lit review of the damned

The sun doesn’t come up for a couple of hours now.

It’s 4 days into my SRS literature review.  I’ve looked at 1000s of scientific articles over the years and you just get a feel for them, you get a sense for what the scientists are feeling.  And at least a few of the sex change surgeons think sex changes are hilarious.  Cruelly, it’s the surgical pictures and diagrams that are most telling.

I’d never drooled on a paper before.  I won’t read too much into that.

 

Your heart surgeon thinks your condition is hilarious.

I’ve never felt so uniquely alone, so doomed.

 

Day 3, I start drinking, eating, binging, purging.  I’d never done that before.  Unsurprisingly – apparently unsurprisingly – I don’t think much of it.  Apparently, cramming the gender dysphoria literature causes this sense of bodily disintegrity.  I try to get some sleep.

 

It’s 3:30.  Today I’ll read those 3 articles that describe the finer points of why it’s a bad idea to do an orchiectomy (orchidectomy?) before the whole sex change business; 3 articles some literature review group felt were significant out of a vast and confused body of knowledge.  Then I’ll continue skimming the references cited by The Human Rights Campaign’s list of insurance policies that have transgender background sections.  There’s got to be some hope in there somewhere.

 

Spring break forever.

 

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‘today’s weirdness is tomorrow’s reason why’

I can see why no one writes about this.  Why no one blogs about their transgender transition after the ‘I’m OK’ stage, when they drop off the face of the earth.

It’s because you basically drop off the face of the earth.

 

The moment you give away your old wardrobe, when you run out of mascara for the first time, when you find yourself standing in the social security office and declare yourself to the federal government to be a woman – and it’s not even a big deal – everything changes.  It’s as if I had never done anything in my life.  That I’m here, now, born yesterday or whenever, I don’t even know.  Everything is new and my body feels 1,000 years old, as if I’d been this way forever, like I had never known myself until now.

Now it is all I can do to make my credit card payments.  It’s the mundanity that slaps you in the face – that I need to adhere to this schedule handed to me from someone who apparently planned all of this out.  I try not to think about it too much.

 

Because to think about where I am is to break.  Under the weight of lost friendships and family and dreams and time.  To not know who I am or ever hope to know – to know I will never be part of most everything I see, to be alone.  To know that I cannot stand being touched.  To dwell on this is loss.

 

I found myself explaining that I’m stuck this way, and that I can relax now.  It’s true.