The Slow Drip- Day 13 (January 13th, 2021)

I scheduled an appointment a couple days ago to see if I could possibly up my dose of estradiol and spironalactone. It was supposed to be a morning meeting today. Of course, some little technicality about not being able to do telehealth appointments with an out of state patient (another adjustment due to covid, it seems) stopped that in its tracks. So, back to the slow drip.

I feel like more seasoned trans women, if reading this, are shaking their heads with a knowing smile that says: "we've all been there, girl. Waiting for the change we can't wait to see and getting discouraged if we don't see it fast enough." You're now beautifully blossomed flowers commenting on this seedling who hopes to one day bloom all the same.

Apart from that and these journal entries that have quite little to say lately, my mind has been in a perpetual state of claiming my faith in Christ but not knowing how to live it. I worry that will be my relationship with Him, a state of never really knowing where I can stand or how I can approach Him. That's been my relationship for many years. The desire to be Vaela was a battle I fought tirelessly, and with every stumble, and every slip, I stepped into a tall and endless cycle of shame. I feel much less shame now that I've accepted her... But that doesn't mean there isn't a level of uncertainty. Uncertainty put there by people who don't understand the struggle, uncertainty put there by judgmental Christians who seem to be more interested in checking other's sin boxes than anything else. They haven't a clue what it's like to be alien to your own body. And their words mean nothing to me because of that very fact.

I have been a genuine lover of Christ since 2 years old. An innocent, ill fitting little boy who had no idea what kind of life was coming. It was pretty tumultuous from the very beginning. And got worse as I got older. At ten, dad got sick with terminal cancer. At thirteen, he died after his body, slowly and excruciatingly, became nothing but skin and poorly glued together popsicle sticks.

And the rest is what it is. Years of not fitting as this person. Years of trying to repair a now fractured but still genuine love for Christ. Years of chipping myself down to pretty much nothing in hopes that eventually I would find some place of contentment.

This transition journal and my decision to transition tells you all you need to know. My contentment never came as him. And I've grown beyond tired of the futility of it. If insanity is defined as doing the same thing over and over again while expecting different results, then you are witness to my first true year of sanity.