Like a Ser

This Friday I go in for a physical exam, where my clinic will make sure I won’t have any...

Wed, 07 Nov 2012 12:34:26 -0500

This Friday I go in for a physical exam, where my clinic will make sure I won’t have any complications on testosterone by doing a lot of blood work and by cavity searching my cervix. Not really looking forward to either of those, though honestly I am having a hard time deciding which procedure I am looking forward to less. I guess a phobia of needles really doesn’t work in my favor when I’m about to go on injectable hormones.

My first T shot should be before the 21st. About two weeks.

My emotions are rather complicated. I am excited and I am going ahead with everything without regret. I want hormones now but I also don’t want hormones now. I don’t have many pairs of guy pants that fit; my ‘passing’ depends on whether or not I have on a shirt that covers me to mid-thigh, which isn’t really flattering. It’s kind of frustrating but ultimately a big problem I need to fix.

Everything else is going well. My family is better. Oh, I have to come out to a few aunts and uncles and cousins before Thanksgiving, including my 86 year old great grandmother. I suspect she’ll be the most accepting, because honestly my grandparents are just better than yours. Its the rest of them, as well as the many family friends we have, who I am wary of. I am not too keen about becoming dinner time conversation but oh well, what can ya do?

I unfortunately can’t find my webcam anywhere, otherwise I would have given you guys some pictures. I should probably find it, since I need a way to chronicle my changes on T. Then again you have all probably been thankful for the lack of my ugly mug on your dash.

I’m also going to make a list of changes I expect on T, and changes that might happen, and put it here and check each off as they happen. I’ll have a link to it so if you’re curious you can go to it and be like ah yes Gabe’s feet have grown excellent that boy is going places.

His Goddamn Happiness

Thu, 25 Oct 2012 16:08:23 -0400

triggers for: depression and probably abuse.

—-

I was a shitty sister to my little brother.

He is just like my father. Immature for his age, probably doomed with a ten year old’s sense of cruel humor. He is good with cars and machinery. He is a little entitled, still balls-deep in puberty and butting heads with my parents. I suspect he will be ending his one and only puberty while I enter my second.

He is somehow more mature than both of my parents about some things. Both times I came out he was there, acting like it was no big deal. He caught onto Gabe faster than my parents did; he never whined when I called him out on a slip-up. He held me through body-wracking sobs when I realized my college was attempting to banish me to the fucking negative zone of South Campus, and still held me like I was a man and not his crumbling sister.

It probably has something to do with the fact that we are no longer crammed in the same house together. Both of us very much like our father, the kingpin to a massive chunk of my current emotional turbulence, though I developed differently and independently because my dad did not teach me the same things he taught my brother. He never taught me how to check my oil until I had a car; when I called him when my car wouldn’t start, I had to demand he tell me how to do it over the phone. His first answer had been get Robert.

Instead of growing up on a dirt bike like my brother, I was forced into womanhood early. I tried to desperately cling to my childhood boyishness - I wanted to continue playing outside with the boys on my street and tackle them and get grass stains. But when I grew breasts they stopped playing as roughly with me, stopped playing with me period, and I was left to find friends in the younger girls on my street. They did not want to play roughly with me, or go exploring in the woods; my attempts at friendship were clumsy and eventually ended with them saying they didn’t want to play with me anymore. I was twelve and awkward and I thought it was all my fault. I locked myself in my house and never came out.

My dad sold my childhood quad when I hit puberty and developed hips; he ripped the last bit of boyishness from me and used it to buy my brother something else loud with wheels. I forced myself into femininity, but I slowly started hating my little brother.

He was still playing with the other boys on the street. Building forts in the woods. Searching for salamanders underneath rocks and inside rotting stumps. He was finding ways to make his dirt bike even more obnoxiously loud, its high keen a reminder that I had been shoved out of that phase in my life and he was free to continue on.

We had never been big sister and little brother. I had always acted like a big brother with him. Physically overpowering him when he pissed me off, pushing him to the ground and sitting on his back until he shut the fuck up for the love of God. I made him cry. I taunted him for being feminine in anyway while I was walking around in a skirt. When our parents left us alone and things got volatile I chased him around and punched him in the arm.

You’re cruel to your brother, my mother said first when I was thirteen, a phrase that would be often repeated by both her and my father.

I knew it. I didn’t know why I hated him so much. Why he was so annoying to me.

The last time I made him cry I was seventeen. He was getting stronger than me, despite our four year age gap. He was taller than me and had wider shoulders and muscles on his arms. He was shaving and the razor had appeared in the bathroom we shared and the thin dusting of residue was left over in the sink. I had started crossdressing occasionally to ease my massive self-hate and body shame but it didn’t always work. My mother called me ‘cute’ when I did it and my father asked me why I had to me different. I hadn’t told them I was having dreams about rigorously fucking women and that I was thinking of coming out as bisexual.

My brother was laughing about something. His voice had officially dropped. He was fourteen and he was fucking shaving and his voice no longer cracked and he was bigger than me. His happiness got on my nerves. His goddamn happiness was like a perpetual spike in my side. I was up to my neck into my annual September depression and I wanted to scream and cry and I didn’t understand why I hated his laughter so much.

I punched him in the face. On the nose. At the last moment I realized what I was doing and tried to pull back, but I hit him anyway. My father had taught me to punch only because he didn’t want anyone to overpower a little girl like me. I hit my brother with my middle knuckle and despite the fact that it was only a fifth of the power it had been it made his hands fly to his face and tears automatically welled in his eyes from pain and anger.

“What the hell!?” I had never heard my brother say fuck before and he didn’t say it even though his cruel bitch of a sister had just attempted to smash the cartilage into his mouth. Tears were streaming down his face as he clenched his eyes shut, doubling over; he had never been punched like that before, and the pain had been too much for him. He was still a kid.

Even though I hadn’t punched him as hard as I wanted to I was still angry. “Why can’t you just shut the fuck up for ten minutes?! Ten minutes without having to hear your fucking voice!” My own voice was a screech.

I had punched him in the face for being happy and loud. I had pulled his hair for being stronger than me. I had threatened him, kicked him in the shins, threw insults at him for not getting as good grades as I did, for having trouble reading, for being better at me with cars. I hated him for getting to be the son while I was stuck trying to wedge myself into the open daughter spot and finding that it was unimaginably uncomfortable.

And yet he was still there when I came out to my family; he talked to me when my father stopped doing so for a week. He called me Gabe and let me steal his colognes because I didn’t have any of my own. I tied his ties for him and he didn’t think anything of it. He showed me more support than either of my parents, listens to me when I talk, calls me his brother when nobody else is around.

I am trying to be a better brother than I was a sister.

College

Sat, 06 Oct 2012 22:01:42 -0400

Trigger warnings for alcohol and depression.

—-

The first time I said it, I thought the person just made a mistake. They had called me she by mistake. My voice was still rather high, and I didn’t have a new binder yet and they might have seen something. I sat in the back and the teacher knew me and rarely called out my name for attendance. I made up excuses for them. I corrected them and continued to do my part of the work.

But then they did it again. “She’s the one with the papers,” they said.

“I’m male,” I said again, my voice slightly softer. Less confident. The two wrong pronouns stuck out of my side like knives, weakening me.

“Yeah okay.” They waved me off. Annoyance rose up my esophagus and into my throat. I clamped my teeth tightly to stop it from spilling out as a string of profanity.

And then, when we had to work together again. “So what is ‘Gab’ short for?” They mispronounced my name into the feminine and it made my ears burn.

“Gabriel.”

“But that’s a boy’s name.”

Oh fuck you. I fought to keep my temper under control. “Yeah. It’s because I’m male. I have said this twice.” Two times too many.

They looked at me as if this was the first time and I was being unreasonable. I wanted to slap their eyes right out of their sockets.

I was so used to being around people who knew, who I was out to, that having to claim my gender was unfamiliar to me again. I was rusty. I allowed the constant misgendering to beat me down, turn my voice soft and high when I said I’m male. I am a guy. I am a man. I hated that I had to claw my way out of she and her, fighting off people grabbing my legs and trying to drag me back down into that pit.

—-

There’s a guy who sits next to me in geology. His only feature I can remember off the top of my head is his light hair. I don’t look at him. My social paranoia makes me turn my body away from him and keeps my head rigidly staring at the front of the class. He sneaks glances at me sometimes.

“Are you free after class?” he asks one day.

No, I say. I have American Literature ten minutes after geology. That is just enough time to walk to the building its in and up three flights of stairs just in time to grab my guarded spot in the back right corner.

“Oh.” He walks away. He doesn’t sit next to me as much anymore. I’m perfectly fine with this; I have a whole table to myself because everyone else has guessed what he did not and no one wants to sit next to a creature like me.

He finds out one day though. My professors are all hip to my jive because of an email sent out before the semester began. He is behind me while I am talking to the professor, asking him if he’ll help me with my lab. The half-lives of radioactive materials are not my strong suit.

“Sure Gabe,” he says. I won’t admit it but I have a mild crush on this professor, simply because he says my name so happily. He knows what it means to me.

I thank him and turn around. The blond guy is behind me, looking at me in horror. He realizes he tried to ask out a guy. A guy with small, barely noticeable tits.

I smirk involuntarily, baring my teeth in repressed anger at how he’s looking at me. Like I am some kind of disgusting thing not worthy of his affections. I didn’t find him attractive from the start and now he’s nothing but an ugly homophobic fuck.

—-

I live with five girls in a single apartment pod that costs two thousand dollars more than a cisgender sophomore’s room. My distaste for this manifests in womanizing ways. When people ask me how I feel about this, I say I get to live with five college girls and end it with a sleazy smile. I feel horrible about it.

I drink when they drink, except instead of socializing with them like I should, I take a plastic red cup of vodka and coke into my room and drink until little pulses of warmth settle in my belly. And then I sneak back out and fill back up with straight vodka and drink some more, making sure my roommates still think I am only having one. I carefully type out each post so that my friends don’t know how bad I get; that after two drinks my keyboard is slick with tears because I still have a closet full of women’s pants and I am slowly sinking into my September depression and schoolwork is overwhelming me and my father told me not to call him cisgender because he is just a man and I am not just a man. I humorously slur my words online and take another drink and my mouth quivers from the disgusting taste.

My room becomes messy with empty water bottles and I neglect to make my bed and papers pile up around my goldfish’s tank. I sleep late and don’t do the assigned reading and it catches up to me and makes me even more depressed because why am I even here if I can’t do the work.

I go on testosterone in a little over a month and my father says it will ruin my body, as if my body wasn’t ruined from the start.

wow why did nobody tell me I posted a jaguar to my trans blog YOU ARE NOT TRANS JAGUAR GO AWAY well...

Tue, 02 Oct 2012 23:18:55 -0400

wow why did nobody tell me I posted a jaguar to my trans blog

YOU ARE NOT TRANS JAGUAR GO AWAY

well maybe you are dont let me live your life but you need to go

Hello everyone! I am sorry that I have not posted in a while. And this is a half assed one from my...

Mon, 01 Oct 2012 12:20:59 -0400

Hello everyone! I am sorry that I have not posted in a while. And this is a half assed one from my phone.

I am currently at my month post op appointment. Everything has been fine surgery wise. I am very happy and I just ordered a new underworks binder and it should be here by the time I go back home for the long weekend. I hope to have some pictures for you all soon.

Just a reminder that if all goes according to plan I will be in T in less than two months. Just in time for Christmas! Of course I still need pants and a packer, but that’s inconsequential right now.

Hello everyone! I am home now after a terrible night in the hospital (not terrible as in the nurses...

Fri, 24 Aug 2012 21:29:28 -0400

Hello everyone!

I am home now after a terrible night in the hospital (not terrible as in the nurses were bad - they were all wonderful - but terrible as in the anesthesia kept making me vomit). I will make a detailed post about it as soon as typing for a long period doesn’t make my chest ache.

I am very happy. With a big shirt you can barely see them, and thats with a hospital grade sports bra on.

Also guys I’ve been thinking of doing a whole big post on transphobia and cissexism and How...

Sun, 19 Aug 2012 17:10:35 -0400

Also guys I’ve been thinking of doing a whole big post on transphobia and cissexism and How Not To Be an Asshole.

On a scale of casting Matt Damon in True Grit to voting Republican as an LGBTQ person how bad of an idea is this.

My surgery is Thursday. This…kind of crept up on me to be honest. Everything kind of did....

Sun, 19 Aug 2012 17:05:09 -0400

My surgery is Thursday.

This…kind of crept up on me to be honest. Everything kind of did. Summer is such a lazy season and you get so used to sleeping until whenever and stewing in your own juices that when the real meat of August comes around its like a fucking smack to your face. BAM CONGRATS MOTHERFUCKER HAVE SOME RESPONSIBILITIES AGAIN. And then it rubs your face in it, steals your milk money, and fucks your mother.

I want to do so many things. I want to swim one last time this summer (but also I dont because swimming while binding is a pain in the asshole like seriously GOD). I want to go to Provincetown with my grandmother. I need to go school shopping before I can’t lift anything more than three pounds. I need to clean my buggering car and my room and fucking unpack the two trashbags of clothes that I haven’t even touched since I got home. I need to finish a short story.

Motherfuck I need to buy new bras. Goddammit.

Provincetown in Several Meaningless Parts

Sat, 18 Aug 2012 18:40:00 -0400

Part One: The Battery

I was ready. I had everything. I had packed nicely and remembered the water and my shoes. My father had taken the GPS accidentally but whatever I could just follow my friend. I was in my car and ready to go.

The key turned and the engine didn’t even fucking whisper. Not a rattle, not a mumble. It didn’t even give me a sputter, a hope that maybe - maybe - the engine would turn over.

Nope, it was dead. The check engine light was on right next to a crude battery symbol. I called my dad.

“My battery is dead how do I start it?”

“Call your brother.” My brother was four years younger than me and probably could do this too, because my father had taught him how to. My father never taught me anything car-related aside from how to check my own oil and refill my anti-freeze.

“No just tell me.” I had already popped the front. The lid sheltered most of the engine from the rain.

In our cellar is a generator; we used it when the power went out a week ago. It had the correct clamps. I hauled it outside, asking my father if it was okay to do this while it was raining, my phone tucked between my ear and shoulder, trying to shelter the generator with my body.

“Don’t let the clamps touch anything else,” my dad kept saying, but there was a fucking rubber tube covering the red knob. Who the fuck designed a side-ways battery anyway? I attached them as best I could.

“Should something happen?”

“Not unless you did something wrong.” Awesome.

Nothing happened anyway. My battery was dead and the rain was subsiding and my engine refused to turn over or even give me a fucking peep. I opened the trunk and hauled my suitcase out of it and called my friend to tell her I couldn’t drive.

—-

Part Two: The Parade

The Parade was an hour late. We found a small alley where the Bearded Lady was and set up camp around a free bench at about two thirty, and ate Chinese food there and re-hydrated. A crowd was already appearing around the street, but we were up slightly higher and didn’t worry if we weren’t able to find a spot. I stripped off my right shoe and sneaker and rubbed my foot, which had been splintering since the walk into town and was having muscle spasms.

When three came around, we started listening for the parade. The people on the street wooped for just about anything, from the guys dressed like Marvin the Martians to anyone crossdressing. But it was cooler in the shade so we really didn’t care.

The parade was signaled by loud music and a escort of cops who looked fucking stoked about everything.

Then came the guys in rainbow zentai suits.

The parade was something else. It was the first time I ever got excited in public. Usually I just enjoy things quietly, but here I was reaching for beads and screaming and going YEAAAAAAAAH.

And it wasn’t just about being gay. It was about expressing yourself artistically.

And about having a shitload of fun.

But yeah no mostly it was about expressing yourself in an LGBTQ fashion and knowing that this was your space and everyone loved you for it.

I’ll post more parts later, but since Provincetown is so beautiful we all took so many pictures that I feel like I need to include some of them, so they’re gonna be pretty image intensive and I want to spread them out.

That ask scared the shit out of me because for a full minute I thought my insurance company was...

Thu, 09 Aug 2012 02:53:27 -0400

That ask scared the shit out of me because for a full minute I thought my insurance company was stalking me but I couldn’t just leave it unanswered I mean that’s rude as hell.

And then I realized that how the ever-lasting fucknuggets would they find me

How

How

I am just paranoid.

Also guys I totally welcome asks and stuff and you don’t even need to be on anon. I don’t bite. I might like shed on you by accident but I don’t bite.

Did your insruance pay for your reduction?

Thu, 09 Aug 2012 02:45:37 -0400

Yes. I have severe back pain and my chest is remarkably large. My insurance actually rejected four other FAAB individuals before the secretary at my doctor’s office convinced them to pay for my surgery.

The only problem is that if they catch a whiff of my transgender status, they might reject me. Hence why I have to shave when I go in, and why my mother really doesn’t like my new hairstyle, because she thinks its too masculine.

Because I was late on the new post here is a shitty picture of...

Wed, 08 Aug 2012 22:58:56 -0400

Because I was late on the new post here is a shitty picture of my new hair. I’ll hopefully get a better one one I’ve bleached it blond, toned it white, and dyed it bright pink for Provincetown.

I never really took my fear of needles into consideration

Wed, 08 Aug 2012 22:55:00 -0400

[Squick warning for needles]

The night before, I had to shave my legs. Under my arms. Wash away months of growth, months of waiting for my light hair to grow thick enough to be visible. I went to bed at five in the morning and was up at nine.

Because driving in Boston is akin to a trial of Hercules if you’re not used to it, we were driving to the outskirts and taking the subway in, which was much cheaper and faster than the train. But there were no more spaces available in the parking garage, and my mother was getting hassled and was starting to snap at me. So since she was only there for moral support, I had her stop in front of the station.

“I’ll go by myself,” I said. I knew the area around the MGH stop rather well, and I knew the MBTA even better than my own father.

My mother was hesitant, because even though I had become depressed and angry and was less like myself than ever before, she still had love in her eyes. But I was almost nineteen and she was just dead weight on the subway, so I stepped out of the car and said goodbye while wedging earbuds into my ears.

The station was one I had only been to once before, and it was an end of the line type of station, with only a one option - into Boston. But I fumbled with the trains anyway, getting off one when it didn’t move for a long period of time, and then having the one I abandoned move as soon as I was settled on the other one. (I did this twice). I was pushing my twelve o’clock appointment when I finally glued my ass to one. It moved opposite where I envisioned the city to be and made me panic publicly on tumblr, but it was the right one.

When it pulled into the MGH station, it was 11:57. I walked leisurely out of the station and the hospital was right in front of me. But not the correct one. I walked around it, trying to find Mass General. I stopped a woman in a powder blue nurse uniform, and she pointed me in the right direction.

Once in the hospital, I wandered like a lost puppy. But MG had people to help with that at their information desk, and I shuffled up to a nice elderly man who showed me to the correct area while I thanked him about seven times.

A young attractive man was the receptionist. He was easy to talk to. I hated my body in front of him. But he was nice and told me the date twice after I forgot the first time and gave me paperwork to fill out.

The paperwork was the usual - I tagged ‘no’ on just about everything because I am relatively healthy despite inching over two hundred on the scale. There was an information release form and I signed it without thinking so that my surgery could help someone in someway, but stopped when I got a form or a test the hospital was doing. It was about the effects of different anesthesia transfer methods on overweight people.

I did not sign that one.

A nurse came to get me before I was done with the paperwork. I whimpered pathetically about how I needed to hand it to the receptionist, and she took it for me while I sat down next to the blood pressure machine.

I have no idea if my blood pressure was good. I assumed it was, since she didn’t say anything about it. After that I was weighed: 206. Naked I was 204.5. I knew this because the night before I had weighed myself alone before my shower.

The nurse looked at me expectantly. Her eyebrows went up. A million things went through my head, most of them sassy and things I had seen on other peoples’ blogs, people who were more confidant than I was. The biggest was being overweight is only acceptable if you’re doing something about it.

“I am doing something about it,” I mumbled, hating myself in several different ways at once.

There were people getting their blood drawn at the moment, so she handed me a plastic cup. Fuck; I had gone to the bathroom before coming here. The bathroom had a compartment next to the toilet that was connected to the testing area. Someone’s filled cup was already in there, and someone was using the other door when I opened the one connected to the bathroom.

“Hello,” I said. They gave me a small, awkward smile.

I wandered for a moment after leaving the bathroom, unsure of where my nurse was. She found me standing in a corner with my arms drawn up to my chest. It was time to draw my blood.

“Can you count to three, please?” I whispered as she tied a tourniquet around my left bicep. “I am a big baby.”

“Okay,” she said, getting out the needles. You’re going to have to stick yourself in the ass every week after November, I thought to myself. You better get used to them.

She used an infant’s needle and it still made me gasp like a total bitch. I desperately hoped my insurance covered Androgel.

My fingers started to hurt and them go numb from the tourniquet; I wiggled them and clenched my eyes shut. It was taking longer than it should because of the fucking baby needle I had agreed to. I was getting dizzy. Don’t pass out don’t pass out be a goddamn man.

It was finally over, and the nurse led me over to a room where I had to wait for the anesthesiologist and a nurse who would be at my surgery. I waited a good forty minutes, trying to concentrate on my book; but my concentration had been ruined by my smart phone, and the temptation to check tumblr every five seconds was great. I thought about going back on my ADD medication before school started again.

Finally the anesthesiologist came in, and I fumbled to replace my bookmark before he thought I was rude. We shook hands, and I wished I was going in for top surgery and not a reduction. I wish I was out to all of these people and they called me Gabe instead of my birthname.

He asked me the usual questions about my medications (I was on none) and any previous surgeries (the removal of my tonsils and adenoids when I was twelve), and my family’s medical history (lung cancer in my grandmother, breast cancer in my mother, and a number of mental illnesses). He left and I waited another twenty minutes for the nurse.

This was where things got annoying. After a pleasant conversation in which we talked about my career goals, we came to the topic of the outcome of the surgery.

“Your plastic surgeon is like an artist,” she said, waving her hands in the air. “So she will shape your new chest to match your body proportions.”

“I want an A cup.”

“But that will look -“

“A cup.” I set my mouth. Half-lies slipped off my tongue. “My mother has had breast cancer, and I don’t want to find out if its genetic. I was ridiculed in high school for my breast size. I have back pain because of them. I have experienced having large breasts and I have concluded that I would like an A cup.”

The nurse gave me a smile that I remembered every single adult who belittled me having right before they told me that it was silly to want tattoos, that my homosexuality was just a phase, that writing would never get me anywhere, that I could play with this transgender ‘idea’ of mine, but only if I didn’t do anything permanent. I was a grown man goddammit and I hated that shit.

“Well, you see, if you’re not happy with that size, there is really nothing you can do about it…”

I wanted to snap and tell her that if I had my way and if insurance companies weren’t such cock-juggling thunder-cunts I’d be having top surgery. But instead I smiled back and said, “I will be happy with it.”

EDIT: And they also never had to fucking see my legs or under my arms or really dO ANYTHING OF THE SORT. SO NOW I AM HAIRLESS FOR NO REASON SOB.

I know I haven’t updated in a while, and that’s because nothing really relating to my...

Mon, 30 Jul 2012 02:00:42 -0400

I know I haven’t updated in a while, and that’s because nothing really relating to my transliness has happened recently. At least, nothing new. I’ve been having problems with my family, but that’s nothing something I want to share in detail with the internet.

Last Thursday I went in for my reduction pre-op, and I am currently composing that post, and it should be up within the week. After that, the next thing that will happen is that I will be blogging all three days of my trip of Provincetown (with pictures) on the 15th - 17th, and then my reduction on the 23rd.

Hopefully I’ll see you then.

For some reason the shirt I feel most comfortable in is my Ugly Hawaiian Shirt and the only pair of...

Thu, 19 Jul 2012 21:24:23 -0400

For some reason the shirt I feel most comfortable in is my Ugly Hawaiian Shirt

and the only pair of male pants I own are cargo shorts

so tonight I am going to the movies while looking like I am ready for the beach.

Going into this, I might have fully expected to one day wake up and feel as masculine as possible....

Thu, 12 Jul 2012 16:12:00 -0400

Going into this, I might have fully expected to one day wake up and feel as masculine as possible. Just BAM, I climb out of bed and I walk with a swagger and I stand without putting more weight on one foot than the other and I will never ever do the ‘limp wrist’ gesture ever again. The sheer intensity of my manliness will somehow overtake everything. The tropical theme of my room will evaporate and dissolve into hunter green and there will be a buck’s head mounted upon the wall, surrounded by all of the sea bass I have collected fishing bare-handed in Boston Harbor. I will hawk loogies like its nobody’s business (which I already do but they are not epic magical loogies).

This has obviously not happened yet. My blog is pank and I come down the stairs on my tiptoes like I’m wearing some kind of strappy high-heeled sandals; I still watch stereotypical girl movies with my mother because she laughs at everything and I find it contagious (though rom coms have irked me as of late). I might have that One Direction song in its own little playlist on Spotify, so that its on a permanent loop.

I don’t know why I expected all of my feminine qualities to go away. And even though I know gender is fluid and everyone can spit between their freshly manicured feet all they want, regardless of their goolie bits, I still kind of expected something. Like declaring my gender would create some kind of motivation in me to toss out all of my feminine things. But now I find myself clutching my only pair of high-heels to my chest, cursing the heavens that society does not allow men to wear them because god damn I am short and they are so fun. Also, my ass looks great in them.

So after struggling with my inability to wrap my feminine self in a cocoon and emerge a beautiful butterfly of man stank, screwdrivers, and hockey, I’ve just decided to go with the flow. Whatever happens happens. If I want to dye my future mohawk pink and blue for my trip to Provincetown (and if its currently purple now), let’s do that shit. And if I might look at orange eye shadow and find that I like it, whatever.

I’m still a man, even if its taking me a little while to get used to it.

domesticatedwerewolves: I just realized I will essentially going through my second puberty while my...

Tue, 10 Jul 2012 01:18:57 -0400

domesticatedwerewolves:

I just realized I will essentially going through my second puberty while my cousin is going through his first

oh

god

I further compressed my chest with a layer of duct tape over my binder. It looks better but fuck I...

Tue, 03 Jul 2012 16:33:39 -0400

I further compressed my chest with a layer of duct tape over my binder.

It looks better

but fuck I can’t breathe.

I’ll probably take most of it off before I go out, but I think I will enjoy it for a little longer before I do that.

ROFCAL (Rolling on the floor crying a little)

Sat, 30 Jun 2012 16:14:25 -0400

Some days I can deal with not being able to bind. Usually they are the days when I need to be out of the house really quick; shit Gabe we need milk to make pudding no we can’t use the almond soy milk you barbaric Wiccan heathen so I need to hop in my twelve year old bright blue Oldsmobile and drive to WalMart or Stop&Shop because I don’t have time to squeeze myself into a binder and duct tape it shut because if I even take one more second that pudding is going to be ruined.

Its usually when I have actual plans that the dysphoria starts to sink in. Procrastinating until the last second because I know that my binder is still in the weird black hole my mom stores the dirty laundry because she knows we will resort to wearing wrinkled damp clothing if there is nothing else. I will never find it until it is as clean as she wants it to be, which could be anywhere from two days to a week and a half.

I never felt dysphoria so bad before. Yeah in college but that was more of a weh I’m in a small space and I am homesick sort of thing. This is so much more different. So much more sneaky. One minute you’re feeling good and then BAM you walk by a mirror and HOLY SHIT IT HAS TITS and you crawl under the couch.

The couch understands your feelings.

Okay so how bad is it when you ask your OB/GYN if she has any other FTM patients, and you get the...

Tue, 26 Jun 2012 14:05:32 -0400

Okay so how bad is it when you ask your OB/GYN if she has any other FTM patients, and you get the ‘we have all sorts of patients!’ answer.

how

bad