The HRT goes… slow. As per usual. I keep wishing it were like in a movie where the super hero takes the radioactive medicine and suddenly has crazy super powers. Only, in the real world the medicine isn’t radioactive because Polonium is apparently not a vital nutrient and the super power is mood swings. When what I want is the power to grow breasts, wider hips, narrower shoulders and a magic vagina. Magic because if I were a super hero my vagina would be the brawn. I’d subdue n’er-do-wells with the massive crushing force of my pelvic floor.
Okay, that got a little weird. Whatever.
HRT is not a magic super hero power granting panacea. This is hugely disappointing.
I’m going to tell you about two times as a teenager that I remembered today that stuck with me as I got older that have in some regard formed my opinion of myself.
The first was the first time I prayed to God, for real. I had stopped going to church and stopped believing by the time I was 6 or 7. I just didn’t buy it. But, shortly after I began to become aware of my gender issues in a more complete way, I became desperate. There were many long nights crying and aching and trying to reason my way out of what I felt.
I wasn’t a God believer but I fell into a pit I couldn’t crawl out of and I found myself in such dire need of some kind of help that I turned my back on logic and reason and the reality surrounding me and turned to God. I screamed into the clouds and prayed. I prayed that God would remedy the problem or kill me. This became a nighty ritual.
I was reminded of this last night. I recall that shortly after this point I began a long build up to repeated suicide attempts. It took a while to get my nerve up. I was in pain, but I was also afraid. The attempts would stretch into my twenties. I wanted to be male. I wanted to conform. I wanted to be accepted and seen as strong because all of those things seemed normal. What I felt inside wasn’t normal. I was wrong and gross and if God wasn’t going to fix it, I only had one choice. Be a man or die.
I read this article or perhaps it was just a joke told by a comedian? I honestly can’t remember. But the gist of it was that men and women check their nails differently. Women will hold their hands flat and down while men will curl their fingers and check them near to their face.
I became convinced that this was somehow a signal that I wasn’t a female. That the way I felt was simply the result of insanity or stupidity or perversion. It’s stupid. Truly. There’s zero truth to it. I saw women checking their nails both ways, and men. But, I chose to ignore it. My brain blocked that out and focused on this one idea. All other ideas be damned, I wasn’t a girl, because I checked my nails like a boy.
Except I didn’t.
It finally dawned on me that this idea was probably bullshit, years later, when I – unconsciously – checked my nails in a doctor’s office like a girl. I got a cold sweat. My heart began to race. What does it mean?
Well, it doesn’t mean shit. I’m female. I have accepted this about myself and am moving on but this signal or sign or tell-tale trait is utter nonsense. I chose to believe it because it seemed at one time to confirm what I wanted. I felt as if holding on to that fact would somehow remedy me. That it would help, somehow, to get rid of how I felt inside. My unconscious sense of self was female. My conscious self was struggling to fit in and be normal. Whatever that means.
When guys would talk about football or tools or whatever, I mostly pretended to care or understand. I usually tried to steer the conversations toward news. I was usually pretty on top of the current events. When you look the part and appear to be the boy they see, it’s not too hard to fool most people. I always felt like people could tell, though. Always. I was an imposter. I always felt embarrassed to be seen with my shirt off.
One day in high school I was encouraged to remove my shirt in a weightlifting class and later to shower with the other boys. I refused to do either and soon after started skipping that class. The “teacher” never really seemed to notice despite his pride in attendance.
Over the years things like swimming were my least favorite activities. Not because I didn’t like to swim. I love to swim. But because it felt exposing to be shirtless. I felt like I was both gross to look at and like the lack of anything ‘breast-like’ was awful. Compounded by body acne and I avoided swimming around anyone but my closest friends or specific family members at all costs.
When my daughter was born I avoided it as much as I could but would still be required from time to time to ‘take a dip’. Which I loathed. But I set up a series of pools in our backyard which helped me to avoid having to do any of this in a more public place. A decidedly far more expensive and time-consuming route to take just so no one would see my embarrassingly tiny nipples.
I guess if I had a super power back then it would be avoiding things that made me uncomfortable with varied and moderately plausible excuses.
I’m working toward new super powers. Truth, happiness and dresses. Maybe swimming. Post-surgery. There’s no way I’m swimming until then. So maybe never? Fuck.
I’m learning to accept my inner super hero, whom I’m told is brave and compassionate. I honestly feel more afraid than ever. And selfish. Wanting these things for myself, to be free of my pain, while so many others die or will never find solace.
I’ve shed my disguise and I’m slowly moving toward having my magic vagina. I don’t know that it will ever happen for me, I may never be able to afford it, but I’m damn sure going to try. Maybe a miracle vagina? Maybe just a job so I can afford an ordinary one. That would be a miracle. Whatever.
Work on my new book has slowed somewhat. So, I’ve decided to smash a new blog post out. I have a lot of crucial parts finished but I have hit a bit of a creative block. I am also having difficulty deciding if I should go with all new material or combine the previous books as I have in the past.
Fingers crossed for so many reasons.