Discovering Myself in Paradise: A Trip to Honolulu

Late Friday night, I was invited with some other Counseling Psychologists to an informal party in the division's Presidential Hotel Suite. My exhaustion told me to say no, but I decided that going would be a good exercise in spontaneity. When I arrived, I found maybe two dozen people chatting in the beautiful rooms, perched atop the hotel overlooking the churning darkness of the ocean against the Waikiki Beach. I could not bring myself to join in their conversations; the small talk far too draining for this point in the night. So I gravitated towards the balcony and stared off into infinity.

It was beautiful. And haunting. Throughout my trip, it was the ocean's vastness and solemn, persistent rhythm that arrested me. How large it was, stretching towards the horizon as if literally the edge of the earth. It made me feel so small, so full with wonder. In the night, the black waves had the feeling of an endless army throwing itself against a stolid foe; a war of attrition that slowly but surely the waves would win, even if it took millions upon millions of softly violent iterations.

I was afraid of the height, afraid to stand at the edge and look over the railing. I was wryly amused at this fear, given the countless number of times I've given so much careful thought to killing myself. And it occurred to me, in that moment, how easy it would be. All I need do was quickly put one leg over the other to escape the rail, and I would crash lifelessly below. I considered it. I thought of the risk to those I might land upon, thought of the grizzly scene everyone would see. Thought of how many others might be dead and dying in the vast hotel hives of the city. How impactful to some and yet ultimately small my death would be in the scope of the thing; a curiosity, a grotesque, maybe a trauma for a small few. How ironic it would be, to dive at a party of Psychologists trained in mitigating distress. Would someone see me in the 2 seconds of my movement, yell "No!," throw a "no suicide" contract like a shuriken to strike me on the spot, wonder for the rest of their lives what they could have done to stop me?

Then I looked again at the sprawling ocean. And in its movement and its immensity, I found some solace. Drawing upon its beauty, I asked myself "What are the voices saying, those small piercing cries that push you towards this task?" They are screaming "YOU ARE NOT ENOUGH. YOU ARE WASTE. YOU HAVE NO VALUE. YOU OFFER NOTHING." And I sat with their sharp sounds. And as I sat, I felt a kindness bubble from inside me. It flowed through me and in the soft insistence of the waves, it overcame the voices. Softly, truly, I whispered "I *do* have value." I began to cry. And I decided, at least for the moment, to live. To live, and so deciding, to step away from my thoughts and go about the joyous task of absorbing the beauty of the moment. The waves crashed on, and so did I.

***

Hawai'i was lonely. I met no other trans women at the conference (out, at least). Five or six trans men, but no trans women. Indeed, one trans man who had long been active in APA was heartened that I, as a trans woman, existed. "We've been waiting four years for a trans woman to show up." And veiled behind that assertion lie a million questions as to why there aren't other trans women. What barriers have kept my sisters away? What forces have crushed them as they've approached? Likely, I assume, the same ones that weigh upon me now.

I am the only one of me in every space. In some ways, I know, this is true of all of us. But I feel it poignantly. No space was explicitly welcoming of me; few knew of the unique challenges trans women encounter in the world. There were many good intentions, of course; when I came out, most people were pleasantly surprised. It was clear that many were more than willing for spaces to be better (if someone else would do the work). Yet I think part of me hoped for more, hoped that even more of the work would have already been done. It does feel good to feel special and unique, to have one's very existence spur change. But it is lonely all the same.

I hoped for more on a smaller scale, too. There were some women who I tried to flirt with, but it was faltering, platonic. I think one has to believe one is desirable to create that dialectic of desire, and neither I nor my culture believe that of me. Even on a broader interpersonal level, everyone else seemed to know someone else, to have come with family or friends; most did not seem as if they really wanted to make new friends. They were there to network, to get professional contacts, to have fun with those they already knew. Our needs were different; I did not fit in the spaces they provided. I realized that perhaps I am unusual, to be so often alone. I felt no small amount of envy for their intimacies, for their companionships. As with most everywhere else, here too I felt alien.

***

On Saturday, I woke up sick. I had tried to do too much, and my body was rebelling. I insisted on going to some conference activities, but by midday I gave in and returned to my hotel room to sleep. I let myself feel my exhaustion, and it flooded into me, the force draining me even as the release nourished. I woke off and on, eventually deciding to forgo my planned evening activities in the hope of rebuilding myself.

As evening approached, I went downstairs to check my email and get a sandwich. I decided that eating in the hotel would be a waste, so I ate on the beach. The sun was already outside my view, setting someplace else, but I always enjoy the vibrant pinks of dusk. I sat on a small wall, watching the people and the waves, eating. As I sat, I acknowledged that I hadn't physically touched the Pacific since my arrival, hadn't felt those waters since a high school trip to San Diego more than a decade ago. I realized it might be now or never. So I put down my things, took off my socks and shoes, rolled up my jeans, and started walking.

Surrounded by tourists, I felt cushioned and safe. I appreciated the feel of the sand on my feet, the ocean lapping in and out, tasting the land before retreating. I liked the way the waves softly buried my feet in sand, briefly taking hold of me. I liked how impermanent my footprints were. How impermanent everything was. How small I felt. And yet, how cohesive too. I was alone and yet surrounded by people, alien and yet organic. I thought of how I had felt so little in my 27 years, thought of my recurring fear of a life lived without feeling alive.

But the same force that prompted me to touch the ocean sprang to life, saying "If not now, when?" I was in a beautiful space, dipping my feet in infinity, safe and secure and tasked with nothing but the necessary mechanics of existence. Why not live now?

So I did. I practiced letting go of my thoughts and seeing the ocean. I smiled at children playing in the surf. I let myself feel a fierce, gracious joy. I let myself live.

Not only did I live, I embraced myself. Certainly, I found myself envying the couples on the beach, walking hand in hand, and I wanted that. I wanted it so very much. I wanted to share my experiences, to find meaning in the presence of others. I acknowledged these thoughts, and they felt true. But beyond wishing was the now, and the now was that I was with me. I could share the beauty with myself, I could converse with myself, I could tease and play and love myself. I could spend a lifetime waiting for another to unlock my heart or I could open it myself. So I did.

When I finally returned to my hotel room, I sat on my balcony for a long while, overlooking Honolulu. In the past, it would have been madness for me to simply sit and be, but now I cultivated the feeling. I loved the city. I loved myself. I playfully chided myself that 24 hours before, I had seriously been considering denying myself this moment, denying myself all future moments. And when I blew the city a kiss goodnight, it was like the end of a loveletter to it and all and me.

***

On Monday, I ate alone at a small vegan restaurant and then walked to downtown Honolulu. I passed numerous parks, and the trash and the homeless people in them seemed a metaphor for a paradise still scarred by colonialism and inequity. Closer to the Capitol, the parks became cleaner. Eventually, I reached 'Iolani Palace, "the only royal palace in the United States used as an official residence by a reigning monarch."

I didn't go inside the Palace. But just being on the grounds and visiting its statues of Queen Liliuokalani and Kamehameha the Great had a solemn, resilient power that nourished me. The lawn had large trees interspersed, and I sat underneath one for awhile. I felt breezes warm and cool, watched the tourists take their pictures, stared up into the sky through leafy filters. There was nowhere to go, nothing to be but here and myself.

Like the Saturday evening balcony, the calm was new for me. It was not "relaxed," not exactly. It was connected. With the space, but also with myself.

I have spent my whole life hating myself. Wishing I was different, wishing I was more, thinking of all the things I should be doing that I have not will not can not. But on the beach, on the balconies, at the palace, I let go of my regret and resentment, set aside my anxiety, and I let myself live. I felt strong and I felt beautiful and I let myself live.

***

I'll write more in a few weeks about the changes I've made in the past year. Hawaii was not so much the answer as it was a catalyst for processes that have been in motion for many years. And it is an ongoing process. There is an ebb and flow, still; I felt the terror return anew the moment I reentered work on Wednesday. As the stress of the new school year builds, I will retreat into more anxiety and be enveloped in more fear.

But more than ever, I will have the strength to set those feelings aside. A quiet confidence is growing inside me, a fierce joy spreads its leaves. I am maturing into the vision of myself I saw when transition was more a question for the future not a description of the past. I am becoming that tall, willowy woman with the strong sad eyes and small fierce smile, who is passionate and compassionate, wryly playful and empathetic, driven by a vision of a world that includes, affirms, and empowers everyone. I am, as I have been doing for the past four years, becoming myself. And the more of her I discover, the more of her I love.

The Limitations of Insight

Two weeks ago, I was sitting with a client who spoke very circumstantially. I would ask her a question and her response would trail into all kinds of spaces that, while related to the topic in her mind, were just packed with details to the point that they did little to answer the question. I asked her about these "complex" answers, telling her that it was difficult for me to follow and asking her "What can we do to help me understand you better?" Curiously, she smiled when I said this. I was quite surprised: I would have thought she'd be hurt and feel criticized or angry that I wasn't listening better. After we talked about some possible solutions (all to the point and direct, in contrast to before), I asked her about her reaction. She said it felt good. That, normally, she just assumed no one would listen, that their eyes would glaze over and they wouldn't care enough to even ask for clarification. But as I had taken the effort to try to clarify, she felt it was nice to be heard.

Therapy's funny like that. Both because of the surprises, but also in how you see yourself in clients. Because I do the same thing as that client. She and another client both had to raise siblings (and, honestly, their parents) in chaotic homes with antagonistic fathers. Both have flat affects making it difficult to attend to them because you can't feel them. And both don't know how to function socially without taking care of those around them. Despite some significant differences in backgrounds and manifestations, I know that dynamic. Of being so emotionally protected that others don't connect to you, of never feeling comfortable unless you're taking care of someone else with the attention off yourself, of feeling so incredibly alone and wanting to care for others so very very much because that's all you know how to do.

And I want to tell them, "You're stuck in a vicious cycle! No one will hear you until you expect to be heard, until you believe you deserve to be! The defenses you've adopted to survive your home life are maladaptive in this new environment. You need to love yourselves, you need to be more vulnerable, you need to trust more if you ever want to find what you're seeking!" But I don't. Because it won't work. Insight, alone, so rarely does.

Knowing the reasons why, knowing the solutions, knowing the effects of continued stagnation, all of this helps but it is not enough. I have literally asked my psychotherapist "What do you wish you could tell me that you know if I just believed it, I would feel so much better?" And she said that she wished I wasn't so cruel to myself. Just as she'd told me so many times before and so many times since.

And yet today, we did an activity in Sunday School today about thinking about what to forgive yourself for (as part of Rosh Hashanah). It made me incredibly uncomfortable because I didn't think I deserved to be forgiven for all the bad things I'd done. I couldn't think of a single thing I wanted to be forgiven for because I deserved to suffer for all of them. When we thought of hopes for the next year, it took me a few moments to get "I hope I die" out of my head. And I had to seriously consider whether I genuinely wished to die. To compromise, I settled for "I hope I get better" as in "I hope I can figure out how to stop being so terrible."

And I know how cruel that is. I know how incredibly unforgiving, how brutal and violent that is. I know that considering myself a freakish monster because I'm not cis is oppressive and violent and vile. I know that hating myself for all the ways I fail as a teacher, a therapist, a person, and a woman is anxiety inducing and miserable and wrong.I know that when my friends and clients do it, I think it's tragic. But when I do it? It's because I deserve to be punished for my failures and monstrosity. It's because other people just don't get how bad I am, how wrong I am. They don't really know. When they do it it's because they're being too hard on themselves, but I'm legitimately bad. If I was one of my clients I would be heartbroken at how unrelentingly callous I am towards myself. But as me? It's justice. And I just wish I had the courage to give myself the punishment I truly deserve.

The natural followup question, of course, is "So what do you need?" Validation, certainly: I genuinely wonder how others perceive my gender (particularly my face and voice), but I'm too terrified of the answer to ask. Empathy, definitely: it would be nice if people understood or wanted to understand just how inherently stressful it is to be trans on a daily basis. Concern and affection, too, no doubt. And I think I need to be better about soliciting those and letting myself be open to them too.

But, of course, knowing what I need is just more insight. Actually getting it is a different matter. And for my sake and my clients, I hope I someday figure out how.

All Us Pretty Things

"Very pretty. You look natural." the woman said as I was leaving. It wasn't the only time someone complimented my appearance while in the outpatient facility in Montreal. But it certainly stood out. "Natural."  To borrow a phrase, "Born this Way." One may as well have said "real." (The "pretty," of course, is attendant upon the "real.") And to hear it from another trans woman haunted me.

"You are so young and so pretty! I cannot believe no one would come with you!" my cis hostess enthusiastically exclaimed at the bed and breakfast (where I stayed the night before moving to the hospital). She was an exuberantly open and affectionate woman who really seemed to be capable of making anyone feel welcome and appreciated. But those first words lingered with me too. As if me being "pretty" ("real") meant that of course I would merit company and support.

The sentiment alone was said effusively, but it was meant in implicit (and, naturally, "well meaning") contrast to some of the other patients, particularly those who had transitioned fairly recently at older ages. And whereas some women who had transitioned a significant number of years ago but were in their 40s would be read as female easily, there were a few women who were in their 50s who had likely not done much HRT or who had transitioned later who I imagine have significantly more difficulties.

Physical appearance as a metric of "realness" is a common tension for trans people. For instance, most of my experiences with trans women have been with a scant few locally and then online. And online, ages skew significantly young. I've written here before about struggling with resentment towards younger transitioners (which I know is a product of my own self-loathing and absolutely nothing to do with any fault or flaw on their parts), and it's a not insignificant chip I carry on my shoulder: how much different, how much better would things be if I had transition at 20? 18? 16? Whenever I run my fingers along my cheeks, whenever I catch my voice skewing masculine, whenever I get rejected because I'm trans, it flares up in spouts of self-hatred. When I see myself in the mirror, when I look at most pictures or videos of myself, I think "Every person I know must be politely refraining from pointing out how foolish it is that I think I'm anything but a man in women's clothing." And I start to desperately wish I was cis, to desperately wish I really was "pretty," to desperately wish I had transitioned before my face masculinized beyond repair. Because I am under no illusions that, regardless of what others say, if I am "pretty" it's only in relation to those who are not read as female as easily as I tend to be.

And when some of these other trans women said "pretty" to me, I wondered: did those women feel similarly to how I feel? Was "pretty" an innocuous compliment, a way of trying to soothe an insecurity I presumably have, or a way of hurting themselves? Did they see me with envy, the way I looked at the young woman who came in the last two days who looked and sounded so cis I wasn't sure whether she or her boyfriend was getting the surgery? Did they think to themselves "I can never be as real, as beautiful, as desirable as her?" Because we know, oh how we know that really, on a fundamental level we are fake. We are hideous. We are undesirable. And, worst of all, we deserve to be unwanted and unloved. Because who could possibly commit such an act of immense charity as to fool themselves enough to join us in the delusion that we are something we are decidedly not?

And the worst part is that this is not a uniquely trans issue. There's a hierarchy, certainly. But if we set "realness" aside, much of that paragraph could apply to most any cis woman comparing herself to the "ideal." A fat woman to a thin woman, an older woman to a younger woman, a woman of color to a white woman, a disabled woman to an able-bodied woman, a fat, older, disabled pre-op trans woman of color to a thin, young, able-bodied, cis white woman. And there's a significant chance that that thin, young, able-bodied, cis white woman can *still* have an eating disorder that causes her to utterly loathe her body, seeing something hideous whenever she looks in a mirror and firmly believing no one could ever find her beautiful.

I know part of me, on some essential level, views being cisgendered as "the goal." If you're read as cis, indistiguishable from cis if no one who "knows" says otherwise, you've "made it." You are "pretty." You are real. You are ideal.

But of course that's ridiculous. Certainly, so very very many things are so much easier/safer at that point. But there's still a never-ending litany of reasons for women to hate their bodies/appearances/selves, whether it's weight, breasts, butt, curves, height, voice, facial structure, skin color, hair, etc etc. Trans women, particularly trans women of color, get the brunt of the intersections of racism/homophobia/misogyny/transphobia, but their oppression is an aggravated manifestation and combination of forces that still affect everyone who is at a higher place up that ladder but not on top (if there is one). Being "cis" wouldn't cure all their problems, it would just reduce the intensity.

And just so, being "cis" wouldn't make me "pretty." I know cis women (who certainly had plenty of viable alternatives, if they wanted to exercise them) have been attracted to me as Juliet. I know that there are people in my life for whom I've always been female without an asterisk. I know the way I see my reflection is tempered by a wicked combination of cultural narratives of platonic ideals and historical narratives of my own lack of worth. "Pretty" is a subjective term applied as if it's an objective pronouncement of worth. And I know that that feigned objectivity is the voice of oppression (or kyriarchy), equating a woman's worth with appearance, with cisness, with whiteness, with thinness, with straightness, with femmeness, with an impossible ideal. (Men's worth is judged too, of course, but on different scales)

But, and this is the key, simply because there are established hierarchies of legitimacy, of worth, of "pretty" does not make them true. When we buy into those hierarchies, we may pretend that we're on a spectrum of worth but really it's a binary: you are valuable or you're not. You are you, or you are perfect.

Knowing this is different than internalizing it. I don't feel I'm "pretty," meaning I don't feel I'm valuable or attractive or desirable or real or human in the way everyone else. But I do realize that I am the only one who can make that determination. Now, it's just a matter of sucking out the poison and letting myself be the beautiful of an authentic self. "Pretty" be damned.

Climatic Conclusions

[This is going to be very TMI. So, um, considered yourself really really warned!]

Holy. Shit.

So, you know how lots of you were wondering if I could orgasm and I kept on telling you "Hopefully!"? Well, we can change that answer to a resounding, emphatic yes.

I'd been tentatively trying, rubbing my clitoris in the way that sort of thing is usually done (in my experience), once a week for the past two weeks. The results were fairly poor. There was a slight sensation, but it wasn't the deeper, physical pleasure I was looking for.

So I tried last week, a bit more, but with comparable success. Much of my hesitance is that I'm not fully healed. Most of the stitches are out or almost out and I feel a lot more flexible and mobile than I was, but it's still scary, ya know?

The thing is, I've been having nocturnal emissions (two so far). Which is downright bizarre. Ironically, it's why I started masturbating when I did at 19: I wanted them to stop. And they feel the same way now that they used to, except... there's contractions but nothing comes out. And in many ways it feels like my penis is contracting when it's... not there. WHICH IS RATHER DISCONCERTING.

So, today, I decided to stick with it a bit longer. And, again, it's not like merely touching the clitoris sends a little bolt of pleasure (which for some reason is what I was looking for). But I started slowly rubbing it, and it started feeling kind of nice. Not like "OH GOD YES" kind of nice, but pleasant enough. And I keep looking at whatever sordid and sundry stimulant material I'm looking at. Nothing to write home about (so to speak).

And then something clicked. And my body started to feel like it wanted me to rub faster. And I did. Then it's practically like I'm tapping a button. And my vulva starts to do huge contractions, to the point where I wasn't even sure I was entirely touching the clitoris (the vulva's still significantly swollen, although much improvement), but I got the arching back sensation and just kept on moving through. And then... it hit me.

And my.god.

For those who don't know, orgasms with a penis (at least for me) kind of felt like rising tension, rising tension, tense tense tense RELEASE done. It's over fast. And, at least for me, the buildup was more perfunctory than pleasurable. Hell, the whole thing was more of a "well, I'm glad that's out of my system" kind of thing in lieu of "THAT FELT AWESOME." Again, various issues play into that for me, and obviously lots of people with lots of penises tend to really like it so go figure. But, for me, masturbation (even the vast majority of sex, with three or four exceptions) was more about exorcism than enjoyment.

But this was different. It felt... good. And when it finally hit... it wasn't like one "BANG." I was waiting for the "BANG," because that's what I'm used to, and it never really came. Instead, there was just this really intensely pleasurable feeling and I couldn't help but moan really loudly. For, like, ten seconds. Arched back, really intense pleasurable sensation, and moaning. And when it was over, I just kinda lay on my back staring at the ceiling in a dazed, happy kind of way.

And it didn't just feel good. It felt right. After almost every orgasm I've had before, I've felt kind of guilty or, at best, relieved that it actually happened and was over with. But this time, I was just really glad (and, of course, thinking "Wow, I'm going to get to do that again!").

There wasn't that big moment of relief, like "WHEW IT'S OVER." It felt good, but I was also kind of wondering if something was wrong because there wasn't a huge "release." And as I processed it, it occurred to me how very amazing it all way.

Because, listen. Everybody's different, and we can never really know what it's like to feel/be another person. But this orgasm felt a lot closer to the descriptions of vaginal orgasms that I've heard/read. One of my friends and I were talking two weeks ago about differing descriptions of orgasms, and how she felt it was kind of sad that people with penises just kind of got a "BANG" and then had to recover, whereas people with vaginas got longer, intense sensations and could keep going very soon after.

That's how I felt today. It honestly blows my mind that this is a thing. Because seven weeks ago, I had a penis! I had a different kind of orgasm! And now it's changed! The machinery is altered, but nothing "new" was installed. And I would think that "cis female orgasm narratives" might have impacted what to expect and act out if I hadn't experienced it myself. I couldn't fake what happened. Hell, I wouldn't have known how to. Despite everything that I "knew," I was expecting something a lot more similar to what I'd known. What happened was positively surprising.

Obviously, it's my first time, and who knows how things will change as I heal/learn the patterns better (I am really looking forward to that). But this is fucking amazing (so to speak). It's paradigm shifting. That this is even possible shocks me, and that it's so exciting and right is just affirmation upon affirmation that SRS was the right decision.

And, you guys, truest story: I cannot wait to see how this changes sex.

Moving On

I'm in an emotional space I've never been in before: stability. Lackluster stability, perhaps; I'm not complacent and certainly not happy. But the multifarious chaos, desolation, and trepidation that's adorned my furrowed brow for the better part of my ever is largely dissipated. 

For as long as I can remember, I was always preparing for the future, always looking ahead, and even when I was significantly unhappy in the present (which was often if not usually), there was always something in the near or distant future that I was working towards. And each realization offered the prospect of some significant change in my day to day life.

That's what transition has been like, but on a micro level. There are zillions of steps in a long process. And I've had it mapped out since deciding to transition, two and a half years ago. I wouldn't say SRS is the "culmination" of the process, but it's certainly the last major step. 

And now? Now I feel kind of... hollowed out. I've been staying with my mom for the past five weeks, and I'm kind of scared to leave. Not just to go back into the world and the grind and the constant demands upon my still recovering body. But to go back out into the world not looking forward to something else.

I think this is what post-op depression is. I've been putting so much planning, putting so much mental energy into getting to this point that, now that I've reached it, it almost feels surreal to move past it. I'm pretty well set, barring economic collapse or unexpected tragedy, in terms of my career path. I'm pretty well done with the "obligatory" tasks of transition. I feel like I'm going to be floating instead of swimming. And after so many years of struggling so very much... I don't know what to do with myself.

I'm sad. And I'm scared. But I'm sad and I'm scared while knowing that I am at a better place in my life than I ever have been before. It's good to be stable. I literally cannot express to you how much even the lukewarm dissatisfaction I feel now is so.much.better. than the very vast majority of my emotional state up to this point. And yet I miss it. Already. I miss the stress, the fear, the tenuous hope mixed with apprehension. Not for a moment do I want it back, but still I miss it.

I know this too will pass. Part of me relishes the fact that, the further I get from the surgery date, the more I can devote myself to so many other parts of my life and growth that I've been delaying while focusing upon the rest. Once the school year starts and I'm seeing clients again, doing the work I was made to do, I will feel that fire and direction again.

But I'm mourning. God help me, I am mourning something which I am glad is dead. And I am saddened all the same.

On Crying Alone

On the night after the surgery, my hospital roommate (call her “Kate”) phoned her mother. Kate had been in significant pain all day. Whereas I was fortunate enough to merely have the motion sickness-esque nausea and headache that usually accompany my forays into anesthesia, she hurt terribly. And as time went on, the pain worsened.

Pain medication provided temporary relief but only fleetingly. And, of course, that's cause for even more distress: the gradually dawning knowledge that modern medicine can only do so much to save you from the mysteriously individual agonies of the body.

So, in unrelenting pain, no end in sight, she did what many of us would do: she called her mommy.

She did not ask for much, after their brief salutations and Kate's preface regarding her pain. She said, merely, “Tell me a story.”

And though I can only hear Kate's side of the conversation, I can make a good guess what happened.

“I don't know any stories,” her mother replies.
“Surely daddy or Uncle Tommy's done something funny recently,” Kate says, almost begging.
“Nope.”
The subtext is clear. And Kate, uninhibited by pain, gingerly jumps to it: “Don't you love me anymore?”
“I don't even know who you are. You murdered my child. How can I love you?”

Kate, sincerely, pleading, “I didn't murder your child, mama. I'm right here. I'm still your child.”
“You aren't my child.”
“I may sound different and look different, but I'm still your child, mama.”
“You aren't my child. You promised me, you promised me that you would never go this far. You promised me. And here you've gone and made yourself into some kind of freak. You promised me.”

“Mama, I didn't know what I was saying! I didn't know it would mean that much to you, I was just trying to make it easier on you and I didn't really know what I wanted and I'm sorry mama.”
“You promised me.”
“Mama, I'm sorry. I love you, ok mama? No matter what happens, I'm still going to love you. And I just need you to love me, that's all. Right now, I just need you to love me.”

Silence
“Alright. Bye, mama.”

Kate was so calm. She wasn't angry, she wasn't hurt. She wasn't crying. At least that she showed, of course.

I was, though. And, tear-stained from across the room in the darkness, I choked out “That was so terrible.”

Kate made excuses for her mother. Said her mother is the “most selfish person I know.” Explained the gaps in the conversation I'd already guessed. Said “Daddy will take up for me, I know it.” And that was that.

So I cried for Kate. Cried the tears she couldn't, fueled the anger she didn't, felt the hurt she blocked. And I reaffirmed my commitment to keep working towards a world where this bullshit doesn't happen.

***

Later, though, I wondered: given Kate's obviously fraught relationship with her mother, why had she called her, of all people, that night?

I don't really know. It's not really my place to ask, and it's arguably not my place to tell the story.

But I wonder: who would I call?

The day I flew back, as a product of exhaustion and hormone fluctuations, I started sobbing for twenty minutes straight. There was no definite reason. I was just... overwhelmed. My mother was in the room when I started, and I tried to hide from her. She's great if there's a physical/medical problem, but, as mentioned, she has her own significant barriers to trust and intimacy. I did call a friend who has talked me out of killing myself an embarrassing number of times and can at least roll with the punches, even if  she lacks the emotional vulnerability to be comforting. But when she didn't pick up? No one. I cried alone, just as I went to Montreal alone, just as I've done most of the hardest parts of my suffering and changing alone.

In other words, I don't have anyone I can call who can make me feel better. Not a single person who will be able to make me feel understood and loved and safe and cared for.

The reasons are legion, of course. I don't need to revisit my childhood here, but it doesn't take an expert in object relations to tell you that alcoholism, abuse, paranoia, and deadened stoicism don't foster trust and openness in a child (or her parents, for that matter).

But being trans, pre-transition... how can you be truly intimate with someone? Intimacy is all about knowing someone better and better, but when you haven't transitioned the person someone else is getting to know isn't you. Not really. Not in the way that matters most. My first and only long-term relationship was with one of the sweetest, most affectionate people I know. But whenever she touched me, it was as if she was blocked by stone. The person she was trying to reach, the person she was attracted to, the person she loved was not who I really was. And that's an obstacle no one can surmount.

It's not just being trans, of course. It's anything that makes you feel like you need to keep essential parts of yourself hidden from others. I sometimes, in my pettier moments, start to roll my eyes at LGB people getting so torn up about being closeted because, you know, at least the world sees them as who they are even if they don't recognize who they love, right? But it's the same fundamental thing: hiding part of yourself makes it harder for others to get close to you. The bigger the hidden part, the more distance between you.

This certainly isn't the case for all trans people. But I wonder: now that my active transition is nearing its end (vagina dynamics aside, I mainly have to get electrolysis finished, and the rest will just be dilations/HRT for the rest of my life) and I'm finally reaching a point of relative emotional stability for the first time in my life, will I be able to get closer to others? Will I find myself in five, ten years in some emotional turmoil and be able to call someone who I know will help me feel comforted and loved on some essential level?

I don't know. But I think there's more reason now than ever to hope I will.

The Way We Were

Ever since I was a child, I have wanted nothing other than a vagina. I would lie awake at night, fantasizing about its majestic curves, its mysterious crevices, its supple and moist texture. I could imagine nothing hotter than being penetrated by a hard, erect penis, feeling it pound against those beautiful walls deep inside me. I knew that I could not be whole, nay I could not be human without one.

But society was stacked against me. My parents hated it when I wore dresses. I was a boy, they insisted, and that meant I was supposed to play in the dirt with guns and sticks and foosballs or something. Of course I knew better: inside, there was a little girl howling to be let free. But it took me 23 years before I was finally able to build up the courage to say that yes, I truly wanted to be a Vagina American. 

I wanted to be a woman. And what's a woman without a vagina? A man, that's what. I wanted to be anything but a man. I wanted to let the woman trapped inside me out. And I knew that she could only escape through that glorious, flowing opening betwixt my legs. 

But first I had to convince everyone I was really serious. I dressed as a woman for an entire year. It was hard and all, but once my therapist saw I was serious she gave me papers saying that people shouldn't give me shit because I'm mentally ill and it's not my fault. Wearing makeup and a dress felt so freeing! Some people laughed and mocked me, and they still made me use the men's restroom at school. But I could kinda get that, though; I mean, I wasn't really a woman, not yet anyway. I was just some freak. I hadn't earned it.

It was hard. It was really really hard. But that's the price of real womanhood, you know? Well, that and $20,000. I worked really hard to save that money: nothing was more important. And when I had finally saved enough, finally gone through all the tests and therapy, finally proven myself, I made my appointment. It was one of the happiest moments of my life.

As the time got closer, I was scared, sure. But I knew who I wanted to be: a woman. Not a drag queen or a he-she fag or a crossdresser. And that's what a vagina is, ya know? It separates the men from the girls!

Anyway, after so much time, I finally made it to Montreal. In just a few short hours, Dr. Brassard was able to work his magic. And when I woke up? It was like being reborn. I was a women. A real woman. And no one could ever take that away from me.

Now, I'm recovering. And it will certainly take awhile. But after that? I'm done! For all intents and purposes, I'll be just like any other normal woman. All of this “trans” business will be behind me. I can finally just be “me.” And that will be the sweetest thing of all. 

 *** 

In case you haven't already surmised from my subtle and urbane satirical narrative above, this is not going to be a conventional retrospective about Sexual Reassignment Surgery (SRS). If that is what you're seeking, one need only google the term to find countless videos and articles about SRS, most of which will be produced by cis people, for cis people (although the discerning searcher can find trans owned narratives with a bit of work).

As such, if one wants to write about SRS, it's impossible not engage that narrative. Indeed, the vast majority of cis people equate being transsexual to having Sexual Reassignment Surgery. It's a point of fascination, both morbid and mocking, for the culture at large. Increasingly, much of this is well-intentioned: progressive people, in particular, love to see marginalized people become happy with themselves and their identities. But this is undermined by the inordinate focus upon SRS even within these circles: never have I seen celebrations of name changes, of starting Hormone Replacement Therapy (HRT), of even simply coming out as trans that match the congratulatory and celebratory joy from cis people regarding a transsexual person's surgeries. It always has been and remains the most familiar and intriguing aspect of transsexual people's existence for cis people. And that creates a host of problems. 

Because SRS is not just about surgically altering one's genitals to be closer aligned to one's true sense of self. It's about legitimacy, legal, cultural, and social. It's about wealth. It's about those who don't or can't have SRS as much as those who can and do. It's about cis people's deepest fears and suspicions of trans* people. It's about definitions. It's about biology and culture. It's about relationships, sex, and love. It's about “real.” It's about verisimilitude. It's about impossible standards. It's about women, it's about men, and it's about everyone and anyone involved in that inherently limited binary.

I cannot write about this without writing about all of that. And if you think I am angry, then you are right. I am furious. And excited. And hopeful. And terrified. And thankful. And resentful. And a whole host of emotions complicated by the fact that I had quite invasive surgery two weeks ago that will take a year to really recover from.

These feelings, together, do not fit the conventional narrative. And, as such, this exploration is going to make you uncomfortable (and not just because I'm going to go all "nonlinear postmodern" on your beautiful butts). But I want to ask you to engage with that discomfort. Chances are, what you want, what most people want, is to read a story about how I was sad because I was a boy and then I became a girl and then I got surgery and then I became a real girl, and now I'm happy. You want to celebrate with me, unambiguously, to embrace unmitigated positivity. And believe me when I say I appreciate so much about that sentiment. And I will write about that. But I need to challenge it, too. Because the only way this story is coated in unmitigated, celebratory positivity is when we don't want to see anything else. And there is just too much else there.

Hopefully, I can find a way to show a bit of everything.*



[*Well. Almost everything. IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.**]

[[**I mean I'm not showing you my vagina. Which is kind of ironic, because that is what this is all about, right? And yet, you not seeing my vagina is also kind of the point. Isn't that deep? It'll be deeper after I dilate. *drops mic* GOODNIGHT EVERYBODY.]]

On Regret

I used to not regret. I tried to conceptualize every misfortune or mistake in my life as a building block of myself, arguing that as long as the end product was "good," then the path to her had to have goodness too.

And then I transitioned. And since then, I can't help but regret that I didn't do it sooner.

It's not a matter of wishing I did it sooner; I wish, for instance, that I'd gotten a masters degree in counseling instead of secondary education and then built upon that to go to a different PhD program. But I benefited so much from teaching and although where I'm at is not ideal, I think it's a hell of a lot better than a lot of alternatives. And, as a result of my English B.A. and my Teaching M.S., I have perspectives and approaches that I am positive I could not have gained from Psychology alone.

No, this is regret in the sense that I wholeheartedly wish I had done things differently and now there is nothing I can do to change the consequences. One of the worst parts of coming out as trans is that it's somewhat time sensitive. The younger you start Hormone Replacement Therapy, the better your results. If you start it before or during puberty, you can even come quite close to cis-ness (aside from genitals) and you'll grow and develop as your identified sex. But if you don't, your body starts to change in ways that bring you further and further away from that goal, and hormones lose more of their ability to make up for it as more time passes.

But I was too scared and stupid. So instead of trying to figure out how I could be who I needed to be, I spent most of my time trying to figure out how to kill myself. And, as evidenced by my presence here today, I couldn't even figure out how to do that right.

So I'll never have the almost-cis voice. Or the breasts. Or the knowledge. Or the experiences. Or, most importantly, the round and curved face.

And what makes this a regret is that I could have had them. If I had done more research, if I hadn't been as afraid of my father, if I hadn't been as afraid of my peers, if if if. And I know that I'm doing this younger than most transgender women, and I know that my father's programming and abuse wasn't simply a matter of "wishing things were different," and I know that if my society had been more trans friendly I would have done this younger and sooner.

But I can't shake the feeling of wondering what if. And every time I talk to another trans woman who is younger than I, who is prettier than I, who passes better than I, part of me is so envious of her and so angry at myself.

It is, undoubtedly, internalized transphobia and something I need to work on. But it's there. It is, in its self-destructive malice, there.

Dysphormea

I don't know how to start writing this.

I just played dys4ia. It's a cute, succinct, simple game that's mostly autobiography about a transgender woman (the designer of the game) seeking out and going through hormone replacement. It also talks about a fair number of difficult experiences in a "this is hard" kind of way. [I suggest playing it before you keep on reading, if only because it'll have more redeeming value than this post]

After playing it, part of me wanted to say "Fuck this. I started HRT/transitioned while finishing my failure of high school teaching, applying to grad school, being single and all kinds of other shit. And I didn't fucking cry about it."

And sure. Relatively speaking, what the game describes are not monstrous horrors. But that reaction... it's particularly harsh. Especially harsh. It's evidence that there is something more there, deeper that really fucking hurts.

It hurts, but I don't know how to write about it. I don't know how to feel it. Feel it without tears rushing up from the normally-unreachable-depths beneath, feel it without wanting to run away from it in terror. I don't know how to feel how much everything hurts.

It fucking hurts when someone calls me "sir." It hurts when people I've known for years, either friends or family, forget or don't bother to remember my name and pronouns after 1.5 years as Juliet (if they're even still talking to me). It hurts that I pay $70 a week for an hour of getting my face perforated with electric needles to remove my goddamn beard. It hurts that I have to get a letter from my doctor to apply for a passport in my gender. It hurts that my doctor won't proscribe me hormones and no one at UTK wants to try to do routine bloodtests to monitor my levels. It hurts that the only place to get that I can go is incompetent. It hurts that my state's elected officials will, at best, vote against allowing my official documents to reflect my gender identity and, at worst, threaten physical violence against me. It hurts that "gay" is used as a synonym for "LGBT." It hurts that I have to come out to every person I'm romantically interested in and have their ideas about trans people haunt whatever relationship we have. It hurts that I can't shake the feeling that people see me as male. It hurts that I have nightmares where people still think I'm male. It hurts that I have to constantly explain what "cis" means. It hurts that I'm paying tens of thousands of dollars to have a terrifying and invasive surgery which will take me months to recover from to correct what feels like a genetic mistake. It hurts that I'm afraid it won't matter. It hurts that I had to get letters from psychologists with tons of letters behind their names certifying I was insane enough to want this. It hurts that I feel like I'm repulsive not because I'm "ugly" but because I'm "masculine" enough to where I have to say "I think I pass" because I honestly don't know.

It hurts that no one asks. Or that they're so easily deflected on the rare chance they do. It hurts that no one talks about trans people unless I make it an issue. It hurts that I always feel incredibly selfish when I do. It hurts that I don't have a romantic partner to help. That I don't have much of any emotional support to help.

And it hurts that it feels like it's my fault. Because I put on such a convincingly "ok" face and all the myriad of small hurts are swallowed into it. The video game does a great job of demonstrating many of those small hurts. Hurts which, alone, often feel just cutting yourself shaving. But it's one after another after another. And I don't know how to talk about it. I don't have anywhere to talk about it. I don't know what I'd say if I tried to talk about it.

Even this feels like whining. And it probably is. But I don't know, maybe people need to see how much things hurt? Maybe?

I don't know.

Still and Moreso

It's true. I was so nervous when I was going to first meet Juliet, but then the only nervousness was just normal ex relationship stuff. It instantly clicked for me, because you were You, both *still* and *moreso.*

My ex, on what it was like to meet me for the first time a year after we broke up and I was well in the throes of transition [we talked about it the other night, but this happened about a year ago]. I just found it a really sweet way of describing what it's like to watch someone transition.

It's been about two years since we broke up, and I really value the friendship we've since found. I'm quite lucky to have and to have had such caring people in my life.

Fantasies #1

I have never lived alone before for any significant period of time. Before, I've had a roommate or lived with a parent. And that's generally been good; it distracts me, keeping me from thinking or ruminating alone in the dark too much. But now, I live in a single room where I am often alone for many hours each day. And although I can distract myself with my computer for most of that time, there are still always periods where the siren song of my bed, literally one yard away, calls. And once there, I'm at the mercy of fantasy.

My fantasies come in two forms. One, which this entry will focus upon, is the "positive:" my imaginary girlfriends. Sometimes she's a real people, sometimes merely "based upon true stories," sometimes purely ethereal. She's a habit I developed during the long months when I heard no contact from my previous partner. I'd talk to her, feel her, have her hold me as I fell asleep each night. She, of course, is gone. But the habit's continued.

So what happens in these fantasies? Well, unsurprisingly, often sex. But it's not masturbatory, in the traditional sense: I don't physically stimulate my penis (although I have a complicated relationship with the place my vagina would be). Mostly, though, it's pure imaginary narrative.

[the following is explicit, so proceed with caution. Also, the valuations I attach to my lesbian fantasies vs. others are purely based upon my own experiences and not indicative of my feelings towards straight sex in general.]

I'm in bed. I look up, as if she's just walked in. "Hey. I've missed you," I sweetly, coyly say. I don't imagine her response; since I so rarely have a defined person in mind, I can't really extrapolate a personality. But she makes a response, and I just... respond back. It's visceral communication, and sometimes we flirt and sometimes we fight and sometimes I burst out of bed, push her against a wall and inhale a kiss before resolutely kissing down her neck and breasts and stomach and thighs until I'm on my knees tongue between her legs, staring up at her with eager joyful eyes to the backdrop of her moans.

Or, and this one is an almost nightly ritual, I'm lying in bed preparing to sleep. I murmur an apology for going to bed so late, giving her a peck or a long kiss before turning on my side away from her. She follows, after a moment, to my surprise, smoothly gliding her arm around my abdomen and clutching my breasts as I moan.  Sometimes she'll gently move her fingers up and down my spine, sometimes she'll shower my back with slow sweet kisses. Sometimes she'll fuck me from behind with a strapon (or, on the rare occasions she's a he, with his cock), and I will moan and shiver in exultation. We'll finger each other, she'll lick my imaginary cunt, I'll do the same in [consensual] violence or tenderness to her. My pillows and sheets know so very many kisses and caresses.

I hope you'll pardon the explicitness of these fantasies. I mainly detail them because they are so new and joyous. It's only in the past handful of months, if that, that I've really explored fantasies of me having a vagina and having lesbian sex (what little I know if it). When masturbating (penile stimulation), I almost can't help but imagine myself with a penis, so I either focus upon my partner's pleasure or (more easily) fantasize of sexual assault [identifying with the victim; a topic to be explored later].

But these new fantasies? They're vibrant. Simply imagining, with no physical stimulation, feels more physically pleasurable than... almost everything before (a few memorable kisses and one orgasm aside). With a vagina, I feel that I'm desirable instead of forcing someone to engage in an act upon a part of me that inherently taints us both. It's sex as a mutually pleasurable act instead of merely a conduit towards intimacy with some vicarious thrills. It's my entire body alive, for the first time. It is exhilarating simply to imagine my newly formed breasts cupped in greedy hands. It is remarkable to finally get why people like sex on a physical level. And it is transcendent to feel wanted and loved instead of knowing you are but finding a callous wall where those feelings should be.

Sometimes I read to her. Sometimes I rest my head on her chest. Sometimes we talk about our days. And there's sex. And then, when she fades and reality returns, I think "Wow. And all these couples I know get to do this. Every day. How can they not be fucking ecstatic?" And you will tell me it is not all I imagine. You will tell me the thrill dulls. You will tell me there are always complications. And I would agree. But as a person who has felt so dead, your protestations feel like you don't even realize how alive you are. Your body and self are your own, and you're sharing them on a mutually pleasurable, visceral level with another. To me, that sounds like fantasy.

A fantasy I've never realized and fear I never will. So often, those fears creep into the back of my mind, following familiar paths that no longer even bother protesting. A gas leak, a returning infection, a chronic pain. And the darkness and the hopelessness and the distance from All That Living comes back. And then my lover's embrace is a noose, her kisses knives, and I'm giving blowjobs to gun barrels.

But that's for another entry.