evolution of the face

this first pic was taken around summer of 2004 (hence the nice tan)


this 2nd pic was taken jan 2005~hence looking ghostly white & scary!


this 3rd pic was taken in oct or 2006, right as i started taking testosterone


this 4th pic was taken in may of 2007, six months on t (my first shave!)


this last pic was taken jan of 2008, 1.25 yrs on t, and 1 month post top surgery


i can't get the captions and the pics to line up, but you get the idea... seems like my face got more full (both because of weight fluctuations, but also my jaw became even more square~which i didn't think was possible!) also, my hair line started to recede slightly in the corners by my temples. and i seem to have gotten some weird cro-magnon forehead ridge thing going now at my brow since being on t for a while... what do you think?

loss...

I don't know if I will end up posting this. I was drafting another entry and haven't yet resolved that one.

I guess hearing about the death of Heath Ledger has brought up a few things for me. Thinking about this idea of consumption. They found his body surrounded by multiple types of pills, and thus far, his autopsy is inconclusive as to whether his passing was accidental or intentional.

What I want to share is something that were are not supposed to talk about in public. I want to talk about depression. More explicitly, I want to talk about my experiences with depression. Something we have been conditioned to not talk about in casual conversations. Since I have no clue who my audience is exactly, it grants me a kind of anonymity on both sides of this equation. I don't know who you are exactly, and I guarantee there are things about me that you do not know.

In my posting about leaps of faith, I think I made a reference to my life pre-transition as living a slow death of sorts. That there were challenges that really threatened me to my core, and that I was not very skilled in knowing how to manage those kinds of crises. (Ironic considering that I studied Conflict Resolution in college, and all of my job experience relates loosely to project/crisis management.)

A few days ago, I received a wonderfully eloquent email from my friend Emily about scientific evidence and margins of error in the medical world. (I was hoping to get permission from her to post excerpts from that email here, as I can not recount it as gracefully.) But in this email, Emily had referenced my comment about a "slow death," as she went on to say how it was a figurative gesture. In reality~that is not true. It was quite literal.

I have actively tried to end my own life many times over the past (and present) decades that I have been alive. This statement is not intended for shock and awe, as much as it meant to shed light on a subject that is forced into the darkness of shame. Like with most things in my life, I wear my heart (and its weaknesses) on my sleeve. And just as transitioning signalled the end to my codependent strife, severing my ties to the old abandonment issues that haunted me~it also called for a new sense of candor. I have no shame about being trans, as much as it might be too weird or "freaky" for some people to deal with in context of their own relations to me. I talk about it openly in hope to give a sense of dimensionality to what previously could have been a blatant caricature.

In that place I speak of a lot of unflattering things. I am not the hero in my own life. I am just one character. A flawed, and very human one at that. And perhaps it is what has made me approachable to so many who on the surface seem so radically different from me.

To me, the point of living is connectivity. To be able to relate to another being's experiential knowledge, and help us on our own wobbley paths. (My favorite author, Alain de Botton said something so brilliant in one of his last books ((paraphrasing here)): Why is it that we learn necessary lessons _after_ we needed them most? That the chaotic and provocative experiences that call for that missing link of needed information are exactly what create them, but never quite fast enough. We often feel like we simply have not learned enough to handle the strife in life's minutia _as_ it is happening.)

I live openly because I crave the potential for connection. I crave the possibility that I might have some huge revelation brought on by a casual conversation in line at the bank, or on a quiet walk home from the autoshop. I live to connect with anything willing to connect with me. (Which one can imagine has left me too vulnerable, and too wounded at times.)

To be honest, this has been one of those times. I have been grieving the loss of someone I loved very much. And thoughts of my surgery, and dreams of subsequent adventures to follow left me perfectly distracted from that grief. Yet, I have learned that distraction are fleeting, and grief is resilient, with-standing. It has found me. Many months later, in a different body, a different head space, with a different walk~it still recognized me, and followed me home.

But who ever wants to grieve? It is a process that no one looks upon eagerly. It is something that we are resigned to do. And all the while, others have kept themselves walking just fast enough to not yet submit.

This is the first time in my like where my grief has not pulled me under. Where I have not willingly become a victim of my own despair. Sure, I am sad and mourn the loss of things once cherished, but the depression has not settled in its old seat at my table. After decades of fearing my own inability to ever be "well" or stable, I am here, for the first time in my life. And it is from this place that I want to admit that I have never been here before.

I have spent years plotting my own demise. I have exhausted week upon week not being able to leave my bed, in a semi-paralyzed state. And I have consumed more handfuls of sleeping pills, mixed with other meds and alcohol to make the combination fatal. Yet it wasn't. Any time. (Having grown up straight edge, I find it baffling to think that my body could have tolerated such disgusting abuses.) These attempts were not cries for help. I did my research, knew what to do, and yet my body decided otherwise.

None of this implies that I am "unbreakable" or any stupid idea of that sort. But it has helped me sift through the bullshit now from this other side. Even though I lived, I saw that something needed to die: These patterns that kept me tethered to (and seeking out) unhealthy dynamics with people who were willing to drown me in their sorrows. I almost died there, but I see now that I can stand up, that I won't drown in the pain that people who are hurting inflict on others.

I transitioned last year because I felt like I had nothing left to lose. I tried to end the life that was so painful, and it didn't work. So, what if there was a way for me to end what was painful, instead of the life itself? What if there was a way to live the life that could make happiness an option? What if I could live the life that was worth living? That was the moment I knew what needed to be done~and it didn't consist of taking anymore sleeping pills, but finally forced me to really be conscious for the first time.

My point in sharing this is not to scare people about my history of instability. I have lost a few friends because of my transition, and also because of my admitted battle with depression. But I have also gained many insights from those moments when people I love have been able to connect with me about those most primal fears, and the most excruciating places of momentary pain.

I am struggling now because I feel like this life has to have some significant meaning, like it can't just be in vain. But what does that significance look like? How does it manifest? I haven't found traction with those answers yet. There has been a tremendous sense of relief to feel liberated from that darkness, and also to find amazing friends and exes who have resurfaced in my life, where we can commiserate about the (yet) "unanswerable."


Having only dabbled a tiny bit in cognitive behavioral therapy, I learned that there is a difference between perceptions and reality. Being cognizant of those fleeting moments of sadness and frustration I see the bigger scope, that we can change the way we feel _about_ things. If we modify our perceptions, then our relationships to those things being perceived then have to shift with the changes. (Not to say that if we "perceive" that we are rock stars we will be~but just a good reminder that the entire world isn't really against us on the especially tough days...)

I will get through the grief and the loss, and eventually learn whatever it is that I wish I knew now. And I will be okay again, and even inspired. To be living in a body that finally feels like home, within the context of a life that feels more like my own~and to be liberated from the depression that sabotaged everything~I know this is what it feels like to be whole. Maybe I needed to lose what I loved most to learn that lesson.

To all the people we have loved and lost too soon. And to all the rest that help us get through it. Much love and gratitude for this life which is still so full.

(God, I sound like such a fucking doped up hippie. Please forgive me~)

the "un-wealth" of health

So, apparently I am pretty dumb. I ended up getting a pretty considerable infection from injecting testosterone earlier this week. I am feeling somewhat sick right now. Minor flu like symptoms, that could be from a million other things. But I just feel dumb. I got through over a year of injections, a surgery, a spinal tap during my youth, on and on, and I got an infection from being sloppy.

(The short of it is~I was running low on T, and when I filled the syringe full of the little t I had left, I moved the syringe in a way that accidentally brushed the side of the needle against the back of my hand. Knowing this could be dangerous, yet not having enough t to just dump the entire syringe, I swiped the compromised needle with an alcohol swab in hopes that it could sterilize the surface. Um, a-no...)

I think the reason that I am beating myself up (well, beyond the obvious reasons of risking my own health in these foolish ways) is that my uncle was a heroin addict. My dad's younger brother was (yes, "was" ~ insert foreshadowing here _____) one of the earliest cases of HIV/AIDS that we personally knew. We didn't find out that he was infected until his health bottomed out. He caught tuberculosis.

It scares the shit out of me that he died from either using dirty needles, or from sex. Needles and sex~two things that have been elements of my life. (wow~my life just seemed more exotic for a split second.) Scary to think that my life has been affected by a bad decision I made in the matter of seconds.

Supposedly~I "should" be fine after ten days of these antibiotics. (Coincidentally, my dog decided to tear open a tiny corner of his dog bed on Wednesday evening--one day after the infectious needle prick--and got down feathers all over my bedroom while I was out for the evening. Despite having vacuumed up all of the feathers that filled my entire bedroom--akin to the Brady Bunch episode of overfilling the washing machine with detergent--my allergies are on overdrive. My eyes are practically sealed shut, which I am hoping is the reaction to the feather residue and not the freaky rare staph strain migrating through out my body.) Awe-some.

At the clinic where I had my examination, the Doctor drew a circle around the red, blotchy, raised area (now the size of my hand~it has grown exponentially every 24 hrs). She explained that she didn't think it was the rare, nearly impossible to kill staph infection that has been working is way around town. The Doctor said that the kind of meds to treat the rare staph strain won't work on the general infections, and vice versa. So she gave me the general antibiotic, for the general infection, and cross yer fingers~hope it works. "If the swelling goes down you will be fine. If the swelling increases beyond the draw circle go to the ER immediately." Su-weet!

(While I was writing this "Jackass: Number Two" came on. Amazing that I somehow got more hurt than these dumbasses who get trampled by bulls, bitten by venomous snakes, flipped off of rocket powered mini-vehicles, and flattened by plus sized naked women. Just my luck.)

All of this to say, that other than bad allergies to the room in which I sleep, and the infection I caused myself~I have been doing well. Cheeky even. I had been getting outside a lot more, and playing the fleeting snow storms, getting some exercise, catching drinks with good friends every night. It has broken up the monotony of my daily routines.

Maybe I will miss the little red flap jack sized swollen circle above my right knee. This has been the best week in a while, and perhaps it is all because of this little addition to my life. Sigh~

Little Fairy...

While talking to a trans friend of mine the other day on the phone, I paused to look at my schedule to try to make a plan with him. While I was checking my calendar, he chimed in with:

"Um, you know you sound really gay now, right?"

How does one respond to that? No, I wasn't aware that I sound gay. What exactly does that mean? Am I s'posed to butch it up now>

Well, okay ~ I did find myself accidentally telling a room full of burly bearded punk dudes that something was cute. And I wasn't referring to some hott girl. Was that a faux-pas? (Is saying "faux-pas" a faux-pas, if I don't wanna sound gay? Sheesh! This is tough...)

I asked a friend to take a photo of a vintage "Fairy Soap" ad that was similar to the vintage Fairy Soap ads I have in my bathroom back in DC. Okay, so maybe I am a big flamer.

But how can I read as gay? I like to lift weights, have 8 million skin care & hair care products, and my favorite kind of underwear is 2xist. I'm totally a "man's man." You know, a tough exterior, yet funny, and attentive. Just like Rock Hudson.


What?


My therapist once told me that I reminded her of the male leads from the movie musicals of the 1950s. She said that I had a strong sense of myself, without being over bearing, was charming, but not audacious, and dapper. They were all straight right?

I mean, sure ~ I've hooked up with a few gay guys in my day. But who hasn't? And sure, I've day dreamed about being a house boy to some ridiculously wealthy, hott older gentleman, but doesn't everyone? And well, I've begun a business plan to chart the path to becoming a gay porn mogul, but it's not "my scene..."

Huh, when you look at the sum total, it looks like I should throw in the hetero towel. I'm trading in my aggro pit bull, for a neurotic yorkie named Dante, and quiting the pet care biz to start my own interior decorating firm. What other stereotypes can I sarcastically add to the mix?

Can't I just like both boys and girls, and sound how ever the fuck I sound? Jeez...

~Love, Your Little Fairy Friend

Random Pics~

Here are some random pics of my friends and me in NYC.



I swear, I am really not this short, but I am that flat chested! Whew-hew!











Why you lookin' at me?


















It's odd, cuz I look a lot bigger than everyone, but further away. It's like some Lord of the Rings camera trick. (My huge Fred Flintstone head...)











This is a great dog with a great name ("Feta") guarding the new toy I gave him as a thank you for letting me crash with him, and his dad...

The Leap~

I am beginning to think that all things worth doing in life involve some sort of leap of faith.

(I must preface this statement by admitting that I am not the most experienced person with the concept of faith. Having been baptised, raised, and "confirmed" as a Roman Catholic, I was constantly on the nuns' shit lists, as I asked the wrong questions. Questions like: "Are our pets going to heaven?" "Why was it okay for Jesus to hang out with prostitutes, but I am wrong for having a crush on the cute Jewish girl next door?" "What does the 'H' in 'Jesus H. Christ'stand for?" Riiiight. That said, I am not so great at blind faith.)

Lately I have been having some really intense conversations with a few close friends. We've been talking about the subjects of love, relationships, when to get married, when to break up, having babies, themes of struggling, changing, and of healing. It has been a huge catharsis to find people willing to share their experiences, and even swap with mine.

All of these things keep coming back to the same question: "How will I know?" (Yes, Whitney Houston was on to this revelation way before me... Sad, isn't it?)

How will I know if we are supposed to break up, get together, have a baby, write off that pissy friend, go to that party, quit my job, start that new business, or re-locate the station of my nipples??? Jokingly I wrote in a chat with a friend that "all of the computations are in" and all answers pointed to ____. As if life really was that simple. As if having "evidence" was really ever enough. But it often isn't, is it?

There always seems to be gap, which is infinitely small, but just large enough to cast a shadow of doubt dark enough for us to be completely blind about the subjects most important to us.



What do we do?


How did I know a year ago that I was ready to finally start taking testosterone, after feeling boyish my whole life, and identifying as "trans" since I was 19?

I didn't. I was never 100% sure. I knew that not exploring the options felt like a slow death to me. I had spent everyday wondering "what if" regarding everything. Will I still be loved? Will my girlfriend leave me, my family abandon me, my boss fire me, etc~ But we still subconsciously reserve the option to be wrong. "I will do this thing, and god, I hope I don't fuck things up more."

There was another trans guy I had met years back, and while out to dinner one night he admitted that he was never sure either. There was something so incredibly liberating about that confession he shared. I was not the only one who was unsure... The great thing about testosterone is that it is a substance that has to be taken every two weeks ongoing~into the unforeseen future. Meaning: It can be stopped at any point. There are some effects of taking t that can't be reversed, but many of them come on so slowly that with each shot I reminded myself that I was okay if this was the last shot I ever took. And each time I was okay, and the next, I was still okay. Here it is a year later. But with surgery there was no build up, it just was or wasn't. At a certain point I was just ready for it to happen.

There were a million things that could have gone wrong. A million side effects, or bad reactions that others could have had to my decision. But with all of that, even with all of the doubts, lack of convincing evidence that it was exactly the right idea~ I was ready to take that leap of faith. Just as I was ready to take the leap of faith before I started t. Before I last fell in love... Before I signed a lease on my home...

There are things we simply "know" that require no debate. There are some things seem to be driven my some unexplainable force that sweeps us up in the momentum. Then there are the others that make us wonder. Will this be the right choice? Is that margin of error going to bite me in the ass, and ruin everything? Will I regret this new change in my life? Is this the biggest mistake I have ever made?

Maybe it could be easy enough to live life coasting on auto-pilot, never having to be challenged into making big decisions for welcomed transitions. But that would be so boring. Living the life that is completely devoid of any challenge and doubt. To me, wondering is the best part. What could this life of mine become? What could I do to feel like my life is fully realized? How will transitioning make me feel more complete, resolved? No matter how many times I tried to summons a guess, only taking that leap could produce the actual quantifiable answers.

Despite all of my pessimistic predictions to shield myself from possible failure, I was also delaying the option for happiness. I postponed my happiness for years. I was miserable, clinically depressed, and just plain bored with my life. I am not saying that I have everything worked out now, but I do understand that eternally waiting in the wings will never bring resolution.

I have found that things feel exponentially more terrifying if we only see them from the top of that metaphorical ledge before before we take that leap. Once we have decided what we want to enrich our lives, and we are ready to take that leap of faith~things don't seem nearly as big and oppressive. Having taken those leaps, I have no regrets, and look forward to whatever challenges will surface next to keep it interesting.


Here is to all that makes us wonder, keeps us curious about how much more there is to living ~ and all that inspires us to take that leap of faith.

Best day ever...

Okay. So, I think I'm back... After stopping most of the pain meds (even Advil), and having some time to adjust to this new period in my life, I think I am settling back in to somewhere familiar. Feeling like myself again, even with these subtle changes.

I think the pity party is over.

Yesterday was all I needed to get back on track, after feeling so out of it and anti-social since I left for the holidaze... There were three different social events that I attended, and each one was perfect in its own way.

I haven't seen too many of my friends since my birthday in early December. It was tough to catch up with folks while I was recuperating in DC, and moreso with the holiday hustle and bustle. It was great to reconnect after we all were exhausted and redelievered after the New Years crash.

A bunch of my friends from our old artist collective got together for an early brunch. It was wonderful. I was one of the earlier people to arrive, and it was great to have that time alone with the few friends who were already there. I think subconsciously i needed that one on one time to reconnect, and reestablish how were going to "fit" from here on out. It was the first I had seen a few of these friends since I began testosterone over a year ago, let alone since my surgery one month ago...

It was so comforting to field the questions about my transition, to hear what people were really wondering about, and offering up. More than that, it was incredible to see other friends walk in one by one, and to have the climate already set by the early attendees. Two friends in particular really wanted to set the tone for the group by letting me know how much they supported me. It was really humbling, and well timed.

I could see other people who possibly didn't know how to react to my changes suddenly see that it was okay to ask questions, and their body language seemed to become more casual, less uncomfortable. People were easing in to this new idea of who I am now, and it was something I could see in a literal sense. We could witness this process, and new ideas being absorbed and expressed. It was incredible. I am so appreciative for all the support extended, but especially to those few friends who made it so much easier for everyone else to "get it."

A few of us left that brunch to go on to the second gathering. Again, it was good to find those few people that really helped create a space where I knew I would be safe. It was tough to leave those friends, as I haven't seen those guys in a while. But I had to move on to the third event, which was the 1 year old birthday party for my friend's baby.

There were a few people present from the first event, so that was a nice link. I caught up with more people, and it was here that everything was unspoken. In the best of ways. We just had fun and joked around. It was a party, and one for a baby... So nothing could be taken seriously. It was the perfect way to end the evening. Banana bread cake, and laughing with old friends and newer ones born more recently.

I felt taken care of ~ by everyone, at these three events. It was what I needed to kick me out of my cabin fever. My pity party. My boredom.

It was great to see people who have known me for years. And to have them extend their hands to meet here where I am today. And to simply say: Yes. This makes sense...

Gay Sex in the 70s...

WARNING PART TWO:


Since I have been such an ass lately, and forgetting to keep up with my "Oprah's Gratitude Journal," clearly depicted in my cranky ass, mopey posts as of late... I have decided to mix it up a bit.

Please forgive me now, if you have no sense of humor. (If you don't, I suspect we aren't really friends anyway, so how did you get this link???) If you do have a (perhaps crass and inappropriate) sense of humor, then please read on.

Despite my boring yet candid prattling on, I realized that this is maybe the most direct line of communication I have with people right now. (Dodging a few phone calls here and there, and taking too long to get back to emails that ask me how I am doing. Emily, I am well... How are you?)

I am seeing patterns that much of what I have been writing about is bad television, silly movies: Strangers with Candy, Graham Norton (Oh, so good~), Imagine Me & You, and the like. And these films, shows, and clips are what color my day, and therefore my stream of conscious writing. (Wow, imagine if I believed in having some restraint or intentionality --is that a word?-- in what I write, rather than being a victim to synchronicity, and couch-potato-ism-syndrome.)

With that said, one of the things that I watched (as previously mentioned in an earlier post) was Gay Sex in the 70s. It depicted a time that now seems ancient and extinct: a time of hedonistic, completely anonymous homo hook ups in the abandoned buildings (and the back of shipping trucks) surrounding the Chelsea Piers. Stories of guys falling through the floors and climbing into the frighteningly dark back entrances of these commercial trucks, in hopes of finding release. Huh. I guess I should stop complaining about needing to stop reaching for coffee mugs on the second shelf.

So, in a horrible attempt to lighten things up a bit, I have attached some more recent pics of my increasingly healed body. In a campaign for bad humor, I have made them an "Ode to Gay Sex in the 70s," inclusive of a bad sketched on moustache and blown out colors in photoshop, to try to capture the right "bad" essence. Did it work?

It's more difficult than I imagined to recreate the perfect Tom of Finland (NOT to be confused with Tom's of Maine) facial hair and side burns. (Although I did want to craft and market a Tom of Finland line of deodorant and mouth wash. Heh. And ewe...)

As you can see, I am wearing my "1976 Bicentennial" skivvies. (I would have turned age 1 back then...) I need to lose like 60 pounds to have been really accurate, but I'm not that proficient in Photoshop yet... Damn it all! Instead of a six pack, I have "party ball" abs of lead. Ugh~ And how much fatter does my face look with that creepy 'stache? (I tried handlebars, and the Kermit the Frog linear track as well. Tough call~)

So, despite being a bit grumpy and having twinges of feeling sorry for myself, I am still here. Doing pretty well, over all. I am actually pretty psyched for how well I am healing, and need to kick my own arse outta this pity party. Sorry... For being annoying, and for terrorizing you with mostly naked creepy pictures of me. (My Victorian ways of keeping my ankles and wrists covered have escaped me!)

Hoping this makes you laugh. (and not throw up in your mouth a little... heh heh.)



Happy Bicentennial America!

Upon first sight... (WARNING:)

There are just a few of the Polaroids, and digital images that my friend Melanie took on that first night I saw my newly modified chest unbandaged for the first time. (If I remember correctly, it was roughly 8 or 9 days post-op.)


I realize that I sent this blog address out to a large number of people. Many of whom, I don't think have ever seen me in shorts, let alone without a shirt on...



So, for those of you reading this blog on an ongoing basis, I hope these pics, and others I am soon to upload aren't too freaky for you. If so, screw it!



Trying to take up enough space so that as this posts, and people have been amply warned about the shirtless post-op pics below, they can sign off if they so choose.


These pics were from the first moments I saw my new chest for the first time. I had just gotten to my parents' house in Connecticut, and had waited until they went to bed, so that I could try to take my first shower (after sponge bathing for a week, with the compression vest and bandages still on.)

Upon taking off the compression vest, and trying to take my own few snapshots in the large mirror, I started to feel whoosey. I saw my scars and stitches for the first time, and my sense of shock kicked in, and overwhelmed me. The unfortunate part is that compression vest if obviously tight, so once I cancelled all attempts to shower, I literally could not get myself re-dressed. I freaked out, feeling nauseous, and dizzy, and tried to throw on some loose fitting outer clothing, just in case I ran into my parents in the hall wall of their very small house.

I went back to my room to lay down in the dark and refrain from passing out, but i was not feeling any better. I called my friend Melanie in the middle of the night, and before I could even explain how badly I was feeling, she said: "I'm coming to get you."

When she got there, she got me dressed, and drove me to her parents' house a few miles away. I was so relieved to have had her patience and assistance with me during my most embarrassing fumbles.

While at her parents' house, she drew a bath for me, and retrieved my friend Jules' number from my cell phone, wrote it down, and placed her mom's cordless phone next to the note with Jules' number on the floor near the bath tub. I undressed myself again, and crawled into the warm, sudsy bath, and just slipped under the surface. Looking down, I was forced to be witness to the carnage that looked like my torso. All bruised, and stitched up, while my aureoles were still covered in sterilized tape that had been discolored from the blood.



I was unprepared for this...


Slowly, after washing my battered body, I tried to stand up to let the water drain off my skin, as I reached for a clean towel, hoping that my stitches hadn't opened, to release fresh blood on someone else's innocent linens. I seemed to be safe. I dried off, and Melanie softly spoke to me through the closed doorway.

I was there. Seeing my body in the large, lit mirror, I was stunned. I put my jeans back on, and just stood there, as Melanie crept through the door, to see if I was okay. She stood behind me, as I stared at my unrecognizable chest. I turned to face yet another mirror to my right, and saw a different angle, of this still unfamiliar body.

We picked up my clothes that littered the bathroom floor, and went back into Melanie's childhood bedroom. A place that we hung out in, and gossipped, a decade and a half earlier. Suddenly, this room I hadn't seen in years was some odd incubator ~ a place for me to warm up to the idea that my body was now different.

Melanie picked up her camera and asked what I wanted to do. Out of no where I just started sobbing. It was not a specific sense of depression or sadness. It was a more primal reaction. I was at a loss. My mind was vacant of all conscious thought. I just cried. Because she knew I had been trying to take pictures of the first sight my new chest when I was back at my parents' house, then thwarted when I began to feel ill, she asked if I wanted her to take photos now to document what I was feeling and seeing.

I nodded. Still crying, I sat meekly on the floor next to her bed. My shirt was draped over my thighs, and I just sat there, with tears rolling down my face and hitting the bare skin of my torso. It was such an unusual feeling for me, who was used to be bundled and covered up in the past.

Having been trans my whole life, and having always hated this feminine chest of mine, I would cover it all times. There have been people I have dated that I have never seen me fully naked, for this very reason. And yet, here I was, with my best friend, and not even flinching to cover up this formerly private part of my body.

Seemingly instantaneously, my instincts had changed. I no longer needed to divert people's attention away from my feminine curves. Instead, I left myself open to the possibility of being seen, without even realizing it.

And here was my friend documenting this whole metaphorical shift at the precise moment it happened. Melanie reached out to me, and touched my scars. Something that would have never been possible just one month before. It was clear that more had changed than just simply the shape of my body.

We took a dozen or so photos that night, and here are just a few. (Might up load others soon.)

but the reality is...

There were so many hopes that I had last year as I was about to begin testosterone. So many dreams that I had hoped would come to fruition. And with that said, there have been so many dreams that I have had to let go of over the past few months. Some dreams that were never even mine to realize, but more so, many dreams that I had held on to so tightly...

It is here in this place now that it all settles in...

I am home. Have been for a few days. But everything is different now. The party is over. The celebration that began when my friends came into town to help me while I recuperate, well, it has dissipated. Everyone is back in their respective homes, and I am here alone. With all the time in the world to think about where I have been. It has been amazing, and baffling, and solemn. So many elements to calculate, and yet what is the sum total? Was it worth it?: yes. Do I have any regrets?: No. And yet...

I am home alone. I just picked up my dog from the kennel, where he has been for nearly 3 or 4 weeks. I barely recognize him, he is so thin. He barely recognizes me, as he naps in disinterest. (Isn't that the point of having a dog? They are happy to see you? God, even my obese cat has been happier than this, nestling in my sore and stitched under arm, next to me in bed, as I watch bad tv. Oh well.)

There are things I forgot: to move the clothes in my closet lower so I could reach them while I am healing. To move food down in the cabinets to make it easier to cook, or to even remember to have food in the house at all. I am naked and hungry. Well, not exactly. Actually, I am bundled in many layers of cotton, and snacking on bad take out. (PS, if any restaurants are reading this~don't pack savory, garlicky take out with the deserts. Garlicky canoli are revolting!)

My dog is snoring at my feet at the end of my bed, and I am watching silly British lesbo love stories OnDemand. (Ironic, as I never much cared for lesbians pre-top surgery. Sorry to any who may be reading this. Especially those who may have bagged my take out at the aforementioned bad neighborhood restaurant. But I digress.)

It is dark, and cold, and there is a painting that I loosely inherited that rests on a huge old farm table that I have as a work table in my bedroom. This painted woman has her back turned to me. And somehow it makes me feel more alone.

There are dreams that I have missed. I went to a wedding with my friend Jen in NYC, where her best friend from college was the bride to be. Said friend of Jen's walked down the aisle in her $11,000 Vera Wang boutique dress (that they personally asked Ms. Wang to alter ~ wha???) and it dawned on me: That was supposed to be me.

I mean, not that day, not that dress, not that wedding ~ but in theory. My parents were so happy to have a boy, and then a girl 5 years later. With all of their bases covered, no one prepares for this. A trans kid. (My mom was the younger of two sisters, and a Daddy's girl at that. She out grew her tomboy days, and she assumed that I would have as well. But she asked my dad to a Sadie Hawkins' dance in 9th grade, and they have been together ever since. I am already older than she was when they had me, their second child.)

But I will never be a bride. (Nor a brides' maid, thank goodness!) And alone in this bedroom with a dog who doesn't even take much interest in me, I wonder if I will ever find another relationship. (It is the end of the lesbian movie as I write this. They are running towards each other in that cliched British love story ending. Does anyone really run towards each other? Besides my obese cat, during her only momentary lapses from sedentary paralysis.)

I will never grant my parents the luxury of seeing their once baby girl walk down the aisle on her father's arm, in the white flowing gown, all the while my mother cries in the front row. They will say because the day was so beautiful, but later they will admit it was because they footed the bill. (Wait, so do they not have to pay anymore if I ever get married? Score for them!)

Nor will I ever be able to bear them any grandchildren. After taking testosterone for over a year, I have basically sterilized myself. Even if I stopped taking t and things resumed, I don't think I would trust my body to get it right after all of the hormones.

I won't be able to get in free at ladies' nights... And the list goes on.

(Last night I watched "Gay Sex in the 70s" and was so jealous that I wasn't in shape enough to mimic those svelt, young beefcake studs that were depicted. I had hoped to look like a young Paul Newman when I transitioned. Now I am afraid I look more like David Crosby... I am really convinced my hair in thinning in the front. Just Dave and his cat. Look familiar??? Where's my 'stache?)










I have let go of the dream of the guy I could have been.

what i did on my vacation:

list of things to talk about:
tourism
Achilles heel
pinching nipples
missed connections
doing too much
goose bumps
party's over
salves smelling like food, not helping with cookie binges
true test of a friend: their ability to support you even when they think you're wrong


tourism: I was listening to NPR on my drive back from NYC. There was a woman on (Susan Orlean perhaps?) that was talking about something that included the evolution of tourism. She said something to the effect that hard core traveling used to be about going to exotic places that no one else could get to... And how now that everything is accessible, everyone can get everywhere. They asked the question: What is the point of traveling? They answered: to feel alien; like you don't fit. (or something to that effect. I can't remember anything these days.) It made me think about my own life. The terror I feel when faced with the prospect of going anywhere unknown, let alone anywhere "exotic." My fears of will I be able to piss somewhere if I drink too much, will I stand out for being "too different," will I wind up alone in some scary dark corner (again)? I don't want to be a tourist. Not in the literal sense, and not within masculinity.

Achilles heel: While continuing to listen to that NPR show, I was thinking about the concept of Achilles heels, at the exact same time the narrator said that phrase. Synchronicity. So speaking of: what is mine? ______

pinching nipples: I jokingly told friends that post top-surgery that I have been having a lot of really weird sensations in my chest now. Things that feel like static shocks (not static cling!) under the surface of my skin, or really sore pec muscles as if I had actually gotten to lift anything heavier than the remote. But there is also a weird sensation that I said felt like my nipples were being pinched. In my drive back I realized after hitting a few small potholes, that the sensation I feel is rooted where my aureoles used to be. These odd misfirings. This is now the middle of my pec, while my nipples are a few inches further towards the sides of my body. Awkward. More awkward still ~ I have no sensation in the aureoles post-migration. Huh. Wonder how this plot line will develop.


missed connections: While visiting a few friends in NYC it was clear that they didn't know what to do with me while having to witness me in my "wounded" state. As much as they were supportive of my transition, it was a bit of a bummer to feel like we simply "missed" each other, despite being in each others' presence. Missed connections. Made me sad, as it made me wonder if this was some sort of foreshadowing for what is to come when I finally see more of my friends back home. We'll see.


doing too much: It is nearly impossible to sit back and not do anything as I continue to recuperate. I am bored as shit, and there is stuff to get done. When I got home, my good, good friend asked to come over to help make me lunch. Of course, I went into host mode, and was bummed that the areas rugs needed vacuuming, and surfaces needed dusting. I was embarrassed that care takers might have to see the neglect around my house. So, in the little that I did to clean up, I kind of hurt myself. I was achy for the next two damn days cuz I took out the damn trash. Well, and reached too high to grab a clean pair of jeans from my closet. Is this what it's going to be like? Can I get one of those spring loaded reachy grabber things like my grandmother had when she dropped stuff next to her hydraulic lift chair? Or a personal assistant? Either way...

goose bumps: They are now excruciatingly painful. Feels like a million little needles ripping through my skin from the inside out. (And when I feel fear, it ripples over the surface of my abdomen. Weird.)


party's over: Everyone is gone. After all my friends/caretakers left my house the week following surgery, I went to see my family up in New England. No one in my family knew how to deal with me. Despite starting on the right foot with my dad, we instantly got out of step. My family wouldn't ask about the surgery itself, and my dad kept telling me in an annoyed stance that I looked so uncomfortable, and just needed to relax my shoulders. He kept saying: "Maybe you have an infection." Um, no. I just went through surgery. I was recovering. That is what recovery looks like~being rough and slowly getting better. (My cousin was the only one who was human. She was perfect, asking me if I was afraid before surgery, how I was doing after that, how I felt about the results, etc. It was fleeting, and yet made all of the diverted eyes less painful.) Home now. Everything is different.

salves smelling like food: After putting neosporin on the stitches for over a week, I am now adding cocoa butter (which literally smells like chocolate) and vitamin e, enriched wheat germ and aloe vera ~ which smells like clove. Cloves and chocolate, I feel like I am in German bakery, every time I moisturize my scars. I get so hungry with the fake-o aroma therapy. It's kind of perverse in this really slippery, slapsticky way. I love it. Although it's not helping me shed this baby fat I've gained while being immobile.


true test of a friend: My friend Jen and I were talking about our lives the other day, and some of the rough times we have been having as of late. We talked in detail about how much we have been trying to walk the line. There was also this point where we began to wonder if we really had the support of our friends. There are so many people in our lives that pat us on the back, and tell us they will always be there, but when the shit hits the fan, where did everyone go? We realized that the true test of a friend is someone who supports you even when they don't necessarily agree with whatever choice you are about to, or just did make... So, are you still my friend?