Mi experiencia con el abuso sexual y trabajo como modelo de webcam (no es lo que esperas)

Como cualquier otra persona tratada como mujer desde mi nacimiento, tengo un largo historial de acoso sexual. Recuerdo miradas y comentarios inapropiados por parte de señores desde que tenía más o menos doce años, con la probabilidad de que hayan ocurrido antes. La primera vez que abusaron sexualmente de mí, fue en mi cumpleaños número 18, por parte de un exnovio en el coche de uno de sus amigos. Al día siguiente yo seguía sin entender bien qué había pasado y por qué me sentía así. Cuando lo vi en persona unos días después, él se disculpó y hasta lloró. Yo, todavía fuera de la realidad, le dije que no pasaba nada, que había sido un error y lo entendía. Pasamos juntos unos meses más hasta que yo ya no me podía acercar a él sin sentir asco. Aunque mi mecanismo de defensa me llevó a hacer como si nada, mi cuerpo nunca lo olvidó y pasé un par de años sin comprender por qué sentía ese asco. Olvidé por completo lo que me pasó en esa fiesta de cumpleaños y lo enterré.

Cuando estuve en la siguiente relación, me encontré con alguien que no me obligaba a hacer cosas que no quería y fue así como me animé a tener sexo por primera vez. Por otras razones, recordé lo que había ocurrido con la pareja anterior y se lo conté, parecía entender por qué para mí eran tan difíciles algunas situaciones. Por un tiempo las cosas parecían ir bien. Sin darme cuenta de el momento en que dejó de ser así, me encontraba teniendo sexo a la fuerza; no es como sale en las películas y te enseñan en la escuela, no siempre te golpean y te arrancan la ropa. A veces lloran, a veces te dicen que se sienten mal porque les dices que no, que se sienten feos o rechazados, que sienten que ya no los quieres. A veces uno termina cediendo porque las discusiones y el chantaje emocional te desgastan. Me fui hartando y con el tiempo también él. La ocasión que más recuerdo es una en la que intentó hacerme sexo oral aunque ya le había dicho que no quería que me tocara ese día y cuando me enojé y lo empujé, me dijo que me calmara, "ni que te estuviera violando", respondió. Las otras ocasiones había llorado en el taxi camino a mi casa sin entender por qué, porque no sabía que eso también era abuso, que incluso podría considerarse como violación; pero esta vez sí que lo sabía. Ahora no comprendía por qué las cosas habían cambiado ni por qué me trataba así luego de haberle contado lo de mi relación anterior. Poco después terminamos y nuevamente me di cuenta de todo lo que estaba mal y lo que había hecho por hacerlo feliz, sacrificando mi cuerpo y bienestar emocional en el camino.

Después siguió un amigo que hice poco después del asesinato de mi padre, cuando obviamente era más vulnerable. Era amigo de una amiga cercana y lo dejé entrar a mi casa. Convivimos un tiempo, prácticamente viviendo juntos durante un par de semanas y aunque él quería algo serio, le dije que no, que a lo mucho podríamos ser amigos con derechos. Fue así como la mañana después de haber tenido sexo consensual, intentó penetrarme cuando yo todavía no había terminado de despertar. Entonces desperté y le dije que no, que me estaba lastimando. No se detuvo. Se lo volví a decir no sé cuantas veces hasta que lo empujé y le grité que no quería. Se asustó como si el abusado fuera él y comenzó a disculparse sin parar. Lo amenacé con apuñalarlo si me volvía a hacer algo así, diciéndole que ya no me importaba ir a la cárcel. Era cierto, ya estaba cansado, ya no me iba a callar como las otras veces. Sin embargo, quería que ya se callara y luego de la amenaza le dije que se detuviera, que sólo no lo volviera a hacer porque iba a cumplir mi promesa. Después de otras acciones de macho asqueroso, le dejé de hablar y le dije a mi amiga que no lo quería volver a ver en mi casa.

Llevo años pasando por situaciones donde la gente hace lo que quiere con mi cuerpo, donde me fetichizan, abusan, violan, lastiman... la mayoría situaciones normalizadas por "ser mujer", luego por ser hombre trans. Situaciones que me han hecho sentir tanta vergüenza que me las he callado. Sé que si doy nombres, se convertiría en un drama con gente atacándome por conocer a estas personas, de gente cuestionándome y ellos negándolo; legalmente sería completamente inútil por falta de pruebas. No tengo ganas de eso, sólo quiero sanar como lo he estado haciendo y continuar aprendiendo para no volver a agachar la cabeza. Aunque nunca será la culpa de la víctima (incluyéndome) y las únicas personas a las que habría que señalar aquí es a estos individuos, quiero usar el conocimiento que ahora poseo para salir de estas situaciones y reconocer conductas dañinas, quiero alejarme de personas así desde el inicio.

Cuando se trató de otros ejerciendo su voluntad sobre mí, me fue muy difícil notar que no debía ser así, después aceptarlo, defenderme y salir de ahí. Llevo apenas una semana trabajando como modelo de webcam. Siempre me dio curiosidad y conozco a un par de personas que lo hacen, muy abiertas sobre esto y su sexualidad en general, algo que admiro mucho por ser alguien a quien aun hablando abiertamente sobre situaciones sexuales, le cuesta bastante asumirse como un ser sexual. Probablemente por la violencia con que fui expuesto a este lado de mi vida, no estoy seguro. Creí que no sería capaz de hacerlo debido a mis inseguridades y me encontré con la sorpresa de haber desarrollado una seguridad en mí mismo que nunca antes tuve. En mi vida diaria, a los hombres les gusto a medias, ya sea por las modificaciones corporales que parecen ser demasiado para ellos o el hecho de ser un hombre transgénero con voz y bigote de puberto. Les gustan secciones de mí, pero no "yo", aunque se quieran hacer los muy abiertos de mente.

Cuando estoy trabajando (sí, es un trabajo), noto que es esto que soy, lo que las personas quieren ver. "Llevaba mucho buscando a alguien como tú" y "Eres justo lo que quiero", son frases que me dicen regularmente. Y no, no es como que encontrara al amor de mi vida ni nada de eso. Esto es trabajo y claro que quieren ver mi cuerpo, pero hay algo que yo no sabía: las personas van a estos sitios buscando conexiones también; a veces me pagan sólo por platicar o por que les cante una canción. Tengo buenas conversaciones durante horas, con individuos que quieren que pase un buen rato con ellos. No juzgo a quienes van sólo por el aspecto sexual de mi trabajo, es algo con lo que puedo empatizar; mucho menos juzgo a quien busca una conexión. A fin de cuentas ofrezco un servicio y me pagan por ello. Ya no soy yo siendo abusado, haciendo algo que no quiero. Soy yo tomando decisiones conscientes sobre mi cuerpo y mi tiempo, nadie me manda. Si alguien me insulta, lo bloqueo; si me piden que haga algo y no quiero, simplemente no lo hago. En tan sólo unos días, me ha sido más fácil aceptar a mi cuerpo con los cambios hormonales que está atravesando y las partes que menos me gustan. Creo que por más que lo explique, será difícil entender a qué me refiero con esto, porque para quienes están leyendo, puede que no tenga sentido que ahora que "vendo" o "rento" mi cuerpo, lo quiera más. Llevo unos años prostituyendo mi cerebro y vendiendo ideas para que quedaran a nombre de personas que hacen mucho más dinero del que me pagaban a cambio; di muchísimo tiempo, muchas horas extra en las que incluí perderme de momentos que nunca voy a recuperar, de momentos que eran importantes para mí y a nadie le pesa eso. Iinicialmente, me pregunté si este trabajo debería ser un secreto, pero ¿por qué debo avergonzarme de hacer lo que quiero con mi cuerpo? luego de años avergonzándome de que otros hicieran lo que querían conmigo, me siento orgulloso y siento que al fin tengo el control. No me siento mal, no siento culpa, no me siento sucio. No sé cuánto tiempo siga trabajando en esto, pero me alegra saber que depende de mí completamente.

Si se sienten mal por mí ahora, no lo hagan o háganlo pensando en lo mucho que me desgasté con otros trabajos o con exabusadores, porque es algo que no debería pasarle a nadie. Esa ya no es mi situación.

Cuando asumes que voy a terapia porque soy trans, porque la necesito para aceptarme, para quererme, para "curarme", para tratar una "condición", te estás equivocando. Para empezar, te equivocas porque no estoy enfermo. Mi identidad no es una enfermedad. Aun si otros se sienten enfermos, asumir que YO ESTOY ENFERMO es transfobia.

Voy a terapia porque tengo depresión y ansiedad. Voy a terapia porque por primera vez en toda mi vida tenía ganas de vivir y sentía que ya no lo podía lograr solo, que luego de años de no querer hacerlo, mi cuerpo se iba a apagar o yo lo iba a desconectar sin que mis ganas de vivir pudieran hacer nada, porque así funcionan las enfermedades mentales, como un parásito que te nubla el cerebro y no puedes pensar en otra cosa mas que aventarte de un puente peatonal, en cuántos camiones van a pasar antes de que te dejes caer en el pavimento, en cuántas pastillas podrá tolerar tu cuerpo. También voy a terapia para enfrentar lo que sea que me toque sólo por existir y no esconderme. No es para soportarme, es para soportarte A TI con tu doble moral, tu maltrato, tu discriminación. Me quiero lo suficiente para saber que el del problema eres tú.

La gente no pregunta cómo voy con mi depresión (no es que muera de ganas de que lo hagan de todos modos), pero sí que preguntan cómo voy con "lo trans", si me quiero operar, qué partes me voy a quitar, todo sobre mi cuerpo. Todos quieren saber sobre mi cuerpo. Quieren verlo, manosearlo, deshacerlo. Como si ya no fuera mío. Ahora mi cuerpo es una res partida en dos en un museo.

Today

I'm used to being alone at home. When I was a kid, my mother and dad would work all day and I would watch TV most of the time or play I guess; I've forgotten about what I used to do besides watching TV and drawing, I don't remember much of my childhood until the moment when things got pretty bad. My dad is still very ill but now I know he's not dying soon, at least not because of this (because we never really know). He's been in his room most of the day and I've been in mine as I've done it for years. I remember asking for table games for Christmas as a kid so my parents would sit and play with me, but it never happened that way; even when I actually got those games, I'd try to play by myself (Twister is impossible) or wait until I was with a friend, because they couldn't make some time to play with me. So now that I'm 23, it's very weird for me having this man at home. I care about him a lot, and of course I love him, he's been a great dad but he doesn't say anything like "hey wanna watch a movie?" or "there's this show on the TV..." or "let's have a little talk, come here". When I get home from work, I sit with him on his bed to ask how he's doing and see if there's anything he needs, but I don't know how to act around him. When I was a teenager, I tried to change things by suggesting we should watch a movie or go somewhere but it didn't work. Instead, I became used to being by myself and letting him do whatever he wants. I suppose he does the same with me.

It's funny that after all this time I've been through many kinds of loneliness and it still hurts sometimes (I enjoy it too though). I'm sitting in the kitchen, poking at the boiled fish my aunt brought us, while thinking about how lonely it is not having siblings, but in a way I had never done before. If I don't let my friends know that my dad is very ill and I'm scared to death of him dying or being unable to live his life the way he's used to, they won't know because they aren't here in this house. When I mention what's going on, people have no idea what it feels like, because they have siblings or another parent alive, or they are very close to other family members. This bald man who makes bad jokes and lifts weights every single night is ALL I HAVE. The friends I've picked as brothers or sisters will never be the same, no matter how much I love them. They can get an idea of how I feel, but knowing that the rest of the world can't understand it 100% (unless they're going through the same thing) is very frustrating at this moment. Today I feel isolated, in a completely different dimension. Today I'm invisible.

How I almost lost it all last week

I'm an only child. When I was twelve years old, my mother was diagnosed with cancer and died when I was fourteen. During those two years, I was forced to grow up and forget about being a kid in order to help my exhausted father (who barely managed to work all day and get a couple hours of sleep) take care of her when I arrived from school, everyday. By the time she died I wasn't the same, but after some years, I think I became a normal teenager, kind of.

My dad married my mother being almost twenty years older than her, which means that he could be my grandfather. Most people don't notice because he's in great shape, he works out every single night and lost the little tummy a man of his age would usually keep. He's a very strong, hardworking person, he's also very kind and sometimes overprotective, trying to do all by himself. At least that's how things used to be a week ago.

A week ago, he became very ill and we thought it was due to eating a taco we left in the fridge for a couple days. He couldn't eat properly and was very weak. He even stayed home for an entire day, something he never does, it doesn't matter if he has the flu. That's when I knew something was very wrong but I didn't want to think about what could happen yet. Another day passed and suddenly, his lower back was causing him a lot of pain. When I got home that night, he wasn't there. He had gone to see his friend who is also a doctor because he needed help. They came to the conclusion that the problem was in his kidneys. When he got home and told me that, I could only think about how I would manage to take care of him if things got worse. I'd probably have to quit college and get another job, what if he needed a kidney transplant? of course I'd give him mine but how could I manage to work like that? and how would I take care of him all by myself? He's all I got. What if I lost him? There are so many things I don't know how to do yet, I'm not even close to being a real adult, I felt useless compared to him, so dumb and weak. Powerless. It was as if the entire world was crumbling down right on top of me. But no matter how worried I was, I could never let my dad see me crying, that would only make things worse for him. I managed to do the things he does at home, only allowing myself to cry at night when he couldn't hear. I hadn't been this scared and lonely in such a long time. This was my worst nightmare, or that's what I thought.

Today he got his blood tested and other stuff. He has an infection and his kidneys hurt a lot but he's going to be okay. He's very ill, resting in bed, barely eating but he's getting better and that's all I wanted to hear. I couldn't care less about my birthday getting closer, I couldn't care less about halloween or having to cancel plans with my friends. What happened to my mother isn't happening to him and I couldn't be more relieved. Now I realize that I can't take things for granted ever again and I promise to take out the garbage more often when he gets better.

Why suicide isn't a matter of "strenght".

It's hard for me to picture someone who has never dealt with suicidal thoughts, since most of my friends have gone through a lot and many of them have diagnosed depression. I've also realized that people from my generation seems to have depression and anxiety in common, I see it everywhere. I've written before about people that I knew who committed suicide, and I have struggled with those ideas in the past, many times, actually.

Recently, I went to see a therapist because I became very afraid of not being able to handle it myself anymore, because I know I'm very strong, even when I feel like I'm not but this isn't about being strong or brave; being strong has nothing to do with not being able to go out and talk to the people I love for the last 3 days. Suicidal thoughts don't get only inside "weak" people's minds (whatever is your definition of "weak", since that's also very subjective), you see, when I'm suicidal I know I have reasons to keep living, I know my dad loves me as much as the rest of the family and friends I have; I know I could have a great life and there many things that I'd like to do before I die, but depression doesn't make sense and do you know why? because it's an illness. A mental illness doesn't need to be reasonable at all, if I were able to convince the chemicals in my brain of the things the logical part of me already knows, I wouldn't even need therapy, it probably wouldn't be considered an illness, but a dumb choice.

I think the part that pisses me off the most about this, is that there are people putting energy into criticizing these poor souls who couldn't help committing suicide like they are the filthiest beings in the world, instead of focusing on why so many people have depression and how to make it better, how to help friends, family, or even ourselves. Just because someone can handle depression and stay alive by focusing on the rational side, it doesn't mean that everyone else can do it that way. There are many types of depression and every single head works differently. For some of us, asking for help takes many years, while for others asking for help is the easiest part. Even with help, I'm pretty sure it's a hard, long journey in most of the cases.

How about we learn from this very sad situation and help each other? Let's have some mercy and empathy and if you can't, keep it to yourself, nobody needs to be put down like that.

23

It was December when I got to work one day and a friend told me about what happened to O. Of course, knowing someone I knew in person and was friends with at some point of my life died, was a big shock by itself. It was painful and sad but I could have never known the impact it would have over me and the decisions I would make.

It was finals' week and I was printing one of my final projects when another friend of mine sent me an article. It was about how O. died, it was about his suicide; now I was sure that it was suicide. I remember standing there telling to myself "not now" just to avoid making a scene in front the store's employees, so as soon as I was ready to go, I hurried inside the mall I needed to go through in order to  get to the bus stop. The entire mall was covered in Christmas. I saw happy families, giant gifts everywhere and children taking pictures with Santa Claus, all while listening to happy songs about how good it is to be together during the holidays... but what about O.'s family? what about O.?

O. wouldn't have a merry Christmas ever again and I was pretty sure his mom and his brothers wouldn't have it that year (if they ever could have one someday). The entire world seemed to melt in front of my eyes, it was like watching a movie screen, it was all made of cardboard. Love, happiness, friendship, it all seemed fake, all of that would never be enough, no cure would ever exist. And I wondered "Is this what O. was feeling? Is this why he left? Can I see what he saw and made him want to go away?". The mall seemed to never end for a moment; it probably took me around 5 minutes to walk across it with cold sweat on my back and my legs shaking but I felt the world mocking me for hours. The moment I got out of there, I tried to keep walking under the dark of the night but how could I? how could I keep breathing in a world made of cardboard? how could I ever keep going? and I felt tears burning my face while choking, still trying to walk through the empty parking lot until I fell down and sobbed without anyone around me. I knew life would never be the same, that even if the rest of the world seemed to be working perfectly with a young man hanging himself somewhere, I could never have a cardboard life. Those hot burning tears, kept rolling down my face the entire way home, also weeks before, during nights when I finally got home and even now, months before whenever I remember that night.

It's July but that winter never ended for me. I keep trying to believe in love and friendship, and find beauty all around me, sometimes even getting excited over small things, but I can't help wondering sometimes... will it ever be enough again?

I can't forget about that article, which was mistaken about his age, he wasn't 22; actually, he was 23 when he passed away. I'll be 23 in three months.

Lost boy is lost. How unexpected.

I'm in a weird position here. So far, I know I'm a boy and that seemed enough for a couple hours after talking to a therapist about it, it made me very happy to realize that I had been sure for a long time and just playing dumb for different reasons. I am a transgender male.

"But now what?" people always ask. You see, I thought that if the time finally came and somebody were interested in me, the questions would be about my name, nouns, how and why. Reality consists of people asking about my body. They all want to know about surgery, will I get it? how many? when? what about hormones? and I don't blame them, as long as they ask nicely, because I think of all that too sometimes about other people (I just rather keep my mouth shut). Truth is, I'd like to try hormones but I won't be doing it yet, maybe not until I move out from my dad's house and not because he will kick me out, but because I don't feel like explaining this to him; I thought I was forced to explain myself from the point I realized I'm not the pretty girl others think I am, and there I was, panicking about when I should tell people until a friend told me that I don't have to explain myself if I don't want to, that if I wasn't dating these people, it was ok to stay quiet. It's not like we're about to have sex and then I tell them "Oh by the way, I'm a man so now you're having gay sex, love lol". I like being transparent, but I guess I can keep a couple things to myself too.

I have to keep in mind that I'm not my body, that this is only the house, the person I am is living in. And it's ok to be a man with amazing hips and legs (I don't mind that at all), I only have to get used to the idea that some men also have breasts and learn not to hate mine. It would be great if one day I woke up and they weren't there, but I doubt it happens, so I have to live with it at least until I am ready to get surgery, if I am someday.

Now I keep questioning myself. When should I make it public? until I'm using hormones? until I live far away? should I even wait? No, fuck it. Today... or not? What about family? what about teachers? what about my boss? Should I post it on facebook and watch the world burn?

But the biggest question of all is: What the fuck am I supposed to wear if I want to go swimming? well... that doesn't happen often anyway, I'll have to wait a couple years more.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PBxuq_eWW94

Son of light and darkness

I found the black rusty door. Even though it looked like it could burn, the warmth was only palpable for the eyes. My fingers doubted as the coldness of the iron kissed them. It was light as a cloud but it cried as I opened it entirely and made my way inside of the room. I thought it was only me and the white silhouette of light that was coming through the door I just opened, then I saw it in the middle of the darkness below a white light. What is... it? Maybe an ice block... is it made of glass? I kept walking towards it... him. Us. As I became closer, I could see my face reflected on the ice that was covering him. His body was almost in fetal position while standing up and his hands were covering his face but I could see through him, I could see the little diamond tears running down his arms, I could feel his heartbeat singing a lullaby along with mine. I closed my eyes and felt his face in front of me, it was a vision. With our noses barely touching, I knew what was happening, that wasn't just my reflection, that wasn't a he or a she, that was me, that was actually us. And he held me so hard against his chest that I felt all my fears escape through my pores, all the agony coming through my head as some kind of steam. It was burning so I opened my eyes and we hadn't move an inch. I caressed his forehead and kissed his horns. I held his frozen skin, making all the ice melt and little by little the water frosting started shining on him like sugar, turning into beautiful sweat. His diamond tears kept running down again and his body started shaking. His voice cried like the awakening of the universe while his entire body shivered in my arms. The son of the universe stood in front of me and slowly put his hands on his sides. His long smooth tail finally moved like a black snake ready to attack. His eyes in front of me were completely white but they still told me that he was awake, he could see me. A grin popped out of his lips framed by his red skin face with beautiful fangs, as white as the light above us. His arms surrounded me and I could feel his hands like torches on my back. The heat coming out of him matched his skin color but even then, he wasn't burning me. We got closer as the light faded, his face was right in front of mine, noses together, eyelids closed...

Poema "Annabel Lee", de Edgar Allan Poe, traducido y adaptado por mí.

Fue hace muchos, muchos años,
En un reino junto al mar,
En donde vivía una doncella que tal vez conozcan
Por el nombre de Annabel Lee;
Y esta doncella vivía sin pensar en más
Que amarme y ser amada por mí.

Yo era un niño y ella era una niña,
En éste reino junto al mar;
Pero amamos con un amor que era más que amor
Mi Annabel Lee y yo;
Con un amor que los serafines del cielo
Nos codiciaban a ella y a mí.

Y ésta es la razón por la que, hace mucho,
En éste reino junto al mar
El viento sopló por una nube, enfriando
Mi hermosa Annabel Lee;

Entonces llegó su pariente de alcurnia
Y la arrebató de mí,
Para enclaustrarla en un sepulcro
En éste reino junto al mar.

Los ángeles, ni medio felices en el cielo,
nos envidiaban a ella y a mí.
¡Sí! Esa fue la razón (como todos los hombres saben
en éste reino junto al mar)
Por la que el viento salió de entre las nubes en la noche
helando y matando a mi Annabel Lee.

Pero nuestro amor era por mucho, más fuerte que el amor
de aquellos mayores que nosotros,
de aquellos más sabios que nosotros.
Y ni los ángeles del cielo encima,
ni los demonios debajo del mar,
podrán nunca separar mi alma del alma
de la hermosa Annabel Lee.

La luna nunca brilla sin traerme los sueños
de la hermosa Annabel Lee;
Y las estrellas nunca se elevan sin que sienta los brillantes ojos
de la hermosa Annabel Lee;
Y así, toda la noche con la marea, me acuesto al lado
de mi querida, mi amada, mi vida y mi novia,
en el sepulcro junto al mar,
en su tumba junto al rugiente mar.

Enterrement

Es como caer y rodar por una espiral que no termina. Es ver la misma película una y otra vez con una cadena de déja vùs en donde todos viven como si no recordaran nada y no te pudieran oír gritando mientras clavas las uñas en el piso sin logro alguno. Nada te empuja, pero nada te detiene. Caes y caes y sigues cayendo; entonces hiperventilas y el frío trepa hasta tu pecho. Ojos que ven borroso, siluetas deformes, latidos y de repente nada... tu cuerpo no te deja respirar más y se detiene. Puedes ver, puedes pensar y crees que vas a morir en ese mismo momento. Esperas que alguna mano te arrastre porque parece que al fin es el momento, pero no pasa nada. Tu pecho ya no se mueve y aún así sigues consciente. No. No es el momento, no puede serlo. Algo se enciende adentro de ti y puedes sentir tu piel gritando en cada vello que se eriza. Ves obscuridad mientras inhalas como nunca lo has hecho, como si volvieras a nacer pero sin los beneficios de ser nuevo. No parece otra oportunidad, parece más una idea deforme que no ha incubado en tu cabeza lo suficiente. Nada sale como lo planeaste... ¿alguna vez lo hizo?