self-made...

Transparents

2008-03-29T07:05:00.003-04:00

I haven't been writing much for this venue, as I have been trying to focus my energies for the piece that I will be submitting to Elle Magazine. (Biting my nails on that one! How do I know where to begin? Anne Slowey told me to just write and write and write, and not to stop, not to self edit. I hope she doesn't end up regretting that advice!)

It's been an interesting few weeks. So many wild intersections of my life these days.

One of the trans listserves that I am on illuminated the topic of depression. A very sweet younger guy brought up his battles with self destruction, and asked the group for suggestions and support. There was one response in particular that really humbled me. It was from a fellow who is in his late thirties, as he discussed his own experiences with similar demons. I could really relate to what he was sharing with the group. Talking about his bouts of depression, and the courses that it sometimes took, such as cutting, etc. But he talked about things in such an open, and self reflective way. As he spoke, it was clear that so much of those negative reactions no longer work for him. There was something so liberating to hear about his changes, and how gently and respectfully he reached out to this younger guy. I was inspired. At the bottom of his response he included his blog address, so I checked it out.

Amazing.

It humbled me in many ways. To hear that this guy had given birth to six kids, and has been happily married for 20 years ~ it granted me so much hope. His partner not only stayed by his side during his transition, but was excited to explore new elements to their dynamic ~ what we might all wish to happen: have people we love stand by us. But beyond his romantic relationship, he had six children, with who, he also would have to negotiate these newer developing changes. And that is the part that really put me in awe, and gave me a little more perspective. I think having kids and finding a balance in one's life can be challenging enough. But to then create a revolution to his extent in one's life is just incredible to me. I think about all of the ways my connections to people made me afraid to change, and I am so honored to be able to read Edward's words about how grateful he is to make these necessary shifts in his life. Even with challenges that he faces with some of the struggles his children face within their own lives, unrelated to his transition ~ I wish him all of my support, and have been changed by his words.

His blog is: http://ftmfamilyadventures.blogspot.com

Then a relative new comer to the local DC trans group that I co-facilitate sent the link to the Advocate article about the trans dad in Oregon, who stopped taking testosterone after 8 years to become pregnant. It was written by the subject, Thomas Beatie, and defines some of the problems he has faced in his position. It has created a media frenzy, and brought up a lot of issues for me.

That article can be found here: http://www.advocate.com/issue_story_ektid52664.asp

Oddly enough, when I was 28/29 suddenly out of no where, I wanted to have kids. To me, it was blatantly that "biological clock" thing that most women speak of, but I had never experienced it before. Honestly, I kind of thought that it was a load of crap, having more to do with social pressures and such. I think that I stand corrected now.

So, I had a conversation with my best friend Jules, who had recently transitioned himself. (Back story: Jules and I had gone to college together, but were four years apart. I was older... In my younger days at college before Jules arrived i spoke openly with friends about wanting to transition, but never quite knew how or when. As I got older, I spoke about it less openly, and candidly, especially when I moved out of the collegiate incubator in which I lived, and found myself back in the real world. After his own graduation, Jules moved to San Francisco, and then New York, where he realized that he wanted to make that leap, and begin hormones, and soon after have top surgery. Part of me was jealous, but I also knew that I was not ready, but I couldn't fully articulate what exactly it was that was holding me back, preventing me from embarking on what I felt like I wanted since I was 19. At 29, it hit me.)

I wanted to have kids. Not only be a parent but HAVE kids, give birth to them, which I have never wanted in my life. Ever. When I was 19, I began dating Julia, and we just fit. We spoke of someday getting married and having a family together, as she really wanted to have children. We moved to the SF Bay Area together, and played house, even as we babysat our neighbor's infant. It felt like foreshadowing. Then after several years, we broke up, and the dream of having a family dissolved. It wasn't until I was 29 that this reprise came flooding back about wanting children, but now in a new way of wanting to give birth.

Jules and I were talking on the phone, catching up about all of the things he's noticed during the early stages of his transition, and I was mesmerized. So many nuances, and details. It was really fascinating to hear and witness. Then he turned to me, and asked me about my own desires to begin that process. I nervously said that suddenly I was faced with this drive to have children, to give birth, and then transition as a single parent. I had spoken ad nauseum about it with my therapist, who really got in those trenches with me to excavate some of those answers. I felt weirdly resolved. I spoke to Jules about all of the options that I had researched, and even about some of the guys I met at a trans social group outside of Baltimore, who were "Moms" before they transitioned. I met some of their well adjusted kids. The whole thing really resonated with me, despite never having any idea that it would have.

Both Jules and I did film and video work, and we had toyed with the idea of doing a documentary together. Next thing I knew Jules asked if he could crash with me as he was coming to interview one of the trans-dad's that I mentioned to him a few months earlier. He started to make a documentary on Trans guys that gave birth to their biological children. I was so jealous that he had such a brilliant idea for a documentary, and was so honored when he said at the Los Angeles screening of his film that he "made the film for his best friend." I wept in the audience, as no one had ever done something so remarkable "for" me... And as much as the film might have come from our discussions, it was his brilliant idea, and his fortitude that brought it to fruition, while it received accolades in the festival circuit and got picked up by the biggest queer film distributor in the US. Amazing. So proud of him.

That was 2005, when he completed his film Transparent. Then out of no where, several years later there has been a resurgence of interest in his film, as Oprah shot a segment about it (as she herself watched my friend's doc), and now with this Beatie story being a media blitz, everyone is contacting Jules to get rights to show a clip of a similar trans dad that he featured in his film. Inside Edition wanted to use a clip, and just last night Transparent was featured on 20/20. (The part that makes me nervous is that the fellow that my friend Jules interviewed years ago has moved, and in his new life, he is not out as trans to his community. I hope that so many journalists digging up info on older stories with similar themes do not hit him too harshly in this new stealth life of his.)

Jules website for that film is: www.transparentthemovie.com

And lastly, while speaking to my other best friend Melanie, someone I have known since I was 16, she mentioned last night that one of her photo students in LA reminds her of me when I was younger. She gave this student this blog address, and when I woke up this morning, I found several new comments posted.

One of the things mentioned in the comments posted by MVS is this interconnectedness of our lives these days with things like blogs and websites delivering these kinds of intimate stories right onto our laps (or laptops). About this ability to "know" about others' lives in excruciating detail, but perhaps never even seeing their face in person.

I see that myself all of the time, where I get so consumed by analyzing other people's experiences. It pushes me further, and forces me to think about things from new possible perspectives. Kind of like this grand baton relay, that has gone on through out history, where we offer up what we have learned and experienced to see if it may be of use to others, without even recognizing that pattern sometimes. (This is why I can get embarrassingly obsessive about documentaries, biographies and auto-biographies sometimes.) I want to know more about the human experience, and all that it entails and includes. I want to find my place in the world, and hearing how others find their places helps me draw my own maps, charts and graphs...

Thanks to all that have helped me chart my way here, and for making connections when we didn't "have" to ~ it makes all the difference.

(My email address is selfmadewill@gmail.com if people want to contact me directly about any of this.)

Exchange

2008-03-19T23:18:00.003-04:00

Recently and resistently, I joined Facebook under my new name. It's a bit of an awkward process, as many older friends or "friends of friends" might not understand the context of my life these days. Beyond that, they simply might not know who the hell I am with said new name, and a stick on stache in the profile pic. (I feel like Clark Kent. Something as subtle and silly as this sticky strip of faux fur somehow confirms my completely "new" identity. Odd.)

One of the people that recognized me is an old friend from college. (One who hit me in the head with a hammer for funzies. Just kidding. It wasn't fun. It was for a good cause. Should we note that I never considered transitioning before this "accident?" Thanks, Heidi~this is all on you!)

Here are some excerpts from our recent exchanges which I found to be somewhat funny.

My last posting here was the list of changes I noticed since my transition, which I clipped from an email I wrote to this friend. Here is her response.

I have no witty retort -- but HOLY CRAP! I mean, it makes sense -- I just never though about it in that sort of detail. It's kind of like you are the living battle of the sexes peace negotiator! Gender mediation -- there's your new field.
"As a former female, I felt x, y, z... But now as a male I feel p, d, q."

gender mediator. i love it. i feel like it's some weird fringe super hero. like i'd need a shawl more than a cape...

It's funny -- I was saying to Sujal (hubby), that it's hard for me to fully grasp your change -- that you were the chick that all the chicks had a crush on in college -- so it's challenging to think of you so differently. We've been talking a lot about identity at my school this year -- it's our "diversity" theme. One of the things we talked about is one creating one's own identity VS the one that others create for an individual by how they perceive that individual. One we create; one is imposed on us. Clearly this hurdle for me is because of the perception I had of you -- not your perception of you. Anyway -- blah blah blah musings. It probably seems so touchy-feely-girlie to you now. ;)

i can't tell you how much i appreciate your distinguishing the difference between the identities that we assume for ourselves, vs what others project on to us. HUGE difference sometimes, and very frustrating. people had often just assumed that since i was female bodied and dated women that i (and ALL of my partners) must be lesbian(s). which was actually not the case. i never felt like a woman, so therefore since lesbians could only be women~it never really felt like it fit... since i was a kid i have always felt boyish, and so many women (and gay men) that i have been involved with commented on how they liked me because of that boyishness. most of those women have been straight, and therefore they weren't lesbians either... so, as you say, many projections on to me about identities and assumptions about orientations. (and thanks for the flattery of saying all the chicks had crushes on me in college! heh heh.)

i guess hearing stuff like that makes me hopeful that maybe i won't be alone forever... not to sound dumb, but having transitioned, now passing can ironically be a bit more intimidating.

i was being interviewed for the second installment yesterday by this sociologist studying trans issues. he was asking me during both interviews how i don't identify as a "MAN" now, and he seemed to be almost shocked that i don't id that way. i said that i identify as trans. for me, i really do feel more in the middle, and embrace what that means to me. but am scared of that context when i think about relationships ~ me in relation to someone else... there was the question of authenticity. this is just for myself, but i don't feel like "an authentic man." and i certainly don't feel "male" as that connotes sex ~ chromosomes ~ things that (in MY mind) can't be changed by simply taking hormones or having countless surgeries. that is the genotype, versus phenotypes ~ the displays of behaviors, actions, etc. chromosomally i am still and will always be "xx" female. but having taken hormones, and having surgery, it makes it easier to pass as a man, but my body is not fully masculinated. (not to be too crude, but bottom surgeries available for transmen are so far off from "the real thing" where as bottom surgeries for transwomen are much more successful, and look more realistic. again, not to be too crass, but the fact that i am looking like a guy but don't have a dick, it can make things more complicated... identity wise, and relationship-wise...)

I obviously think a lot about identity, myself... This year I taught the class, and we read Bharati Mukherjee. She is an Indian immigrant, now a US citizen, and she tends to write about the modern immigrant experience. Coming from a fairly working class background and going to a place like Bennington - I remember Roland Merullo saying something like, "There's no handbook for social class jumping."

but i see the relevance in a statement like roland's. culturally we think so much about the american dream, this concept of escaping the reality of whatever situation into which we were born, and creating ourselves anew~but there really is no handbook for how to do just that, on any level. there are get rich quick schemes, and lose weight fast systems advertised ad nauseum, but really nothing of substance to talk about moving about different social strata, be it class or gender or even cultural. is there? am i dumb or missing it? (should that be the elle article? a how to guide for "social jumping" for trannies? uh, probably not...)

Regarding a how-to book/article/guide -- I think that's precisely it -- one can't be definitively written, mainly because we cannot account for all of the variables. I think our best "guides" are fellow human beings -- and even then, they fall short in terms of providing a fail-proof plan. Frankly -- that search for a fail-proof plan is dull. Most of the fun of life is navigating blindly. I like to grope around. Who am I kidding -- I just like to grope. ; ) Actually the word "grope" has always creeped me out a little.

----> so how does it work then, exactly?

Changes I've noticed...

2008-03-16T19:02:00.002-04:00

I have recently reconnected with a few friends from college, and have been trying to explain how certain things have shifted since I began my transition a few years ago. My friend was joking about male pattern baldness, which really triggered a huge reaction in me, as I fear that so desperately~say it ain't so!

Anywho ~ here is the list of some of the changes that I have noticed.

the changes i have noticed since being on testosterone...

physical:

* the fat migrates from typically feminine deposits (like breasts, hips, thighs, butt) to more masculine areas ~ like the gut (wah wah wah).
* breast size decreases mostly when the fat migrates, but possibly related to hormonal shifts as well (like the opposite of breasts getting bigger right before women get their periods.)
* speaking of ~ my period disappeared several months after being on "t"
* much easier to lose weight almost instantly, but if i stop working out, or if my diet changes drastically~weight is put on immediately.
* i can build musculature incredibly easy now, from even mild work outs
* (this migration/elimination of fat, teamed with added more muscle mass completely changed the structure of my body. my pants were a lot baggier, and my shoulders "beefed" up over night ~ meaning i had to get almost an entire new wardrobe. i gained 20 lbs despite being "leaner" since i started t~it's crazy.)
* i have a lot more energy, meaning i generally have more desire to work out, etc ~
* but that also correlates to my appetite having doubled to sustain the work outs (making it that much more challenging if i miss work outs! guh!)
* food cravings have changed most dramatically... many years ago i had been vegan, and even though i am not now, i don't eat a lot of meat, and try to avoid mass amounts of dairy. when i started "T," instantaneously i began to crave things like bacon cheeseburgers with barbeque sauce, topped off with a chocolate malted milk shake. it was completely bizarre to crave different foods all of a sudden, and my ever-present sweet tooth suddenly dissipated. (i guess pregnant women are used to these kinds of fluctuations with hormonal shifts prescribing which exact foods will be appreciated or "tossed.")
* based on this new found diet~the particular scent of my body odor changed ~ which to me, was the most striking difference, to not recognize my own "natural" scent. (kind of like when morgan spurlock was joking about going into a sauna when he was making "super size me" and someone asked unknowingly "who brought a cheeseburger into the steam room?")
* also, random note: that pH balance crap from those deodorant commercials is real. i had to stop using my gender neutral hippie-dippy deodorant to a more manly brand to prevent "unwanted" scents from developing
* speaking of hormonal shifts and such, i also began to break out in small bouts of acne, primarily under my jaw line and even a tiny bit on my shoulders~which was gross. this has mellowed out as my body has become more used to the hormones, but also because my diet has become more moderate again
* my body has gotten generally hairier (facial hair is slowly coming in, but is still relatively light, so it's not as noticeable...)
* one weird side effect that i can't quite explain is that my hair would no longer absorb commercial dyes, so i went back to my uber-dark original hair color (to find that my hair is more salt and pepper now, coincidentally.)
* i fear that the hair on my scalp might be thinning at the crown, but my hairline itself has definitely receded at the temples. (that part is fine, as i think that can be sexy, but anything more than that, and i am getting rogaine and hair club for men, damn it all!)
* my voice has dropped roughly three octaves, but in the beginning i was losing my voice and experienced my voice cracking in the stereotypical pubescent boy tone (my voicemail accts have my original voice still on the greetings, which i want to try to record and upload to the blog for people to hear the difference)
* it is common for the facial features themselves to become more angular/rigid as a result of the testosterone, such as the eyebrow ridge seeming more pronounced, and jaw line getting more square (i fear i have this cromagnon thing going on in my forehead now. arg!)
* i produce more saliva now ~ which is odd, but i hear common for transguy to confirm
* i often feel hot, (like hot flashes that women experience through menopause) as opposed to always feeling cold pre-t
* the libido increases exponentially (um, awkward!)

other changes that i noticed:

* it becomes nearly impossible for me to cry (when before I could cry at the drop of a hat) even if i get sad, it is tough for more than like 4 tears to fall.
* challenging times in the past would have typically manifested as sadness/paralysis, where now frustration/challenging situations trigger anger instead, propelling rather than paralyzing
* a lot of my shyness has dissipated ~ which is weird to have this sense of myself, (as somewhat shy, reserved, someone who tends to get sad) change so drastically
* the shyness has been replaced by a quiet confidence (as opposed to a more codependent feeling of wanting to be liked and gain others' approval) now, i don't really care as much about what others think. again~odd to see this huge shift, when it seemed so inherent to what i knew to be "me" ~ i don't know how much can be attributed to the physiological changes based on the hormones, or how much is simply the result of having faced my demons because of mytransition
* i relate to people much differently now, where i step up and state my feelings much more directly (which i don't think was easy for my former partner at the time, nor my boss...) i don't tip toe around things anymore
* i have found severe set backs with things like spelling and grammar, which were never a problem pre-t
* the most interesting element to my transition is that what i find attractive has shifted. mid/post transition i found myself much more interested in gay men, which i wasn't really anticipating. and i hate to admit it, but embarrassingly~my attention in other people became a lot more objective, than subjective. finding myself checking people out based on looks in a way that i never experienced before. ( i feel like such a douche bag admitting that, but it's true...)

7 Habits of highly ineffective people

2008-03-05T11:27:00.003-05:00

Let's see. I'm not sure where to begin.

I haven't written in a little while because:

1) I got this bioterrorist plague from one of my room mates, and despite having had surgery, an infection, three migraines, and my heart torn out~THIS was actually this worst I have felt in years... Flu my ass... This stuff is lethal.

2) I lost one friend because I said she hurt my feelings.

3) I lost another friend because I said, despite having dated years back, and the fact that I am NOT hitting on her, I think she is pretty impressive and lovable. (I still got it! How have I ever dated ever? I am so awkward. Sorry again...)

4) There is another person that passive aggressively keeps telling me that I should be her friend.

5) I had a sweeping moments of sadness at the prospect of the local farmer's market starting back up in my neighborhood soon. My ex and I would walk over virtually every Saturday during the summer and pluck gorgeous organic finds to serve for the upcoming week. There was something so idyllic about those Saturdays. About the 2 block walk over, filled with hope and contentment~while we chose smaller potted veggies to try to plant our own garden. Cheesey metaphor aside~the gardens always failed, and the veggies never went very far. Seems about right ~ right about now...

6) I had to show a property for the property management company I run, and bumped into a friend of a friend. I had introduced myself with my new name, which then became increasingly awkward, as this woman said she was going to ask if my friend Sarah remembered me. (Sarah might not know my new name, and how awkward is that? Only slightly less awkward then when I drew a blank with this new woman asked what my last name is ~ so she could ask about to these other people. "Ummm. Warren." Riiight. Keep it together, yo...)

7) I was asked to be in a sociological study on trans folks, and received my first piece of mail with my new name on it. t was the release form for being in the study. I had to sign it with my new name~but I don't have a signature for it yet. So I looked like some third grader practicing my cursive, as the "w's" are way too perfected, and the rest looks like arse. Jeez. I am 12 years old...

On a side note: I picked up Eckhart Tolle's new book "A New Earth" that I was too horrified to buy in public. It's the new Oprah book, which I hate that I know... (I was given Tolle's first book by my best friend from high school~ Hilary, who got it for me when we both first moved to DC. She is a Buddhist who now lives on an Italian farm with her Italian husband, while they are into the slow food movement and teaching tai chi.)

Tolle's first book was called "The Power of Now" ~ a book my dad later stole from my old apartment, so I can't even remember what it was about... I was curious about this new book. But honestly, I was so embarrassed I went to a cheezeball lowbrow bookstore~where I NEVER shop, in order to pick it up, cuz I was so horrified that I'd be seen buying it. They were sold out. Apparently a lot of other people had the same brilliant idea, so I had to go elsewhere. I ended up going to the bourgie high brow political shop in town, and lolly gagged around for a while until someone "uncool" took over the register. How bad is that? I read the first few chapters, and it's surprisingly ironic that I had that drastic of a reaction to buying the book that is about learning how to free ourselves from our egos ~ from our thoughts that what what others think of us matter.... ironic, no?

There was a really interesting passage about how losing everything either makes us feel victimized and cling to our egos, and to our anger, bitterness and resentment, or it allows us to liberate ourselves, and yield to inner acceptance ~ becoming compassionate, wise and loving. And in that very sentiment, I felt like I saw so much of what I have already been learning. Yielding to what have been the biggest struggles.

Like trying to buy embarrassing self-help books in broad day light. Does it get tougher than THAT? Sheesh...

Burly Beard?

2008-02-29T19:18:00.003-05:00

Ruth and I went to the photo booths after the worst week. I think we were ready to be done with it, and usher in a new sentiment. We got to our favorite photobooth in town and it was out of order. (As the second photo depicts~as I am sitting inside the booth, having crossed the very official notification on the weathered masking tape stating the obvious... I am pissed!)

Being the dope I am, and Ruth being the genius she is (no, really she is. She's an ivy leaguer. I just went to Bennington. Wah wah wah...) decided to use her blackberry to take pics that she could later morph in photoshop to look like the real photostrips. She made it work, but these are just a few individual frames.

I like this first pic cuz I was hoping the faux fur trim on my jacket's hood would make me look like a burly off shore fisherman. Like an extra from JAWS, not like an extra from the Gorton's Fishsticks commercials. Buh!

Does it work?

I hope so, cuz I am ready to start having things work again in my life. I gave myself last week to grieve and wallow in my self pity, and within a few days I was ready to be done. I got bored with myself, and was ready to pick up and move on.

So I did... I went back to scheming and dreaming like my typical Sagittarian ways. I enlisted good friends and conspirators to help me focus some of my masterful plans, and luckily some of theme stuck. I heard back from Anne Slowey today that now is the perfect time to run the Elle Magazine piece. She said that she was just talking about me yesterday. How humbling is that?

Just this past week I really committed to putting my self out there, and admitted what I really want, and want to do. It can be a pretty terrifying process. I was terrified to tiptoe past my modesty and say what I had really hoped I could create for myself. This after feeling really rejected and denounced just a few days before. I don't want to give up on myself anymore. I don't want to assume other people's negative, destructive habits and believe their issues to be speaking truths about me. I have to see through it ~ through to my goals.

Ok, so what is it that I want again? Besides a big burly off shore fisherman's beard?

One week...

2008-02-26T09:02:00.002-05:00

One week down ~ after the toughest decision of my life. "Still around the morning after..."

Thank you guys.

Scar tissue

2008-02-23T12:16:00.004-05:00

I have witnessed my own subconscious sabotaging methods for decades. Since I was 15, I have tried to employ so many "self-help" techniques, and enlisted so many therapists to help me make the changes necessary to "get over stuff and just be happy already." I think I am starting to see that it doesn't necessarily work like that, but I'm still not sure how it does work then.

Somehow I had it programmed in my head that I was simply "depressive" or that I was permanently damaged by the experiences in my life. There might have been fleeting moments of relief, but I believed that no true peace would be possible for me. Any momentary lightening of the darkness would fill me with such billowing hope, until the darkness returned, and cast its ever-present toxic shadow over my resuscitated optimism.

Why? Why could I make no considerable progress?

After a lifetime of being told that I "can't" do whatever I thought it was that I wanted to do, I started to believe it myself. I started to talk myself out of every dream I ever had, and why it would never be possible to attain. Worse than that, I would belittle myself for actually thinking someone like me deserved such riches.

When do we stop believing that we are worth our own dreams?

How can we feel inspired by those who strive for those lofty goals, rather than despising them, or thinking that they were the "chosen ones," and we are average mortals not deserving of hope and success? How do we become conditioned to "settle" and feel resigned in our hopelessness?

I dreamed my whole life to feel whole in this body. Not necessarily to feel like a boy or a man in this body, but to feel less conflicted with the sex of this body that was prescribed before I was born. In many ways, it felt like a birth defect, but one so subtle that the outside world would not be able to identify it upon first glance. How can I say that I was born in the wrong body without sounding crazy? How can something I have known my whole life not feel like my own? I always felt so tormented by the discrepancy between my mind that envisioned my own masculinity and my body that depicted the female form. I felt so crazy and wrong to want something to fix that tortured conflict I knew in my body every day.

* * * * *

In 4th grade I saw an episode of the Oprah show about people who had been raised the wrong gender. Underdeveloped males that mistakenly been raised as girls. I remember the feeling of exuberant joy that seemed almost like a religious enlightenment: "It was NOT MY FAULT." I identified with everything those members of the panel recounted about their childhoods. They had crushes on their female friends, but didn't feel like lesbians, they wanted to participate in more traditionally boyish social settings, but didn't think of themselves as tomboys. Everything was corresponding to my experience, and so it was a sign that I was supposed to see this particular show.

For two years I found myself joyfully clutching to this self-assumed medical secret, as it felt like a countdown until the day the doctors would recognize their mistake, and rectify their miscalculations. And then the worst thing possible happened towards the end of my 6th grade year: On June 13th, 1987 I got my period. Suddenly, I knew the truth ~ it was my fault. My body was not an underdeveloped boy's body, but a fully functioning female body. So the "problem" was in my head~the way my mind internalized this decrepancy between mind and body and how gender identity/expression differed from the biological sex are programmed to be.

There weren't very many positive role models for the transcommunity at that time. The media depicted things like cross dressers as a comedic or fetishistic elements in films and on television. It was easier to find charicatures of what society deemed as "gender misfits" than it was to find any genuine depictions of trans people and their experiences within the world at large. Even fewer cases of "female to male" back then.

I felt like a freak.

Because I had so little exposure to the trans experience back then, I didn't know it was even an identity to embrace. I had no understanding that there would be ways to rectify that internal versus external discrepancy. I didn't know that I could exorcise those demons, and make decisions to eradicate the gap between how I felt and how I looked. Maybe it wasn't so much about eradicating that gap, as opposed to filling it in. It not polarized, between girl vs boy ~ it is just who I am, and where I am, somewhere more in the middle. (I am my own "middle man.")

Having felt broken my whole life, I guess I didn't get it. Scar tissue~it fuses what has been severed, bridges those gaps. I see these new scars on my chest as the symbol for this process of my healing from the breakages/break ups. This scar tissue has filled in the abyss, and made me feel whole for once in my life. I think I had the misconception that I had to break myself down more in therapy to arrive at some self-realized actualization that would bring contentment. As much as there have been moments of shattering the crystalized, yet incorrect notions of how I had to live my life ~ simply because I didn't know there were other options ~ I think it didn't have to be about beating myself up during that process. It didn't have to be about punishing myself, or seeking out other people who would punish me when we'd hit those vulnerabilities. I don't want to be punished anymore.

I don't want to succumb to the shame. I don't believe that should feel ashamed of being trans, like it will single-handedly make me unlovable. Or deny my challenging past. And I don't need to assume other people's fears as my own, if they can not love me here. I am ready to accept the sum total of facets that make me who I am, and not want to have to "excuse" any single one of them. Mostly, I am ready to seek out people who have accepted their sum totals, as well, and can meet me here ~ scars and all.

Can do...

2008-02-23T11:18:00.002-05:00

In the midst of a challenging time right now, I have been reaching out to my best friends and trying to regain my balance. I received a very humbling email from one of my best friends while I was writing the last blog entry posted. Receiving her email literally had me in chills and in tears (which is tough do so since I have started testosterone). I was so moved by her words and offerings, and her timing could not have been better. The sentiments shared with me were so profound that I asked permission to post them here, changing names where necessary.

I hope this may resonate with others as well...

hey Will-- that was quite an email. It gets me thinking about a lot of things... and mostly that I wish we could get a drink and talk in person! But it also makes me think about a talk my Dad had with me when we were shooting baskets when I was nine or ten years old. I am not sure how he got going on this, but I recall that he was adamant that I understand this at a young age:

That people, even-- and sometimes especially-- friends and family members who love me, will often not want me to challenge myself to accomplish things. It is nothing personal to me, it is human nature. They will tell me that I CAN'T do things that I say I want to do. They won't mean to hold me back consciously. They will say that they really want the best for me-- only the very best. But when I try to do anything out of the ordinary, amazing, challenging... they will express themselves subtly but very clearly through words and actions: "you can't." And they might not even realize they are doing it, they might deny it or they might say they are doing it to protect me.

He went on: But what they are really doing is desperately clinging to the safety of their reality of life and their relationships and the world. By trying to do something extraordinary, I will be exposing the people around me who aren't (or feel they aren't) pursuing any of their dreams-- maybe the dreams people have been talking them out of their whole lives. And that will be an awful feeling for them. So rather than face all that down, they will try to retreat to "the way things have always been" and they will try very hard to make me come with them. And the more earth-shattering my plans are, the more wildly they will defend themselves from it. And, sometimes it will be the people who are closest to me who will do this the most, because they have the most to lose by me growing and changing and, maybe, leaving them behind.
------

It was a heavy trip to lay on a kid. But he said he was just so afraid that I might go into to the world trusting that people will look out for me and want the best for me, and that I might believe them when they tell me I can't do something. And you know what Will?? He was totally right about everything. This has almost happened to me many times-- never from him and never from (my partner), thankfully. But girlfriends, relatives, friends, advisers!-- they have all done this with me. When I said I want to move across the country with basically no money to become a carpenter, when I decided to be a doctor...run a marathon...quit OBGyn to go into public health...etc. These things are not even all that Earth-shattering. But just enough for the people who fear they will be "left behind" in the process or exposed for their "ordinariness" or something. But in every single instance, even though I was hurt or confused by their reactions, I remembered what my dad said, and I did not believe them. And I forgave them for it. Because they didn't mean to do this to me. And what's more, I might have even done this to them sometime. This is human nature, sadly.

I cannot even imagine how threatening it is to (some) that you are taking charge of your life, your body and your whole gender expression in the world. Talk about Earth-shattering! I am not at all surprised that you have found (them) driven to extremes to keep you from doing this awesome work. I don't mean to reduce your whole dynamic to this, but I just really thought it was important to pass on my Dad's thoughts. I am sure you have already realized he's right-- but you have probably learned it the hard way over the years.

You are at a crucially important point in your life now, and it is essential that you surround yourself with people who will tell you that you CAN create and grow into the life you want. And if there are still those people around you who whisper their doubts or hack away, please, you just cannot believe what they tell you. They are delirious with fear.

Thank you to everyone who has told me that I can do this... That I can find peace in this body, in this life, and in all of my experiences. I am sorry to all of whom I have told that they couldn't do something. I see now how crippling that can be. And I see how hearing that my whole life has made it even more important to learn this lesson of liberation for myself. Anything is possible... We are worth our dreams. Maybe my only real dream was to step out of that spiral of negative sabotage. Slowly, that dream is being realized. Thanks for helping me get here.

One day...

2008-02-21T12:43:00.004-05:00

...at a time. I see now why 12 step groups use that mantra: because speaking in generalities is terrifying. "Will I _never_ make that horrible choice again? Will I _always_ do the right thing?" It's tricky. And challenging. It's the eternal process, ever unfolding.

I think the biggest lesson I am learning is about forgiveness. Mostly learning how to really forgive myself. Because I had grown up in an abusive dynamic as a child, I learned that I was my own worst enemy. I was conditioned to see all of the things that I did personally that brought about negative effects. If I got nervous about my first day of school, or got angry about the way the family dog was treated~there were consequences to my emotive actions. It wasn't my dad's fault for getting angry, it was my fault for provoking him. And slowly I became conditioned. If I do such and such, compassionate love will be withheld, impatient aggression will be doled out.

Because children really are dependent on their care taker's offerings of nurturing support, it is in the children's best interest to modify their behaviour to still get the requisite love needed. So, we silence parts of ourselves, and suppress/repress what we feel doesn't bring us that desired affection. But there is always a backlash. There is always a reservoir of hurt and pain when we implement those modifications. Some of us are better at draining those emotional pools, so we won't drown in them later down the line.

As for me, I was horrible at it. My pool of emotional reserves became tsunami status whenever I was required to add a new facet to the "suppression" list. It wasn't until my teen aged years when I started to stage a coup. I was angry that I wasn't allowed to be the scared little kid that I felt I deserved to be. I wasn't held and told it was going to be okay, or that I was going to be okay. I was never taught how to self-soothe as I got older. Instead I was scolded, punished, humiliated for feeling upset. It was inconvenient to my parents that I had any emotions at all. I was labelled as "difficult" and analyzed. What was there to question? I just needed even the tiniest amount of compassion. Was that so impossible to see?

I have spent my lifetime trying to heal from these early developmental wounds. I have tried to learn the skills of intimacy, and the power of compassion and empathy. I have tried with all of my focus to be a "good" person, knowing all too well the damage that occurs when "non-good" people have too much of a presence in our lives. And yet, I still fall short. As good as I have tried to be, I often feel like I am somehow still that jerk that screws up. That failure that has emotional responses that make me unlovable, rejected, abandoned. I get angry, too angry and I am the jerk. I get sad, too sad, and I am pathetic. I get frustrated, too frustrated and I should back off.

Ironically, one of my best qualities I believe is also my biggest weakness. I think my capacity for compassion and my attempts at patience have really devastated me, and left me wide open to give not so mindful people the benefit of the doubt, and really crush me time and time again. I say that now, from a place of just having been leveled. Again.

Having grown up profoundly wounded, I have always fought for the underdogs. In elementary school I was well liked, but aways rallied around the kids who were teased. In high school I worked at art programs, and sought out the kids with emotional disturbances. In college I studied Conflict Resolution to ensure the less fortunate weren't going to get bullied anymore. Professionally, I worked with~ and later adopted animals that no one else could handle because they were not "tamed." But unfortunately, I think this applied to many of my relationships as well.

Because in theory, I empathize with wounded people, I often put myself in the line of fire accidentally. I think many of us have bumps and bruises, I mean~ we all must if we have been conscious... But there is a difference. A difference between those who believe that they are capable of handling challenging things, and working through their fears to achieve a sense of closeness and openness, versus those who have felt so profoundly "wrecked" by the course of their lives that they can not restore faith in the possibility that they can heal and turn things around.

Maybe because I saw myself as so profoundly "wrecked" by much of my life~ so conditioned to think that my reactions were bad, and made me unlovable, that made me feel like I deserved to take whatever punches came my way. Sometimes working for the "victims" can victimize us along the way. Hurt people hurt people. Hurt people hurt me.

So, where does it end? How do we stage that coup, start a revolution where is it about healing and not fighting? When it is about compassion and empathy, not "one upping" each other? When the things we were taught to silence within ourselves are heard, and still make us lovable? When do those elements within us that make us feel most broken become our greatest assets?

How do we get there from here? One day at a time, right? But with what exactly do we fill those days to make a genuine transformation happen? When do we decide to let down our defenses to find true intimacy when we have been so conditioned to think that we literally can not exist without those shielding mechanisms?

How can I love you if you keep wounding me, because you feel unlovable and wounded? How can I love myself knowing that I have not loved you "well" enough to make you feel safe enough to let down your defenses with me? How do we not trigger the historic emotional landmines that every person we ever loved planted in our hearts? How do we diffuse those bombs we are about to drop, and heal from the ones already dropped?

I mean~where the hell do we begin?

Perhaps forgiveness is the first step. If I can forgive myself for the lifetime of telling myself I am unlovable because I was that scared kid who didn't know how to handle things~then maybe I can liberate myself from those paralyzing, self-sabotaging confines. Maybe telling myself that all kids get scared, it makes us human~ that what I felt was in the scope of the struggles of humanity will help me heal. I couldn't choose my parents' reaction to my struggles, but I can change the context of how their reactions now affect me.

I was a scared little kid, who was bullied into more fears, instead of bullied out of them, like they would have hoped. With that realization, I had always tried to exert a calm patience with others when they were struggling most. But as we struggle we can lose perspective, and lash out at those who witness our vulnerability. I was wounded there, in that place of wanting to be an ally, for being close enough to reignite those older fears of being told we are unlovable.

I was told that I became my father. I was leveled. How could I have become what I hated most: the impatient, abusive bully that wrestled some anxious person into submission? How could I have seen so much of myself in that person hurting so badly, and want to be the ally we never had, and yet ironically and horrifically became yet another aggressor to be added to their list?

Conflicted... How could I have become the enemy that I despised?

Somewhere in here I am trying to find the roots to forgiveness. Forgiving myself for being the scared little kid that I felt brought on the abuses endured. Forgiving myself for being the person who took a lifetime to learn the skills to self-soothe, all the while desperately depending on others to "fix" it for me. Forgiving myself for consistently putting myself in positions where I would relive those old wounds over and over again. Feeling rejected, unlovable, abandoned because I did not reach out in the "right" ways. Seeking out patterns that I thought would help me transform those old patterns instead of affirming them. Forgiving myself for disappointing all of those whom I loved most. Forgiving myself for not "making" these people feel as loved as I wanted them to~as that desperate little kid in me had always hoped to feel. Forgiving myself for suppressing my anger every time someone hurt me, and twisting it around on myself, like it was my fault, so I could only punish myself and continue the cycle. Forgiving myself for the ways that the depression and suicidal tendencies were the modes that the self-punishment manifested, and in turn punished and hurt others. Maybe somewhere in there I am even learning how to forgive the father with whom I now identify. Perhaps if I have made the same mistakes, even while trying to desperately to be a good person, I can learn that others can make the same missteps. I can forgive my father for being human, and hurting those we love accidentally from that place of giving in to the pain, rather than learning from it.

I don't want to forgive myself for loving the "wrong" people. I don't think the people were wrong. I think what was wrong was the power I forfeited that kept me tethered to giving myself away under the guise of "love."

One of my best friends told me over dinner last night about an anecdote that really helped her ten years ago. That someone was really hurting and went to her best friend and said, "So and so really screwed me over. I hate them, how could they do that to me?" This friend replied: "You need to thank that person." Of course the woman upset was floored. How can she be expected the "thank" the person who most devastated her? The friend said: "You will learn more than you could ever imagine from this experience. That person has just granted you the opportunity to learn about yourself in a way that wouldn't have been possible otherwise. And for that, you need to thank them."

I see what my friend was saying. Maybe I never would have known the importance compassion and empathy would play in my life, had I not felt that trauma throughout out my childhood. Perhaps I wouldn't have invested myself in making it the focus of my life's work, be it in Conflict Resolution, friendships, romantic relationships, my own transition ~ my own healing, had my past been different. Perhaps I need to "thank" my father for granting me the opportunity to see that is what matters most. This is the foundation that he helped me to create for myself. Despite it being so crippling and debilitating at times~like all growing pains~we can become stronger by healing through that growth and development.

Times like now, I see what matters. I see through the haze of my broken heart, and believe that it will heal again BECAUSE of this opportunity to learn more. This opportunity to heal and find more answers BECAUSE of the fear, the pain, the delivery into an arena in which I am completely unfamiliar. If I could muster up enough courage to make the leap of faith to change my life during this transition, and see that as a metaphor to learn more despite the fears that surfaced, I know I can learn from this period of change as well. Transforming what had hurt me most into what teaches me the most... But I need to be the one ready to make that paradigm shift.

The grass is only greener on the other side if and when we finally commit to being gardeners, rather than the ones pissing all over our own yards...

I can forgive and be grateful for all that has hurt me the most. It has crafted my character and gotten me here, to this place of deeper understanding and ultimately peace. Thank you for breaking my heart, it will serve me well. Much love and gratitude... Will

Recovery

2008-02-20T11:06:00.004-05:00

Hello, my name is Will.

And I am an addict.

I am addicted to my own self-destruction, and to loving harmful things in my life. I am codependent and crave loving those who never love me quite enough, so I can continue to believe that I am unlovable, and broken.

I was tested. Tempted.

What I crave most was offered up to me~the opportunity craft my own demise upon hearing some devastating news from someone I thought I loved. I was tested. I thought it was her test, testing me...

But ultimately I see that it was my test. Yes, I fell into a mini pit of despair upon hearing some rough news. (Are we ever as graceful as we would hope when we hear such news?) After a few hours, I slowly tried to muster up enough forgiveness and compassion for myself to remind myself ~ yes, in fact, this is difficult.

I see that this was my test. Could I resist the temptation to return to the self-destruction I used to know? Could I resist the desire to reach for that someone with whom I had hoped to have a future? Could I step up out of feeling so rejected and unlovable?

The answer is yes. Not only can I now see that I am okay ~ and will still feel the temptation to return to those self-defeating cravings ~ but I see that I have resisted. Time and time again ~ for six months.

That for over a year and a half I have been investing in my own wellness. My health ~ my severing all ties with codependence. That these past six months specifically were invested in my own development, my own transition on ALL levels.

Someone asked me if I regretted knowing this hurtful news. My answer is no. I needed to know if I could resist the temptation to return to my addiction. As sad as that news made me, it has ~ in part ~ transformed. That sadness is now also met with the most unbelievable sense of pride that I can quantify my progress, my development, my true investment in my own well being.

How would I have known how strong I am if I was never tempted to go back to my old ways? Now the tough part is sifting through the residual effects these epiphanies. Those losses suffered, and these gains affirmed.

My name is Will. I am an addict. I haven't "used" in six months.

Man, that feels so damn good to say. To challenges that we don't think we can endure~and to the pride and relief we feel when we do... How is this pain and most challenging test exactly what I needed?

Here is to making better choices, investing in ourselves, and surrounding ourselves with inspiring people willing to do their own work, and helping us do ours. Thank you to all of you that have helped get me here~either by your support or by your testing me. I am here none the less, and for that I am so unbelievably relieved. Just imagine, we can actually be healthy and see that recovery is possible. I am recovering...

Times, they are a'changin'...

2008-02-14T00:14:00.001-05:00

Quote of the Day - Marie Curie - "Nothing in life is to be feared. It is only to be understood."

That was some quote of the day from gmail the other day... I am feeling a bit overwhelmed, so I was hoping that starting on that note might help. Eeeeeeeeeeh. Maybe not.

My friend Danni came with me to file the paperwork in the DC District Courts to begin my name change. She said that she came with me because she could imagine how intense the process might feel, and she knew if it was her, she wouldn't want to be there alone. It was nice to have the company, as it is such a surreal experience. And even nicer to not have to ask. I didn't really know that was an option...

Another friend of mine and I were talking about "official business" that overlaps with our personal lives. She is in the midst of contemplating a divorce~ a very emotionally charged separation, sad to say, for her sake. We commiserated about how what is most private, awkward or painful in our lives HAS to be made public. That we can not go through these experiences unscathed. What makes us feel most vulnerable ultimately will be revealed to the world, first to our most intimate cohorts, then slowly devolving into a gossip fest. You know you're done with the state worker on the other side of the bullet proof glass window askes you to raise your right hand before she notorizes your broken heart.

My pending name change is not breaking my heart, but I did find myself welling up the night before I went to the courthouse. Someone keeps asking me if I am sure if I want to go through with this. Just because it is emotional for me does not mean that I am waivering. It's just tough. Giving up the name I have known my entire life is difficult. Especially considering that my name is a Hawaiian/Italian combo~making me the only one in history with these names put together (Lani Jayne Iacovelli). Our names are so intertwined with our identities, and our family relations. I am rejecting what I was given~the intentional choice my parents made to give me a name that would be historically unique.

People are rallying around me to start testing out this new name of mine: "Will Alexander Warren" ~ kind of plain in justaposition to my given name. I appreciate the effort. Yet, other protested, telling me how my new name should be closer to my old to make the transition easier for others. And that's just it... That is why this part of my transition feels the hardest to me: specifically because this element requires that other participate. It is a bit easier to tell if people are "supporting" the new name and masculine pronouns than if they thought top surgery or hormones were a good idea. I don't mean for this to be a test, an ultimatum. But we are here now.

Are you here with me? Your friend~Will

Responses to name question~

2008-02-09T09:44:00.000-05:00

Here are some responses from a ton of different folks to my name change question. Some funny ones thrown in the mix! Thanks to all who replied... (I hope it's okay I am including your responses here...)

wow. this is big. i feel like there is so much wrapped up in a name. the first thing that went through my mind was the connection to our parents that our name has. i can imagine that it feels really amazing and really painful all at the same time to be making these decisions. the other word that went through my head in relation to the ties to our family is relief... (my response: yes, the family part is tough for me... tough to have to tell my parents that i am opting to abandon the "special" name they picked out for me, to assume one that is so much simplier. i've always wanted to be less "different" ~ being trans, with a weird name no one can pronounce, etc. i've always just wanted to be the boy next door. boring, i know... but what can i say?)

I'm glad to hear that you're well, first of all, but second of all, I'd like to put my vote in for "Will." Second choice(s): either Lucien or Augusten. But I would also like to offer a strong opposition vote for Lars; in this day and age, it sounds like a disease. Please don't pick Lars.

As for the last name, I'm not sure if you have a rationale for changing it, but I'll always love Iacovelli. It's just such a hip word with orthographic nuance.

It's also taken a strong will to get where you are now.

I like Will the best, but why are you changing your last name? Will Warren is a bit of a tongue twister...try to say it 10 times real fast! (my response: this is from my sister in law, who opted to NOT assume "iacovelli" as her own last name. I love that "will warren" seems more like a tongue twister than "lani iacovelli" ~which isn't even possible to say ten times fast!)

Liam Alexander Warren Liam is easier a transition from Lani, I think.
Beware of "Augustus" because of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

dude, I got to say Will is certainly the least pretentious of the
names. my vote is for Will.....but i will love you no matter what.

Many of the names on the list are nice ones, they sound good. I like
the way Linus sounds but I think of the Peanuts character.... This is such a personal choice. I would suggest looking at the
meaning of the names you have on the list. Or working backward and
picking a name that reflects who you are or who you want to be. For
example, actually, I picked a Hebrew name when I officially converted
to Judaism when Jonathan and I were engaged. I picked Tzofia-a pretty
name, but it also means, "watcher, or scout" and I liked that vision.
Every time I hear the name I am reminded of what the name embodies.

So if you found a name that reflected your journey, each time you hear
the name, you'll hear a reminder, which will, I think, help you on
your journey. Your current name, Lani Jayne, reflects your life up to
this point, and your new name will carry you into the future from that
day forward.

I think I need to see you again in person before I can
give my advice... although Linus does seem fun,
hahahah...

I'm disappointed to not see neither Buck Naked nor Rod Stroker on your list.
How about Eusto B. Lani? (my response: thanks dozer! these are great suggestions!)

Lanier.

I like all of your ideas. The family names are nice because in a way it feels that the name is handed down to you. The other ideas are so interesting! I think the name Dulani is really neat. Don't know the origin of this one, maybe Italian, but a great way of altering your name to give it a more masculine flare. And also seems like a more seamless trasition from Lani to Dulani. I love that. Oh, but please, NO LARS. I hope this helps you make your choice, and I hope this helps you know that you should not be LARS. Just kidding. Good luck. (my response: huh, apparently lars is not a favorite! the only one i got stating "anything but this!" and twice! ha!)

A lot of the names are cool sounding but I worry that you would tire of them. A name like Milos, say... if you're born with it, there you are, but if not it feels a bit like a stage name. Then again, maybe it doesn't to someone who uses it. I don't know... That being said, I' m gravitating to the names that are somewhat similar to yours OR just feel, intuitively like you. I've been thinking of you as 'Will" since our conversations about this in DC.. so that one, for example, "fits" in my mind..

My favs are:
Liam - fan of the Irish, of course. And you look uncannily like my boss Liam Power, from County Cork, and it starts with an L and is 2 syllables

Lexi (Lexi Westphal is nice and the name has the same ring/roll off the tongue as Lani)

Will - I like the short names. It is a little wimpy though.. Don't know why... Will of Will and Grace isn't wimpy... neither was Will Tipin (sp?) of Alias.. Hmm..

Alexander - Alex/Alec... well duh, it similar to my given name :) Also just a good solid name. "... the Great" ? Hello? Can we get any better than that?

Warren as last name is a good one if you change from Iacovelli. I like the idea of keeping a family connection.

PS - Dulani is an interesting choice if you want to technically change the name but still keep a similar nickname.

Whatever you choose, you'll always just be "Fathead" to me.. ;) (my response: it was tough to get my name legally changed to "fat head" tho... i tried!)

I am a huge fan of Lazlo -- I tried to get Aaron and Maria to name one of their upcoming kids Lazlo (OMG, did I tell you they are pregnant with triplets!? It�s insane, someday the whole world will be populated by lesbians on fertility drugs... Anyway, they already have Olive who is only a year and a half old, and now it looks like they will have Aristotle (Ari), Solomon, and Willa.)

OK, back to your name.
Maybe Lazlo isn't the kind of name you can give yourself, it's the kind of name you have to be able to blame your parents for? Iacovelli is such a great last name, but I assume you have a good reason for changing it, so... What about Alexander Will Warren? Then you have so many options for short names, like Xander, Lex, Big Al... Just kidding about the last one. (my response: "Al" is my dad's nickname, so it's already taken... well, and his other nickname is "Butch" ~damn he has taken then all!)

Personally, I think it's important to google the names and make sure there aren't too many already, and then get your domain name secured. Seriously, I think this is important. (my response: yes, i checked. some lame folks out there with versions of the name i want. plus, i googled my birth name, and beyond some bad art reviews of my work, i was listed on imdb and the turner classic movies website for some film work i had done in the past. sigh~ guess i'll have to do something note worthy with a new name, then huh???)

Now there is one good argument for keeping Iacovelli which is that you can always spot a telemarketer when they call and ask for Mr. Akkasmelly or whatever they come up with.

homage...

2008-02-08T01:24:00.000-05:00

I haven't written for a while. There have been so many revelatory events and experiences that I have had in the few weeks since I have last posted, that I am not even sure where to begin.

I said goodbye to someone who was very important to me. It felt impossible, yet necessary. And I remember themes in my last post, about grief and grieving. How it is a process of which we never willingly accept, or seek out in our lives. It changes us, but not always in ways that we can predict.

It has changed me. There are invaluable lessons that I have learned over the past few months. Emotions excavated, and splayed out to catalogue and analyze.

This is my life. I wish it was easy to sound so cavalier, but it's tough. To walk away from what we love... Or more so, to watch it walk away from us. It has humbled me, and granted me such a sense of patience that is new to me. More than that, it has instilled a grand sense of compassion within me.

Perhaps I needed to experience this sense of loss to empathize with the grief of those whom I love. Today will be a difficult day, as it is a date that stands out. These days are never so easy. I remember years past, and it fills me with sadness to see the complexities of things. Events I wish I had handled differently, with more care and precision. Regrets I try to forgive within myself.

But there are other dates surrounding this one. A few days back, what would have been an anniversary. And one day forward, the marker of one of the darkest days in my own personal history. It becomes more clear~through the fog of grief and the lack of understanding... We are given more time.

This does not always feel like a gift. Sometimes it feels like a curse~like that bad day which will never end. The nightmare from which we can not awaken. Other times, it means we have hidden opportunities.

During this long goodbye I was trying to explain this theme that has been the single most inspiring factor in my life for the past six months. This idea of "revisionist history." I know that it typically connotes a very negative flavor~when people set out with their own self interests and rework the relevance of facts within history to prove their own agenda. I can see how that could potentially be destructive within the context of cultural histories, international inter-dependence. But here~being the narcissitic, ego-centric fool that I am~I will make this term my own.

Meaning: I will make my history my own.

Over a year ago I tried to create an audio/video installation pertaining to the psychological concept of "the tapes," messages that we replay on loop within our subconscious. It is where we tell ourselves: "I am always the fuck up," "I am just going to get crushed again," or "Yet another example of how I overcame ~ I am the victor."

There are many factors that create the messages embodied within our tapes. We probably have a tens of thousands of them, each labelled and cued to play, awaiting the next psychosocial trigger to start them up. Ones for relationships, others for the ways we perceive ourselves within the construct of our families, our work forces, our general daily lives.

It became clear to me on the "eve" of my transition last year that a whole slew of my tapes were filled with the messages "It will never work. You will never be whole. Never lovable. Never feel resolved. You're dad was right~don't bother, you aren't worth your dreams." It was very easy to give up before I began. Easy to see that each new hope would just come crashing down, and reveal the "truth" about my life. There were patterns and evidence, maybe even commentary from those who knew me. It would all "comply." So how then would it be possible to stage a coup?

I honestly had no clue. I had no reason to believe that my life could be any other way. It never had been... History has a heaviness to it. A way that left me feeling like my path had already been laid out for me. Like there was no changing course so late in the game.

But something amazing happened. The person I loved most left me. And despite all logic and reason~ I still survived.

I was asked by a good friend to be in an art show about the topic of "consume" and it was the focus I needed to explore some of these psychological themes. Another friend had mentioned that an editor from Elle Magazine was interested in my perspective on my transition and wanted to explore an option for possibly working together. This editor asked me to simply document my life, through like a journal type system. (My art installation got some bad reviews, and the Elle Magazine possibility has not come to fruition, but I see the point in it all...)

I would not know that I could survive the threat of feeling the most unlovable unless I had to face it~unless what I loved most left me. I wouldn't have known how important is it for me to create things based on my personal expressions and experiences unless these people had invited me to do so. And I wouldn't have known that I would be able to withstand the criticism of people who thought those expressions were unrefined~that this alone did not make me paralyzed, but rather made me want to step up and do work that was better crafted.

Slowly I began to see that instead of these things seeming like reinforcements to the already pathetic tapes that had played since my youth~I could step up and revise what needed improving.

Yes, my ex was right~the person I was back then was not worth staying for... The version of myself invested in my self-defeating tricks. As much as I miss her, I see that this time is about envisioning and revision. If I can learn from the chaos of my childhood and let it inform me of the ways to simplify, then it was worth it. The tenuous (at best) relationship with my father, and the string of romantic relationships that made me feel like a failure... I can't change my past, but I can change the context in which I perceive it. It grants me the time and space to endlessly explore the kind of person I would want to be, the kind of person I do think is worth staying with...

If I get this second chance at a new body, a new name, a new context within society (even within circles of family and friends) ~ then who do I want to be? Some fearful, insecure, desperate person hoping that no one will leave me because I am trans and too weird or fucked up to be loved? Fuck no... Without realizing it, I have already changed "the tapes." There are still more to reinvent, but I am ready for the challenge.

I wouldn't have known how resilient I am unless I had been forced out of the nest of comfort and familiarity. It has been the hardest year of my life in all ways possible. And yet the only one that convinced me that I will thrive.

Thank fucking goodness for all that challenges us, as it reminds us what is most important in our lives~if we simply remember to listen to it.

This is an homage ~ to all that pushes us the most. May we learn from those struggles, and allow it to open us up to relief just beyond the pain.

Bon courage, g.

The Name Game

2008-02-05T10:14:00.000-05:00

So, for the past few days I have been trying to deduce the exact procedure for changing both my name and gender on all of my documents and id's (local & federal.) Tricky, to say the least. With the help of a few trans guys from my group, and a few super funny District workers~I think I have cracked the code. Which means ~ now I have to pick a damn name! Yikes!

I had to get a letter from my top surgeon stating that she "successfully completed sex reassignment surgery" for ________. (insert new name here/then in parentheses insert given name listed on orignal birth certificate.) So, while talking to Nurse Betty at my surgeon's office, I had to give her the new name to put on the notarized letter. I chose "Will Alexander Warren" in a pinch, and she said it would be possible to change later if necessary.

Here are some of the options:
Will Alexander Warren ("Willie" was my great-grandfather's name/where subsequent generations took the nick names "Bill" & "Billy" / "Alexander" was my folks' first choice for my brother's name - with the nickname "Alec" but then they figured Alexander Iacovelli was mean to give to a little kid... And "Warren" was my mother's maiden name.)

More importantly to me, WILL is what it took to get me here: pure "will" power and focused desire. It is the name that really fits for the symbolism of this transition. Also, the name WARREN means "defender" ~ which I really love. My interest in fighting for the underdog my whole life, my work in Conflict Resolution, etc. ("Lexi" is in reference to one of my guy friends from college, this burly British man's man who played rugby and studied the classics. He drove an old Toyota Landcruiser, which he then sold for an even older Mercedez Benz suv from the 1970s. So hott! That is my reference to the name Lexi, not all of the 9 year old girls with that nickname running around during recess...)

other options:
Elias
Lucien/Lucian "Luc"
Milos (pronounced: Milosh)
Augusten/Augustus
Lars
Liam

then ones that seemed fun when I was still on a ton of narcotics post-op:
Linus
Erol
Lazlo
Otto
Teo
Timo
Noam
Rowan
Lanier
Rex
Asher
Watts
Noell
Argus
Samuel

evolution of the face

2008-01-24T02:32:00.000-05:00

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...

2008-01-23T12:31:00.000-05:00

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

2008-01-18T22:08:00.000-05:00

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...

2008-01-11T19:38:00.000-05:00

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~

2008-01-11T18:57:00.000-05:00

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~

2008-01-08T22:22:00.000-05:00

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...

2008-01-07T14:33:00.000-05:00

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...

2008-01-05T16:02:00.000-05:00

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:)

2008-01-05T14:40:00.000-05:00

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...

2008-01-03T19:18:00.001-05:00

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:

2008-01-01T16:16:00.000-05:00

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?

touch photography

2007-12-27T00:41:00.000-05:00

My friend Melanie has been absolutely incredible. She came to pick me up in the middle of the night when I was nearly passed out on my parents' bathroom floor when I saw my chest for the first time unveiled. (Blackened nipples, and bloody stitches... My first post-op shower was not a success. I'm not even that squimish, but seeing that shit nearly made me hit the floor instantly.)

To my astonishment, Mel came by instantly despite being the middle of the night. She drove us back to her Mom's house so I could have some company to get me through. I took a bath, and then took a second look at my new chest. Without even being conscious of it, I started sobbing~some huge physiological release. I guess it was a mourning period, and I didn't even realize it.

She stayed up with me half the night to simply talk, and listen, and help me. It was so selfless.

In the midst of all of this, I realized that here I was, sitting infront of one of my best friends that I have known since we were 16 (now being 32.) She had seen me through so many of my many upsets in life. There she was right by me again.

I kept looking at the scars, my new chest, wondering how it would all turn out. I asked her if she would be willing to take some pictures to document this process. She took some medium format polaroids and some digital stills.

There I was, infront of my best friend, shirtless, and not even realizing that it would have been out of the question for me just one month ago, pre-op. I have always been paralyzed by insecurities about my body. For me being trans was an offshoot of body dysmorphic disorder, where I never felt like this body was my own. Therefore, it was always difficult for me to summons enough inhibition to simply open up and share what I hated most about my body.

Yet, on this particular night, I recognized that my life had changed. Not only did I try to make my body resemble the image that I have in my head, but I also lost that paralyzing fear of letting anyone else see these elements of myself that felt alien to me. Suddenly my chest was my own, it made sense, scars and all. And I was able to see it for what it was, and let it be seen. A radical notion for me.

Melanie touched my scars, and I couldn't even feel it, my skin was so numb. But it was huge. It was so symbolic that I had made this enormous shift in my life. There was no insecurity that persevered like when my breasts had still been there. It dissolved. It was liberating. Everything is different now.

(Pretty graphic, so take this as my warning... when they are posted within the next day..)

Phantom limbs & granny bras

2007-12-26T23:42:00.000-05:00

I'm watching bad cable at my parents' house in Connecticut, bored out of my mind. There is a commercial for some "ancient Chinese foot pad" that draws the toxins out of one's body. Could it draw out this pissy mood that has been developing in me?

What I have learned:

1. Running out of pain meds at the exact time nerve sensation returns is an excruciating experience. (Being numb and drugged up was much more acceptable.)

2. Two weeks ago I had no clue what my new chest looked like under this compression binder to prevent inflammation ("Where my nipples at~yo?") ~ where now I can "feel" the exact placement of the scars and stitches every time I turn my head, brush my teeth, put on my socks, walk up and down the stairs. Sleeping has been difficult as I spontaneously feel shooting pains under the surface of my skin that startle me in the middle of the night.

3. When people feel pain, it often makes them cranky and kind of annoying to be around. (These posts used to be "thank you for your support" and now it's "why I outta..." Pain management is important to survival and social acclimation.)

4. I feel like Elton John. I wear so many draped scarves to conceal my new flattened chest from my family that I feel like some 1970s emasculated pop star. ("ziggy dustbust-er?")

5. It is really humiliating to not be able to lift anything at all right now, when I have been very disciplined with weight lifting/training for hours every day for the past several months. I hate having people assist me with everything. My ego is as bruised as my impaired body.

6. To add insult to injury, apparently when one wants to get their breasts removed to have a more masculine looking chest they have to wear the nastiest grandma bra (compression vest) with 12 eyelet hooks down the front. (Only one more week to go!) I thought I'd be done with this shit, of wearing bras and such. Kill me!

7. Subtle fears are beginning to settle in... A fear that this pain/tightness in my chest will never subside. A fear that my scars will be freakish. A fear that I will need to be dependent on people to help more for a while longer. A fear that I will never find anyone to stand by me. A fear that I will never have enough facial hair for a big burly, grodie moustache.

8. Phantom limb syndrome totally exists. Despite having pretty much nothing left on top, and wearing that compression vest to mash down the rest, when I lean over to put on shoes, or pick something up, I feel like I have 37 lbs breasts that are violently ripping off my torso as I move.

On that note~I'm off to bed with my invisible gynormo breasts concealed in this granny bra, to only be woken up by shooting pains in roughly one hour. Merry f'ing Christmas to me!

things to not say...

2007-12-26T14:00:00.001-05:00

I am finding many things that I have said accidentally in emails, blogs, messages, etc that I wish I hadn't. Seems like my fleeting moments of "foot in mouth" syndrome (from being an unwieldy sagittarian) has only gotten worse while on pain meds.

Things to NOT say:

1. Don't tell people you care about that you want them to "feel badly" about asking you a simple question, when the word "don't" was omitted accidentally. I don't want you to feel badly... ugh~ Obviously, I am referring to something I said to someone important. Sometimes you can't take things back... (How did Rush Limbaugh get away with his oxycontin binges? Was he such a blathering dick before no one noticed the difference with his incoherent narcotic rants? damn it all!)

2. Please don't use the greeting: "Hey girl" with me. (My mother has taken a liking to using the term "girl" as a nickname for me. She has for years. Ironic, no?) It really doesn't fit anymore with my baritone voice and modified body. So, I'd like to ask that we all skip the "hey girl/lady/ms thang" kind of sentiments when directed my way. I can understand that the pronoun thing might be a bit more difficult to shift immediately, or when I finally change my name legally... But can we at least make this one omission from our venacular?

3. Please don't tell me that my shoulders look tense, and that I just need to relax. My family keeps saying this to me, and without wanting to get graphic, my stitches and sore muscles have me stuck in this semi-permanent "protective" stance. It has been frustrating to find a response to offer my father that doesn't dip into the increasingly pissed tone that I want to be delivering, as I wish I could show him my scars to get him to back off. It's not simply a matter of me relaxing my shoulders. I promise... So, if you see me, just accept that I am a little uncomfortable, and might be sitting awkwardly in the chair across from you...

4. And whatever you do, please don't ask "so when they removed the tissue from your chest, did they redeposit it in your abdomen and face? You look a little bloated." I haven't been able to take a coffee mug off the second shelf in the cabinet, let alone work out for three weeks, so I am feeling the effects of losing my "boyish" figure. My vanity will be the death of me. Hard to do sit ups when everything seems to surprisingly be connected to very sore chest/lat muscles. Even getting out of bed in the morning has become Olympic feat. Ouchie. I have seemingly created my very own veal pen. Looking forward to getting out to pasture.

Off to NYC tomorrow, then back down to DC later in the week. So, if you see me, please remember these guidelines. (Not like I can swing any punches, but I've found talking about the details of recent surgical procedures to be all the weapons I need... Don't make me bust out the pics...)

weening~

2007-12-24T14:46:00.000-05:00

So, it is December 24th. Yesterday we went to my aunt's house to exchange gifts with the extended family. Again, I was fearing the worst, as I was not yet prepared for answering the slew of questions that might have surfaced about my surgery, and all that it represents. It became clear pretty early on that my family will be slow to making symbolic changes like referring to me with the masculine gender markers. (It will be awkward in public when I am passing more and more, and then will have them "she" me infront of strangers. It has happened with friends, and it can get weird. Waiters get tripped up, and suddenly think that I am underage and pulling many fast ones on them. ugh!)

Overall, it went fine. I had a great heart to heart with my cousin who is a few years older than me. She rolled with everything, and just wanted to know how I was feeling. My dad's sister caight me off guard when she made a point to corner me, and say:

"Well, since I haven't heard anyone else talk about it, I will break the silence and ask the awkward question. So, are you moving up here, or what?"

Riiiiiight. Apparently, she missed the family memo of potentially awkward family conversations, so that one was fine to answer. Phew~and we all exhaled a collective sigh of relief. After that, it was seemless. I did, however, get really exhausted from the drive up and back to Boston. For some reason car rides seem to completely sap my energy and resilence. I am trying to ween myself off of the pain meds, and save some for my longer trek back, so this middle ground feels a bit too long. We shall see.

So far, so good. Eating too many starches, watching really bad cable, and developing a beer gut sans beer. Sux. But I guess the holidays could be worse. And so it goes... Weening away.

well...

2007-12-19T22:42:00.001-05:00

things went well with my parents. i was at their house before they got back from work in an attempt to prepare myself for seeing them for the first time. it was good to see my mom, but i wasn't sure what to say. so i didn't say much of anything, which for those who know me ~ it's kind of rare for me to be at a loss for words. (clearly this blog shows that...)

we hung out as she did some stuff around the house, and we waited for my dad to come home. shockingly to me, he had more to say, more general questions to ask, and kept offering to get me tea, and the like. i can't complain...

after a life time of complicated ~ and even negative ~ exchanges with the guy, i am learning that things can always change for the better. i am seeing that despite all of the defense mechanisms that i have honed for just such instances, sometimes being open to things being okay, or even "good" can be its own revolution.

things are okay. defenses not needed, and i am at a loss. so many projections for things being horrible. so many times i have pulled myself away from potentially bad social situations in order to protect myself from the "what if's" that could have been damaging. and now see that despite those fears still lingering around, that i can still press on, and not only be okay, but find some comforting allies along the way. crazy...

i need to stay open to the possibilites~

he hated me...

2007-12-19T12:12:00.000-05:00

...cuz i was doing so well...

* * * * * * * *
Jules had told me months ago that one of his new trans friends in Chicago was also getting top surgery from the same surgeon that I was going to on the very same day as me (Jules also went to this same dr last year). I later was bummed to receive the call when their office bumped me up one day earlier than my original scheduled date.

(Dawning on me now, I guess I haven't really talked much about my experiences directly with surgery. So here are some rambley stories:)

Last Tuesday was the newly scheduled date for my top surgery. We got to the plastic surgery clinic in Timonium, MD two hours early by accident, in an effort to by pass the two beltways' worth or morning rush hour traffic. While sitting in their parking lot outside their office's front door in some tiny discrete strip mall, nurse Betty came out, arms folded to yell at me. Turns out she meant to be yelling at another patient, who was now late. She mistook me for the late patient, and instead bumped me up two hours to the first appointment of the day, and moved that late guy back to my time slot. There was not enough time to be afraid. I dropped everything, and followed her in to the clinic, where I had met them before for my consultation.

She had me undress and put on a three sleeved (???) hospital gown, and she immediately snapped at me, commenting on how I put it on incorrectly. (So much for a good bedside manner!) She took me in to this tiny side room off of that examination room, to have me disrobe so she could take the pictures of my chest. (umm. awkward...) I tried to make some jokes, but for anyone reading this who might not have met her, Betty is not the jokester I would hope for under the circumstances. I "re-robed" and we returned to the exam room, where she called in my friend to go over the details of the post op care. I was tuning out, overwhelmed in a million fleeting thoughts that zipped through my mind without hesitation. My friend was taking notes on my behalf.

Dr. Fischer (who is amazing, and has the dreamiest bedside manner) entered the exam room with us, and had me disrobe again to "leave her marks" ~ meaning, a green sharpie to draw the dashes of where she wanted things to end up as the result of her "mad skillz." (It was awkward to have my friend sitting there through this part, as I am pretty modest about my body. Especially the parts that I disliked enough to get them removed from my body, but I digress...)

This great anesthesiologist came in, and we joked about that new movie "Alive" about the guy who wasn't fully sedated while overhearing his surgeon planning to kill him. It was just what I needed to take the edge off. Actually, what I needed, she provided in the form of a iv drip. She walked me to last room at the end of the hall within their clinic, and had me hop up on the surgical table. She comically remarked "A little nervous?" while I tried to play it off. Right~ I was hooked up to a blood pressure monitor, where she said my bp was 180/ over something I can't remember after freaking out over the 180 part. Whoa, I guess you can't lie to an anesthesiologist about being a little nervous. I was out.

I woke up approximately an hour and a half later, shivering on that same operating table. I was under an inflatable perforated hot air blanket, making me feel like I tipped an air hockey table on top of me in a drunken brawl. My shivers felt like full on convulsions to me, but apparently they were just tiny muscle twitches as the anesthesia wore off. The most excruciating part was when they took off the calf massaging sleeves that prevent blood clots. My hair was pressed in weird formations, and my shins were horrifically itchy to the point of extreme discomfort. And my nose was super itchy, and my recently released arms could not make their way to scratch it. The nurses propped me up, dressed me, and placed me in a wheelchair that then wheeled me out to my car, that my friend drove. My eyes weren't really opening, so I was hoping that I was in good hands as I was definitely out of it, and kind of bobbling around in my seat. We got back to the hotel and I instantly passed out in my double bed, only waking up to take sips of water with narcotics.

When I started to come to a few hours later, my friend Cayli's dad was talking on tv about the most stylish couples in Hollywood. It was very exciting to have as my first conscious image. I fumbled to find my cell phone laying next to me on my double bed to leave her a drug induced, incoherent message stating that fact. I then passed out again after snacking a bit on shaved turkey and triscuits. A few hours later I woke up in full force with an insane craving for barbecue ribs (which I never eat.) Thankfully, our hotel was next to a "Chili's" so my dream meal was brought to fruition instantly. BBQ ribs, a salmon fillet, mashed potatoes, and steamed broccoli. I was in heaven eating this super cheese ball meal that I would never eat sans narcotics. We made a bunch of calls to let everyone know I was alright, and I went back to sleep for the night.

The next morning we had to wake up early to get back to the surgeon's office by 8am for my post op check up. We snagged some food from the continental breakfast, although it looked as if I filled my sweatshirt with two dozen bagels, despite it actually being the flasks of the drains and the coiled drainage tubes concealed from embarrassment under my clothing.

I was sad when we got to the office, as I was remembering how Jules' friend "Red" was still having his surgery on Wednesday. I lost that sense of camaraderie when they split us up, and move my surgery to Tuesday. Then next thing I knew, Red and his girlfriends walked through the door. Without knowing who they were, or what they looked like, instantly, I recognized them, and that sense of camaraderie came rushing back.

We all sat there gabbing away, laughing, joking (as Jessica asked if she was going to need to wipe his ass... ooof.) Red asked what time I was going in to surgery, not having a clue that I was already done, and that my drains were tucked away inside my shirt. They were amazed that I had enough energy to laugh and joke, as we were all anticipating that I would need to be carried in on a stretcher. I was up and around like nothing had happened. If you looked closely you could tell that the compression vest that we have to wear post op was pinching slightly, as my shoulders were raised a tiny bit~but other than that, there were no clues that I had endured surgery like than 24 hours prior. It was kind of amazing.

They called me in to check on my results, and they said there was virtually no swelling. The amount of drained fluid was lower than they expected, in a good way. Dr. Fischer commented on how it was always such a pleasure to see me, since I was always in such a great, cheerful mood. (Nurse Betty was in the room, and shot her such a look, as Dr Fischer joked on how nice it was to be around such happy-go-lucky people...) I thanked them both profusely, and said that I would return in a week to get my drains removed at their office.

I went back out to say goodbye to my new friends from Chicago still waiting in the lobby, and wish them the best for a speedy recovery. It felt so perfectly synchronized to catch them when I did. They were all so great, and we instantly connected without even knowing each other. So perfect. We had been texting each other a little bit over the past week to check in on each other, and promised to hang out when I would have to come back to have my drains taken out one week post op.

So my appointment was set for this past Tuesday ~ one week after my surgery ~ and Jules drove us up to the clinic. Everything went fine, as it took two minutes to take the drains out. (What a weird physical feeling that was-to feel a cord moving through my chest under the skin! Like some bad sci fi film I would never watch.)

The most surreal part was to see my newly masculinized chest when they took off the compression vest that I have had on the entire past week. They removed the padding under the vest, and I could see the surgical tape covering the delicate stitches at the bottom of my pecs and around my aureoles. So, my chest was still a little camouflaged, but still visible none the less. It was surreal. It looked great, and I was happy with the results themselves. Tough to believe that it was really my chest, but I know after the next few weeks of still having to wear this compression vest to prevent swelling, that I will get used to the idea of this new feature of my body. (I must admit that I was a bit disappointed that after all my work outs that my pecs weren't super huge and rippling after surgery, my vanity will be the death of me!) But it was great, and Jules called Red and his friends still in the Baltimore area recovering. We got to see them after my appointment.

We caught up with Red, Jessica and Geral (sp?) in their super cute colonial style row house that they rented for several weeks in Baltimore proper while he recuperated. We all asked how Red was feeling post surgery. He looked straight at me, and said that he had a really reaction to the Oxycontin, and that it kind of threw him off. He continued by saying that when he saw me that day post op, he was excited to see someone doing so well, and thought other guys had maybe exaggerated about their negative experiences after surgery. But when he then had a rough recovery he said he was really mad at me, and said that he "kind of hated me" for a day, thinking: "Great, now I am going to look like some wuss because I am not doing as well as Lani. Not running around, shaking hands in the lobby the next day, laughing and joking." With a twinkle in his eye, and a half grin on his face he said that he kind of hated me for doing so well. He was joking of course, but I never thought about that~about comparing how we were doing, so it was kind of strange to hear. I didn't take offense, but felt badly that he had a rough bout. I also felt luckier still to see my experiences have gone so smoothly thus far.

I had been taking a sh!t ton of homeopathic meds and immune boosters for months before hand, working out for and hour and a half every other day for four months prior to surgery, and and hour every day for several weeks leading up to surgery. (With the exception of the week before surgery that was filled more with celebratory cocktail toasts and panini presses, rather than whole wheat toast and bench presses. Oh well...) I tried to keep myself in check, and I guess maybe it worked.

The 12 hours of traveling yesterday after getting my drains out stressed my body more than I anticipated. Other than that, I have been feeling absolutely great. The pain that I felt in my chest region was more of a muscle pull, and every so often a tightness around the stitches themselves if I moved my arms a bit too high or wide. Yesterday and today I feel these weird shooting pains that feel more like mini-electrical storms under the skin, which I have been told are great signs~meaning it is nerve sensation returning. Weird. We shall see how this all goes, but so far so good!

I just got to my parents' house, and they are still at work. A bit nervous to see how that reunion will go, so please still keep your fingers crossed for me, and as always~huge thanks for all of the well wishing!

(And thanks for Mel's family's support! Like a second family to me, and I am lucky to have you guys in my life!)

Off to take my first official shower post op (after a week's worth of sponge bathing. ugh~) God, think of how much money I'll save on soap now that there is less surface area to wash! ;)

Much love... always~

one week down:

2007-12-19T10:43:00.000-05:00

So, yesterday was the one week anniversary of my top surgery. Ya-f'ing-hoo! I feel great. Jules and Mel tried to help me prepare for our trip up north. So, one week down, we had a "going away" party on our last evening in DC. (I got my friends tipsy in an attempt to thank them for their assistance. But instead of a "thank you," it ended up being a bit more cruel to one of our party attendees. Sorry Mel! I guess when we run out of bourbon next time, we should see that as a sign!)

We woke up Tuesday morning a bit slow and unwilling to crawl out of bed. Yet, Jules was peppy and cooking full gourmet meals to bring with us for the drive north. How endearing is he??? (for his amazing recipies, look to future blog entries! ;] )

I had my appointment to get my drains taken out at the surgeon's office out side of Baltimore. Because of the late celebratory night, I hand't fully packed my suitcases, and wasn't ready to roll. We kind of threw some stuff together and headed out. This was the first twinge of sadness I felt ~ knowing that the party was over. Knowing that I wouldn't see Jules again for a while... Knowing that I would have to leave the safety of my own home to branch out into the real world beyond my home city of DC.

(As I write this from my parents' home in Connecticut, the television is on mute in the corner. I turned to check out the picture on tv, as I learned to find that the Executive Office Building in DC has endured a considerable fire today. Feels odd as I am writing about my fears of leaving DC I turn to find a huge fire has errupted in my now vacated home city. Ironic.)

It wasn't that I was afraid to go elsewhere in the literal sense, like I would be beaten up or things like that. It was more of an understanding that this transition had now bridged the gap to the "other side." Having been on testosterone for well over a year, and most recently having had top surgery, there is this understanding that I have about the permanency of these actions. I am content in my choices, and have no regrets at all, but there are these slippery concepts that flash through my head.

The word "trans" means to span across two locations. Whether those be concrete locations such as east coast/west coast, oceans, or more metaphorical points, such as gender binaries. (Personally, I don't believe much in there being simply two genders, but that's another story.)

What I mean is: I see it more in my head as if there were these two cliffs, where I had one toe on each side, to put it comically. Being trans meant that I spanned these two points in this great divide. Where now after having surgery, I feel like I have been catapulted more to one side, the masculine side.

Quick side note: Mel and I stopped at a rest stop in CT last night, and it was the first time I have ever used a men's room at a rest stop (usually I used teh "family assistance" stalls). Walking in and seeing men at urinals, and knowing that I would still have to use a stall to cover up the fact that I can not "pee" standing up. Would they notice, would they care? And I caught a glimpse of my now flat chest in the mirror as I washed my hands, and it hit me how my formerly feminine chest that gave me away in the past no longer existed. There were no signs to "out me" anymore. My deeper voice, my broadened shoulders and smaller hips, my subtle blonde stubble on my unshaven chin, my hair receding ever so slightly above my temples...

As I walked back to the car to meet Melanie, this younger woman totally checked me out, and I knew it wasn't to "figure out what I was" like it had been in the past. It was a very strange sensation. This mixture of relief, that I wouldn't be something people would stare at to deduce "what" I was ~ and this simultaneous feeling of almost confusion. I am not used to living without that fear. The fear of being found out to be other than strangers imagined me to be upon first review. It was a reminder of where the anxiety _used_ to fit in my life. That space where the anxiety used to be has yet to be filled by something else. Despite the very real reminders of "Boys Don't Cry" and horrific stories of that nature, I don't want to carry that fear with me. I want to practice letting go of that anxiety and paralyzing fear. I don't want it to have a place here.

I have never wanted to do any of this to "become a man." I have always felt "in between" ~ trans, if you will. And I think I am feeling the internalized conflict of the ease of passing as a guy, and yet still wanting to affirm my identity as trans.

Ginger and I had talked candidly about this in the past, how if I did begin to pass as a guy without question, there might be a sense of frustration that might arise. She and I spoke about the very process of transitioning ~ not only my own physiological changes, but in essence, how those changes instigate others around me to shift their concepts of me, and the context of our relationships. Ginger and I could imagine how a sense of frustration could surface when maybe the layers and complexities would not always be acknowledged by outsiders. Not that I need guys at the urinal to high five me for the sense of courage it would take to join them in the men's room... (ugh~my ocd just kicked on when rereading that sentence. i think i just threw up in my mouth a little.) But, there is an odd sense of wanting certain people to understand that I am not this person by default. We would talk about how we would subconsciously want props for all of the mindful choices and hard work we had to do to arrive at this point safely, with whole hearted resolve.

I used to tell my good friend Emily that I just wanted to be the boy next door. I wanted to fly so far under the radar that no one would even notice me. To her, this was such a baffling concept, even saddening, that someone could want so little attention. To me, always getting unwelcomed attention, and often with a slightly intrusive and detremental spin was terrifying. Now, I guess I will have to see if I will be as excited about this disintrest as I imagined. Or if the narcissist in me will feel neglected! (Britney Spears and I do share a birthday after all...)

"making tuesday feel like monday..."

2007-12-17T21:24:00.000-05:00

everyday...

(this blog entry has been modified... melanie was the author of this last post, and frankly it was under the influence. side note: don't offer to get your caretakers drunk if care if still needed! ;] )

the pictures from this evening illustrate some of the fun we had during our last night in dc before we all headed northward. the last hurray, if you will. several friends came over later in the night. (even one who left her own anniversary celebration to see me off. now that is love!)

needless to say, i am relieved that melanie and jules got along as well as they did. it was great to have so many of my friends from the different corners of my life come together to help me with the details of my daily needs. friends from my home town that i have known since i was 17, friends from college, and people that i have met within this past year. it was incredible to see so many faces around me during my recuperation~all there for the sole purpose of making me feel as comfortable as i could sonsidering... everyone got along great, and meshed with the other personalities so seamlessly. it was really incredible to witness, and so humbling to absorb.

but i think we all anticipated that these well wishers would be sitting around restlessly while i was in and out of consciousness. instead, it was a week long party. maybe it was the oxicontin talking~but it was a f'ing blast! i was up and about since the evening of my surgery (craving ribs and mashed potatoes~oddly enough, for those who know me well enough.) and my energy levels and reserves made me only want to celebrate with all of those who came to share in this moment. people came to pour me tea and fluff my pillows, wipe the drool off of my chin as i dozed... instead, they were sipping knob creek, and watching "strangers with candy" and graham norton, as we all laughed are asses off. it was better to cry from the laughter of off-color humor than the pain we all imagined i'd be feeling.

so here's to nartcotic drugs and dear friends who make any recovery a celebration!

much love to all of those who sent their well wishing, and especially those who partook in the partying!

spa treatments for tough guys~

2007-12-17T12:59:00.000-05:00

melanie gave jules and i spa treatments. don't we look tough???

is he looking at me? what the....

how cute is this?

and the chips are down.

do i look different yet?

Hot Toddies.

2007-12-16T10:27:00.000-05:00

In trying to think of things to say, I find that I am waking up slowly on this Sunday morning. Late last night I had all of these inspiring ideas for the blog, after hitting the town running (well, stammering, and trying to hide the grenade shaped flasks that the receive the drained blood, running down the extended tubes following the length of my torso.)

My friends Melanie and Ali took me out last night, since I was going a bit stir crazy. The cabin fever I feared most finally did kick in, and I got a bit antsy. So, I got all dolled up (unfortunately I tried to wear a uber soft navy blue button down shirt, and an equally soft black zip up cardigan~neither of which really fit me anymore, since my shoulders became so much more buff from working out over the past four months. Melanie kept teasing me as we tried to squeeze my swollen, tender body into these "fitted" articles, as we were curious of the "losses" would have evened out the muscle gain~but the shirt was still quite tight... I hadn't wore either since last year, when apparently I was much smaller through the shoulders, despite my now smaller chest. sigh~)

We then put on my dark, slightly whiskered jeans, my favorite boots, my herringbone grey jacket, and bright variegated striped cashmere scarf. I felt so dapper, as I tried to tuck away the disgusting blood tinged grenades in the back jean pockets. I looked great considering I am a few days post op, until the grenades slipped out of my pocket, and swung like an incriminating, creepy pendulum that sealed my fate. It was bad enough that they do keep falling off whatever item I have clipped them on to~but to have it happen in public is a bit more socially awkward. (Embarrassing to have anything suddenly fall off your body, and drop towards the floor. insert bad sight gag here ________.) Plus, the physiological feeling of the drop was a bit intense. As they would suddenly tug at the incisions under my arms, and inches from my stitched up wounds. Tugging in an area so sensitive is not so fun. Especially when I was excited about having so much nerve sensation, and then have it practically work against me. Ooooof.

So, Mel, Ali and I went to this bourgie diner in city, not too far from my house. By the time we had decided to rough it, it had begin to pour outside. Fitting somehow... As discrete as I wanted to be, feeling like I was wrapped like a mummy, and must have obviously been the target of many stares and questions, with my protected stance, and my tightened shoulders~I was sitting in the back of the restaurant, under this mini spotlight. Usually, I wouldn't have been cognizant of these types of lighting situations, but last night, I felt like everything about me was under a huge microscope.

Mel & Ali were very conscientious to ensure that my drains were tucked away out of sight, while others dined around us. God, can you imagine? I'm such a dork... We had a great time, as I have never felt happier. Both Mel and Ali remarked how I appeared to be beaming, as I passed it off as just the spotlight catching that twinkle in my green eyes, but I think they were right.

This was the first time that I got to experience my newly reshaped body in the real world. I got to see how it would be received~ how I would be received... And it was amazing. But it was more like the subtlety of how great we feel when we go in for a teeth cleaning, versus get the best hair cut we've ever had. It was subtle, and understated. My clothes were layered, and my chest still "bound" behind the gauze and compression vest. It was not so much about being noticed, as much as it was about the lack of spectators interested in stealing a glance. This has always been my fear~when people found something in my appearance to be incongruent with the rest of my body's disposition. Formerly, as they might have found "bumps"on this chest ~ in direct contradiction to my lower voice, and broad shoulders... It was so liberating to not have to worry about people even considering that "bumps" may have once resided there... It was fucking amazing...

We had the best dinner of my life, even though it was just dumb diner food. We walked around a bit after dinner, and I had them drive around a bit to show these guys my city. When we came home, we were so relieved to be out of the rain, and watched some bad tv under big blankets. They made Hot Toddies, and got almost tipsy in our slumber party-esque affairs.

It was our last hurray before Ali leaves today, and Jules comes to town. Changing of the guards.

Funny new things...

2007-12-14T15:07:00.001-05:00

As always, I want to thank all of you who have sent me messages to keep me entertained and feeling connected while I am recuperating. It's been great to feel those threads tethering me to my friends that I haven't talked to in a while...

I am still doing well. Trying to take it a bit easier as I think my restlessness has made me do a little too much around my house. (I tried to open my front door to retrieve a small package this afternoon, and my obese cat made a break for it. It was like a war of the wills. I went to reach for her, and felt the strain of the stitches. Ouchie. Bastard. Anyhway~)

Here is another set of video clips (with this new digital lisp I have developed... Ugh~) to keep everyone updated. I think the binder and the bandages to "prevent swelling" make my chest look a lot bigger than it actually is, but you get the idea.

Thanks for checking up on me and more in a bit!

boo boo's and hairy stomachs

2007-12-12T22:19:00.000-05:00

post op pics. bandages, boo boo's and compression vests.

so, um, where do you think my nipples are now?
weird, right...

(hairy bellies, got hairier from the t, i swear it, yo~)

the night before surgery with a stuffed creature with bandaged tatas...

alive and kicking

2007-12-12T14:55:00.000-05:00

Hey there,
I just want to thank everyone for all of their well wishing over the past few days. I feel great, and can't believe everything went so well with the surgery. I guess there is still time for some kind of "issue" to pop up, but otherwise, I am rocking out. For the last few months before the surgery, I had been taking a shit ton of homeopathic meds and working out obessively to try to prep my body for the potential shock that it might have to endure. I suppose that it may have helped, since I feel like I could host a break dancing party, or run with the bulls in Pamplona. Well, sort of...

My chest feels a bit tender, but after getting two whopping migraines in a row this past weekend, nothing could possible feel THAT bad. So, this is a cake walk. mmmm. cake... (My friend Cayli was wondering if the surgeon's request for me to stop taking testosterone for the last month leading up to surgery to prevent possible complications~if the absence of "t" threw my body into a downward spiral.) After surviving those migraines, feeling a tiny bit of swelling in my chest is completely managible.

I can't raise my arms that high, so for me, that has been a huge challenge, while I still wish that I could be totally independent and do everything myself. My ego keeps getting in the way, as I hate asking for assistance with things in general. Especially because I feel great, despite the lack of mobility in my arms. If I felt like shit, then maybe I could fathom having to ask someone else to pour me a glass of water, but now it just feels belittling. Ugh.

While we were leaving the hotel this morning, we passed the continental breakfast spread, and I feared that I looked like a lowbrow thief. My oversized sweatshirt hiding the grenade shaped balloons that catch the overflow of the drainage tubes installed under my arms. These reservoirs clip on to the bottom of the compression vest the nurses put on me while I was still under sedation. These grenade shaped "flasks" then rest against my belly, and while concealed under my oversized zip up sweatshirt~it appears as though I have stolen a half dozen bagels away from this Bacchanalean feast of stale breakfast starches. Awesome. My anxiety seems more imply more guilt than is really necessary.

So, I am home again, and now wondering what the hell will fill my time for the next week that I am in town. My friends are coming in from out of town to visit and pour that water for me. We all predicted that I was going to be bed ridden, and in and out of consciousness, where now I want to plan trips to Atlantic City or other such forbidden lands that I never have time to explore when I am well. My haggard, slightly hunched stance, as I keep my arms close to my chest would fit right in to the elders clutching their oxygen tanks on wheels.

Cable tv is already boring, and I suspended my Netflix queue thinking that I would be out cold. Trying to get caught up with friends who have been inquiring about my well being, and wanting to make those posts from the past few days that we couldn't upload as the hotel's wireless connection was down. Thanks for the patience as we try to get everything back in running order.

So, now the next phase in all of this is to figure out a new name. My surgeon was about to sign the paper work stating that she completed my SRS (sex reassignment surgery), but it gets complicated because I have not changed my name yet. It is tricky with having to figure out the correct chain of command with regards to which elements need to come before the others while trying to alter both gender markers and one's birth name. So much to learn, and still fumbling up! Jeez...

Anyone wanna help me pick a new name?

Aiiiight. Off to eat some dinner. Early bird special at my house, see, I'd fit right in with the blue hairs in Atlantic City...

XX

(crooked) video a.d.d.

2007-12-12T14:33:00.000-05:00

here are some rambling videos from my friend's camera phone post surgery. sadly, it was recorded sideways, um... we forgot that you can't turn it like the still pics. oh well. and somehow it spontaneously gave me a lisp that i never have, not even when it was recorded this morning. (why i outta...)

AND DONE!!!

2007-12-12T09:33:00.000-05:00

Hey all~
Just wanted to let everyone know that surgery went perfectly! The surgeon kept saying how wonderful the procedure went by even her standards, so I look forward to just taking it easy and letting things heal.

For now, we are about to head out of the hotel to get back home, so I can veg out and watch some bad cable, and slouch. I have all of my energy, and have been feeling fine, so hopefully that will continue .

Thank you for helping me get here! Now, where's my bed?

The Hair Apparent

2007-12-07T18:52:00.000-05:00

So, today I bit the bullet and got my very shaggy hair cut finally. I needed something shorter that would be "bed head" approved, as I will be resting for a while following next Tuesday's adventures under the knife. I went spontaneously to a different stylist than usual, one recommended by several friends. Since it was somewhat short notice I didn't have time to pull pictures of what I was looking for stylistically, so I knew that inevitably it would be a crap shoot of whether or not I liked the end result. But this could also be a fun adventure.

Her name is Anna, and she was born on Poland. I was sold. She has the most mild mannered hand shake to welcome me into the salon. While talking to me about my general life, and friends we have in common, we tried to size each other up about how far the other was going push this hairstyle that she was beginning to snip. We chatted the whole time, and got along great. But the entire time I kept wondering how I was being perceived. She asked me to take my red vintage ski half zip sweater, and I knew that my body would be revealed in my white fitted t shirt hiding underneath. I wasn't bothered by her possible revelation, but was curious about how it would be handled.

Anna was wonderful, gracious. We made each other laugh, and talked about businesses, and friends. And how mean people make all of the world work harder. She took off my shaggy curls, and told me that she was going to leave some random pieces of whispiness, while cutting it all back. I wanted to look tough and not too young in a weakling school boy stance on an icy playground at recess. Did she take off too much? Shit. Yet other parts still slightly curly here and there. I am confused.

Apparently I was not as confused about the haircut as she and the indie receptionist boy were about me. She slapped me her card on my way out, and helped me put on my vintage sweater and wooley wintery jacket. I thanked her, and watched her turn to walk back into the styling room. I then looked down to see the look of panic on the indie receptionist boy's face, as he had absolutely no clue what to charge me for my hair cut. Was I a boy (for the cheaper rate) ~ or was I a girl (for the more expensive rate)? As he scanned my face he felt even more pressured, and leapt out of his chair to tackle Anna and drag her into the shampoo area to discuss what was appropriate. They chatted and even laughed about it, which I know since when his eyes met mine while he was still smiling, he immediately looked down in shame.

I get it. It's weird. I'm weird. It's fine. Just let me know how much I fucking owe you for this haircut. A haircut with random whispy parts and sideburns too short. By the time he returned to the front desk, and I had put down my credit card, he said: "That will be $35."

They charged me for a guy's haircut. Will it work in the real world?

Response to response...

2007-12-07T09:47:00.000-05:00

I want to thank everyone who sent me responses to the launch of the blog! Thanks for all of the words of encouragement and well wishing. There was one response in particular that made me laugh my ass off, so I was hoping to post it here, for some balance perhaps to my more serious entry yesterday:

Hey Lan,Wow, this is exciting, the countdown has begun! I know you are nervous and scared, but I think it's a routine surgery. I mean look at Pamela Anderson, that girl has had boobs put in and taken out as many times as she has died her hair, and really sleeping with Tommy Lee turned out to be WAAAAY more dangerous. I'm just saying....
~My sister-in-law Elizabeth. (Hope it's okay that I quoted you here...)

Thanks again to everyone, and more humorous writings again soon, I promise. It's been amazing to have such support from so many people. Very humbling, indeed. (I wonder if this is how Pamela feels before every surgery???)

bumped up~

2007-12-06T10:49:00.000-05:00

So, yesterday I was feeling totally ready for my upcoming surgery. I have lists of things to do everyday to ensure I am moving steadily along. (Email this Dr to contact that Dr for approval, check in with friends arriving from out of town to confirm arrival times, etc.) And then a call came in that I wasn't expecting. It was the surgeon's office asking if I could bump up the date of my surgery by one day.

I'm not sure how 22 hrs would feel that different, but somehow it does... Suddenly, I feel like I am completely under prepared. When will I have time to cut off my curly locks into a pro-sexy-bed head look to weather the next few weeks? When will I have time to repaint both of my bathrooms, or the front porch? Then getting sad that I ran out of time to plant the flowering bulbs for spring before the ground froze. Damn it! How can I feel ready when I forgot to plant the bulbs? Riiiiiight.

So, I think it is just a scary thing ~ to think about how this procedure will change the course of my life. Therefore, it becomes easier to freak out about everything else but the reality of that sentiment. With that said...

On to other things. I wanted to thank my friend JR for helping me construct this blog. I have been so swamped, and she jumped in to post a few things, and choose pictures to add. Thanks, J ~ and for everyone else, please pardon these self-indulgent ramblings... It feels kind of awkward to express things for me in this format, as opposed to emails, where I know who will be reading what I share. It's odd.

Okay, maybe enough time has passed where I can re-approach the fear factor.

There has been so much press about Kanye West losing his mother when she suffered from complications to plastic surgery. (And of course, there is the impeccably timed release of that new film Awake, also related to "surgeries gone wrong." Even if that one was intentionally malicious.) I can not help but wonder: will that be me?

There is an odd sense of irony that envelopes me while asking that question. I have spent a lifetime hating the fact that I felt so differently, and felt so incompetent not knowing how to negotiate how alien I felt because of my trans identity. A lifetime that has be tinged with a ever-present cloud of depression (and even suicidal thoughts), not knowing how to proceed with a life that I was unable to manage, staged within a body that never felt like my own. Somehow I have found a way to break through the paralysis, and just simply try. Trying everything I can muster, to see what might just work. And in that muddled confusion, a few things have worked. Then a few more... And a little over a year since I started taking "t," the depression has dissolved, as have most of my fears.

Slowly, I began to create the life that I wanted to live most actively, consciously, mindfully. This life suddenly became valuable to me. It was something that I did not want to piss away, or extinguish with every peak on the anxiety charts. What a twist of irony it would be, if don't get the chance to continue this new life when I most want it.

I am afraid.

Not of dying, but of just not having more time. More adventures. More explorations with this new perspective. More time to spend with those I love.

It has changed me, this whole experience. Last year, upon beginning "t" I felt like I had to face my demons that haunted me my entire life. I had to face the fact that I might lose family and friends because of the decisions that I needed to make for my own wellness. Through that process, I found my greatest allies. And most importantly, I found my courage to live honestly, and my desire to live well. These demons had no power over me anymore. Whether or not I would be abandoned seemed less important, when I found myself.

I have always had a somewhat fatalistic view of the world. I used to think that it was just the depression talking. This pessimism that resided within me, inducing thoughts about the world being a terrible place to be alone. Now, I guess I still have the same kernal of fatalism, but I use it to try to live more proactively.

Not to be Debbie Downer here, but if I don't make it through the surgery ~ could I say that I have lived well? Slowly, I am beginning to see that it is precisely what I hated most about my life (the challenges, deepest wounds, most frustrating inabilities) that have delievered me here, beyond what I could have ever anticipated for this humble, wobbley little life of mine.

I like that this process is called a "transition." It is simply a metaphor. For me it is not about having a "sex change" ~ it is about having the courage to change every other single element of my life. Namely, my perspective. That wasn't working for me, and the depression was a symptom of that. In psychology, there is a term used for the self-defining chatter we tell ourselves constantly. Things like: "I'm a mess, I never do anything right." Or, "I'm a genius, I can do anything." These self-affirmations are nicknamed "the tapes" since we replay them over and over in our heads. Once we can change the negative tapes, maybe that is where we find our reserve of courage and fortitude.

For me, my greatest transition had nothing to do with gender, but had everything to do with liberating myself from the fears that told me I could live no other way. Now that I have shed those negative anchors, the only fear that now surfaces is the one about not having more time to explore this new venture.

(So, if you are reading this, it probably means that you know me, or know of me. Can you do me a favor and cross your fingers for me on Tuesday, December 11th? I need all the well wishing I can get!)

Here's to waking up from the table... Anything else after that will be good to go.

wedding

2007-12-05T23:42:00.000-05:00

i went with my friend jen to a wedding.

i'll explain later.

(and ironically, i don't even like corn. slightly allergic!)

one week

2007-12-05T23:41:00.000-05:00

So, as of today, I am in the home stretch for my top surgery scheduled for December 12th, 2007. I paid the balance due for my surgery on Wednesday, had my blood work drawn, and then this morning had my pre-screening physical for surgical clearance. Unless something completely "wonky" shows up on my blood work results, I am all set to go!

Crazy, and exciting, and surreal... (Just breathe~ )

My doctor's appt this morning was somewhat comical. It was a walk in clinic in the business district of DC, that focuses primarily on clearance for international business travelers. I had an appointment for 10am, yet they didn't quite know what to do with me. I explained that I simply needed a routine physical for a surgical clearance. They immediately looked me up and down, as I am sure they began to wonder exactly what kind of surgery I would be having. Perhaps wondering if I was "sick" or chronically ill. So, they reviewed my medical history, and their eyes stopped when they saw that I was on testosterone. They simply assumed me to be a man (as they kept referring to me as "sir" and "Mr. Eye - a - cavaley").

It wasn't until the nurse called me into the examination room that she saw that the "female" box was checked on ALL of my paperwork. She apologized profusely for calling me sir ad nauseum in the waiting room. I cracked a joke, to ease the tension and make her feel relieved about the "mistake." It helped, as I think we were both a little nervous after that. (I mean, it's kind of weird to be sequestered in a small white room with a complete stranger, and wonder what they are thinking of you, and while feeling supremely vulnerable in that position~ to wonder if in some way this visit will somehow unravel, and deem me unfit for surgery. Will this stranger be my ally? Or will they be too "freaked out" and somehow throw a wrench in the works?)

* * *

In September of 2006, I began the what would become the routine dr's appts when I decided to start taking testosterone. We have to be monitored for a while afterwards to ensure our livers are not turning to mush, and inflating our cholesterol to dangerously high levels. My doctor said that I had literally the best cholesterol he had ever seen in his tenure, which would make me a great candidate for "t", since it monkeys with the levels instantly.

So, during this first visit last year, this super-model looking, tall-waify Ethiopian nurse weighed me for my charts. As she teetered the mobile components on the commercial scale, she erupted in a huge belly laugh as the final tally came in... Nice~ Horrified, I simply looked up, embarrassed, and asked: "What?" "Well, I didn't think you would weight THAT much... I mean, you don't look THAT heavy." Ugh~ Oh, well. I jokingly said that the additional weight must be from my signature army green knit hat that sat atop my head during my weigh in. She looked at me quizzically, and with a furrowed brow. She explained in all seriousness that it would most likely be my shoes, or often times winter coats, that I had already shed... So, I emphatically insisted that it must have been my knit hat, until she realized that I was joking with her, out of embarrassment that I apparently was made out of lead.

Leading me to the present day:

* * *

The nurse weighed me, and I nearly lost it. I weighed exactly 25 pounds more than I did over one year ago, when I first began this process. Yet, ironically, my pants were baggier than ever as my thighs, butt and hips have melted away from the testosterone and weigh lifting regiments. With that said though, I have lost 80% of my t shirts, and sweaters now that I sort of "over shot" my goal, with my shoulders and neck now having become enormous from working out. Twenty five pounds... It is baffling.

I wasn't sure if I should hi five myself with my new biceps, thinking is was "pure muscle mass" or whether I should have run the 10 miles back to work, to burn off the excess calories from the few pieces of pumpkin pie I had to celebrate the holidays. Shit~

The nurse gave me a paper gown, in the origami shape of a sandwich, and told me to take off my "very nice polo sweater" (as she said) and put on the robe. Wait, was I supposed to take off my jeans then, too? Or just my sweater? I stood up to unravel the flattened, folded up paper gown, as I wondered how undressed I should be. Perhaps the distraction was not good, because I accidentally tore the entire gown in half while trying to open it up. (So, my money is back on muscle mass, then! Phew!)

So, I crumpled it all up, and stuffed it in the bottom of the resealable trashcan in my examination room, to pretend like I never got it. I sat on the edge of the examine table in my white t shirt, and jeans, wondering how the next five minutes might change my life. Also, having to predict how this doctor my react to my reality.

This gorgeous female doctor, who appeared to only be a few years older than me came in while reading my chart. She asked what kind of surgery I was having. "Um, plastic surgery," I meekly responded. She then asked what kind. "Um, well... I, ah, I'm trans, and so I am having 'top surgery' ~ a double mastectomy."

She looked up at me, and while making direct eye contact said: "Wow, you must be really excited!" It was right then that I knew I would be safe. That this woman was going to be my ally. And mid way through my exam, she started asking me all sorts of personal questions about my experience, about working out, how it has been with my job, and even about my name. When I said that Lani is my given name, but that the state of CT forces people to change their names in order to change their gender markers on birth certificates (which most other offices need prior to changing any other documents...) She became incredibly enthusiastic that I should fight that rule. This doctor not only because my passive ally, but suddenly wanted to be a freedom fighter with me on the front lines, declaring that these law be more sympathetic towards trans people of all sorts. Amazing... (I kind of had a crush on her...) She wished me much success, and approved my status as being physically well enough to withstand surgery.

Now, I am just waiting to hear back about my blood work, and barring any unforeseen changes, I am all set for surgery.

Man, that feels crazy to say...

"t" is for party

2007-12-05T23:15:00.000-05:00

when giving a "t" party, one should always have:

a banner.

party favors.

"name that mustache" game.

cookies.

and, dear friends.
thank you for all your love
and support.

firsts

2007-12-05T23:11:00.000-05:00

namely, shaving.

two weeks notice...

2007-11-28T12:44:00.000-05:00

So, after much prompting from many friends, I have finally tried to get my arse in gear to create a way to keep people posted on my "transition." I put it in quotes because even as much as it is the official term for my experience right now, it feels much more like a metaphor. How shall I say... :

Trans: Across; over; beyond; to change.

Transgender: One whose primary sexual identification is with the opposite sex. One who has undergone a sex change.

Is that what this is? A sex change? For most people who know me, I would suppose there actually isn't too much changing going on in the most literal of senses. I mean, sure~my voice has dropped a few octaves, my shoulders have instantaneously become buff from working out, my curvy hips and thighs have dissolved somewhat to give me a more rugged, angular silhouette, my hairline has receded ever so slightly above my temples, giving me the long awaited debonair look my British grandfather carried off so well. My body has also become "fuzzier" all over, and my face sometimes displaying a whispering hint of my sandy blond five o'clock shadow.

With all of this said, am I really that different?

I mean, I didn't have some insane ZZ Top beard overnight. My voice might be slightly deeper, but I still have the same vocal intonations and speech patterns to make it recognizable. (Well, unless your my mother, and then sometimes she doesn't know it's me without caller ID... So sad, when your own mother can't always recognize your voice upon answering. Sigh~)

I was explaining to a friend of mine how this transition of mine seems more metaphorical than anything. (Thoughts of Yentl now coming to mind. We all still knew that it was just Barbra in a yarmulke, so how did Mandy miss all of the physiological cues-the absent beard, so forth? It was because there was a metaphorical shift, rather than a radical shift is physiology.)

We are told, "Now we will refer to this person as ________. Now we will see them this way."

Many trans folks do have very tangible physical changes once they begin to transition (meaning the effects of taking hormones, obvious changes such as surgeries, but then more subtle changes such as mannerisms, clothing choices, and the like.) For me, my evolution has been steady, but perhaps more slower going. My voice did seem to change within a few weeks, but like a pubescent boy's voice, my voice would break, squeak, and get deeper. And deeper still. After one full year of being on testosterone, I think my voice has perhaps "leveled out" or plateaued at a semi-permanent deeper state. Thankfully, it is a voice a rather like. (Man, that would have sucked! To have a new voice I hated for most of eternity...)

Some people say that my facial features have been modified by the "t" (testosterone) in the past year. A few friends have commented that my jaw seems more square, which is tough to believe it could have become any more pronounced than it already was pre-t. Other has said that my eyebrows seem to also be more angular, and frame my face differently. I see myself everyday, so I can't tell those kinds of changes as much.

Clothes fitting me differently is obviously a bit easier for me to spot. Not being able to button the top button on some of my past favorite dress shirts, now that my shoulders and neck have grown exponentially from fastitious work outs. Sad that I have seemingly lost most of my wardrobe by bulking up my upper half, and slimming down my lower half. It's easier to belt baggier pants, than it is to stretch out a sweater that is now super fitted. Ugh~ These more fitted shirts, sweaters, etc make my shoulders and upper arms look uber-fit, but also reveal the "girliness" of my chest, not as much fun in the end...

So it is now simply the days that I count until this will change. Within two weeks I will be having "top surgery" to modify the appearance of my chest to make it look more masculine. I am trying to see this as a way to focus, and get things in order before the big day. The "final countdown" ~ if you will...