Subliminal Sublinguals

Why I medically transitioned

I considered myself a member of the transgender community for several very formative years before I underwent hormone replacement therapy in 2019. This perspective stems from my experiences and from several months of obsessive research trying to get to the bottom of why this happened to me and where to go from here.

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Please Be Patient, I Have Autism

Boris Kustodiev

It’s hard to overstate the moment we’re in. Is it apocalypse now? No, it’s a brave new world, and it’s just getting started. For several long, painful years I thought I was trapped in the wrong body. In a moment of crisis, I opted for medical intervention for a problem that was just in my head. There are many thousands who have done the same, and many who have regretted it. It may seem strange to those who can’t relate, but the disconnect was real, even if the explanation for why it existed was false. The common wisdom held today by many young professionals is an extremist mind/body dualism that suggests the body is nothing but an empty vessel, our senses nothing more than pleasure and pain receptors to be used and abused at will. Heighten pleasure, numb the pain, while only pursuing activities that leave us in pain in the first place. Heighten the pleasure again.

I legitimately believed in this delusion for a disgustingly large portion of my life. I know now that it is not a real condition. There are males, and there are females; neither of these things is a pathology in need of treatment, and certainly not from one direction to the other. Then there are those with intersex conditions, rare and often at a medical disadvantage. Not nearly as common as the completely healthy, normal individuals who have been voluntarily experimenting with cross-sex hormones and genital reconstruction. The medical condition of being born the wrong sex is junk science. Even the intersex are usually identifiable as one or the other because human biology is inherently dimorphic. The condition of thinking you were born in the wrong sex, however, is very, very real, and very, very potent.

Posters, flags, manifestoes for this religion are everywhere. It is being celebrated as a unique identity, a subculture of strength and struggle, another colorful addition to the elaborate tapestry of the American people, though they’re far more likely to fly their own symbols rather than any American ones, except for perhaps the many veterans among them. Transgender. People who identify as a gender different than the one they were born as. They live in a state of dissociation and paranoia, obsessing over “flaws” that are their own inoffensive features. The longer the delusion lasts, the more severe it becomes.

In high school, I was frequently the only boy in my friend groups, and quite a sensitive one at that. I feared other men as well as my own heterosexual/flexible drive due to a lifetime at the bottom of the male hierarchy. I’ve had many experiences that feminists would suggest don’t happen to boys, or at least, to straight boys. I’ve been relentlessly sexually harassed, coaxed into eating disorders, mocked for my creative and academic pursuits, and always, always sought to please the people around me at the expense of myself. I’ve been called a faggot with full homophobic force behind it more times than I can remember, even though I’ve always shown a predominant interest in women. Some men appreciated that my role in their groups was as the emotional sponge; I always liked talking openly about feelings. Most men do not. Trying to connect with these friends was a major reason they left me out. My first and only real girlfriend came out to me as a transgender man several months in. Even though I didn’t think I liked men (and still don’t like trans men), we didn’t break up. This lasted a long while before she realized she was a lesbian. We didn’t break up then either. That would take another few years. Why so long? She might not have been a man, but I (and she) was slowly convinced that I was really a girl. It came down to gender stereotypes and codependency.

Autism can make you kind of a pussy. Loud noises scare you, fabrics scratch at you, people seem like an enigma. You’re receiving too much and not enough input at the same time. You’re gullible and childlike so you’re an easy target. You’re living in a slightly different reality than everyone else because you process your senses and emotions in a deformed manner. People make fun of you because you don’t even realize they’re making fun of you, and when you do and it gets a rise out of you, it’s big laughs. Retarded children are always a source of cruel entertainment for their better-adjusted peers, and a massive headache to parents who don’t get it. We’re annoying, fussy, hard to deal with. I think most of us know, but what needs to be understood is that it’s not simple spoilage (though I was definitely spoiled). Our wires are crossed for life.

Some of the aspects of autism that have given me amazing gifts – pattern recognition, attention to details, complex abstract thought, sharp, intensive focus – can just as easily turn into disease – obsessive thinking, compulsive behaviors, intrusive thoughts, elaborate delusions. Some people think that our lack of empathy means that we’re cold, or somehow not social creatures deserving of their circles. Our lack of empathy is just that: a lack of empathy. We misread social cues, social norms. We find it hard to discern people’s emotions because we can’t read their intentions. I can understand why people like me are off-putting and strange. I have learned to accept this about myself. What is more difficult to accept are the accusations, how many sleepless nights obsessing over the slights of the day, both real and perceived. It’s very easy to convince an autist that they’ve committed some sort of irreparable harm. We’re desperate for acceptance, community, closeness; human needs often denied to us, or conditional, through the exploitation of our gifts (if we’re lucky enough to even have those gifts). Dealing with these dynamics as a young child leads to self-isolation in puberty. You learn to live in your own little world, because it’s safe there. You separate from those around you because you come to expect hostility towards your obvious disability.

Plenty of other kids do a similar kind of daydreaming. We’re not special in that regard. What makes us special is the depth and duration of these internal worlds, to the point we can convince ourselves that they’re real. Even if we know they aren’t physically real, emotionally, they are real. Stand-ins for the people and things we don’t have in our lives. Specters to describe and interpret our emotions. Imaginary punching bags, hallucinatory pillows. The dissociative state as a weighted blanket and a riot room rolled into one. This is especially the case when we try to express what are normal human emotions in ways that are not normal social expressions. Rather than learn to channel them in healthier ways, to self-regulate our misfiring sensory inputs, we are taught instead to suppress, and so as we suppress, we create new characters both to be and to befriend, “friends” that give us permission to feel. “People” around whom it’s okay to be ourselves. Manifestations who won’t judge us for not controlling ourselves as if we were in public.

This is innocuous most of the time. I imagine that even autistic children that are fully integrated into their social environment still create these illusory stand-ins just to understand what they’re feeling. I still do this too. It was a major component that went into the creation of my feminine persona. Something I was told not to do as a young boy was cry, because when I cried, I cried for hours, I screamed and hollered and hurt myself, sometimes others. I would melt down. I didn’t like melting down. So what I did instead as I got older and puberty hit, I just started dissociating. Sat back and watched whatever was happening happen. Maybe latch onto a word and start repeating it, rock myself back and forth, fixated on a spot right in front of me, admiring printed wood grain on plastic, imagining I’m someone else so I didn’t have to feel the full impact of the aforementioned whatever. These dissociative states weren’t always justified. I don’t claim to be rational. This technique, at some point, stopped being a technique and became my waking life.

Autophilia to Autophobia (and back again)

Yours Truly

I suffer from the sexual fetish known as autogynephilia – love of oneself as a woman. In more crass terms, I get off to the idea of being a woman in certain contexts. I’ve had this my entire life and will continue to have it forever. There are those feminists who believe this is a conscious choice on the part of men to further demean women because of how wrapped up it is in gendered stereotypes, and how it objectifies women’s bodies, reducing them to a commodity men can simply transfer onto themselves. While it may be a choice to indulge in it often and brazenly, or to make bold declarations on what a woman is or isn’t when one clearly isn’t a woman, the acquisition of such paraphilias is rarely wanted or even understood by the people who have them. Once they are embedded in your sexuality, you cannot get rid of them, merely learn to cope with them. In more enlightened circles, it’s understood as the primary cause of male-to-female transsexualism. The gender-swapped version, autoandrophilia, appears to be far rarer, but is still an indicator for many of the women who seek transition, even if they, like me, mostly transitioned for more pressing reasons. Though for women, the primary driver seems to be rapid onset gender dysphoria, which is distinct from these fetishes and is more akin to a true mass hysteria. There are many degrees to all of this.

One thing that the transgender community often claims about the autophilia hypothesis is that it pathologizes the perfectly normal sexual impulses that someone who’s “truly trans” would have. Of course a transgender man would imagine himself as a man during sex! He’s a man after all (and vice versa). Well, no, not really. He was still she before that and is still she behind the male pronouns and clothing and T injections. The autophilia theory suggests that these individuals begin experiencing gender dysphoria and body dysmorphia as a result of this fetish, or perhaps that they just felt like transitioning because the idea made them horny (there are a lot of these out there, and many are in denial). The proponents of gender identity theory — where one simply lays claim to an alternate identity — argue that the fetish only emerges after the dysphoria sets in, if they ever even concede to the fetish existing (which surprise surprise, most deny). I do, however, think that it is possible that people who have these fetishes, who experience some kind of major life complication that causes it to flare up in a really distressing way, and who later transition might not even realize that they have it in the first place. The rhetoric and political activism of the transgender community makes it almost impossible to see with clear vision.

For some (myself, for instance) autophilia might be innate, but for others it’s clear that the fetish was acquired after being sexually preyed upon by AGP predators. For young men specifically, around my age or younger, sissy hypno porn seems to be a factor, and is probably being groomed into these men. It is exactly what it sounds like: porn designed to hypnotize you into believing you’re a “sissy,” a pornified caricature of a woman with a penis. I didn’t even know this was a thing until I started diving deep into the links between porn and autogynephilia. These fetishes (fetishism in general, in fact) are strongly correlated with autism. This is unsurprising to me. If so many of our senses and emotions are disconnected and discombobulated in ways that separate us from our social surroundings, it makes sense that our sexual and emotional attraction would be directed in strange non-relational ways too, especially if coupled with strong rejection by others in the past. Our capacity to create and maintain fantasy dimensions extends into every corner of ourselves, and sexuality is just as much a part of our lives as any other person’s – might even be more potent for us.

I caution the reader to understand that I’m not saying this as an excuse to destigmatize fetishes. I think kink and fetish should remain in the bedroom. Homosexuality, though, is fine; it’s its own thing, demonstrably not a fetish. It may be non-normative in terms of sexual reproduction, but it is normative in essentially all other ways. The erotic locus is still another person, and everything that person embodies, they just happen to be of the same sex. Fetishes, however, are not so innocuous. I said I suffer from autogynephilia for a reason. When something as sensorially significant as sexual stimulation is associated with a state of dissociation, it can become very difficult to leave that state, especially if the person experiencing it already has a penchant for dissociation in other areas of one’s life. Additionally, many fetishes are also quite dangerous or harmful to oneself or to the people around them, even the ones closer to vanilla. There is a reason that their more neurotic manifestations – clinical paraphilias – have historically been treated as mental illnesses when discovered. It seems that in this era of sexual “liberation,” we’ve forgotten why they can be so oppressive.

There is also the reality that fetishes tend to cluster, and some of these fetishes inherently involve other people. This is fine if it’s between consenting adults or remains a mere fantasy, but when it bleeds into public life? That’s a genie worth chasing down and bottling again. Some manifestations of autogynephilia inherently involve inserting one’s sexual arousal into situations that should not be sexualized. This seems to be in the minority of cases, but even so, this mere fact alone suggests to me that autophilias should remain outside of public view. At home, or in the therapist’s office, that’s reasonable, those are the places where they should be freely practiced or discussed without judgement, especially if they cause sexual distress. Advocating for public display of fetishism, on the other hand, is less of a slippery slope and more of a greasy slide. The only direction you can go in is down, and fast. If you let the “ethical,” non-offensive fetishists from under one label into the public sphere, then wherever you draw the line, the extremely unethical ones with comorbid paraphilias will simply learn how to mimic their cries for understanding and acceptance, manipulating a public conditioned to please.

This isn’t just conjecture, it’s exactly what happened. The older AGPs, who knew what their condition was, who understood from the beginning that they weren’t women and that this was just a means of living out a fantasy, cooked up the gender ideology we’re sacrificing children to today. They are imposing this gender identity nonsense on everyone, pathologizing ordinary manifestations of sexuality in the process as being too “restrictive.” I was 15 when I decided I was trans, hardly an age wise enough to understand the complexity of this fetish and of the feelings that can be roused during one’s nascent sexual development. But 50, 60 years old? A life lived, a wife left, a transition started before I was even born? Yeah, sorry, I have a hard time believing they don’t know what they’re doing, especially the ones working in law and medicine.

Most autogynephiles don’t have a problem with dysphoria or dissociation. They wear women’s clothes and it makes them hard. When they’re not hard, they aren’t dysphoric. Open and shut case. Not so simple for the more extreme autogynephiles, the ones seeking female bodily functions or anatomic structures. If you get off to having body parts that you don’t have, chances are, that’s going to leave a part of yourself – and your brain – thinking that you should have something that just isn’t there. I did not cross-dress more than a handful of times before I transitioned. I had some women’s clothes, but they were more for emotional comfort than erotic arousal. My delusions were anatomic; I had unconsciously convinced myself I was experiencing phantom vaginal sensations, and for years, felt completely detached from my penis. (Nowadays, my interest is limited to flirting with men who treat me like I’m a woman) How is this even possible though? Why would anyone think like this? Are we all sick perverts? Well, I mean… Sick enough to destroy our bodies in pursuit of this obsession. I’m not asking you to understand, and like I said, I’m not trying to normalize it either. It is what it is, I’m not sugarcoating it. I’m not any happier about this than you are. The best way to explain it, though, is that you are attracted to members of the other sex, but something in your brain just projects that attractive image or ideal onto you instead, and that’s what gets you all hot and bothered. This isn’t exclusively true though, there are growing ranks of homosexual AGPs/AAPs (so-called GayGPs) and others. I think pornography is probably an important trigger in the development of these delusions too. I’m also almost positive that this begins unconsciously in most of the autophiles who decide to transition. There are other groups that transition, but I know my own best.

Not everyone who transitions embraces the “woman trapped in a man’s body” narrative; I certainly did. That’s how severe my gender dysphoria was. There are some transsexuals that do transition for wholly erotic reasons, without dysphoria. I was not one of them. Though eroticism does obviously play a role, remember what I said earlier about disembodying the self in order to feel emotion? I was only able to relax my body as a girl, squeeze my stuffed animals as a girl, look at pictures of cute animals as a girl, hug my friends as a girl, kiss girls as a girl, express my masculinity as a girl, because to do these as a man meant that I was either weak or a perverted monster. I was slowly inhabiting this dissociative state full-time. This was not because the thought of being a girl in every one of these scenarios was just so erotic I couldn’t help myself. Even my dissociation during sex was less to fulfill a fetish and more to avoid confronting the intense emotions that came with sex, and all of my many fears and anxieties surrounding it. This was unconscious and persistent across partners and time.

Deleuzean Delusions: To Become a Body without Organs

Yours Truly

The most concerning way in which this was true was when I started having horrifyingly vivid and violent intrusive thoughts. From late high school, I experienced an extreme depression from which I did not begin to emerge until the autumn of 2019. When stressed, I would see my bowels spilled out all over the ground with an empty cavity where my stomach used to be. I would imagine hammers coming down on me, swinging hard and fast into my face, shattering my skull. I would imagine a huge pair of shears running up my back, cutting out my spine like a chicken getting spatchcocked, massive hands reaching in, popping my exposed lungs like grapes. They bled into my dreams; every night for two years, I was eviscerated by a knife-wielding maniac cutting me to ribbons, scratching words into my bones. I felt these things, not really, not in reality, but my brain did. These thoughts were themselves dissociative, and in order to protect myself from myself, I imagined myself as someone I wouldn’t dream of hurting: a female version of me. Softer, gentler, able to channel emotion without the threat of violence, garner sympathy from others; someone worth protecting, sustaining, someone worth saving, because I had already lost myself.

Obviously, this was maladaptive. All this did was take those intrusive thoughts and direct them elsewhere, compartmentalize them into my reproductive system, which I had come to hate and fear. After I stopped seeing myself get torn in half or vomit up my own liquified organs or fail to prevent an illusory mass shooting, I started imagining ripping off my genitals to expose new ones, to reveal the woman I thought I had become (and later, thought I had always been). For some, situations like this can still be erotic. For myself, and for most of the other MtFs and MtFtMs that I’ve talked to, it’s a living nightmare. I would venture to say that for most transgender people who claim to experience such severe dysphoria, they are not lying. They are wrong about why they feel it if they still buy the ideologue’s line – being born in the wrong body – but the delusion is a difficult one to break. Simply mentioning to someone trapped in a cross-sex delusion that they don’t look like a woman can have profound ego dystonic effects. It’s been months since I’ve come to accept the permanence of my biological sex, and I’m still reeling. It’s why I’m writing this. And it’s also why so many trans activists scream and yell about trans women being women and trans men being men. They believe that they are and have made it a core part of how they understand themselves. Pointing it out shatters the delusion and forces them to confront all that they’re trying to suppress (or conceal) by mutilating themselves.

You start by acknowledging you’re uncomfortable in your defined gender role, unhappy with the way people respond to you and the changes to your body. You might still be innocent, but you stop being treated as such. This thought ruminates. You see a list of labels that fixate on temporary issues most teenagers experience, only now existing as a pick-and-choose identity list offered by friendly people on the internet. You’re nonbinary now, or genderfluid or genderflux (do NOT confuse the two) or whatever. People still treat you as your birth sex. You make a big show of not being whatever you are. You attract both pity and outrage. You change your pronouns. Given that they/them and any other such gender-neutral invention does not come naturally to people, and that most “nonbinary” people look definitively like their birth sex, misgendering is a given, but it’s given to oneself. This creates more dysphoria than existed before. You’re lonely, so you lean on porn as a crutch. This is no longer only the purview of young boys; the porn gap between the sexes is closing as the market balloons and demands even more commercialized rape. This separates you further from yourself, feeds further dysphoria. You don’t look like the men or women in the videos. You don’t know what real sex looks like. Your whole notion of what gender is rests on these extreme, consumptive, performative, addictive ideals, not your experiences or those of the people around you.

You suffer hardships like anyone else; this is the fault of your birth sex, and of a transphobic society. Your body continues to change well into your twenties; you only hate it that much more. You only hate yourself that much more. Maybe you’re suicidal and that’s the point where you ask your trans friends, or the internet, “am I really trans? Trutrans?” Ah, trutrans, the unicorn of transsexualism, the elusive (nonexistent) examples of people who were actually, definitely, provably beyond a shadow of a doubt born in the wrong body. If you ask any random transgender community online or even in person, then of course that’s you; it’s everybody. Your story matches up with tens of thousands of others trying to convince themselves of the same thing, running away from their problems by pretending to be someone who doesn’t exist. Even questioning if you’re trans means you’re trans. Mild discomfort snowballs into total self-erasure, obliteration, any self-notion of what your body looks like dissolves into a fine red mist as you seek to recreate yourself in your own image using injections, pills, and scalpels.

So you do it. You take the leap. You sign up for a lifetime of medical intervention. It helps immediately, if you’re deluded enough. A placebo effect so strong it convinces you that these drugs are what’s changing your life, and not your own will attempting to manifest a gender-swapped tulpa of yourself. I lost 100 pounds since starting hormones. I started exercising. I quit video games, pornography, smoking, drugs, alcohol. I got out of a bad relationship. I got into grad school. Made new friends, got in touch with old ones. Started reading again. Picked up cooking, photography, writing. Started taking care of my skin, hair, nails. Felt God’s light for the first time in years. Reconnected with my family. All of this within a year of starting estrogen. I said, well shit, it’s gotta be the estradiol! Before this I wanted to be dismembered, stuffed into a duffel bag full of Quikrete, and chucked out of a plane over the Arctic Ocean, so it’s kind of hard to argue with the positive correlates even if it is just placebo effect run amok. As a hypothesis, that only makes sense if I were on actual placebos, but as my breasts will attest, I am not.

It was a survival mechanism. A bad one, a physically destructive one, but it saved me from myself. It gave me a reason to live, even though I was still trying to kill myself. Transitioning, for me, was suicide without dying. I don’t really regret transitioning, because it did keep me from doing worse to myself. It should have been something else though, anything else. Some real good counseling maybe, someone with the emotional intelligence to guide me gently away from hours upon hours of research into barbaric sex change procedures that always fall short of what they promise and mangle you for life in the process. I didn’t have those people. I had my parents, and they tried, but they didn’t exactly go about it in the most compassionate of ways. That’s okay though, in hindsight. All of it is, I guess. The changes to my body don’t bother me that much, and I have no choice but to accept them anyway.

Black Sheep in Wolves’ Clothing

Gustave Moreau

The same week I visited Planned Parenthood to waive their liability for chemically castrating me, I was seeing army helicopters that didn’t exist and hearing gunshots that didn’t go off while living in a house with members of a left-wing cult. The fact I was taken advantage of, blatantly exploited by medical professionals in my deranged mental state, does bother me. It makes me furious. Not only does it anger me that I’ve been fucked with and experimented upon, it angers me that there are thousands more with similar stories to my own. It upsets me that this delusion has become an embedded part of our godless, narcissistic state religion. It drives me insane thinking about the fact that all of this is being impressed on children much younger than I was, sometimes literal toddlers. On the flip side, it also upsets me that my current presentation signals me as an enemy to people who share my views.

I am still on feminizing hormones, and possibly will remain on them for quite some time. I don’t think of myself as a woman, or even as a trans woman, but I still present this way in public for the sake of convenience. I have grown accustomed to living in the body that I have, and I fear that if I fuck with that, I’m going to have too much to adjust to. The fact that I even recognize myself in the mirror anymore is a downright miracle. Desisting from hormones could jeopardize that. Additionally, there is also the emotional impact of cross-sex hormones; these things literally reshape your brain. All the intensive psychotherapy I’ve undergone in the past two years has been while on estrogen. Going back to producing testosterone could easily throw me into extreme delusional states and will most definitely mess with my sensory processing too. I know because I’ve tried to come off my anti-androgens; with even half my present dose, I start packing a guerrilla’s go-bag in my head. I’ve gotten used to existing the way that I do. I’ve begun to accept myself as the way that I am, not as my own fetish object, but as my own person. Detransitioning is just as significant a lifestyle and biological change as transitioning, and it is not for everyone. It is certainly better for the body, especially for FtMs, but there are still significant risks. Putting your whole body through three alternating puberties when it’s only built to handle the one is a risky proposition. So is staying on cross-sex hormones. Right now, the latter makes more sense for me.

Which is why it’s hard to make a home on the political right, albeit far easier than nestling oneself in the warm-and-fuzzy technocratic hell that is the left. I don’t think of myself as existing on either the left or the right. This is still the case, but seeing as the left thinks everyone who is against it is on the right, and many commentators on the right don’t even think of themselves as right-wing, that appears to be my home, especially given my views on transgenderism and transsexuality (and many other things). However, there is a contradiction here. I still am, and will remain for some time, a transsexual. If I felt I could go back to living as a fully-fledged man, I would; at the moment, I can’t.

This leaves me in an awkward place. My very appearance implies my dedication to a political agenda, a neo-Malthusian forced sterilization program dreamed up by child predators and medical authoritarians attacking homosexuals and the mentally ill, making a lot of money on botching and re-botching surgeries while they’re at it. While I was once convinced of the merits of this program (albeit not when described in that manner), I am also a victim of it. Many people who undergo these procedures commit suicide. It is an extremely destabilizing experience to realize that this isn’t what you were told it was, especially if you’ve removed healthy sex organs (which I am grateful to God and God alone for saving me from). I was 15 when I internalized this ideology, 20 when it started to fall apart for me, and it took till 23 for me to understand the true depth of all these falsehoods I had based my entire life around. Though the politics began to disgust me, I was still in a great deal of pain, and all the people whom I trusted to help me manage this pain simply affirmed my delusion and continued sending me down this path.

I did not transition so I could invade women’s spaces. I did not transition so I could predate on the vulnerable. I did not transition to live out a sexual fantasy in broad daylight. I sincerely doubt this is the case for most of the people who do it. However, the vast majority are also still firmly within the grip of this mass hysteria. They have to believe that what they’re doing is right for them and for others, because if they don’t, then they have to face their demons and suffer the same ego destabilizing events that I’m still working through. Unfortunately, raw hedonism is also a major aspect of this ideology, and of leftism in general, thus, the freaks and perverts and degenerates that I share a likeness to are coming out in the open. They don’t really care who sees anymore, and if anyone complains, they’re being prejudiced, though I would argue that it’s not without reason. I am instinctively skeptical of transgender people now because of prejudices I formed from my experiences within the community. Strange that I didn’t make the connection to fetishism earlier considering how many trans support circles I’ve attended where the regular members were almost exclusively old perverts. I know that the bulk of trans “folx” aren’t terrible, evil people, but they believe in a terrible, evil ideology that has brought harm to myself, to themselves, and many, many more, including natal women who are now losing their sex-based rights to what is essentially a lobby of fetishists larger and better-funded than a furry convention at the Bellagio. Politicians and pedophiles alike live among them, not that there’s much of a difference. I, and many others like me, want and have nothing to do with this machinery. We do not seek to destigmatize whatever pathologies led us down this road in the first place, and especially not put them in front of children. We do not want to normalize the bodies of cross-sex individuals which, for very normal reasons, are uncanny or even downright grotesque to ordinary people.

However, we are people too. And without people like us talking openly in the appropriate contexts about our experiences, the origins of transsexual desire, and the realities of what medical transitions entail, we will not begin to reverse the tide. There needs to be sympathy, not disdain, for the people caught in this trap, men and women alike. I would extend this to include even those who are convinced that they love living in the trap, many of them teenagers and young adults. I know several young people who are still undergoing these procedures, despite knowing me personally, witnessing this journey from the high point to the low, and it breaks my heart. All I can do is try to be there for them when the scales fall from their own eyes, and they begin to seek advice from someone they can trust who’s been through it already.

We need to expose these barbaric practices for what they are, unmask the Satanic agenda behind all of it, eradicate the ideological threats poisoning our medicine supply. As far as individuals though? Those that have made their beds and must now lie in them? Some compassion would be nice. Obviously, those still spreading comforting lies like “trans women are women,” especially in a professional context, should rightfully be seen as ideologues pushing an extremist agenda. Others, and especially the youth, need to be supported and included in society at large, not ostracized — just not on the trans lobby’s terms. Wielding transsexualism in a derisive manner will only alienate the confused and dismayed even further. If they don’t feel like they have anyone on the outside, they will stay within the cult. There is nothing wrong with telling the truth, even if it does drive away the people who need to hear it; it is quite another thing to mock the people who need to get out, who will be forced to find a way to cope with what’s been done to their bodies and souls.