A journey to San Francisco to become no less than Me. (BLOG REBOOT: Former site of Hairy Legs.)

Posts tagged ‘emotions’

This is now my transition AND integration journal.


Geez, that last post was a huge chunk to handle.  I don’t think anyone even knows how to respond to it.  But I guess that’s okay, because nobody’s ever known how to respond to my DID.  It’s one of those situations that is so completely outside of the norm that people expect, so they have no internal dialogue prepared for it when it comes up, no way of figuring out even what to feel about it.

A long time ago, in my prepubescent years, when I first started to really deal with this, really be able to even talk about it, that frustrated me to no end because I thought people were just hiding from me what they were really thinking because they were afraid it would hurt me.  But I didn’t care whether they hurt me, I just wanted even the first inkling of an outside perspective.  I wanted someone to be able to tell me what to do, what was going on- I wanted for there to be even ONE person who could say, “Yeah, I know what that’s like, here’s what I did,” or even, “I knew someone who’s going through what you’re dealing with, and this is how we all dealt with it,” or EVEN this- “I can relate to you on SOME level because I read something other than fucking Batman comics with Two-Face in them, and I know that you’re not just a media-generated sensationalistic freak or a comic book villain.”  But nobody even said anything like that, one way or the other, no implication of whether they thought I was less than human, spawn of Satan, a circus freak that should die- they game me NOTHING to go on, no indication of what they thought, they just stood there with their slack-jaws and said nothing, forever.

But the fail part of it is, I finally believe that nobody’s hiding what they’re thinking about me, because they just DON’T KNOW WHAT TO THINK.  And on some level, I’ve finally come to respect that.  Some things are just so weird that you can’t expect anyone to know anything about them.

I guess I’m feeling bitter.

I just wish, for once, that I was normal.  And ironically enough, being trans brings more of a sense of normalcy than anything else in my life ever has.  (Trust me, if you think the pronoun problem sucks for transpeople, it’s a definite step down in complexity from the DID pronoun issue.  But that’s hardly the point.)  People in the trans community are some of the most intelligent, enlightened, clear-minded and realistic people I’ve ever met.  It really takes living from so many different perspectives like they have, I think, to give you such an empowered, enlightened way of thinking.  Not to mention, being among the most persecuted peoples on this planet will do that to you, too.  And you don’t get fakers and posers in the trans community, not that I’ve seen, not like in the DID community.  Ugh.  The few weeks I spent trying to relate to those people were too many.  No, in the trans community, by the time they get past learning about how daunting and how much of an undertaking transitioning is, by the time they get past learning how permanent HRT is and how expensive that and different surgeries are and how socially estranged you will be and how your family is going to reject you and how you’re going to have to leave everything behind just to be yourself…

By the time you get past all that, you’ve weeded out the posers and the curious and the people who generally think it might be “fun” or whatever to be trans.  By the time you get that far, all that’s left are the tough and the true with the hearts of gold.

Not so with the DID community.  There’s no way to prove anything, no test of character, it’s a completely speculative field, and it’s obnoxious how many people are there because they think it’s “cool” and “edgy” and “unique”.  How many people out there walk around pretending they’re insane because it’s the “in” thing nowadays?  It’s heartbreaking and disgusting how so many people will basically roleplay DID for a few months online because they think it’s fun to be weird and unique, and then be like, “okay, I’m not insane anymore,” when they’re bored with it, and inexorably leave this pockmark of… of… FAKE on the credibility of the few people out there who actually have a problem.  We are BURIED beneath the avalanche of it.  How many people do you think would still claim to be DID if it meant they had to go through anything similar to a trans experience, to be visually easy to be picked out as a freak, to be socially persecuted and in danger every day, to possibly leave their lives and jobs and friends and homes behind just to be themselves?  I postulate that so many of them would go, “whoops, I was just kidding, now wasn’t I being silly?  Ha ha…” and hightail it for the hills, and only the few people who actually HAVE this problem and can’t make it go away and have to deal with it EVERY DAY would still identify and band together, just so they could have someone to relate to.  But it’s SO hard to weed out all the fakers and actually find someone who is truly, diagnostically, mentally ill with this particular condition, so fucking hard.  I don’t think I’ve ever really met one person who could convince me they were telling the truth about this, not one person who sounded like they really knew what they were talking about.

I guess, at the end of it, I’ve always been alone in that sense.  I gave up hope looking for people like me long ago.  I hate to sound emo, because I’m not, I’ve really come to accept that I’m weird and my condition is rare and that it’s just not worth dealing with so many losers just to find one genuine person, and I deal with it the best I can.  And I know I must sound like a middle-schooler in adolescent angst, thinking the world is out to get me and I’ll always be alone and nobody in the world knows what I’m going through, but the funny thing is, after 20 years of looking for even one person of my species, it’s very easy and hardly even saddening to believe that I’m the only one of my kind out there.  In fact, it’s the only way of thinking that doesn’t kill you.  If I come across someone who truly does get it, hurray for me, but until then I choose to believe that it just ain’t gonna happen, and I don’t get hurt.


I hate indulging in those, but sometimes you just gotta get it out.

Tomorrow I’m going to the gay arts and music festival “Homo a Go-Go” in San Francisco.  My biggest goal for this weekend is to use a men’s bathroom for the first time.  (Well, really, it’s the second time I’ll have used a urinal, but that hardly counted because we were camping in the off-season, there was NOBODY else in the campground when I snuck in to use it, and I wasn’t even really dressed as a guy anyway.  It was more a practice run than anything.)  This time, it’ll be in a public place somewhere that’s hopefully safe.  Honestly, my biggest fear isn’t that I’ll run into trouble with any people, because people never question my gender when I put a decent amount of effort into my appearance.  It’s that I’m going to somehow fuck up getting the STP into the right position and piss all over myself, even though I’ve been practicing for months at home and I’ve “got it down cold”, as Hudson’s Guide recommended.  I guess I’m glad I put off the STP post because this content might beef it up a little.

I doubt I’ll see anyone I know from WordPress at the festival, although one of the main events is the SF Drag King contest (which I couldn’t really get into anyway because I’m not 21 till a few months AFTERwards, which sucks.)  It seems like everyone on here isn’t really from the west coast, although if anyone was and happens to see me there, give me a shoutout.  Now I really wish I’d made a heads-up on this earlier.

SECONDLY, a sign from the universe that I’m doing the right thing in bringing this DID stuff out.

I don’t usually buy into the whole universal-mystical-fate bullcrap, but yesterday was pretty convincing.  Not long after finishing that post, we went to go up the hill to do an odd-job for someone. ($40 bucks for this weekend, how could we pass it up?)  At this point, Jack was in-body, which is an important point to make for reasons that will become clear soon.

Now, where I live, there’s a steep grade between our town and the next, where we had to go.  About halfway up the grade, my clunker-van decided to overheat, which is a little unusual in the evening, but anyway, Jack chose to pull over at the last gas station before the final stretch and put some water in the coolant system and let it cool off.  As he was pulling in, this lady on a motorcycle was looking at him and smiling, and all he can think is, “Is that hot milf flirting with me?”

After he put the water in, she calls out- “K——“, which made Jack flinch in disgust and also wariness.  He didn’t have a clue where she knew me from, couldn’t visually recognize her.  But weirdly enough, she told him that she was Jane, my recent and favorite therapist, who I’d told about Jack and his gender dysphoria months ago on my quest to get him a transition.  On my first appointment with her, she’d taken a serious interest in Jack and helping us on our way, and then the next time I’d gone in to make an appointment, the receptionist told me that she’d left the county and closed the case!  I had been sorely disappointed.  Turns out, she’d gotten laid off like just about everyone else in this county.

But she’d never personally met him, and when he introduced himself as Jack, she was delighted.  He told her he was working on getting gender therapy, and she said that she knew someone volunteering at a local peer help group that would probably love to meet him- a transgirl!  Finally, someone in the community who can at least relate to us that much!
They talked about other things, but more or less, it was incredibly encouraging to see someone who basically knew the whole scenario and wanted to help.  Sometimes it’s hard not to think there’s a Tranny God out there watching out for us poor sinners.

Where do I even start?

I know I promised a massive groundbreaking STP post of some sort (<–more unneccessary buildup), and I estimated that I’d be posting it about… say, yesterday, but frankly, much bigger shit has been taking precedence in my life.  New shit has come to light, as the Duder would say, and now it’s been taking up so much of my thought that I can’t really honestly make a post about a piss-tube.  It’s been so hard to even express all of this to MYSELF that I don’t even know where to START on paper.

I guess I should back up some and start from the beginning, which is hard, because there really is no beginning.  The waves of things that are happening today undulate into the past; I could start with my grandmother, if I so chose, but I think I’m gonna be generous today and just start with a few months ago.

See, one of my biggest fears with this whole process of transition has been my mental health record and how they might infer from it that I’m not a healthy candidate for T.

You might recall me mentioning a past record with Dissociative Identity Disorder.  I wasn’t being entirely honest when I said that was a past issue that was already resolved.  I just didn’t want to address it in terms of therapy or even bring it up with you guys because, well, that’s just the way things have always been.  The sky is blue, the sea is wet, Mommy couldn’t quit pot, and there have always been several people living in this head.  I’ve actually been afraid to even mention it here because I didn’t want some psychotherapist to dig it up and use it as evidence against my case for getting on T, when really, that’s kind of unhealthy because now it was a scenario of trying to bury and conceal things that would be a lot more healthy to just bring up and ultimately bring into some sort of reconciliation.  Another reason it wasn’t mentioned here is, integration (the DID term for melding all the alters together) frankly scares the shit out of all of us.  It’s something we’ve tried three times, always for the wrong reasons, and it always ended in tragedy, heartbreak, and further mental splits.

I won’t go into the childhood abuse that brought all this about because, simply enough, you guys don’t want to hear it, and I’ve been thinking over the last year that it’s not as relevant to my psychological situation as we once theorized.  It was almost certainly what set up our mind to work this way, what caused the initial splits.  An alter is created to protect the mind from damage.  But what created the ever-penetrating, ever-pressing ultimate NEED for Jack to identify and be recognized as so inherently male?

And what made it so important for me to differentiate from him?

For the longest time, I theorized that it was just a part of the human condition- Jack had a very strong sense of identity from the start, always rebellious, always male.  People- friends, family, etc.- have said that when he takes over, I looked completely different, to the point where it’s impossible NOT to think of him as male.  He was one of several alters (almost all of them male), but definitely the strongest as others faded to the background.  In fact, more and more often, he’s been in-body more than me.

I always thought that he just needed to be recognized as an individual, and at a point I began to modify my own actions JUST to contrast him and let him feel more manly.  Where he would naturally act towards something with a more manly mind-set, I’d act girly and cute, as a sort of martyr mindset.  I became supporting cast, the goofy sidekick.  It’s become more and more obvious how unhealthy that way of thinking is.  Jack has never been one to act a part, even if it would benefit him (his honest and sometimes brutal mouth has gotten him [us!] in trouble more than once.)  So I picked up the slack because, as the natural gap of translation between myself and him began to close with years of work in communication, I was beginning to see how much pain he was in just for being in a female body (what we recognized as gender dysphoria a couple years ago.)

There will never be any words to describe what it is like to experience the pain of another person so closely as someone inside your own head.  Even people who love each other very much have the benefit of flesh walls between their minds.  When someone you love is screaming inside, they have the option of muting it, locking it up, and hiding it from you.  You can even ignore someone else’s pain when they’re in a different body.  It’s even easier to deal with pain when it’s your own, because it’s yours and you own it and you understand it and you can do what you want with it.  You can’t do that with someone else’s pain when there’s no barrier between you and your brother’s minds.  If they are screaming in pain, 24-7, you can hear it, feel it, taste it and your mind is steeped in it.

As we grew closer like that and he began to take precedence, I began to realize this life wasn’t meant to be mine alone forever- a slow, steady realization that didn’t frighten or even much sadden me, it was just the way things were, for whatever reason.  Things were shifting and it was obvious that it was going to be his life now.  And I realized I wanted to give him something, something that would make his life bearable, almost as if it were a way to make up for forcing him to live in this so-wrong body with me all these years just because my psyche demanded his presence as a way of protection.  I felt so much guilt that things were this way just because I needed his help so many years ago.

I wanted to give him my body.  I wanted to let him take it and modify it until it fit him, instead of me.  I couldn’t see him in pain anymore.  And I knew that I’d be far more comfortable in a male body than he has ever been in a female body.  I’ve been pushing for his transition- our transition- for two years now, and it’s been our journey.  Even when I forced a female appearance for my parents, I’d always had more of a tomboy mindset than anything.  It just didn’t bother me nearly as much as him.

Dissociation is a funny thing.

When your psyche is trying to build walls between you and what would otherwise be destroying your mind, you will overlook the absolutely most obvious things just because your psyche thinks it’s healthier not to even notice they’re there.  When someone experiences something that’s traumatizing enough, their mind will actually blank out and ignore the entire section of the brain that stores that data, just to protect you from it.  And then, years later, when things become safer, your psyche lets down its guard, and the walls start to crumble, some of the most amazing shit will tumble out.  And usually, when you see those things, you can’t unsee them.

Such strong religious pressures from such cruel and domineering and abusive parental powers will sometimes annihilate your desire to be anything but what they WANT you to be.  For so many years, it was just easier to want to NOT want to be a boy.  And the memories have been hiding for so long- that’s so much of what the abuse was about- so much of what the forced wearing of skirts was about, not just because of their religion, but because they were afraid I’d turn out a freak- it blew my mind when it all came to light and all made sense.

Jack isn’t just a mechanism to protect myself, he isn’t masculine just because a stereotypical man’s man is a better protector.  I can’t believe how many years I explained it all away with that weak, pathetic theory.  He’s the boy part of my mind that they tried to kill, screaming to be free.  The REAL part of my mind.  Everything they made me to be, everything that everyone knows about me… was built on lies.

Why did I feel such a strong need to dissociate from him?  Because all they ever told me all my life was that he was wrong.  That I was wrong.  He’s not the alter.  I am.

In writing this blog, we’ve been hiding the fact that we’ve been separate all this time, and we’ve been writing this as a team effort.  Jack’s never had that much patience for writing, so I generally do the physical typing.  Therefore, it’s in my tone of voice, my writing style, but it’s almost all from his perspective, as if I were documenting HIS journey from the outside.  And yet, this has possibly been the most healthy thing we’ve ever done, because it’s brought us together and forced us to see the truth of things.  It’s shown us our pasts as they entwine and become one.  It’s brought us together and taught us to think as one mind- something new and so unbelievably alien, something that hasn’t even been considered as a natural way of living since before I can remember- something that may actually work this time, and not make us fall apart, because we have this one thing to work towards together now, the one thing we’ve needed from the beginning.  It’s made us see that this quest we’re on, for the right body, is more important than the individuality of either one of us. It is so important to get to the bottom of the truth, to become ourselves, one whole healthy being, one male person who loves himself and doesn’t need to be something he’s not just to be able to function properly- “properly”- it’s been the one thing that has made us see that integration is now the only way.   And now that I think we can actually work through it this time, I’m not afraid of addressing it, even with a gender therapist.

We’re on our way to a enlightened way of being.

I’ve finally gotten to talk to my best friend about it, a person who has known Jack and I as two separate entities for a long time.  Let’s just say, there’s a big difference between telling your best friend that your alter is some day going to be living in a male body “but don’t worry, I’ll still be a girl, *twitch*” (as I’ve been telling her for years), and telling her that you’re on the road to integrating with your brother and very soon, you’re going to come out as a totally different person, and you’re BOTH male, ONE male person, and the girl she’s known all these years is more or less a fabrication…

It gets confusing, not to mention heartwrenching.  There were a lot of tears and she said she was afraid of losing me.  But I tried to explain that she won’t be losing me, she’ll be GAINING me, the real me.    And now I have I go through what all of you have, with my family.

Now I really know what it means to be trans.

Stream of consciousness; “Living” and “Being”.

I really feel like writing something tonight, but every time I start on one of the topics lined up in my mental queue, I get bogged down by the realization that I just don’t feel like tackling that issue tonight.  So I’m going to stream-of-consciousness write tonight like I haven’t done in a really long time, and hope something meaningful comes out.

Sadly enough, this whole FTM thing has become the most important thing in my life right now.  It seems a little unorthodox of me to say “sadly”, as it’s completely understandable for it to become the most important mission of anyone’s life.  It’s all about standing up against the box that people want to shove you in, it’s about bettering yourself, it’s about bravery and honesty and all kinds of awesome things, and I can think of no greater personal quest one can devote their lives to.

But there’s something about this whole paradoxical lifestyle that says to me that the entire journey is more about being myself than focusing on the transformation itself, and that becoming obsessed with the transformation is analogous with WAITING to become my true self instead of being that person today.  Yes, growing into your right gender and learning important things like standing to pee and all that, it’s all a part of the process, just like the learning process of life itself, but you really need to look around and take life in NOW instead of looking forward to living on that day when everyone else sees you the way you want them to.

I know how confusing all that was, but it’s a concept that’s really hard to put on paper, so just bear with me.  I think what I’m trying to say is, learning to become the person you’re going to be should be a peripheral life process that goes on all the time, but it shouldn’t be the primary thing you think about every day all day long, it shouldn’t be your main function in life.  LIVING is.

I need to work on placing this in its proper category.  It belongs in the slot of “Being”, and the things I want to do with my life… they need to go into the category of “Living.”  My state of Being shouldn’t become the focus of my Living, because then I’m nothing better than a self-obsessed, image-oriented social climber with the mentality of a junior-high schooler; I’m hollow, and I’m just the image that I build instead of the things that I do and changes that I make and the person that I am inside.

I want to be who I am, today, not two years from now, and not when people start to see who I am, because I know who I am and there’s nothing they can do to take that from me.

Short and sweet.   I like.

Fucking with my hormones.*

(*And for your information, I happen to very much like how the first word that anyone reads on this blog will be “fucking” as long as this is the latest post, and anyone who finds that offensive probably shouldn’t be mucking about in this territory anyway.  This post gets explicit.)

Hormones.  How long throughout my adolescence I thought the whole hormone stigma was a cop-out for people who can’t deal with their emotions in a healthy and rational way!

To be fair, looking back, I went through more of a boy-puberty than anything.  At about 13, I hit a sex drive amp-up that pretty much took the forefront of my mind.  It was then that I started wishing for a fuckbuddy.  I wanted a girlfriend, a boyfriend, ANY friend, that would, above all, have the drive of a sex-starved orangutan.  I didn’t care about looks as much as personality (read: a horny personality.)  And for years, because I was a repressed, shy little boy who was humiliated by being forced to wear skirts every day and socially awkward because of an overbearing religious lifestyle, I kept that to myself.  During a considerable chunk of my freshman year, I couldn’t concentrate during class because visions of humping danced through my head.

I also discovered masturbating at about that point.  It became like a drug, to the point where I’d be so wired by sexual tension throughout the day that, often, I’d come home and the first thing I could think of was running to my room and jerking off.  I remember a point in my adolescence where the average j.o. tally for the day ran around 5.  When you think about it, it’s not that hard to imagine, since not being limited to a “reload” time ofen led to multiple sessions.  Waking up with the proverbial morning wood almost every morning, it became the “best part of waking up.”  Returning home from a school, off to the bedroom with ya.  And most of the time I couldn’t fall asleep without getting it out.

It became a very comfortable and integral part of my life.  It was really the only emotional need that was overbearing, and since I could take care of it in a private and non-intrusive way, I considered myself a very rational and unemotional person.  For many years I didn’t cry about anything, ever, not even at my mother’s funeral.  I could always think things through steadily and come up with a reasonable solution at the end.  I never experienced PMS and thought that girls just used it as an excuse to be dramatic  And looking back from this end of things, I guess I had more of a testosterone mental setup than anything.

Enter sex.

This was where things started to shake apart.  I began to realize the difference between orgasm and fucking, where an orgasm was a physiological reaction that released feel-good chemicals, reduced stress and put me in a generally happy place for a little while, while fucking was an above-all important psychological need.  And not just sex.  Lying there and taking it, bottoming… well, it felt nice if I was in the mood, it gave some intimacy, which was okay, but I could get all that if I wanted it through snuggling.  The physical act of fucking something, topping it and dominating it, was an all-important stress release mechanism that was so bittersweetly close to what my body and mental map needed that it took me into a new emotional place, where screaming, laughing maniacally, and even crying were permitted.  My beautiful partner gave me all that and more when I gave him a desperate bootycall last year, and the rest, as they say, is history.  Most people don’t build relationships based on sex, but as fairly simple, male-minded creatures who each needed nothing more than sex, our relationship couldn’t be better.

But back to fucking.  It almost became humiliating how obvious my emotional need to have a functioning dick was.  I’d be there on top, humping and fucking furiously, almost completely unaware that the phantom sensation of my missing dick was, for all intents and purposes, unreal, lost in my passion and frustration, so close to climax and yet so far from the physical act of ejaculating, and right there, where the tension between how close I was and how far I was reached critical mass, I’d lose it.  I’d reel into a kaleidoscopic paroxysm of mania and lose control of my reaction, yelling, sobbing, and generally throwing a fit.  I came to the conclusion that the only way for my body to physically come was through my tear ducts, and tried to cope with the embarrassment of my sexual inadequacy and the emotional issues on top of it without falling into a complete wreck.

I wasn’t doing so hot.

My gender dysphoria, particularly in an area so important to my mental health as sex, started taking over my life and, paradoxically, the more I realized I was meant to be in a man’s body, and the closer I came to trying to right this wrong, the more emotional I got.  But it generally remained in the bedroom, up to a certain point in time.

Enter birth control.

Up to this point, everything had been naturally occurring.  My emotional roller-coaster had been due to the increasingly obvious need to be in my proper body.  But now, stupidly, I threw something else into the mix.

You see, me and my partner both love sex in all its various forms so much that, often enough, I’m willing to take it the traditional way, as long as I’m feeling confident enough in my own gender that having sex with the wrong body parts doesn’t rock my mental boat.  I generally prefer your traditional gay buttsecks if I feel like bottoming, but sometimes it’s just easier to work with what I was given.

Well, to that end, and since one of my longest and most gripping phobias is pregnancy, we decided that being responsible with our condoms was not enough and opted for birth control.

This was the worst idea I ever had.

I chose to go with Depo, which is a birth control shot that works for 4 months without having to take any pills.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.  I’m notoriously bad at remembering to take pills, and since at that point I was convinced that hormones are such a psychosomatic and easy to control thing, I was confident that it wouldn’t affect my mental state in any way.  One of the other things that I flouted was that once you take the shot, you’re STUCK with the effects for a third of a year and there’s nothing you can do about it.

I underwent one of the most horrifying transformations of my life.  I’m not sure what kind of hormonal cocktail is in those shots, but I’m convinced that it kicked my estrogen production into overdrive.  The fatsacks on my chest decided to grow half a cup size, my figure feminized as my waist slendered and my hips packed on fat like fucking camel humps, even developing stretch marks.  And the worst thing was what it did to my mind.  I took this shot five months ago and I’m just barely beginning to remember what it was like to be rational.  For the first two months, I didn’t even connect the dots and realize the shot was the cause.  I just thought I was going insane.  My sex drive dropped off the face of the earth for no adequately explored reason, which confounded and horrified me.  For the first time since I was tiny, I knew what it was like to not want sex every waking moment, and it was unbelievably uncomfortable to the way my mind worked.  (Also, though I guess it could be considered a good thing, my compulsion to masturbate dropped to only once or twice a week, though in itself it was a frightening sign of things drastically changing in me.)  When I was challenged with something, I’d become frustrated and overreactive, sometimes screaming something in response before I even realized what I was saying; a stark contrast to my previous mode of thinking any response through before letting it out of my mouth.  I was bitchy and moody, getting angry over the stupidest, most inconsequential things, and my relationships with people were falling apart.  It killed my social confidence, and while I outlashed at the slightest provocation, my initial aggression and assertion waned.

It was the worst thing I have ever been through, and when I realized it was the result of a compound in my body that would be gone in a matter of months, I praised Jesus (in spite of all the things that man has done to fuck up my life in current society).  My head has been clearing slowly but steadily, and though I still have the occasional irrational backlash, I’m definitely feeling more stable these days.

Enter the Pill.


Other methods.  What can I say?  I’m on medicare and it only covers the shot, the IUD (which we tried and failed to insert), and the Pill.  I have a prescription for it sitting down at the Rite-Aid pharmacy and I’m scared shitless to go pick it up (as if, just by touching that demonic little round case, I’ll be turned into a raging psychobitch again).  Of course, the major benefit is that, if I don’t like the side effects, all I have to do is stop taking it and wait for it to filter out of my system, which will be more a matter of a week than several months.  But after that horrible experience, I don’t want to be like that even for one more day.  Of course, I have to factor that into my terror of having a living alien spawn inside of me, growing and sucking off my life force, and then clawing its way through the most unwelcome part of my body into the world to guilt-trip me into figuring out what to do with it.  Fuck that, all of it.  The entire idea has been completely unsavoury to me since the first time I heard where babies come from, and I’ll have none of it.

I guess it’s off to try these stupid, evil little pills.  Last resort.  If it does what I hope it won’t, it’s back to condoms and hoping something doesn’t go terribly wrong.

Of course, all of this confirms to me that testosterone is the Good Idea of the Year.  I’ve been to one end of the spectrum and it scares the living shit out of me, and being fairly convinced that I’ve been living closer to the other end of the spectrum naturally all my life anyway, I’m just more at home there.  Besides, it’s possible that I’ve always naturally produced more testosterone than usual anyway.  My physical body has some evidence to it.  I’ve always had broad shoulders (one of my friends once said I had a “man-back”), heavy musculature and strength that surpasses any female (and a lot of guys) I’ve ever had the chance to arm-wrestle.  I’m a little hairier than your typical bio-female and I’ve always craved far more red meat and general protein than anything else. And oddly enough, when I’m really in domination macho-man-mode, my boyfriend says he thinks he can see a little bit of five-o-clock shadow, which is really strange because I thought I saw it before but decided it was too silly to bring up.  I mean, I don’t know if it’s possible to be so mentally male in a certain moment that your body puts out an extra shot of the corresponding hormone and it causes a slight physiological reaction (especially in facial hair, which would be doubly weird because it apparently goes away after a little while), so I think he and I both are probably just seeing what we want to… but it’s enough to make you wonder and dream.

Of course, my biggest fear is the whole hormone-reversal bit, in which you get too much T in one dosage and your body amps up the estrogen to try and balance it.  Or anything else along those lines.  Or even that T will make me as crazy as that Depo shot did, which I seriously doubt but still fear to an extent anyway.  Long story short, that experience with the Depo has made me very wary of fucking with my hormones ever again, but in the long run it’ll probably just make me more cautious, which could be a good thing anyway.

Fuck it, why do I always try to make the ends of these things positive?  That shot with the Depo SUCKED ASS and that’s all there is to it.

Tag Cloud