Born Again Virgin

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So, this weekend I found myself being asked what I plan to do with my soon to be new found virginity. I honestly hadn’t ever really thought about it properly. Or at least enough.
Being a somewhat flippant and totally contrary cow I suggested that I might just buy a big book of raffle tickets and gie it the fuck away (Gie=Give if you are American). But just maybe there is something here worth serious consideration. Should I think of it as a precious object? To be cherished or treasured and only shared with the elusive and perhaps even imaginary Mr Right.

But the crucial difference for me is it just won’t be the same kind of garden variety virginity I had as a teenager. I’ll be 44, know how the world works and have absolutely no illusions about how men are. Or indeed how I am.

I also have to consider the very real likelihood that I may want to take “it” for a test drive just as soon as the metaphorical bandages are off. I’m not that proud, nor too concerned about being labelled “that” sort of girl. In this exact circumstance, Mr Right Now may well be perfectly adequate for my immediate needs at the time.

But then again, I am still some sort of lapsed Catholic. It’s a church you can never fully leave and however wonky my moral compass is, it is very much still there. In with the bricks is the expression that comes to mind. I at least notionally want to be considered a good girl. But that’s an entirely separate journey, waiting to be discovered and enjoyed. And it will take whatever shape it takes. Fingers crossed it will be fun finding out though. Song choice has it fucking nailed today.

Blessed Are The Fleek

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Fresh from the tale of my badly behaving boob, I should probably advise you that I’m in a terribly upbeat frame of mind. All things considered, life is pretty good. Not perfect, just pretty good. I’m happy enough with that state of affairs.

I’m the most comfortable I’ve ever been with myself and without much effort on my part, everything else is just piecing together nicely. That seems ample reason to be in a smiley sort of mood. And to be reflecting about just how far I’ve managed to come.

Throughout my transition I’ve often been concerned with achieving notional standards. Mostly passing well enough. Am I doing it right? And worrying about that. Then worrying about how strangers perceive you and whether you’ve been “read” just going about your business.

And then, in 2017, none of that seems to matter. I look how I look, I sound how I sound and I’m definitely OK with both. There’s still a few tweaks to be made but I have years to get all my ducks in a row.

I’m really no different to any girl that’s ever been though. I’m as susceptible to and governed by media influence as much as anyone. And I have had all that stuff floating around. Looking “right”, dressing “right”, possibly too lazy about sounding” right” though. But none of it is really something worth agonising over. I’m actually doing just fine as I am. And the plan remains to just do more of that.

No amount of prayers will ever let me attain those ludicrous standards we’re all fed. But I’m thankful to be in a place where I know that and it’s still fine to just be myself. I think I’m finally relaxed enough for surgery now and it’s something I’m looking forward to. My only prayer for the moment is to try to manage an impending freakout the best I can. Although considering the response to the tit tale, you’d probably enjoy reading about that 😉

Depth Charge

By now, I thought I had suffered every indignity that transition had to offer. Turns out I was gloriously wrong. Somehow I forgot that you should always expect the unexpected.

I suffered my latest humiliation while out for a midweek drink. It was at least fortunate that there were no actual witnesses however. I don’t have the time to be digging shallow graves you know. I’m a busy gal.

This story is also loosely related to toilet humour I suppose but it was traumatic enough to me all the same. If we sensibly gloss over the completion of ablutions then I can get to the point.

Standing up and flushing a toilet should be relatively danger free, as you might normally imagine. Not so if, when at that exact moment, one of your prosthetic breast forms decides to reveal a previously unknown amphibious nature and make an Olympic standard dive for the U-Bend. Presumably a desperate attempt to rejoin it’s brethren in the sea.

There is really nothing at all fabulous about having to fish your tit from the toilet bowl. It’s certainly not a situation I had ever planned for. Even less how you might explain your lopsided cleavage to another toilet customer as you casually attempt to wash your misbehaving mammary in the sink. But still, that’s where this week took me. I’m all about the glamour.

But the important thing is to be able to laugh at yourself in those moments you find you are an absolute fud (Scottish slang, look it up). I actually escaped that toilet with my dignity relatively intact and like the trooper that I am, ordered up a second bottle of wine for us, crisis averted. So today’s lesson might be that when life makes you fall off a horse, get straight back on it. Oh, and don’t skimp on boob glue.

Stockholm Syndrome

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I’ve blogged about scrutiny and public comment aplenty since I started my transition. And I’ve had my (un)fair share of both. And then very recently it has just sort of seemed to stop. I wasn’t at the meeting when society decided I’d apparently done enough but something has definitely changed. And for a while I was probably just happy that it had. It was weeks before I even realised how well things were actually going though. And they still are.

But there’s a perversely masochistic admission to be made here. I find myself missing that scrutiny a tiny little bit. And even the unwanted commentary has a slightly nostalgic tinge to it, now that it’s mostly absent from my day.

I don’t know how to explain that to you. It’s absurd really. To sort of miss something that was usually reasonably traumatic as and when it occurred. Bizarrely that scrutiny gave me a sense of being different and perhaps as having something else entirely other to your experience. Most importantly, it eventually gave me strength. More than I ever thought I could muster.

But I was still very lucky. I genuinely believe that sort of scrutiny can make or break you. Fortunately, I became fiercely defiant and determined to make it through to the other end because of it. To buckle under the intense pressure is an equally valid option however and I fully understand just how you could. And there’s no blame attached to anyone that happens to.

These days I am mostly being responded to in what you might call my correct gender. Men act accordingly in general and women are pretty much always fully accepting. I will still always enjoy the helpful little smiles of strangers that just confirm I’m OK with them. It’s tremendously comforting to reach that acceptance. But as strange as it may seem, I slightly miss that being labelled as somewhat “Other”. I just knew exactly where I stood on that planet. And I was able to be prepared for it. Trust me, I was always ready. There’s so much more to be learned in my new world. But it’s already feeling a little nicer.

The Girl With The Dragged On Tattoo

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I have two tattoos. Nothing all that exciting about that news. But how they came to be is directly related to where I am now. Both are tribal designs with one of them specifically being a sort of dragon. 

But the reason I got both has a ridiculously stupid premise. I knew I was possibly Trans early enough in my life but had a very Catholic and West Of Scotland approach to it. I pushed all of that awareness down, shot it in the head and poured concrete over it.

And then I hit on the idea that a tattoo would help me “Man Up”. I was still pretty reserved in my approach. I got the smallest tattoo that I actually liked. So far, so good. I had a tattoo. That, at the time, seemed pretty manly. Yay for me!

Lasted about a year and thoughts about possibly being Trans hadn’t really dissipated so I had an Eureka moment. Another tattoo would totally fix it. So I picked out a similarly sized tribal dragon for my other arm. Surely that would balance me out and all would be well with the world?

But the 4 inch design I chose didn’t suit the tattooist at all. He doubled it in size and put the transfer on my arm. And like a total pussy, despite being alarmed by it’s eventual half arm size, I just let him. I didn’t want to look like a sissy. After all, that was the point of the whole endeavour. To literally be able to appear like a man.

But despite all of that I have no regrets. My tattoos are neither particularly male or female. And they are part of me and proof of who I was. I never want to forget him. He brought me the friends that have held me up,  my longest memories are still his and it was he that brought me into the world, no matter how scared he may have been. 

Back then was just a kind of reverse Drag though. At the time I genuinely believed appearing more male was going to be the answer. Clearly it was not. I still happened. But would I still feel as sure if it hadn’t. I don’t think so. It had to happen for me to get here. So I’m a little fond of the boy who put himself through all of that for me. I do actually miss him from time to time. If you look at me hard enough though, he’s smiling back at you. Always. We’re just both a little happier.

A Little Time To Reflect

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A couple of days into 2017 and my first proper blog of the year. But I’m already feeling pretty positive this year. When I awoke on New Year’s Day and stumbled to the bathroom, it was basically a woman I saw looking back in the mirror. A slightly , perhaps even very, rough and bleary eyed woman I admit but even without makeup, I was still absolutely happy with what I saw.

Progress hasn’t always been easy for me to see. And so it’s pretty encouraging to start this year seeing what’s only visible when you aren’t particularly looking for it. Definitely a sort of can’t see the wood for the trees type of thing. But here I am, apparently already in a good place in 2017.

This will be the year that everything I have worked for comes to fruition. It’s almost impossible for me not to feel ludicrously positive as a result. I’m entirely sensible enough to know it won’t all be a bed of roses but it’s hugely satisfying all the same. Slightly over three years ago, I don’t know that I was ever sure that I would be able to manage life as a woman. It was just a properly scary prospect. And I don’t know how I survived those first few tentative months. Other than mostly being on autopilot and having had good friends, it’s a bit of a blur and the real difficulty has already started to fade from memory.

But here I am three years on, having done it all anyway. And despite the costs along the way, it’s been relatively worth it. I’m happy, healthy, occasionally sane enough (Tuesdays and every second Thursday) and for the most part my life is really pretty sorted. It’s all kinds of lovely to just realise that is the space you are living in. More so when you realise you’ve probably lived there for a while.

All that remains is the nuts and bolts of a mostly corrective operation. And that will come soon enough. But really just to be happy is a powerful enough thing. There is little more that I could legitimately ask of the world. And for once New Year New Me will have a ring of truth to it. I’m just looking forward to all the possibilities this year will bring. How sickeningly upbeat am I? Kill me now 😉

Reset Button

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So I blinked and 2017 was suddenly upon us. Not at all sorry to see 2016 bite the dust though. It was a strange and difficult year that never felt like it was going to be done disappointing. Both personally and publicly.

Icon after icon seemed to be taken from us. Always far too early, it was a neverendingly brutal year. And thanks to Oestrogen it was sometimes even more emotionally traumatic to my own life. But now, even 2016 has had it’s time. However, I actually survived it. Almost intact. But better for the experience it gave me.

And like every New Year, I’m glad just to have a fresh slate. I like being able to start over and the untarnished opportunity that a fresh year always brings. It always feels like another chance at getting life right.

This one has the potential to be the biggest year of my life. The prospect of surgery is a particular concern. Everything I’ve been travelling towards has wound it’s way here. There are now relatively few hurdles left to just being me. Finally. I’m still frightened by the enormity of it. Be mad not to be.

It’s terrifying, exhilarating and sometimes debilitating but my journey is almost over and probably my need to blog as a result. It’s always supposedly been about transition. So I have no idea what shape this page will take once that’s successfully done. But I do know I’d never have got here on my own. And how grateful I am for the life I enjoy.

 I hope 2017 is as kind and nurturing to my friends’ hopes and dreams as it’s definitely going to be in delivering mine. And I hope they know how much I needed them just to get this far. It’s been a difficult enough journey and I wasn’t really always all that easy on the way. But I do thank all of the people who have stuck with me. Without them I can’t say it always felt possible to keep going. And you can’t put a price on that.

There just aren’t enough words to give my total gratitude proper form. So living the best female life I can is really the best I have to offer. We’ll start tomorrow. Hangover permitting, allow me that much. Onwards and upwards though folks. Always move forward. I wish you nothing but the best for 2017. Much love to you.