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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Making Tracks

It would seem that my journey is close to reaching it’s end. That’s immensely satisfying in itself. I was never sure I’d get here and I never ever thought I’d be in such a good place as I arrived. 

I sort of expected more fanfare and to just lose it in spectacular fashion as things got to this point. But it’s a surprisingly tranquil experience.  Things are just falling into place and there is really no need for me to freak out. 

I honestly thought that I’d be broken by the enormity of it all but instead I am feeling pretty relaxed and content.  I have little doubt that difficult days lie ahead. But I know that I’ll never be facing those alone. 

So, approaching the point of no return,  I’m feeling wholly confident that it all has been and will be completely worth it. And full of hope for the future.  For example, even my brother can stand to talk about me now. Not to me. Yet. But I’ll take it as proof that time might just heal that too. And that no particular stop on a journey has to be entirely final.

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A Shameless Jezebel

Since I started out on this process of transition I’ve had to show so many medical professionals my junk that I’m considering issuing loyalty cards to repeat visitors. Friday’s visit with the surgeon was no different but it at least advanced my cause somewhat. And it will fortunately be one of the last occasions when a doctor ever has to peer at it again. Although I quite honestly have no shame left at all about whipping it out upon request.

But there is at least one positive that this journey has given me. I appear to have very  few hangups about my body overall. Which might seem incongrous to you given what I’m going to do next. But I tend to think of it as corrective surgery as it’s not born out of any need to rid myself of something hateful. I am exceptionally fortunate that I never experienced dysphoria.

And now I’m spending this weekend with the written consent form that will make surgery a reality. I’m going to sign it of course but it deserves more than a little thought because of the complexity of what signing actually means for the rest of my life. A single signature which will start to eradicate my male life for good. I’m allowed to be a little overly dramatic in this particular situation I think.

It’s not at all bad though. I’m calm and content and hopefully taking a very measured decision that will work out for me in the long run. I just can’t know for definite which does give me reason to pause before committing pen to paper. I’ve now had all the possible complications explained to me. I could have particularly lived my whole life without being aware of what a fistula is. Don’t look it up. It’s disgusting. If you do look it up, I warned you fair and square.

It looks like my final surgery will be around November but I am told it will definitely be by the end of the year. So a festive foof is all but assured. But the all important consent has to be sent back first. That’s a job for tomorrow. Under the circumstances, I hope they’ll forgive the shaky handwriting.

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Talkin’ About A Resolution

By the time this post is published I’ll be in my appointment with the surgeon, literally pulling the trigger that will see the new me out of the starting blocks. I have no idea how it’s going to go. But I remain epically calm. And I quite like it.

Despite all of the questions that I have, I mostly feel a sense of resolution. That everything over the last four or so years has been worth it. Arguably not the loss I suppose but even that is still too early to call forever.

But just to get here is an accomplishment I think. Sometimes I did believe it was too hard and that it might break me. But it didn’t and I don’t think anything ever will now. Although, to be fair, I don’t wish to tempt fate in this regard. My journey to today has been relatively privileged though, mostly because of the people who came with me and made it a little easier just to be me. It will probably be the defining experience of my life. But it was pretty much a pleasure taking every single step.

I really have no idea what I’ll be feeling tomorrow or how this appointment will pan out. Oddly, it doesn’t actually matter. It’s just another step closer to the end of this particular journey. And while I want that resolution, it’s surprisingly now more haste but less speed. Whenever my surgery is going to be is when it’s meant to happen. And I’m actually at peace with that. Neither hurried or worried about any of it. Today at least. See you at my freakout post on Sunday.

 

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Dilapid(il)ated

Been giving a lot of thought to the post-op experience that lies ahead. It would appear that there is literally nothing glamorous about the new reality that awaits me.

Basically my body will treat my new organ as an open wound and attempt to heal it shut. Which is where dilation comes in. As far as I can surmise I’ll be spending a lot of time with vaginal dilators. They will not necessarily feel like my friends. Although sometimes they might.

But this is the point where the enormity of what I am doing really starts to crush me. It’s not just one thing. A simple op to “fix” me. It’s the start of something else entirely.  A wholly new life which is going to be governed by how well I manage my postoperative care. 

And from what I have learned so far, it’s a big enough job for the first year at the very least. So as much as I’m really terribly excited,  I’m growing more and more scared by the minute. What I have signed up for is really a very tall order. As for having to interfere with postop self several times a day? What’s a girl to do? Doctor’s orders after all.

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Itsy Bitsy Inbetweenie Yellow Polka-dot Bikini

Less than two weeks till I see the surgeon and I’m feeling disturbingly relaxed about everything.  I’m predicting that this zenlike calm is still just a precursor to a major storm as reality bites down hard.

But calm I am and nothing feels beyond me right now.  Feeling relaxed about it all is a good place to be and the kind of progress where I’m at least a wee bit proud of myself. A relaxed attitude helps me cope with just about anything life conjures up to throw at me.

This week it was workmen idly gawping at me from their vehicular HQ.  I was absolutely ready for the usual exchanges to start. And then they didn’t.  All I heard was “Was that a guy?” said very quietly but quizzically just after I passed them. The important bit being “Was“. It was an actual question. And I will happily take that as a little victory which measures the progress I’ve made.

Four years ago that exchange would have went very differently. And arguably affected my whole day. Now I have hope that in another four years I can simply pass another group of generic workmen without any kind of comment. Other than the kind women usually get. And that doesn’t feel at all impossible to me now. Which makes me think maybe I’m absolutely ready to meet this surgeon. And to start getting ready to get on with the rest of my life. Happy days indeed!

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