It’s All In The Jeans

Continuing on a theme from last week, I didn’t arrive where I am without asking a lot of questions. Mostly of myself. If you have never questioned your own gender then I really wouldn’t ever expect you to understand what that feels like. But it’s really very confusing and, if I’m completely honest, at times a little distressing. Especially when all you have ever been taught indicates that there is something awfully wrong with you. Until you somehow stumble across your own little bit of acceptance and allow your life to take off on an interesting little turn.

It’s a bit like moving from Cathode Ray to Full HD for the first time. When my questions finally had an answer I was able to suddenly surge forward with my life. And I do know the exact moment that I reluctantly, at the time, accepted I was a Transsexual person. But although it was an Eureka moment, it was absurdly lacking in celestial light. It was much more pedestrian in nature and only soundtracked by the drop of that solitary penny. I sat on my couch and unexpectedly the decision made itself. All of a sudden. If you can imagine.

I had hoped that moment was going to be the solution to everything. It just wasn’t. It was the springboard to a million more questions, each clambering desperately for my attention. And all I can do is look for answers to each of them as best I can on a daily basis. Sometimes I confidently know exactly how to and sometimes I’m almost completely in the dark. But that’s entirely fine, I don’t think anybody gets to do much better in life.

The biggest question of all is how to be a woman. Other than learned behaviour, I’ve no more idea how to than I did how to be a man. But I am quite good at being me. And I know who and what I am. That’s a comfortable plateau to reach after an unfathomably long climb. And a definite place of safety from which to continue working out just what kind of woman I might want to be. I’ll have to figure that out as I go along. I have plenty of help available. I’m grateful for all of it.

But those little worries, that live in the darkest parts of you, do try to caution you that you will never ever be a woman and that you may never ever be accepted fully as such. I’m as surprised as anyone to discover that I’m very much OK with that too. I’m a Transgender Female. If that’s all I’m ever seen as, I’ll still be perfectly happy. Because, although I don’t have all the answers I’m looking for yet, life does make sense. And that feels pretty satisfactory to me. Apparently the glass is half full today.


Picture Show. Second Balconette


Quite often it escapes me that this blog is meant to be reporting on my actual transition. Rather than just the random stuff that it sometimes throws up for me. So, let’s do some of that today.

In an entirely more information than you might care to know sort of way, it appears that the Boob Fairy has not completely forgotten me at all. They are just really sneaky. So I didn’t notice that they had snuck in at some point in the last week to deliver a little progress.

And even then, I noticed by accident more than anything. I’m pretty relaxed about breast development and have always realised it might take a while. But it’s still pretty satisfying to suddenly see a topdown view that confirms boobs are very much happening. In at least so far as they now have form and substance of their own. I’d go as far as to call them bumps.

I’m reasonably sure they weren’t as developed on Sunday, which means that fairy has clocked up a fair bit of overtime while I was sleeping. It is also possible that sometimes you just can’t see what is directly in front of you. Maybe that’s a good thing. Not worrying about my development seems to have helped.

But suddenly, on Monday, I had a nice surprise. And although still more closely related to Tiny Tim, my chest is clearly on the march. And here it is Wednesday already. Motto for the day is be thankful for small miracles. I absolutely am.


Surgical Strike


Now that the prospect of surgery has taken on some definition, I can’t help but give consideration to what exactly is going to change. And of course, the real world implications which are attached.

I am entirely blessed not to have felt dysphoria and to have largely come through my transition, thus far, relatively unscathed. But I’d be crazy not to entirely consider the possibility that I might miss my special little guy.

After all, we’ve enjoyed a fairly long time in each other’s company. We’ve laughed. We’ve cried. We shared our first loves. And when times were hard, sometimes we’ve just held each other. And yet here we are, divorce papers almost in the post. It’ll be a clean break, there’s no kids to fight over and we will soon never see each other again.

If I seem flippant, that’s just my defence mechanisms roaring into overdrive. I am fully aware of the enormity of what I’m going to do. And it’s probably mindbogglingly difficult for many of you to understand. I just need to. Best explanation I have to hand. Only one really.

But then it’s going to be all about adjustment. And I will need to learn to manage my expectations with the reality. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t ever scared. I’m really not at all gung ho about my life. This is no different for me. It’s a considered decision that’s taken a long time to build up to. I’m absolutely ready but I’m also sensible enough to be apprehensive. However, I’m very much looking forward to a new life too. But there is always the tiny possibility that any time I hear “Just The Two Of Us” in the future, I’ll have a small, fond tear in my eye for an absent little friend.


Clearly Not A Feminist Then


A couple of somewhat new additions to my life have been sexual harassment and objectification. Quite often these happen openly in the street. As I wasn’t issued a manual for this journey, I was fairly unprepared for just how often. 

But at the risk of being kicked out of the union before I properly attain Womanhood, I’m going to admit something terrible right now. I sometimes quite like it.

Oh, I realise it’s entirely wrong, deplorable, etc, etc. But as a Transsexual Female, a part of me is fucking delighted just to be in the consideration. Every time it happens, it’s worth a small fist pump. Maybe even a l’il parade. I’m no oil painting but I am at least fulfilling the expectations of socially backward machismo on a reasonably regular basis these days. And it still feels like a Win if I am honest. Well, fundamentally shallow but honest.

In the cold light of day I obviously don’t agree with this sort of outmoded and unnecessary behaviour but as an unintentional yardstick, it serves a purpose. I’m somehow progressing, even if I don’t see it looking back all the time. And if I’m doing well enough to be inappropriately hit on? I’m sorry to you Sisters but I’m taking that all the way to the bank. And twice on Saturdays.


Mule Headed


I am probably the most stubborn person I know. I can say that. But if you were to try the same, then we’d argue that I wasn’t until the cows’ grandchildren came home. This is a fact I am not desperately proud of.

I am hopefully affable enough most of the time but when I dig my heels in, it’s a different kettle of fish altogether. At that point I would burn every bridge, including the one I was currently standing on, for reasons that are never entirely apparent. Even to me.

 If I needed an excuse for my own obstinacy, I could at least blame the Zodiac I suppose. “Although easy going and respectful, the Taurus can be unbelievably stubborn and inflexible in their approach.”. Bang to rights there. But I’m at a point in my life, which is pretty good when I let it be, where I want to be less like that. A lot less.

Not that being stubborn is all bad, it’s also where my perseverance and independence have their roots. And I’ve needed both on a daily basis just to get this far.

But going forward I’d like to try to curtail that little part of me that hovers, grinning, over a big, red, metaphorical self destruct button. Letting go of things should be no great shakes. But often it is. Maybe just channelling Elsa at times like that is the way to go. No harm in trying. If I’m even half as stubborn in the attempt, it’s a done deal.


Get Your Freakout On


Got my first opinion for surgery this week. And a very straightforward referral for my second opinion. Essentially everything I’ve been working towards coming to it’s culmination. A step closer to seeing the surgeon.

And now things are growing really real. Because surgery is suddenly more viable than ever. And it’s within my grasp. Potentially next summer which is amazing and also utterly daunting in equal measure.

I was asked what surgery would do for me. You might be surprised to learn that absolutely nothing was my answer. Although absolutely everything is equally true. But an operation in itself solves nothing. It will only mean that In and Out finally match. But that’s only the beginning in my book.

Surgery will bring fresh challenges to be met. But having had surgery will convince nobody that you are a woman. That battle is fought in your own head and I’m over it. I need nobody to approve my femininity going forward. I’ve more than earned being myself. And that’s a good place to be.

I’m content to sit back, relax a little and wait for my second opinion. It’s just another little step. I’m told it will be within three months. Could be six and that would still be fine. Which has surprised me as I expected a freakout of epic magnitude around this point. But no, it’s OK. Everything is on target and I can just about take in how far I’ve come. Transition is a sort of journey but I’m glad I’ve come to realise, it’s a marathon, not a sprint.


A Longer Journey


Back in Glasgow. And very much in love with my life, despite a slight case of the holiday blues. Tomorrow I have one of the most important appointments I’ll ever have. An early morning visit to the gender clinic to convince the gatekeepers that I’m suitable to see the surgeon now.

I’m not at all apprehensive. I’m well established in my gender, involved in my community locally and soon to be nationally. I’ve travelled internationally as a woman so I should have ticked the appropriate boxes already. And I’m ready to take the next step now.

Rest assured, I am both terrified and exhilarated at the prospect of surgery. To have no doubts seems nonsensical to me. There is always a What If you may not have considered. And by then it’s too late.

But ready I am. Or as ready as I’ll ever be. Just one final hurdle to negotiate. And consequently I’m as happy as I’ve ever been.Keeping my fingers crossed that Monday goes the way I want but still prepared to wait a little longer if needs be. Rome wasn’t built in a day etc.


Rethymnon and on


Sitting on our balcony in Rethymnon waiting for the heat to die down to a more bearable level. Furnace hot would suffice. Despite our accommodation’s name suggesting the beach and a seaview, we are fortunately located at the back. Our landscape is a busy lane of entirely exclusive shops. The kind without prices because if you need to know, you have no business there. A constant stream of the foreign money they attract files past aimlessly. Perfect for people watching to be honest. And fairly relaxing.

My companion for the last hour has been a small dog in the roof garden opposite. He can’t see me, nor me him but he knows I’m here. Periodically he likes to remind me that this is his roof garden with his insistent little barks. I’m not sure what he thinks he is guarding but I can vouch that he has been doing an amazing job. I’d hire him.

I’ve never actually been so hot before as to need to be inside more than I need to breathe. It feels entirely bizarre. Tomorrow we are off to Heraklion though. A city I hope is more temperate than this one. And a city centre apartment from which to explore all that Heraklion has to offer. And we have a pool. Something I’ve never once cared for on holiday now represents a shimmering oasis that awaits us. 

And then, from Heraklion, finally home. Which is always the best part of any trip for me. It’s only in going away that you get to feel that beautiful little lift on your safe return. And the simple but powerful magic of returning to where you are from. Nothing in this world compares. But Crete comes beautifully close.


Home From Home

I wasn’t supposed to be blogging today but I’m too happy not to. Still on holiday but increasingly finding my current whereabouts growing a firm place in my heart. It’s my third visit to Chania, in Crete. I already know it’s going to be a lifelong love affair. I almost love Chania as much as my home city.

That’s not something I say lightly at all. Glasgow is in my bones. I love every part of it, good and bad. But Chania is as close as I have been to feeling at home while abroad. I could live here in a heartbeat. And not in a wistful holiday romance sense. Although I have definitely fallen in love. 

Chania, I think maybe just Crete too, is a very easy place to be transsexual. It matters not. Acceptance is a given and that has constantly surprised me on each of my visits. The people here are simply superb.

It is one of the most welcoming places I have ever encountered. The people are warm, accepting and overwhelmingly kind. It’s hard not to fall in love with them. And too late for me not to be smitten. 

If I could work out the practicalities, I would live here quite happily. And again, not just holiday talk. Chania is a place that has gotten under my skin. And made me feel that I belong somewhere. It’s the nicest thing in the world to feel simply at home.