that strong connection with reality, you realise that you can live your life looking forwards or backwards.

Maybe it's not necessary to piece together this entire thread between child and adult right now and there. Maybe you'll never know exactly why your body turned out like this, or the myriad of ways in which it differs from males and females, but maybe that doesn't matter.

What matters is that you have a future. A future you can shape instead of letting others shape it for you this time around. A future with a healthy body.

All you really want is to see yourself smile in the mirror and feel the smile inside.


Maya

On seeking escape and safety; emotional numbness; self-delusion

 The concept of 'self' is fascinating. Not just because of the importance that is given to it, but also due to how it ties into how it affects how one experiences the world. One's 'self' is not a static thing. It grows and changes, just like one's personality, ultimately forming one's ego. Basically how one experiences and responds to the world around them.

This also means that one's experiencing of the reality around oneself doesn't necessarily have to match up with the facts. One of the amazing things about the human brain is its ability to predict the future, not only with the outcome of physical actions, but also in a social sense. This ability to run a simulated version of reality is also one of the major weaknesses, as this 'simulation' can grow stronger than reality and real sensory inputs.

When one talks about emotional numbness in response to traumatic events, this is essentially when this simulation ability reroutes real inputs and thoughts related to said events. Effectively one 'shuts out' the undesirable impulses and thoughts. Short-term this is an amazingly useful ability, that allows one to get through moments of trauma and adversity. Long-term one can loose one's self completely and one's connection with reality along with it.


I first noticed this strongly more than a decade ago, when I found suddenly that while watching a show on television, I suddenly could no longer 'feel' the characters on-screen, while this previously had not been an issue. This was in a period when my physical and mental health were degrading rapidly after moving houses a few times amidst traumatic circumstances. Physically I looked like a ghost, with clumps of hair falling out and overall poor health, while psychologically I had essentially lost all contact with the world.

Mostly thanks to my mother's care during that time did I make somewhat of a recovery, and began to notice that only did my health improve, I also regained my sense of smell, which had vanished without me even having noticed it. This made it clear to me just how far this 'psychological numbness' can go. Not only does it numb one's emotions, it literally numbs one's senses along with it, even if there is no physical cause for the loss of smell, touch, taste and hearing.

Although I am still making a recovery in that regard, it delights me every time when I notice that I can smell more, feel more, empathise more and basically feel more alive. The awareness of one's own body, of it existing in this reality. Not as some abstract entity defined by something as nonsensical as a social role or gender preference, but as a real, flesh-and-blood, breathing, living human being. I am my self, and not something others have made up.


In that regard, I think it's pretty terrible to think back to when I was still feeling so lost in that regard. Even when I wasn't in any immediate threat over the past years, I still knew on a fundamental level that I had lost my sense of self, of belonging and safety. Unable to deal with changes as a result, and fundamentally incapable of seeing a way out of my situation on multiple occasions, I felt trapped. Where does one even go to? Where can one go to? Where is safe? What is safety?

So many times that I just left the place where I was staying at that point in time, to walk outside for hours. Often during the winter, wearing too little clothing. Returning eventually, often with the first signs of hypothermia. Because I knew that I could walk out of the door, but I had nowhere to go. No matter how bad things got. I was always trapped.

I think that's what ultimately drove me to honestly consider taking my own life. In a sense it offered me the escape and safety which I was craving for at that point in time. Having run all the simulations and crunched all the numbers, it was the only option that I felt was still open to me. I'm pretty sure that it was because of my mother once again taking care of me and allowing me to heal and recover in a safe environment that I am still writing this today.

And not just my mother. Others were also there at crucial times, to provide that support and taking off some of the load when things felt like they were escalating out of control again. I feel that I literally owe my life to every single one of those people. Which is where it is frustrating to me to still deal with so much of this emotional numbness today, along with the lack of social skills on account having lived so socially withdrawn since I was five years old. How do you undo decades of emotional trauma and lack of development in a matter of months?

Feeling so socially awkward is one of the worst feelings I know today, even more so when I know that reading a social situation wrong can have severe negative repercussions. Maybe it's that I missed out on learning all of that, but I do not think that all this guessing involved in social situations is very fun or enjoyable, especially when I spend 99% of that time questioning everything I say or do. Guess it says a lot that at any party worthy of such description I'd prefer to just find one or more people to talk about technological, scientific or geo-political topics, rather than be forced to 'have fun'.

There's also the awkwardness when someone seeks to surprise you, with a gift, or similar. Like this time when I got a cryptic note from a friend, telling me that there was something for me in this one location, I think. That led me to finding this packaged up bundle, which I awkwardly opened after doing everything I could to make sure that it was something that I should be unwrapping. Inside the package I found a backpack filled with supplies and everything needed to 'make an escape', according to the note inside. Just a bag you can grab whenever you need to get away from things and can walk out of the door without without a second thought.

That was a gift that confused me in many ways. To my knowledge we had never talked about such a thing, and I was unpleasantly reminded of all those times when I was walking for the sake of walking, to get away from all those troubles that would ultimately drive me to the ultimate act of desperation. Because back then I knew that there was no escape, and no getting away from things.

But maybe I was too weak? Too cowardly? I do not know.


All I know is that to me 'feeling safe' is the most important thing of all, whether it is inside one's own mind, at the place where one lives, or whenever one is travelling. Being in control is an important factor there, I think. The knowledge that you are in control of your mind, your body, your immediate surroundings and that your travel preparations were sufficient and everything is going swimmingly. That you can stop focusing on those aspects and instead focus on the things in life that truly matter, whether it are friends, family, hobbies, pets or any other pursuits.

I feel that I'm slowly regaining this sense of control, enjoying the way it changes what I see in the mirror, how I see and experience the world and how it's enabling me to focus more on those things in life that matter, instead of the tediousness of surviving one day at a time.


Of course, all of this is just the version of reality that is playing in my head now, so maybe I'll look back on what I just wrote here in a few years the same way that I now cringe at blog posts I wrote a few years back.

What does it mean when you feel that you don't like this past version of yourself much?


Maya

School as a source of cruelty and humiliation

 There's a lot of unpleasantness one can deal with through simple emotional numbness as a coping mechanism. Problem is generally the aftermath, when the limitations of that numbness become clear. It seems that often, one of the consequences is that the emotional trauma is still there and still doing damage, but one cannot place why one feels a particular way, because the numbness has blocked direct access to the memories.

Much of therapy appears to be focused on easing those blockages, to regain access to those memories so that one can give those disturbing feelings and thoughts a place. For me it appears that my mind has decided to unblock a lot of memories regarding my time at school.


The most amazing thing about bullying and cruelty towards others is probably that there was no real reason. Finding myself submerged in those old memories of primary and high school again it hits me just how cruel and unrelenting the bullying and other actions were. It wasn't just that I didn't get picked during PE classes when teams had to be formed even though I wasn't clumsy or bad at sports. It was mostly things like having dozens of students seek me out to stand around me whether between classes or during breaks, to hurl insults at me.

There were also the moments when I was attacked, such as getting punched in the gut, or that time when this fellow student at primary school saw fit to spit into my face right before classes resumed. I didn't tell the teachers about either. In the latter case I used some dirt to mostly scrub off the disgusting smelling saliva before heading back to the classroom while pretending nothing happened. Ignoring bullying was supposed to be the best strategy to deal with it, after all.

The teachers and parents of the students involved all knew that something was going on, of course. It's hard to keep such large scale bullying a secret, especially when it gets so large that when I cycled back home one time there was this whole group of students on bicycles trying to block the road. I never bothered to ask anyone what they would have done if I hadn't slipped past them.

All of this took up most of my primary school time, although the last few years got a bit more quiet after I had apparently beaten up the main bully (which I do not recall at all). Him and I became friends for years afterwards. I guess it is true what they say about some people turning their loneliness or dissatisfaction with their life into bullying others.

I guess I did take that lesson to heart, so that when I found myself getting bullied again in HS, I singled out this one fellow student during PE class and slapped him in the face, then apologised to him when the teacher pulled us aside. Remembering the feelings at the time, I felt no hate or anything to those bullies, only anger at constantly being made fun of and humiliated.


As someone who is sensitive to stress-induced migraines, I found that the bullying was causing me to start getting those migraines with aura, to the tune of at least once a week during the second year. I think that puberty made my susceptibility to migraines a lot worse, with them really ramping up around that time until they mostly stopped some years ago. Combining migraines, bullying and the constant feeling of being an outcast did not serve to make me feel like I enjoyed school in any sense. It was required to attend school, but I was always happy again to be back home, where it was safe.

The last few years of HS were less stressful, however. Even though I lost fellow outcast friends when they went to other schools, I eventually ended up with this small group of friends who accepted each other without question. It was with them that I did nerdy things, such as playing Magic the Gathering card games in the cafeteria during breaks. And those times were great.


I'm glad to have so many of these memories related to that period covering my childhood and teenage years coming back now. It gives me a better perspective on the past which formed the person I am today. Even though it shows me mostly scenes of a period in my life that I do not like to remember, it makes me understand more things about myself which didn't make sense before with just the memories of other traumatic parts of my life, such as the child abuse trauma or medical system trauma.

I still do not really get why I got bullied so much, to the point of physical violence against me. Maybe it was just something about my attitude or whatever. Maybe it doesn't really matter. All that matters is that I got those memories back now so that I can direct my energy at processing them and giving them a place, instead of getting frustrated at the parts of my mind that do not make sense.


Maya