Birthday Wishful Thinking

Managed to turn 43 this week. With fairly little fanfare. Which is how I prefer my birthdays these days. Although I got to spend time with people that really matter to me, I was never likely to get close to the one thing I ever secretly wish for.

And that’s still ┬ájust seeing my own family. A small enough ask of the Cosmos you might think but something that realistically may never happen again. And it’s only really at times like that, that it ever manages to hit home. And it sucks. Or blows. Either is appropriate. It’s impossible not to feel that.

The worst of it is having learned to be mostly ok with the loss. That runs against everything I was taught to believe about family. And I’m not sure I want to allow myself to be ok with any of it. But scarily, I almost am. I don’t like it at all.

Given enough time though, you can make peace with just about anything. Doesn’t make it feel right to me at all. So I will have my own little act of defiance. I’m going to continue celebrating their birthdays. Always. I might even start sending them unappreciated cards and although we might never speak again, they will not be getting forgotten. Whether they like it or not, I’m still their brother, just older, a lot happier and prepared to wait for ┬áresolution. You might guess what wish extinguished my own candles. There’s a whole year of tomorrows till next time. And optimism is my default position. Always. Never accept defeat.


It’s A Mixed Up, Muddled Up, Shook Up World

I seem to have a habit of continuing on a theme. Last time was about accepting the rough with the smooth. It’s less successful when you have to accept the rough with the rough.

Was at a lovely little event for two friends’ daughter’s communion at the weekend. Like most of my friends, we’re not bitter so the actual event was in the local Masonic Halls. I thought nothing of going there, as in general, I don’t encounter many social problems on account of being Transgender.

Had a fantastic little afternoon, with just one fly in the ointment. A bigoted fuck of a barman who insisted on calling me Sir every time he served me. Slowly. Deliberately. To cause offence.

I lasted three visits to the bar before I cracked. On the third occasion I beckoned the barmaid beside him over and politely informed her that if her colleague called me Sir one more time, I would pull him over the fucking bar. All she could do in response was stand there with her pendulous jaw swinging in the wind. Like a faulty metronome.

And that ended that. I’m not sure I’d have carried out that threat. It’s generally poor form to become embroiled in a fight at a child’s celebration. So I took one for the team and got on with enjoying the afternoon.

There are actual options for repercussions if I wished. Reporting the licensee for violating both the Equalities Act and the Prevention Of Harassment Act being just two. They are just as accountable for the actions of their employees as if they did it themselves.

But to what end? You don’t change the mind of bigoted throwbacks like that. So it remains pointless. It’s just another thing to chalk up to experience. And experience, good or bad, is always useful.

Next time, I’ll meet the fat fuck when his shift ends, armed with a brick and a cricket bat. If only because it amuses me to think of leaving him toothless, sobbing and mumbling, barely coherent, “Thank You Sir, May I Have Another?”. Of course I wouldn’t do that. While he will always be a prick, I can at least try to be a lady.


Balancing Act

A total hotch potch of a week. And one which brought into sharp focus what it means to be Transgender in a modern city.

I have grown to become a ridiculously confident Transsexual Woman. That is how I define myself. I will never have a uterus so Woman is perhaps a stretch too far for many.

But Woman I am. The only question is the perception of others. And that is a hugely mixed bag, if I am honest. And I don’t object to any of the distinctions that can be made. It feels cruel at times but it is certainly disarmingly accurate. I can offer no riposte.

I am lucky enough to have been born in Glasgow though. If you weren’t, you have my eternal pity. It’s a strange lovely little city that feels personal connection like few others. You will sit at bus stops and instantly exchange life stories without abandon at a moment’s notice with complete strangers. It’s just how we are.

So it was perfectly comfortable for a stranger to turn to me and say “I’m not being cheeky but did you used to be a guy?”. There was no malice intended. Just a fellow citizen’s natural curiosity piqued. I adore that. They can ask. Because they are just like me. Trying to find their way. And questions are great. That’s how we learn. And that’s where I can educate.

He was lovely and entirely respectful. Just a bit confused by my presentation and then my actual voice. So he asked his questions because I was there, in front of him. And I answered because that is how people learn that Trans folk are not alien.

And none of his questions were horrible. He wanted to know when I knew I was “different”, how people treated me, if I had loved ones and finally, if I was happy. And then he congratulated me on all that I’ve been through and wished me the best. Sounds like a lot. About 6 minutes all in. We Glaswegians are efficient communicators.

For about an hour I was elated at this small success. And then….two teenage Glaswegian girls walked past and loudly commented ” Did you see it?”. Me being “It”. That’s just a fantastic leveller. They weren’t being horrible. Just young and with no frame of reference for what I am. That’s allowed too.

So the point of this post is because of them. Learn to take the rough with the smooth. I came to no harm. I had a really great experience then an equally shit experience. I prefer to think they cancel each other out. Life is just as good as you can allow it to be. Mine is fucking brilliant because of all the good people that inhabit it. I wish you nothing but the same. People are the glue that hold you together when times are tough. And when they aren’t.


Lady Garden

Still thinking about what having surgery might mean. Kind of hard not to really. It’s a tiny bit crucial to making the right decision. Or the decision that’s right for me.

On the one hand, it’s the logical conclusion of a journey. I’d welcome that. But it’s a brutally final goodbye to the life I had. A sad farewell, never to return.

Not that I would ever see myself going backwards but I’ve inched forward cautiously enough till now and making ultimate decisions is actually a little bit scarier than I like.

Are what you want and what you’ll get going to be the same thing? I find myself just wondering more and more. But I think that’s perfectly reasonable of me to be doing. Especially as time has a way of galloping forward. And things may be upon me faster than we blink.

I don’t ever want to go under a knife without crystal clear clarity. And I have glimpses of it regularly. But it would not be wise to ignore little questioning voices either. They deserve answers. And I’m not always armed with the knowledge they seek. But I do have a tongue in my head and the ability to ask.

If we are talking ultimately though, I don’t think anyone can give me any help with that decision really. Just the facts I need to decide. When I finally need to. Tell you one thing though, being Transsexual is not a sodding rose garden. Although it is mostly blooming awesome. To be fair.


Tena To The Dozen

“Finished” my facial hair removal this week. A moment of total joy. Anything else facially is down to me but can’t fault the NHS for the treatment I received till now.

So now the only obstacle to surgery is about a year or so of further zaps to my Pre Surgical Area. And that has me really thinking.

I have questions I’m going to need to ask and probably sooner than later would be best. It recently dawned on me that although I can be given a new sex organ, at the very least a recycled one, I  am not sure that I will wake up knowing exactly how to use it.

My first concern is simply needing to pee. I’m quite practical and know this is a regular daily occurence. What I don’t know is whether a brand new vagina works straight out of the box. No pun intended. So I have a recurring worry that I’m signing up for months of incontinence underwear and travelling my shiny new world one bus stop at a time. The truth is I have no idea.

I imagine they will explain things more fully before I ever get to that though. But I’d sort of like to know. I’m thinking it might be 50/50 between nature’s call taking  over and having to somehow train yourself not to flood your pretty little boots every time you need to go. I’m going to find out one way or another I suppose.

As a total aside, when I think about how I might train “it” the most helpful thing my brain throws up is Lion tamer imagery. Not particularly useful. Although I can see a chair being handy sometimes, I have no idea what I’d do with a bullwhip. I expect I’ll find out.


Tranny Get Your Gun

I might have mentioned how angry hormones can make me. Not always specifically but there is one thing that always makes my blood boil.

To be misgendered. After two plus years I think I might have finally earned She and Her. Mostly even strangers can manage that much.

But still, sometimes, the desperately uneducated push that button. The last time was less than a week ago. Two 17 or 18 year old youths watched me walk past. As I did, I heard one ask his cloth eared companion “Is that a poof?”. Americans should read gay or faggot there.

For one brief second my propensity for imagined violence was very much at the fore. I felt utter rage. Not at the comment and not that it was very publicly vocal. It was just inaccurate and blatantly unfair.

I wanted to scream ” No, it’s a fucking transsexual, since you ask”. But it’s a pointless argument I cannot win with that sort of idiot. Ever. And to rise to the bait is sort of self defeating.

It was short lived anyway. Two minutes later I walked into a bar with a female friend. Greeted with a cheery “Are you ladies in for food or just drinks?”. And all was well with the world again.

I am usually unassailable because my sense of humour is mostly self deprecating. I have the kind of friends who poke fun without mercy. As it should be amongst real friends. And it’s always made my journey easier than I thought it would be.

But if you are going to call me names in public? I can do so much better. Really. I am the shemale in my blog title. My gender has definitely been through the blender. But I am proudly and defiantly a chick with a dick. How dare anyone comment on me behind my back, like the cowards they are. And expect to keep their teeth. No, in the end, hormones don’t seem to have affected me at all. I’m as level headed in the face of adversity as ever. And “You’re going to die clown!”.