phylactery

At the moment I am stuck in some sort of quarantine together with emergency stormblown flatmates. They ended up homeless due to not having communicated with their planned hosts in detail, and I could offer, so I did. Then pandemic struck and now there is no housing market and a call to stay inside and isolate. So I am here with them.

Moreover, the pandemic means hospitals are not scheduling surgeries. Unsurprisingly. So window of uncertainty for SRS just became much larger and pushed forward. Chances of having it by 40 increasingly smaller. This affects me.

I don’t have good words for this emotional state because people say it is not dissociation. Detachment? Nothing feels like it is safe or happy or meaningful. All emotions are kept on hold. I act on them, I act as if I care about myself or others, but it is something like a play I put on because rationally I know it makes sense. I try to numb myself even further by ensuring I work as hard as possible on those things I can do, because that feels… a little less unsafe, a little less intolerable. But all in all, I watch myself and others hurt and it barely moves me. Bitterness and contempt for myself and others, a smile on my lips.

Once more my eyes avoid my body, my thoughts avoid my body. I have no social interest because I don’t want to be observed by others, because there is no acceptable me to observe. Everything is waiting for something else. It is a state of activated dysphoria, brought about by the emerging nearness of possibility of cessation of genital dysphoria then thwarted.

It’s OK. I can deal with it. This is what being detached from everything feels like. I could watch someone die, try to stop it, but not feel so much about it.

I realized on way to therapy that this is why I try to diet so hard now. I can’t fix my anatomy right now, but doing something to improve my body at least keeps away some of the deep, deep grief that comes from the thought of this lifetime being wasted. If I can get otherwise pretty and into shape, I will have that with me for later. Just as any professional successes stay with me for later.

So right now I am basically an anorectic workaholic who avoids social interactions, is largely disinterested in herself or others, and who is dangerously at risk of dependency of anxiolytics; hopefully the new antidepressive meds will kick in and simplify.

edge

I should sleep because tomorrow means travel, needing to be focused, and moreover I must accomplish important work during the way. But I am unable to – even taking an anxiolytic before sleep, I woke and cannot find the peace to sleep more. I must ride it the best I can, like Inanna passing into the Underworld. Putting down what I feel in text at least will help some.

The experience of being a sexual creature in this body is becoming harder and harder to endure. I can’t ignore it fully. Core, I suppose, is that it seems for a variety of reasons that being myself at this time in this body means it is near-impossible for me to receive bodily manifestations of love and lust. This stems from several reasons.

Weight I will only mention in passing. I am still hovering on the upper edge of the normal spectrum of BMI, and while that now means some curves, I still remember lovers telling me their honest feeling that my weight made it less interesting to touch me, that a desire to be with someone more like themselves remained in the background. And of course I cannot hold this against anyone; if we cannot be honest then what does anything matter? I for my part am trying to let myself care about whether my lovers actually attract me, which I have not always, so I should encourage the same in them. There is also that so long as my belly look like this, protruding far beyond my breasts, I feel always a little like a pudgy man more than a woman. I never knew what having a conventionally fit or attractive body was like, and I feel bitter about it. I deserve to know that feeling. So weight loss, at almost any cost, must be one of my priorities, and I can take some solace within the loneliness of the body that I would have to go through that process anyway before I have a body which I can expect many people to want to touch except out of pity. Very well, this is useful.

More importantly, and requiring more effort and attention, are my disgusting genitals. I did have that one single occasions where someone, for whatever reason, licked me, taking care to warm me up, mask my shape, applying pressure where my opening would have been, and who then brought me over; dealt with my fluids so the dysphoria spike did not come, and I could just sink into a relaxation I had not felt in years. I had not thought I could experience this pre-op at all, really, and it brought me hope that perhaps I can. But I am not very interested in this person on almost any level – socially, mentally, physically otherwise, and I should not play with their emotions, and they are not near me.

Perhaps I must accept that as the exception confirming the rule, because nothing like it happened before for many years, nor since. With partners by and large the respective dynamics of each relationship does not have the other having any real drive to touch or please me; each I am sure feels some misplaced guilt or sadness over it but the fact remains, each feels a desire primarily for what I can induce in them, and surely also out of the love I know to be real a wish for me to be happy, but the realities of how complicated I am leaves that wish no space to be expressed within anything resembling spontaneity. I love them each regardless and cherish what we have.

I recall that girl who sought me out to have me top her, met me once and then broke that off based on how my trans-based body uncertainty was a turn-off; I never mentioned it but she said she sensed it. Surely in some sense this shines through to all I am with. My loathing and bitterness over my body spreads like inky taint through empathy and kills feelings of lust towards me. I suppose unempathic individuals might be exceptions, but the reality is, I want only sex and nearness which is fully empathethic, where there truly is love, not with some mechanical stranger. And I know this to be a very tall order.

That girl was cis; I realize increasingly that I cannot relax fully unclothed with any cis person. With cis women I see our anatomies differ and I am in the darkness. With cis men I see them be similar and the same happen. And perhaps with trans people, I trigger their dysphoria by them sensing mine? Post-op girls, for that matter, I also feel tense around – some part of me is so much in awe and envy; I feel their perspective overshadows mine, it is a fearful respect and it makes me almost unable to make moves on them. It’s much like cis girl envy but in its own way more powerful. I deeply hope this will not happen to me in turn when I am post-op, that pre-op trans girls will feel too scared to lick or finger or fuck me. But I push that fear far far away.

Still my body does crave release as all bodies do. Touching myself is not an option, the feeling of loneliness and additionally dysphoria from stimulating myself such as I am becomes too much. I cannot even bring myself to do this to prevent atrophy even if it will help for surgery. I long for somehow someone stimulating me so that I do not have to be the one doing it, as an act of love or devotion or even out of attraction, a wish to make my mind experience another state. There are ways, but all the easiest ones are ones that treat my genitals as though they were male, and then I cannot relax; I have tried this now with two trans girls and it reminds me too much of how my genitals naively are paced. Getting ordinary “blow jobs” and liking them is something men do, my mind tells me in that moment. Though I would never see another girl so.

What remains is essentially just frottage or toys, and partners who are fundamentally passive feel no real drive to use those on me, their interests drift elsewhere, away from my trying to manage freaking out over being reminded of my shape. It simply doesn’t seem like it will happen with anyone, and I don’t have the energy left to try to go out and search for someone with whom it might. I’ve searched for so long for so many things and it never works. Meaningful things don’t happen when you seek to make them happen, within this sphere, they only happen when you do not expect them to.

So barring exceptional cases of people acting unexpectedly, and where still other mismatches remain an issue (as in, looking up casual lovers is no real option since I will just feel lonely in their company since there will be neither connection nor attraction), it seems genital release is basically off the table for me. There remains being pushed far enough from other kinds of stimulation – my nipples are sensitive to pleasure and even more to pain, and pain at least gets me out of my head. To experience pain with someone, I need much less of complex trust and safety and all these other things. It is more realistic to hope for, and I must take renewed steps to ensure I experience it. I need it. I need my body bruised and sore and aching so I can finally relax at least in some way, at least for some little while. This I should try to make happen, though of course it too is complex and not just something I can expect will come to me, or that I can expect to be able to make happen.

Most importantly, I bitterly and urgently and desperately need SRS now. I know it is no magic bullet. It might just take climaxing off the table permanently by loss of nerves, and I can’t expect more people will want to have sex with me post-op than pre-op. But at least I would be able to be open to receive, to ask for, to be naked with in more ways. I would not have to train each new person on what they can and cannot do, would not have to reinterpret and remap all sensations, would actually be able to be naked and just see what happens. Stimulation, while probably less straightforward, would be easier to ask for or move to receive. I need it already. Every day of waiting is a day in a body where asking to be touched is like asking someone to take out the stinking garbage bag – maybe they will, when it is their turn, but their heart will never be in it. Nor mine.

What is now in the way? I do want to apply for insurance coverage. I cannot myself, my psychologist must do it for me. She is in no hurry, no effort between our monthly sessions. She is happy to drag this out, what does she care? That can just keep on and I have no way to push her, no way to force her, because this is still gatekeeping, still something she must sign off on out of paid kindness. Perhaps something will happen next time. But perhaps it will not even work, and the insurer demand the present therapy continue for another year before they consider it. And while the time spent waiting takes place, I still have no date for my surgery, I cannot have one assigned until insurers sign off. So the long waiting list grows longer every day.

I am not sure I can take another year of this. Right now I feel I cannot. I feel like self-harm and crying and darkness. So my only fallback is to schedule it privately. I feel like an idiot for even considering – it costs 28K in total, which I don’t have yet. If I only wait a few years more insurance will cover, perhaps if I am lucky even a few months more. But right now I don’t feel like I have a year, I don’t feel like I can endure this that long.

So what can I do? I have savings of 20K. I can get the Suporn deposit of ca 3K back, and must. I will have to pay 8-10K in home renovation costs this year. Given yearly bonuses, if I save 1K per month, which is my realistic maximum, then I would have 20K free for surgery by end of the year, and another 8K by next August. The first operation is 19K, the second 9K. It would almost work, at least for a date next year, as it is six months between surgeries anyway. But that leaves me entirely without margins or safeties, if there are any unexpected costs or emergencies, or anything ends up more expensive, this plan breaks and I would have to cancel the date.

Perhaps I have to accept that endurance. And accept I must now save as much as I can, and look for the possibility even of loans. And accept I will burn all my savings and backups and margins on this. Because I feel I can’t go on like this much longer. I will do what I must.

lead-to-chrome

The day after my surgery consult I am aware that I still don’t have a definite date set. The procedure will be, they send me a cost model, then I either pay them or present them documentation saying my health insurance will. Thereafter I get a date. And after that I may be offered earlier dates if there are cancellations.

This means the first step is to ensure they actually send me that document (if they have not by early next week, I remind them). And then to ensure the solution is ready. I’ll try both paths; continue budgeting as planned, but also request from my health insurance what they require, and try to get my quirky therapist to write out the documentation those in turn require. She seems not optimistic about it but I have to try. And if she is not helpful enough, then I contact my old therapist once she is back from maternity leave and check if she can do it instead.

Then applying (needing to do so in Sumerian, so will need help, waiting waiting waiting, maybe have it rejected). If rejected it either means I need to continue current therapy long enough for it to count (and I don’t like being dependent on this therapist, really), or go back to the private option. Accounting for hospital stay costs, surgery cost estimates, home repairs, that is a semi-guaranteed possibility by end of next year, though may be possible earlier in different setups.

I’ll do all these things and it will work out. That’s fine. The interesting observation of my mindstate is how the uncertainty of not having a date creeps me the fuck out. It’s a dysphoria manifestation, makes me restless, a sense of a threat somewhere that I must be vigilant towards, an obsessive vigilance and defense need. Just like my life was pre-transition. This is very very useful to see.

The uncertainty itself, the projected expectation that I will have to spend time waiting without knowing when the wait will be over, that is scary. And highlights how my genital dysphoria is channeled. I can even receive some stimulation these days (not too far back, someone was able to make me come by licking me, after giving me enough attention that I didn’t care what anyone touched or saw, just about what I received – first time in a long while I climaxed, and first time in a long time I felt secure enough afterwards to just sink into fuzzy wordless sleepy happiness, fluids probably went in their mouth so did not cause me further dysphoria – they said I tasted like a cis girl squirting, which I was glad to hear – ah, NSFW interjection in parenthesis aside…).

But my sense of peace is predicated on knowing that I’ll soon be changed, knowing that this state is temporary, set to be resolved. Much like my old dysphoria over social gender relieved a little by convincing myself the world would soon change, must change. The mere fact of my anatomy is what bothers me, is intolerable, and until it has been corrected, the best I can do is to ensure I feel as secure as possible on the timeline of that correction.

That is also what had me before; when I freaked out over the Suporn scheduling system. When I delayed all other things for several days of frantic programming just to write a sniper bot to make the scheduling for me (see: https://lost-in-transition.music.blog/2019/03/25/ninshubur-and-the-hidden-moon/ ; https://lost-in-transition.music.blog/2019/03/28/the-battle-belongs-to-the-strong/ ; https://lost-in-transition.music.blog/2019/03/28/the-battle-belongs-to-the-strong/ for that saga). I couldn’t focus on anything else until I knew I did all I could. It’s similar now. A deep restless anxiety. And I even worry it will reduce my efficiency, keep me from working well.

What soothes me, beyond doing all I can when I can? Actually, walking through the streets of morning Zurich (pretty ugly city really), I started up synthwave I’d been sent, and somehow its minimalism (much more minimal, more elevator muzak like, than my usual empowerment music) seems to be particularly effective on background anxiety. Is this its appeal? That is, where more energetic-upbeat or dramatic material helps one push through apathy, this can help one (me) endure some baseline low-level discomfort that I currently cannot otherwise resolve. It’s inobtrusive enough to let my thoughts go anywhere else, for doing anything else, at the same time, but keeps the scared hypervigilant dysphoric beast somewhat focused. I am thankful for it.

dictum dactylo

Have not shaved face for two weeks and still barely any strands. I’m at the last leg now to finish that step. Will see how much is there before electrolysis on the 16th!

But more interesting, even though voice work seems daunting and I fear I have made no progress, I find now that if I try to drop my voice like I would in the past e.g. to do a Nameless One impression or to sing base, it really feels straining and weird and I can’t do it much. So whether I have risen or not, something has happened during this period when I’ve not done formal voicework but just… lived and acted. This makes me hope. My baseline voice may not be what it was two years ago even pitch wise. This makes me happy.

Also emotions are wonderful and something is happening which I did not at all expect. Nothing is certain but wishes emerge inside me and if the world and the other will let me, I think I want to make them reality. We evolve. We become real. We are alive.

cog hack soft join

OK, that was not really expected but quite delightful. Finding myself out of the confines of my head and into meaningful communication and interaction and understanding and then tied down to a bed and getting slapped and spanked and clawed and having hot wax dripped on me. Then being held and hugged. Begging for mercy and feeling centered. Feeling really good today, relaxed, at peace. 🙂

grip

It really feels like my life is on hold until I have a surgery date. I can’t force myself to eat healthily because it’s like I feel I’m holding my breath and my spoon supply is low as a result. Like I’m waiting for a test result for something dangerous and crucial.

ninshubur and the hidden moon

So, I couldn’t let it go and I walked the rest of the way and coded up a virtual machine that polls the Suporn surgery calendar every two minutes. If parsing doesn’t break when they update next it will automatically select an available date based on my preferences and mail to request it.

Having a date feels very very major a need now. It’s the thing I turn to when I feel tired or sad. I long for it. I feel like a girl whose pregnancy test turned up negative, and who will keep trying until it is not. It’s a painful uncertainty, by contrast of the certainty of my longing to leap headfirst into the whole of the procedure and use the momentum, the gravity, as a tool and excuse to make other changes to my life and habits.

Just as I wrote this, got other communication from them on another question (re: hair removal being OK), and they say new dates will soon come. Curious on whether the parser will break (worried that it will ruin my chances if it sends them an embarrassing email). Excited to see. Really centering on this now.

Otherwise tired and headachy, next steps will be coffee and regular work-y programming. Need to stay strong so my life can be prepared for what comes. I.e. need to be ahead of my plans so I can rest from them later.

craze

Had a bit of a breakdown. Of course being overworked and underslept is part, makes me less containment-capable. But I think this is more interesting.

Having started to schedule SRS I run into the problem that the surgeon I decided on has no waiting list. Meaning my only option is to watch the calendar to request dates as they come online. Twice now other people were before me when that happened, in a matter of hours.

This freaks me the everliving fuck out. I panic-worry that I’ll just wait and wait and never get a date and that uncertainty is intolerable. Basically it’s tolerable only if I know I’ve done everything.

This is dysphoria. This is a deep need to finally fix my genitals. It’s desperate now because only now when I decided, do I let myself actually want it, dare believe it can happen. So I’m fully and extremely on edge for it.

What I need is to be able to send the clinic an email from my gmail the minute a suitable date appears. This means I need to poll the site every few minutes. It would have worked from my office workstation but that has no internet connectivity and won’t until at least Monday. Too long. My old lab servers would work but there I can’t install the libraries needed for pip needed for the google mail API, because I can’t sudo. So now I’m reading up on Google’s VM services. If I can access a virtual linux where I am root, then I can set this up.

I then need a cron job calling the Suporn calendar web scraper I wrote earlier this week, some surrounding logic, and the python gmail API to send the email. I’ll probably end up setting this up rather than waiting. I need to know I have done all I can to secure my path to the SRS I need as soon as I can.

I know I’m being overstressed and irrational, but on some level this is still constructive. But I’ll also try to just rest. I’ll be saner tomorrow. And hopefully in possession of a tool that will let me secure a surgery date as soon as possible, having learned several new tech platforms to do it.

Feeling envy, jealousy – cis women get to have anatomy like I need to without going through all this. Cried a lot earlier tonight once I got home. But one way or another I proceed. Nothing will ever stop me for long. I’ll prove that.

staggra

Epiphanies come quickly these days one after another. Experience is so intensive and it shifts. My life has weird dynamic ranges. I go from the very detailed or the very obscure to the very high level. In the past weeks I hung out in squats and witnessed the Babylon arch-Chancellor inaugurate something. I hang out with drifters and philanthropists and teenagers and medical bosses, and am at once a patient and part of the treatment infrastructure. I really am spanning systems at this point, in one way of witchery.

By way of the less impressive watch tool, I found Suporn dates in November opened up this morning. I’ve been dazed all day since, but I emailed. I expect someone else requested them before me, but it lets me know I must escalate, accelerate, proceed.

And if I get a November date, that is less than nine months ahead. Almost nothing. I feel like someone who just stopped using contraceptives, still not expecting a pregnancy so soon even though she planned for it, set it in motion. Like the process falls out of your control and it’s time to struggle to get all in place. But I don’t know yet. It’s like I wait for a pregnancy test. It may well be negative still.

Today I didn’t shave and didn’t put on foundation, but still went to another inauguration ceremony and talked to people. I feel individual hairs but don’t see them. Need to let them grow until I see them, to see colour. This is less scary now. As is being out and social.

Core to that is, I believe on an emotional level that I either pass for cis or am read as trans. I don’t expect to be misgendered or parsed as cis male. Surely I am clocked often. But at the same time, I know on some level I have passing privilege now, to some extent. I am treated better than some of my sisters because some of my changes went quicker, some of my starting points were better. Increasingly I have to remember that also. Still really wondering how often I am not clocked. I’m really curious about this.

grind

It’s not a great day. I think I stress dangerously clear to burnout. Particularly one task (start/finish recrunch of all consortium data) has been delayed so much it physically has been difficult to start it. I’ve not had that before, something anxiety disturbing executive capacity. I need to finish that, temporarily let go of all other duties, and just restore tonight. Eventually.

Suporn clinic accepts my Chettawut recommendation letters. So I am one step closer still!

Drew blood again today to check if levels are as they should with gel regime + some progesterone. So I got out for that. Decided to not be as afraid of the sting – after all, I’ll have IV needles in me within a year from now, not to mention deeply deeply invasive cuts into muscle and skin and nerves, and so many surfaces being raw and healing all at once. It’s time to kick my phobia of needles. I still looked away but it really was easier.