Fin.

Yeah, it’s been a while.  I know, I know.  I have a good excuse though.  I started feeling better and more comfortable and after a while, I couldn’t really think of anything transition related to post here.  The only things I could think to post were boring, normal, everyday things.  I stopped being sort of in transition and fell into far more mundane girl things, and I’m just not sure too many of you are interested in reading about that cute skirt I bought the other day or the fun things one can do with nail polish.  In a sense, I stopped feeling trans.  I stopped feeling in between and I stopped feeling out of place.  Sometime in this gap from my last post to now, I started feeling good about my mind and my body.  I can walk around in public and no one knows that I wasn’t always a girl.  I can talk to strangers and I can wear whatever I want and I can make eye contact with strangers.  I can go days without thinking about being trans or being nervous about how others might see me.  I don’t think about if I’m going to pass tomorrow or the next day or the next day because I already know the answer.

I’m learning what feels like to be normal.  Finally.

Anyway, last post.  It seemed like a good idea to end with something about names, so here you are.  Also, thanks for reading this crazy thing.  Transition is easier when people will listen to insane ramblings and disjointed stories without a point.

—

Like many kids, whenever I heard my first and middle names from a grownup, I knew somewhere, somehow, the shit had hit the fan and that I was at least partly responsible.  After those two words came whatever I had done wrong or not done at all, and that is when I would know I should probably stop playing with my Transformers and fix whatever had gone south.  I imagine it’s at least moderately common for children to never actually hear their middle name outside the bounds of discipline and disappointment.  If your parent (or suitable stand-in in some cases) just says your first name and points out something amiss, it’s hardly cause to do anything about it.  As soon as the middle name comes out though, that is the very moment when the business starts.

Aside from associating my middle name with having not cleaned my room sufficiently or needing to come in before dark, it was always a bit of a trouble for me.  For one, I had the hardest time remembering if the ‘a’ or the ‘e’ comes first.  Even now, I type out the first four letters, clear my mind of distractions, and hope I think of the right order in a timely fashion.  I can remember most times.  Two, it didn’t even seem like a name to me.  Names simplify object identification, which is why we say ‘table’ and not ‘a slab of solid material placed atop four legs of possibly similar materials in order to keep shit off the floor.’  I always felt that a name, be it first, middle or last, ought to denote a person so as to prevent overly detailing ‘that kid over there.’  My middle name did no such thing.  I never associated it with me.  My middle name may as well have been ‘pudding’ or ‘comfortable’ or ‘darkly.’

My first name wasn’t necessarily great for helping me identify me.  I had that boy’s name 30 years and some change, but I never really internalized that that was my name.  Back in first or second grade, there was another boy with the same name in my class, which meant for an entire year every assignment I turned in would be marked with the first letter of my last name.  My name wasn’t unique, and it wasn’t always mine.  On the playground, every time one of us endangered ourselves on the swings or monkey bars in full view of the teacher, both this kid and I looked back at her and then at each other.  We hated each other for trying to take our names from us, but we did have several rousing discussions about Transformers that kept us together.  We had an understanding.

My old first name had two different forms.  There was the long form that I hated, and the short form I hated.  At home, my family called me the long one well into my teens.  I understood that as my name only as an abstract, as the closest approximation anyone could come up with to get my attention or direct conversation.  I didn’t feel like that name and I didn’t look like that name.  Sometime in my early teens, I switched over to the short version in an effort to claim a name as my own.  In addition to switching from ‘Door-to-door bible salesman’ to ‘Surfer dude,’ I also switched how I started seeing myself.  I would say the shorter name over and over in my head and during the day, trying to feel my name.  I wanted a name, of course, I had a name but it never really felt like it belonged to me.  I couldn’t feel my name.  It didn’t make any sense.  Someone would say that name and it would take me a minute to realize that they were trying to get my attention or that they were talking about me.

For 30 years, I had a name that meant absolutely nothing to me.  It doesn’t sound that traumatizing on paper, but it does give the nameless person a feeling of floating weightlessly around waiting for a breeze to blow in the right direction.

The same feeling, actually, applied to my sex as well.  Ostensibly, I was male but I never could think of myself in that way.  The best I could do was refer to myself as a boy, but never a man.  Boy meant that puberty was far away, and the associated changes hadn’t happened and there was still hope.  I called myself a boy because I had hoped if I said it often enough that the changes to my body and mind I never wanted would reverse.  Puberty is a constellation of changes, and I had hoped the direction my body picked could be altered.

Of course, these things have a mind of their own.  With the changes, I was supposed to be more manly and assert dominance and crap.  Instead of all that, I spent a great deal of my late teens alone and angry that my body would betray me like this.  My driver’s license had an ‘M’ on it when I was 17 or so and faced with that letter on my personal documents, it became permanent.  So, on one card of plastic and ink, I had that boy’s name with the accompanying ‘M’ to keep me from dreaming too much.  For a card that informs others about who I was, it didn’t tell me anything.

Despite having ample time to reconcile my name and sex, I couldn’t do it.  None of it made sense.  Not for lack of time spent, of course.  I spent a lot of time trying my damnedest to apply these things to who I was.  After a while, I accepted that I’d have to respond to that name, completely without interest or self-association, much in the way I would respond to someone who mentioned a hobby.  Back then, it didn’t matter and I learned to respond to what was effectively a random word.

Even that started fading after a while.  My name wouldn’t stick.  Someone would make jokes about the differences between men and women, and I would have to remind myself what side I was on.  I felt ethereal and impermanent.  I felt as if I would float away one day.  I felt overwhelmingly temporary.  It wasn’t until the feeling that I might disappear at any moment became a desire to disappear every moment that it became a problem.  I had become used to floating, but I didn’t want to float for much longer.  I was tired and angry.  I was angry at not being anything at all.  I was furious that everyone around me, even with their problems and issues and everything, were at least something tangible and real.

I wanted to be real, and as much as others saw me as real, I could never make that leap.  I wanted to be something.  I followed dreams that weren’t mine, fueled by transient ideas whose drifting aimlessness suited me perfectly.  Inside my own mind, I pushed.  I pushed as much as I could into a small box in the darkest corner.  I was ashamed and scared of every feeling and thought I crammed into that box, so I packed those away as well.  I packed as much as I could into that box.  Everything I liked about myself and everything I actually wanted and needed to be got put in there.  Those aspects that I so badly wanted to show to people were dangerous.  A featureless box containing everything I was hidden deep inside a featureless boy trying his best to fit in with everyone else.  The box was there, and needed constant tending so it didn’t burst at its weary seams.

When I discovered drinking, I learned that alcohol kept that box closed tight and for hours I was able to forget about that box and the danger inside.  I liked that I didn’t have to constantly mind the box.  I hated that I was forgetting what was in there.  Ultimately, it was just easier to stay drunk, because it was actually frighteningly easy to drink away parts of myself.  I had hoped I could drink the box away, and I was well on my way to doing that.  It might have worked, if not for one very special person.

She came along and wasn’t scared off by my weird social ineptitude and didn’t mind that I was very obviously keeping ten million secrets.  She knew something about me, and she helped me learn that I didn’t have to hate myself because doing that would have invalidated her love for me.  She loved me for me and not the mess of apathy and confusion I was at the time.  She stayed with me through crazy things and through periods of time when I wasn’t well because I couldn’t keep that box closed all the way.  She was there when I figured out it was far more scary to keep that box closed than it would be to open it.  She was there when I started planning to move away from who I was to be who I needed to be.  She is here as I learn how to move through a world I just woke up in.

After a while, I gave up the old name and I’m starting to sort though what parts of me were actually real and what parts were just farce.  The old boy name doesn’t really mean anything to me.  It’s fading and I am ever so thankful for that.  If anything, it feels like a distant memory from someone else’s story.  For the first time in so very long, I don’t worry about hiding parts of me away in a box in a corner.  I can feel and be and love like I want, and I don’t have to examine my plans for whether or not it might cause a tear in the box.  I feel free and part of the world, and it really is everything I had hoped.

I am new and awake and I am here now.  Hi.

Cheer Up, Trans Kid!

Good things come in threes.  So do bad things.  With that in mind, use your eyes to make the following three things more fun!

1) In this modern day and age, there is much importance concerning social media and the use thereof.  Announcements targeted toward a wide audience may be safely shared through that book of faces all the kids are on about.  To that end and speaking of which, I felt tired/angry/bored the other day, and now my name on that crazy thing is now more appropriate.  It’s not official all the way, mostly because I have no idea for a middle name (well, I have a little idea, but that’s not important) but the first and last are hopefully what I will be changing it to.  So far, no one has defriended me or sent weird messages asking who I am.  Which is good, as I am pretty sure this isn’t much of a surprise to anyone.

2) I have recently had occasion to be around other trans folks in real life, which served to perpetuate the perceived standard set by the trans folks on various interweb place things.  I had hoped that those I read about on my screen were an exception and that most trans folks, when surrounded by their own kind, so to speak, would be happy and free.  So far, with my limited sample size though, we seem to be, on the whole, a pretty depressed and mopey bunch.

Happy trans people sure do seem rare, which seems pretty strange to me.  We (as trans people) have spent the overwhelming majority of our lives in the wrong body, adhering to the wrong gender standards, and learning about the world from the opposite angle than how we feel we should learn.  It is overwhelming at times to think about one’s own changing role, not just socially, but psychologically as well, but is there really no joy in being on the path to feel better?  Are there really no upsides to starting on the path of transition to help us be ourselves?  Can there be no positives?

I can understand being bereft of happiness if they have not started getting their letter or begun HRT, I guess, because they know they are going to probably have to jump through a million arbitrary hoops to get the care they need.  It seems that those even past those gatekeepers and past that battery of initial tests of all sorts and past any other obstacle are still depressed.  It’s like a community bound by suffering where any deviation from the commonality of ‘being trans is terrible’ means that you aren’t real trans.

I read once that there is nothing positive about being trans, as all of the trans person’s experiences and growths and future are subtractive from a cis person’s life.  This, to me, makes sense only in that it is a flimsy argument used as a reason to continue to be depressed for fear of being happy.  If, say, a transwoman feels that their existence is a subpar version of a ciswoman, then the transwoman will find reasons to feel that way.  Of course, transwomen do not grow up as female, and they never will have periods or experience child birth, and they haven’t learned how to be a female over time.  Basically, using the right criteria and definitions, one can convince themselves of pretty much anything.

If a trans person feels that their life is subtractive, fine, but I do not feel that way.  I did not grow up as female.  I was initially forced into a boy role by forces outside of myself and I continued to force that role on myself as long as I could.  I mean, yes, it is the case that I have to learn a new psychosocial role, but why would I see that as a detriment?  Transitioning is an adventure that not many folks are able to go on, mostly because most never feel that necessity.  So, why can’t we, as we are faced with a surprisingly difficult yet amazingly rewarding path, see the value and joy and uniqueness of transition?

Look, I left the boy side because it made me remarkably depressed.  I left because it was wrong.  I left because it would have killed me had I continued.  To that end, I sure as heck am not leaving the boy side to go over to the girl side just to feel the same way as I did back then.  It’s true that there are parts of the female experience I will never ever be able to experience first hand.  I will face rather unique challenges as a transwoman that ciswomen will never know.  I will have a very interesting life story, but really, isn’t that the point?

Life is a series of challenges, and we don’t need to add to those challenges by defining ourselves as some fraction of what we want to be.  If a trans person has been brave enough to admit they are trans, begin the transitioning process, and come out to people as trans or even as their true gender, why can’t so many of them be brave enough to be happy?  It’s not our responsibility to others to be happy and proud.  It’s our responsibility to ourselves.

3) Passing, for most trans people, is a pretty big deal.  I mean, that makes sense, right?  If one’s hormone regimen or surgical history does not allow them to blend into the background as their true sex, then perhaps, dear reader, you can see how that might be somewhat bad for psychological health.  If a transwoman, despite their medical treatments, is not seen as a ciswoman, then it can be easy for them to say to themselves that they have failed at transition.  Of course, passing or not passing alone does not determine whether or not their transition was a failure, but it sure can make it seem that way.

Back in the Dark Ages, I used to claim I was the luckiest boy in the world.  Well, that, as it turns out was only half true.  I am fantastically lucky, but I am also a girl, which more or less counters the idea of boy.  So, as the luckiest girl in the world (or at least in the top five or so) I have had no problems passing.  Even when my voice is crappy and even when I cross my legs the wrong way, it doesn’t seem to matter.  I just blend in.  I have had no negative attention (yet) and the worst attention I’ve ever had was simple neutrality.

I have not endured the hostile stares nor awkward questions about my genitals from strangers.  I suppose I got lucky by having exceptionally sensitive estrogen receptors, which has led to a lot of positive growth and change really fast.  I suppose it could be that I have picked up on a lot of the appropriate mannerisms in the last four months.  I suppose it could also be my keen fashion sense.  Honestly, it’s probably fitting comfortably into a 36D.  Yeah, that’s probably the big thing right there.

Phew!  Those are a lot of words!  Also, why is it that when someone comes out as trans, a lot of previously taboo subjects suddenly become just fine to talk about.  Weird, huh?  Anyway, next entry I won’t even mention the word penis at all.  Of course, you know as well as I do that is a fib.

Point! (No Return!)

It’s been a while, so here are some numbers to think about before there are words to think about:

Number of times to date I have been ‘ma’amed’: 8

Cost for name/gender change to be paid in the next few weeks: 300

Number of people I have come out to in the last week or so: 11

Number of those people who are totally awesome and rad: 11

Number of hairs on my head that are not cooperating this morning: ~45 (too lazy to be accurate)

Number of days full-time: 19

Alright, it’s been some time and there have been happenings all up in.  Since you are here, I’ll share!  Mostly because it’s either sharing or cuddling with my gigantic stuffed Snorlax.  Given those options, I have no idea why I’m at the keyboard.

Given our curious living situation, it was becoming increasingly difficult and annoying to be in stealth mode.  Near the end, I would do like a half stealth/half presenting depending on who may be seeing.  I did this switch in some capacity no fewer than six times on the way to the bathroom.  You can see, dear reader, how that might get a bit tiresome.  So, my lovely assistant and I decided just to let everyone here know.

Now, this ain’t a regular thing folks talk about around a water cooler, obviously.  It’s a bit more unique than talking about whoever threw a ball the best last night on the sports.  Either way, it’s a bit strange and most folks do not expect that sort of topic to come up during the daylight hours.

As an aside, it’s kind of tough for me to tell folks, not because of shame or inability to answer questions, but more because I never really know how much people actually want to know.  I kind of have like two methods of coming out as trans to choose from: ‘thirty second glossing over and switch to benign topic’ or ‘immediately inform about my penis and dial it back from there.’  Yes, I am working on an in between approach, but I’m probably always going to go with whatever is most fun for all involved.

I’m always surprised when folks I come out to are really awesome and supportive.  Not because I doubt them individually, but mostly because I’ve heard stories of that sort of thing not going as well for some.  So far, I’ve never had anyone (save a couple of religious folks who don’t matter anyway) respond with hostility.  I feel I went from ‘that awkward guy over there’ to like full acceptance for who I am.  The folks I told are switching over names and pronouns super well, and I feel like I can talk and be myself now.

It just felt like a good time to come out to folks here, as it occurred to me that I have indeed passed the point of no return.  It would take some pretty drastic and unpleasant things in order to reverse the process now which I am totally unwilling to do.  I am very sure there is no case in which I would willingly switch back.  I’ve already done that side, and have found no redeeming qualities to being one of them.  Besides, the boy side is all weird anyway.

Speaking of boys, they have weird ideas, but so do I now.  I’ll explain one day, dear reader, probably once the lights have gone out.

Success!

So, was it the grilled cheese sandwich that brought a weird boy to us at the restaurant yesterday, or was it boobs?  I mean, my grilled cheese sandwich did have four types of cheese as well as fancy ham and bacon, so that could have been the reason this tall dude came over and started talking to me.  Come to think of it, my sandwich was consumed to the extent I desired at that time, so maybe it was the crust of the bread that made this guy think, ‘hey, I should go talk to her about her hoodie.’  Do guys like the undesirable portions of a girl’s near finished sandwich so much that a reasonable way to get to those crispy scraps seems to be talking about her hoodie in such a way that if he were to stare any harder, her breasts would catch fire?

Regardless of whether or not this dude wanted what was left of my delicious sandwich, that was not the only thing he was after.  I did catch on to his ‘clever’ plan and after verification by my lovely assistant it was indeed true that he most likely did have impure motives.  Mind you, all of this after I had spent most of my waking hours that day feeling really bad for myself.  I’m just sitting there, trying not to be noticed so I can go home and hide under blankets when this guy comes up and starts chatting me up.

It was kind of cute, actually.  He wasn’t really, but that’s besides the point.  I did feel really good about my progress right then.  Barring him being a chaser (possible, but unlikely), he was totally under the impression I was a girl.  He had no idea about my past or anything.  I was, for the first time, on the receiving end of Pickup Tactic #5 (note article of clothing, converse concerning article, direct attention to article, expound on topic, continue to Introduction Tactic #1, #3, or #6 as deemed required).  He saw me as a girl, approached, and began the process.  I have seen boys do this to girls before, but being on the receiving end was different and enlightening.

Here I was, feeling not great about my appearance or voice, and then suddenly I was seen, identified, and interacted with as a girl.  This was rather disarming (which is part of Pickup Tactic #5, of course), so I only thought of witty things to say well after the fact.  Either way, that was unique.  It was kind of interesting to have a guy come up and start hitting on me, though.  I did feel better about myself after that, but I do kind of wish he had been a bit more attractive.  That is a rather unimportant thing to note, but I’m going to leave it there.  Do with that what you will.

Later that evening, a very kind young lass complimented me on my butt pretty much at random.  It was very unexpected, and my reaction wasn’t to be suddenly interested or excited like I might have been back in the Dark Ages, it was to say ‘thanks’ and really mean it.  Seriously, someone says something nice about a boy’s physical features and that boy gets Ideas.  Me, I’m just happy folks are noticing.

Blending/Shading!

So, there I am, right?  Sitting on a toilet and thinking about what the heck I’m doing.  The bathroom stall is a very introspective place for me, for reasons I don’t feel altogether comfortable discussing with you right now so quit asking, dammit.  Now, this ain’t my first trip into a public bathroom, but it is my third time in the appropriate one.  It’s still kind of weird to be going through the door with the picture of a trollop in a skirt above the word ‘ladies,’ but it seems appropriate given, you know, breasts.

I feel different these days.  Not just in a tactile way (though I am at least 143% more fun to brush up against in an elevator), but also mentally.  I don’t really feel anything like I used to.  Trust me, this is a good thing.

Anyway, I’m just sitting there, asking myself a few questions.  Why are the walls of this stall vaguely reflective?  Did the waitress really refer to me and my lovely assistant as ‘ladies’ without any sarcasm or insecurity of voice/tone/intent?  Why was mexican food a good idea again?  Do my non-stealth breasts help me pass better than my pink Power Ranger hoodie, or vice versa?  The answers are of course: just in case, yes and more than once, because it is tasty and planning ahead for gastrointestinal distress is for those who are afraid to live on the edge, totally boobs.

See, it’s not really that I’m in a stall waiting for the trapeze act in my abdomen to stop with the acrobatics, it’s much more that.  For the first time ever, I was correctly gendered.  Sure, I had abandoned my stealth mode (ran out of fucks earlier that day and didn’t want to go buy more since I forgot that coupon for 55 cents off a bushel on the fridge), but I was pretty sure my presentation was not adequate.  I honestly wasn’t sure if I was being brave for being in public while not passing and not in stealth mode or foolish because I thought that I passed and didn’t.  Of course, when a young lotion peddler in a mall compliments your pink Power Ranger hoodie, it doesn’t matter at all because you’re the Pink Ranger and no one messes with the Pink Ranger.

Compliments are a sort of strange.  Is a compliment positive by nature of its own virtues or is the positivity dependent solely upon interpretation of the receiving agent?  Metaphysically, a compliment must be a compliment even in a vacuum, independent of observer(s) or intended target(s).  Of course, epistemologically, one could argue that a compliment is only a compliment via positive interpretation by observer(s)/intended target(s).  If a compliment depends on interpretation, can any compliment be considered truly a compliment, given that a compliment must metaphysically be true based in its own virtues?  It could be the case that, with particular observer(s)/intended target(s), a metaphysically false compliment could be interpreted as metaphysically true, making it epistemologically true yet still metaphysically false by definition, through the unintended action of misinterpretation.  Does this misinterpretation of a false compliment into a true compliment create a metaphysical shift in the compliment to make it true?  For all intents and purposes, this misinterpretation will indeed change a metaphysically false compliment into a metaphysically true compliment.  With a solipsistic world view, this is necessarily true.  Of course, with a solipsistic world view, everything is true, isn’t it you cheeky devil.

So, as the Pink Ranger, I was seen and identified correctly while eating mexican food.  The waitress did not change back at any point, and as far as she (and a few other folks in the restaurant as well, bringing my total up to four (yes, I am going to keep count)) was concerned, the only penis I had ever interacted with were ones attached to other people or synthetic psuedo-penii potentially containing an unbalanced weight swiveling around an axis with velocity sufficient enough to shake the whole of the apparatus.  So, I guess I at least somewhat pass, which is pretty awesome right now.

Apparently some time recently, I started presenting full time.  I understand it’s usually more of a deliberate switch, or at least has some ceremony about it.  I think I just kind of went for a walk and it seemed like a good idea.  My stealth mode was pretty crappy anyway.  I’m sure I can still pull off boy mode if I had to.  Actually, it would be a pretty accurate boy mode, because I’d be cranky as heck and surly as the dickens.  It’d be just like the old days!  It is better this way, anyway.  Promises.

Since then, I have near completely abandoned any semblance of stealth.  I don’t even bring my armor along anymore.  I seem to be putting a lot of faith in my ability to pass, which is kind of scary but also exciting.  It’s kind of like the lottery, you know.   ‘You can’t win if you don’t play,’ right?  Except when you lose the lottery, the potential for violence/abuse is pretty limited.  Most times, you just gain an extra square of toilet paper.

Presenting Presents in the Present/Too Cheap for Ribbon!

So, we are all aware of what presenting means, right?  For those whose copy of their trans dictionary has yet to be delivered, it’s more or less the act of assuming appropriate gender in public.  The idea of presenting is kind of weird, isn’t it?  Presenting necessitates by definition a sort of introduction.  With every observer, it’s almost like ‘hi, I am <girl name> please believe me.’  Presenting almost seems like a false idea.  Do people present as themselves?  Sure, but it’s not a conscious effort most times.  Well, it’s not a conscious effort until you have to battle years of damage from the wrong hormones and learn a new psychosocial role.  Early in this sort of process, it feels a lot like nonverbal yearning for acceptance, and not only from external observers.

It feels a lot like trying hard (but not too hard, because failure (or even neutrality or apathy from observers) after such extreme effort can be devastating and even that fear of crushing failure is enough to potentially tip the person trying into dangerous territory wherein they themselves are responsible for their own horrible depression before they even step foot out of their front door) and crossing fingers, all while monitoring every escape route just in case.  A substantial amount of bravery is needed, at least for me, to step into the wild without five layers and enough compression to make my chest feel like a slow motion heart attack.  I’m getting used to the idea of the future, and I know it gets better, but I am still scared.  Every time I am in a store I still have a few minutes of paralyzing fear at random, but luckily it’s getting less and less and one day it might even go away.  I know this.  In the mean time, I’m just hoping to present/pass well enough to not attract the wrong kind of attention.

That’s really the thing.  I’m in transition in so many forms of the word.  It’s not just for you, dear reader.  There is always a certain amount of convincing and accepting that I need to do for myself.  I am able, for the most part, to walk around and not hide everything.  I can go to various stores and be around groups and feel ok about 95% of the time.  However, for the foreseeable future, I’m still just presenting basically my hopes and dreams to a public that probably doesn’t really give a shit.  That’s a double edged sword, and it doesn’t take much to see the potential of either side.

I just want to be.  I am tired of being as.  Does that make sense?  I don’t want to show up 'as' <girl name> to wherever.  I want to show up.  I know how I show up, which is the first step of course, but it’s potentially very different for everyone else.  Showing up as a person I am is much easier than showing up as a person I was not during the Dark Ages, but it’s not quite perfect yet.  It will be easier with folks who will only know me as <girl name> in the future.  It’s a bit more difficult for those who knew me as <boy name> in the past.  It’s a great deal more difficult for me to believe me.  It’s a long trek from ‘being as’ to ‘just being’ which is no surprise to anyone, I trust.

When does a trans person stop seeing the person they used to be in a mirror?  I don’t have the answer to that, but one day I hope to.  The answer to that question is probably way more complicated than I can imagine right now.  Give me a few months, and I’ll understand the gravity of that question a bit better.

Even such a simple action as going into the correct bathroom becomes a matter of either ‘horrible defeat and a feeling of inescapable futility’ or ‘success until next time.’  I know who I am and I can dig that.  Now, it’s kind of up to other people to believe that as well.  As an example, just now I could have simply walked into the boy’s room, sidled on up to the urinal, make a few grunts or whatever, and let loose trying to avoid splash back.  It’s right there, but these days I just keep walking over to the other side.  I could probably still pull off a boy mode for a few minutes or whatever.  But it’s not that.  It’s not because I have pretty obvious breasts.  It’s not because I am aware of who frequents such places and what they talk about with their dick in hand.  No, I don’t go in there because it’s a lie.  That’s probably a really good indicator of my progress so far, actually.

Random Observation Time (Again)!

Here are some words that you can make into brain pictures!

1) Suppose, dear reader, that you are out and about in a store or restaurant or what have you, and you feel that a brief visit to the bathroom would increase your comfort at least ten fold.  Easy solution, right?  Walk over and enter the same old bathroom you always have forever.  Done!  No paranoia and no weird looks, after all, you’re just going to tinkle and had the common decency not to do it in the throw pillow aisle or on the table in a crowded diner.  Yeah, I remember those days.  Things are different now.

So, here I am with a very quickly failing stealth mode in a restaurant, without my baggy fleece to hide in (quaintly referred to as ‘armor’), and a need to lose a few hundred milliliters of processed liquids.  What do?  What would you do, dear reader?  Keep in mind, that in this position, early in presenting in public without armor, you will be terrified that someone is going to stand up, point, and call you out.  See, early like this, passing suddenly goes from ‘well, hopefully maybe someone will refer to me as female today’ to ‘oh god help me everyone knows every secret I’ve ever had at first glance.’  Because, you know, the trans individual cannot determine at this point if they are passable or not.  Which makes sense, really, but is wildly inconvenient when the choice of ‘ladies’ vs. ‘gents’ comes up on two separate doors.  Like guardians of a sacred secret, they loom in front of you and you can almost feel the wind move slightly as a literal question mark forms above your head, fueled solely by your own confusion and paranoia.  Really, it’s 80% the same behind each door, but it’s worlds apart.

Basically, when is it ok to use the bathroom that you most closely identify with?  Turns out, at least for me, it’s not really a choice.  Given the fact that I have effectively non-concealable breasts and a million other smaller gender cues, my choice was made for me.  Obviously, I can’t go into the boy’s room because that would raise more weird questions than going into the girl’s room.  Doesn’t mean I’m not scared as heck, though.  That first step is a heck of a step, but so vitally important for self admission and validation.  It’s like one of a hundred individual hoops to jump through during the transition process.  I’m not super comfortable going in by myself and hoping no one knows my secrets, but that I can go in is huge and liberating.

However, here’s a thought that probably never occurred to you, dear reader.  Suddenly, I am remarkably paranoid that the sound of me peeing is going to reveal my secrets.  Yep, these are the kind of thoughts transgirls have.  Does having a penis sufficiently alter the acoustic feedback of urination to such an extent that questions will be raised?  When I find the answer, I will surely share.

2) A new guy moved in over the weekend.  Since it was the weekend, I had thrown off any pretense of my crappy stealth mode.  So, in effective girl mode, we meet.  From a distance, I (hopefully) present as female.  Actually, that was fine and dandy until I had to say my name, at which point I used the wrong voice (not a big deal right now) and introduced myself as ‘<boy name> soon to be <girl name>.’  That wasn’t to be wibbly-wobbly on my transition, of course, but more of a reflection of the current social situation.  The rest of the conversation was mostly verbal from my end and confusion and blank stares from his end.  Of course, that is not an ideal method of telling folks about trans issues, but I wasn’t fibbing, no sir/ma’am.  Besides, it’s good to confuse people sometimes.  Keeps them on their toes.

3) I have been sort of bouncing around this subject for a while here, so, in the interest of appropriate documentation, I will now be talking about breasts.  This is Day 88 on the hormone replacement therapy, and I find myself in a position to move up a bra size.  I am aware that most transgirls at the three month mark may be just ready to start with an A, and in fact I understand that getting up to a B after many more months is a stroke of luck and can easily be considered good progress.  So, me moving up to a C after three months is pretty amazing growth.  This rapid growth also explains the growing pains and also why my stealth mode is about as sneaky as an ox in a grocery store.

So, I was pretty happy with a B, especially considering I had done in three months what it takes some transgirls years to achieve.  I was cool and fine if they just stopped there.  Of course, I do know better.  I know that the most significant growth period is yet to come.  I know that they don’t just stop after three months.  I was ok with a B cup, but now I’m somehow weird and almost resistant to moving up to a C, though it is totally not up to me.  For the life of me, I have no idea how to reconcile this strange feeling of being mildly resistant to what I wanted in the first place.  I mean, I did sign up for this second puberty with all of its twists and turns and such.  Part of it may be that I have been informed that should they get any bigger, a number of people will get jealous.  Maybe it’s like a B could be considered an accident of fate, but suddenly a C is serious business.  It’s also more reinforcement that my stealth mode is not going to work for much longer.  Of course, we’ll see what happens.  Like most things in puberty, it’s a crapshoot.

Usually good things come in threes, right?  Instead, you get these three things.  Sorry, no refunds, no exchanges.  You don’t like it, take it up with the manager.

Three Months!

Today, I have been on hormone replacement therapy for three months.  These past three months have been amazing and educational, not only for me, but for heaps of people around me as well.  In the last three months, I have learned that I can wear colors other than black and variants thereof.  I’ve learned what it feels like to actually have a body that belongs to me.  I’ve learned that, for the most part so far, people are super rad and understanding.

Of course, I’m forgetting things, too.  Trust me, this is for the best.  I’m forgetting the distance that I used to feel that used to be the rift between me and me.  I’m forgetting how to hide my personality for the sake of others.  I’m forgetting so much of the pain and confusion that defined me for so long.  I have also forgotten how to play Rock Band well.  I am working on trying to remember that one.  The rest of that crap can go fuck itself at high velocity.

I’m not sure how much sense it makes to those who’ve never really felt the gravity of gender dysphoria, but I feel complete finally for the first time.  It is so hard to explain not only the internal distance, but also the effects of that distance to those who haven’t really questioned their gender identity.  It’s not really relatable to any one metaphor or allegory, or even most words for that matter, because it’s so broad and so encompassing and so oppressive that trying to put the intense depression of loss for something that was never there seems inadequate.  I’ve tried to tell people, and I know that folks generally understand what it’s about, but for me it’s different.  No matter how visceral I get with the description or how many synonyms for ‘god-fucking-awful’ I use, I always feel that I’ve missed some vital aspect of the gender dysphoria when I try and describe it to others.

It’s hard to pick out which part of the distance is most important to share in order to get across that feeling to those who don’t feel it.  Of course, it’s hard because everything is intertwined and bound so tightly that explaining even one small string of it runs the risk of unravelling the whole mess, and, quite frankly, that is a hell of a lot to explain even to the most curious of audiences.  Heck, I can’t even explain it completely to myself, but when I think of what gender dysphoria means to me I get a tight feeling everywhere all at once and a sense that something dangerous and horrible used to lurk around every dark corner of my mind.  I was terrified of myself for so long, and I had no idea why.  No wonder I was an absolute shit to be around for those many years.

It’s better now.  A million times better.  It’s not enough yet to erase the sickening visceral reaction or the fear or the sense of doom completely, but it’s getting there.  

  

To date, I have taken approximately 24,000mg of spironolactone, and more or less 720mg of estradiol.  Of course, when put that way, no wonder things have changed so much.  I used to be much more reserved about my transition, and was really protective of the pictures I sent out at irregular intervals.  It’s a bit different now, because playing hide and seek against myself for that long gets a bit tiring.

On a practical note, weather permitting, I’m going to get a few new holes in my ears tonight.  I’m sure there is a joke about ‘getting a new hole’ somewhere in there, but I’ll leave the dirty jokes up to you today.  Besides, I got a plastic guitar to relearn.

Accidentally Serious.

Definitions:

Gatekeeper, noun: 1) a person in charge of a gate, usually to identify, count, supervise, etc.  2) guardian, monitor  3) inhumane asses

Real Life Experience, crap: 1) hazing ritual

Let me share a bit with you, dear reader, one of the many nonsense hoops trans folk need to jump through in order to get the treatment they need.  See, most of the systems in place for trans folks are in place not really actually to help, but to make sure they ‘don’t make a huge mistake with their lives.’  There is something to be said for ‘ensuring the dedication of the patient,’ but there is also something much worse to be said for ‘hoping the patient doesn’t commit suicide while jumping through an arbitrary hoop for an arbitrary length of time.’

The particular hoop of focus today is the Real Life Experience (RLE).  Let me explain, because the definition above may be a little editorialized.  Sometimes, a trans person admits to themselves they are indeed trans and have a need to transition.  The first step is a counselor, who can assess and assist the trans person in getting the help they need.  Some of these practitioners, under the guise of ensuring that ‘a horrible mistake isn’t made by the patient,’ will haze/test the trans person by requiring the RLE.

This amounts to (typically) a year of living as the desired gender by changing/adjusting dress and mannerisms.  Note, at this point if you are non-binary, you can go fuck yourself because the establishment has no place for genderqueer/genderfluid folks.  One year, before even getting that all-important letter so that they can get the hormones they need so they can live, basically.

So, picture this.  Let’s take a male, with a typical male body, that admits and accepts that they are trans.  They need help, so they start on the path of transition by visiting with a psychologist or some such.  This professional, ostensibly there to help, informs this male that they must dress and act as female for a period of no less than one year.  Any deviation from this presentation will put them back at square one and the countdown is reset.  During this time, the patient will be monitored to ensure adherence to the RLE by coworkers or professors or those sufficiently around the person to make sure they are getting their new gender role right.  Also, to add insult to injury here, the patient must deal with a boy body for the entire year, which is almost always a terrible reminder of what they were born and constantly feeling like they are mocking what they need to be.

So, this male who needs help (because as soon as you admit to yourself you need to transition, every day spent waiting is a new level of hell) now must effectively crossdress (which is miles apart from being trans) and try to pass (because not everyone is cool with a boy in drag) hoping no one thinks they aren’t serious or aren’t playing the part correctly.  Seems a bit harsh, maybe?  Outdated?  Yeah, it’s both of those things in spades.  It is, according to studies, also not helpful or productive.  How do you suppose this male feels, needing to be female and being slightly closer by dressing as a female, but still miles away from what they need by being constantly reminded they have a boy body?  Suppose maybe the already crushing, horrible distance they feel might actually get worse during RLE?  Think it might drive some to suicide?

However, if the trans person goes through the whole year, they are serious about transitioning.  Of course, I was pretty goddammed serious back then, too.  Honestly, the RLE would have killed me.  No joke.  You don’t have to pretend for a year to need treatment.  Think about a cancer patient.  Should they ‘pretend to be on chemo for a year’ before getting the real thing?  Depressed patient?  ‘Pretend you are sufficiently happy as compared to our standard of happiness for a year and then we can help you.’  Like a trained astronaut reaching toward the moon in their backyard.

Of course, even after that year, they still might not get sufficient treatment.  But at least there won’t be any ‘horrible mistakes.’  See, now that I actually have a heart, it’s broken in half for those poor folks who get subjected to RLE.  Honestly, trans folks aren’t fucking around and don’t need to play dress up for a year.  They need help and the courtesy of common human decency.

Going Down!

Dyads are socially ~90% male/female with the rest being same sex, obviously.  Please note, this does not include trans/genderfluid/genderqueer folks, mostly because we are glancing through the looking glass of the majority.  Most folks don’t really look for gray areas here probably because most folks only deal with the gray area of social sex in theory.  Of course, you and I, dear reader, are acutely aware now that there is no absolute even in this regard.  There is plenty of gray area, and the gradations are infinite and only slightly discrete.

Two becomes one at sufficient distance, and the inverse is true when both variables are inverted.  Approximation of the observer initiates conceptually improbable spacial relations with confusion thereto and a separation of the dyad on the basis of notions of size and shape.  Noticeable contact is effectively equal and opposite reactions primarily with some small degree of inertia, and all forces can be qualified in force and acceleration toward and away at the same time.  Proximal contact-motion here is zero sum by definition.  Coordinated waves of motion form the basis of macro-interaction with a push-pull displacement being also the theme of micro-interaction.  Gravity and charge create attraction and repulsion, and even those smallest parts of an individual so near those small parts of another are effectively a million miles away.  At such a minuscule frame of reference, loneliness and isolation are the de facto themes.  Unavoidable and absolute, here everything is alone.  An impenetrable space for anything but itself, even those closest are pushed away by forces unseen, yet attracted by the same.  Here, true and honest contact is only possible with adequate distance, which is how it goes most times down here.

Suppose it is the case that I am socially male.  Then, when in the company of my lovely assistant in the wild, as it were, we are but a popular dyad.  We deviate little and raise few questions.  Now keep in mind the binary is alive and well in the minds of the majority, so though we are very aware all dichotomies are false, you can’t save everyone from old ideas.  So, were I to present as female out and about, then we become potentially a platonic dyad with the potential to meander into a more relationship-based pair.  Will this cause problems?  Who knows?  Does it matter?  Who cares?

Honestly, the reactions of them asses* are more or less not predictable given current information.  Of course, there will be more here as more is learned.  Of course, I think that if we simply avoid redneck bars and car shows, we’ll be just peachy.  I think that’s pretty good advice for anyone, actually.  Anywhere there is the possibility of a rumble concerning the superior qualities of a certain make of truck is probably not a place for either us or you, dear reader.  We are all too sexy for that nonsense anyway.

*If that doesn’t make sense, say it out loud kind of fast.  That is probably how Engels wanted it written until Marx reminded him that clever insults and puns are no way to form a system of government.

Up Here, Kiddo!

Men tend to let their gaze shift south quite a bit, don’t they?  Must everything go south in the winter?  Do they do this in the summer?  Back when I was full up to the eyebrows with testosterone and loneliness, I totally looked at breasts, but I assure you I was quite sneaky.  I had thoughts, oh did I ever!  I imagined a world where breasts were plentiful and available whenever an opportunity arose.  I saw them as somehow magical and otherworldly, shimmering in the distance and indeed the very embodiment of heaven wherein the gods themselves can be interacted with.  In this case, testosterone acts as a splendid and potent hallucinogen.

Indeed, I have learned recently that I may have been somewhat incorrect about a few things.  Concerning the issue at hand, there just isn’t all that much magical about breasts.  Now, don’t get me wrong, they are wonderful things and, if offered, I would surely partake as allowed by said offer without intent to breach any verbal and/or written contract pertaining to said offer.  However, I would approach the offer with clearer goals than ‘knead like bread dough until one or more parties is satisfied.’

I notice now that I appear to have a pair of my own that they aren’t portals to heaven at all.  Again, they are super rad, but they aren’t exactly the mystical keys I somehow previously expected them to be.  I think I expected them to have the ability to conjure woodland creatures or ‘cast fireball at higher levels.  Though I have broken the spell and have seen what’s behind the curtain, so to speak, it seems many are still quite under the influence.

See, they aren’t particularly presented in any special manner, and indeed I have recently swapped out higher padding for higher comfort.  Despite my impression that they were mostly concealed by my stealth mode, I was proven to be quite wrong by a number of men today.  It seems as though I have become slightly more popular with the men around here, but not because of my wits.

Indeed, I was as guilty as the next person with fully functioning testosterone factories of moving my gaze down about fifteen degrees or so, and that cannot be denied.  Of course, nobody ever noticed.  Except for everybody, obviously.  Of course, now that I have effectively disabled said factories, I find myself on the opposing side of this.  It’s not just that they are staring at my chest during conversation, it’s that I know what is going through their head.  It’s funny in a way, and it will be even more funny when I am able to call them out without totally fucking up my stealth mode.

Anyway, I guess now I can honestly and truly apologize from anyone whose breasts I have stared at over the years.  So, everyone who noticed that I was not very sneaky at all, I’m sorry.  Except for you in the front row there.  I will not apologize because those are totally fantastic.  You know who you are.

In short, they are just breasts.  That’s it.  Now quit ogling my chest while I’m making lunch.  It makes shaking peaches out of the can a little more awkward than I feel it ought to be.

Found!

What does a girl feel like when they are alone?  No idea.  I always assumed it would be different than boys feel like when they are alone.  Honestly, I had always hoped being alone would be different, because I don’t know how boys get any work done with one hand perpetually in their pants and I got things to do.  Of course, I was ostensibly a boy for a while, but I couldn’t say how a boy felt when alone.

See, I’m sitting here and I don’t necessarily feel like a girl.  Now, that’s mostly because I have precious little knowledge of how a girl is supposed to feel when they are alone, but also because of the weird ideas males are given when referring to girls that are alone.  Because there isn’t much non-creepy documentation on this subject (which are wildly inaccurate anyway as it turns out), that leaves me feeling curious and potentially bewildered.  How should I be sitting?  How should my posture be?  Where do my hands go?  How often should I be adjusting these things?  All of these questions and I have no way to know for sure whether or not I’m doing this right or if whatever I’m doing is reasonable but, of course, absolutely none of it matters.

I feel like me.

I am awake and present and aware.  This is more than I could have said for anytime in the past.  I feel connected to myself, and it doesn’t really matter right now whether or not I’m presenting well in sweatpants and a comfy sweater.  It doesn’t matter that my hair looks a bit like that cute bobble thing that quails have.  Even the strange, newly foreign and luckily easily hidden bulge in my pants doesn’t matter right now either.  Not because I am alone, but because it’s me and I can accept that.

See, I wanted to fit in so badly for so long.  I thought for sure that if I learned the mannerisms and actions, I could fit right in.  It turns out it wasn’t fitting in with others that was so important.  It was fitting in with myself.  I have a lot to learn, of course.  I sometimes stand with my hips forward, which would be more strange if I had any visible pant-apparati, but nonetheless.  I have a bit of trouble keeping the right voice.  Also, I have trouble with color coordination, but that is probably a different issue altogether.  Anyway, I have things to learn, but it’s going to be a lot easier now that I am starting to forget what the distance actually felt like.

Past/Future!

Dreams of early adolescence don’t always come true.  If they did, I’d probably be banging supermodels in a spaceship while enjoying a bucket of Original Recipe with my robotic hand.  (Un)fortunately, that never happened.  Nor did the dreams of riding a dinosaur through town come true.  Obviously, the dreams about tropical islands, ropes, the Irish, and the one about gigantic nitrogen molecules (they were everywhere, but were at least a nice shade of blue) also failed to deliver.  One dream did come true, it seems.  I did have a dream about becoming a girl and that seems to be working out pretty well for me.

We’ll just skip over the details of the dream mostly because they don’t make any sense.  It’s a pretty common kind of dream for folks in my position.  You can probably guess the theme of the dream, and you can fill in the details from there.  Of course, as a young girl observing her incorrect body from more or less a third person perspective during the day and only having the correct parts in dreams, I was remarkably confused.  Come to think of it, that confusion might have been why sixth grade went so poorly.  This dream repeated over and over, probably several times a week, and continued for years.  I don’t really remember too many dreams, but this one I can still run through pretty accurately.

Yeah, puberty was awful for most and I’m not going to minimize or trivialize anyone’s trauma by having a pissing match over whose puberty was more terrible.  Folks whose gender matches their sex (the terminology here is cis-, which of course acts as counter to trans- (mmm, stereochemistry)) got their own special set of problems.  I didn’t realize why I felt so alone on that day in sixth grade when the boys went here and the girls went over there and watched a special video.  Probably because I was.  I might have been alone and weird during the day, but in dreams at least I was right and comfortable.  It was strangely traumatic to wake up from those dreams, where things made sense, and realize it was just a dream and that I still had the same stupid parts I went to sleep with.

Considering this dream, I probably should have seen this coming.  Of course, hindsight is a glass house one shouldn’t walk under a ladder to get to.  I think that’s how that saying goes.  Pretty sure, yeah.  Anyway, I’m not too interested in reliving that puberty through words here, though.  I got a new puberty to worry about.  I still wake up in the morning with said stupid parts downtown, but now there are two more significant parts a bit further north.  Uptown, if you will.  Usually, I don’t notice them right away in the morning unless I roll over too fast, or my arm pinches one of them, or they just feel like they’re being run over by a large truck for absolutely no apparent reason.  There has got to be better ways to greet the day than to have one breast on fire and the other exploding in rapid succession from the inside.  On the plus side, I only wake up in pain four or five days a week, so it could be worse.

I looked back a bit and noticed, with a peculiar fondness for the past, that my biggest complaint several weeks ago was just itchiness where things were growing and changing.  At least back then I knew what to expect.  Now, it’s just like rolling a die with middle fingers addressed to me on five of the six sides.  Far more pain than anything else, really.  Since we are in polite company, the face of the die that isn’t angry with me won’t be discussed.  Well, ok, maybe a little.  Let’s just leave it at this: I had no idea a human body could do that.  Wow.

New fantastic amazing tricks aside, I have finally started doing a bit of voice work.  Imagine, if you will, the sound of one hundred crickets chirping slightly too close to your head without even the pretense of synchronization.  Got that?  Now raise it an octave and punch yourself in the ear repeatedly.  That is how my voice sounds when I practice.  Oddly enough, I felt my old voice to be worse.  Apparently, I prefer discordant disharmony and aural trauma to my boy voice.  It’s probably not near as bad as I make it out to be here, but it is probably even worse and it is awful and there are probably orphans crying somewhere because of my attempts at voice work.

Also, as of today, I’ve been on hormone replacement therapy for 10 weeks.  It’s been 70 days since I told testosterone to go blow it out his ear.  I have plans for the three month mark.  You’ll see.

A Brief Change of Pace.

Mirrors and I have had an interesting relationship over the years.  I used to avoid them because they lied, but since they were everywhere, I just had to kind of put up with it.  Even glass windows at curious angles would reflect back at me the appearance I never felt comfortable with.  If there was an interaction with a mirror to be had, I made sure it wouldn’t last.  I also rarely made eye contact with the boy I saw in the mirror.  It’s not polite to stare at strangers.

I didn’t shy away from cameras just to be funny, either.  I didn’t want photographic evidence.  I didn’t want folks to look back at the pictures later because I knew it wasn’t right.  In every picture taken I felt like a liar, and every picture I saw of me, I never saw me.  I only saw a boy, always awkward and looking like he didn’t belong.  Just a stranger to me, looking into the camera, surrounded by my friends and family.

I never really looked at pictures or reflections of myself.  Honestly, I couldn’t.  I didn’t see the point.  Mirrors and images are supposed to reveal yourself to yourself.  You are supposed to learn from mirrors.  Pictures were meant to help you remember happy events from the past.  Except I never saw myself in any of them.  Entire decades of pictures, and I wasn’t in a single one.

I hope you, dear reader, will never feel that way.  If you have, I hope those days are far far behind you.

It’s difficult for me to get across exactly the feelings I lived with for entirely too long.  On one hand, it seems too broad to squeeze into a single metaphor or one story.  On the other, honestly, it’s really not easy for me to think back on it for too long.  I didn’t realize at the time how terrible I felt.  There was no escape from those horrible feelings.  I just accepted that being attacked on all sides by my own brain was just the way it was, and there was no sense in complaining because it didn’t matter anyway.

No one should ever have to live the way I did for those many years.  Ever ever ever.  No one deserves to feel like a stranger in their own skin.  It’s a terrible thing to feel like you inadvertently invaded a body that’s actively trying to get you out.  At the time, deep in the depths of gender dysphoria, there feels like there is no escape.  This isn’t unique to this issue, of course, but it’s terrifying just the same.  It’s not a mistake that can be blamed on anyone or anything, and that makes it worse.  There is no outward target for your rage and confusion and depression at that point, so it gets focused inward.  There’s nowhere else for it to go.

That’s probably why I was an alcoholic for a few years.

I didn’t realize how bad it was until I had started on the path of escape.  I couldn’t.  If I would have fully processed the hopelessness and desperation and futility of my situation back then, I would have been one of the 41% of transgendered people who attempt suicide.  In this case, I just kept burying and burying, hoping it would be enough.  I knew one day everything I was trying to hide would be too large to cover, but it was all I could do.  I didn’t feel I had any choice.

Relationships with friends were strained because I was trying to hide so much of myself, and I lost the friendship of several good people along the way.  I have found many good friends in the past few years, and they have stayed with me despite the waves of dysphoria getting more intense and coming more often.  I hope to repay their kindness for helping me out during those rough times.

I have decided, by committing to my transition, that I will be happy.  Through my transition, I have made up my mind to never ever feel that way again.  Turns out I was a fantastic actress until a few months ago.  I had fooled everyone into believing I was a boy.  My disguise was so complete, I had fooled myself in the process as well.  However, such acting never brought me any joy or benefit, so it’s time to hang up the costume and the stage name and never use them ever again.  I have a choice and a freedom now and I owe it to so many to start living and stop lying.

This Christmas, we are away from family due to circumstances we didn’t really plan for.  We have some good friends near who we will be sharing the season with.  I have my brave, fantastic, amazing lovely assistant, and for the first time in years, she has me.  The actual me, without masks and without lies.  This Christmas, I am without so much of the pain that I used to defined me for far too long.  This really is my first holiday season not wearing my costume and not keeping up the charade and not lying to everyone around the table with my appearance and actions.  For those not here with me, there will be pictures.  Not pictures of an awkward, scared, confused boy, though.  Of me.  Now that I am starting to show up in these pictures, I hope you, dear reader, can see me also.

Anyway, it’s not my first Christmas, but it might as well be.  It’s good to be free.

Name/No Name/Name!

Names are kind of weird, huh?  Just a string of letters.  Of course, names are words.  Small pieces of speech, pushed together and assigned a target and meaning.  Not too many words, though, resonate with an individual more strongly than their own name.  As kids grow, the meaning of their name expands to be not only a reference to themselves, but a single word representation of their thoughts and actions.  Somewhere along the way, the person makes their name their own.

If a person learns the word avocado before having knowingly perceived an avocado, the word is just an empty handful of syllables.  At that point, that person’s impression of an avocado is based solely on high level processes inferred from the source of the word.  Was it spoken to the individual as a danger or threat?  Was it spoken to emphasize the wonders of the avocado?  Without direct perception, the individual only learns about the avocado from others, be it from books or people around them.

It could probably safely be argued that knowledge concerning avocados is based in fact.  Excepting those looking to advance an anti-avocado agenda, it can be assumed that there is significant truth in the information shared about avocados.  Indeed, direct perception of an avocado would reinforce or debunk those qualities heretofore described.  Post-identification, the avocado converts from four syllables in a row to all number of qualities and characteristics held by the avocado.

Identification of a person can kind of run along these same lines.  Perception of self is loose and dynamic, making it difficult to pin down in the early years.  Here, a name is just a word with very fluid definitions.  Of course, this sense becomes more solid as time goes on, but continues to be fluid to at least some degree.  As personal traits and actions become more individual, a person’s name takes on those qualities, as well as being a signifier for that individual.

As an example, <boy name> doesn’t just refer to my person, but also past actions and activities.  Just as your name doesn’t just mean you.  When thought of, people don’t exist in a vacuum.  A name brings to mind not only the perception of an individual, but also unavoidably their actions.

What happens when an individual, through various changes in life, has a need to change their first name?  For those who knew the individual before the change, ideas and characteristics are carried over to the new name.  Even if the changing individual wishes to leave certain parts behind, it is not up to them.  Barring extreme circumstances, there is no tabula rasa stage.  Only a hope in the changing individual that present and future actions and activities can make old perceptions fall into obsolescence.

As I am currently in transition, with progress moving along remarkably quickly but well, I also need to look ahead to changing my name.  I look back and know I did some things well, some things poorly, and some things were out of my control.  However, I’m not looking for a blank slate.  My past is mine, for better or worse, and it would be foolish and inappropriate to ignore.

The official name change will be coming along sooner rather than later by all measures and appearances.  At that point, and indeed starting now with the introduction, I hope that folks will not forget the past many years.  I hope that folks don’t just erase and forget what I did throughout my relationship with them.  I hope that folks will understand.  I have a need to grow into a new name soon.  Right now, only a first name is decided.  The rest has changed around some recently, and there are ideas for what I’d like, but right now only the first name is final.  All three names will change in time, not to leave the past behind but more to show that the changes are that significant.

I cannot pretend to be able to control how I was seen in the past or will be seen in the future.  I can only try my best, and ask people to keep a close eye on me.  I have a lot to learn.

-S