On Poison

Some online friends were discussing video games we played as kids. This prompted me to start looking up some of the games I played, and one of them was Final Fight 2 (because it had a female playable character). As I was wikiing the game, I started reading about the character “Poison” from the original Final Fight.

I’d heard of Poison before, but I’d never read anything about her history. So I eventually ended up here and read this:

“However—and while the exacts of the decision are still a little hazy—before Final Fight was released in the West, Capcom decided that players outside of their home territory wouldn’t take too kindly to beating up a girl. So, a decision was made: The character of Poison would now be considered transgender. Though the logic seems rather unfortunate, it’s said that the idea was that punching a woman wouldn’t be acceptable, but punch a woman who used to be a man would be.”

That about says it all, doesn’t it? It would be too “beyond the pale” to have the hero commit violence against a "real" woman (that's the villain's job), but if we turn the character into a trans woman then go right ahead!

The rest of the article is somewhat sympathetic to trans women, although it continually persists throughout with a dichotomy of "real women" vs. "transvestite/trans woman/whatever." The question of whether the character could be "a real woman" and trans simply doesn't occur to anyone involved.

Ultimately, though, the specific instance is immaterial. This kind of thing happens all the time in all kinds of spaces. What's noteworthy to me is how I respond to it.

It's just so... defeating. It feels like an immense effort just to keep writing this because I want to stop and either hide or go and feel miserable instead of engaging this idea more. It's terrifying, significantly because no one hardly ever has these conversations to my face (so I can never tell what people are really thinking), but I'm also quite positive that they occur all the time. That there's this constant refrain of "real woman" vs "trans woman" and I'm always on the "losing side."

And it hurts that I even feel like being "trans" is the "losing side." It hurts that I have internalized this bullshit so much that my primary response whenever I read this shit is to feel so incredibly bad because I'm reminded of how I can never be "real." And I'll look at the angles on my face and I'll reflect on the male reverberations still in my voice and I'll think about how so often I still just feel like an impostor pretending to be a girl who honestly doesn't know what the hell "she's" doing. And I start to find myself reminding myself that no matter what I do, say, think, feel, identify, I will always be "marked as male" like a stain I can't scrub out. A stain that even people who are "accepting" and "open-minded" will reinforce and reapply, intentionally or unintentionally. That I am fundamentally wrong and repugnant and quintessentially undesirable on a genetic level.

"Poison" indeed.

And I wonder why am I not angry? Why am I letting the dominant group win? Why am I buying into their transmisogynistic bullshit?

And I think it's because I fear they're right. Or, if they're not right, then at least I fear they're so ingrained that there's nothing I can do to escape. They'll always resurface, always return. Again and again and again. I simply can't escape. And I just can't fight them off myself. I can't do it. I just can't do it. I can't.

I'll write more soon. This isn't the end. But goddamn if it doesn't feel like defeat all the same.

Fighting the Battle of Myself

I'm in a good place, right now, in this moment. In the past week (after too many things happened in quick succession to list), I've been able to own "I matter." I play with it, I savor it, I say it to myself and I hold it to my breast like a small, warm animal I must keep safe, experiencing a nascent joy as it pulses through me.

But I have to fight to keep it. I can sit with in for a few moments, and then grim armies at my gates will start their bombardments again. And they start to overwhelm me, and they close in and the sky starts to get so dark, and I have to struggle so fervently to pull this small warm thing back to me.

Did you know that I matter? I don't think I did. Not really. And then I started crying and people started listening. And then I started witnessing other people who believed they mattered. Who were so open and honest about how much pain they experienced from so many people in so many places who, in unremitting savage chants, pound like wardrums in the assault on our souls. And they were so open about that hurt, and still they held onto the belief that they mattered. I was in awe, that one could do that. And I thought "I want to do that. I want to own my hurt and my worth. I want to own myself." And I started trying.

Did you know that I get to decide? "Decide what?" I asked my therapist. "That's it. You get to decide." This, I did not know. I did not know that I get to decide who can make me feel worthless. I did not know that I get to decide what my expectations are and whether I'm reaching them. I did not know that I get to decide these things, and then I get to decide when to listen to others about change. That I don't have to be my father, who always decides everything, but I also don't have to be the scared little child who has to let him. And as I confront change and the child whispers "You can't, you don't know how, they always win they always leave they always win they always leave," I can hold that small warmth and say "I don't know how. But I learn to decide what "winning" is. I can learn to decide whether I'm succeeding. And I can learn to decide who I can trust not to leave." And I've started trying.

It is hard. It is hard to own my hurt, to realize how deep my self-hatred goes, fueled by a million things big and small each day that say with unthinking conviction "You are abomination. A repugnant punchline whose very existence is as much a testament of your deep wrongness as it is a threat to the wellbeing of Good, Normal people everywhere." It is hard to confront the abyss it fuels within myself and how that darkness warps me and my views of those around me. It is hard to break down in front of others and to let them see the immensity of the pain and terror and sadness as my words falter and then fall out clumsy and dull. And it is hard to rematerialize anew and not calcify or dissolve again.

It is hard. But I am trying. Trying to hold onto "I matter." And "I get to decide." And "I matter, and you do too. I get to decide, and you get to too." I am trying to remember that, in order to let you decide and matter, I don't have to erase myself. And it is so, so hard.

In this moment, I think I can do it: I think I can win this battle of myself. But it's going to be a hell of a fight.

All Us Pretty Things

"Very pretty. You look natural." the woman said as I was leaving. It wasn't the only time someone complimented my appearance while in the outpatient facility in Montreal. But it certainly stood out. "Natural."  To borrow a phrase, "Born this Way." One may as well have said "real." (The "pretty," of course, is attendant upon the "real.") And to hear it from another trans woman haunted me.

"You are so young and so pretty! I cannot believe no one would come with you!" my cis hostess enthusiastically exclaimed at the bed and breakfast (where I stayed the night before moving to the hospital). She was an exuberantly open and affectionate woman who really seemed to be capable of making anyone feel welcome and appreciated. But those first words lingered with me too. As if me being "pretty" ("real") meant that of course I would merit company and support.

The sentiment alone was said effusively, but it was meant in implicit (and, naturally, "well meaning") contrast to some of the other patients, particularly those who had transitioned fairly recently at older ages. And whereas some women who had transitioned a significant number of years ago but were in their 40s would be read as female easily, there were a few women who were in their 50s who had likely not done much HRT or who had transitioned later who I imagine have significantly more difficulties.

Physical appearance as a metric of "realness" is a common tension for trans people. For instance, most of my experiences with trans women have been with a scant few locally and then online. And online, ages skew significantly young. I've written here before about struggling with resentment towards younger transitioners (which I know is a product of my own self-loathing and absolutely nothing to do with any fault or flaw on their parts), and it's a not insignificant chip I carry on my shoulder: how much different, how much better would things be if I had transition at 20? 18? 16? Whenever I run my fingers along my cheeks, whenever I catch my voice skewing masculine, whenever I get rejected because I'm trans, it flares up in spouts of self-hatred. When I see myself in the mirror, when I look at most pictures or videos of myself, I think "Every person I know must be politely refraining from pointing out how foolish it is that I think I'm anything but a man in women's clothing." And I start to desperately wish I was cis, to desperately wish I really was "pretty," to desperately wish I had transitioned before my face masculinized beyond repair. Because I am under no illusions that, regardless of what others say, if I am "pretty" it's only in relation to those who are not read as female as easily as I tend to be.

And when some of these other trans women said "pretty" to me, I wondered: did those women feel similarly to how I feel? Was "pretty" an innocuous compliment, a way of trying to soothe an insecurity I presumably have, or a way of hurting themselves? Did they see me with envy, the way I looked at the young woman who came in the last two days who looked and sounded so cis I wasn't sure whether she or her boyfriend was getting the surgery? Did they think to themselves "I can never be as real, as beautiful, as desirable as her?" Because we know, oh how we know that really, on a fundamental level we are fake. We are hideous. We are undesirable. And, worst of all, we deserve to be unwanted and unloved. Because who could possibly commit such an act of immense charity as to fool themselves enough to join us in the delusion that we are something we are decidedly not?

And the worst part is that this is not a uniquely trans issue. There's a hierarchy, certainly. But if we set "realness" aside, much of that paragraph could apply to most any cis woman comparing herself to the "ideal." A fat woman to a thin woman, an older woman to a younger woman, a woman of color to a white woman, a disabled woman to an able-bodied woman, a fat, older, disabled pre-op trans woman of color to a thin, young, able-bodied, cis white woman. And there's a significant chance that that thin, young, able-bodied, cis white woman can *still* have an eating disorder that causes her to utterly loathe her body, seeing something hideous whenever she looks in a mirror and firmly believing no one could ever find her beautiful.

I know part of me, on some essential level, views being cisgendered as "the goal." If you're read as cis, indistiguishable from cis if no one who "knows" says otherwise, you've "made it." You are "pretty." You are real. You are ideal.

But of course that's ridiculous. Certainly, so very very many things are so much easier/safer at that point. But there's still a never-ending litany of reasons for women to hate their bodies/appearances/selves, whether it's weight, breasts, butt, curves, height, voice, facial structure, skin color, hair, etc etc. Trans women, particularly trans women of color, get the brunt of the intersections of racism/homophobia/misogyny/transphobia, but their oppression is an aggravated manifestation and combination of forces that still affect everyone who is at a higher place up that ladder but not on top (if there is one). Being "cis" wouldn't cure all their problems, it would just reduce the intensity.

And just so, being "cis" wouldn't make me "pretty." I know cis women (who certainly had plenty of viable alternatives, if they wanted to exercise them) have been attracted to me as Juliet. I know that there are people in my life for whom I've always been female without an asterisk. I know the way I see my reflection is tempered by a wicked combination of cultural narratives of platonic ideals and historical narratives of my own lack of worth. "Pretty" is a subjective term applied as if it's an objective pronouncement of worth. And I know that that feigned objectivity is the voice of oppression (or kyriarchy), equating a woman's worth with appearance, with cisness, with whiteness, with thinness, with straightness, with femmeness, with an impossible ideal. (Men's worth is judged too, of course, but on different scales)

But, and this is the key, simply because there are established hierarchies of legitimacy, of worth, of "pretty" does not make them true. When we buy into those hierarchies, we may pretend that we're on a spectrum of worth but really it's a binary: you are valuable or you're not. You are you, or you are perfect.

Knowing this is different than internalizing it. I don't feel I'm "pretty," meaning I don't feel I'm valuable or attractive or desirable or real or human in the way everyone else. But I do realize that I am the only one who can make that determination. Now, it's just a matter of sucking out the poison and letting myself be the beautiful of an authentic self. "Pretty" be damned.

Guilty of Dating While Trans

[In response to this Feministe post, responding to a "Dear Prudie" advice column about whether a relative should out her trans cousin to the man her cousin is dating.]

 I'm pretty sure I got rejected a week ago for being trans by someone on okcupid. And it was especially irksome because the woman was awesome: really into all kinds of different social justice, knew about cissexism, seemed really ambitious and compassionate. She was enthusiastic and engaged, and then she read that I was trans and she... wasn't. When I saw she'd answered that "trans people ought to disclose their status in messages before meeting" (coupled with a note about her "grappling with the cotton ceiling,") I knew that it wasn't going to work out.

 And sure, online dating sucks etc. But I think it was one of the first times someone else really made me feel directly ashamed and disgusting. I mean, certainly, trans women are repulsive on an existential level to a great many people. But this was a direct rejection from someone who really seemed like she ought to know better. It was the first time I'd ever even considered not being so out all the time, because if even the folks who are progressive social justice activists and sympathetic to the abstract cause of my rights feel, on a visceral level, that I'm really just a dude in disguise... How else am I even supposed to get the chance to show them I'm not?

 I won't hide it, of course; being trans is too much a part of my identity and my politics. But it reminded me of parts of Kiese Laymon's gawker essay TNC posted, and how this sort of prejudice sticks with you and poisons you. How everytime a character jokes about the obligatory "tranny hooker" being "really a dude" it stings me. How I still feel like it's charity when people are attracted to me. How being trans feels like a stain I just can't get out. And I wonder how the hell I'm supposed to find and keep that sense of self-worth when it's so frequently reinforced that I ought not to have it.

Because when trans issues are framed in any kind of mainstream discourse? It's all about protecting cis people. Bathroom panic about scary men-dressed-as-women molesting cis women on the toilet aside, I've frequently seen people compare having sex with a trans woman who's not out being akin to rape. (And, of course, the ones who have sex with us when we're out are primarily perverts). Not to mention that it doesn't occur to Prudie for one moment that if that woman's cousin outs her, it might result in a beating or murder. We're just "living in a dream world" in thinking we're real women like the rest of you, and everyone needs to be saved from our delusion.

It weighs on you. Eats at you. And it makes it all the more difficult to believe that anyone would truly want you. Because, at the end of the day, the stain remains. And, in the eyes of most people, no amount of scrubbing will ever remove it.

The Way We Were

Ever since I was a child, I have wanted nothing other than a vagina. I would lie awake at night, fantasizing about its majestic curves, its mysterious crevices, its supple and moist texture. I could imagine nothing hotter than being penetrated by a hard, erect penis, feeling it pound against those beautiful walls deep inside me. I knew that I could not be whole, nay I could not be human without one.

But society was stacked against me. My parents hated it when I wore dresses. I was a boy, they insisted, and that meant I was supposed to play in the dirt with guns and sticks and foosballs or something. Of course I knew better: inside, there was a little girl howling to be let free. But it took me 23 years before I was finally able to build up the courage to say that yes, I truly wanted to be a Vagina American. 

I wanted to be a woman. And what's a woman without a vagina? A man, that's what. I wanted to be anything but a man. I wanted to let the woman trapped inside me out. And I knew that she could only escape through that glorious, flowing opening betwixt my legs. 

But first I had to convince everyone I was really serious. I dressed as a woman for an entire year. It was hard and all, but once my therapist saw I was serious she gave me papers saying that people shouldn't give me shit because I'm mentally ill and it's not my fault. Wearing makeup and a dress felt so freeing! Some people laughed and mocked me, and they still made me use the men's restroom at school. But I could kinda get that, though; I mean, I wasn't really a woman, not yet anyway. I was just some freak. I hadn't earned it.

It was hard. It was really really hard. But that's the price of real womanhood, you know? Well, that and $20,000. I worked really hard to save that money: nothing was more important. And when I had finally saved enough, finally gone through all the tests and therapy, finally proven myself, I made my appointment. It was one of the happiest moments of my life.

As the time got closer, I was scared, sure. But I knew who I wanted to be: a woman. Not a drag queen or a he-she fag or a crossdresser. And that's what a vagina is, ya know? It separates the men from the girls!

Anyway, after so much time, I finally made it to Montreal. In just a few short hours, Dr. Brassard was able to work his magic. And when I woke up? It was like being reborn. I was a women. A real woman. And no one could ever take that away from me.

Now, I'm recovering. And it will certainly take awhile. But after that? I'm done! For all intents and purposes, I'll be just like any other normal woman. All of this “trans” business will be behind me. I can finally just be “me.” And that will be the sweetest thing of all. 

 *** 

In case you haven't already surmised from my subtle and urbane satirical narrative above, this is not going to be a conventional retrospective about Sexual Reassignment Surgery (SRS). If that is what you're seeking, one need only google the term to find countless videos and articles about SRS, most of which will be produced by cis people, for cis people (although the discerning searcher can find trans owned narratives with a bit of work).

As such, if one wants to write about SRS, it's impossible not engage that narrative. Indeed, the vast majority of cis people equate being transsexual to having Sexual Reassignment Surgery. It's a point of fascination, both morbid and mocking, for the culture at large. Increasingly, much of this is well-intentioned: progressive people, in particular, love to see marginalized people become happy with themselves and their identities. But this is undermined by the inordinate focus upon SRS even within these circles: never have I seen celebrations of name changes, of starting Hormone Replacement Therapy (HRT), of even simply coming out as trans that match the congratulatory and celebratory joy from cis people regarding a transsexual person's surgeries. It always has been and remains the most familiar and intriguing aspect of transsexual people's existence for cis people. And that creates a host of problems. 

Because SRS is not just about surgically altering one's genitals to be closer aligned to one's true sense of self. It's about legitimacy, legal, cultural, and social. It's about wealth. It's about those who don't or can't have SRS as much as those who can and do. It's about cis people's deepest fears and suspicions of trans* people. It's about definitions. It's about biology and culture. It's about relationships, sex, and love. It's about “real.” It's about verisimilitude. It's about impossible standards. It's about women, it's about men, and it's about everyone and anyone involved in that inherently limited binary.

I cannot write about this without writing about all of that. And if you think I am angry, then you are right. I am furious. And excited. And hopeful. And terrified. And thankful. And resentful. And a whole host of emotions complicated by the fact that I had quite invasive surgery two weeks ago that will take a year to really recover from.

These feelings, together, do not fit the conventional narrative. And, as such, this exploration is going to make you uncomfortable (and not just because I'm going to go all "nonlinear postmodern" on your beautiful butts). But I want to ask you to engage with that discomfort. Chances are, what you want, what most people want, is to read a story about how I was sad because I was a boy and then I became a girl and then I got surgery and then I became a real girl, and now I'm happy. You want to celebrate with me, unambiguously, to embrace unmitigated positivity. And believe me when I say I appreciate so much about that sentiment. And I will write about that. But I need to challenge it, too. Because the only way this story is coated in unmitigated, celebratory positivity is when we don't want to see anything else. And there is just too much else there.

Hopefully, I can find a way to show a bit of everything.*



[*Well. Almost everything. IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.**]

[[**I mean I'm not showing you my vagina. Which is kind of ironic, because that is what this is all about, right? And yet, you not seeing my vagina is also kind of the point. Isn't that deep? It'll be deeper after I dilate. *drops mic* GOODNIGHT EVERYBODY.]]

Dysphormea

I don't know how to start writing this.

I just played dys4ia. It's a cute, succinct, simple game that's mostly autobiography about a transgender woman (the designer of the game) seeking out and going through hormone replacement. It also talks about a fair number of difficult experiences in a "this is hard" kind of way. [I suggest playing it before you keep on reading, if only because it'll have more redeeming value than this post]

After playing it, part of me wanted to say "Fuck this. I started HRT/transitioned while finishing my failure of high school teaching, applying to grad school, being single and all kinds of other shit. And I didn't fucking cry about it."

And sure. Relatively speaking, what the game describes are not monstrous horrors. But that reaction... it's particularly harsh. Especially harsh. It's evidence that there is something more there, deeper that really fucking hurts.

It hurts, but I don't know how to write about it. I don't know how to feel it. Feel it without tears rushing up from the normally-unreachable-depths beneath, feel it without wanting to run away from it in terror. I don't know how to feel how much everything hurts.

It fucking hurts when someone calls me "sir." It hurts when people I've known for years, either friends or family, forget or don't bother to remember my name and pronouns after 1.5 years as Juliet (if they're even still talking to me). It hurts that I pay $70 a week for an hour of getting my face perforated with electric needles to remove my goddamn beard. It hurts that I have to get a letter from my doctor to apply for a passport in my gender. It hurts that my doctor won't proscribe me hormones and no one at UTK wants to try to do routine bloodtests to monitor my levels. It hurts that the only place to get that I can go is incompetent. It hurts that my state's elected officials will, at best, vote against allowing my official documents to reflect my gender identity and, at worst, threaten physical violence against me. It hurts that "gay" is used as a synonym for "LGBT." It hurts that I have to come out to every person I'm romantically interested in and have their ideas about trans people haunt whatever relationship we have. It hurts that I can't shake the feeling that people see me as male. It hurts that I have nightmares where people still think I'm male. It hurts that I have to constantly explain what "cis" means. It hurts that I'm paying tens of thousands of dollars to have a terrifying and invasive surgery which will take me months to recover from to correct what feels like a genetic mistake. It hurts that I'm afraid it won't matter. It hurts that I had to get letters from psychologists with tons of letters behind their names certifying I was insane enough to want this. It hurts that I feel like I'm repulsive not because I'm "ugly" but because I'm "masculine" enough to where I have to say "I think I pass" because I honestly don't know.

It hurts that no one asks. Or that they're so easily deflected on the rare chance they do. It hurts that no one talks about trans people unless I make it an issue. It hurts that I always feel incredibly selfish when I do. It hurts that I don't have a romantic partner to help. That I don't have much of any emotional support to help.

And it hurts that it feels like it's my fault. Because I put on such a convincingly "ok" face and all the myriad of small hurts are swallowed into it. The video game does a great job of demonstrating many of those small hurts. Hurts which, alone, often feel just cutting yourself shaving. But it's one after another after another. And I don't know how to talk about it. I don't have anywhere to talk about it. I don't know what I'd say if I tried to talk about it.

Even this feels like whining. And it probably is. But I don't know, maybe people need to see how much things hurt? Maybe?

I don't know.

Epistolscarcity

9/14/11
Yesterday, I asked my therapist to help with one of the required letters I need to get Sexual Reassignment Surgery (SRS) sometime next year. Well, I guess I don't remember asking the question specifically, because I just assumed that she would. It's a bullshit practice, requiring someone to have two letters from "licensed professionals" evaluating what they should do with their own body. I figured it'd just be more i's to dot and t's to cross; I mean, who could even take this shit seriously when I'd have been on Hormone Replacement Therapy (HRT) for two years and full time at least a year and a half by the time I actually had the procedure.

But as soon as I gave her the document the surgeon's office had sent me, she got defensive. She didn't "feel comfortable in the evaluative role" saying she had a "dual relationship" that meant her "objective judgment" would be impaired. I said that was fine, she didn't have to do the evaluative component, she could just write the shorter second letter. But she kept on protesting. She didn't have "training." She was worried about what would happen if something went wrong and someone started calling her office to see who approved the procedure in the first place. She expressed a lot of doubt about people's satisfaction afterwards.

And then she kept going. She said, even if she was trained and felt component, she didn't know if she'd write it for me. I might want to have kids. I haven't had sex in two years and certainly not as Juliet. I'd been acutely suicidal a few months ago, she wouldn't recommend me for "any surgery."

And it was telling people I was transitioning all over again. Because every fucking familial adult I came out to did the exact same thing: "I just don't think you've exhausted your options." "I mean, there are maybe two places in the entire world you can live once you've done this." "There are so many steps and hurdles you're going to have to go through." "In college I dated another woman for like three weeks and we fooled around but it didn't work out and now I've been married to your uncle for ten years." "I was young once, too, and I had some crazy ideas about what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. But you get older and things change and we're just worried that you're rushing into this." Ad fucking nauseum.

And you know, I can get ignorance. I can get fear and concern. Transsexuality is completely new to you, you've just heard about it on Dateline, you never thought it'd happen to one of your family members, etc. Whatever. The part that really hurts, though, every single fucking time is that they don't ask questions. My therapist did not ask me "What are your feelings about having children?" My father did not ask me "Have you talked to any trans women locally?" My mother did not ask me "Do you think this decision is impacted by any of the other stressors in your life?" My uncle did not ask me "How much research have you done about the process and steps involved?"

None of them asked and let my own answers about my own self satisfy them. A year ago, I had a "conversation" with my father. And he said that he didn't trust me or my judgment because of my "life decisions." And I asked him what life decisions he meant. And he said "I mean exactly what I said: your life decisions." And I said that didn't make any sense, to make an accusation about something and not even be able to explain your argument or label your terms. And he said "You're always going to have an answer for everything." And it's been "I can't say why, but you're simply not good enough" for my entire life.

[Cut for length. Suffice it to say, imagine reading about some hard things survived and a few relative metrics of success.]

And I did it these things with intentional humility and, despite some acerbity at times, continued compassion for others. I've tried to understand and forgive everyone around me. I never missed a day of class. Even in college, I voluntarily missed maybe two classes. I always got up in the morning. I've never taken a sick day anywhere. And I don't think I've really asked much of anyone.

I'm not fucking proud of any of this. I'd never mention it, outside of sharing the emotional component for the sake of you understanding me better or perhaps comparing experiences for a knowledge base. I don't consider myself particularly strong, I don't judge anyone for any differences in their own personal trajectories, I certainly do not in any way consider myself superior or special. I did what I did with what I had for whatever my reasons were.

But I mention it here, now, because overall? I think I make pretty good decisions. I think I act pretty respectfully and conscientiously towards others. I'm not particularly kind to myself, but I'm getting there. I think I'm doing fairly well, all told. And it fucking tears me apart to look at all the above and think that my therapist, my family, my whomever would just assume I don't have good reasons for what I'm doing. That they don't trust me or respect me.

Because, I mean, yeah, transphobia. They're projecting their own fears and insecurities onto me. But if they respected me, at least? They'd ask. They'd think "Damn, this seems crazy. But Juliet usually makes pretty decent decisions. Let me see what she has to say first." And then, after I explained, they would say "It's obvious you've given this a lot of thought and know a lot more than we do. We really just want you to be happy. So how can we help you make this work?"

That doesn't seem too hard. Nor does it seem like it's asking too much.

So why the hell does it feel that way?