mount point

Things are heavy but what else is new?

Arriving at the conference hotel I’d felt good about my presentation all day, though I was tired and irritable. The receptionist greeted me with a “Hello… (pause) … sir.”. I mumbled by “It’s madam, actually”, don’t think I got a response. I smiled emptily and checked in and went to my room, then had waves and waves of body loathing staring at my face wondering what was wrong, writing despairing messages to loved ones, tweeting, and leaving an unsatisfied review. Cried and worked and delayed rest feeling shocked.

They tried to knock on my door, or phone me, later. Then left a letter of apology in my room with some chocolates. Fairly patronizing letter not getting the point, and sweet milk chocolate is not quite what I want most to be tempted by as a vegan on a diet. Never mind that though. I suppose I shall have to talk to them and try to explain at least a little. I am not offended or angry, I believe in no malice here. I’m just hurt, as a consequence of honest misgendering, for what it implies about my misshapen carcass body and disgusting voice. They weren’t offensive, they were careless, and I was hurt. So would they be if they were in trans modality. It will be less work emotionally to try to tell them so I can do my political duty, then I’ll just leave that chocolate behind. I have a surgery to starve for.

Understanding now better how oppressed groups experience pressure to perform emotional labour to soothe the guilt of those who hurt us.

So on that surgery, I keep moving and preparing but I feel messed up because everything happens at once and I’ve had no time to let anything sink in. I have to, so I can process. I have to let myself rest so I can do that.

It was shocking to read those worst-case scenarios but I am beginning to reach an equilibrium again, perhaps.

Someone described her Chonburi organ (the sensate area inside the vestibule left from the glans) as looking “like a penis stuck in there, scaring away any cis lesbians”. One photo I saw looked weird but others do not, and really this is a selling point of the method, it lets material be maximally reused. I can think of it as the hidden part of the cis female clitoris. I think any technique not retaining nerves would scare me more than this does. And if it looked that bad, then the Suporn clinic would not be so renowned.

On the other end, someone described her clitoris as being not very sensitive at all. Ultimately, this I know is a risk. But it must depend on individual factors. I can’t see any way in which any other surgeon could do this better, or more consistently.

So scratch those two worries.

One said she hurt whenever she grew aroused. This would be swelling somehow. She noted that some other women who had been growers rather than showers before had similar issues. This is again something hard to address. It can’t be that common, and while it probably depends on how much erectile tissue is removed/retained, that also is not something that speaks against the Suporn clinic. Chettawut is said to remove more, but I won’t go to him because of how he drops you if you have complications. Mesopotamia are said to retain material causing the “bulbus”. So here, I don’t really feel it keeps me back. It may end up being an issue, but I can’t reduce the risk and I’m hoping I would be able to deal with it if it goes poorly. Honestly the description sounded much like vestibulitis, hurting while swelling, so it may be an infection or skin thing also. Can I prevent it? Not really. The risk is there with the surgeons I consider.

Major worry is the issue with dilation. Scar contraction, granulation tissue, so that getting to depth is painful and takes long. Some needing much time even years post-op. That is one of the greatest fears, that I will find that down the line I still spend lots of painful and boring time dilating, so much that it detracts from my work or relationships, not just during recovery but thereafter.

This fear is real, it happens to people. I know that it can happen. If it does, I can wait and see, but not too long. I’d have to seek help, removing scar or granulation tissues. For that I’d need to go back to Thailand, or void my warranty and have another work on me. It might not work. There exists a worst-case scenario where I’d have to let it grow closed and be no-depth, if I heal bad and have no life. I’d mourn it like the lost uterus or XX karyotype or girlhood. I don’t want that. But surely it can’t be more than a fraction where it goes so bad?

It can still happen. I’d have to set a time limit after which I am not OK with trying more. And I wonder if the Mesopotamian “combined method” which uses partial inversion heals easier? Then again, that uses urethra inside, there will still be stitches to stretch. I don’t think I’m so afraid I’d refrain from the Suporn method because of this.

So I just have to be aware of my fallbacks. In the worst case, after years of trying, let my vagina close up. Or go back to Thailand or get Mesopotamia or another to help remove scars. But mostly, try my very best to avoid it, make the chance low.

That’s probably the greatest worry. The fistula worry is grand and terrible, but if I stay two months in Thailand then surely it would show up if it was the case? Though I might not know. But if it does happen, I would go back to Thailand – I must budget for that. It will still be cheaper than Mesopotamia privately. It also happened more than they said – maybe even no less often than in my native country. But I somehow trust that it can be fixed if it does, just like when giving birth. The worry of not detecting it early enough; not sure how scary that is. Significantly but I don’t have the energy for that fear? Fear that it will happen if I dilate carelessly, in the pushing-through stage. That is a worry. And a reason not to be made too deep. And to be careful dilating. So mostly it speaks to the above concern on dilation becoming a big issue.

What else? Someone experienced granulation issue so bad it needed revision. Some had wound separation. These… I think I can get through these.

Someone had urinary incontinence which is extremely scary, as is having to wear pads from incomplete healing for very long. The latter goes back to the dilation/healing part. But the former, if that is lasting somehow, would need treatment. But that sort of treatment I think it is known how it is carried out.

So how do I actually feel? Afraid I won’t be thin and healthy enough by December but I can deal with that. Super scared for the poor healing outcome, more than from graft rejection, more than from the fistula or incontinence, because those latter all are so relatively unlikely, and likely to be already discovered in Thailand and dealt with. Scared of chronic pain and sensitivity loss but don’t see any other surgeon being less risky there.

So it comes down to healing/dilation difficulty vs non-inversion method in the first place. I am guaranteed to regret an inversion vagina, whereas I will only regret a lost vagina in the unlikely case of persistent bad healing. So that does not hold me back.

Then that leaves me with the fear of how to go about it if I need help. Some hours by train away, or a long and expensive flight away.

That in turn balanced against cost and how long it will take to wait, or more to the point, how long until details are certain.

I seem to calm down. It’s like when I was talking with several loanbrokers, or several employers. Feeling bad over that. And it was scary to decide on a loan and apartment.

I may end up just having the surgery with Bank. We’ll see. The need is to know what to do when anything goes wrong. I probably will do as I planned and continue to prepare for.

There was a reception and I drank lots of wine. Then I spoke to the hotel representative. It was OK. Maybe they don’t understand but maybe the understand a little better now. I hope. They may do better with the next guest. I’ll eat their chocolate and drink their complementary drink, and I’ll be fine.

And the next hotel where I am misgendered I will do the same, and so on, until I no longer am.

ogre battle

No, cisgender woman in FB group who comments in response to me to ask what I mean by misgendering, I will not explain it to you. Not when you likely are asking in bad faith and hoping to open a can of worms. Not when you seem to have all the indications of being either conservative, a TERF, or both.

More generally, my policy of not needing to debate or comment when it’s not necessary seems to be good. Usually applies only to men but there will be women also I must ignore, apparently.

And I will not debate my identity. It is not up for question.

track and trail

Things sort of moving. Had part of the evening making me note/recognize acceptance; I was invited by a senior clinician collaborator to come see his child sing for an xmas choir performance; it was a supremely bourgeuois thing and I was clearly welcome in all my corset-wearing glory. I felt that I am not per definition shut out of any of these social contexts. That gladdens me.

Later evening xmas party also good, except that one person used “he” pronouns about me to my face. I actually aggressively corrected her this time, pointing out I was trans, and I am not sure she understood, but I do believe that the act of correction bolstered me some (the alcohol helped too). Still feeling despondent over this. What can I do more than dress and groom as femme as I do? Voice train, for one – this was in a noisy pub and really it is in those environments my voice is worst as I strain to be heard. Need to pub hang more with friends as an explicit practice opportunity.

Then just need to wait and hope that further weight loss combined with hormones will shift my facial features more, and further weight gain combined with hormones then will give me curves that makes me better parsed. If none of this helps, then I guess I must be more drastic, but for now, I still have faith this might get me somewhere.

On other notes, for Chettawut surgeries, referral letters are valid up to two years. So I will get those as soon as I can, and have surgery within that time span (will I? I think perhaps I will). Get body, home and office logistics, family acceptance of risks, therapist referrals, and finances all in order as soon as I can, and when that is there, check if my mind is ready enough, and if so then schedule to have it done. This is weird perhaps but probably the truth of what I will do.

Worrying that perhaps I move too fast, “should” I spend 3-4 years on HRT before having SRS? It’s not that I feel my wish (I have one apparently) will change, I really don’t believe that. It’s that I feel I “should” somehow be careful, same reason it was hard for me to accept that it was OK for me not to want children, there is surrounding societal expectations/pressures that I must be super careful to avoid being wrong about my wishes, even if nothing indicates I would be.

EDIT: Also, back on the progesterone cycle now. For whatever reason, I really do feel it bolsters me emotionally, there is some sort of… airy acceptance to my worries, like it’s not so scary, so urgent, all of it. I sleep better and I find it easier to be mindful, feel less haunted. Anecdata of course, that would need placebo control (another study we should conduct – progesterone double-blind placebo cycling in on-HRT trans women), but functionally and pragmatically, this is better for me.

cracks

Sad and painful reminder. While most people seemed to gender me correctly so far at the airport, the security check people were surprised at my surprise at asking me to be checked by the male attendant (I then said I was trans and the woman checked me instead), and some other person seemed basically not to like me.

Checking by mirror reveals why; having had laser in the morning I have mottled skin, no foundation, only eye and lip and eyebrow makeup. Clearly it is not sufficient, it’s not just stubble, I really do need the smoothness of foundation to look reasonably like the woman I am.

This saddens me. I hope at some point somehow the changes from HRT will let me get past the need of that Gaussian sub-layer.

Feeling sad but not catastrophically so. Just the average dysphoria-trigger living-in-a-graveyard downs.

loathing

After a few days of unconditional acceptance at the conference with no issues at all I was sir:d by the lady selling me coffee, despite expressing femme. I tried to speak up but I mumbled and she did not here. Next time I must be harsh and ask until a get a response what the person says. I will do this, will spellbound myself to it. That is a Crone act too. It’s impolite and hurtful but revenge and sharp response is of the Crone.

It must be because the last few days were so good that this hurts now so much. One person did misgender me back then but for her I can think it was habit. Not so here. What’s wrong with my despicable corpse of a body? Holding back tears. Is it the face? The forehead? Probably face length and jaw. Is that even possible to fix? Can more years of hormones do anything? Can surgery? Obsessing, spiraling, hurting deeply. Reached out on instagram. Blogging. Reaching out to loved ones. Disproportionate response. In pain.

What is wrong? How do I find out what is wrong? How do I fix it? For the first time I’m seriously considering facial surgeries. It really is true, the better things get for baseline, the more vulnerable I am.

I hate my form and my features right now, at this minute. Loathing this corpse. Wanting to cry but I don’t have the time.

singulata

So, meeting where a lot of the speakers preceding me show the header from (Deadname et al., Nature 2015) because it was relevant. A little surreal, since I also talk at the meeting and so everyone sees my transitioning, but no-one asks or comments. All in all good, I want this, it helps me know they know me as trans and accept me, and it increases my visibility. But some people misgender me occasionally with pronouns and it hurts every time, leaves me reeling, keeping active. Most do not. For every rare hint of weird looks in the ladies’ room, there is a rare event of someone striking up conversation.

All in all good. This is me. I move forward.

Then the damn hotel sends me a receipt addressed to fucking Monsieur Newname Lastname after I asked them to mail it. Is it really that bad, so that random hotel clerk spontaneously believe I must be a cis man despite dress and purple lipstick? Is my voice so deep, my face so long, something manly in my manners? What flaw drove this, is it something I can fix? Not knowing what it is, I feel so helpless. Certainly a service person would not waste time actively misgendering, so it must be the honest belief, that the thought I might be a trans woman does not even strike them? What sort of monumental masculinity is this, that overpowers everything else?

I exaggerate and sarcast, because I am bitter. I really cannot tell myself how I come across, and all my kindly loved ones just see me as they know I want them to see me. So I have no idea how strangers see me, but this makes me really deeply sad and ruminating on what could be wrong. I focus on what could be wrong because I must focus on something fixable. I’ll do anything, but what even can I do?

claw marks burn scars broken glass

Randomly sir:red by flight steward. Have full make-up with eye shadow, pink lipstick, rainbow coloured nails. Hair in updo, long dangly earrings. Pink scarf, orchid purple short summer dress and high heels. As a service person on a flight he did not misgender deliberately, so it must be something about me which screams manhood deeply enough that none of the rest registered. He had not heard my voice, so must still be my looks. Feeling empty, looking around me full of sad and panicky thoughts, calm inside like a sad serpent at the bottom of a dried out river.

What are my chances? What are my flaws? What parts of this despicable shell of meat are even possible to fix? I know it’s not been long, I’m six months into puberty. There can be more rebuilding happening. I just need to break down so I can build up. Atrophy more muscle, break down more fat and tissue. Need to remember this feeling, this pain, need to let it drive me. If I lose as much mass as possible, anywhere, any tissue (except of course nervous system, because I need that to be me), then I can rebuild under the right developmental signals, quite possibly the right epigenetics. I need to break myself down and rebuild. I can only hope for this, and bear in mind this really is early. Everyone says this is what they experienced it. Just was not expecting it right now.

What else is it? Shape of facial bones? Forehead, length of face, nose? I thought I looked right in the mirror this morning. Jaw, somehow, side view? Forehead bossing? I don’t want to be one of those sad, sad people who keep listing anatomical measurement terms to explain their sadness; I see exactly the same lingo from incels and sad trans girls and I want nothing to do with it. I’ll just have faith, continue what I do, and then in a few years, if still wrong, ask for facial surgery advice.

This is sad. Then again, here is where I start. Here is where I start from.

I should have asked him what he said, corrected. I would want to. But in the moment I didn’t think of it. Need to try to make it a habit.

Wanted to update though on other things anyway during the flight. Spending time by the coast let me relax requirements to myself; hanging out in exercise gear (so long as I wore the sports bra it was OK), not showering as often, no foundation, only sunblock, eyebrow pencil, kayal and mascara. Light lipstick. I could feel present in a “casual” sense, cycled, jogged, swam and suntanned. Wore a bikini for first time and felt great, not self-conscious. Went grocery shopping in this summer vacation mode. All this may seem shallow but actually is important: I need to experience and reclaim areas of my life while readjusting my self-perception within those areas. By doing so I can more contexts where I can stay at peace within myself.

In a way the whole journey to the summer house was one – such an important place for me throughout my childhood, and I’ve now reclaimed it as S, spent time relaxing as S. I now know what that feels like, I can do so and remember it. Similarly having family see me so mattered. And I went through my old boxes, threw out binders of old dysphoria-fuelled notes and scary papers, and repackaged other things. Saw my photos from 17 and 18 and noting how much more similar to my younger sister I still was. All in all, very good.

Last, spent time with several trans woman friends in different contexts. Ending up very self-conscious of my voice, for I still keep dropping it almost all the time, and it really does bother me a lot. Saw some girls with great voices who have tiny scars on their neck, making me curious if there is surgery that helped them? I would probably still not do that. I fear losing my voice more than I do my sexual function (fascinated to note as I type it that it likely is true), I am a singer and someone who can console or coach others. So training is where it is. Here too I’ve been lazy. I must be diligent. I must escalate.

It’s like in so many other things I did that turned out to work. I must take a challenge fully and clearly seriously, and approach it with overkill as my goal. That too is who I am.

Feeling privileged and narcissistic and shallow and dysphoric and all sorts of things. Meh. It will be good. Much love!

symbol of torment

Trans alignment not managed by transition is sometimes lethal. We go insane and take our lives, for example. I never will. But right now I understand those who do very well, and my current woes are even very minor, compared to what others have to go through.

My home country would formally let me change my legal sex with little trouble, I am quite sure – I fulfil medical criteria according to established international standards. They changed the rules a few years back to be more inclusive. From previously requiring citizenship for legal sex change, now residency is. This is a step up for everyone except for expats like myself. Because it means that while my application likely would be approved, I am not allowed to file it. So my passport has a little “M” in it, much like a malign melanoma forms a little dot on the skin of some other unlucky person.

Being the squares that they are, this means my country of residency – banks, public departments etc. – often claim they must register me as a man, meaning they will use male honorifics in communication etc., and moreover, means that my interacting them feels like a tacit endorsement of the misgendering.

How does that feel? Signing feels like taking on shackles, and the skin and flesh rots to the bone where they touch. Seeing the wrong label feels like that is about another person, like something I cannot bear to look at directly, like a wrongness or hole in the world. Discovering again in a new context (today, residency registration), that yields a clear view of immediate dysphoria; it feels like shock and sadness. I told them, across the language barrier, to do what they must when registering my address, needed it done for taxes to work. Left and remain with the pain hiding behind my eyes. Tears that must come out. I can only delay it, though I suppose if I delay it enough it dissolves into some grating salt against my bones and the inner surfaces of my empty skull.

This fucking hurts so much. Before I could ignore, but I have gotten used to feeling like a real person, so the difference is important. I must resolve this. Wikipedia says [citations needed] that my host country has prior court cases signifying my identity should be enough for documents and addressing, but without being able to point to them, this does not help me. There is no legal way for me to file the application in my home country, because they also do not want me to fake being resident there. Discussions ongoing imply the law may change, but who knows if this will remove the residency requirement, as that was always only a spandrel? A minor detail they did not care if it would expect someone. I am fringe of fringe demographic, as an expat trans person. My experience was never real to the lawmakers. Perhaps I will be lucky as they change it, perhaps not.

I could file in my host country if I become stateless but that does not seem like a wise idea. At this rate, I may end up having had bottom surgery before being legally addressed correctly. I never give up. I will continue to do what I do, I will realize my ambitions in this and all other fields. My agency is boundless and I will use it. I will make the most of this day, whether I spend some of it crying or not. Others have it much worse. I want to bite holes in my skin, walk carelessly through traffic, punch my hands through glass surfaces. I will not do those things. I will move forward. It fucking hurts. I will move forward.

lacrimosa

Nice start of evening going to event for queer women, felt all accepted and OK except for my horrible deep voice. Was OK.

Then randomly sir:ed, I think, by the person selling me fast food. This in full femme presentation. Are my features and voice so awfully masculinized that random strangers can only parse me as some drag queen or something is that it?

Went home. Realized I would weep. Doing so, with support of moon and rain and a fairy child grown strong. Cannot really stop. Feeling, quite simply, sad. Crying because I am sad and despairing, right this minute. Later, I won’t feel that, it will be OK. I will cope and deal and grow stronger.

Right now wondering what the fuck I can even do, wanting to cut away all the despicable horrible flesh that makes me look and sound like something which is not even a person, like some corpse, like some dead thing. Wondering what I can do, not finding clear solution. Hoping my medication will work its wonders over years and years of alternate sexual differentiation. Remembering this pain and sorrow so I really will put in the 10K hours needed to master a voice that lets people hear me as me.

Remembering and habitualizing to ask, “sorry, what did you just say?” by reflex, causing trouble. Not for my sake, the harm will already be done. But a teachable moment for the sake of others.

Still feeling it. I suppose this is good, this is me finally not being an emotionless husk who could just choose not to feel, this is me feeling without having to decide to feel. This is new growth, this is life. Growth hurts. Healing hurts.

haute pain

Observation from course/workshop today: Accidental, uncorrected misgendering (e.g. wrong pronouns) are beginning to hurt more and more, causing long stretches of intrusive dysphoric ideation and of feeling numb and near to tears. Like hearing someone died.

I can choose to ride out these stretches but I cannot choose not to hurt. Efforts to avoid or correct matter and are thus deeply appreciated. Noting my attention/presence/capacity reduced by ~40% in the subsequent hours. Intentional misgendering would not hurt so much.

Compulsive, desperate thoughts about what I could possibly do or change so that others would not make this mistake (starve myself to full atrophy? facial or vocal surgeries? tone down my personality to be fucking demure, become small and timid and quiet?). Mind boiling.

Would rather be focusing on work, given extent of current projects and deadlines. Luxury problem. Others endure violence and discrimination. I know. I wonder if I will have to cry when I get out of this room? The feeling persists. Had not expected that. I’ll be OK though.

Away from there. Almost tweeted this hence sentences. But did not want to seem so I-don’t-know-what. Still want to cry but not break down in public. So stressed too. I will submerge into work for now.