Nailed It!

So, last week our government casually announced it was going to reform the laws around Gender Recognition. It’s not a government renowned for it’s compassion and understanding in many areas so forgive me for being a little cautious to accept this as gospel. I’ve spent much of this week waiting for the usual sort of religious “It’s Adam and Eve” rhetoric to reach it’s full clamour.

To be fair, it’s not really happened on the scale I imagined at all. People seem to have far more to worry them in the long run. And articles like this one http://johnpavlovitz.com/2017/07/21/no-gay-lesbian-bisexual-transgender-not-sin/ probably help us begin to find a common ground.

Of course, in the same week, across the pond, a certain President Chump has just announced he’s going to ban Transgender people from serving in the military. You have to wonder how any one person can get things so wrong.

I would probably still march for your right to hate me as long as it was in the name of free speech.  I’d still respect your opinion. Although I might choose to find it abhorrent. And ill-informed. And a bit of a throwback. 

We’re so close to getting there as a society.  My own transition punctuates that very clearly to me. For every Trump, there’s a cavalry around the corner who don’t give a fuck what’s between my legs. Why should they? And in the meantime I have to admit that I mustn’t grumble.  It’s slow,  it’s faltering and all too human but progress happens. Despite all efforts to the contrary. 

 

 

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State-ly Home

For the last couple of months I’ve sort of been renovating my home. Sort of. It’s a long story. All I’ve really managed to do is turn my flat into a flimsy uninhabitable shell. But to be fair, I had help. Although that word implies a level of actual assistance.

The plan was to femme the flat up a bit and modernise it after more than a decade of considered inaction on my part. It was a sound plan in theory. But there is no amount of planning that will compensate for the untimely death of your builder halfway through proceedings. Kind of left me with a bit of a dilemma.

Despite the current state of things, I’m trying to stay relatively optimistic. It’s mostly cosmetic and fixable within a short enough timescale but it’s pretty difficult to remain upbeat when you are estranged from your home. I even miss the crappy line in my wall which I had replastered out of existence.

But it’s a lesson learned. Home improvement sucks. If it can go wrong, it invariably will. At twice the cost. I now have to pay someone to rectify and complete work I’ve already paid for. I know this much though. If I ever mention doing further work, someone really needs to punch me in the throat. For my own good.

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My Way Or The Highway

This weekend sees me working at a Transition Support Course. Support being the operative word. Because any way you choose to transition is probably going to be the right one for you. There is still, unfortunately, no manual available. And no “correct” way to do it anyway.

At this point we are only halfway through the course but it’s been worthwhile to me already. It’s a fascinatingly diverse group. A huge range of different identities. Male to female, female to male, non-binary and otherwise just questioning of supposed gender norms.

And an age range that is equally diverse but all of whom are travelling their own journeys with gender. One of the things that was often offered to me as I first transitioned was that it was it was a brave thing to do. I never ever saw that. Until today. When I saw the bravery in other people’s stories, I can now allow that maybe I had some of that.

Shared experience is a beautiful thing though. Nobody attending the course has all of the answers and pretty much every last one of us has had similar questions. But there is plenty we can learn from each other. And sometimes it’s just good to recognise you are not alone in a situation. And to be able to learn from your peers is one of the most useful things I’ve ever had. So although nobody really has all the answers, collectively we all know enough to help each other get there. And that feels more than good enough to me.

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Martyr Complex

I really don’t much believe in a God but if you still happen to believe in (Insert deity of own choice) then you probably would struggle with how they would do something so peculiarly cruel as to give you a body and a gender which are completely at odds.

I’ve had plenty of “Why Me?” moments if I’m honest. And not all are ancient history either. What did I supposedly do in a past life to get dealt such a hand this time around? But Whomever is responsible, despite some terribly shitty moments and an awful lot of intense doubt, is someone I’d like to thank immensely.

Being transgender has obviously changed my life. But overall the actual experience has rarely been to my detriment. I’m simply better off for it. Without any shred of those doubts. And along the way, I really got to know myself more fully. Although it turned out that male or female, I’m still sometimes a dick. Which is mildly disheartening but also provides a hugely comforting sense of continuity. That there is at least a Me at the heart of my situation. And proves that character flaws are forever friends.

So I am glad I got to be Transgender when the chips are down. I wouldn’t necessarily trade any of the experience it’s brought me. Every stare, every comment whether good or bad, ultimately gave me something I could use. Which was mostly just strength. And perspective. I might be Trans. It might be hard sometimes. But often it’s not. And even if I wasn’t, I’d just have another type of cross to bear. But I am and it’s been brilliant. And I’ll always be thankful to (Insert deity of own choice) .

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Straight Out Of The Box

Before I could even be considered for scheduling for surgery, I had to send back a written consent form that confirmed I understood all of the implications of the operation. I duly did.

But here I am, a few weeks on, really only now fully understanding the risk that was presented to me. Statistically, it’s small enough for me to have made an educated decision but it’s mindbogglingly awful should things go wrong. And I am not necessarily known for my luck.

You can’t let that bog you done I believe. Everything carries risk. Most of which can usually be managed. But it’s hopefully normal enough to have a wee worry about it being a successful operation. There are just a lot of What If’s to wrangle. My greatest fear being what if it doesn’t work? Loss of sensation being one of the very real risks mentioned. I’d hate to start my female life in command of a terribly unresponsive vagina. Too awful to contemplate really. 

All I can really do is put my trust in the surgeon and hope for the best. To be entirely fair to him, he’s had a hand in plenty of vaginas. Medically speaking. And he was confident enough in his approach that I felt able to sign with little trepidation. Here’s hoping he knows how to sort out my butterflies while he’s down there.

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Bantamweight

There are few things that push me as close to violence as the casual commentary I quietly endure most days. And yet I cannot ever really allow myself to react as honestly as I would like. There would be a huge satisfaction in an uppercut to the swinging jaw of the usual sort of commentating culprit. Something that could only be more satisfying were there to be a pop art “Kapow!” in the frame.

But I’m firmly of the opinion that to actually just give in to that impulse would cost me too much. Not in monetary terms or employment or even the risk of a criminal record. It’s more that, for however brief a second, I’d honestly be no better than them. And there is a surprising amount of comfort in knowing that you are not them. Because your branch of the family tree was just fortunate enough to evolve.

Without looking up, I could give a Police Artist a fairly extensive description of every single person that feels it necessary to loudly review my gender. This is chiefly because they are Identikit idiots for the most part. Cut from the same tired cloth. Usually unaware that they might also just be the village simpleton.

But a sodding education means I don’t get to just respond with one swift punch to the middle of their low brows. Rising above things is the new black in this situation. Not because I’m scared. I’m an actual transsexual. I gave up being scared of anything years ago. But the chickenshit narrators of my casual journeys should probably have the sense to be afraid. Because one of these days a girl might snap. And she might have packed a cardboard KAPOW! of her own that very morning.

 

 

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Kryptonite

I happen to enjoy wine. Frequently. Left to my own devices I gravitate towards the Reds but I have one friend who only drinks White. Sauvignon Blanc to be precise. She is chiefly responsible for today’s sorry tale. Now I am relatively impervious to the delights of a Merlot or a decent Cabernet Sauvignon. I drink, I sleep, I get up the next day fresh as a daisy. This is not the case with white wine however. Hence this post being called Kryptonite.

Friday’s white wine endeavours really excelled themselves though. We did the polite thing. She bought a bottle and then I bought a bottle. Commonsense and all experience to date should have told me to stop there. But when the prospect of a third bottle was raised I could not conjure up a single viable reason not to. And that might be where things went tits up.

In so far as I literally lost my boobs. As the crème de la crème of my drunkenness was the decision to somehow hide my breast forms from myself. To be entirely fair, I think I may have been suffering an irrational fear that they might fall into the hands of my Mum’s poodle while I slept. He’s had his beady little eyes on them for a while. He looks at them as a fox does chickens and the result he has in mind is not dissimilar. 

So I awoke to a newly boobless world and not even the slightest clue as to where they had been secreted by an inebriated idiot. Some 3 hours later I did eventually find them though. In the place that I had first looked. Although not well enough apparently . I think the moral of this story is to know your limits. At least until you have finished the second bottle. And more importantly, no matter how drunk you get, always stay one step ahead of the dog. Your cleavage may depend on it.

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