My Transition Journal

The life of a trans person is to hide. First to hide yourself from yourself (in my case) for the first 30 years of your life. And then to hide from those who don't understand, don't agree, don't feel comfortable.  Im not a person who likes to create waves. I don't enjoy arguing and stating my points unnecessarily. And I especially don't like being a constant topic of conversation. But I suppose it's what I was signed up for before I was ever born.  To the majority of those who no longer view trans people as people, we are now instead "that trans problem". That unsightly thing to hide, to avoid, to detest... to hate.  Many don't understand and don't put in the effort to even try. They see it as this political thing when in reality it as a human thing. A human thing many have not experienced or will ever have to. Growing up we learned the importance of trying to understand that life is not experienced the same way by all. Just because one experie

Signs of trans dehumanization: 1. Personal questions no longer apply: "So, are you going to get bottom surgery?" or "Are you going to get a boob job?" or "What's sex like now?" These "curious" questions are the equivalent to someone visiting an old freak show walk through and prodding the specimens. If you were to flip it and ask a cis person about sex or genitals you would most likely be on the receiving end of a possible lawsuit. But trans people are different? Of course. We don't mind talking about our greatest reasons for dysphoria. No. We are eager to talk about such naked and private topics... Of course the wrong response to such questions would be "I can show you if you're curious" but it also would be an effective way to make them feel as uncomfortable as we do in that moment.  Why is dehumanization okay? Regardless of how one feels about the validity of a transgender person, we are still owed the dignity of having l

In this, my first year of transitioning, my list of firsts, surprisingly are not all transition based. Or, not directly related to transitioning, at least. Back in one of my first posts I referenced the tar still left behind, the tar of learned masculinity, the tar of irrational aggression, etc... I broke my hand. Up until now I've lived 30.5 years without breaking any of my bones--and then the year I start to really embrace the woman I am, I break my hand in, annoyingly, the most male way possible: frustration at (and with) work made me punch a hard surface. I have a nondisplaced fracture of the base of my third Metacarpal on my right hand. In layman's terms: the bone that connects to my middle finger. Oh this tar. It still remains in places, and some of it has proved harder to get rid of than I initially expected. But this act of stupid aggression also led to a few very real moments of sobbing. Cathartic moments. Needed moments. It was probably naive of me to think thirty yea

When you're trans, most people will only now focus on that about you. It's immediately definable and puts you in a category labelled 'I don't need to hear anymore'. Though we all have stories of how we reached this point, for most people trans is viewed as the beginning and the end. It is an island of a destination, separate from the established lands and will forever be treated that way. Male. Female. Other. Trans fit as Other, but how Other is seen is like scraps or shavings left behind. Our existence isn't seen as legitimate. People would rather you toil in the defined genders. It's what they understand. It's what they can accept. So even though the defined gender of birth is killing you, leaving it behind is a death sentence all its own.  When you tell people this is who you've always been, they then question if anything was real about you before. Was everything fake? Was everything a show? No. But everything was two dimensional: a simpler, less

Lots of little things have happened since my last entry. And yet I find myself grasping at straws with what to say. I don't really like talking about it daily; it's simply my reality. And though it's easier to look in the mirror now and far easier to shuffle through my wardrobe and find things I'm excited to wear, I also realize the enormous difficulty of this path.  I am someone who has never fit really any mold. In my Christianity, I wasn't conservative enough. In my personality, I wasn't simple enough. My complexity often has been my greatest disconnect from people. My view of the world, molded mostly by grief early on, has always left me feeling like an alien among earthlings. It's never been harder for me to write than it is right now. I hate just putting words down on paper to fill the space. There are updates I can give but there is no motivation to give them. I start to analyze something, decide to write on it, and then the factory stops. And suddenl

Nine months today. I haven't regretted this decision for one moment. At times I have taken pause simply because of the enormity of it all. But I've never once truly considered stopping.  You see, Nathan was this, technically still alive, dead thing. So my process of shedding him has been the process of something you'd see in nature. For creatures that shed skin, they often have to use their environment to help the process, meaning it is often uncomfortable. But discomfort with a purpose has a different feeling.  In the last week or so I have started to really shed my skin in a more permanent way. At work, my nails are always painted and my hair is styled in more feminine ways. I wear headbands that have animal print on them and care very little how I am perceived.  I've never been a popular person. Though I feel I have a unique, quirky personality, few people connect with it. At my personal peak of popularity, I had a record breaking two friends. Now I am down to one. T