Cait the Encourageable on Nostr: I've told this story before, but I can't find (and probably deleted by accident) my ...
I've told this story before, but I can't find (and probably deleted by accident) my posts in which I did so. So I'm reconstituting it here.
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So...when I was 13, I was busy stealing the few things I had for relief of dysphoria. We were quite poor, and I didn't have any way to otherwise acquire things. I got caught once. When the time came to go to court, my mother agreed to the judge's request that I attend a "reparative therapy" session, to see if I could be cured of my shamefulness.
And that was how I met conversion therapy. First aversive techniques: mild pain, dysphoric language, shouting, denial of reality. Then severe mockery - a group of cis girls was brought in, who mocked me and the other attendees for our lack of manliness.
So far, not so bad, yeah? That's why the next step was electricity. Those same TENS units, or something quite similar, was attached to my wrist and elbows (remember, I'm 13 here). And every time I insisted I was a girl, ZAP, turned up to 11. Painful af.
Eventually they gave it up as a hopeless case. The "therapists" reported to my mother that I couldn't be fixed, but would just have to learn to hide my shame better. By now, I was thoroughly terrified of electricity, which I've never lost.
But wait! That's not all! Tell them what else they've won, Jonny!
Cut to the summer of 1981. I'm 15 now. My father, long since divorced from my mum, lives out west, and my sister and I go visit him for a summer trip. We take a camper shell pickup (cabover type) through the mountains to Vancouver, then down the coast to San Francisco, before cutting back up through the mountains to Tahoe (where my dad had a girlfriend). The drive up to Tahoe was really hot in late August, and when we got to the townhouse where she lived with her roommates (flight atts), we decided to go swimming. Her townhouse backed onto the lake itself, via a little lagoon.
Part 2: https://wargamers.social/@oldladyplays/111660616663823798. Yes, it's worse.
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So...when I was 13, I was busy stealing the few things I had for relief of dysphoria. We were quite poor, and I didn't have any way to otherwise acquire things. I got caught once. When the time came to go to court, my mother agreed to the judge's request that I attend a "reparative therapy" session, to see if I could be cured of my shamefulness.
And that was how I met conversion therapy. First aversive techniques: mild pain, dysphoric language, shouting, denial of reality. Then severe mockery - a group of cis girls was brought in, who mocked me and the other attendees for our lack of manliness.
So far, not so bad, yeah? That's why the next step was electricity. Those same TENS units, or something quite similar, was attached to my wrist and elbows (remember, I'm 13 here). And every time I insisted I was a girl, ZAP, turned up to 11. Painful af.
Eventually they gave it up as a hopeless case. The "therapists" reported to my mother that I couldn't be fixed, but would just have to learn to hide my shame better. By now, I was thoroughly terrified of electricity, which I've never lost.
But wait! That's not all! Tell them what else they've won, Jonny!
Cut to the summer of 1981. I'm 15 now. My father, long since divorced from my mum, lives out west, and my sister and I go visit him for a summer trip. We take a camper shell pickup (cabover type) through the mountains to Vancouver, then down the coast to San Francisco, before cutting back up through the mountains to Tahoe (where my dad had a girlfriend). The drive up to Tahoe was really hot in late August, and when we got to the townhouse where she lived with her roommates (flight atts), we decided to go swimming. Her townhouse backed onto the lake itself, via a little lagoon.
Part 2: https://wargamers.social/@oldladyplays/111660616663823798. Yes, it's worse.