#the endocrinologist was actually so nice and helpful!!! did NOT make me cry!!!!!!

[bogkeep]

testosterone OBTAINED

[honeyandbloodpoetry]

Gender Thoughts Pt 1 and 2

The first time I put a binder on, a little under a week ago, I felt euphoric. Ever since I hit puberty very early on, I felt uncomfortable with my breasts. They never felt right on me, and even though I’ve come to love them sometimes, they still don’t always feel like they match up. I hated how people always looked at them, pointed out how much they showed in low cut shirts when I never even noticed they were--or even wanted them to. They were just there. I liked the way low cut shirts feel and look on me, I just can’t help these giant sacks of flesh that sit on my chest. 

Except...now I can! I ran my hands over my smooth chest, feeling bright. I looked into the mirror, and felt something warm wash over me. I put on my new masculine clothes, letting my partner clip on my new suspenders. I realized that I was shaking as I looked at myself again… I looked like a boy. I felt like a boy. Like a man. And I liked it. I wanted it. Admitting that to myself was like coming home. 

I remember being in sixth grade, walking around the track for my civil air patrol class. I had been slotted in with the rest of the girls, the boys walking ahead of us. I remember feeling uncomfortable being shoved in with only girls, and looking at the gaggle of boys ahead. The exact thought that whispered in my brain was “I wish I was a boy. I want to be like them, with them.” I never forgot that moment, and how strange it made me feel. How it was easier to shake that thought away, and dismiss those feelings. Except they never really left, did they? 

I remember sitting on my bed, crying with my best friend kneeling in front of me. I remember telling her how I didn’t like feeling like a woman all the time. That I wished I could be a black shadow, monstrous, androdynous. Specifically like Venom. She took my hand, did my makeup all in black and helped me pick out the perfect black outfit to achieve that dark, gothic look. I was so incredibly happy and validated. But I still felt like something was missing. 

I remember going into an Adam and Eve for laugh, not expecting much since I am an asexual with a low libido. I remember seeing packers and feeling my chest tighten. I never liked my genitalia--I had wished for a cloaca or something akin to that, but since that was biologically impossible for a human… I sometimes wished I had the opposite of a vagina. I frequently imagined what it would be like to have a penis. I frequently lamented the fact that I didn’t have one. I took the box up to the counter to ask some questions, my dress swishing as I went. The cashier told me it was for trans people only, and a girl like me couldn’t have it. She didn’t know what asexuality was, and had tried polyamory once but decided it was bad when her girlfriend kissed her boyfriend. I was upset, disheartened, and left the store empty handed feeling frustrated and lost.

I remember finally cutting the long, curly locks that had frustrated and imprisoned me for so long. Seeing all of my hair fall to the floor, staring into the mirror as the barber buzzed the back of my head… It made me want to cry tears of joy. It was the first time in my entire life that I had looked at my hair and was happy. The first time I could look in the mirror and feel like myself. Then I remember wanting to go shorter, and my barber encouraging me to keep it a little longer so I didn’t look manly, so I could still be soft and feminine. The way my stomach dropped and the sick feeling in my chest only increased when he began to make fun of the gay men who came down the street near his favorite restaurant. I never saw that barber again. I instead found a nice local place down the road from my apartment, where the kind lady cut it all off without question, other than “Why?” and accepted my warm “It makes me happy. It makes me feel beautiful.” 

But wearing that binder for the first time? It was as if a beam of light had funneled its way directly into my heart. I felt like a handsome man, with just a little bit of striking man boob, and it felt so right. My partner called me a dashing boy and my heart began to race. I still feel his hand tracing my jawline as he called me handsome, and the butterflies it sent up through my belly, even after more than eleven years. 

I love my partner--he identifies as agender and primarily masculine, and has been on the lookout for a good pair of size thirteen shoes to wear with a dress. They also wear joggers and flip flops and graphic tees and can’t seem to stop talking about the ocean and outer space. They’re probably one of my biggest inspirations for finding myself, and being authentically me. 

I’m not super sure who or what I am right now. I’m still figuring that out, but I’m pretty sure I’m somewhere between agender and genderfluid. I feel like me more than anything else, but all pronouns make me feel good. I feel like all of them and none of them at once, but I swing between wanting to be feminine and masculine pretty strongly, though I enjoy being masculine most of all--even when I’m wearing dresses and pink. I feel like a beautiful person in a dress or a button down, no matter what gender I feel like today or tomorrow. 

I am me. And I am one dashing boy, and one beautiful girl. 

4 July 2021

XXX

Since first writing this little essay, I’ve been doing a lot more examination of my gender. I have come to the conclusion that I am transmasc and nonbinary, and am shaky on the title of genderfluid. I am feeling less and less like a woman--if anything, occasionally adjacent to a woman rather than actually being one. I love feeling like and presenting as a man. I have my first appointment with a gender services doctor at my local community clinic for consultation on starting hrt testosterone. I am planning to start with low dose first, and see how I feel. 

I am still unsure of my exact identity, but I have found great euphoria with being and presenting as a man. I love being a man and everything that entails. I have loved myself like never before. Being with my partner is amazing, and he has been endlessly supportive--even recounting little things they had noticed throughout the years. One of the funniest being that I only ever referred to my body parts--my belly, hands, hair, genitalia--with masculine pronouns. I always seemed to see my body as male even if I had a certain sort of dissonance from it. 

Coming out has been difficult. I have had both positive and negative experiences from it. I have been told going on testosterone would be self harm, and that I can’t be something I’m not. I’ve had coworkers I trusted out me without my permission. But I have also had positive affirmation, polite questions, and discussions. I am terrified to tell my mother and her boyfriend--I have no idea how they will react and am terrified that I will be disrespected and disowned. 

But I am prepared to do whatever it takes to be my happiest and most authentic self. 

I have been binding a lot more often, wearing sports bras for long shifts at work, and occasionally going without either when I feel like letting my man boobs hang free. I’ve had the delightful experience of going to a men’s big and tall store and finally wearing pants. I grew up as a fat girl and felt as if I had to perform high femininity to be taken seriously and be treated well--and had been told by someone I trusted that I was too fat to wear pants, which I heavily internalized. So I had completely cast them away in favor of dresses and skirts, bows and gaudy jewelry. Realizing that I could wear pants was...totally wild. That I could be comfortable and look good in pants and shorts, and that it didn’t matter what people did or thought of me was life changing. Maybe I’ll feel like being feminine again someday, but right now this masculinity and masculine clothing, with perhaps the added spice of funky earrings, feels like home. 

I also grew up autistic and with PCOS, both which I think have affected my gender identity. Being autistic, I truly struggled to connect to others socially, and especially to understand societal norms. Being a proper woman felt like I was making up for everything else I was lacking--I may have been awkward, semi-verbal and weird with no friends, but at least I was cute and girlish. I never connected to womanhood though, and always felt out of place no matter how hard I tried. With PCOS, I had heightened testosterone, which meant wider breasts and shoulders, a lack of periods, and excessive body hair. I recall the endocrinologist asking high school age me if I had excessive body hair around my stomach, breasts, etc. and my mother jumping to say no I didn’t...even though I did. I remember suddenly feeling very self aware and ashamed of something completely natural, and even something I started to enjoy. I started shaving my entire body then. 

I even remember being in middle school, and thinking nothing of my hairy legs. In fact, I loved my body hair and how it felt. A rude girl began making fun of me though, tutting her tongue as she cooed, “Aw, does your mommy not let you shave?” Among other things, all throughout many years of severe bullying and abuse. I remember feeling ashamed, but not knowing why, and immediately shaving my legs, covering them in nicks from my shaky and unsteady hands, that same night. 

So many things set me back in my gender expression. So many things contributed to me willful ignorance and denial. I remember wanting to be butch, and everyone in my life laughing at me and saying I was too soft for that. That sweet, sharp ache in my chest. I remember going to a salad bar with my mother, wearing a button up and telling her I wanted to wear some more boyish clothes around that same time--I had already told her that I was bi sometime earlier. I remember her lip curling, looking uncomfortable, and telling me that I better not become one of those boy girls. My late father was very vocal in denouncing homosexuality and specifically men loving men--something which always sat horribly wrong with me on a deeper level. 

I think I might ending up being a trans man. I am still unsure and figuring myself out, but I struggle greatly with the autistic need for sameness vs. the trans need for change. My sapphic love of women has always been very important to me, and fully becoming a man rather than genderfluid is scary for that very reason. I am still navigating my identity and what it means to me and my reality--but no matter what, being a man, being masculine is integral to who I am. 

I was called a “sir” at a job interview for the first time the other day, and nearly began to bawl from sheer joy. The gender euphoria from that and so many moments is worth so much more to me than the years of suffering and ignorance and my ongoing struggles with dysphoria. I finally got a packer and have had help from my partner in learning to position it properly--I am thinking of cutting my hair even shorter. I have almost perfected a pretty basic tie tying skill. Okay, not really, but I’m getting there. I feel deep inside that even though my father loved me, he would not like who and what I am. Still, I wear the last watch he ever wore, and hope to be a good man like him--and to learn from the toxic parts of him to be an even better man. 

I am very excited to start hrt. I am terrified of hair loss and vaginal atrophy, but I look forward to so much more. I cannot wait for bottom growth and body hair, for the voice drop that will hopefully get me misgendered less. I have always felt disconnected from my voice and look forward to getting to know it better as it changes with me. I look forward to meeting with new facial hair. Working out and growing muscle. I just look forward to my second puberty and becoming more like myself. I look forward to navigating and exploring my gender even further, both with loved ones, support groups, and myself. 

More than anything, I am just happy to be me. 

25 August 2021

[teeforhee]

crafting intricate and terrible tragic storylines in my mind. newt starts mutating post pacrim (2013) and him and Hermann can't tell anyone because best case scenario they will take him away to be studied and occasionally Hermann will be allowed to see him, worst case scenario they shoot him and Hermann both on the spot out of fear that the mutations will continue and they'll become full-blown world-wrecking kaiju eventually. this is Bad™ for many reasons, one of which being that a fair amount of Newt's mutations are dangerous to himself and Hermann and they can't seek a second opinion or help if one of them gets injured. the very first time they notice a mutation is when Hermann gets a chemical burn on his lip because Newt has rapidly developed kaiju acid fangs, and they can't seek actual medical help, they have to just rely on Newt's knowledge of kaiju and human biology that it will be okay or that they can make some sort of homemade remedy. it gets worse, too, because Newt would of course start attempting to counteract at least some of these mutations through bootleg genetic engineering, and that's crazy fucking dangerous, especially since he isn't an actual medical doctor. He knows his way around the human body and genes but even medical doctors with decades of experience in this specific field can fuck up bigtime if they're not extremely, extremely careful; but Newt can't afford to be that careful, because this is unprecedented and his and hermann's lives both rely on him staying human-passing, and their physical safety and relationship rely at least in part on Newt being physically safe to be around. Hermann reads every medical textbook and resource about genetic engineering he can get his hands on while Newt, desperate and terrified, does a speedrun refresher course and starts injecting himself with either untested or very unscientifically tested science fluids (I'm calling them science fluids because if I say this too seriously it will become clear how fucking unbearably bleak this is and I will start crying) on the bathroom floor in cheap hotel rooms, then the kitchen in their apartment, and he can't even get his t levels checked by someone else anymore, he's no endocrinologist but he has to be his own and Hermann's now. And at some point, Hermann starts mutating too, maybe less obviously or more slowly than Newt, but it happens, and there's this horrible question between them of "would this always have happened or is this because you stayed near me? if you left after the Drift would this be happening to you? was this inevitable or is it my fault?" but whatever, Hermann was never going to leave and they don't have access to an alternate universe where he did so they'll never know, and they've just got to be okay with the possibility. Both of them, panicked and isolated and watching their lives and bodies spiral wildly out of their control, loosing almost everything after saving the gddamn world, and okay well we are not ending this hopelessly because this is motherfucking Pacific Rim and this is about hope and the power of love and cooperation. So Hermann and Newt get involved in organised crime - maybe we go like Frankenstein And The Newt and make Chau alive and nice so they get involved in his gang - so that they can do this with resources and protection that they never could legally. They have a safety net of sorts, that way. They have people they can rely on and people who will protect and help them and gd, it's nothing like what they expected their lives to be like after saving the world, but they're alive and they're managing and they still have eachother, and they have other people, too, now so it's alright. no plan survives contact with the enemy, but they did, and they will continue to. I'm so fucking sorry about this post.

[depressed-mess19]

Searching For Hope

What would you do if I told you I was dying? I know what you're thinking: “she is being so overdramatic” or “everyone is really dying.” Well, I am dying, faster than normal, at least. It was a month before my seventeenth birthday when I lost feeling in my legs. Doctors said once again I was just being dramatic. The girl who was always bullied and sick just wanted attention, they said. I wish that was the case.

We found out I had hypothyroidism. We didn’t think it was a big deal because my sister actually has hyperthyroidism, so our family already knew about the disease. Thyroid problems are most common in middle-aged women so it was strange for an almost seventeen-year-old girl to develop the disease. We didn’t tell our family because we didn’t think it was a big deal, not to mention they were already worried about me and my health. But I did tell my boyfriend of two years. He seemed worried at first but I told him it would be fine.

It was two days before my seventeenth birthday and he broke up with me, and over a text! Who does that? He said he couldn’t be with a girl who could die within a couple years, even though I was now on a medication that would “stop” the developing issues. It was just another person doubting me. Join the club. I just prayed that everything would be okay.

I thought it would be better by now, three years later. No one could really understand what I’ve been going through. My doctors just thought I was being dramatic again. Before I was even diagnosed with hypothyroidism I had so many health issues already, mild scoliosis, no cartilage in my knees or ankles, and constant chronic pain. After I was diagnosed I was told I would be fine, that it wouldn’t have a big effect on me, when in reality everything was so much worse. My pediatrician refused to answer any of my questions or give me anything for my pain. Some days it got so bad I couldn’t walk, eat, or sleep. I didn’t want to live anymore. I felt so hopeless and questioned if I really wanted to go through all of this work just to get a couple extra years to live. I was constantly disappointed by doctors and treatments. I had nothing left. But instead of giving up I did my own research and found a doctor who specialized in thyroids right down the street from me. I couldn’t make my appointment fast enough. I could finally get real answers. The office sent me an email with orders to get blood work done before my appointment and that they would see me on Wednesday. I once again prayed that I would be okay, or even just have a slight amount of hope.

I sat in the waiting room anxious and scared, a million thoughts and questions going through my head, “Am I going to die? How did I get this disease? Why am I in so much pain? Can you please just explain to me what is really going on?” A nurse in purple scrubs came out from the back and called my name. She went over basic information and told me to wait in room B for the doctor. After about fifteen minutes of waiting, a man with slicked-back hair and a blue dress shirt walked in. He introduced himself and sat down on the little rolling chair. I watched him with hopeful eyes as he looked over my chart; it felt like my heart was going to beat out of my chest.

“So who put you on that medication?” he asked.

“My pediatrician, when I was first diagnosed. She said I needed to be on the medication or everything would get worse. Why?” I asked.

“You don’t need the medication. If anything it has done more harm to you.”

“What is that supposed to mean? Am I even sick?” I asked the doctor frustrated and confused.

“You still have hypothyroidism, but not to the point of medication. Do you know how you contracted the disease?”

“Yes! My other doctor told me that because my sister has a thyroid issues too, that it was just genetics.” The doctor started to look worried,

“No. You have Hashimoto's disease, which is much deadlier than just a genetic strand.”

I sat in the chair shocked, barely able to make out words,

”Are you saying I am going to die?”

“Oh no! Well, maybe. Right now you are healthy, go enjoy life. Take your vitamins and come in for regular check-ups. I would also suggest looking into getting a gastric surgery. It could take you out of risks of the cancers in your family, diabetes, and obesity.”

I had spent three years on that medication, blood work, constant doctors appointments for a completely wrong treatment! I sat in my car in the endocrinologist’s parking lot and cried. I called my parents and the first thing they wanted to do was sue the doctor’s office who diagnosed me wrong and gave me the wrong type of treatment, but because we live in a small town, we couldn't. It was the only doctor’s office that our insurance covered and wasn't over $30 a visit. I went home, called out of work, and just slept.

We decided to follow the doctor’s advice. Two months later, my mom and I sat in the gastric bypass surgeon’s office anxiously waiting.

“Mom he’s just going to be like all of the other doctors. He’s going to say I’m too young. I need to be on some crazy diet for two years or only eat their products for a year, then they might consider it. It feels like this whole thing is just pointless. I will never get better. I will always be sick, and not to mention I have to go back to school in a few weeks, so I won’t even be here if he needs to “watch” me or do treatments.” I flicked through the informational pamphlet just waiting to be let down yet again.

“You don’t know that. This could be the one! You just need to keep your hopes up.”

“How can I keep my hopes up when I’m in constant pain and always let down?”

“You better listen to him, even if he can’t do the sur-” my mother was cut off by the door opening and a very young man walked through the door.

“Hello, I am Doctor Wackeyed,” he said shaking our hands. “So which one of you lovely ladies is Madison?”

“I am,” I said quietly.

“I am her mother, Polly,” my mother said with a large smile.

“Well, it is very nice to meet you both. So how can I help you Madison?”

“I wanted to know what I have to do to get the gastric surgery?”

“Which surgery were you thinking of?”

“Either the reconstruction or the sleeve.”

“I’ve been looking over your chart, and you know what, we will do a two-part. We will start with the sleeve, and if you need the reconstruction we can add it after two years. How’s the second week in January?” he asked pulling out his calendar.

“Wait, what? That’s it?” I asked shocked.

“You qualify for the surgery, and your insurance completely covers it. All you need to do is go to monthly check-up appointments. We will give you a special diet catered to you; then you just need to attend two support group classes and one after surgery class.”

“Monthly checkups? She’s leaving in two weeks to go back to school. So she won’t be able to get the surgery, will she?” my mother jumped in. I knew I couldn't get it. Once again, a waste of time. I guess doctor six will be the charm. I sat in the chair trying not to overthink and cry, but my clouding thoughts were interupted by the doctor.

“What are you talking about? Of course, she can. The checkups don't have to be here: they just have to be at a certified nutritionist and they send us your data. No need to reschedule or give up. So, does the second week in January work for you, Madison?”

“Yes!” I almost yelled in excitement.

January 7th, 2019.

I will wake up in a daze, try to open my eyes and get blinded by the bright lights. My eyes will finally adjust and I will see my parents and my best friend sitting next to the hospital bed. I will feel a little pain in my abdomen as I try to sit up. The doctor will come in soon after and say the surgery was a complete success and that I will recover quickly.

I will be released two days later. Post surgery will be hard; I will follow a strict diet for five months and have to stretch and do multiple exercises every day. Although the doctor said that my recovery will be pretty fast, it will still be difficult. You try being on a liquid diet for a month and tell me if it’s easy. In the end, it will all be worth it, all of the check-ups, all the years of trying to find a doctor, the constant disappointments, everything. I will finally be okay. I will get to plan my future. I will get to look forward to things I thought that I would never see. I will get to live.

[iamthestrangerinmoscow]

transition update

number ‘who’s even counting tbh???’

So yesterday was my endocrinology visit and damn it felt like that day lasted a whole week. It is a feeling I get a lot lately, like time has slowed down, and I don’t know if it has anything to do with dissociating, but anyway. Basically I got all of my papers, including the final one from the sexologist/psychiatrist on Monday, and I was ready to go get the prescription.

I can try to translate my T letter and the medical conclusion from the psychiatrist but basically it says that I am transgender (F64.0 in ICD-10), that I have persistent gender dysphoria and no conditions that might prevent me from going on T. It also talks about my anxiety disorders and depression and autism but they are listed as things that should not prevent me from starting T either so anyway.

I had to leave my favorite lecture early to get to the clinic in time and I was kinda pissed about it but didn’t complain. Then we had some problems with money, cause we are still broke and my dad had to ask my grandparents to send us some. And I feel icky about it cause they still don’t know why I’m going to all these doctors and they did pay for some of it. Basically at this point I have already spent a thousand dollars on this. Great.

And then it was even worse cause the line got delayed and I spent an hour and fifteen minutes sitting in the corridor waiting for my [birthname] to be called out. It was a nightmare. I chewed my lips so much they started bleeding and my palms were the sweatiest they’ve ever been. When she (the endocrinologist) finally invited me in I felt like I was going to pass out.

So I waited for more than an hour but the actual meeting took like 15 minutes. She went through all of my papers, asked me about my medical history and stuff, measured my blood pressure and typed A Lot of stuff into the computer. The only issue she deemed worthy of discussion was my anemia and basically T should help with that, even if I won’t take iron supplements (but stick to my iron-rich diet). Also T might (just might, no way a guarantee) improve some of my other symptoms like low blood pressure and fatigue. 

Then we talked about the form and she said that yes, starting on gel is better than starting on injections, cause it’s a smoother change, and that if in three months I will want to switch to injections, we can do that. She said the only difference that her patients tend to report between gel and shots is that periods might take longer to stop but I’m skinny as heck and apparently that means I will probably see no difference. She said she is pretty confident my period will stop within three months.

She then proceeded to list all the changes I can expect in three months and I started laughing cause I knew all of it already. A thing I really liked is that she said I have really small breasts and they will likely get even smaller on T and I should wait for that cause I’m a definite candidate for keyhole top surgery. Also it is pretty rare for someone my age but there is a tiny chance I might grow or go up a size in shoes. I won’t get my hopes high for that but damn... would be nice.

And that was it! She gave me three months worth of prescriptions and told me to get another blood test done and come back in three months. But the time I walked out of the room I was literally shaking. Fuck knows if it’s because of excitement or because I haven’t eaten for like four hours at that point but it was weird. Like... really weird. I kept staring at the prescription and rubbing my fingers together (which is a thing I do to deal with dissociation) and I couldn’t believe it was real.

On our way back I almost started crying in a tram cause I was so freaking emotional and it still didn’t feel real. And there was so much stuff going through my mind and it’s still happening. Like I have a biochem quiz in a couple hours and I can’t be bothered to even look through my notes, I am too engulfed in this.

My dad kinda ruined my mood when we were walking home from the tram cause he told me to not talk about it around mum and I freaked out like god damnit, will she ever get over this? And he again made it about himself like how difficult it is for him to have a trans child and how ‘I got what I wanted’ so I can’t complain now and fuck... it upset me a lot. Like he still can’t understand that this is not my whim or something, and that I have fears too, and him constantly asking me ‘what if you’re wrong? what if you change your mind?‘ doesn’t exactly help.

Of course I have fears! I am afraid of being wrong or changing my mind, that’s why I went through seven months of waiting and three different doctors confirming my “diagnosis”. I am afraid of people rejecting me and my grandparents disowning me and never talking to me again, that’s why I still haven’t come out to them. I am worried about all legal procedures and whether I will have problems with my legal stay, that’s why I researched the hell out of this. This is on my mind 24/7! It really is. I am constantly running these scenarios in my mind and worrying and thinking about it. This is not a hasty, quick decision.

But yeah basically my parents are still claiming to be allies and accepting while not doing *anything* to support me. Still misgendering, still deadnaming, still making me even more worried and questioning whether I’m really sure, etc. And like, am I ever sure about things? I’m not sure this world is real sometimes. That’s how anxiety disorders work. I just wish they stopped fueling the anxiety disorder!

Well basically now I need to pick up the prescription (which might be a challenge cause so far I can’t find a single pharmacy in my city that sells it lmao) and get my parents to pay for it (it’s around 50$ so uh yeah) and then I’m going to be on T! I am... beyond excited about it, despite the anxiety, like I had a dream today about being on T and I woke up so happy. I will have to come out to my mates in uni now... super worried about it. Eh. And to my grandparents. Even bigger Eh. But. But! Things are getting better. They are.

So I’m gonna quit complaining and try to stay happy.

[eggjordie]

I suffer from ???

Recently I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia and CFS. I find that such a surreal thing to say now, considering in those 8 words is almost 2-3 years of the hardest period of my life, and now its over. Sort of. Kind of. Actually, not really, but that's what people think when I tell them. In 2015 I watched the entire series of House M.D (that’s 8 seasons, 177 episodes in case you were wondering. Here, normally, I would make a joke about not having a life but it was, in fact, my life for a good few months). Generally a person gets sick, doctors don’t know what it is - sometimes they shrug it off, tell the patient and their family its ‘nothing’ - House and his team somehow notice this special case, they go through a series of trial and error while the patient is suffering or perhaps nearing death and then they usually solve the riddle. This is the process many medical shows follow. Sometimes they recognize that the patient may never get well again, despite diagnoses, and its kind of sad and stuff. But life resumes and then it’s time to play the next episode.

This gave me a false hope for my health story. Maybe I’m one of the few who have dealt with the same, but I’d like to share my experience of the grey area of the medical world and the suffering that so many with chronic, invisible illnesses experience. Because it sucks. It really, truly sucks. Spoiler alert! You don't get your own special diagnostics team and noo one tells you of the ‘limbo’ period where you’re floating through tests, specialists and appointments while people around you are trying to figure out what you have. I, albeit childishly, thought life would stop while this all went on. But it didn’t. I still had the worries of rent and bills while I was being tested for a brain tumor. There was still those thoughts every person in their 20′s go through - what will I do, where will I go, what will I achieve - during a short synacthen test and seeing an Endocrinologist. I could go on, but I’ll save you my entire medical history. The fact is, life continues, even when its crumbling around you.

I thought I was dying. It sounds melodramatic, believe me I’m well aware, but I truly did. Yet it was like no one believed me, as if I was in one of those shitty dreams where you’re trying to scream and cry but you cant and people are laughing at you, but it wasn’t a dream. This was where I entered what I call the Judgement Era of invisible illnesses, and it’s an era that has not yet ended. Because suddenly general practitioners were getting bored of my case, my doctor who had studied harder than I could ever imagine to be a medical professional, whom we are told when we are children are trusted to help us when we are unwell, couldn’t figure out what I had. So she started reverting to the usual; you’re overweight, you’re lazy, you’ve been working too hard, you just need to wait a few months its just a - a um, thing, but you’ll be fine, here’s a name to a yoga place it might help, have a nice day. She sent me for tests less and less until eventually it got to The Question. I capitalize that for a reason;

“How have you been feeling lately?”

Now, don’t get me wrong. Mental illnesses are a serious issue and I’m happy that there's more attention surrounding it, but in my case where I certainly did not have a mental illness as a cause for my health issues this Question will forever be the bane of my existence. Because depression is suddenly the safe diagnoses and it angers me, not just for my case, but for people who actually suffer with it. It belittles their suffering. It damages the progress mental illness awareness has made in the past few years. By diagnosing people without depression with depression you are undermining a very serious illness. But, despite my physical symptoms (correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m fairly certain depression doesn’t cause extreme, unexplained pain) this was what I apparently had. I saw quite a lot of doctors and they all reverted to the same thing. Depression.

Ive always been a very positive person, even through all of the shit Ive had to go through in the past few years. People who know me will tell you, I’m not sick because I’m depressed, I am depressed because I am sick. How have I been feeling lately? Is that a joke? How do you think I’d be feeling after all this time. After being told I have a brain tumor, to cancer, to addisons disease, to cushings syndrome, to heart disease and now being told I’m just overweight, lazy and depressed? Pretty damn shit, if I do say so myself. But I couldn't say that, because any inkling that I might be a little bit sad they would refer me to a counselor, clap their hands and say job well done. I knew. I wasn’t stupid.

After so long of dealing with this of course I had done my own research. Dr. Google might be awful for many reasons and I don't condone self diagnosing at all, but sometimes you just have to trust yourself. Because during this period of uncertainty in my life - I had just given up my career for my health, I didn’t know whether I was truly dying or not and I still had a life out of my bed that I needed to try to live - I was being questioned by family and friends. What did I have? Well, I’m not sure. What was the new prognosis that month? When would I get help? I was playing 20 questions with everyone, the same questions I was asking myself. All I could say was ‘I suffer from ???’.

It’s disheartening to say the least. This limbo period where you cant trust doctors or just anyone to believe what you’re pleading so you begin to doubt yourself. And that, in my personal experience, leaves you in a very dark place.

I got the usual advice from friends and family. Try yoga, go gluten free or vegan, have you tried this? Has your doctor tested you for that? What if it’s this? I know they mean well, and I truly did try everything they suggested. People wanted to ‘fix’ me, and that’s okay, but I wasn’t getting fixed. I wasn’t getting better, only worse, and when you cant help someone you care about you get frustrated. Friends started to question whether I really was sick. Well, you don’t look sick today! That’s good, they would say, to which I could only laugh awkwardly and change the subject. I know I didn’t look sick. I’m a damn good makeup artist and my invisible illness is damn good at being invisible, but of course I couldn’t say that.

I thought after finding a doctor who believed me and promised to help would change all of this. I can tell you in the weeks that have followed my diagnoses little has changed. I’m still being judged as an overweight lazy millennial; just this morning I got back from a disability job provider appointment crying my eyes out and making a right fool of myself because my provider had concluded in her mind that I was exactly that. I’m not ashamed to say that it still upsets me. Even after finally having proof of my disability I will probably have to deal with this for the rest of my life but that doesn’t make it any easier. It doesn’t make it any less shit.

My medical story isn’t over. My episode hasn’t ended now I have a diagnoses. It’s still going. Ive had to accept that things don’t change overnight and it’s likely that many of the judgements that I face daily will never change until these illnesses gain more awareness. But now I can say without a doubt that I suffer from Fibromyalgia and CFS, and not just ???

In the end that it makes it a little bit easier.

[house-of-crows]

Finally Processing Last June

You TRAUMATIZED me.

Nearly a year later, and the first time I’ve REALLY let myself grieve... cry about it, mourn, away from the house away from you.... and I’m starting to realize those lingering pulling sensations aren’t love. And it’s not hatred. 

It’s fucking TRAUMA. 

So let’s address it. 

4/24/2019. 

The day I got my T letter and the very first vial. You sat with me in the fucking office of my endocrinologist and watched me shiver and shake and bawl my fucking eyes out because I really wasn’t expecting to get it that day. We both knew it was going to happen, she’d said it was going to happen, but I didn’t LET myself believe it AND YOU FUCKING KNEW WHY.

I told you, again, that day that I was terrified of getting the rug pulled out from under me. I told you, again, on the way to Target, that I thought I was dreaming. I’d been fighting since I came out for this, one way or another. I’d wrestled with myself, and my partners, and the state of Texas. I did everything in my power, and it wasn’t enough, and then I chose moving in with YOU over moving to fucking California, and fuck~ here it finally fucking was. 

5/7/2019. My first shot. Tuesday night. I remember Villains pt 2 was playing. I was shaking, I was panicking, and you gave me the shot. Helped calm me down after, told me how well I did. I wanted to skip work, but I didn’t. 

Two weeks later and you were DEMANDING I go with you to therapy. 

---

6/5/2019 You told me you were having doubts. That you needed time and space to figure things out.  I took off my ring. It didn’t feel right, somehow. I started wearing it on a chain instead... just like you did. ---

6/7/2019 Therapy session. I thought it went ok, but there was doubt. I didn’t know how to combat it. She was asking leading questions, favoring you, making me out to be unreasonable for having touch as my major love language. I think you’d already decided you were completely asexual, and didn’t want to tell me. You kept stumbling around it, saying shit about mirrors and how you didn’t have desire of your own, you just “borrowed your partner’s.”  I didn’t know how to tell you I’d already put the first payment on a ring. how when there’d been light at the end of my transitory tunnel I’d decided I wanted to propose after top surgery when I FINALLY looked like myself... and ask if maybe, just maybe, we could have our commitment on our three year anniversary.  I never got the chance.

---

6/18/2019 The first of many panic attacks to come. I left work early, walked home in the dark. I was aching, and limping, and I barely got home before you did. I hated myself for how my heart yanked when I saw you pull in. 

I still do.

---

6/22/2019 I spent the day on my bike, trying to avoid you. Trying to avoid everyone and everything. I had three major breakdowns on the lake. I didn’t want to go back to Texas without my name change, and I knew I couldn’t stay in Minnesota without a major change. I was stuck, I was trapped, and gods I was so, so fucking scared.... and the one person I thought I would ALWAYS be able to count on was the one shoving me away.

---

6/23/2019 You told me that you thought I’d murder you; “wake up with a knife to my throat” if you’d ever said anything bad about my transition. Told me you “knew it was irrational” but the fear I saw in your eyes fucking BROKE me, again. 

I’d never yelled at you. Never lifted my hand to you. Went out of my way to tell you when I knew I was being angry, or irrational, or afraid... suppressed my wilder emotions, did my best not to be possessive, or needy, or jealous, to let you choose and keep your own friends not to intrude on those spaces so you had things that were YOURS- 

And it wasn’t enough.  It was never enough. I wasn’t enough.  Not good enough for the other half of my soul.... the one I bled poetry for. Ripped open my wounds and eviscerated myself to deal with the trauma and HEAL and it wasn’t fucking enough. Told you things I hadn’t told anyone, so you could really say you had informed consent before getting into a relationship with me.  ...wrote you love songs.

I should have left the first time you laughed. fuck why didn’t i. I don’t know... I think I should have.  I wish I had.

---

6/25/2019 You trapped me in the car on the way home from Mayo. I was in shock. I wasn’t processing any of it.... just that you were breaking up with me FOR GOOD. You made your decision, it was final, and you wanted me gone. It was real, and it was permanent, and you didn’t want to try anything else. That was the first night I slept on the couch. I wished I’d had the strength to do something, anything, to change your mind.

---

6/27/2019 One of my final appointments for my knee injury. I took you out to a nice late lunch/early dinner. I don’t know what fucking possessed me... I wanted to feel NORMAL.

---

6/29/2019 I asked for a reprieve.  Nowhere was open and there was nowhere for me to go that I could afford. Six weeks... just six weeks, to get my papers and try to get out.

If only it had been that easy.

Somewhere, you shoved me into the basement because you didn’t want to look at me anymore. It was like living in a dungeon. Every single time I fell asleep there, on a stack of foam mattress toppers and random bullshit, I remembered that we were going to turn it into our den. Bright colors, soft things, warmth. Family.  I laid in the half-light from those stupid leftover curtains and wished like hell I could actually cry. I just felt numb in a never ending cycle of panic and fear and numb. Somewhere in there, I called the crisis hotline, looking for a way out.... knowing if I stayed, I was going to kill myself.

You fucking broke me.

---

7/1/2019

Met up with C for lunch. Discussed a lot of things, took my mind off you. It was... not good. But it was better.

---

7/3/2019 Another therapy appointment.  I still wonder if she told you to break up with me. Told you “it’s ok, there’s statistics to back you up~” just based on the shit you told me over those weeks. She told me I should have expected this.  She told me that I should have known better than to transition. The therapist you chose said that to my face.... and asked me again if I was sure I wasn’t really a girl.

I see Breakaway at Ed’s, and dance with C and the Realm. We spend time on the river. Something bit me. Less than 36 hours later my entire arm is numb and I can’t feel anything. 

I end up in the ER, and only by the grace of Sammi... because you didn’t want to help, and you didn’t even want to let them use your car at first. I started to hate you, then.

---

7/15/2019 The first “ok” day I’ve had since the breakup and it was speak with C at 3 pipes. Still upset, still angry, struggling to find my peace. 

---

7/17/2019 Queer Dance Party at Ed’s. I feel free, for the first time in too fucking long. I dance with C and Cam, and something finally slots into place. I’m safe, and I have people who care about me. I spend the night being held, safe, and cared for.

---

7/19/2019 You try to give me an ultimatum. I want to hurt you, like I’ve been hurt, but all I do is go back to the basement. It’s easier, but I’m wishing for the safety and comfort of Anywhere But Here. I ask for my rings back. You seem pissed off that I want them... but fuck if I’ll leave that symbol in your hands when you’ve ripped out my heart so many times over the past two months, with not a single sign of remorse.

I call the Realm.  They agree that I can move in.

---

7/23/2019 My first actual rave, and damn it I looked GOOD.

---

7/25/2019 I was breaking. Shattering under the weight of it all. Struggling to get out, trying to find literally ANYWHERE that would accept me for as long as it would take to get my fucking name changed and actually get back to Texas. I tried so fucking hard to find an AirBnB or a hotel that wouldn’t take my entire top surgery fund. It didn’t seem like you cared at all. You just wanted me gone.

I wanted my life back... ANY life back. And if I couldn’t have the old one, damn it I was going to MAKE one.

---

8/15/2019

My hearing. My name change.

It felt like a hollow victory. We were supposed to be celebrating... you looked like you couldn’t wait to get away from me. I wish it had been anyone there but you... your presence mades me sick, now.

---

8/16/2019

I had my labs at Mayo. C took me instead. I was grateful... but I was shaking in the endocrinologist’s office. How did my life go to pieces so fucking quickly? HOW? 

She asked me if I felt safe at home, and I honestly had no answer. 

Where even was home, anyway?

---

8/21/2019 Last day at the old job, and I swore I was going home to Duke.... and then the bitchy roommate moved out, and there was an empty room. It’s decided no, I will go VISIT Duke, and I will be staying right here in Winona.

I spend the night at Ed’s again, and see Ivory James and Anthony Worden and it was everything I needed right then.

---

9/22/2019

Dev comes to pick me up, and we ride on wings of Nahko Bear and Vienna Teng back down to Texas. I even drove a little bit, fancy that~ And I could feel the Morrígan’s wings spread around me... carrying me.

---

9/25-10/2/2019

I am with Duke, and the cats, and I got to see my friends, AND I got a new piercing. I came come to The Realm, spent time with the Goddess, and started rebuilding my sense of self worth, and unpacking a life. Again.

---

The fall was full of more music, more dancing, learning Flow Art, and picking up; and dropping; a few new lovers. Healing myself in the embrace of others who did, actually, want me. And made it VERY CLEAR that they wanted me.

I’m lucky enough that one of them STILL wants me.

---

Winter passed... I went hiking. I delved deeper into my spirituality. and I felt the Wheel turning under and around me. I’m still standing, fuck you.

---

I was part of a drag show. I dyed my hair. I picked up new skills. I celebrated the Solstice. I started a new job. I got health insurance. I put my life back together and I did it on my own two feet and FUCK YOU for trying to make me feel less. 

FUCK YOU for trying to make me feel needy, and over sexual. 

FUCK YOU for trying to make me out to be an abusive asshole for DARING to need my romantic partner in a physical way.

FUCK YOU for trying to make out my kinks to be abusive.

FUCK YOU for trying to imply that I would ever harm someone on purpose for SAYING SOMETHING TO ME.

FUCK YOU for literally every fucking thing you put me through you FUCKING ASSHOLE.

---

Maybe I won’t really heal until I leave Winona.

Maybe I don’t get to do more than exist until then.

But I’m still going to try.