meaning

…And so it’s a struggle to find meaning.  Transitioning used to be meaningful and now it’s over.  I’m telling people that the cosmetic procedures I’m considering aren’t going to change who I am, which is good, transitioning sucked.  But it provided some hope; it was like, ‘Oh, there’s this endpoint where I’ll be okay.’  And I am okay.  Just okay, and tired.  Very, very tired.

I’m trying to be social and people like me, I’m able to form new relationships.  Someone even asked me out half-assed.  It’s just that I know, know in my soul that none of it is permanent.  That no relationship can be counted upon.  It’s all bullshit and lies; exchanging business cards when it isn’t really necessary.  And I can’t undo this knowledge.  It’s a steep and surprising price to pay in order to be in my right body and my right mind; knowing what my erased life feels like.  Like the ending to It’s a Wonderful Life, except there’s no one to wave a magic wand and turn it all back again.

 

I find that the last shred of meaning is writing about my new life.

Someone shakes up the spacetime continuum every few weeks, changing everything.  Leaving me in the same location with the same genome and social security number, and a collage of memory like a broken mirror;

Lost in a daydream, I think of the person I love.  She touches my hair, touches my neck in a certain place, and it’s all I’ve ever wanted.

I sit in bed, head to my knees, eyes squeezed shut, overwhelmed with the knowledge that I will never, not ever understand my body.

 

Tonight I’m a capable, charismatic, healthy human being who can do anything she desires, and I just want to go home.

 

dreams from reality

Dream sleep is difficult and when it comes, I might as well be awake.  My dreams reflect reality – the constant networking that accompanies the job search.

“Maybe you could do our friends’ makeup, you’re good at that!”

Seems as plausible as anything.

 

It’s been a nightmarish road into this mess and I just hope I see the day.  But I don’t know what it would look like.  I meditate and try and imagine a better world, one where no one has a say over what I do with my body.  Someplace where I don’t feel so alone.

That’s all I could come up with.

 

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.

 

what it’s like

I was getting ready this morning and there was an eyelash hanging from my eye.  I picked it up and held it for a moment.  What do I wish for?  Nothing came to mind, so I dropped it.  I must be happy, or at least satisfied.

 

I woke up this morning and noticed my skinny legs and the hair receding from my hands.  I noticed my vaguely unfamiliar face, I instinctively checked my earrings as soon as I woke.  The left one was bleeding a little the other night.  They’re new and they’re stuck.  I tried to unscrew the left one with a set of pliers.  No luck.  No backsliding.

I woke up and noticed that I’m different and I wondered why.  A thought bubble with just a “?”  No words, but why are my legs so hairy – It makes no sense.  I feel blessed and forgotten at the same time, “here take this.”

 

I need to pick a surgery soon, to find a regenerative medicine option, to figure out my life.  I wish my life came without assembly.  It’s like getting an oldschool dollhouse-in-a-box for christmas, what I always wanted, but if I got it I would have been disappointed with my familiarity with glue.

 

subjective

I look in the mirror and I feel normal, but I’m ugly, and I need to work on that.  Maybe that’s a normal thought to have…

 

Experiencing estrogen for the first time is difficult to describe.  It’s a subjective experience.

It’s like having your body sense – that intuition of where your limbs are and the position of every joint – become subtle.  And I realized that I had been painfully consciously aware of my body for as long as I can remember.  Now it’s as if someone turned the volume down.

At first it felt like my arms weren’t even there – in a pleasant way.  I was briefly worried about bumping into things, but that didn’t happen.  Then I got used to it, now it feels normal.

At least that’s my experience as someone who’s trans.  And I’m definitely trans, I know this now.  I’m more relieved than angry.  It feels like I have my life ahead of me, which I’ve rarely felt.  It’s nice.

 

I’m starting on spironolactone soon, and I’m afraid to.  Illogical, but true.

 

not easy

Transition has a way of sneaking up on you, always.

 

I’m sitting balled up with my feet on the edge of a vanity.

Is this what I really want?

It turns out that electrolysis is permanent – I hadn’t truly considered that.  I always thought that the hormones would be sort of the epicenter of my transition, the point when I’d have to decide.  But, let’s face it, that moment has come and gone.  Still waiting on those hormones though.  I hear it’s the awesomeness.

 

This isn’t easy, never was.  Hope it will be someday, but it’s not easy right now.  It’s not easy to be between genders, somewhere between somewhere.  To be peerless and alone, seemingly forever.  To have people look at you funny.  I really hate that.

To think what I’m putting myself through – and with such enthusiasm – this has to be the right decision, right?  I’m not sure if there’s any way to tell.

 

Technically, I’d put the odds of me being wrong at 1 in 32, a virtual certainty that I am, in fact, a woman.  But there’s still a 3% chance that there’s something I just haven’t considered and I’m completely wrecking my life, for what it was worth.

 

I do want this, though.  I do.

 

the magical megaproject

“When you start your treatment, it might feel a little bit weird.”

“Really??”

“Yeah, well it stands to reason…”

 

I don’t even know where to start right now.  I don’t exactly know what to tell you.  That’s probably because it’s not that complicated…

I decided to start my physical transition.  I scheduled the necessary appointments.  Didn’t tell anyone.

Made my appointments, met delays, freaked out.  Waited.

 

Still waiting…  Feel like I’m going to black out, or throw up.  Apparently, as one gets closer to physical transition, gender dysphoria increases dramatically.  No idea why, but it’s horrible.

 

But I’m so happy and excited to transition, I wish it would happen already.  Then I gave myself an asthma attack reading up on progesterone cycles.

My hormones are just going to go around and around like that?

 

Now I’m working most of the time.  I’m going to be working like this until at least 2016, because I need cash.  Like, yesterday.

I guess that’s it.

 

…oh, and I don’t have a plan.

 

to understand

I write in this blog and read from it.  Occasionally other people read it too.  It’s where I seem to be sometimes.  Not a lot of information.

Why do I do it?  I wanted to express myself as a woman, to exist and write something non-technical.  It’s a notebook, and I’m trying to understand.

 

What would I say today?  That you’ll never understand trans people?  Because I really want to say that.  Because I think it’s true.

But I want you to understand, because I don’t want to be alone;

 

It’s like any other kind of life, only without clearly defined relationships.

It’s like meeting other trans people and misgendering yourself “because you don’t want to be an asshole.”

It’s knowing that anything is possible.

 

But all I can really say is this:  If someone tells you they’re a gender – a different gender – believe them.  Believe them with all of your heart and know it is true.  Then you’ll understand.

 

more than sum

I’m spending time alone, hoping that meaning is one of those things you find when you’re not looking.

 

I’m catching up with work.  I’m thinking about reading books.  I’ve reached level 21 in my seventh-ish attempt at dead-is-dead Skyrim.

Exciting stuff.  Really.

 

In this quiet, when I’m not paying attention, I can almost hear myself railing, “you are more than the sum of your parts”

 

reflections pt. 1

As I stand on a train platform, my feet are cold and firmly rooted in the ground.  I see the world differently and it seems that I don’t actually know where I’m going.

 

Its been almost a year now since I’ve affirmed to myself, my identity as a woman.  It’s not as scary as I imagined.  It’s not as fulfilling as I imagined.  It’s not as final as I imagined.  Basically, my concept of self is all that has changed.  Friends and acquaintances, coworkers see me the same way.  Changes in my appearance and how I carry myself are seen as the fashions of a gay man, if they are noticed at all.

Paradoxically I’m a lot more sincere, but when I say things like, “thanks!” or, “I think you’re really smart!” it comes across as sarcasm.  Literally everything I say is flat.

The most surprising thing is that it doesn’t really matter how I see myself, people see me the way they want, in the way that makes sense to them.

 

So I’m trying to look at this with a cold, objective eye.  Thankfully, when I look at myself in the mirror, it is not with cold eyes.  I like myself now.  I couldn’t say that before.

I hated myself for failing, for miscommunicating, for being painfully awkward.  For everything, from forgetting someone’s name to losing a friend.  I could never forgive myself for these things.  But tomorrow is another day.  And I hope that these memories, my regrets, won’t define me anymore.

 

A detail that is lost in all of this is my parents.  Its always been messy with them, as they’ve been separated for as long as I can remember.

My Mom knows that I’m her daughter and my Dad thinks that I’m his son.  This is difficult, and I turn over and over in my mind how I can fix it.  It’s a strange schism to live with, which I couldn’t believe for awhile.  My Father and I had drifted apart over the past year and I could have sworn that my Mom told him, but she didn’t.  It’s Thanksgiving soon and I’m worried about what to do.  I’m afraid to talk to my father about this.  Maybe we’ll never speak about it.

My Mother was in disbelief when I told her that I’m her daughter.  She still holds out hope that it’s a passing phase, that I’ll work it out, that it’ll go away, which hurts.  When I first told her, she said I was incorrect.  Then once she believed it, she felt upset for me, that I would be subject to such a fate.

 

I honestly don’t know what to make of this.  And I try not to think of it that way.