Waxing Lyrical

Livin’ on the edge, jaded,
I wanna know why I’m down.
Tell me what it takes.

Same old song and dance,
Round and round,
You gotta move full circle.

You see me crying.
Write me a letter, something
Stop messin’ around.

My girl never loved a girl.
Think about it: crazy.
Ain’t that a bitch?

Drop dead gorgeous angel,
Under my skin no more:
No more monkey on my back.

Something’s gotta give.
Movin’ out no surprise.
Kiss your past goodbye.

Pride Positive

I’m proud and I’m not ashamed of it. Pride attracts a lot of negative responses: it’s named as one of the seven mortal sins in the Christian faith and it’s all too often conflated with egoism and hubris. I will argue that feeling pride is a good thing, a positive response to positive actions and circumstances.

To begin we need to define what pride is, and the first part of that will be to remove any confusion by identifying what it is not. Pride is not the excessive, self-absorbed arrogance of hubris. It is not the over-estimation of one’s own abilities, nor is it the egoistic self-congratulation of the narcissist.

Pride is a recognition of one’s own worth, that deep satisfaction which results from a job well done, an uplifting feeling of self-esteem. Pride is the natural step beyond simple self-acceptance: once you have learned to accept yourself as you are then it follows that you may begin to like yourself, to derive pleasure from aspects of your identity. I put it to you that being proud of who you are, of what you have achieved and what you may be capable of, is an act of love: to love yourself is to feel pride in yourself.

Pride is entirely a positive emotion. It arises when you feel good about yourself, when you feel worthy. It is empowering. In many ways pride is opposite to embarrassment; where embarrassment is the acknowledgment of failure, pride comes from success. Being proud is a celebration.

So when I say I am proud to be autistic, proud to be a trans woman, proud to be Lancastrian and proud to be married to Anne it is an indication of the high value I place on these things and the degree to which they form part of my identity. My pride is my internal celebration of them, my recognition that they shape me and make me the person I am. My pride gives me self-belief and the strength to deny any who would put me down. They cannot belittle me because I know who and what I am and where I come from: I know I’m worth something.

Reflected in Others’ Eyes

One thing I said to people when I came out as a trans woman was that I’m still the same person. And indeed I do not feel like I’ve become somebody different at all. I do however feel less constrained, more free to express myself in a way that feels natural. I no longer feel that I’m playing a role, fitting in with what I believed people expected of me when I presented as male. It’s as if I had been confined, a square peg in society’s round hole, but by taking the step to be true to my own sense of identity I have been able to cast off the false act.

Some of the changes that Anne has noticed since I started my transition:

  • The first thing she said, which others have also remarked on, is that I appear much happier.
  • My gait has changed. I used to be heavy-footed, walking with feet splayed, and also what she described as bouncing. I now walk with my feet in line, placing them rather than “stomping”, and the weight is distributed more evenly instead of being mostly on the heel. In some respects it is similar to how I used to walk as a child, before I acquired “bad habits” (I often used to toe-walk). In fact I am now unable to reproduce my former gait as it feels too unnatural.
  • I am more expressive. She described my face as being more animated where before I had a flat affect. I also gesture more with my hands when speaking where before I would usually stick my hands in my pockets because I didn’t know what else to do with them.
  • I appear more sensitive and understanding. She told me I am more patient and responsive to her needs; I used to have a short fuse at times and would be snappy.
  • I’ve discovered color in my wardrobe. I’ve gone from wearing exactly the same black shirt and jeans every day to a variety of dresses, tops and skirts in different colors, never the same two days running.

I’ve also noticed some changes in other people’s behavior towards me since I started to present publicly as female. When I’m shopping the checkout assistants are more likely to engage in conversation. More people at work say “Good morning”, and I’m more likely to receive a smile; I’ve actually had more non work-related conversations at work in the year since transitioning than I ever did in the previous seven years! Even a few compliments on my attire, which pleased me very much since I try to make an effort.

Some signals have been more mixed: a couple of times I’ve noticed men speaking to my chest rather than my face! Not sure what they’re looking at: I’ve not much development there to speak of. Perhaps it’s just habit with them? On a brighter note I had a very positive encounter with a real gentleman last summer: I was driving to work one morning along the M4 when, while overtaking a pickup, something like a string bag full of straw fell from the back of it and lodged under my car. The driver of the pickup noticed this as I pulled in front of him and he signaled for me to pull over. I pulled onto the shoulder and he pulled over behind. We both got out, and without hesitation he walked to my car and practically lay down on the asphalt, reaching far underneath to remove the debris. I was most grateful and not a little surprised since I’d never experienced anything like this before.

All this is wonderfully validating and has increased my self-confidence. Together with discarding inhibitions it all contributes to a greater sense of calm and a reduction in my general stress levels. These inhibitions were to do with my internalized view of appropriate male behavior, a collection of rules I had acquired since early childhood. How I had learned I ought to act to avoid negative reactions: certain mannerisms, displaying physical reactions to my emotional states, even the way I walked.

Some of my inhibitions were a result of as well a cause of anxiety. Being on the receiving end of teasing or bullying will affect your behavior as you work hard to suppress the things you do that seem to be the triggers. Catching yourself doing one of those things causes a huge sense of panic: you stand there waiting for the expected hurtful reactions from those around you.

Societal gender roles have a lot to do with what is seen as acceptable by people in general. Presenting as male I had the advantage of privilege and the protections deriving from that, but only as long as I conformed to the expectations of that role. For me it was uncomfortably confining because I wasn’t able to be myself, but for such a long time I was too afraid of the reaction if I didn’t “play along”: I was trapped by my fears.

Now, presenting as myself, I don’t experience those fears. I do feel more vulnerable when I’m out and about which I believe is a result of no longer hiding behind a role, a mask. I’ve written before about how I used to feel I was safely hidden inside an avatar of flesh that was all the rest of the world ever saw of me. That’s gone now: what I show is my inner self, the person that was always there behind my protective wall of conformity.

Occasionally I regret that I took so many years to build up to the point of coming out, but that’s not how my life turned out. The simple fact is that I am here now and wishing things were different can never change that; it can only make me sad. It’s true to say that I am happier now than I had been for a heck of a long time and that’s worth a lot.

An Unexpected Result

I received a letter at the beginning of February. It was a copy of one sent by the Gender Clinic to my doctor and stated that the blood tests performed following my appointment there last December showed that I had low vitamin D. For the past week I have been taking a prescription supplement (calciferol).

I didn’t expect any rapid changes, but I’ve been most pleasantly surprised to find that my energy levels are much improved and my muscle pains and stiffness have all but gone. A bonus of feeling better physically is that my mood has also lifted: I’d been feeling down more frequently than usual.

The main cause of this deficiency is that, especially at this time of year, I do not venture out of doors very often. This means that I have very little exposure to sunlight which is the main way that the body produces vitamin D. I guess I’ve no excuse now for avoiding the chores in the garden once the weather improves sufficiently!

My Calendar of Tales, With Apologies to @NeilHimself

I got the inspiration for this post from Neil Gaiman’s Calendar of Tales. I’m shamelessly ripping off his wonderful idea in the hope that I can overcome the writer’s block that has afflicted me for several weeks. I’ve come up with a question for each month, and used it as the starting point for a little story. I know very well that my writing is not in the same class as his — he’s an author I admire very much — so I’m not trying to emulate him. This is just taking an idea and running with it. I don’t know where it will end up but I’m sure it’ll be fun getting there.

Why does January have two faces?

I didn’t ask to be here. OK, I might have put myself forward but I never actually asked for the job outright. I mean, why should I? I was perfectly happy the way things were. The ancien regime. The old boys’ club. Let sleeping dogs lie, don’t rock the boat and all that.

I press the flesh, smile, kiss the air beside their cheeks. “Darling, it’s so wonderful to see you here!”

What the goddam’ hell were they thinking? As if I need to ask; they let the new girl have a go. If it works out then it was their good idea; if it doesn’t then she takes the fall and catches all the shit. The bastards never accepted me, I was never one of them. A smile to your face and a knife in your back. They think I’m just a figurehead: a pretty face to catch the eye while they carry on as usual behind the scenes. Just shows how little they know me. Oh hell, it’s time to step up and make my speech.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being here on this auspicious day to witness the relaunch, nay, rebirth of the oldest firm in the land. I’d like to thank the board for appointing me, and to say what a pleasure it has been to work with them in the lead-up to this moment. With such a fine body of men behind me I’m certain that I can lead you all from success to success…”

Why is February the shortest month?

Long ago when the world was young and the old gods still held sway, the Moon Goddess had much influence in the lives of men, and even more so in the lives of women. While men made note of her cycle and the tides of the sea, measuring their lives by it, women had a more intimate connexion. The men were jealous of this, fearing that it gave women power over the regular order of nature, and so they conspired against the goddess, aiming to break her hold over the passage of time itself.

The day was long in coming. It took many years for the men to build a foundation of belief. First they fostered the idea that physical strength and prowess in battle was the ultimate achievement. Then they argued that this was a necessary quality for leadership, rising to occupy all the positions of power among the many tribes. At last they solidified their positions by casting shame on the women, telling them that their menstruation was dirty rather than a natural process of cleansing and renewal.

And finally they imposed their will on time itself, breaking the link between the calendar and the cycles of the moon by casting ill omens on the number thirteen and taking apart the thirteenth month, spreading its days among the other months. But February alone was left as it was, a single appeasement to the moon goddess just in case she retained some power. A single token of the fear and guilt they still felt, for in their hearts they knew that they needed the women they had so callously denigrated and robbed of status.

What made March so fickle?

March was the highlight of the year book, the one who was clearly going places. Captain of the football team — star quarterback no less! — and a model cadet officer. It was no surprise when he went up to West Point and his father proudly spoke of him as carrying on the family’s proud martial tradition.

Mars was an intelligent, sensitive young man with a strong sense of duty and respect for family, church and truth. He graduated among the top in his class and was soon posted overseas on active duty as a wet-behind-the-ears Second Lieutenant.

There, in Iraq, was where things began to fall apart. His unit had gone in alongside other nations’ troops following almost unanimous international agreement that condemned the invasion of Kuwait. Surely there was no question that they were on the side of right? Then why did the people they had liberated appear at best indifferent and at worst distrustful and antagonistic towards him and his men?

For such a decisive, fast-moving campaign it lacked any real sense of victory. The enemy had merely been pushed back and the choking black smoke from the burning oil wells told of the destruction they had left behind them.

His doubts began then, but it was only when he returned some years later as a Captain and saw how little changed even after toppling the dictator that they took root in earnest and made him question his calling. When his posting finally ended and he returned home he resigned his commission.

He was haunted each night by the remembered looks on the faces of the Iraqi civilians he was supposed to be protecting: they had not wanted him there, occupying their country. His unshakable belief that he was part of a force for good in the world had crumbled into dust, lost among the countless grains of sand in that desert land.

He was left without a purpose, his moral compass adrift. Nothing else could stir his interest, the passionate fire of his youth had burned out leaving only cold ashes. He spent his days drifting, unable to commit to any course of action or stick with any one task for more than a few days. A tortured soul, once so dedicated to upholding justice and now disillusioned and dissolute, tainted and broken by the harsh realities of life.

What’s the connexion between April and fools?

Don’t get me wrong, that April’s a lovely girl, but as for her taste in men? Don’t get me started! You remember her back in school, yeah? She took history because of that boy, what was his name? Dale? Or Dane? Doesn’t matter. My point is, she only took that class so she would be there with him and what happened? Two dates and then he dumped her for that senior, Chrissy. Even bought himself a new suit for the prom. And we all know he never got to wear it because Chrissy’d been two-timing him all along with that jock. I guess at least she wasn’t showing yet when he walked her up the aisle.

Not that April was bothered by then. She’d gotten involved with Dwayne who seemed like a nice enough guy. Son of the preacher at the local Baptist church. I remember how she’d talk about him, how he was such a gent. And she was sure he was a virgin when they had their first kiss. He’d just dropped her home and walked her to the door, and she took the chance, put her arms around his neck and planted one right on his lips. He never showed for their next date, avoided her at school, wouldn’t return her calls. Then we found out his pa had sent him away to some camp to “cure” him of being gay. Seems April was just a cover and he’d also been seeing some boy from the next town over.

Anyway, third time’s the charm, right? Senior year and she’s been going steady with Donnie — what was it with her and D’s? — for nearly a year. Boy do I remember him! One word: hot. Not the brightest spark but with a bod like that who cares, right? Yeah, I know. A bit of common sense would’ve helped. I mean, how does anybody get into that kind of mess by accident? So that was the end of April and Donnie.

You heard from her, like, recently? I kinda lost touch after her third divorce…

Do you want to be May Queen?

This is a true story: I went to a Ball once. Not just a dance but a proper, capital-B Ball: a May Ball. Gowns and diamonds, black tie for the gents. It was a real classy affair at one of the Cambridge colleges at the end of term. And boy did I feel out of place!

I recall looking at all those young women in their elegant finery and wishing I could look like that just for one night: to be belle of the ball instead of a scruffy social outcast wearing parent’s hand-me-downs. It’s not that I particularly wanted to have the attention, to be admired by onlookers (well, I admit, I did want to receive attention from a certain quarter but that’s by the bye as she wasn’t there that night). I did however envy their easy comfort in their intercourse with others: I have never had that skill.

Anyhow, now I have a degree of self-confidence that my younger self lacked and I would like the opportunity to step out at such a social event. Back then there were countless events I might choose to attend if I had only possessed the means and state of mind. Now I have the means but there are no balls.

What was June like as a child?

There once was a princess. That’s how these things usually start. There’s some princess and she’s the victim of manipulation by nefarious powers until she’s rescued by the brave prince and lives happily ever after. It makes a nice story even if it’s a bit light on realism or even morality. And you don’t get much in the way of role models. I guess that’s because these are just stories. To be perfectly blunt they’re not true.

This one might not be true either, but then again who knows? As old as I am I wasn’t there and neither were you. What’s truth anyway? An inconvenience that gets in the way of a ripping narrative, that’s what. I’m not saying this story isn’t true, mind you. It could be true. I’d like it to be…

There once was a princess and she was admired far and wide for her beauty and warm nature. She lived in a verdant kingdom where the people lived long, happy lives, secure in the knowledge that their king had always protected them from any and all threats to their way of life.

June wasn’t some empty-headed, vacuous puppet to be paraded before the people at state functions. From the start her father, the king, had involved her in the affairs of state as was only fitting for the one who would one day succeed him. As a result she was wise to the factions and underground currents at court: what use was an heiress to the throne who had no understanding of politics?

I have mentioned her warm nature: that was certainly the case, but she was no fool and as much as she appreciated the attentions of her many royal suitors, she could plainly see that they saw her only as their key to gaining control over the kingdom for their own ends.

Her father became disappointed at the self-serving nature of the string of prospective sons-in-law. He discussed the problem at length with June and between them they devised a test to, as it were, weed out the undesirables. It certainly  had the desired effect: instead of being unable to walk down from the castle to the market without tripping over at least ten hopeful candidates, June found that the stream reduced, first to a mere trickle and then stopped completely.

After some months of this her gratitude at the success of their scheme paled somewhat and she began to wonder whether they might have been a trifle strict in their criteria. She spoke to her father and he reassured her that she would eventually find someone worthy of her, one who harbored no selfish motives.

And so it transpired. On the eve of her twentieth birthday the castle was visited by a traveling troupe of minstrels from a distant land. These foreigners knew little of the kingdom and simply offered to entertain the king in exchange for leave to remain in the land for some time. A fair offer that was granted without hesitation.

The following day the troupe formed part of the festivities in celebration of June’s birthday. One of the minstrels, who had a talent for improvisation, composed a lay in honor of the princess. Despite having never even heard of her before the previous day, this minstrel had prodigious insight, empathy and powers of observation, and had conceived a lyrical masterpiece that spoke directly to her soul.

June sought to speak to this minstrel after the performance, and discovered somebody with whom she was perfectly in tune. Through sheer accident — no fairy godmothers interfering in the natural progression of events — she had encountered her soul mate. They talked long into the night and over the following nights, and when it came time for the troupe to travel on this one minstrel stayed behind as companion to the princess.

They never did marry: the queen (as she became) did not feel the need of any piece of paper given the depth and strength of their existing union of spirit. And the two of them remained true to the end, ruling side by side as equals and giving lie to those who said that two queens could not live under the same roof.

Where does July go in winter?

Jules, like his famous Roman namesake, got about a bit. World traveler, jet-setter. And all he had to do in exchange was pen a few words about his experiences along the way. Sounded like the ideal job, especially to an under-employed college graduate faced with the sudden reality of his student loan and the paucity of decent-paying positions for writers, even ones with a degree to their name.

Seven years down the line it was fair to say the luster had tarnished a bit. It wasn’t as if he ever had any say about where he went: it all depended on where his bosses wanted to spark interest among their customer base. He’d almost given up on his youthful dreams of becoming the next Great American Novelist, and yet he still persisted, working on his magnum opus through the winter months when his paid efforts were less in demand.

Dreams, however faded with time, are important, and in attempting to live his he found the strength to get through the cold, dark months.

Why is August so happy?

Happiness is so much more than just a state of mind. It’s a whole way of being, it shines out through every pore as if one had swallowed sunlight. There’s a secret to it, and August knew the secret.

It’s a matter — not a simple matter — of being in the right place and time, and the knowledge didn’t come easily. What that knowledge had cost August didn’t bear thinking about — so he didn’t think about it. That was part of the secret: cutting oneself off from the past.

It didn’t matter what had gone before. Every new day brought the promise of perfection, every new day was a fresh start with all the disappointments of the past sloughed off in the night, discarded and abandoned. He knew the right place because it was wherever he was, the right time because it was when he was there. It couldn’t be any other way: he knew he was simply the most important person in the world.

Ignorance is bliss.

Why is September my favorite month?

When I was a child summer lasted literally forever. Endless weeks to play in the sun, running through the woods and fields. In my memory it never rained. The blue skies with their occasional little fluffy clouds went on for ever and the world was all brightly colored. The climax of all this was September. The long summer nights and warm weather meant that the turning of the seasons wasn’t apparent until October brought the first fall chills and turned the leaves to flaming red and orange.

The September in my mind is one of happiness. Sitting on the green grass with its random outcroppings of white and yellow flowers, days of daisy chains and laughter. The structural beauty of trees reaching towards the heavens with their broad canopies, at once offering welcome shade and the fall of dappled sunlight on the undergrowth.

In September I was always wealthy beyond dreams; the richness of nature lifting my spirits until I felt I could soar with the swallows and other birds, released from the chains of gravity’s grip to embrace the third dimension. It made me feel that I could become so much more than this humble shell: it inspired fantasies of freedom and boundless possibility.

So it is September that holds that special place in my heart as the culmination of the many weeks of summer. And lastly — though not least — it is the month of my birth.

What color is October?

October was an artist and like all artists she had her own distinctive style. It wasn’t something that she had learned, toiling hour after hour in her studio, experimenting. No, it was something from within, something she had been born with. A personal affinity with the element in question, for October was a child of fire.

She would take the works of her predecessors and with bold strokes bring her own form of life to the scenes. Not without her critics, some would dismiss the personality she added as wanton destruction, killing the beauty of those works. She never apologized: she continued to express her nature through the changes she brought.

And for many the essential qualities of her infernal palette spoke of a final flourish, going out with a bang. They reveled in the flaming hues she brought to otherwise unremarkable scenes, setting the world on fire in a final cataclysmic orgasm. Not merely expressing but proclaiming from the highest tower the ecstasy of a final climactic outburst before the long sleep.

What’s the point of November?

She introduced herself. I remember that much. But I’m damned if I can recall her name. Or what she looked like for that matter. She was with her sisters, a round dozen of them in total. (A big family in this day and age.) Jan, the oldest, was white-haired and cold. Little February followed her everywhere, trotting along like a devoted puppy. March was prickly, had a real bite if you weren’t careful.

April was sweet and innocent, May a delight: truly radiant. Blooming if I might be so bold. June and July had that air you often see in twins of being two facets of the same gem. Golden-haired August strode through the gathering as if she owned the place with September, obvious to everyone except herself, aping her every action. October was a red-headed beauty with smoky eyes and a laugh that caught like the flames of her hair.

And then there was December, the baby, with her pale, almost translucent skin and delicate, waif-like form. But as for the other sister, I cannot bring to mind the slightest recollection.

Does December hate always coming last?

It’s late and we’re backstage at the event of the year. We’re so pleased to have December here with us. First, I’d like to say how honored we are that you agreed to this exclusive interview before you take to the stage for the final performance of this huge worldwide event. How did you feel when you were asked to headline?

D: It’s awesome! I mean, I’ve been going around for what seems like years now and to finally get a gig like this is just huge!

Did you feel like you’d never get a chance at something like this?

D: Oh god, yes. It’s like being that kid at school, the one who’s always last to get picked for the team. Like, I know what that’s like. I was that kid at school. Being in a band was the only thing that made me feel I was worth something. The only time anybody wanted to know me.

Do you think it’s funny that being last tonight is the top honor?

D: It’s kinda ironic, you know. I mean, I hated being last all through school and now here I am and being last is, like, top of the world. It means a helluva lot to be here tonight, to be top of the bill, star of the show! (laughs) Hard to believe, you know. But here I am, last up and the one they’ll all be talking about afterwards. Kinda cool, you know.

Thank you December, it’s been great talking to you! And now on with the show…

Was I Burned Out?

I’m back at work now after a five day break over the Christmas holiday and I’ve managed to arrive before 9 am two days running! This might not sound like much but over the past few months I’d been regularly starting between 10 and 10:30.

I was finding it difficult to get moving in the mornings. The alarm would go off at 7:30 am and I’d need every minute of the two hours before I had to leave to stumble through my routines and get ready for work. Saturdays were usually spent in PJs, slippers and robe, often not being able to summon the energy to wash or dress.

The start of the holidays was like that. Whole days spent watching shows and movies on Netflix. But then, after two “lazy” days, something changed. After about nine hours sleep I woke up at 8 feeling refreshed. I might still not have done much, but what else are holidays for? The change was that I felt alert, like a fog had cleared from my head, like weights pulling down on my limbs had sloughed away in the night.

I guess I really needed the time off. Time to rest and rebuild my energy. Time to gather a stockpile of spoons. I’d had no idea how exhausted I had become, but looking back I can see how I was trudging zombie-like through the days, going through the motions without much conscious thought.

You see, this is one of the down sides of autism. Many of us really have no idea when we’ve pushed ourselves too far, too hard, and our bodies are at the point of collapse. The warning signs don’t get picked up in time, if at all. And then it takes time — days — to recover.

How did I get to that point? How could I just ignore the signs? Well, the answer is that I just didn’t notice. I suppose one of the effects of tiredness is that it reduces awareness of the state of the body. In my case this doesn’t have to drop far before it’s hovering around zero.

The way to prevent this would probably involve planning ahead and putting breaks in place before I get to the point of needing them. But when am I likely to need them? I don’t know. If anybody has any suggestions I’d love to hear them.

One Step Closer

One week ago today I was in London attending my first appointment at the Charing Cross Gender Identity Clinic with one of their resident psychiatrists.

Although I was excited by the prospect of getting one step closer to accessing medical treatments for my Gender Dysphoria, I’d not been looking forward to traveling up there by train. I find using public transportation particularly stressful even when I’ve planned the journey meticulously: being confined in a small space with a group of strangers for a length of time causes me anxiety.

I worked until 11 am and then drove home via a store to pick up something quick and simple for my lunch during a brief stop at home before freshening up my makeup and heading out again to Farnborough, leaving myself plenty of time to park, walk to the station and buy my ticket. So far so good! The train arrived 15 minutes after I had taken a seat on the platform to wait, and I boarded along with several other people.

The carriage was about half-filled and I managed to find a seat next to a window. I much prefer to spend the journey staring out the window rather than risk making inadvertent eye contact with some person as I glance around inside the carriage.

It was about 45 minutes later that the train arrived at London Waterloo where I had to head to the Tube station to continue my journey. I don’t enjoy using the Tube, but it’s preferable to either the expense of a taxi or the uncertainty of trying to navigate bus routes. The only thing I do enjoy about the Tube is thoughts of Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere that are evoked by the names of the stations as I pass through them or see them on the maps: Knightsbridge, Earl’s Court, Blackfriars.

One change at Piccadilly Circus and I arrived at Barons Court, the closest Tube station to the clinic. A short walk (0.7 miles according to Google maps) brought me to the clinic and I pressed the door buzzer to be let in. Through the door, up the stairs, through another door and there I was at the reception desk.

I handed my appointment letter to the receptionist and confirmed my details (name, home address, doctor) before being asked to take a seat in the waiting area. I had a little trouble picking up what the receptionist said because she wasn’t facing me as she spoke, instead looking down at the paperwork on her desk, and had to ask her to repeat herself a couple of times. I rely on lip reading to a degree when somebody is speaking so that I can better make out the words.

I sat down. I had arrived half an hour before my appointed time, which allowed me to sit and relax after the journey. I let my mind wander, daydreaming, and it seemed that very little time had passed when I heard my name called by the psychiatrist I was due to see. I followed her to her room and she began my assessment.

I was a little nervous at the start, but the opening question, “Why are you here today?” was easy enough to answer since it is something I have been thinking about since before I came out last year. The questions were quite comprehensive and covered my medical history, family, home and work situations, and my experience of gender non-conformity up to and including transitioning.

We established my priorities for treatment (facial hair removal, hormones, genital surgery, voice feminization) and I was pleasantly surprised when she said that they could apply for funding to cover electrolysis or laser hair removal. I guess it’s because it’s such a major issue for me: I had no hesitation in identifying it as number one on my list because it’s the thing I focus on every time I look in a mirror.

Hormone treatment came second because I need the changes they bring to body shape (breast development and redistribution of body fat) to reduce the gap between my self-image and my physical reality. Genital surgery was a definite yes, although it was only when she asked directly about the mechanics of sex between me and Anne that I actually realized how much of an obstacle the wrong genitalia has become.

Voice coaching was not something I had thought much about. I had largely resigned myself to getting called “sir” on the phone. It got added to the list after I talked about how I used to enjoy singing karaoke now and again, but haven’t felt able to do so since I transitioned because my voice has too low a pitch. I joked that I’d never be singing soprano whatever happened, to which she responded that I might be surprised how much a voice can change. I decided then that it was definitely worth a try.

That completed my first assessment. I was asked to make an appointment for my second assessment (with a different clinician) which will be in 6 months time, and sent for blood tests at the neighboring Charing Cross Hospital. Once they had drawn the blood samples it was all over, time to head home.

It all seemed to go very smoothly. There was no hint of judgement in relation to my expression of my gender identity, my age at transition, my sexual orientation, my depression, anxiety or poorly-developed social skills. I simply responded to the questioning and put across how I felt about the mismatch between my physical body and my gender identity. In other words, the reasons why I need medical treatment.

The journey home was difficult. It was the middle of rush hour (5:30 pm) with thousands of people crowding the trains and station concourse. It was only my determination and desire to get back home that stopped me from finding some cafe to sit and wait for everywhere to become less crowded. It was standing room only on the train out of Waterloo, passengers filling the aisles with barely six inches between me and the people around me. Luckily the majority of passengers left the train at the first stop, the commuter town of Surbiton, and I could sit for the rest of my journey.

It was with relief that I stepped from the train on arriving at Farnborough, and despite the light rain I enjoyed the walk to where I had parked my car. Getting into my car felt so good. I was finally back in my own space, able to relax and feel safe. The roads were not busy and it didn’t take long to drive home where I could put my feet up, relax with a glass of cider and spend the remainder of the evening with Anne: that was when I realized just how tired I was.

It took a couple of days before I completely got over the exhaustion from the traveling, but it was well worth it to progress past another milestone on my path to fully realizing my identity.

We Care A Lot

Being a carer is hard work at times. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not complaining. I do it through choice. But lately caring for Anne has become a whole lot harder. Her illnesses have gotten worse and she has become very depressed, frequently experiencing suicidal thoughts.

I can’t switch off from it. I’m receptive to her state of mind, and — believe me — when you’re prone to depression yourself it’s extremely stressful to feel the echoes of somebody else’s. It negatively affects my own emotional state and after a while, day after day, it builds up to the point at which I have to do my best to shut off. To lock myself away and wait for the overwhelming feelings to recede.

It is exhausting. I have found myself needing to take a break more and more often. And that is a cause of stress in itself because I feel guilty for failing to be there constantly. She relies on me, she needs my help, and I’m not always able to respond.

I’m aware that I’m not looking after myself as well as I would normally. I’m mostly subsisting on take-out food and candy. Things like washing are falling to a bare minimum. I’m becoming snappy far too often, my motivation is poor and I’m feeling low. Oh, and aspects of my gender dysphoria are increasingly intruding on my thoughts.

There is a feeling that I’m losing control, adrift and at the mercy of life’s currents. I know from past experience that this is a dangerous situation for me because it is a powerful trigger for self harm: cutting in my case. The thoughts and impulses are there, even as I write this. I sat for about an hour over the weekend holding a blade, just thinking about using it.

I haven’t yet because I do consider it something of a last resort. I’m just concerned that the time when I yield to my impulses is getting closer by the day: the time when I will regain the illusion of control over my life, at least for a while. The temptation is strong but so far my fear of falling into the cycle of dependency has stayed my hand.

The Opposite of Hugs

I love hugs. That comforting feeling of envelopment engendering an ambiance of safety in the folds of a loving embrace. Sometimes my need is so great and the release so totally involving that I am reduced to tears.

It is said that a thing is known by its opposite, and that is true of hugs for me. Because there are times when I yearn, when I physically ache for those few moments of relief. To be held tightly and be able to let go of all my immediate fears and worries.

My need manifests as a feeling of absolute emptiness. My heart is a void that cries out to be filled with that demonstration of love, of physical closeness. Such a desolation of spirit. I am exposed, flayed, eviscerated. Left as an empty husk of a person.

My world is without light; all I see is shadows of what surrounds me. Until I am released by the touch of another, bringing a golden light into my darkness, restoring my pain-wracked body, showing me that there is hope. Giving me another day to live.