I promised myself that I’d entered a new phase of my transition, where I don’t need to make any more major decisions, just cruise wherever.  I guess that’s true, but the process doesn’t stop.

An increased dose of finasteride obliterates traces of testosterone derivatives from my bloodstream.  The veins in my hands have faded and receded, and my fingers are noticeably fleshier.  Someone quipped that I might be able to sleep on my stomach again, someday.


My nightmares are not so vivid anymore and I can sleep.  It seems too good to be true.

But I’m blindsided by a sudden loss of some component of my identity, then immersed in paradoxical need for both quiet and emotional support.


I wish someone would’ve written about this shit in a little more detail, because I did not see this coming.



sorry doesn’t seem enough

Something stuck with me last week.

“Your friends must really love you.”


This brought back a thought experiment that I usually resist:  What if someone I know transitioned?  My mother?  My father?  My friends?  Could I accept it?  How much would that hurt?

To see them tear themselves apart, because nothing else good was going to happen in their lives?  To salvage the pieces?  To make themselves whole?

And I realize what I’ve done to everyone.


I want to make up for it, but it’s one of those things that cannot be made up for.  Debt that cannot be repaid or talked about.


I’m so sorry.


I don’t know if I would try to become a woman again.

I know it would be that much harder.