The past two nights I've had strange nightmares. The nightmares themselves had very typical content (my ex being distant while in a great deal of peril & me teaching a class and losing control of it while my voice doesn't work), but the strange part of them was that when I woke up, I wanted to go back into them to finish them. That's a stark contrast from most nightmares, where they leave my heart aching and a deep sadness bubbles up that I can only find in the twilight between waking and sleeping. These both felt unfinished, as if I had more to do in them. And I kind of wonder what that means.
The beginning of the school year is always stressful, and this certainly look to be the busiest I've ever had: teaching a new class at UTK, leading the high school Sunday School at church, doing my presdissertation, taking my own courses, having nine clients, co-chairing a subcommittee for the LGBT Commission, organizing Trans 101 content to put online, organizing a Trans Day of Remembrance, recovering from surgery/dilating multiple times a day, etc. I get why I'm stressed. And when I'm stressed, I have nightmares.
But why do I feel like I want to go back inside them? Do I want closure? Am I starting to feel like I have the power to effect change that I couldn't before? Certainly part of me is afraid that teaching college will produce similar results to when I taught high school; I have so many nightmares about when classes where I was the sole person in charge would just get out of control, where I could feel the students sharpening their knives and jabbing jabbing jabbing as more and more blood flowed. And I don't know that I'll fully move on from S until I have someone else I can love.
But I guess I'll take it as a positive, that I feel like I'm better able to fight my dragons as opposed to being ravaged by them. I guess we'll find out how true that is on Thursday.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Thursday, August 16, 2012
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.
"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.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, August 6, 2012
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.
Friday, August 3, 2012
Questioning Self Worth
I've been working on establishing self-worth for myself for quite sometime. Much of that's been figuring out why it's so low (abusive alcoholic father, being trans, not finding fulfillment in work) and taking steps to try to change (distancing self and appropriately categorizing relationship with father, transitioning, getting admitted to program on path to ideal career). And, compared to even a year ago (much less four or five), I'm doing markedly better.
However, what I find myself struggling with now is maintaining that sense of self-worth consistently. While there may be intermittent moments where I feel that I'm a person who can be loved, can be desired, and should be respected, it's difficult for me to consistently foster those feelings for very long. At this point, I honestly think I have a pretty good understanding of why and how I feel. What I need is a way to internalize that understanding, to believe it instead of just being able to abstractly explain it.
So my question(s): Do you feel like you have a healthy sense of your own self-worth? Have you always had it? If you haven't, what did you do to gain it and maintain it? If you're still working on it, what's been particularly helpful for you thus far?
As always, your contributions are incredibly appreciated.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Guilty of Dating While Trans
[In response to this Feministe post, responding to a "Dear Prudie" advice column about whether a relative should out her trans cousin to the man her cousin is dating.]
I'm pretty sure I got rejected a week ago for being trans by someone on okcupid. And it was especially irksome because the woman was awesome: really into all kinds of different social justice, knew about cissexism, seemed really ambitious and compassionate. She was enthusiastic and engaged, and then she read that I was trans and she... wasn't. When I saw she'd answered that "trans people ought to disclose their status in messages before meeting" (coupled with a note about her "grappling with the cotton ceiling,") I knew that it wasn't going to work out.
And sure, online dating sucks etc. But I think it was one of the first times someone else really made me feel directly ashamed and disgusting. I mean, certainly, trans women are repulsive on an existential level to a great many people. But this was a direct rejection from someone who really seemed like she ought to know better. It was the first time I'd ever even considered not being so out all the time, because if even the folks who are progressive social justice activists and sympathetic to the abstract cause of my rights feel, on a visceral level, that I'm really just a dude in disguise... How else am I even supposed to get the chance to show them I'm not?
I won't hide it, of course; being trans is too much a part of my identity and my politics. But it reminded me of parts of Kiese Laymon's gawker essay TNC posted, and how this sort of prejudice sticks with you and poisons you. How everytime a character jokes about the obligatory "tranny hooker" being "really a dude" it stings me. How I still feel like it's charity when people are attracted to me. How being trans feels like a stain I just can't get out. And I wonder how the hell I'm supposed to find and keep that sense of self-worth when it's so frequently reinforced that I ought not to have it.
Because when trans issues are framed in any kind of mainstream discourse? It's all about protecting cis people. Bathroom panic about scary men-dressed-as-women molesting cis women on the toilet aside, I've frequently seen people compare having sex with a trans woman who's not out being akin to rape. (And, of course, the ones who have sex with us when we're out are primarily perverts). Not to mention that it doesn't occur to Prudie for one moment that if that woman's cousin outs her, it might result in a beating or murder. We're just "living in a dream world" in thinking we're real women like the rest of you, and everyone needs to be saved from our delusion.
It weighs on you. Eats at you. And it makes it all the more difficult to believe that anyone would truly want you. Because, at the end of the day, the stain remains. And, in the eyes of most people, no amount of scrubbing will ever remove it.
I'm pretty sure I got rejected a week ago for being trans by someone on okcupid. And it was especially irksome because the woman was awesome: really into all kinds of different social justice, knew about cissexism, seemed really ambitious and compassionate. She was enthusiastic and engaged, and then she read that I was trans and she... wasn't. When I saw she'd answered that "trans people ought to disclose their status in messages before meeting" (coupled with a note about her "grappling with the cotton ceiling,") I knew that it wasn't going to work out.
And sure, online dating sucks etc. But I think it was one of the first times someone else really made me feel directly ashamed and disgusting. I mean, certainly, trans women are repulsive on an existential level to a great many people. But this was a direct rejection from someone who really seemed like she ought to know better. It was the first time I'd ever even considered not being so out all the time, because if even the folks who are progressive social justice activists and sympathetic to the abstract cause of my rights feel, on a visceral level, that I'm really just a dude in disguise... How else am I even supposed to get the chance to show them I'm not?
I won't hide it, of course; being trans is too much a part of my identity and my politics. But it reminded me of parts of Kiese Laymon's gawker essay TNC posted, and how this sort of prejudice sticks with you and poisons you. How everytime a character jokes about the obligatory "tranny hooker" being "really a dude" it stings me. How I still feel like it's charity when people are attracted to me. How being trans feels like a stain I just can't get out. And I wonder how the hell I'm supposed to find and keep that sense of self-worth when it's so frequently reinforced that I ought not to have it.
Because when trans issues are framed in any kind of mainstream discourse? It's all about protecting cis people. Bathroom panic about scary men-dressed-as-women molesting cis women on the toilet aside, I've frequently seen people compare having sex with a trans woman who's not out being akin to rape. (And, of course, the ones who have sex with us when we're out are primarily perverts). Not to mention that it doesn't occur to Prudie for one moment that if that woman's cousin outs her, it might result in a beating or murder. We're just "living in a dream world" in thinking we're real women like the rest of you, and everyone needs to be saved from our delusion.
It weighs on you. Eats at you. And it makes it all the more difficult to believe that anyone would truly want you. Because, at the end of the day, the stain remains. And, in the eyes of most people, no amount of scrubbing will ever remove it.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
SRS FAQ
These are some questions that people have wondered, so I thought I'd start a post to answer these and more. If you're wondering anything, feel free to ask about it below.
Hopefully! I mean, I wouldn't want to let your mom down now, would I? With the penile-inversion technique, the surgeon keeps the nerve endings from part of the glans in the penis intact and essentially creates a clitoris. Most women, barring complications, are able to orgasm post-op although it may take some time before full sensation returns to the area (and, of course, degrees of pre-op sensitivity differ too).
Hell, there's even some degree of lubrication for some women from the urethra, depending upon how much lubrication the penis tended to create before.
- "What the hell do you do all day?"
Well, mostly I lie in bed naked and stick things in my vagina.
[It's not as exciting as it should be.]
I lie in bed because it hurts to sit without my invalid ring and even then it's generally uncomfortable after awhile (fortunately the toilet isn't painful at all).
I'm naked because air drying is generally recommended, my mom doesn't care, and pants/underwear are kind of uncomfortable while I'm still swollen in general. (The swelling is supposed to subside within the first four months, so I won't know what the "finished product" looks like for quite some time).
I dilate four times a day. Take two Sitz baths (put some soap in water and soak for ~10 minutes). Douche twice. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.
- "What the hell's dilation?"
Dilation is where I put plastic rods in my vagina and hold them there. One of the "unique features" of the trans vagina is that you're creating a space of nothing where something used to be. As such, the body wants to heal upon itself in the space. If you don't artificially keep it open by dilating, the vagina will close up which, you know, would be bad (in addition to kind of defeating the point of the whole 'surgery' thing).
Dilating, fortunately, isn't uncomfortable for me most of the time. It's difficult at first; the muscles get tense, so the dilators don't go all the way in easily. I have to really focus upon relaxing and maneuvering to get them as far as they'll go (about 4.25"-4.5," which is a bit below the average for the surgery but because I highly doubt I'll need to accommodate anything aside from fingers and the dilators' more fun-loving second cousins, I'm not too concerned). The maneuvering is frustrating and uncomfortable, but once they're in it's just a matter of listening to something until I need to switch to the larger rod or stop.
Overall, it takes about 45 minutes to an hour including setup, cleanup, and positioning. The frequency is what's most obnoxious: I'll get one done, eat a meal, and it's practically time for another. Fortunately, the frequency gradually decreases the further you get from surgery (schedule is here), but I will be required to dilate once a week for the rest of my life or risk it closing. So, you know, that's fun. (Penetrative vaginal intercourse can count, though. Which will make for an awesome pickup line: "Hey baby. My vagina's about to collapse and only you can save it. Wanna be my heroine for the night?")
- "Why Montreal?"
So, the penile-inversion technique means that, contrary to popular belief, the penis is not "chopped off" but instead inverted using the scrotum for much of the vagina. This can require a skin graft for some trans women whose penises are not large enough (and, regardless of initial size, after years on antiandrogens/estrogen and possibly no erections, this might be a real possibility).
Unfortunately, scrotums be hairy, yo. Most American doctors recommend.require genital electrolysis to remove the hairs. Dr. Brassard in Montreal removes them himself by cautherizing them. The American doctors advice electrolysis because it's the only way to be absolutely sure. But I've had really poor results with electrolysis and I didn't know how to find someone in Knoxville to do the genital version so Montreal seemed a lot easier. So too, the Montreal clinic has reputable aftercare and since I was going alone I thought that'd be an asset. [Thailand is the country that does the most in the world, but I didn't want to be that far from home alone and I also didn't want to be that far from the surgeon in case I needed to go back for some reason].
The cost and, honestly, the distance was pretty comparable to most of the other top places in America.
- "Can you orgasm?"
Hopefully! I mean, I wouldn't want to let your mom down now, would I? With the penile-inversion technique, the surgeon keeps the nerve endings from part of the glans in the penis intact and essentially creates a clitoris. Most women, barring complications, are able to orgasm post-op although it may take some time before full sensation returns to the area (and, of course, degrees of pre-op sensitivity differ too).
Hell, there's even some degree of lubrication for some women from the urethra, depending upon how much lubrication the penis tended to create before.
But for now, I just have to wait and see. (Not gonna lie: I'm pretty excited. Since, you know, I can't get unexcited. Since, like, it... anyway, next question)
- "How did you pay for SRS?"
So, SRS is expensive. Well, let me qualify that: SRS that in Canada or the USA with reputable doctors is expensive. After travel costs and paying for therapists to judge me insane enough to qualify for letters, I paid about $20,000. For someone who's never made over $13,000 a year, that's a substantial amount of money.
For better or worse, instead of going to a private college with a $40,000/year tuition, I went instate to the University of Tennessee which paid me to go. However, as my grandparents and mother had saved up some money to help me pay for college as I was growing up, they charitably gave me that money anyway. This, combined with spending very little money on much of anything and working pretty consistently throughout college, left me with a fair surplus once I graduated.
So instead of going to a highly-regarded private school and leaving with a fair amount of debt, I went to UT and got a vagina. Worth the tradeoff? Meh. But it does let me say that my vagina was partially subsidized by the state of Tennessee.
If you have other questions, about the surgery or being trans or anything, please don't be afraid to ask in the comments below!
- "How did you pay for SRS?"
So, SRS is expensive. Well, let me qualify that: SRS that in Canada or the USA with reputable doctors is expensive. After travel costs and paying for therapists to judge me insane enough to qualify for letters, I paid about $20,000. For someone who's never made over $13,000 a year, that's a substantial amount of money.
For better or worse, instead of going to a private college with a $40,000/year tuition, I went instate to the University of Tennessee which paid me to go. However, as my grandparents and mother had saved up some money to help me pay for college as I was growing up, they charitably gave me that money anyway. This, combined with spending very little money on much of anything and working pretty consistently throughout college, left me with a fair surplus once I graduated.
So instead of going to a highly-regarded private school and leaving with a fair amount of debt, I went to UT and got a vagina. Worth the tradeoff? Meh. But it does let me say that my vagina was partially subsidized by the state of Tennessee.
If you have other questions, about the surgery or being trans or anything, please don't be afraid to ask in the comments below!
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