Appearances

When I assumed without thinking about it that I was a guy (who did not know she was actually a girl) I never liked the way I looked.  I always felt very unattractive, and traits that I possessed that could have been described in neutral or positive ways were things that I always thought of in the negative.  Some of that is a little bit Western-Standard-of-Beauty-by-Gender-related (my former male “chicken legs” became female “model legs”), but a lot of it falls outside of that, and the bottom line is this:

I was never unattractive.  I was actually always very attractive, but, in not believing myself to be so, I never made any effort to take advantage of it.  Not take advantage of it in a bad way, but more in terms of looking into fashions that would flatter my frame and whatnot.  Basically, the things that I am doing now.

Doing this kind of full-body self-examination to some degree on essentially a daily basis has helped me love myself and the shell I live in.  Yes, there are some things I would like to change, but they are, by and large, specific to gender appearance, and little else.  I’d like to be slightly more toned and have a little less excess fat, but I really don’t have much, to begin with, and I love myself enough now that I am able to recognize that the schedule that I have (21 credits per quarter, every quarter, no quarters off) does not lend itself well to making time for regular and reliable exercise.  I’m not beating myself up or anything (for not exercising as much as I’d like to), which makes it much easier to get some in when I do have the time and energy, and keeps it as a realistic future habit to establish, when I have a steadier and more sustainable long-term routine.

Part of the self-examination, particularly of my face, is what led me to the conclusion I opened with — that I was never unattractive, I just never knew how good I looked.  I don’t mean this in a condescending or self-aggrandizing way.  I mean that I always had the kind of beauty that just about everyone has, if they take the time to find it, if they make the effort to cultivate it.

If you’re someone who doesn’t look at themselves often, then I suggest you start.  Pretend you’re preparing to audition for a role, if that helps; watch your expressions in the mirror, get used to how you look when you are moving, when you are sitting, when you are lying down on your side or your back or your belly.  Become familiar with the power of your own smile, and recognize the power of your tired or sad expressions, too.  Fall in love with yourself a little bit, and understand that lots of other people will fall in love with you, too — if you let them.

Is Street Harassment on a Bus Still Street Harassment?

I’d had a rather long and exhausting day, and was not in the best of moods.  But it was, at long last, time to get on some buses and make my way home, so I lumbered out of the school like a zombie, with my hood pulled up to make it easier to avoid eye contact with anyone.  I didn’t feel like listening to any music, I just wanted to get on my hour-long express bus after a connection, so I could read a bit and maybe even have a nap.

On the connecting bus, I stepped up, paid, and took a seat near the front, since it’s only a couple stops to where I transfer to the express bus.  On the next stop, an older man who was very loud got on the bus, and sat in the side-facing bench seats in front of the front-facing paired seats I was occupying.

He turned to me and said, “how you doing?”

I made an attempt at a smile, and gave him the time-honored Boba-Fett-in-Return-of-the-Jedi head nod, which I hoped he would accept as indicators that I had heard him, but I did not actually say anything in reply, which I hoped he would understand to mean that I did not feel like talking to anyone.  In response to this, he immediately said, much more loudly, “I SAID, HOW YOU DOING?”

Now, my face reflected mild annoyance and confusion.  I’d answered his greeting, and didn’t really understand why he wasn’t satisfied with that.  “Oh, no English?” he asked.  “I’m used to that.”

He then tried to express his displeasure with how I had responded to him by engaging a proxy, a hapless nearby bus rider.  “You ever seen a 24-carat vagina?” he bellowed.  The other man smiled sheepishly and shook his head, no.  “I ain’t never seen one, neither!” the first man continued, “but they all act like they got one!”

By this point, I was trying not to laugh.  I considered speaking at last, to tell this man that I’d honestly settle for a tin foil vagina right now, but I decided that anything that might agitate him further was probably a bad idea.

Just before the next stop (where I needed to get off), he walked up to the driver and asked to be let off on the near side of the intersection, saying something like, “I ain’t feelin’ the way she disrespectin’ me.”

Which was nice.  I’d been properly gendered, at least.

In the Beginning, There Was Estrogen

Started HRT today.  I also did a consult with a very highly qualified and highly rated electrologist, and set up my first appointment with her after a sample treatment to test tolerance. Oh, and I got a flu shot. That’s not really a transition-related thing, though.

Yesterday Was Pretty Nice

I was out for hours and hours, nobody said anything shitty to me.  The banker who helped me with my name change on my account was as friendly and welcoming as they’d always been with me when I was out as a guy.  He asked where I got my boots, and said his daughter would love a pair of them.

I went to DOL to update my gender on my driver license, and got in and out within five minutes.  It now says, “Sex: F” and doesn’t expire until 2021 or something.

While shopping for makeup, a rep who was in the store placing her product started talking to me about her own work in makeup, and asked how I did my smoky eye look.  I showed her the tutorial I based it on, and she was surprised I’d only been doing it myself for a couple weeks, saying that it was better than most eyeshadow she’d seen on other women who’ve been doing their own makeup since they were children.

When I corrected the esthetician after she misgendered me, she was aghast, and said she didn’t even realize she’d referred to me as “him.”  She apologized profusely, and said that anyone who gave me any shit about being who I really was was just ignorant.

Later, at the mall, as I headed into the women’s restroom, some random woman standing just inside the doorway smiled at me.

Later still, at Wal-mart, the cashier who was helping me find something asked a manager for help, and correctly gendered me without any slip-ups, and without my saying anything.

Inside-out

One of the many mysterious powers of the transsexual is that once they realize that they, themselves, are essentially inside-out, and express their inner selves, they compel others around them to also turn inside-out, and express their inner selves.  This effect is amplified in a logarithmic fashion inversely proportional to one’s distance from the transsexual.  Once within a radius of about ten feet or less, this power is absolute and unavoidable.  This phenomenon has come to be known by scientists as the Inversion Vortex.

For many people, this compulsion is not a terrible thing to come under.  If they are capable of empathy and forethought, they tend to do very well, in that no discernible difference is revealed by the transsexual’s aura.  They may, for example, refer to a transsexual woman by her former name or gender, but then quickly realize they’ve made a mistake, and correct it, prompting no further thought on the error by anyone.  This can make the aura difficult to detect, as it does not seem to affect everybody, by virtue of the fact that if one is the same outside as they are inside, no change can be detected.

However, one who hides malice in his heart might feel himself compelled to say — under his breath, but certainly deliberately loudly enough to be heard by others — when standing on a corner in Pike Place Market early in the morning as a transsexual woman walks by, “is that a boy or a girl?” while grumbling.  For all the wonderful things such a man has surely done in his life before the point when he stood on a corner on the transsexual woman’s path, when it comes down to it, inside, he enjoys the feeling of superiority he gets by pointing out someone else’s comparatively fluid gender to his own more socially acceptable static gender.  Calling attention to it gives him a great rush of joy.  His inner self, revealed.

Another man, well-meaning enough, but lacking in social skills, might approach a transsexual woman and tell her that she needs a new razor, because her legs look like they’ve been hit by poison ivy.  Naturally, such a Champion of Great Legs would only be trying to help, as he would of course clarify by saying “no offense” immediately afterwards, but one might suspect he would not have taken it upon himself to police the state of the legs of a natural born woman, as that is a rather uncommon thing for men to do.  His inner self, revealed.

Still another person, who had seen the transsexual woman around prior to her revelation, when she still presented as male and went by a male name and male pronouns, might approach her assertively, yet with some hesitance, and say something like, “I don’t want to offend you or anything… but what should I call you now?”  When thanked for asking, and given the answer, this sort of person, still disoriented from being turned inside-out by the transsexual’s irresistible power of transposition, might say it was nice to meet her, and then relate an anecdote of how his brother-in-law went through the same thing — he used to be Melissa, but now he’s Gabe.  Still compelled by the transsexual, this kind of man might even go so far as to say he thinks it’s awesome what she is doing, being true to herself, before finally breaking free of the vortex, and continuing on his way.  His inner self, revealed.

And finally, yet another person might feel drawn to the nexus of this power, like a rat following the piper, to sit near the transsexual woman while she waits for her bus to take her home.  This last kind might pretend at striking up some small talk before blurting out something like, “are you a man?”  What purpose this kind of question might possibly serve should elude you.  What should not elude you is that in this case, too, yet another hapless citizen has fallen under the transsexual’s spell.  Her inner self, revealed.

What can you do to avoid being turned inside-out by the transsexual’s spell, and embarrassing yourself publicly as you loudly and proudly proclaim your intolerance, ignorance, and general lack of empathy?  The surest way, of course, is to simply develop your own capacities for tolerance and empathy, while also educating yourself on what transsexualism is.  If you are already tolerant and empathetic, even if you are ignorant of the details of transsexualism broadly, or the specifics of any one transsexual’s case, you will probably not be unduly impacted even when you are within range of an Inversion Vortex.  This approach is called the “immunization method.”

However, if your tolerance and empathy capacities are limited for whatever reason, your best course of action is to simply avoid the transsexual and the locus of their power — for they, too, are its victims.  Like the X-man Cyclops, the power of the transsexual is always on, and they cannot stop it, not even with awesome ruby-quartz glasses that look hella sexy.  Do whatever you can to remain at least 100 yards away from anyone who might be a transsexual, or, though slightly less dangerous, anyone who may be different from you in any way, at all times.  This is the only way you can keep yourself safe, so please, be careful!

Dressing Out of Type

Last Tuesday was the last time I dressed outwardly male, or “in type,” as I say.  For about a month leading up to that time, following my revelation, I’d been dressing outwardly male, but over feminine undergarments (socks, panties, camisole).  Prior to that, of course, I had no idea I was a girl, so I dressed outwardly male — not liking myself or caring about myself, that meant I wore clothes socially prescribed for men, but with no real criteria beyond that.  Basically, I’d grab the first shirt in my drawer, the top pair of underwear, top socks, etc. and not really concern myself at all about how I looked.

Once the Dean of Student Affairs took me to the security desk so they could be advised that I was actually female, and would thus use the women’s restroom (to preempt any complaints to security about me being in there resulting in my being grabbed on my way out of the restroom, or anything), I started dressing outwardly female the next day; last Wednesday.  That meant my routine went from showers the night before, and getting up at 5:30a in order to do cat maintenance and leave by 6a, to getting up at 4a, taking a shower, and doing a lot of other things in the morning that I never would’ve done before (eating, doing a stretch routine, shaving my face, doing makeup).

Once Friday came around, my first day off of each week, since classes run Monday through Thursday for me, I just lounged around the house in sleep pants and a sweater.  However, I knew I needed to go into town to get to the bus terminal and buy an ORCA card, as well as to stop by my friend’s house to pick up a package.  I also had some boots to return to Target.  Originally, I was going to just be lazy, give my skin a break, and not shave or do any makeup — just go out in outwardly male dress, run my errands, and go home.  But as the time neared when I’d have to leave home, the thought upset me enough that I went ahead and got ready as a girl, after all.

While I was out running around, I felt my typical self-confidence and happiness, my New Normal base state of contentment (at worst).  I was annoyed with Target for a hassle with my return, and I got the usual funny looks from one or two guys at the bus terminal, but other than that, I had no real obstacles, and my attitude remained upbeat.  The only thing close to a down-side was that I was, as they say, all dressed up with nowhere to go, after I’d finished up at Target.

Today, on a Sunday, I was cleaning up around the house and I found an old oil filter in the box that I’d bought in April, but never used.  It had the receipt in the box, and since money is especially tight right now, I went ahead and called the store to see if I could still return it.  They said I could, so I decided to just go there today and get it taken care of.  However, I thought, if I get ready as a girl, it will be a couple hours before I can even leave, probably.  At the very least, I’d have to shave my face and put on makeup and fix my hair.  Today, I was planning to shave my legs again, so they’ve been untouched since about Wednesday of last week, too, and I didn’t really want to have to get into the shower or bath twice.

Anyway, I decided to just go out dressed outwardly male, since it was one quick errand and nothing else.  I pulled on some old boxer-briefs, plain white athletic socks, jeans, and a t-shirt.  I didn’t want to dismantle my whole wallet or bring my purse, obviously, so I just grabbed my license and my phone, and then left.  Along the way, I noticed that my mannerisms and physicality were still naturally rather feminine, which pleased me.

I did feel out of my skin, though, which struck me as somewhat odd.  While I’d been dressing outwardly male but with feminine undergarments, I was sort of mildly irritated that I felt like I had to do that still, and eager to get on with dressing outwardly female, which I vastly preferred, but I didn’t have that kind of strong visceral reaction of feeling wrong.  The odd part about the feeling was that I’d really only dressed female and gone out that way for a full regular day of being in public three times — the preceding Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday.

One of those days was just for a couple hours, not even to school; just running some errands.  For me to go from mild irritation at the idea of being dressed outwardly male all the way to it feeling completely wrong after just two and a half days of dressing outwardly female seemed like a pretty big shift in a very short span of time.  But then, I suppose all of this has been running along rather quickly.

Once I got to the store, the guy handling my return asked if I had the original debit card.  I didn’t bring anything with me like that, since I’d never had any place that took a payment on debit argue at all about giving a refund in cash, with a receipt.  I explained that I didn’t have my debit card on me, and that I didn’t think I had that particular card anymore anyway.  He said he couldn’t just give me cash back, but then gave me cash — about half of what the receipt said the thing had been bought for.  I’m guessing he processed it as a return without receipt, giving me the lowest price in the last 90 days or whatever.  I was annoyed that he didn’t even tell me he was going to do that, and ask if I was okay with that.

On my way out of the store, I started to feel pretty frustrated and upset.  Basically over a difference of about $5.  But really it was more, I think, about my state of appearance and dress.  The upset felt as close to my old constant state of depression as I’d felt since the depression evaporated over a month ago.  I felt wrong just being out like that to begin with, and then I ran into a minor obstacle, so I got disproportionately upset.  Once I realized that, of course, I kind of laughed at myself and just drove home.

But on the way home, I thought to myself, I’m never going out dressed like this again.  And once I got there, I got out of those clothes immediately, and back into my women’s sleep pants.

SRS bsnss

It’s been one full calendar month since I realized I was actually female.  Since then, I’ve done a lot of reading and thinking about transgender issues in general, and working on my own specific path.

I was born in America, and I have been steeping in American culture for my entire life.  As a result, I have strong ideas about what is feminine to me.  The down side is that being depressed for nearly 30 years (before realizing what the problem was) is a pretty shitty way to live.  The up side is that now that I know what the problem actually was all this time, I have a path towards external self-actualization that is remarkably clear.

Having a very clear path toward external self-actualization is an enormous part of why this all seems so simple, to me.  People keep telling me that I’m being very brave in being true to myself, and things like that, but to me it’s not matter of courage or cowardice.  It’s purely rational.

My body and my mind do not match, according to the archetypes of my culture.  The choices from the point of realizing that to the point of being more fully content and happy are basically to either try to change the culture, or to try to change myself.  (I recognize that that isn’t a zero-sum kind of choice, but in broad terms, and speaking from a perspective of what one woman can achieve while also living a life, I’m depicting it that way.)  Since changing myself is more likely to net results before I die than changing the entire western culture’s gender model, I have opted to change myself.  Simple decision #1 complete.

How should I change myself?  I view the brain as the truest expression of self, and have always been relatively loathe to make huge changes to mine.  To be fair, without knowing what the real problem was, I have already spent many years trying to change my brain, with poor results and no real success.  Treatments included trials and extended runs on about 15 or so different antidepressants, along with psychotherapy.  Now that I know what the actual problem is, not only do I like and love myself (i.e., my brain), but I can also look back on past experience to this point and conclude safely that, in regards to me and my own brain, trying to change myself inside (conceptually) is not likely to yield a positive outcome.

However, changing myself physically with medical assistance is, while expensive and largely not covered by insurance, relatively straightforward.  Hormone Replacement Therapy (HRT) is safe when the doctor’s direction is followed.  Sex Reassignment Surgery (SRS) can be done very satisfactorily by a qualified surgeon.  Voice feminization surgery techniques in South Korea are producing mind-blowing results.  Electrolysis is painful, but effective at true permanent hair removal.

With those two roads before me, which direction to go was never really a question I spent much time thinking about.  I honestly had to struggle a bit to think of how to articulate it, because I knew almost immediately which path I’d be taking, and how far I would take it.  Simple decision #2 complete.

Now come the details, along with the hard parts.  The VA covers my HRT, but I am pretty sure (though I have yet to absolutely confirm) that they cover nothing else beyond psychological help, which is not considered a transgender-related service.  Basically that means they cover only one service for transgender patients.

I’d already settled on the Yeson Voice Center in South Korea for the voice feminization surgery.  Their technique is the most advanced, and from the testimonials I’ve seen along with the description of how the surgery compares to other modern approaches, seems like the best bet, by far, in every metric.  It has extremely good outcomes, and it is extremely safe (in the context of being a surgery with general anesthesia).  Their cost, according to a post from about 3 years ago, is roughly $8,000 USD, not including travel and lodging and other ancillary expenses related to going to have the procedure done.  I have not written to them yet to inquire about scheduling, as I view this procedure as secondary to SRS in terms of priorities.  It is essential, to me — voice and singing are core to my identity — but it can come after SRS.

One thing I hadn’t figured out was where I would go to have my SRS done, and by whom.  After researching this online for the last several weeks, I’ve found my surgeon of choice.  He seems far more vested in long-term whole-life patient outcomes than the other surgeons I’ve seen, and as a board-certified plastic surgeon and a board-certified urologist, he’s highly qualified (perhaps the most highly qualified in the USA, if not the world) to perform the procedure.  His cost is roughly $40,000, in addition to approximately $12,500 in hospital costs to cover the subsequent week in bed under monitoring.  I wrote to his office this morning to start mapping my path to having SRS done by him.

Since realizing my gender dysphoria, exactly one calendar month ago, I have already:

1. Gotten a formal gender dysphoria diagnosis
2. Laid and started plans to start HRT, which should be by the end of the month
3. Told all my close friends about the diagnosis and what I would be doing about it individually
4. Announced the diagnosis and what I would be doing about it in broad terms to my school, my teachers, and my fellow students
5. Been given (and purchased) enough clothing and makeup to start dressing and presenting as feminine as possible in my daily life
6. Learned how to do my own makeup routine in the morning on a daily basis
7. Started actually dressing and presenting as feminine publicly
8. Legally changed my name by court order
9. Registered the new name with several authorities (school ID, voter registration, driver license, etc.)
10. Sent off my legal gender designation request (which should be back with approval any day now, since they basically confirm that a real doctor said it was legitimate)
11. Reached out to a highly-qualified SRS surgeon to begin planning my own operation

and more.  I could extend the list pretty indefinitely, but that is a stupidly substantial amount of progress to make on such a big personal issue in such a short time.  It’s amazing what someone can do when they’re not crippled by depression, and they actually love themselves.