It has taken me a while to realize it, but I think I finally understand why I am writing the things that I am.
I live in a society of collective mental illness where people seem to think that it is OK to take a knife to a baby's genitals, and not many seem to even question the practice. I am on a fundamental level incapable of embracing such pragmatic trust in anything, let alone this.
The men who have been cut often perpetuate this mentality because it is easier to try to justify what was done than come to terms with the emotional baggage of that what was done to them may have been wrong. The ethics of strapping down a baby and taking a knife to his or her genitals with no anesthetic nor legitimate medical reason resound too strongly for me to ever be able to turn my head away and deny the truth of such an atrocity.
My parents know about my situation. Both of them know now. Both of them seem to think that my anguish in this matter is merely self-obsessed and narcissistically neurotic.
But at the same time, they don't know. They don't know the teasing in locker rooms I have endured, they don't know the pain that has been keeping me up at night, they don't know the fear of blood and pain coming from the genitals, and they don't know what they chose for me has really done to me as a person. They know the details of the things I tell them and roll their eyes, but they don't know them from experience what it is really like.
The only things I hear from them are their feeble attempts at reassuring me by trying to legitimize and marginalize the things I have lived through as necessary and simultaneously not a big deal, and they have treated my time in anguish as collateral damage--an acceptable risk. This is so very alienating for me. Especially when they reply with such things as "who cares what your dick looks like?" I care, and I point out the hypocrisy of their saying such a thing when it clearly mattered enough to one of them what it looked like when she reached the decision to elect for such a procedure (which was botched, by the ways) in the name of cosmetics. The room gets quiet when I point out such things.
I would be lying if I said that their dumbfounded silence wasn't more comforting than their blandly proffered and inappropriate attempts of trying to justify any part of this.
I write this blog because I am alone.
There are others out there like me, but I have not a single person that I can talk to face-to-face in confidence who can understand these things.
I suppose that part of me understood this on a subliminal level when I started writing this journal-made-into-a-blog.
Writing these things has been a help, because with every entry I feel as though some sort of weight is being lifted from my mind, although it still hurts me to write. It is like removing a splinter from your finger--it hurts to do so, but it feels so much better once it is out.
To others out there that are like me in any way shape or form, I want you to know that you are not alone.