(a)doorbell

For Those Just Logging In

2011-02-21T20:40:00.002-05:00

Hi Friends,

I haven't updated this site in quite a while, and I don't think I need to anymore. I started this site to chronicle my transition, and I did. I'm 5 years past my transition, and 3 years past surgery, and life is good. Really good. It wasn't always that way, as you'll find if you read through my old posts. But it was a journey, and I continue to learn a lot every day.

If you are on the road to transitioning, well, I won't tell you the road is easy. It's not. But if it's right, then it's worth it. Feel free to browse through the posts. They start pretty much at the beginning of my decision to transition.

Have faith, people will surprise you. And don't forget, you're stronger than you think and you're not alone. And you are loved.

Your brother,
Deen

No Post in Long While

2008-04-16T15:21:00.002-04:00

Hey peeps, I been traveling all over the Northwest United States, and then down to Florida. The Northwest was an RV roadtrip with a friend, and it was an experience. But all roadtrips are. I would never do it in an RV again, the carbon footprint is appalling. But the land is just beautiful. I don' think a camera could do it justice. And the people were real friendly. I'll get a picture with my new cowboy hat for you to see.

Florida was to see my parents and it was AMAZING in that it was completely ordinary. We played scrabble and cards, ater dinners together, read books, walkied on the beach, talked and laughed. I am so grateful to have had that.

We also saw lots of dolphins from the window of my parents' condo, and that was truly special.

I saw the surgeon, Dr. Fischer, on Monday and I am on schedule healing-wise. There is still some swelling and she's going to see how it is in a few more months, and if it's stubborn, she has injections that will break it up. The nurse said to massage the area around the stitches to help break it up and smooth it out. I'll try and post a picture soon.

Short Movie Reviews

2008-01-30T23:09:00.000-05:00

Romero
Raul Julia plays the priest who stood up for human rights in El Salvador in the late 1970's.
VERY GOOD

Beyond The Call
Sissy Spacek reconnects with her first love, David Strathairn, who suffers from PTSD after Vietnam and is now on death row.
VERY GOOD

Safe Passage
Susan Sarandon and her six sons and estranged husband come together as they await news about the seventh son who is in a military zone and may have been a casualty of a bombing.
PRETTY GOOD

Serving In Silence
Glen close plays a military woman who comes out as gay and sues the army when they try to discharge her.
NOT BAD

The Last of the Blond Bombshells
Judi Dench and Ian Holm are musicians from the second world war and try to get their band together again.
NOT BAD

Love Actaully
Four interconnectin stories about love with lots of famous people in it.
VERY GOOD

Drop Dead Gorgeous
A smart comedy about beauty pageants, starring Kirsten Dunst.
PRETTY GOOD

One True Thing
Meryl Streep gets cancer and her daughter played by Renee Zellweger comes home to take care of her while her father (William Hurt) continues teaching.
VERY GOOD

Paradise Road
A bunch of women are captured during WWII and Glen Close leads them in song.
NOT BAD

Between Strangers
Three not very interconnected stories about people and their inner truths that are coming out, sort of.
INTERESTING

The Long Walk Home
During the time of the civil rights movement and the bus boycotts, Sissy Spacek is a white woman who helps her black maid played by Whoopi Goldberg, get to and from work.
PRETTY GOOD

Stacking
Christine Lahti is a wife and mother who wants to get out of this nowhere town, while her drunk husband is in the hospital, and her daughter is trying to save the farm with the help of her uncle.
PRETTY BAD

Return
A 1970's semi-sexy movie about intimacy and loneliness and stuff like that.
EH.

Big Love, Season 2
Follows a polygamist Mormon family in Utah.
LOVED IT.

The Waltons (one of the earlier seasons)
A poor family in the Virginia mountains living through the 1930s depression.
LOVED IT. STILL LOVE IT. WISH I COULD WATCH MORE OF IT!

Which Candidate Is Right For You?

2008-01-28T16:51:00.001-05:00

Try this survery: Select A Candidate.

About 2 Weeks Post Surgery

2008-01-24T15:36:00.000-05:00

This is me so far. There is still tape around all the incision sites.

Pre-Surgery to Post-Surgery

2008-01-24T15:34:00.000-05:00

This is me the morning of surgery. The doctor is drawing on my with green permenent marker.

This is me after surgery, and these are my drainage tubes. (They're not bad at all.)

This is me in my compression vest after surgery. We're still in the hotel, and I'm using ice packs at night.

This is me right before I take my first shower. In the shower, I'll remove the remainder of the foam padding around my nipples.

The Surgery and What Came After

2008-01-23T12:02:00.000-05:00

I have been recovering and still am, and so am only now coming back to my blog to put into words what the last few weeks have been like. First of all, if you don't need to read about the nitty gritty, the cliffsnotes version is this: I'm doing really well so far and it seems like it was a very successful surgery. It'll take 3-1/2 more weeks before I can do any sort of exercise whatsoever, and 6 to 9 months for it to completely heal. (So far, so good.)

THE DAY OF SURGERY

We drove up the day before to Timonium, MD, an industrial sort of town on the outskirts of Baltimore. We were able to get a "medical rate" at the Days Inn hotel, and were only a few minutes from the clinic. It was E. and I, and our friends E. and her daughter E., who flew in from MN to help take care of me. We spent an easy evening having dinner out, and almost bowling (alas, it was league night), and then hanging around the hotel room. After midnight, I couldn't eat or drink anything, and early in the morning when I got up, I took an Emend (anti-nausea pill) with a tiny sip of water, and that was it.

I could shower before surgery and put on deodorant, but no lotions were allowed. I dressed (for the last time in my binder, which I had been wearing for about 3 years now), brought a button-down PJ shirt for after surgery, and also a pair of PJ pants to wear during the surgery. When I got to the clinic, I was brought into an examining room where the nurse took pictures of my chest. E. came in after that, and then the surgeon came in and drew the lines on my chest in green permanent marker. I was given a cap to wear over my head, like what surgeons wear in the OR.

I was then kissed goodbye and hugged by E. and my friends, and rather quickly it seemed, I was in the OR with the anesthetist. I had given the surgeon a collage of men's chests with nipple placements that I liked, and I saw that hanging in the OR in front of me. I smiled. The anesthetist put the needle into my arm, and as I was talking with her, the room began to get a little wobbly.

That's the last thing I remember.

I have been under general anesthesia before. There had been no dreaming: It seemed rather that I closed my eyes and opened them, a slow blink, and hours had somehow passed in the interim. This time was different, I did feel that I was waking from a dream, and I assume this is because I was given a sedative before I was given the general anesthesia. When I awoke, I was in the recovery room. My recollection is that I woke up, E. came in, I got the shivers and my teeth started chattering (which the nurse said was a result of the anesthesia wearing off), then E. and the nurse put me in the compression vest that I would have to wear for 6 weeks, and then into my PJ shirt, and then into a wheelchair. Or maybe the wheelchair came first. My recollection of all this took about 5 minutes, and then I was put into the car and driven to the hotel. E. has since told me that she was in the recovery room with me for closer to 45 minutes. it's all a blur.

I had drainage tubes coming out of each incision, with bulbs on the end, which filled up with fluid. These were clipped to my vest, and were not that uncomfortable at all. In fact, my level of pain was actually quite low, and I had pain killers that I took on a regular basis. The thing I noticed was that in the evening, I had some swelling under my left arm, probably due to the compression vest biting into my skin, and some of the swelling spilling out and over wear the vest was. I used an ice pack in the evening, and the next day my vest was readjusted.

DAY AFTER SURGERY AND THOSE TO FOLLOW

The next day I had to go in, and again I couldn't eat anything just in case they needed to whisk me back into surgery. As it turns out, I was healing nicely, and the swelling was no big worry. I was given instructions for how to empty my drainage bulbs, and how to measure the amount of fluid coming out, and in a week I was to come back in to have the tubes removed.

We stayed and extra night at the hotel since it was easy for me, and we had space and cable and such. It was actually my parents' suggestion and it was a good one. (Later, I will try and write about some of the more emotional aspects of this surgery, like friends and family, but for now I'm going to try and get through the gritty details of the surgery.)

I used ice packs every night for that week, and had to be really careful about using my arms at all. I got very good at using my feet to shuffle myself around in the bed, to push open a car door, to brace myself as I got out of a car, and of course to pick up my socks off the floor.

I stayed on the antibiotics as prescribed, and took the painkillers first on a 4 hour cycle, then on a 6 hour cycle. I was draining very little, but still I waited until I had two days in a row when I drained less that 25 mL in each bulb, and it was 8 days after my surgery when I went back to the clinic to have the tubes removed. It didn't hurt so much as feel weird. It would be two more days before I would be allowed to take my first shower.

2, 3, 4 WEEKS AND BEYOND

Oddly, as the numbness of surgery has begun to wear off and as my nerves regenerate, the pain has increased. Post surgery with the pain killers, my pain level was a 1 or 2 out of 10. Over 2 weeks into my recovery, and my pain has reached up to a 5 out of 10. I have been taking mostly Tylenol, 2 every 6 hours roughly. The last few days, though, I've taken some of the heavy-duty painkillers I was given (Demerol) and that seems to help me sleep.

I am hoping the pain is a result of nerves regenerating and that it's a good thing. I do wonder if I am doing too much, being too active, and so causing myself more pain. But I get hungry, or I need to shower, and so I'm moving around. I'm trying my best to be careful about what I lift or how I move my arms, but it still hurts, and sometimes I just try to be careful. But also, I'm home alone sometimes, and so I need to eat or shower or whatever, and so I have to find a way to manage.

My next doctor's appointment is in a few months. I haven't heard about the results of sending my tissue to pathology, and so I am waiting for that. As far as how my chest looks, it'll be a while before I know for sure, but so far so good.
It feel really natural. I thought there would be some adjustment time when I would have to get used to not having breasts anymore, but that's not really the case. It feels perfectly natural to have this new chest, as if it had always been there and I'm now just seeing it for the first time. Walking around topless after my shower feels completely normal.

THE REST OF IT

There is much more to say about how it felt to have people take care of me, the stresses that arose, and phone calls I received from my family. I will try to remark on that -- probably the more interesting part of the process -- in the days to come, and also to post come pictures of myself before and post surgery.

Top Surgery

2008-01-01T12:31:00.000-05:00

I haven't been keeping up with this blog lately, but luckily life has been keeping me busy with labors of love. However, it seems like now is a time to come back to the original purpose of this blog: A place to talk about the details of my transition for those who are wondering, for those who are contemplating, for myself to look back on sometime in the future.

Thursday, January 3rd, I will be having surgery. It's called a double-incision bilateral mastectomy. I will stay overnight in Timonium, MD, on Wednesday night and check in to a hotel, report to the clinic early in the morning on Thursday, recover overnight at the hotel, get checked over the following morning at the clinic again, then head home. The surgery is supposed to take 3-4 hours, I believe.

I'm nervous, of course, but not about the decision, just about the surgery itself.

Okay, that's all for now. I don't know when I'll be up for writing again, but I will when I am somewhat recovered. Thanks, everyone, for the well wishes I have received.

Not Bad, Al Gore

2007-10-25T15:07:00.001-04:00

Check out this new website to make your opinion heard:
www.Current.Com

Film: Ghosts of Abu Ghraib

2007-10-24T22:46:00.000-04:00

The film was shown in an upstairs room of the Arlington Unitarian Universalist Church, the same place the local Amnesty International Meetings are held,which is how I found out about the film screening in the first place. Ghosts of Abu Ghraib is directed by Rory Kennedy, and delves into not only what happened at the US run Iraqi prison, but how it happened, what were the orders sent down from above, who condoned the use torture, and how it affected not only the prisoners, but the soldiers as well. The film was aired on HBO, but is available to be shown at other venues, in living rooms, at schools, at community centers.

Torture is un-American. It is inhuman. To condone torture, any amount of torture and on anyone, betrays who we are as a people, as a species.

At the end of the film the moderator gave us a few moments to "return to the room" and I was glad she did so, for it took me that long to coax the tears back into their hiding places. We talked about actions, about writing letters to congress, to our representatives, and did these vigils and petitions do any good? Yes, they do, just like voting. It may seem like one vote is meaningless, but it starts with you: If you can make your one vote meaningful, maybe everyone will make their vote meaningful and we might get somewhere humane in the long run. But it's also good for our souls, to know that we are doing what we can. That we are trying. If we stand by and do nothing while people suffer, what does that make us?

But still, I write letters, and yet I can't help but feel I'm not doing enough. I put myself in that prison, being forced to do those things, being tortured, and I want to cry. It's so painful . I can;t understand how to live in a world that allows this to happen. It is an overwhelming feeling.

But then I see that I am not alone. That there are twenty people in the room with me who all feel this way. And maybe there is you, too?

There are solid things we can do to end torture, and especially our country's participation in it:
1. We can read more about it, and why it's not an effective method of getting intelligence (when tortured, prisoners will admit to anything they believe their interrogators want to hear).
2. We can write to our national representatives and demand that the Military Commissions Act (which authorizes torture and denies habeas corpus) be repealed.
3. We can demand that we abide by the UN Geneva Convention (which we signed), the UN Convention Against Torture (which we signed), our own Constitution (Amendment VIII which says no cruel or unusual punishment), and a standard of human decency. How would we like to be treated if we were captured by another country's army? Would we want to be stripped naked, psychologically bombarded with sensory deprivation, sleep deprivation, isolation?
4. We can sign petitions put out by Amnesty International and other organizations: sign the pledge, urge your representatives to restore habeas corpus, ask your elected official to shut down Guantanamo, or write a letter to the editor of your local paper, talk about it over coffee, google TAASC (Torture Abolition and Survivors Support Group and see what comes up).

Some of these actions take 2 minutes, if that. Signing all the petitions and emailing all my reps took a little over 25 minutes. Reading all the articles definitely takes more time. But somewhere someone is being tortured for hours, for weeks, for months, for years even. Someone is screaming in pain. Someone is missing their family, someone is alone in a dark cell.

Sometimes I feel like I have to do it all or I'm not doing enough. I want to make a difference, but am I? I'm told that the letters really do help, especially in the long run. But even if they didn't, there's another difference that I'm making:

The difference is, in my soul, I know I did something.

Transitional Male (Contributing Editor)

2007-10-21T23:59:00.000-04:00

Here's the link to my piece just posted to Transitional Male: Porn Addiction.

A Groundswell of Activism

2007-10-19T17:38:00.000-04:00

That's what we need. Have you seen SiCKO yet? I'm not saying it's the gospel truth, but it does point to a lack of activism in America. And to co-opt a lovely bumper sticker (that reads: Feminism is the Radical Belief That Women Are People)...

ACTIVISM IS THE RADICAL BELIEF THAT WE ARE WORTH IT.

I want to do something. I want to be a part of a groundswell.

On Tuesday I drove an inordinately long time on the inner loop of the beltway to make to Towsen College where Leslie Feinberg was speaking. Leslie Feinberg is not only a transgender warrior (like me!), not only a hardcore activist, ze's also a pretty good person from what I can gather. I found myself feeling sorely inadequate as I listened to all the Leslie Feinberg does; I mean what do I do?!

Okay, so I write plays that are about socially relevant things, like transpeople and immigrants and those plays have an effect. I hope. But I want to do more. And briefly, the thought that I could go up to Leslie and say, "What do you do? can I do that, too? Can I work on that with you? Can you tell me what to do to be a good activist like you?"

I said it crossed my mind briefly. But I quickly realized that that is a recipe for failure. I need to find my way to be a contributing activist, otherwise I am living someone else's life, not my own. It might seem elementary, but I argue that it's easy to get pulled into the romance of another's success (or in this case, effectiveness).

So this is my new plan. Yes, we all hate to get more email, especially impersonal group email, but maybe I can highlight a worthwhile activist link in my blog, talk about it, let everyone know how it can be used to take 10 minutes and make a difference today. And then maybe I send it out to everyone in my address book, or maybe I link to it at the bottom of my emails. Something.

I want to make a difference. Do you? I'm not alone in this, am I? And it can be daunting, even when you have time (unemployed me), to find the time. I know this. But I think the feeling that we are doing nothing, that we can't make a difference is much worse, much more insidious, much more damaging. No matter what the result it, if we are doing things to make a difference, that impacts our souls, our very beings. That sends a message into the world, into the universe that says: WE MATTER. THE WORLD MATTERS. I CARE. WE'RE GOING TO CHANGE THIS.

Who's with me? Don't answer that, it doesn't matter. I'm doing it for me. You have to do it for you.

Freedom

2007-10-11T13:21:00.000-04:00

None of us are free until all of us are free. How many times must we learn this lesson?

When is the last time I joined someone's protest because it was the right thing to do, and not because it was specifically MY protest?

"Everywhere people are in chains."
"Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere."

Who's with me? Let's be so radical that we believe that we are all worth it.

Universal Healthcare for All

2007-10-02T01:28:00.000-04:00

So I saw Sicko, and I hope everyone does. But now what? How do I do something about it? What can I do against lobbyists and multi-billion dollar companies? Do I move to Canada, France, England, Cuba? How can I make a difference? I am a playwright, and I can barely get anyone to produce my plays. Yes, I could write a play about healthcare, but it might never see the light of day.

Tell me, how do I make a difference? Do I convince everyone I know that universal healthcare is important? That this country (this world) needs to think in terms of WE instead of ME? Okay, I can work on that.

But it hurts my soul that we do not think in terms of WE. It makes me despondent.

I welcome your ideas.

(In other news, the actress from the last post has been been replaced.)

Conversation With My Co-Star

2007-09-30T19:08:00.000-04:00

i got cast in a student short film. i'm the lead. it's a sci-fi film with special effects. my "love interest" is a prejudiced, immature, inexperienced, young woman who apparently has had horrible relationships modeled for her.

ME: so how long do we think they've been together?
HER: i don't know, he didn't tell me.
ME: well, if we had to guess based on what we're given?
HER: not long.
ME: because he hasn't met her father yet, yeah, that's what i was thinking, too.
HER: no, because he called her beautiful. no one says that unless they just met.
ME: uh.....?
HER: and how can anyone date a blind person, i don't understand that.
(note -- she's the blind character)
ME: because they love each other.
HER: i mean, if you can't see, how do you even know if you're looking at a girl or a boy?
ME: men and women smell different. and they walk differently, and--
HER: i don't wear perfume.
ME: you still smell different, and--
HER: what if it was a transvestite, how would you know?
ME: i don't think it matters if you love someone.
HER: you would date a transvestite?
ME: if i loved them...
HER: but what if you met i met a guy who used to be a girl?!
ME: um....
HER: i can't believe you'd date a transvestite.
ME: ...
HER: (looking off in the other direction, clearly troubled by her vision)
ME: ... (still in shock, and slightly revolted) ... let's move on then, shall we?

Tear Down Guantanamo Bay

2007-09-26T23:29:00.001-04:00

55472

Contributing Editor

2007-09-11T22:20:00.000-04:00

Hey T fans! Sorry for the long hiatus. I know that my three devoted readers out there have been after me to update my blog. Well, I'll go halfway today. I'm now a contributing editor on the Transitional Male website, under their T-Male Urban section. I'll ad the site to favs on the right here, and as soon as the article gets posted, I'll put the link in here. I can't publish in both places though.

Life has been good. I'm in DC regularly now, and trying to grow some roots. I've yet to take over the one, local gay bar in Arlington, VA, but I havegone rock climbing once, and I am looking to do some volunteer work with LGBT youth in the DC area.
Also -- I am hopefully going to get surgery in January if I can narrow down my surgeon search and book a date. A friend has loaned me the money and I am so grateful. I didn't realize how much I wanted it until the possibility became real.

More to come.

Spiritual Science

2007-05-02T19:57:00.000-04:00

My spirituality and science have never been in opposition to one another. In fact, one often bolsters the other. For instance:

I have over time noted that the more centered I am, the more grounded I am in the present moment and in myself, the better life becomes for me. I have heard it explained that if you take care of yourself (eat right, focus your energy inwards, meditate and be present in the moment), then you will send a message to the universe that says you are valuable, worthy, and grateful for the good things that are going to happen to you, and then good things DO happen to you. Some say that to be grateful ahead of time shows confidence and faith in future good fortune. I do try to eat right, I exercise with yoga a few times a week, and I try to meditate every day for about an hour.

While meditating, I was struck with this scientific observation. When meditating, I am focusing my energy inward. In a sense, I am trying to gather all the flying energy of my brain (Monkey Mind, some call it), and bring it into focus. What I am doing, really, by bringing all of this free-flying energy to one small, concentrated area, is I am increasing my spiritual density.

Dense objects have more gravity. They have more pull.

By focusing inward, an increasing my spiritual gravity, I am pulling more things, events, experiences, fortune towards myself. So even though our first instinct might be to reach out for something we want, it actually makes more sense to reach IN for what we want.

Examples of this in use are the age old, you can't find a romantic partner when you're looking, but the moment you stop needing to find someone to date, three show up at your door. There are numerous other examples. Some would call it Murphy's Law, but it's just that our first instict to reach out and grab what we want actually brings us off our center and makes it harder for us to achieve our goals.

I Hate Facebook

2007-04-28T23:23:00.000-04:00

I hate Facebook. I hate MySpace. I almost hate Friendster, but I use it on occasion to reconnect with long lost friends who have changed their addresses. But what I hate most -- since MySpace never really did anything to me, personally -- is that people who barely know me will "Facebook" me, or Friendster me, or whatever. And by "people," I mean people who don't send me personal emails, who barely know me, who are... aquaintances. (Yes, you're acquaintances, you are! There's nothing wrong with that! Geez.)

And what's worse than these people indiscriminately trying to "be my friend" without ever having to do the work of a real friend, i.e. care, spend time, call me, know what I'm doing, hang out with me, etc., ... what's WORSE than these people doing... what? Trying to have more facebook friends than anyone else? Trying to look cool to other facebook people? Whatever, who knows, since it's not really a thing I embrace or partake in more than 10 minutes every other month. BUT. As I was saying -- BUT. But what's worse than these people annoying me with their requests to be their "friend" is the outrageous fact that I actually say yes to avoid being rude. That is worse. That is atrocious. That is stupid. That is me being a wimp.

So what do I do? I don't want to quit Friendster, and besides, I deleted all my so-call acquaintances a few months ago -- brutal perhaps, but more honest -- and now the 24 people left are truly people who have shared my life at some point. But Facebook, Myspace, how many more are there?! And I'm convinced that Facebook must just go into your address book and find anyone else who is a facebook member and harvest those addresses and send friend requests on your behalf. I can't believe that people I barely know actually spend all day looking through facebook to see if I've finally become a member. I just have more faith in humanity than that.

Hmm. So my thought is two-fold. Or three-fold. My thought is that I will be a most obnoxious facebook member, and if you facebook me, I will admit to doing horrendous things with you. Didn't I hook up with you on New Year's? Didn't I rub nipples with your wife when ta was high last new years? Didn't your huband star in that indie-bestiality flick I was directing? OR. If that doesn't deter people from becoming my friend, I will have a most horrendous facebook page, railing against all facebok users everywhere. OR. And this goes back to my friend Naveen, I will cancel my account and block the website on my computer. The most drastic appraoch, but then I was raised Indian and never to upset other people, especially those white ones who can make your life hell. (Maybe that's not exactly what my mom said, but I listened to what she DID, not what she SAID.) Anyway.

Do we really ALL need to be connected ALL the f*&*!cking time? Come on, really?

MASTURBATION

2007-04-27T15:20:00.000-04:00

I speak no ill of masturbation. In fact, given some free time and someone to feed me, I would write a novel about masturbation alone. About all the glorious fantasies (and not so glorious ones that we are ashamed of) that go into it, about the tool and toys that enhance it, about the history of it from pre-adolescence to now, about the education of it -- or rather the lack of education about it...

...i remember a high school gathering where truth or dare was being played, the TRUTH was a question about masturbation, and the person said, "eew, i don't masturbate!" and i thought to myself, too bad for you, you're really missing out on a good thing.

but there's also the aspect of porn. for or against? moral, political, technical or creative objections? does it damage our ability to create our own fantasies? does it shrink our imagination? do we watch it (caveat: approach this site with care as it can be addictive for some people, namely ME), or do we read it (this site contains romance to insest, so beware)?

do we do it at home in private? do we do it with our partners? why not? how better to show them what we enjoy? do we feel embarrassed about it? why? why do we not talk about it like we talk about eating whole wheat bread? this is a problem, i think.

Sadness

2007-04-26T14:10:00.000-04:00

I feel this profound sense of sadness today. I can't explain it. he weather is better, overcast, but cooler. The air feels beautiful. And yet I feel hopeless. I gave up my routine this morning and watched a movie instead: Princess Mononoke. And still, I don't fel like doing anything. Should I force myself to do yoga? Should I meditate until it lifts?

Is it because I had wine last night? Is it the masturbation? Does it mess with my sense of self somehow? Do I feel bad about it and this imposed feeling of guilt (which is unnecessary) clouds everything?

Is it just a feeling to be waited out?

But I am to go to NYC tomorrow, and I feel more sadness at the thought. As if I am walking into the void. How will I manage to leave for 2 months in June?

The First Overheating of the Summer

2007-04-23T09:49:00.000-04:00

We had exactly one day of spring. It was on Saturday. Yesterday was solidly summer, and today threatens to be more the same. You'd think after a cold winter, I would be grateful for the change in temperatures. And global warming aside -- since how can I be grateful that polar bears might not even exist by the time I have kids? -- I do love the summertime. But yesterday was just the first of Overheatings I will have this year.

Overheating: a precurser to Heat Stroke; a lethargy, followed by a heaviness in the limbs, a feeling of overall weakness, sometimes a headache, usually the body is not perspiring enough to cool the body down. If allowed to progress to the state of Heat Stroke, then moodiness, possible belligerence will follow (patient should be taken to the hospital).

Because I have to bind my chest, even on a typical summer day, I'm wearing at least 4 layers: a tanktop underneathe everything, then a binder (which can be quite tight), a T shirt, and then a button-down short sleeve shirt. All so that I can walk around somewhat "comfortably," socially speaking. Heat speaking, it's not comfy at all.

Why do I go through all this? Because if I don't want to get the crap beat ut of me for being different. I don't particularly like having people poi at me and stare or laugh or make snide comments. Because I look i the mirror and what I see doesn't make sense. "Hey, there goes the Boobied Man." or "There's the bearded woman." It's not that funny.

But I can't afford the gender re-affirming surgery and my health insurance won't pay for it. $8500 give or take a thousand. So until I can afford the surgery, Overheating is part of summertime.

T Updates

2007-04-21T12:30:00.000-04:00

This is a brief post about the T an things I've noticed. My dose this cycle was only 0.4 mL since I was at the end of my bottle, and didn't want to get out the new one for just 0.1 mL. I thought I'd see how this even lower dose affacted me.

Also, food has been tasting really bland to me. I can still taste sweet and bitter, but I ate a chili yesterday, and E. says it was spicy enough that she wasn't going to eat another one straight. I ate about 5 or 6 of them -- I even suked on a couple -- but I didn't taste anything spicy at all. Food tastes bland and not very exciting. I don;t know if it's related to the T or not. My brother lost his sense of taste at some point, but I think it was from losing his sense of smell, and recurrent allergies.

Also, I wonder if I'm more impatient now, on the T. I want things to be efficient. I have a harder time listening to people -- it takes more energy and and focus.

And yet my focus is better since I'm meditating more. Also, I seem to meditate better if I haven't masturbated recently. But sometimes, if I don't masturbate, I can't do anything. A conundrum.

A Windy Night

2007-04-17T00:06:00.000-04:00

I woke up this morning thinking to myself that the Big Bad Wolf was trying to blow my house down. It's after midnight and it's still howling outside. In the quiet of the night, I rather like the way the gusts make the whole building shudder. I seem to be slipping into a day-night reversal. I've been waking up closer to noon and going to bed later -- last night it was 4 am by the time i could fall asleep. Sitting here now, E. having just gone off to bed, I feel the urge to jog around the block, to write a story, to smile at the night.

I think the daytime is filled with duties and chores and to-do lists. But the night is when you're supposed to be asleep, so it's kind of like free time. I used to feel that way about my whole life. I was "supposed" to have been dead by 21. I was so depressed and so suiidal. When I made the choice to live, I felt free because every moment afterwards was supposed to be "free time." Over the years I lost that perspective. Ironically, it's the loss of freedom, of weightless living, that makes me want to die. Sometimes it takes looking at death, though, to remind myself to be free.

Yesterday, I found out that E.'s mom told her parents -- E.'s grandparents -- that I was a transsexual. She sat down with them, resource materials in hand, and explained i to them. (They're in their 80s, I believe.) This came about because Mother's Day was coming up and the whole family was supposed to gather in Tennessee to spend time with Mamaw. I haven't seen Mamaw since before T, and so I wondered if I was really invited, or if no one knew how to uninvite me without being rude. Maybe they just wanted E. to come, but didn't know how to tell her to leave me at home. I knew that the plan was NOT to tell the grandparents. Ever. So when I heard that they had been told, I wasn't sure how to react.

My first thought was, ah, see, now my inlaws know how stressful and upsetting it can be to have me in the family. I wonder how long before they throw me out? Then I thought, great, now I'm making Mom (my in-law) miserable. I make everyone's life difficult.

I was reassured that this wasn't the case. E. said Mom told because I'm a part of the family and important.

Oddly, I didn't feel relief. I didn't feel happy or relieved or grateful or loved. What I felt was depressed. The kind of depressed that makes me want to kill myself. Because out there in the world there's a family that's related to me by blood, and they'e never done anything like that for me. And maybe that should teach me that blood isn't everything. But it hurts, too.

I like the sound of the wind howling. It's like the screaming in my heart. Rageful, and then tired from the effort. And then I remember: This is all Free Time.

I want a puppy.

Masculinity vs Femininity

2007-03-26T15:27:00.000-04:00

I think the discussion needs to move away from the terms masculinity and femininity. They are too close in pronouniation to the words male and female, and that causes us to associate them as a derivitive: If you are male, you must be masculine; if you are female, you must be feminine. This is not so.

A better alternative are the age old terms of yin and yang. We are all both yin and yang. One cannot exist without the other. I can't seem to hyperlink on this computer, so check out this site: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yin_and_yang.

Me need to move away from either/or and move towards inclusion. I am you and you are me. We are one. What hurts you, hurts me. If you kick someone, then I have kicked someone, and that's not okay with me. We are all one in relation to each other.

Yin and Yang.

Back in DC

2007-03-23T19:58:00.000-04:00

My rendezvous with a boy has been postponed for now. But I'll come back to it. In the meantime, I did spend some time with a friend who allowed me to touch his penis, and it wasn't nearly as weird as I thought it'd be. For some reason I thought it wass going to be slimy or ugly or threatening, and it wassn;t anny of those things. It was rather handsome, and soft to the touch, and smooth, and it wasn't as big of a deal as I thought it'd be. I didn't feel horrible about not having one. I liked touching it. I wasn't quite sure what to do with it, but I managed. I even suckedd on it just to see what it was like. It was fine.

Overall, I felt more than ever that E.'s is the body that I like to touch the most, but I was glad for the experience. And there are a few more experiences I'd like to have, but I don't expect them to be that different from this one. Though I was very grateful and lucky to have such a generous friend who allowed me free reign to do what I wanted. I thank him from the bottom of my heart.

Right now I'm in DC. I've relocated my base of operations to here so I can be with E. more, and will be venturing into NYC as needed.

Craigslist.Org

2007-03-09T17:11:00.000-05:00

I've been checking out the personal ads on craigslist lately, and it's a whole world that's scary and exciting and I'm trying to figure out how to navigate it.

E. has been totally supportive of my wanting to explore my sexuality, and we have talked extensively about it. I love ta more than anyone else in my life. I would want ta to be a part of my new sexual experiences, but ta's not ready for that yet, and that's fine.

So I've been searching the craigslist ads, the personals in both Washington DC and New York City. I've checked the platonic ads, but they seem to be for people looking for friends and relationships. Then I checked the Casual Encounters ads, and all the transpeople wanted or listed seemed to be transwomen. In the DC ads, I found only one ad that mentioned FTMs. So I responded, and have been emailing back and forth with an older guy, who seems nice enough.

Then I took the leap and placed my own ad in the New York City craigslist, and this is what it said:

"TS GUY looking for MALE experience

I'm a pre-op transsexual man (FTM). I'm in a committed relationship with a woman, but am interested in exploring my attraction to men. I'm looking for someone gentle, openminded, willing to help me. I want to explore your body, touch you. I've always been a top, and would like to experience that, but might at some point want to try being a bottom if I feel comfortable. We could watch gay or bi porn and see where it
goes. Maybe trade erotic/sensual massages.

I'm very clean (shower before play), d/d free and want to stay that way. nsa. I'd like you to be a clean, d/d free, gentle gay/bi/ts man who is patient and willing to be touched and maybe more.

if you think you're this person, we could trade a few emails, maybe meet up for a drink, and if we are both amenable, we could spend an afternoon or two together. (i can't host.)

we can trade pics if you like, no need for nude ones.

thanks for reading this. and if you're not intersted, good luck in your own search."

I hit send. I went away for the evening. ...This morning I checked my email to see about 15 responses. I didn't have the guts to check them, I was too scared (nboth of the freaks that might have emailed me, and of the possibility that this urge might turn into a reality). So instead I went to the craigslist site and looked for my ad. And to my amazement, I saw two more ads that also mentioned FTMs, one from an FTM who wanted to meet someone, and one from a cisgendered man (assigned male at birth and identifies as male) who had dated transmen in the past and wanted to have another such experience. I can't help it, I felt like a trendsetter!

(If you check out the San Francisco craigslist personals, you'll see lots of FTMs ads.)

So anyway, I then created another email account with yahoo just for the purpose of answering these ads (it seemed safer to do that), and answered almost all of them. There are a few real possibilities: married/straight men who want to explore sex with another man, gay men who want to explore transmen, and guys who have had possitive experiences with FTMs and would like to have them again. Of course there were a few responses that clearly were for transwomen. And there were a number of people who wanted gave me the dimensions of their cocks (I don't think they realize that bigger is not necessarily better).

So now we'll see what happens. The plan is to trade emails, get more specific about what people want and expect. Then meet up for a drink and see if the vibe is compatible, and then maybe pick a place and time to get together.

I'm completely scared. And I'm excited. And I hope I can have these experiences without feeling like I've betrayed E. She doesn't think that, and we've talked EXTENSIVELY about it. But I would be destroyed if for some reason I did something that I thought was okay with ta, and then ended up not being okay with ta.

On the flip side of that, I think ideally, we could all be secure in the love we have for each other that we could let our partners have experiences and not worry that it would mean that they didn't love us anymore. Because I love E. to the ends of the Earth.

Okay, that's me. Revealing all.

Poem: A Man

2007-03-08T13:07:00.000-05:00

a man’s bare chest
that ability,
permission
to feel a breeze on stomach sternum
nipples even
is vulnerable

and a moment later
and another
and another

and then it is strength
defiance, soaring flight power

a woman should feel these things
the air on her breasts, the sunshine
the soaring freedom

and a man
crying
might too learn to feel the power of
an unarmed truth

2/19/07

The World Is Flat

2007-02-23T18:12:00.000-05:00

At least mine is. Right now everything feels devoid of joy. I don't really want to see people, but force myself. People seem bothersome. I try to pretend that I do enjoy people -- I talk and laugh. And maybe it's true, in that moment, but then I'm alone and I feel angry at everyone.

The worst is when E. calls. I know I love her more than anyone, and yet I just feel so gray. I can't seem to feel excited even about talking to her. And she's not always in a great mood either, being under a lot of stress and all. But I just feel that I should feel more. I should feel something.

But lately, I think all I feel is... angry, and even that is almost too far away to really feel. It's like a distant echo.

Maybe by surpressing my anger, I'm surpressing everything, including my joy. it wouldn't be the first time. But I don't know what the fuck I'm mad at! It could be a hundred things. Maybe I should just leave NYC. But is it better to be in DC right now? Can I really be what E. needs me to be? I don't feel like I can be anything.

Maybe I should get a dog and walk into the woods. Maybe I would freeze in the first twenty minutes, the dog would run away from me and I'd end up an episode of Without A Trace.

I love E. But I can't seem to find the part of me that loves lately. It makes me sad and scared.

A Pronoun Solution

2007-02-14T12:46:00.000-05:00

Although in English, French, Italian, Spanish and many other languages, we take it for granted that pronouns are gendered (she/he, elle/el, etc.), this is not true the whole world over. There are, in fact, languages in use today in which pronouns do not specify male or female, and at the same time are not the impersonal, inanimate “it.”
I found a few on the Wikipedia site.

There have been movements that I’ve heard of where a third pronoun was created (like ze and others) to connote someone who did not identify as male or female. These have been used in small circles, but have not achieved widespread use yet. Although I appreciate the impulse to create such a pronoun, I think it creates an “other” category, which inevitably exoticises and alienates transgender people. This third pronoun also buys into the two gendered system to a great degree: by creating a third category outside of this system, or a third between the two givens of male and female, still leaves out many people who are slippery smudges on the continuum of
gender and/or sex.

What we need is not the addition of more pronouns, but the reduction of pronouns to one and only one. For in truth (I’ll qualify that, and say my truth), there is only one gender, though there are infinite variations.

In fact, I have a hard time finding anything that truly exists in binary: hot/cold, high/low, day/night all seem to be opposites, but they’re not. They are terms of relativity on a continuum. When it comes to temperature, 100 deg F is hotter than 32 deg, but 100 deg F is colder than 200 deg F. A mountain top is higher than sea level, which is higher than the ocean floor; but the clouds are higher than the mountain top, and the moon higher than the clouds (but then you get into space and with no up or down immediately discernable, high and low lose their meaning anyway…). And one of my favorite examples, since I think it compares well to gender, is day and night. It seems pretty clear-cut, night is when it’s dark and day is when it’s light. But morning and afternoon are very different though they are both light, just as 10 pm and 3 am are very different though they are both dark. And what of dusk and dawn? They are neither dark nor light, but some combination of both.

All of this is to argue for one pronoun that works for everyone. A two-gendered system oppresses not just transgender people, but women, and in many ways, men as well. It is a class system, in which one group of people can be superior only by having a second group of people who are inferior. I could go on, but not today. Today my purpose is not to argue the problems with the current system, but to put forth an alternative system.

One gender, one pronoun for everyone. Sure we will each have our yin and our yang traits, our infinite variations, but I think we will pay more attention to our unique diversities if the pronoun stops being a method of definition.

Okay, so which pronoun to use then? My vote is for the Chinese Mandarin pronoun for two reasons; First, China is a major superpower in the world, and also happens to own a lot of our national debt, so it seems probable that the Mandarin language will one day filter into our own. Second, it’s pretty easy to say.

So here is: ta/ta/ta de

He likes dolls.
Ta likes dolls.

She likes trucks.
Ta likes trucks.

That’s him over there.
That’s ta over there.

That’s her over there.
That’s ta over there.

That’s his truck.
That’s ta de truck.

That’s her doll.
That’s ta de doll.

Now it’s a matter of trying it out.

Brief Update

2007-01-29T17:22:00.000-05:00

I'm at work and don't have time for more than a few lines here. First, I'm trying to quit smoking. I had my last cigarette yesterday, and I'm using the Smoke Away program, which has worked for me in the past. I'm under a lot more stress and without the love of my life, so I think it'll be harder this time, but I want to live healthier and I need to take these steps. Also, I feel more on the verge of tears lately: It's either that I saw E. this past weekend and miss her, that I'm quitting smoking and don't have that crutch anymore, or that my T dose is now at 0.5 mL. Or all of them.

I saw a therapist on Thursday that I think I can see for a few months until I find someone more long-term. He seems like he'll work out, which leaves me with the dilemma:

If I don't have to deal with him, then I'll have to get down to the task of dealing with me.

But I want that.

One other thing, I seem to have become scared of giving myself the shots. I'm completely trigger shy. I think I had one a month ago when my muscle twitched and that scared me a little, but I don't know why I'm so hesitant, and I know that it only hurts more the less decisive I am.

Quick Update

2007-01-26T16:36:00.000-05:00

I cut my dose down to 1/2 mL every two weeks, instead of the regular dose of 1 mL. I want to be able to cry when I need to and I think the T gets in the way. My hair line is receding, and it feels a bit like a baby's head in those areas now. And my acne is not great, though I do eat crap these days and can't blame it all on the T.

I also feel cranky, but in a good way.

A Letter to My Mother

2007-01-14T17:58:00.000-05:00

To my dearly beloved mother,

Sometimes I think you hate me. I have somehow single-handedly stolen away your dreams, and left you with old age and despair. Every time you and dad leave the country now for your three-month trips to India, your three-month sabbaticals in Florida, I have this sense that you’re running away from me.

(You are, aren't you?)

Did you know that you are the US matriarch of our family? You are the one everyone fears the most, the strongest willed of all your siblings, the most successful, the one with the most money, the one who has made everyone cry at some point... a pillar really. And yet, I think there are those who see you as fragile, as if to tell you the truth would somehow shatter your delicate sense of the world. It is not unlike the way you treat Nunima. Is this then, the culture I come from? One of secrecy and fear; a china shop and I am the bull that must stay outside?

Ironic.

You are a woman who survived seven siblings, medical school, the death of your father, marriage to a stranger (who luckily, was Dad), a transcontinental move to England, living apart from Dad -- the one other person in the whole country that you knew -- a brutal residency, racism, having a baby all alone, and then the loss of that baby as he was shuttled to India to be brought up with the extended family while you continued to toil in this foreign, white land, full of boiled, bland food and gray days. Then another transcontinental move to the United States, the culture shock of New York City, another brutal residency, and then you gave birth to me. That is not the history of a fragile woman.

And yet when I came to you, weary from the weight of secrets, and asked you to listen, to hear my pain and hear my struggle and please, just love me anyway, even if it’s not the dream you had for me, even if your fantasies are like clothes too tight that I shrug off, even if the future is unimaginable, just love me anyway. Hold me like you did when I was a child, in your lap, your fingers absently scratching my back, your voice gentle and happy, your hand in mine.

(Remember how, when I was in first grade, you would get me out of school early so we could go to McDonald’s, just the two of us?)

When did we stop holding hands? When did you stop being happy? Sometimes I think it was when Feroze was taken from you, but there was a delayed reaction. Did I hurt you so much by growing up and becoming my own person? Did you fear you would lose me and so you clutched me so tight to your breast that I almost suffocated to death? You pulled, I pushed, and the battle lines were drawn, lines that would last decades. I think both Dad and Feroze have been at various times caught in out crossfire.

Mine was a struggle to survive. I shaved my head and you were ashamed of me. I told you I was bisexual, and you were ashamed of me. I spent a year in a mental hospital trying desperately to find the will to live, and you were ashamed of me. And now, a decade later, I beg you to understand that I cannot fight this anymore. I beg you to understand that I do not do this to hurt you. But I cannot be anyone other than who I am if I am to live a life of Truth. And any other life is not worth living.

(But please, Mom, can’t you love me anyway?)

You won’t even look at me.

When I see you a year later, my voice deep and resonant, my goatee neatly trimmed, you look at me with such disgust. It is a look I have grown used to. It is a look that no longer infuriates me, but instead makes me tired and sad. You do not talk to me, do not look at my face; you leave the room when I enter, sit alone in front of your small space heater and cry to yourself. And all over again I am fourteen, nineteen, twenty-one years old, and want desperately to slit my own throat.

Do you wish you had stayed in India, in those moments? Do you think that America has done this to me? That I would be normal, be your long-haired feminine daughter had you brought me up in India? You used to threaten to send me to India when I was a kid. I had to concoct elaborate escape routes. First I would stop talking altogether, and if that didn’t work, maybe I would stop eating until I was allowed to come home. If that didn’t work, I would be the worst nightmare they had ever seen, and if that didn’t get me a ticket home, then I would refuse to exist. All so I could come running home to you. (Would you really have sent me away from you?)

I don’t think you could have done that, not really. And yet you did it for half my life and are still doing it. Five feet away from you, and the walls between us are so high and thick that it is as if we are lifetimes apart.

I know you hate that I was in therapy, you see it as something to be embarrassed by. Yet years of therapy have taught me a few things. First, that I love you, and I cannot not love you, though I have tried over the years. I have tried to not care about what you think, to not be affected when you take your love away and silence fills the space between us, thick and empty. Second, that you love me, and you cannot not love me, no matter how much you pull away, run away, shut me out. And third, that I want to live, but no longer as a child living for the pride and joy for her parents, but instead as a human being living the Truth of his soul. (You may have shut me out, but god did not.)

You are the matriarch of our family. People fear your wrath. But I am your child, truly, and I am also feared in our family. People fear my Love: the love I have for my Soul, and my refusal to betray that. They imagine that the two of us at war would result in catastrophic explosions, the fallout of which would surely fall on them. This makes me laugh, even as it makes me sad.

We are not equals, in this struggle. You are my Mom and I will always be wounded by your love. I come into the arena with a broken heart. But I think, truly, you also have a broken heart. I see your walls and defenses and your tense brow and all the counterattacks that you prepare to defend yourself against me. But I will not fight you, Mom. I will not surrender, but I will not fight you.

I will do only this:

I will whisper I love you quietly, over and over again, that it might be carried on the breeze above your battlements, through your defenses, and with luck, perhaps it will lodge in your heart. If I say it enough, gently, unarmed and still, perhaps someday your heart will be healed.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

Can you hear my whispers? Mom? Do you know that I love you? Do you think that someday we might hold hands again?

Last Week Was Great

2007-01-08T14:51:00.000-05:00

I had amazing sex with E.

And better than that, E. was happy and managed to crack through my chronic moping persona to make me laugh.

And better than that, I got to sleep next to her every night and in the middle of the night, I could roll over and wrap my arm around her and go back to sleep.

And better than that... well there's not much better than that. But just as good as that was

walking through NYC holding hands,
sharing fries,
kissing on subway platforms,
kissing on the street,
getting out of work and knowing I'm going to be with her,
having dinner and watching Iron Chef America,
spending time with friends and knowing that she's coming home with me...

Stuff like that.

Where Are the Tears?

2006-12-30T23:38:00.000-05:00

December 28, 2006

I need to cry. I can feel it under the surface of my eyelids, in every breath I take when I’m alone, in the music that swells me until the cage of my skin digs into my soul. I can feel it in the deadness all around me: muted colors, muscles stiff from forgotten Laughter.

The message on my cell is from E. I don’t answer it because…
…I’m too sad and there’s nothing she can do about it and I don’t want her to feel helpless, and then feel frustrated with me for being such a chore, for being such a downer, for not responding to her effort.
…I don’t want to lie and pretend I’m happy when I’m not, but I don’t want her to get tired of me so pretending might be the only thing I can do.
…she’ll try to cheer me up and I don’t want to be cheered up, I want to cry, I need to cry, and if I don’t I might explode, might, implode, might curl up and die, might stay in this moment forever.
…she might not try to cheer me up.
…she might not be interested in my sadness at all, and might want to talk about suitcases or plans or Things that people do, Things that she will do, and Times when she will do these Things, and I might be holding my breath the whole time and in the end I might feel disconnected to the one person I love above all others, and that would be devastating.

And this is how it starts, caught up in my own shit, I make decisions for other people that are not my right to make. But I am afraid. I am afraid that they will not choose me, even if they have chosen me a thousand times before. I become afraid that they will choose me, and that they’ll regret their choice. This is how it starts, the Game You Cannot Win. Is it insecurity or loneliness, or perhaps a combination of the two?

I know all the answers. I know I should call her back. I know that whatever a given moment brings, E. will not leave me. I know I need to reach past the fear and get out on the limb and try.

But most of all, I know I need to cry. Until I do, I will be afraid of the rising waters, of drowning in the hollow of my own heart. The tears will set me free. I know that.

But the water rises nonetheless.

Skyscrapers

2006-12-23T13:58:00.000-05:00

My temp work takes me to Penn Station everyday. I stand there on my lunch break, looking up at these tall buildings. One Penn Plaza might be even a hundred floors high. So many giant structures reaching in the sky with their square angles and sharp edges and shiny windows. They appear to me so aggressive. The mark of conquerors, of conquistadors. And in their aggressivity I see an underpinning of Fear. So afraid to fail, maybe, to not be enough, to not have enough, to be bigger and better than everyone else... in these skyscrapers I see panic. And in the smaller buildings nearby, the ones that were the skyscrapers of years past, I see the shell of this Aggresion, a hollowed out left-over of what once was, and now is just kind of sad.

And I think about trees. How slow, how gentle they grow. Tall, taller, taller still. And yet they spread out, their roots deep, their branches spread wide, their boughs bending in the wind. It is Confidence without Arrogance. It is not Fear that grows a sapling into a tree, but Earth and Patience and Love, I think.

Buildings are hollowed with Time. But even hollow trees are filled with Life.

And so it is with people, I think. What grows out of Fear becomes sad in the end. What grows out of Love is already noble, from sapling to Redwood.

Post-Thanksgiving

2006-11-26T13:15:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving is over. The left-overs are almost finished. The weekend is at an end. And now I have to leave DC and E. and home and return to NYC.

Damn.

I love E.

Families of Choice

2006-11-20T18:46:00.000-05:00

I receive so much love, I have to acknowledge it. Familes of Choice are something talked about in the LGBT community, where so often we are tossed out on our keesters by our blood relatives. But it's not just LGBT people, it's all of us who try to be ourselves, who try to follow our inner voice that says:

"be an actor... share those stories with people"
"be a free-spirit... let people see you live with joy"
"follow god... love with everything you have"
"hug a tree... feel the earth move below you"
"fight for the earth... even if it pays nothing"
"love her even if she never loves you back..."
"fight for justice, even if it means you'll never have a 401K or a sports car..."
"laugh, laugh, laugh..."
"make love to people, share their energy and their spirit, and their godliness"

I know there are parents out there who don't love their children, but of those that do, so often they forget how far encouragement, support, faith, a hug can go.

But Families of Choice are not necessarily a substitute. I have friends who love me, but we have not necessarily shared 30 years of experiences, and would they drop everything if I needed them to? That't not to criticize, just to notice. My family would drop everything to come to my aid if I got hit by a car. But if I felt despair that ripped at my heart, if I felt a depression and deep sense of self-loathing so strong I wanted to kill myself, they would find me irritating, a burden.

What am I saying? I don't really know. I guess Families of Choice are wonderful, and I am grateful for them. But I know they are not the same as those relationships that form us. However, of those formative relationships, I have two parents and one brother and a sister-in-law and a two-year-old niece and an aunt: That's five and a half people.

But of those who love me, I cannot cannot begin to count them: I have Sara, Michele, Sari, Elizabeth, E., Renee, Shiv, Kate, Artie, Laura, Steve, Vince, Chris, Christina, Julie, Elaine, Robin, Sara, Mark, Marylin, German, Sumathi, Sujani, Alana, Kelley, Bohman, Chris, Trese, Toisha, Susan, Leslie, Elizabeth, Rachael, the list goes on and on. So much love and it wraps around me like a cloak of strength.

I have lately been thinking about something Jesus supposedly said: 'Leave your families and follow me.' I think there is much to be learned by working at a relationship for years, and growing and changing and learning how to work through the hard times. But at some point, I have to realize that I can't change people. I can only be the best person I can be, and at some point I have to walk away from a hurtful situation. I have to value myself that much. No one else will if I don't. And as E. helped me to understand, it's not that I'm walking away from something (my parents, my brother, whoever), but instead, I'm walking towards something: Towards my future, towards the love in my life, towards the truth, towards god. And they can come with me, or they can remain where they are; the choice is always theirs.

And by 'god' I don't mean Jesus or the bible or any dogmatic religion. When I say god I mean the Truth; and when I say Truth I mean Love.

I love my Family of Choice. My Family of Blood is welcome to be a part of it, it's up to them.

(Please do not think that the names I mentioned are in any order, or are conclusive. There are many more I hold near and dear to my heart.)

On Being Grateful (a Letter to My Brother)

2006-11-16T18:33:00.000-05:00

In light of the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday, the importance of family, and my brother’s recent accusation that I’m never grateful for what my family gives me, I thought a letter might be in order. And this is what it would say:

Dear F.,

On Tuesday, I came over to your place already wary. We haven’t had the closest relationship in years – since 1994 and that difficult night at the diner. We never talk about our feelings. We are vastly different people, and we live our lives according to different codes. I can accept that, but still, without some sharing of what’s inside, joys and fears, loves and worries, I don’t know how to be close to you. And though I tried on Tuesday to tell you what I was feeling, here in this letter I will try again. And this time I will add a dash of what I left out – how angry I am.

I have a preconceived notion of what brothers could be. I think of siblings as people who stick together: When their parents are unfair, they stick up for each other; when the world is unfair, they look out for each other, and in the face of Life and its ordeals, they are a safe haven for each other.

I don’t think that’s what we are. You never stick up for me with mom and dad, even when they hold family events and tell me not to come. I was un-invited to the family dinner you gave after you got married; I was un-invited to your wife’s baby-shower; and I am now un-invited to this year’s Thanksgiving dinner. And all because of the way I look. But you say you don’t want to get involved.

You’ve done a good job at that, not being involved. You said on Tuesday that it seems like I’ve been going through crisis after crisis for almost twelve years, and you’re tired of it. You’re tired?! I was the one who was diagnosed with depression, who had to spend a year in a hospital getting better, trying to beat the constant urge to kill myself. I’m the one who found work, an apartment, and got back on my feet again. I’m the one who was raped in another country and came back and survived and continued on. I’m the one who got myself back into college, graduated, found a job at a newspaper, worked some more, then applied and got into graduate school. I’m the one who graduated, who spent a summer in France working and writing, and then came back to help my partner settle into her own graduate school, then came back to NYC without a place to stay or barely any money. I’m the one who found a room in Upper Harlem, who is under so much stress that I’ve started smoking again and sometimes I can barely get out of bed. I’m the one who’s busting my ass to do everything I can to prevent a relapse into depression, which includes looking for a therapist (because I know when I need to ask for help). And you’re the one’s who’s tired?

Life’s full of ups and downs. If it’s not, then it’s static and dead. You’ve been depressed for four years, and you won’t even get help. You won’t even do couples therapy with your own wife. You have a child. You’re kidding yourself if you think your depression won’t affect her. You’re kidding yourself if you think you can handle this on your own. You can’t even talk about your feelings – you barely know how. Get help, brother. If you don’t, you’ll lose everything and everyone you love. I know; I’ve been there. Do you even let yourself feel love…

…real love, the kind that’s vulnerable and giving and never expects anything back. Do you feel that for yourself? I don’t think you do.

You kept saying that I’m so demanding, I just ask for more and more and more. If I get one thing, then I ask for another, and then another, and where will it end? I’m asking you to use the name I prefer to be called, to use male pronouns. What else have I asked you for? All this time that I’ve been couch surfing, have I ever asked you for a place to crash? Have I asked you for money? What else have I asked you for? Nothing. It’s been years since I asked you to stick up for me with mom and dad, because I know you won’t do it. This all I’m asking: Respect me.

But now I’m going to ask you for more: I want you to love me for who I am. That might be the straw that collapses the camel, I realize that, but I’m asking anyway. And on top of that, here’s another thing: Care about me. ME. Not just this body that happens to have been born to the same parents, but me, the inside of me – it’s the best part and you barely know that part.

Actually, never mind. I don’t want to ask too much. Just work on the name and the pronoun. That’s enough.

And you say you are trying (to not use any pronouns – that’s your compromise), but I haven’t heard you try. I’ve never heard you say “she…oops, I mean he (or you),” not once. And so I have to say, it doesn’t feel like you’re trying. And I tell you, it hurts me when you say she, you take away my right to exist, you invalidate me. And then you get so angry with me, I’m ungrateful for the efforts people make. (Wow, you sound just like Sam, have y’all been talking?) Well, here’s what I have to say about being grateful:

First, I can feel grateful that you invite me over once in a while, and still be hurt and angry that you keep calling me she; I am capable of having two feelings at the same time. And second, why should I be so frickin’ grateful anyway? Do I walk around thanking people for not saying the word faggot or nigger? Do I bow down and gush over people because they’ve managed to not be quite as bigoted today as they were yesterday? You’re transphobic, you and your belief that a person can’t change their sex and so therefore you won’t use the pronoun a person asks you to. I can appreciate your effort, when I see it, and understand that it’s hard for you and be proud of you for trying to do something difficult. But I will not be grateful that you’re doing the right thing. I’m giving you the opportunity, and a lot of time (almost two years now) to be a better person. I give you an opportunity to know what it’s like to be a transperson in this world. I don’t need to be grateful to anybody if I receive a basic human right. That’s why it’s a basic human right. I am grateful to the people who fight for those rights. And you’re not one of those people.

And then you have gall to insinuate that our family gives me so much more than E.’s family. And I answered you even though the question was insulting. But I left out the most important details, so here they are: Besides financial help with school, rent, food, my in-laws give us support, encouragement, love, faith, respect and courage to continue on even though it can be hard and daunting.

But as thin as our relationship is at times, I still remember what it was like before. I remember mom yelling at you and wishing I was big enough to make her stop. I still try and stand up for you when I feel like they’re being unfair to you, or to your depression – I tell them they should be more supportive and encourage you to get help. I defend you, though you always tell me, you’ve never asked me to do that. I still want to work towards having a better relationship with you. I want to do family therapy with you, I want to work out our issues and move on to being closer siblings. You say you want an easy relationship, one where we can just hang out and have fun. I want that too, but I think we’ll probably have to muddle through some hard feelings first before we can break clear and be at ease with each other.

But then you said you just want to focus on yourself right now. You don’t think you’re up to family therapy right now, and if you did it, it would just be for me, not because you want to do it.

Well then, brother, don’t do it. Don’t do anything you don’t want to do. But don’t expect me to stick around forever. I’m not your little sister anymore, and I haven’t been for over a decade, since that that awful night at that diner. I put myself through repeating patterns of pain trying to be close to a family that refuses to love and accept me for who I am. At some point I’m going to learn that this isn’t healthy for me, and I’m going to extricate myself. At some point I am going to realize that I’m bending over backwards in the hopes that with enough time, people will change. But people don’t change because you ask them to. They only ever change because they choose to on their own.

Family is important. But it’s not about blood. Sure, there’re things to experience, opportunities to learn and grow when you’re in a relationship with another person over years and years. But when that relationship becomes and remains unhealthy, you have to decide if you’re going to stay in it. I don’t think I’m helping you anymore by staying in this relationship. I’m enabling you to keep treating me poorly, hurtfully, disrespectfully. I’ll never cut you off forever, I’m not like that. But until you are willing to work on this relationship in therapy with me, you will have to have me in your memories only.

I have this fantasy that that’s where you all want me anyway, safely in your memories, where I’ll never change or grow or disagree with you or become my own person. If I died, I think I could make that possible for you, and there are definitely times when I think about how much my family hates me, and I think I would hurt less if I were dead. But I have too much to live for, so you’ll have to do those mental acrobatics on your own.

So with Thanksgiving around the corner, what am I grateful for? I am grateful for people in my life who see me, who love me, and who are willing to accept my love. I am grateful for E. I am grateful for god, who’s my best friend in the whole world. I’m grateful that though I feel so much pain, I also feel strong and open and loving. I am grateful for the truth. I grateful to be living my Truth.

And Truth is Love.

I wish you well, my brother. May you find the ability to love yourself, to open yourself, to let in the love of others. Whether we ever have a close relationship or not, I will always wish these things for you.

With love,
D.

A Few Days Ago

2006-11-16T18:32:00.000-05:00

It’s amazing, you can watch Law & Order non-stop, with only the occasional breaks, and then it’s SVU, Judging Amy, Missing and Cold Case. The hours pass by and I can not think about myself at all. I can worry about Amy (her best friend died, so heartbreaking), and that guy who lost his job and became a drunk, I wonder if he’ll get into rehab? But do I think he killed his wife and family? Nah, he’s too drunk to do that. I wonder what’s on next?

I couldn’t drag myself out of bed until almost one in the afternoon. Yesterday, it was noon. The day before wasn’t much better. I’ve been down this road before. It’s not a road I want to walk down again. I got up this afternoon, finally, hoping Rafael was out. I don’t like witnesses, or anyone to see my bed-head. I went outside for a cigarette, watched the construction workers, puffed away, and I looked up – at what, I have no idea, the tops of the building, the overcast sky – and I thought, please help me.

I walked back into my room, and the phone rang. It was Nina at my temp agency, whom I had neglected to call for the past two business days. She said she might have a job for me at a publishing company, beginning in early December, and it would last a few months, was I interested? Yeah. Oh my god, yeah. Thank you.

Here I am in the city, within ten miles of both my brother and my aunt. I’m becoming symptomatic again: I’m smoking, I’m sleeping longer hours, my self-esteem is shaky. I’m scraping by, having to convince myself that it’s worth the extra money to eat a salad once in a while. And I get nothing from them. No support, either monetary or emotional. And I’m thinking, why would that be? I can think of two reasons. Either they don’t care, or they don’t know. I have to take responsibility for that. I don’t make myself vulnerable to people who don’t respect me, who can’t be bothered to use the right pronouns, the right name. I never said to them, help me. I don’t know if I can. I want my brother to do family therapy with me. I want my aunt to do family therapy with me. Anyone in my family! Anyone.

I know my parents won’t.

But maybe I should ask? Maybe I should make myself vulnerable and maybe I should ask for what I want, because at least then I can be mad because they let me down, not just because they couldn’t read my mind.

But what will that feel like, to have them say, No, I don’t want to engage in family therapy with you. And what they won’t say, You’re not worth it.

Ashtray

2006-11-16T18:29:00.000-05:00

I feel like an ashtray. Like a chimney. If only I smelt like a campfire, that would be an improvement. My acne is painful on my face. My body feels tight, wound, kinked. I treat my body like shit. I don’t want to do that anymore.

But it’s not that easy. I mean it is, I just start buying salads, quit it with the dollar slices of pizza, pick up a salad a day, how hard is that? But stuff gets in the way.

I guess I don’t think I’m worth it. I need to change that. I need to remember that I am worth healthy food, worth taking the time to meditate and exercise.

If I treat myself this way, who will treat me better? I do love myself. I do.

Much to Write, But No Time

2006-11-15T18:57:00.000-05:00

I had such an upsetting, unbelievable and yet fairly calm (on my end, anyway) conversation with my brother that I really need to write about. I don't have time now, but I have to say, families dynamics can cause so much pain. It's amazing I fucking survived my family. I feel like I've been fighting for my life, for my right to breathe, to exist, to live my truth. And they think I'm annoying, a pain the ass, selfish. Fucking incredible.

Take a Walk on the Wild Side

2006-11-09T18:37:00.000-05:00

That's the song that's playing right now in this free-internet-organic-vegan coffee shop which is sometimes my office. Oh wait, no, it's a remake that's sampled the beat. That's a bit of a letdown. Today is a bit of a letdown. My attitude is not quite for shit, but close.

The winters in rural Connecticut have become too much for my parents, or so they've been saying for a few years now, and they've decided to move. Where my parents are going to move to, I have no idea, and I can only imagine that they are running away from me as fast and far as they can. (Whatever, it's my fantasy.) They have ripped up carpets, polished wood floors, and this all seem to make the move very imminent. They are throwing away photos by the bag-full, photos of us, thousands of photos. I suppose they have hundreds more, but still. My childhood home, where I threw tantrums, had spin-the-bottle parties, and punched in the closet door. It's weird. So my mom calls and wants to know if she can throw out the books, the stuff in my closet, the crates downstairs.

-I'd rather you didn't.
-Why not, what will you do with it?
-I don't know, but I want to go through it first.
-Oh, okay. Well, I guess we could put it in storage here or something and you could come get it.
-Why, when are you moving?
-We don't know yet. A few months.

And I can't help it, it feels like they're throwing me out. Not in my rational mind, but in that part of me that feels despair that I've been told not to come to Thanksgiving, the part that feels betrayed that my brother doesn't stick up for me, the part of me that felt they'd be better off without me when I was a teenager. It's not rational. I know better. But those things are woven into the fabric of my insecurities. No, more than that, all those ways in which my parents let me know that I wasn't good enough just as I was, that I needed to be something else, someone else, someone better, those are the very threads that make up that Insecurity Blanket.

Do I know better? Yes. Do I know that god loves me unconditionally? Yes. Do I know that E. loves me more than I've ever been loved before? Yes. Do I know that my friends are amazing and supportive and love me? Yes. But it's a travesty of childhood development that nothing affects the way I feel about myself as much as the way my parents feel about me. Someone should do something about that. Freud's dead, Jung's dead, someone step up to the plate.

Most days I think about parenthood with trepidation. I don't want the responsibility of being the reason some poor kid is all fucked up. But somedays, like when I'm with my friend M., and I'm watching her parent her kids, I think maybe I could do this. Maybe I could give my kids something special. Maybe I wouldn't be anything like my parents were to me (except in the good ways -- I'm not saying my parents were monsters, they just didn't ever teach me how to love myself). Sometimes I think I'd like to adopt kids, there are so many without enough love, and I have a lot to give. I mean, good Lord, my parents keep rejecting the love I give them, so I have extra love to give! But maybe I'd like to take in foster kids. It seems unfair that there are kids in the world who need love and attention and stability and most of the time we are so centered on procreating in our own image. I mean, what would I have done at thirteen if someone said to me,

-Don't hate yourself. Here, come live with me, I'll show you how much I can love you. I'll show you that you're good enough just the way you are.

What would that have meant to me? And my parents loved me, even if it was in a backhanded sort of way. We fuck up our children, and we fuck up the world, and they watch us and learn from us and then they do it with more style and spectacle than we could ever have dreamed. Man, everyone should have to take a class before they become a parent.

I'm not saying being a parent is easy, but I'll wager it's easier than growing up. Nothing has wounded me more than my adolescence.

Okay, okay, I'll get off the high horse. What do I know? I'm not a parent.

I'll tell you what I know: I know what it's like to have my mom not even be able to look at me because she's so disgusted by what she sees; I know what it's like to be hidden away from friends and family so no one sees what a freak I am; I know what it's like to be told that I must be the child of the devil; I know what it's like to be told not to cry, and then to be told that I'm heartless because I don't cry; I know what it's like to see my mom become depressed for days or weeks because she doesn't know what she did wrong with me; I know what it's like to have my mom pray for me over and over again, year after year; I know what it's like to have my dad be mad at me because I'm jobless when I barely have enough money to eat, I don't have a place to stay, and he's told me I'm not allowed to ask my brother or aunt for help...

...and the worst is I know what it's like to know that they do all of this because they love me, they're miserable because they love me, that I cause them pain and tears.

No kid should ever have to feel that. Ever.

Yes, absolutely, my parents love me. Without a doubt they love me. God help me if I ever love my kids like that.

From Wednesday

2006-11-09T18:33:00.000-05:00

It’s Wednesday and slept away the morning wrapped in dreams. I went to bed after two, having watched the election and then trudged home in the rain. Falling asleep was strange: I felt such a weight on me, as if I could feel people yelling at me, too loud and too close to my head, so that the yelling felt heavy against my body. I couldn’t make out what the yelling was about, and I was too tired to be frightened.

I woke up around noon, and jumbles of images floated back to me, but the plot line has been lost. I think I was at an amusement park maybe? I was very depressed. My therapist was a woman, and she wouldn’t give me what I wanted. My dad was there, too, though I didn’t want to talk to him because he wouldn’t understand; I wanted her to talk to him. E. was there towards the end. My therapist came back and whatever she said made me angry, and I ran off into the woods, which weren’t real exactly, jumping over bushes and dodging trees until I was in a basement filled with old furniture and junk. E. followed me. I was still angry, but glad she had followed me. She was making it a game, and it was hard to stay angry because I wanted to laugh.

Rafael was cooking this morning, and I woke to the smells of a Dominican rice stew. He offered me some, we ate, I tried to speak what Spanish I could muster up from my dusty memory files as we watched Spanish TV. I should study up on some verbs if I’m ever going to be able to have a real conversation with him. So far, he’s been a really nice guy.

I just ate my last piece of guilt-free chocolate candy. Damn.

And I’m a smoker again, I can’t deny it. But that’s okay for now.

It’s still raining hard outside. I feel damp, even though I’m inside.

My posture is terrible.

Important T update: My hair seems to be thinning on top (sigh), and porn is having less of an effect on me – perhaps it is the lower dose.

From a Few Days Ago

2006-11-09T18:30:00.000-05:00

I think I need to write an update on how the digs are working out, but words fail me. Or I fail them. I’m not sure how that works.

Wait, I do know. There is no failure. Just a lack of connection. I think that’s true of Life, too.

The new digs grow on me. I am trying not to resist the turn my life has taken and instead to find a way to embrace it. How do I embrace something that repels me? I don’t know, but as the days wear on, I am not as repelled. Tomorrow I am going to Swiffer the floor and spray more Raid. Today I did laundry.

Maybe the day after tomorrow I will try to cook something. Maybe.

E. visited me over the weekend. She left a little of herself here. It makes it easier.

I'm Probably Not Supposed to Do This At Work

2006-11-07T11:29:00.000-05:00

Indeed, here I am at work, blogging. And this is because:

1. I can't check my email though I much prefer to procrastinate that way;
2. I can't even check the BBC site;
3. reading about the impending midterm elections is overwhelming, and also makes me feel guilty since I'm registered to vote in VA and didn't get an absetee ballot;
4. this site has not yet been blocked, but I feel sure it will be by the next time I try to log in.

But yes, you heard me right, I'm at w-o-r-k. Don't get too excited, it's a temp job. I worked here Thursday of last week, and got the call again this morning from my agency. It's not steady work by any means, but it's easy work, answering phones and smiling at people as they come and go. I probably have lots of time to revise my script, but then here I am blogging instead.

Two things are fascinating. First, yesterday evening, as I was walking home from my writing group, headed uptown towards the 96th street station on Broadway, I thought about getting something to eat. What I thought was, in this order:

What, I can't afford food!

Okay, fine, but something under a dollar, maybe a bagel or pizza?

Come on, I have raman noodles at home, all I have to do is boil water.

$2.25 for a slice of pizza! You gotta be kidding.

Sara said I should a vegetable; she's right, I should...

...which lead me to the following feeling, namely, that I could afford to buy a salad, even a $6 salad, because tomorrow I would be getting work. If I believe that I'm too poor to eat, then I will remain poor; I will be sending the message that this is who I am, a poor person who can't afford to eat, and that's how my Life will continue to reveal itself. However, if I truly believe that I will be working tomorrow -- and if not tomorrow, then tomorrow's tomorrow -- then I would get the salad; and in getting the salad I am sending the message that I have complete confidence that work will come. And I got the salad. And today I got called for work.

I'm exploring the concept that if you want something, you'll never get it. But if you believe you already have it, then you do.

The second thing which is fascinating about working in fashion here is that I thought for sure I'd be surrounded by gay men all day. Instead, I'm surrounded by men in yarmulkas. Who would have thought? I have nothing against Jewish people -- my last girlfriend was Chosen -- but the environment is a little more sedate than had I been surrounded by queens.

What can I say? I like royalty.

Upon Reflection...

2006-11-01T15:02:00.000-05:00

... I can't tell if I'm full of shit or not.

Long Post About Nothing and Everything

2006-11-01T14:44:00.000-05:00

Halloween, 2006, 9:00pm

I live in Harlem. To be exact, I live in Upper Harlem, though I had never known that to be a specific Manhattan neighborhood. It’s been three days and here I am on the third night writing these words, trying to write myself out of this room, out of this neighborhood, out of this moment of my life and into the next one. Before this becomes the last moment of my life.

I should warn you at this point that I have a flair for the dramatic as well as the poetic, but also for the truth, and so to the best of my ability, and as colorfully as I can, I will try to show you where I am, when I am, and how I came to be here. I don’t flatter myself to think that you’re actually interested in the details, but then that’s why I write, namely so I don’t have to see the expression on your face. If you never read a word past this one, I’ll never know, and don’t flatter yourself thinking that I’m writing this just for you.

My room is decently sized by New York City standards. I’ve got a big closet, a bundle of hangers upon which hang my paltry two pairs of work pants, one pair of grubby pants, and two button down shirts. On the shelf above that, the rest of my clothes: five tees, five boybeaters, three ties, two dress shirts still in their packaging, five pairs of socks (two with holes in them), ten pairs of underwear, two long-sleeve tees, one pair of dress shoes (purchased at the salvation army for $7 a decade ago), one Bounce dryer sheet, and a spare king-size pillowcase. In the corner on the floor is a small, red suitcase with wheels, the kind that should never be allowed to be a carry-on, but always is.

The bed is a full-size squeaky thing, with king size sheets that are anything but fitted. I went out today and bought a comforter ($11.90 plus tax) because the ratty one that my brother gave me has random hairs poking out of it, which is just too depressing. I’ve got two large windows which open to street level – 149th street, between Fredrick Douglass and Adam Clayton – bars on one, a locked gate on the other. A wobbly table has my backpack on it, files with unfinished scripts, a notebook of job possibilities, a table fan still in the box, and a can of Raid. There’s a small fridge in the room, but the floor buckles so it’s hard to get open without leaning it backwards first. There’s a giant bureau, and my bathroom stuff is in the top drawer. I haven’t looked in the other drawers. I’m kind of scared to. There’s also a Swiffer leaning up against the wall. I think I’m supposed to return it to my “landlord” but I haven’t yet. The room, to look at, is clean. I’ve Raided it, and that’s the first thing you smell when you walk in. My cell phone, my only contact with the outside world, only works if I perch off the end of the bed with my elbows on the window ledge, and even then, it cuts out sometimes.

During the daytime, this humble abode is adequate. Enough light comes through the closed screens that you can tell life exists outside of this room. At night, I wonder if people peek through the gap at the bottom and watch me sitting on my bed and staring straight ahead. I do that sometimes. I also have a water bottle on the table. There are about two swallows left so I have to make that last until tomorrow. Oh, and there’s a TV on top of the bureau. All in all, just like a little motel room.

I have access to the bathroom. I can use the kitchen if I clean everything afterwards. The rest of the place is off-limits. My landlord’s name is Rafael. This is his apartment and I rent out a room for $125 per week, payable in cash on Saturdays. He doesn’t speak much English; I don’t speak much Spanish. And this is where I live now.

I have this fear that this where I will die.

At night it’s a bit like a cell. I sit on my bed, listless. I can’t bring myself to re-write my scripts. I can’t bring myself to do much of anything except wonder if the three cigarettes I’ve had in the last five days means that after a year and a half, I have failed at quitting smoking again. I feel that I am failing at Life in general, though, and the little failures kind of pale in comparison. I think about who I could call, and the obvious choice is E., my Life Love, who now lives five hours away. Don’t get me wrong, we haven’t split up or anything. She has grad school in DC and I have a career in theater here in NYC. If I give up my dreams, my prospects, my momentum, to live with her in DC, I might resent her later and so here I am. And if I give up my Life because I’m alone and scared and want to die, she would resent me… and so here I am. I could call her, but then what would that accomplish? She’d feel helpless and that’s a burdensome feeling. And I am losing my ability to fake it.

I have no access to internet here. If I did, I could while away the hours watching porn online and masturbating. It’s a bit of an addiction, but it passes the time. I have a clock radio, and TV, and the feeling that I am somehow repeating a pattern and if I don’t make it through to the other side, then I will return again to this awful place. “What you resist, persists,” or so I’ve read. So instead of secretly hoping that somehow I will be rescued from this place, I have decided to embrace this place, and so that’s what these words are. Me trying to embrace this moment in my life. Maybe if I hug the life out of it, it will slink away to be replaced by happiness, success and E. in my bed again.

And this is what I think precipitated this moment in Upper Harlem: My parents hate me again (admittedly a hate that hides their warped and conditional love for me), and because they hate me, I think maybe I should hate me as well. And my brother, the other family member in NYC, doesn’t hate me, but I don’t think he loves me. And if he does love me, what he considers love and what I consider love are not the same things. I have an aunt, too, who lives in Hoboken. My parents are livid that I don’t have a job yet, though five months have passed since I graduated with my MFA. And if I don’t get a job soon, they will cut off my health insurance and I’ll be on my own. It’s true, I asked them to pay for my health insurance until I got a job, because, well, without my medication I’ll probably die. What’s more ironic is that my parents are both retired doctors.

Now I’ve had a lot of therapy in my life and I can say that they’re threat to cut off my health insurance is an aggressive act. One might even say violent since it could result in my death. But then again, the fact that I’ve picked up a cigarette three times in five days is also pretty violent. I am stabbing myself in the lungs. This may seem a dramatic rendition of events, but only if you haven’t experienced intensive psychotherapy with a trained professional.

So here I am. Today. Now. And if it’s true that what you resist does indeed persist, then I would like to stop resisting this moment. I declare that as of this moment, I cease the desire to be rescued from this room. I am not just biding my time until the helicopters appear over head and drop down a harness for me to strap myself into; I expect no airlifts to safety. This is where I live for this moment, and for however long this moment lasts. Work will come tomorrow, and if not tomorrow, then the next tomorrow. People are lining up to call me in for interviews because they know that I am valuable and talented and they want to hire me to do something good in this world.

And this feeling of wanting to run home to god this minute, to curl up in her lap, and never again having to doubt his love because I doubt my own… this is no longer my reality. By the sheer force of my will, tomorrow will be different.

Please, Universe, conspire to make this true.

And P.S., dear Universe, please do something about this acne, too; it makes my face hurt.

"Why did you drop your dose?"

2006-11-01T14:35:00.000-05:00

For a few reasons:
1. I always want to be on the lowest possible dose of any medication that will get the job done;
2. My addiction to pornography was disturbing me, as I don't like the controlling nature of addictions (which is ironic, since I am quickly getting re-addicted to cigarettes...);
3. I wasn't sure whether I would be able to afford the T without health insurance, and I don't know how long I have health insurance, so I'm trying to make my T last longer.

How it's working:
1. So far, so good;
2. I still want to watch porn, but haven't ventured into a viewing booth in a while (they kind of creep me out, and it's depressing to see all these guys lined up, and then to realize that you're one of them);
3. My acne is bad, though (this could be stress-related).

I can always increase my dose back to 1 mL if I need to.

T-Related Changes

2006-10-14T15:20:00.000-04:00

This is a short post. My last shot, a week ago, I dropped the dose down to 3/4mL of T, from the regular dose of 1mL. I have a few more hairs on my back, and my tummy os totally fuzzy. My acne is more of an issue, but that might be stress related. And I think my hairline is receding ever-so-slightly. I have more hair on my thighs and forearms, but only in one area, not all over. For instance, on my leg, a strip about 3 inches across has hair, but the rest is still pretty hair less, and my lower legs are a little more hairy, but not significantly. My forearms, the tops have longer hair, but not all the way around, or even on the side.

My moods are fine, everything else seems perfectly hunky-dory.

DMV

2006-10-13T15:35:00.000-04:00

Two hours of waiting in lines, waiting in chairs, waiting for my number to be called, waiting for my name to be called -- damn, and I did it all with a smile on my face and Anxiety pounding in my heart. Here I am, a goatee, 5 o'clock shadow, my guttural voice, and the form asks me the dreaded:

gender: male or female (circle one)

So I left it blank. The woman behind the counter said, "You have to fill everything out," and pointed at the box. I said, "Is it asking legally, do you want to know what I'm assigned legally?" She looked confused, and a little helpless, and pointed to the box again. She kind of nodded, but I'm not sure why; I took it to mean that yes, the box wanted to know what I "gender" I am legally. So I said, "Well, I'm still legally female," and I circled "female."

That seemed to go okay. Then I had to sit and wait. Then I was informed that my secondary ID wasn't approved. I had brought in my old license which had not yet expired, and a passport. So I had to go talk to the manager. The whole time I'm thinking to myself, we're going to have to call the ACLU. They're going to deny me my license AND they're going to keep my forms of ID and we're going to have to call in the ACLU. Do we have the number? Are they in the phone book?

But in fact, the manager okay'd my IDs, I paid my $24 (I know, it's cheap in VA), and I sat down. Then I got my picture taken -- I look vaguely sinister -- and minutes later I got my license. It looks boring, I miss my Massachusetts license.

But. Here on the license is a picture of me, goatee and all, and on the card is a tiny "F." And you know, that's as close as I can come right now to being out about my intersexual status (and I apologize to intersex people if you feel I am co-opting your identification). But as a transman, I feel that I am intersex. Most intersex people are born with genital development of both "female" and "male" organs, so it's visible on the outside. But I think I was born with my body being female and my insides being male, which makes my intersexuality invisible. But I am both. And it's actually kind of nice that my license reflects that.

"Cheating"

2006-10-12T14:21:00.000-04:00

Here I'm referring to a betrayal, and simply put, the act of having some sort of sexual relations with a person other than your partner. I often wonder what would happen if I were to accidentally cheat on E., and my immediate thought is that I would hate myself and try to do bodily harm to myself for hurting her and for ruining the most amazing relationship in my life.

In fact, E. and I discuss the possibility: What we would do? Would it mean the end of us? Should we tell the other person? What we've decided is that we would go into couples therapy immediately to talk it out and figure out why it happened. It would not mean the end of us. And I insist that we tell each other because withholding is a huge peeve for me.

What if I want to have sexual relations with another person? Or she does? Then we talk about it ahead of time, and we analyze it to see if it's a manifestation of some problem in our relationship. And it's quite possible that we might allow the other person to have these relations if we've discussed it first.

Why do people cheat? Are they hurt? Angry? Do they feel abandoned or ignored? These are things to pay attention to. And if I ever did cheat on E., more dangerous than the actual event of the sex would be how I would feel afterwards. I think I might hate myself so much that my negativity and constant self-degradation might strain the relationship more than anything. Couples therapy would be imperative. And I believe constant communication. And if E. cheated, I would be mad and hurt, and probably insecure, and so she would have to help me deal with that, but I think that would be her burden to bear for the act. As it would be mine, if it was I who had done it.

But here's another thought about this "betrayal." In some countries, children are smacked or spanked or hit once in a while as a matter of course. And these kids don't feel abused or like their parents don't love them, because they know all their friends parents do it as well. But in this country, especially in a certain economic class, if you are hit it's a bigger deal. It's a source of shame and you so you hide it and don't speak of it to your friends. You might even think your parents hate you. I think that in this country "cheating" is similar -- it's a source of shame. The person who was cheated on often feels like they shouldn't tell anyone that their partner strayed. The person who cheats might feel horrible, like they are a terrible person, and eventually feeling guilty will become too much to bear and they will get angry, at themselves and at their partner, because they will feel that their partner is making them feel guilty. But what if we understood "cheating" as a thing that happens, like fighting? You work it out. It never means the end of relationship. You talk about it and understand where it comes from, is the cheater insecure? Self-sabotaging? I feel like if we could just communicate about it more, understand it more, and not surround it with shame, but understand that cheating connotes a break in the promise you make to your partner. A break in trust, possibly.

And of course, in this day and age, safe sex is imperative and cheating could put your partner at risk if you don't tell, and if you are unsafe and if you don't get tested afterwards.

This is a rambling, and I'm not trying to make an argument for cheating by any means. But I personally think it's not the act of sleeping with another person, but the fact that you break your promise to your partner, the promise not to sleep with anyone else. And that it's also a form of communication, a way for you to express something to your partner -- granted, not the healthiest form of communication.

All this being said, I've never been close to straying from E., and the thought of it brings tears to my eyes. And E. has never strayed from me. But we talk about it, and if I ever have the urge, I think I would call her and talk to her about it first. Unless I was drunk, because sometimes physiology kicks in. But that's an argument to never get that drunk.

In an ideal world, we would be able to have relations and share love and intimacy with more than one person, without ever feeling that we would lose the love of our partners. But right now I'm too insecure to make that possible, and E. has no interest in that.

I think it should be called something other than "cheating." And betrayal is a very loaded word. Maybe a mistake? It's hurtful, but it doesn't mean that two people don't love each other anymore.

Okay, I'm rambling and with no destination in sight.
Food for thought.

Still a Butch

2006-10-11T18:55:00.000-04:00

I am. I don't care what anyone says, I'm still a Butch. Granted, I'm a Butch with a wee Beard, but that is just a dream come true. I can't be faulted for living my dreams, right?

Sex is a source of endless tension for couples, and we are no different. But the past couple have days have been great, and I think it's because I let my Butch drive and told Tranny-Boi to sit in the backseat. And what I learned was that it helps to relax, to not expect anything, to laugh a little, and to take care of your femme. All things that I already knew, but what with getting to know my Inner Fourteen-Year-Old Boy, I had gotten a bit high strung about the whole thing. Now, of course it's easy for me to say this because I've made love to my femme in the past couple of days and that is a glorious thing, but of course some of it is Timing, some of it has to do with where E. was, and a little has to do with the rotation of the earth in relation to Pluto Rising. And as for my femme, well, she'll have to write her own blog.

I think there's a lot to be said for being relaxed and laid back about the whole thing. About everything. Sometimes, in lieu of being angry -- which I'm not very good at -- I get quiet and pained and tearful. That can be a lot of pressure to put on a sexual experience, and also, E. tells me, sobbing is not so conducive to eroticism.

It's a trick of Life, I think, to pursue something sans expectation as to the outcome. Zen masters meditate on this one principle for lifetimes.

I Miss My Blog

2006-10-09T16:46:00.000-04:00

I have more reliable internet service now. Well, at home in DC, that is. I will be in DC this week, but then I'm back in NYC living on couches again for a few days, then to Western Massachusetts to hang out with loved ones in the beautiful Berkshires, then back to DC, then back to NYC.

I still don't know where I will be most of the time. There are advantages in DC (my beloved and our Home) and advantages in NYC (everything else). But I think a reframing of the question is important. I keep asking myself "what is the best thing for me do?" From now on, I'd like to try asking myself, "Who do I want to be now?" And to always remind myself that there is no wrong answer. There are Winding Paths to walk down, and there are Windier Paths. I'd like to travel as the crow flies, if possible. My impatience is a source of endless anxiety.

Big Day

2006-09-09T01:52:00.000-04:00

My dad sat down to talk to me about health insurance, wanted to know when I was getting a job, and how would I support myself. I braved these questions fairly well, and patiently, I think.

Then he asked why I have hair on my face.

My parents don't ask and I haven't told, until now. Tonight, my dad asked questions, a lot of them, and I am too overwhelmed to write about it in detail right now. But he wasn't mean about it. And I was as patient as I could be, considering my lungs were shaking the whole time. And in the end, their biggest concern seems to be how to deal with the shame and embarrassment of anyone else knowing about me. He said my mom was devestated. He seemed to be trying to understand. But it's up in the air if I will be avoided from now on or not. And yet I feel strangely calm. But that the silence has been broken...

...for now, I'm relieved. But what this means for the future, I don't know.

No Internet Service Yet!!

2006-09-01T11:11:00.000-04:00

And so therefore, no regular posts yet either. But, here for a brief moment in my parents house, I will send this short post in.

1. when my mom looks at me with disgust and horror, it's hard to not feel crappy. however, i plan to kill her with love, because i know that she loves me, and she can't help but love me. even if i have a goatee. and i love her, and i can't help but love her, even when the first thing she says says to me when i walk in the door is "why do you have to kill us like this?" (okay, that was the second thing.)
2. sex. i wouldn't say my sex drive is higher. it's more that i feel compelled to masturbate more often, to get that release, and not necessarily because i have a "hard on." in fact, i think part of the porn addiction is the need to have some sort of stimulous to get the hard on so i can masturbate successfully so i can get the release, so i can be chill for the rest of the day.
3. big dildos, like the cyberskin cock i recently purchased from mango products, are big. a woman needs time to get used to that, to ease into it.
4. i have a goatee. i love my goatee.
5. my family still calls me by my first name (though i go by my last name) and they still use feminine pronouns. this used to bother me a lot when i felt like the rest of the world saw me as a woman, and i was fighting so hard to be seen as a guy. but now, the whole world knows me as a guy, and so when my family uses feminine pronouns, it doesn't bother me as much. i think it works like this: before, i felt like i was fighting the world, and without validation i would start to feel a bit crazy. but now, if others hear my family say "she," they'll think my family is the crazy entity. (i'm the cute one.)
6. deep down, i feel like i'm both. both male and female. and biologically, clearly i'm both. and why the f*&(k isn;t there a word for that? and just because there isn't a word yet, doesn't mean that both isn't a valid place to exist on the continuum. i may live in the wolrd as a man, my family might treat me like a freaked-out female, but i'm both.
7. E. and i are long-distance lovers/partners/spouses now. why haven't we invented teleportation devices yet?
8. i owe R. a letter. sorry buddy. as soon as i have more email access i'm gonna write you a long letter.

"breaker-breaker, this is Mountain-Goat signing off. over."

Back from France

2006-08-18T17:11:00.000-04:00

I'm back. It was great and terrible and productive and many things. I had little opportunity to be online though, and so there are many things I'd like to write about, and would do it poorly if I tried to do it all at once.

On a physical note, I seemed to have developed a mild arthritis, or at least, arthritic-like symptoms: my fingers seem to swell up in the morning, my middle knuckle joints ache on occasion. It was bad for a few weeks in France and now has subsided to just mildly inconvenient. I don't think it's related to the T.

The summer was a summer of stealth. No one asked and I didn't volunteer that I'm a transman. I don't feel that I kept myself in the closet -- I was prepared to be open about it -- but the issue never came up. I wish it had, only because I can only take so much of the straight world. I'm not straight. But when people assume you are, sometimes they feel free to make generalizations about gay people assuming you will agree with them. Shoot them down, I say! Politely, but firmly. I did once, but still, had no good opportunity to out myself. I like being out.

Also, while we're at this brash rush of thoughts to catch up here, let me add that even if therea re no good words for someone who is both male and female, that's what I feel that I am. I'm not a point on a line, the continuum of sex/gender/etc. -- not a point, but a smudge!

And why shouldn't I be both?

Public sex (when you don't get caught), is a beautiful thing.

(I haven't been caught yet.)

Okay, nore later, but I'm back in the country!

Sex

2006-07-12T08:45:00.000-04:00

Sex is such an issue. It has always been an issue between E. and I, and now with the T, it is more so. It's complicated. I have a high sex drive, and so often I want to have sex more than E. So that is something that we have negotiated over the years.

Also, as a Butch, I didn't want to be touched so much. I was happy to give E. and orgasm and maybe have a quicky, myself, afterwards. But now, my body is more demanding, more wanting; it's closer to the body I envision in my head, though still very far away. It's frustrating, I want to be touched, but then sometimes I get depressed afterwards because it's not a penis that's being touched, and I feel caught in some catch-22.

I read that sex was meant to be an exploration and celebration of our bodies. If so, I was used to celebrating E.'s body, because it was beautiful, and that's what making love was about. Now I feel more of an urge to celebrate my body. When we have sex I want us to touch each other. I want to have sex more. I want E. to initiate it more, even though in the past I was more okay with being the initiator. I want to be romanced, seduced, wooed. I want to know that I'm desirable.

I must be driving E. crazy, since I'm changing the rules a bit. But then again, as we grow older, trans or not, our desires must evolve, change, grow, and I think it's important that we grow as well. I noticed that in the first year we were together, I spent a lot of time getting to know what E. liked, what turned her on, how to please her, etc. And then I sat back and used that information over and over again, not ever thinking that it might change. As it has changed with me. I think it's easy in a relationship to grow accostomed to one thing and to stop looking, exploring, trying to find new and interesting ways to enjoy your partner's body, and to enjoy your own body. I used to read a lot about sex and techniques, and I haven't in a while. But neither has E., and so we've talked about ways to improve our sex life, our frequency, and that with the T, I have a greater desire to explore and to try to enjoy my body. For the first time.

But it's stressful. Sex is wrapped up in so many vulnerabilities, it's difficult to talk about without fighting or crying. At least for me. But I don't think it's too much to ask. And also, I'm struggling so much with wanting sex the way it is in my head, and not having the equipment to do that. And wanting to have exciting sex, even if I am married. And that might seem like a tall order, and unneccary for a partner who is happy with the way our sex life is going. But sex is always a negotiation. Maybe one person wants to play games, and roll-play, and try it all tied up. Maybe another person wants to be made love to in the missionary position, or always from behind. Whatever it is, I think both partners must always try to help each other get what they need, want, desire.

I recently went to the Mango products site (www.mangoproducts.net) and ordered a new dildo (with bump). I hope it helps me feel like it's really my organ inside of her.

I am very lucky to have E. We work together to make our relationship better, stronger.

But this desire for sex is difficult. It can be consuming. I think about wanting to watch porn, even though it's not available to me here in France. More of my writing is erotic these days. And yet, it kills me that I don't have a real penis. It seems so wrong. This is something I have to come to terms with -- I haven't been able to yet. I think it has to do with not being female, but maybe not trying to be completely male, either. Instead to be my own person, to find a way to love my in-the-middle body, my large-clit/small-penis, however you want to call it.

But it's really hard.

And also, it sounds so unfeminist, but I can understand why men cheat on their wives, or why partners cheat on partners. I wonder if guys (in this example), at some point, want to be romanced and seduced, even if they were comfortable being the seducer in their younger days? I always was comfortable being in charge, being the initiator, the woo-er. But you know, it's nice to be wanted.

It's just hard. Sex is hard. Sometimes I wish it didn't exist as a desire. But then again, it's so much fun...

Hypocrite

2006-06-28T06:49:00.000-04:00

A little add-on to my last post, a P.S., if you will.

I'm a bit of hypocrite. Even as I write all this, I am feeling a bit of despair and depression, and I think it may have to do with sex, and so life is not perfect or easy for me as a transman. Let me not pretend that it is.

Sometimes I want to stab myself with a two-handed medieval sword. Luckily they are unwieldy, and not easy to come by. Even in France.

In Response to a Brother

2006-06-28T06:29:00.000-04:00

A Brother asked me a few questions regarding sex with a dildo, and I responded as best I could with my experiences. I thought the letter might be of help to others, so I am posting it here. Not that I think I am the end all be all of experience, but I do think that it is unfortunate that we often feel uncomfortable to ask direct questions about sex, and so I am glad that he did, and I hope that if nothing else, perhaps this letter will encourage more conversations. And of course, you might have more experiences and wisdom to shed on this subject, and I welcome that as well.
-------------------
"dear [brother],

i have a long letter here to write to you, and not that much time on this computer. first let me answer your immediate questions, then i will go into a longer discussion with you about my experiences.

1. how much of a penis can go inside a woman?
this depends on the woman. both length and width are an issue here. if the dildo/penis is too wide, she might not feel comfortable with it inside her; in terms of length, let me ask you how far can she be penetrated with your finger(s)? can you penetrate her with one finger? two? three? the more fingers, the more width she can take. and the farther you can can slide them in, the more you will understand how deep she can take you in. women need to get used to penetration as well. when i first began making love to E., she was not used to penetration, so we started with one finger, then we slowly worked up to two fingers until that was comfortable. woman can stretch down there, but it takes some time and patience for them to do it comfortably. then when she could handle two fingers easily, we began to try with the dildo, and our first one was 6 inches long, but we had similar problems as you, in that it was so short it was often popping out, which was uncomfortable for her. we eventually moved to a longer, but still slender (1.25 inches in diameter, i think) dildo, and this has been better. (more on this later.)

2. should we try to push it all the way in?
do not try to force anything that feels painful for her. perhaps the angle of penetration is wrong. you might try to be familiar with her vaginal opening and passageway with your hands first, then with the dildo in your hands (not strapped on), then eventually with it strapped on after you have done everything else comfortably. don't force it.

3. does it hurt a woman if more than 3 inches goes inside her?
again, it depends on the woman. some women can take a great, giant penis inside them, some will have trouble with two fingers. how big/small is your partner (height, weight)? again, this goes back to what i said about working up to it slowly. my E. needed time to slowly adjust to greater and greater sizes. penetration with her partner before me had been painful for her. but i try to make sure that there is a lot of foreplay, i touch her for a long time before i put my fingers inside her. i give her oral sex for a while, and i spend time doing that so that she is very arroused and wants me inside her. this also gives her body time to lubricate the inside of her vagina. also, i use a lot of lube. this is very important, and can really make a difference between a painful sexual experience and a fun one. some women lubricate less than others. with E. we always use lubricant and it makes penetration (with anything, fingers or dildo) much more comfortable.

4. is 6 inches too big?
depends on the woman.

5. what is a good position to make love with out hurting her?
i can respond only with my experience, but as i said, first make love to her with your tongue, with your finger, with two fingers, then with the dildo in your hand. once this has all been done (not all in the same sexual excounter, but over a few of them) then make love to her with the dildo strapped on. the most successful position i have found is a type of missionary position: E. lies on her back with her her knees bent and legs spread. i kneel in front of her with my knees under her bent legs, my butt on the bed, facing her. i try and stay low, in terms of the lower part of my body being close to the bed. in this position, once we have had ample foreplay of course, i can take the lube, put some on her clit and vaginal opening, put some on my dildo... then as i scoot up as close to her as i can, i can take the dildo in my hand and slide it over her clit, and just let her get used to it there, on the outside of her first. the rubbing will hopefully be a turn-on as well. then, when she has let me know she's ready, i can take the dildo in my right hand and slowly guide it into her as i touch her clit with my left hand, thus keeping her arroused and open. just penetration without any clitoral stimulation can make her tense or nervous, and then she'll tighten up. now, for us, the angle is key. when the dildo goes in -- and I know the angle from exploring it with my fingers -- i have found that E.'s vaginal tunnel angles downward. so as it goes in, I tilt the shaft of my dildo slightly downwards and it slides in more easily. i slide it in very slowly, then i wait until E. has relaxed and given me the sign that she wants me to move. once it's in, i can thrust from that position, on my knees, and continue to touch her clit, or i can lean down, straighten out my legs, lie on top of her, and kiss her as we make love. you'll see what works best for you. just be careful when thrusting not to pull out too far if your dildo has a tendency to pop out. and as for rhythm, i follow E.'s rhythm, and once i get it, i keep steady and don't change, except to speed up when she wants me to. in the past i used to keep trying to find her rhythm, and then we'd be off because i kept changing it. she perfers me to get one rhythm and stay with it, and she adjusts if she needs to. but i try not to speed up until she lets me know she's close to orgasm.

okay, now some of my questions. how thick is the dildo? i am familiar with silicone dildoes, not so familiar with cyberskin. does it have testicles attached? that might shorten the shaft length.

E. and i had much work to do to work up to penetration, as i have said. but now different things work. we've tried it with me behind her and her on her hands and knees. this entry position is easier as it opens her up more, and the angle is better -- the dildos tend to curve up, and her vaginal canal curves up when i'm behind her. i've explored this with my thumb. when i'm behind her, i can touch her clitoris with my first two fingers while penetrating her with my thumb. if i'm facing her, then i can touch her clit with my thumb while penetrating her with my first two fingers. notice the difference in angle. but we have trouble with me being behind her because the dildo does pop out sometimes and then it can be uncomfortable/painful for her.

also, when i pull out, when we are done, i try to grasp the dildo in one hand as i pull out, to avoid the 'popping' out feeling... i can guide it out by pulling the shaft up gently as i withdraw.

in my experience 6 inches can be difficult because it is fairly short, especailly since i can't feel whether we are popping out or not. but i still go for a thinner dildo. i use silicone, without testicles, and a harness. but that's just my own preference. i wish i had a better harness -- the one I have is all straps and buckles and it's hard to be spontaneous with it unless i wear it all the time. also, i know it's been very difficult for you to obtain this dildo. when i get back to the US, i can look for various models that i like, and send you a list, if you like. but see if you can make this one work. i'm curious myself about the cyberskin.

lube is a wonderful thing. i use a waterbased lube, but KY jelly or some such lube should work as well. it's slippery, and it makes penetration feel much better.

if you practice a lot, this helps her to get used to bigger sizes and also you to get used to the dildo itself. sometimes as she lays on her back, i push her knees up so her thighs touch her chest, or almost do. this makes it a little easier to see where i will enter her, and also just to rub the shaft of the dildo over her clitoris. but E. sometimes finds this uncomfortable to stay in for too long. you'll have to experiment.

E. and i try to keep a sense of humor about it. we find it goes much better when we allow ourselves to laugh at our mistakes and to have fun with the whole process of exploration. this doesn't always happen, as i get down if i don't feel i'm 'performing' correctly, or well enough. i know how you feel, i really do. but i usually ruin the moment by getting depressed, or angry at myself. it's better when we laugh.

i have tried it with E. on top. she likes this sometimes, but first you we needed to find the angle, the lube, and also see if the she could handle the width of the dildo yet. now she can, so it works.

it can be frustrating. i hate that i can't feel her when i have the dildo on. i feel clumsy with it when i haven't used it for a while. but it feels so right to be inside her with it. like that's what i was meant to do, how i was meant to make love to her. i get depressed sometimes, even with the dildo. but all people have to navigate sexual encounters -- i have to remember that -- and many heterosexual couples i know don't have the sex life that we do. so i am lucky, even if i forget that sometimes because i'm too busy worrying about what i don't have. and the dildo isn't perfect. but it is amazing, and E. is thankful that i come in different sizes, and that we don't always have to use it if we don't want to. sometimes she's not in the mood for that and that's okay. and of course she knows how muchit means for me to be inside her, and she likes it, too.

you said it's killing you so much you want to kill yourself. i know that feeling as well. but don't do it. for many reasons, but also, because your partner has been with you for 9 years and my guess is you do satisfy her in bed, you are good in the sack, and if you kill yourself, how do you know she will ever have good sex with someone who loves her the way you do? dildo or no dildo, you love her. i completely understand wanting to kill yourself, feeling that frustrated and angry. but i urge you to have lots of sex instead, as i too will try to do. everytime i orgasm, i feel like it's a little death, and a little rebirth. so everytime we have sex, perhaps we are dying, but we are also being reborn?

ahh. now i'm waxing philosophic, which you did not ask for. my apologies."
--------------------
please, those with greater experience, chime in if you want. and those with questions, ask them. or just talk about it. i wish we all felt more comfortable asking questions about sex. but there is so much pressure to know everything already, as if by magic. i used to spend so much time reading about sexual techniques in bookstores. you'd be surprised what one can learn by reading. E. doesn't seem to complain... and yet I still have a lot to learn.

The Missing Limb

2006-06-25T15:25:00.000-04:00

I have overcome myself. I have managed to have two orgasms with E. without the help of Clyde (a plug-in, non-penetrative vibrator). This is big, as I've onle had two orgasms with E. in our more than six years together without the vibrator. Instead, I use my hand and manually stiulate myself while E. is touching me. It felt good, and nice to not have to be so high-tech in order to share this with her.

However. (There's always a 'however,' isn't there?) However, it takes a lot of mental work to keep the image of my penis alive and erect while be touched; I have to translate what I'm feeling into what it would feel like on my penis (if I had one). There is, in this struggle, and even afterwards, a feeling of despair that wells up. For a second, the thought of death seems preferable. That seems extreme, perhaps, as we all negotiate sex to some degree or another, but the thought creeps in nonetheless, and other brothers have said the same to me.

There are moments when I am glad I don't have a penis, as it is one organ so often used as a weapon. But most times I wish what I felt was there in the flesh. It would make the hard-on I wake up with every morning easier to satisfy, I think. But perhaps the grass is always greener...

Firmly in France

2006-06-19T07:15:00.000-04:00

I have arrived, and it seems like just yesterday i was on a plane, and now I am here, in a tiny town in the Loire Valley, and I have been here for almost a week. It's hard to believe. Time flies.

And I have already blown my surge protector, which apprently wasn't made for dual voltage like my computer. So I will be ordering a new surge protector/adapter.

Things are fine. I gave myself my first French shot of T -- the only thing French about it was the location -- and that went splendidly. I expected to be stopped at customs and to be forced to explain myself, my hypodermic needles, etc., but everything went smooth. No one stopped my fuzzy face at the border to question me about the (F) on my passport.

And I have finally been able to catch up on romantic interludes with E., after three years of grad school and very little time for romance. It's been great to be intimate with her again, but it's difficult, too. Even with a dildo, if we're using it, I hate that it's not me inside her. And we don't always want to use a dildo because, a) she's not always in the mood to be penetrated; and b) because it can be a pain to get the harness out and strapped on, etc. She makes me feel like a good lover, in that she can achieve orgasm easily. I, on the 0ther hand, cannot. I have tried to induce orgasms manually (without an external vibrator), ie with my hand, and have succeeded a few times. I even succeeded once with E. helping me, and it was only the third orgasm I've had with her where I have not used a motorized device. It felt great to be able to do that. And also, it was a lot of work: I have to maintain the thought of my 'penis' and how it gets hard, and what it feels like when it touches her, or when it's inside her, in order to maintain my arousal and to have any hope of orgasming.

It's a lot of work. And it can be really frustrating that it's so hard. But I am greatful that we have the time to make love at all, and that after so many years together, we have been able to have another orgasm (mine) without the aid of toys. I won't give up on our toys, but it's nice to feel like it's just her and me.

Okay. I'm off to do something French. Maybe make love in the afternoon. Or maybe just take a shower.

Skin and Other Organs

2006-06-03T11:52:00.000-04:00

I have left off with some of the subtler details of my transition, and with a mind towards keeping a record so that someday doctors will be able to say more than, "We just don't have enough research," when a transman asks a heartfelt question about his health, let me divulge the gritty details.

My skin, specifically my face, is doing very well. Perhaps better than it has ever done. I assume this has more to do with me taking better care of it than I ever have before, seeing a charming dermotologist, and being vain enough to stick with my facial regimens. For the most part, nowadays I use strictly facial cleansers for my face, Oil of Olay lotion, a special cleanser and gel from the dermatologist, and Retin-A for any uninvited pimples. I supplement that with the occasional masque. This might seem rather metrosexual of me, and well, maybe it is, but it pays off.

Other organs include my Nubbin of Stubbin, which would be exactly that. That part or it is fine, though it's bigger; it wakes up arroused and wanting to be touched with some pressure. But other than that it seems healthy. (A little lonely, since E. left, but it's surviving.) The matter of the yellow discharge, on the other hand, has been solved: BV, which translates to vaginosis, a very common infection which occurs when the good bacteria are losing the war against the harmful bacteria. It seems that this has occured (in me) because I have been cleaning myself a mite too aggressively. So I have been cautioned to be more gentle with my nether regions. The anibiotic they put me on, however, is a medication also used with alcoholics, and should I imbibe any alcohol while on this drug, I will get violently sick, perhaps even have a seizure. I have to say, this kind of sucks. Ah, well, what to do. I will also be supplementing this antibiotic regimen with a probiotic, so as to avoid getting a yeast infection, which is the last thing I need.

My other organs seem fine. My chin hairs are bristly, my cheek hairs are soft and stubly at the same time. I shave, if at all, with an electric buzzer, and I don't shave it all the way down; a friend recommended this technique if I wanted to keep my face soft, and my bristle from being too spikey.

On a less medical front, E. is in France, and I am eager to get there. This will be the first time I will be traveling since I started T, and though I have a letter from my doctor to explain the numerous hypodermic needles in my suitcase, I wonder if I will get looks from stern-looking officials. My passport says F still, and I have a very handsome, if very scraggly goatee growing from my chin.

But most of all, I'm just eager to be with E. again.

And this is not intensified in the least by the fact that my parents are visiting me for a week, and I've been called "she" so much in the last few days, it makes me feel a little crazy. And a little bit like I want to stab myself in my heart. Sometimes it's bearable with just my parents, but when my brother and his wife show up and everyone is saying "she," then I feel a bit like I'm dying. That sounds dramatic, but there is a curtain of silence that descends and as people continue to chat and laugh and make merry, what's not said is like a pillow over my head.

Out of Touch

2006-05-28T00:42:00.000-04:00

I haven't written in a while. I've been moving and graduating and being crazy. And now I'm getting ready to leave the country as soon as my show is completed (in two weeks). Everything's been great with the shots. The porn addiction is back, but E. is away and I'm lonely, so I'm not begrudging myself that. Being around my family is easier because I know I look more male and my voice is deeper, and so when they say "she" it doesn't rankle me quite so much. I'm going to try and get back to regular postings here, but it may take a while for my routine to take hold. Then again, while abroad for the summer, the postings might be difficult because I won't have regular access to email. But either way, I've reached my 4 month mark, just about, on T and all is well. Very, very well.

Nitty Gritty

2006-05-02T19:32:00.000-04:00

This post is probably not of interest to anyone who's not a transguy, but I'm strapped for time: I'm gonna miss my shot today because of an appointment mistake, but I'll get a script tomorrow, and give myself my shot tomorrow night. Also, lasst couple of weeks, my discharge from down there has been yellow, but not like anything I've ever had before. Perhaps this is a precursor to losing my lubrication? It's bright yellow. A bit strange to see. We'll see if I dry up now...

Just Fine

2006-05-01T20:23:00.000-04:00

No posts as of late, but honestly, everything's been just fine. The last semester of school is stressful, and we're moving soon and that's a lot to chew on, but other than that, it's all good. My moods have been good and I'm eager for my shot tomorrow, wondering when my chin hairs will get a little longer. I should maybe exercise more, but eh, whatever.

I'm even doing better with my addiction to pornography. Just say no. And also, it;s good practice for me to come up with better fantasies to fuel my masturbation. A friend recommended "Paris Shoot" which I've never seen, but maybe I will in these last few weeks before E. leaves for France.

This Body

2006-04-23T16:54:00.000-04:00

This body of mine... I seem to get on better with it at times, worse at other times. After my show, I seemed to embrace my body more. Being half naked in front of an audience brought me some peace. But now summer weather makes it hotter under all of my layers. And I watch the ease with which boys navigate the heat...

A friend of ours visited for the weekend -- an adorable gay man we've known for years -- and he felt comfortable enough with us to roam our apartment in his briefs and T-shirt (as he should have). But out of the corner of my eye I saw his chest -- that there were not five layers between his chest and his T-shirt -- and there was something in his shorts that I did not have. What's the big deal? All bodies are different after all. But I look at my body and it's not the right one. Everrything is so complicated! I have all these frickin layers I have to wear, and I don't have the right parts down there, and I have a sex drive and I want to have sex, but then it's such a production -- am I strapped in, is the harness on, is the dildo in place -- I mean how spontaneous is that, really? I look down and see this body and all the time I spend exercising it, and doing yoga, and eating right, and IT'S NOT FAIR. And yeah, poor me, wah-wah, what's the point of complaining. If I hadn't had this body, I probably never would have met E. in the first place, so I should be grateful.

But it also makes me feel like a failure.

(I need to work on my attitude.)

Jealousy

2006-04-23T16:48:00.000-04:00

It's like a monster that rears its head all of a sudden. I have been jealouos before, in small doses, and always aware that I am being irrational. But it is heightened now, severe, and comes in flashes. All of a sudden I think of E. with someone else, anyone else, our sweet gay-boy friend, and it's as if the floor has dropped out. In the end, it's about fear -- fearing the loss of her from my life -- and it's completely irrational. I see it, know it, and wonder why I'm being so retarded, and yet it brings tears to my eyes. In the end, the fear of infidelity is the fear of loss. The fear that she will no longer love me, will no longer want me, will someday leave me. These are fears I had like little pebbles in my shoe before, and now they are small, sporadic boulders. Can T really do that?

Shoot Quickly

2006-04-19T13:04:00.000-04:00

No, I don't mean THAT. I mean the quicker and more decisively I stick the needle in my leg, the more painless the shot is.

Porn Addiction

2006-04-19T12:44:00.000-04:00

I ran into a buddy of mine last week, and jokingly I mentioned my porn addiction. His reply: "Thank you for saying that!" as he put his arm on my shoulder and hung his head in... shame? Embarrassment? As a fellow feminist, I can see why he might be reluctant to admit his preoccupation with porn, but as an amateur sexologist, I urge an end to the shame!

In truth, there is a much longer article on pornography that I would like to write, but in the time I have right now, let me just say a few things about the addiction so others might realize that they are not alone:

The worst part about it is that it is like an addiction, in that I often need my "fix." And as someone who watched porn sporadically before the T, my porn habits have changed a bit: I used to watch almost exclusively gay male porn, and I now watch as much if not more straight porn. (As I will get into later, though, I think this has more to do with how the scenes are staged and performed, than it does with their actual sexual orientation; also, it is to be noted that there is so much "anal" straight porn available these days, I have to wonder about the closeted nature of the "straight" men watching these videos.) And along with the porn -- for it is not an end in itself -- is the desire/need/obligation to masturbate multiple times per day, sometimes as many as four, sometimes as few as one.

Can I just say, I have a renewed sense of sympathy for teenage boys who are discovering their sexuality for the first time. At least this is my second time, and I'm adult enough to understand what is happening, and hopeful that eventually it will reach a plateau and jerking-off once a day will be enough.

But for those who watch porn, like me, and have discovered the free movie clips sites (it's like finding free cigarettes), there's a lot of unusual fetishes out there, but I would argue that the most important thing in porn, just like in movies, is the sense that these are not actors but people, and that we are watching them do something for the first time, not for the hundredth. And along with that, that they are enjoying what they are doing (various and sundry sexual acts), and not merely getting paid to do it.

I could go on. Perhaps later.

I think porn can be used as a sexual tool, but should be avoided as an addiction. I don't know how my new T-influenced sexuality would respond to softporn -- I'll have to do some research...

Grrr

2006-04-18T13:34:00.000-04:00

I'm fuzzy-faced and may need to start trimming soon. I have a new muscle on either side just above my pelvis bone -- an "oblique," maybe? I have no idea, but I like it. However, my overriding emotion at the moment is one of frustration and I have no idea if my feelings are justified or not, so I need to go ponder them, write about them, etc. I'm also due for my shot today.

I'm considering whether to reduce my dose to 3/4mL instead of 1 mL. I haven't decided.

Week 9

2006-04-10T11:54:00.000-04:00

I got my shot last week at the clinic -- I wanted to make sure I was doing everything right. The nurse advised me that if I do it faster, it'll hurt less. I massaged it afterwards, and later that night put a heating pad on it. I wasn't that sore this week. Maybe I'm getting used to them.

I also saw my parents for the first time since I started the shots. Not a word was said on either side about it. No one mentioned that I have chin hairs and my voice is deeper. Ahh, the safety of denial. But that's okay, because it was nice to see them and have it be just about us spending time together, not about my squeaky voice. Interestingly enough, I talked to my mom a few days later and she asked me what I was using to make myself "flat" because she knows I "don't want to look like a girl" but she was worried I was maybe "damaging the tissue." It was actually quite sweet. I replied that I'm careful and use a surgical binder -- a certain fallacy here, since it still might not be great for my breast tissue -- and she replied that there might be a certain (large-breasted) family member who could use one of those. I thought that was hilarious.

I have to say, my mom, though not accepting, has been pretty great so far. And I have to admit, aside from E., my mom is probably the other big love affair of my life. I love her a lot, and I fear losing her love. But she's my mom, and by now, maybe I should acknowledge that my mom will never stop loving me no matter what I throw at her. Even if she can't stand being around me, she'll still love me. She can't not.

Moving on: I've been craving hamburgers and beer. And I want to eat what I want to eat when I want to eat it! I'm getting a bit annoyed at my low-carb lifestyle. But. I like the way it makes me look and feel. So. Tough decision. Instant Gratification versus Timeless Vanity.

Still having a bit of a porn obsession. Straight porn, which usually appalls me, has been a bit less appalling lately. Hmph. And E. and I have been having more sex, which I think is a direct result of both of us feeling happier, and more content. I'm thrilled. Also, my clitoris is bigger, and I like to think that I now have a very, very tiny penis. All women do, really. And all men have giant clits. And everyone in between has in-betweens.

I'm trying to decide between an electric razor and a regular one for my chin hairs. But I think I might need to trim some of these soon.

I've been told I should write more personal stuff. Now that the initial excitement 0f the T is wearing off, it's time to maybe to write about life, instead of just hormonal fluctuations. But on the other hand, I have to ask myself what the purpose of this blog is? I started it to keep people abreast of my T-ransformations, and to keep a record of them for myself and other transmen.

Also, in response to a transman who asked me for a picture of myself: Though the T has changed some of my muscle definition, I am not all of a sudden "ripped." I am still me, but subtle changes in my musculature have taken place, and E. has been the one to notice them most. And of course, the weight training and yoga have probably been the biggest causes of that.

8 Weeks

2006-04-03T23:50:00.000-04:00

I get my fifth shot tomorrow. And I see my parents that afternoon. It's gonna be a crazy day.

My show went amazingly well. I think I put important theater in the world, both about relationships, and about gender. I'm proud of myself and my team.

I had a friend write to me and tell me to write personal anecdotes, too, not just about hormone side-effects, so here you go, R.:

I'm having recurrent, troublesome thoughts. On Saturday night I went out drinking with some friends after my show, and as usually happens, talk inevitably circles around to sex. And I'm glad it does; people don't talk about sex enough, and they should, and comfortably, so it will stop being so taboo. Anyway, as someone who is sexual (and not heterosexual), sex with men has made much more sense since I understood myself to be a transman. However, I have never willingly had sex with a man, and I would like to at some point in my life. E. knows this, and in fact, has said it would be okay with her (our rule is only that we must always talk about these things as they arise, preferably before any action has been taken). The other sexual experience I would like to have with a man (besides, as I just said, to be a top to some gay-man's bottom), is to know what it would be like to have a penis, to masturbate with it, to know what it would feel like in my hand if it were mine. I'd like to have a guy friend, who I trusted, with whom I could explore, whose penis I could touch, from softness to hardness, to see how it worked, how it felt. Maybe this would be frustrating -- to have this experience and then to go home and not have one -- but I want to know.

So here we are, Saturday night in a bar with two-dollar beers, and one friend, C., begins to pimp off her good friend onto me: "He'd let you fuck him in the ass." I was flattered. My other friend -- bless her heart, offered up her own boyfriend, who is also a good friend of mine, not for sex (cause we're both tops), but for my edification and experience. I'm leaving for the summer, and I realized to myself, "Wow, that would be in the next two months, if we did that..."

Okay, next morning, early, E. leaves for D.C. I'm tired, dehydrated, and have lost an hour on daylight savings time. I have this dream: E. comes home and tells me, as casually as she tells me what she had for lunch, that she had sex with a couple. In the dream I try so hard not to freak out, but I'm freaking out. Then she tells me that she shouldn't have told me, and she leaves. And I'm still freaking out.

Okay, so I wake up, call E. right away, tell her about my dream, and she says what she always says: "Dream-me and real-me are not the same." I know, I know, but I'm shaken anyway.

(Yyes, yes, clearly, my intoxicated conversation is related to my dream.)

Anyway, I begin to think why would it bother me so much? Is it the sex? Am I possessive of her affections? Why should I feel so threatened? Is it the casual nature in which she told me? Is it that it's so out of character for E., and that in itself was frightening? Did I think I was losing her? As I thought about this for the next two days, both in terms of the dream, and in terms of what would happen if it were real life, I found that thinking about it made me feel such a visceral sensation, it's hard to describe: like being punched in the solar-plexes, like having all the air sucked instantaniously out of my lungs, like a pain in my soul; it's completely frightening.

In the dream, I think that telling me in such a casual way, and that it came out of the blue and is out of character for E. is indicative that I might be losing her, and so the fear and panic are justified. But I think that if E. ever did want to be intimate with another person, and it didn't mean our relationship was having problems, then I want to be the kind of person who would be okay with that. Am I? And if not, how do I become that person?

I want my love to be pure; I want it to be about giving, not about needing. And yes, love is one thing, and relationships are another. But I still want to be the kind of person who can say, "Yes, go do what you need to do, and I will be here waiting when you get back." She has no desire to do these things now, but I'm troubled that I might not be okay with that. That's not who I want to be.

And, clearly, this is also related to my wanting to have sex with a man someday, and being worried that it might put my relationship in danger, even though E. and I have already talked about it. I think because my love for her is the closest thing to my love for God, and so it's the most beautiful physical manifestation of love that I am able to experience on this planet, in this body, in this life so far, the thought of losing it scares the shit out of me. But like with my transition, the thought of not being true to myself also scares me, and I never want to have to choose between the two.

Anyway, after talking to E. on the phone -- she's still in D.C. -- I feel better. She had ideas about the dream that I hadn't thought of, and just to hear her voice was to feel less crazy about it all. And we'll have to talk about it more, but her concern with exploring a man's body (to find out what my own might have been like) is whether or not I'd be okay afterwards. (I've not had the best experiences with men in the past.) She loves me that much. How could I ever worry that she would stop loving me or that she'd leave me? But I do. Such is my childhood, such is the nature of our entertainment and media culture that 99% of movies are about falling in love, or about break-ups, but rarely about a love that endures.

And also, such is how much of the world views God -- as a being who takes away love and punishes -- and so it's how we see each other in our relationships. But I don't believe that about God. God is my best friend and loves me no matter what. And my love with E. is similar in that I love her no matter what. And so can I not believe that she loves me no matter what? Can I not move past the scars of my childhood?

There is another aspect to sex, though, which creates a double-standard, worth mentioning. When I think of what it would be like to have casual sex with a woman, I think it is about giving something to them, a sense that they are special, that they deserve to be treated well, that they should believe themselves to be sexy, and also, I never let them touch me. Not at all. It took E. two months to gain access to my body. It's who I am. I am never physically vulnerable in that way. But when I think of E. having sex with another, I think of her being vulnerable to someone else. That's hard for me to stomach. If she's not vulnerable to the other person, the idea seems dramatically less upsetting. I think that's interesting to ponder, and how vulnerability is integral to relationships.

Now when I think of casual sex with a man, I think of a few things: I think I would like to be a top, and penetrate a man that way, at least once in my life; I also think about being in a bar, pinning a guy up against the wall, shoving my hand down his pants, and jerking him off. Why? I'm not sure. It might be the power of it. (No kissing, mind you.) And I also wonder, once in a while, what it would be like to give a man oral sex. This thought feels dangerous, like maybe it would be traumatic for me to do that. Maybe I would hate it. Maybe I would throw up. But there's power in it as well. And I also wish I had a penis so that I could really feel what it's like to get fellatio. I also watch a lot of gay porn, so I might be influenced by that to some degree.

Okay, that was a lot to talk about at once, and clearly there are many complications and tangents that I've left out.

Goodnight.

A Good Quote

2006-04-01T14:19:00.000-05:00

My therapist asks me sometimes, "What's the big deal? What if they (my family and others) do call you 'she' instead of 'he'?" It's hard to answer that sometimes. I feel the anser in my gut, my brain can't always formulate the words. I found some words:

"What did a slave know that we didn't? To give yourself a name is power. They will try to give you a name and tell you who you are and try to make you into something else, and that is slavery. And to say, I Am This-- that was freedom." (Colson Whitehead, Apex Hides the Hurt)

Two Days Before Opening Night

2006-03-28T13:22:00.000-05:00

It's two days before the opening night of my show: Sikhandini. It's a show about how much I love my mom and how much she loves me. It's also a show about gender, and how much it gets in the way of us just loving each other. I put together a companion reader for the show, to give to audience members, and found some interesting links which I quoted in the pamphlet:

What is a Stone Butch, by Big Dog
I am *a* Stone Butch by Big Dog

This piece is a hard piece of theater. It's emotionally autobiographical (if not factually so), and I have to reveal my female-bodied chest to an entire audience. And so I have to reveal how painful it is for me to have this body. I wish it fit. I really do. Life would be a lot easier. But on the other hand, I have the opportunity to expand boundaries, as E. might say. If one person in that audience feels less alone, then I have done my job. That's what my mentor tells me, and it's what I'll cling to.

I wish my family understood.

In response to a post from L.: Do I have any regrets about using T?
Answer: Yes and no. No, in that the physical transition has been pretty smooth, my mood swings have not been too unmanageable, physical changes have been gradual, but satisfying, etc. And yes, I regret that I live in a world where people can't look at me, look at my body and everything about me and see a "guy." That's what I see. That's what E. sees. I'm a Stone Butch, a Transman, a guy. I'm also a writer, a lover and friend. I'm many things, and deep inside I'm a bundle of energy with feelings. I regret that I felt that I couldn't survive in the world anymore without doing something so that people would see me more the way I see myself. And perhaps I would have taken the T eventually anyway -- so far I really like how it feels in me; it feels right. But maybe I would have waited a while longer if the world was more like it is when we're with each other. When I see you, L., I see a guy. I see a unique and special guy that I would love to get to know better, but I see a guy. That's how you see yourself, and that's how I see you. If only the world was that way. So it's not my regret, exactly, so much as what I wish for the world. I did what I had to do. And I feel that should I one day want to stop the T, then I will, gradually and under a doctor's supervision, but I'll do it. And if I'm left with a deep voice as a permanent characteristic, I'll love it.

49 Days

2006-03-26T15:51:00.000-05:00

Okay, well things are mostly great. I'm still preoccupied with porn, mostly gay male stuff, but occasionally some straight stuff, too. Needless to say, my sex drive is up, but not unmanageable. Sometimes I need to masturbate more than once a day.

My facial hair seems longer, though still whispy. My muscle tone seems good. I feel a bit stronger, but this could also be from yoga and working out. I want to work out more than just twice a week, and am only frustrated by the fact that I don't have the time for that.

Life is good. Oh. But I'm on my way to see some family (not the folks), and that should be interesting. They are not very good about using the correct pronouns or about the fact that I've changed my name to D. I think I feel mostly sad for them. But under that, I might also be feeling sad for myself, and how estranged from my family I seem to be since I told them about being trans.

Six and a Half Weeks

2006-03-24T13:02:00.001-05:00

All's well. The only things to report are that in the morning, I definately smell different -- sharper. And I think my body is starting to reorganize itself. E. says that I have more man-thighs. And my muscle definition seems more pronounced. And the hair on my upper lip and chin is longer.

E. seems happier, too. We need more lazy mornings together.

Six and a Half Weeks

2006-03-24T13:02:00.000-05:00

The Abridged Version...?

2006-03-22T10:23:00.000-05:00

Monday: my sex drive felt more normal; I was self-conscious about body odor.

Yesterday: a bit sad; a little stronger at yoga class; gave myself fourth shot, got light-headed and thought I would pass out (E. took care of me); then felt grumpy and angry (but repressed it).

Today: felt aroused in the morning; then grumpy, angry, hopeless, destructive, then self-destructive, then a few seconds of suicidal; wondered about my relationship, and was it meeting my needs; wondered why I was wondering about that; felt taken for granted; wondered about affairs, and if people had them because they couldn't get their sexual needs met with their partners; felt hopeless again; felt love for E.; felt scared, and still feel scared. But getting better.

Shot No.4 and One Day

2006-03-22T09:48:00.000-05:00

This week has been a bit up and down. Monday was better in terms of not being run over by my sex drive, but rehearsal was difficult, and I was self-conscious about whether I smelled or not.

Yesterday, rehearsal was also hard for various reasons, and I felt a bit low for the evening. I went to yoga, did better in terms of feeling physically stronger, and came home to make dinner (mussels in a creamy sauce). E. came home, we had dinner, then I went off to give myself my fourth shot. It went okay, but seemed to hurt more than I thouht it should, and I got light-headed afterwards and felt like I was going to pass out. E. came in and took care of me.

Then afterwards, I lay in bed, still feeling a bit weak, with a heating pad over my leg, while E. did other things. I felt myself getting grumpy, and I remained so (though I tried to repress it) until I went to sleep.

This morning, I woke up aroused, kissed E, only to find that E. needed to go do other things. I was angry, and then I felt hopeless. We then got into a "discussion" (which is like a fight, but less so, no yelling, but lots of hard feelings on both sides).

The discussion is personal. But what was weird and scary was before we began discussing, when I was still angry, I felt flashes of wanting to punch things, then flashes of wanting to be self-destructive, then a second or two of feeling suicidal. That's not necessarily unusual for me. However, I also felt the very scary thought of questioning our relationship, of wondering if I'm going to move to D.C. with her so we can be roommates who sleep in the same bed at night -- which is wholely unfair, I admit, but it crossed my mind -- and if that's what I wanted. But when I thought of the alternative, there was none, just empty space. And I also thought, regarding the frequency of sex, that maybe that's why some people have affairs... not because they're not in love, but because they don't know how to get what they need from the person they are in love with, specifically sex. (Which is ironic, considering the fact that I would never let another person touch me sexually anyway.)

I don't say these things because I entertain them seriously at all. I want to be with E. for the rest of my life and I'm committed to that. And little bumps in the road are part of the work of a relationship. But that these thoughts crossed my mind, I think, is not just because I'm taking T, but perhaps T intensifies the feelings? Or maybe some of the feelings, like the one about affairs really are a result of taking T? Not that I should write it off or ignore it as invalid, but I should be aware of how that frightens me. For while I was on my bed thinking for two seconds about suicide and being self-destructive and trying to cry and trying not to cry, I was also wondering if I should get off the T because maybe it was going to put my relationship in danger, and that really would make me feel hopeless and suicidal.

Relationships are work, I know. And I love E. Beyond words do I love her.

E. and I are different about fights. She's known security growing up and doesn't doubt us when we fight. I haven't known security, and so I think every fight might be the end of everything, and thus the end of the world. E. has a better outlook than I.

Almost Six Weeks

2006-03-19T22:23:00.000-05:00

Good god. My sex drive is driving away. Over hills and through valleys to whatever porn sites it can find. It's true, I seem to be getting bit obsessed with whatever free porn I can find on the web. I'm mostly enthralled with the gay male variety. Masturbating once today was not enough... three times! It feels a lot like an addiction. The need to get off is a lot like the need to have a cigarette was when I smoked. It's hard to concentrate on anything until the need is met. I don't like it.

And to go with my growing sexual appetite, I also seem to be growing a little bit down there: The hood of my clit is noticeably larger than it once was. I find that fascinating. Also, my chin hairs seem a tad longer.

My mood has been pretty good for the past few days, until today. But Sundays are always a bit hard for me, and the weather didn't help.

A good quote from Kate Bornstein, from her book Gender Outlaw: "Gender's not the issue. Gender is the battleground. Or the playground."

Another quote, this time from Thoreau (Walden): "Not til we are lost...do we begin to find ourselves" (as quoted in a preface to the Anne Sexton poem "Kind Sir: These Woods").

I'm hungry. Hungry for food, for sex, for drink. I'm also annoyed that these hungers are distracting me from other pursuits, for instance my writing, my exercise, my cooking. Do I feel more of these "appetites" as I get closer to needing another shot, or do they grow the longer that I am on the T? ... Either way, two more days until I get my next shot.

I don't like Sundays. They're lonely. Perhaps masturbating is a way to stave off the loneliness?

38 Days

2006-03-15T11:21:00.000-05:00

It's been over a month. No furry ears yet. I've gained a few pounds, but I don't know where. I haven't lost all the muscle mass that I've been working on since last June, but yoga has gotten really hard: I can't hold up my weight for very long. I'm heavier. 161 pounds. I had worked so hard to get down to 155, and now...

My sex drive, which was mostly murdered by grad school, is resurfacing. It's not like a I have a hard-on constantly or anything. It's more like I'm more aware of that area of my body, and feel the need to rub it up against my pants, or to twist in my chair so that there's a bit of friction, some kind of grinding between my thighs. These things feel good.

I also feel more sexual. I want to flirt a bit more. I want to be flirted with, and that makes me feel sexy, studly. These aren't new feelings, but they are feelings that I had put away for awhile amid the stress and chaos of school, and perhaps within the security of a lifelong committed relationship. I want to go into a bar, and be teased, and to tease, and to have a few beers and to feel good about myself. And most of all, I want E. to be there, to be the one teasing me and making me feel like the strong butch I used to be, that I still am underneathe it all.

Two references:

An NPR program, This American Life, did a program on testosterone. They interviewed a transman who took large doses of T, and his experiences of it. I found it a bit depressing, but educational.

Also, Kate Bornstein's book, which almost everyone has heard of, Gender Outlaw, is a good read. I thought it would be very specific to the M2F experience, but it's not. I agree with her, the system of gender dichotomy has to go. I'm not a girl. I'm taking T. I'm going to have top surgery someday. And to survive in this world, I had to choose a gender, or one would be chosen for me. So here I am, a guy. But really, if you really knew me... if you really knew me like E. knows me...

...well, then I'd be a sexy, studly, sometimes dorky, butch, gay-boy (a different gender entirely).

(smile)

Day 36

2006-03-13T13:34:00.000-05:00

I think my voice is beginning to drop. I was in therapy talking about deep, dark things and I kept wanting to giggle, because my voice sounded different in my head.

I'm practically giddy. I keep talking to myself as I walk down the street, testing it, trying it out. I imagine it will keep dropping. I am genuinely happy. I feel like a kid with a new toy.

Four Weeks, Three Days

2006-03-10T23:32:00.000-05:00

Tuesday marked my third T-shot, my first (oxymoronically) solo shot with chaperone, my first full dose (1 cc @ 200 mg/mL), the first time the shot hurt at all (I think I wiggled the needle under the pressure of scrutiny), and the first time I have ever brought home such officious-looking drug paraphernalia: syringes, needles, a vial of viscous liquid, and a big, red biohazard-sharps-container-thing. When I got home I iced the site for half and hour, which may have helped. My leg still got sore, though. A buddy from group advised me to massage the injection site before the shot, instead of just after it. I'll try that next time.

I haven't noticed too much in terms of body changes yet, but in the spirit of notating every little thing, my mouth seems a bit ickier in the morning when I wake up, and for the past week, my coffee breath seems a bit more repugnant.

Also, I have been feeling a bit sad the last few days. There are stresses in my life that could account for this -- I'm writing/acting in a difficult theater piece -- but it could also be the T. I'm keeping an eye on it. Also, I'm pretty susceptible to the weather; a cloudy day can make me want to stick my head in the sand.

S. got me a book -- it arrived in the mail all gift-wrapped and special just for me -- called Gender Outlaw. Defining myself is so hard, and I should stop trying. Or, conversely, I should do it everyday with a different definition, knowing that they are all true. Yesterday, it was something like this: By sex, I am more male than my body; by gender, I'm a butch.

(About the drugs: I can't help it, I like the paraphernalia. )

Almost Four Weeks

2006-03-05T16:10:00.000-05:00

Alas, the Crimson Devil has struck again: another irregular period. But the itching has stopped completely. I think it was a remenant of a month of dermatological antibiotics.

The past week has had some emotional ups and downs, but being a Child of Therapy, it was nothing a good cry and some talking couldn't solve. Then again, though I'm better at crying than most men, it's not something I'm necessarily good at, nor something that I enjoy. In fact, it's something I struggle against, which creates more work for E., since she has to do more to pull the feelings out of me. BUT. I'm still better at it than most. So there.

Between any two points, there are an infinite number of other points. This is a basic mathematical concept. Between male and female, there are an infinite number of in-betweens. There is a spectrum of identities, none less valid than mine.

The voice drops, chest reconstruction is magically paid for, and perhaps happiness will exist right there, in that particular in-between spot. The forced dichotomy of this world is killing so many of us.

It's been told that God created "Man" in "His" image.
I think it was Neitzche who said that "Man" created God in "his" image.
But I say, maybe we should instead re-create ourselves in god's image?

(If you believe in that.)
I believe in pure energy, in the sun, in trees that grow thick with time.

A Card For Me

2006-03-03T19:21:00.000-05:00

E. gives me this card to commemorate my second shot.

inside of card

2006-03-03T19:19:00.000-05:00

I'm a lucky dog.

Days 22-24

2006-03-01T12:13:00.000-05:00

Tuesday, 5:09pm: W. walks by me, and I know that in his pants he has something I will never have. I think to myself, "I'm a big fake."

I have taken to writing a bit of poetry again, after many years' hiatus. The sun is beautiful, and the air crisp, and it is all so bittersweet. I fear that this might be the onset of my second puberty.

It could also be that I am most eager to get the hell out of grad school. Who the hell knows.

Days 19-21

2006-02-26T16:45:00.000-05:00

I'm approaching three weeks on T, and I'm finally starting to break out. I'm using a medicated face wash, a gel, Pear soap, a medicated face scrub, face moisturizer, and Retin-A (not all at once). These seem to be helping. I've also got a pack of Proactiv -- the big gun -- which I'm saving for when this gets worse.

And I have to admit it, I was pretty moody yesterday. I wanted to pick a fight with E., though she had been great all day. And even after we talked, I still couldn't seem to shake it, and so I kept wanting to fight with her. And then, even later, when I was done being stupid and petty, I was so busy being mad at myself for being moody and ruining our night together, that it was hard to enjoy what little time we had left. I've had this mood before, and extreme stress and a lack of quality time with E. are usually the factors that set it off, but I hate that I wanted to keep fighting, especially with the one person who loves me the most. She said that I was fighting because I didn't want to cry. I think she was right. If I could have just broken down and sobbed, I might have gotten past it and moved on.

And my sex drive: I seem to be slightly more interested in sex, whether it's with E. or with myself.

And a blow to my vanity: I seem to have gained two pounds, even though I barely ate last week. I did have rice and a bit of ice cream on Friday night at that Thai place we love... but TWO pounds? That totally bums me out.

You know, maybe if world leaders cried more, there would be fewer wars. I'm tellin ya, because last night I just wanted to punch something, I was so mad and riled up inside. And that mad was also tied to fear, somehow. And all of it could have been spilt with blood... or with tears. Tears seem safer. Men need to cry more. But the world needs to make it easier for men to do this. And that includes women; women need to make it more acceptable for men to cry. E. makes is easier for me to cry, and she never sees me ass less of a man for doing so. I'm lucky.

Days 15-18

2006-02-23T20:47:00.000-05:00

There is almost too much to say. Almost.

Monday was day 15, my two-week mark -- and had it not been deemed important that we should all slack off to pay homage to the various and sundry Presidents of this country, and other countries, too, and probably the odd student council president-- then I would have been at the clinic getting my second T shot. As it was, the honor fell to Tuesday.

And it was momentous. The Letter slid into my leg with nary a tear, nor even a sniffle. In fact, I was quite excited by the whole thing, and had a blast with the nurse as she talked me through all the steps once again, and for the first time EVER in my life, I gave myself a shot! The actual putting of the needle into the flesh of my leg gave me pause, but I plunged ahead, so to speak. I put the needle in and removed it rather slowly, and next time I will be a little more decisive, and a little less fascinated. I slid The Letter in very slowly -- hoping to allay some soreness later (pish-posh, I'm still sore) -- and then I applied pressure to the needle-trauma-wound (aka drop of blood) with a gauze and massaged gently. Then on with the bandaid, a cheer from my nurse, who was almost as proud of me as I was, and I was allowed to pull my pants up. I will now execute a deep bow to your thunderous applause.

(See separate post for a technical-but-boring play-by-play of the actual injection process.)

Tuesday was also grand for another reason: my Homoerotic Haircut! I do not jest. (I say homoerotic, since most barbers are men and most barbershop clients are men. Meaning this is an accurate description most of the time.) Haircuts are like fresh starts, they make you feel new again. One might draw the simitiltude that an orgasm does the same. You might say it's a stretch, but my 60-year-old Hispanic barber clipped, snipped, and finished me off with the Warm Shaving Cream Treatment: A smear around my ears, a smudge down my neck; then with a straight-razor laid firmly against my throat, my very life hanging in the balance, he scraped me clean... clean-cut, that is. These are oft' ignored erogenous zones, having fallen by the wayside of a committed relationship. Might I vote for their reinstatement!

And finally, some relief to the south-of-the-equator itching! Not a complete cure yet, but on doctorial advice, switching to a milder soap -- the doc recommended Dove or Ivory, but I have this Pear stuff I use for my face -- the itching has reduced drastically. If all else fails, I will submit to the 1-pill-wonder of yeast infection treatments (vastly better than the over-the-counter alternatives). I also trimmed; hey, anything to make it go away.

And since we are in the equatorial zone, might I say that my early, irregular period has ended early as well. Thank the gods.

My leg is now, two days later, still sore. A heating pad, yesterday, I discovered feels wonderful, but doesn't necessarily make me less sore.

And Tuesday's yoga class, before I became the Two-Day-Gimp, was rather successful. I could hold a Side Plank for about two seconds longer than usual. Am I getting stronger, is it the T, or both?

And I have a stellar graphic to post, since words can be so... wordy, but I can't f*&!ing figure how to do it yet!! So, that'll have to be for another day.

Day 14

2006-02-19T23:06:00.000-05:00

What am I thinking?!

Writer, actor, partner, man, responsible member of society, productive citizen, lover, someone who can earn a living and pay their own way in this world...

...what am I thinking? I actually believe I can do all this?

Days 10-13

2006-02-18T15:56:00.000-05:00

Oy. I'm getting tied up with various writing projects and, well, Life. Probably a good sign that my life is not revolving around this. This being The Letter. (The Letter being T.)

However, my body has been doing what it can to get my attention. I've had a couple of hot flashes. This Racehorse Anxiety, as I'm going to call it, has hit me at least once everyday. I feel like I want to jump out of my skin, but am managing not to do so with some deep breathing and a bit of Ativan. E. informed me on Wednesday morning that she thinks I'm beginning to smell different. And. Horror of horrors. I seem to be bleeding out my period A WEEK EARLY.

Okay, let's take those one by one. Hot flashes: It's winter, a little boost in my heating system's not so bad. However, hot flashes make me sweaty. I'm not a big fan of sweaty...mostly because it can lead to smelly if not handled properly.

Two by two. Racehorse Anxiety: Thank god I meditate and get some regular exercise, otherwise I'd probably clinging to the ceiling right now and shaking like a wet dog. The Ativan definately helps, but I am also trying to drink more tea.

(Tea. Get it? Haha... Aw, nevermind.)

Three by three. Smell: I now put a bit of deoderant on before bed. What can I say, I've always put a great deal of effort into my scent. Soap, lotion, cologne, how it mixes with my own pheremones, these are important things to me. The thought of smelling different is...okay, I guess. But the thought of smelling bad is appalling. I have a very sensitive nose and always have. I feel aware of my own smell in a way I never was before. It's not bad, yet, but the fact that I feel like I can smell myself is disturbing. Suffice it to say, I made E. smell me at least three times yesterday. I am somebody who smells good. I refuse to let that change.

Four by four. My period. I'm never early. I always get debilitating cramps (which I heavily medicate). This month, my period came early, no cramps whatsoever. It doesn't even really feel like a period. It just feels like my body's emptying itself out.

Oh yeah, and five by five, I'm frickin itchy. Down there. Can't tell if it's a moisture issue or a yeast issue, though I barely eat any sugar as it is, so I don't know what the yeast would be feeding itself on. But itching down there...man, it's like Chinese water torture. It makes me very cranky.

All that being said, I'm completely excited to get my next shot, on Tuesday. I hear if I slide The Letter into my leg oh-so-slowly, it won't be so sore over the few days following. I'm gonna try that.

I apologize to Chinese people if Water Torture is offensive.

Days 8 & 9

2006-02-14T18:41:00.000-05:00

I had a headache on Monday. I never get headaches. My face seems to be oilier. I think I smell different -- not bad, just different, or stronger maybe -- down there. I can't be sure, but I think the hair on my upper lip is at least a nanometer longer than it was yesterday... Are these T-sightings? Hard to say just yet.

Today is not Valentine's Day. Well, okay, it is Valentine's Day, but it's also our anniversary. E. and I are officially 6 years old. We're well past toddlers. Oh don't. You did. No, it's not cute. I did not intend to kiss E. for the first time on V. Day. Really, I didn't.

Flashback: February 2000
E. You know what today is.
D. I know, it's totally cheesy.
E. It really is.
D. I can't help that today is today.
E. I know.
D. But I'll be damned if I'm going to wait until tomorrow.
E. Mmm.
D. See, that's what I mean!
E. (...)
D. Arr.
(Smooching ensues.)

See? Not my fault. If E. was less sexy, and I less of a beast, perhaps our anniversary would have been the 15th. But! We never have to celebrate V. Day. Ever. But! I do get annoyed that so many people feel the need to celebrate our anniversary. And the price of flowers, good lord!

Days 6 & 7

2006-02-12T23:08:00.000-05:00

The weekend brought a record-breaking 29 inches of snow. It also brought -- despite my exfoliating, my cleansing, my medicating, my moisturizing -- some bumps, some peeling, and the threat of acne. I'm doing everything I can to prevent the acne-onslaught T will no doubt bring. I am, perhaps, doing too much... but I cannot yet bring myself to cut down on dairy. It just seems wrong to ask that of someone. And especially wrong to ask that of me.

Last night and today also saw some heart races, and not the romantic kind. I thought the muscle would fibrillate right out of my chest, though my pulse only clocked in at about 82. I wanted very much to claw my way to the speeding organ and hold it still with my bare hand. (This, wisely, I did not do.) It seems like textbook anxiety, but the Anxiety I know and fear usually arrives with a slightly different calling card. It felt like I was holding in a scream.

Days 4 & 5

2006-02-11T20:52:00.000-05:00

All's well. A bit tired at the gym on Thursday night, and again at yoga today. I had to nap in the afternoon, but so did E., so it's probably not related to the T.

Also, I've been thinking: Why do I have to tell my family? I'm not sure it's any of their business. I'm not sure it's anyone's business but my own.

Except E. We're in the same business. In business together.

Day 4

2006-02-10T10:09:00.000-05:00

My leg is less lumpy where the injection was given, but still a bit, and soreness is all but gone.

Day 3

2006-02-09T12:03:00.000-05:00

The day started out fine. My dermatologist said better skin can be achieved by cutting down on salt (fine), sugar (no problem) and dairy (what?!). But milk, especially organic milk, does a body good, doesn't it?

The day would have sailed along rather smoothly, but instead my ship was scuttled by the poisonous politics at The Worst School for Drama. I managed not to hit anything on my way out. I wonder if this feat of restraint will get harder the longer I'm on the T? I made it home, and laying in bed with E., finally was able to let all that rage out. I sobbed.

Squeezed in there was also the first trans support group of this session. At least 30 guys showed up. It's nice to be around other guys like me, and to know that I'm not the only one who thinks there should be more than two choices. But it made me sad, too. It shouldn't have to be this hard.

Day 2

2006-02-08T12:00:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was my second day on T: smooth sailing, clear skies, and a still-sore leg. Last night was yoga at the Y: downward dog, upward-facing dog, panting dog. My leg got a work out.

Today my leg is very sore and I'm trying not to limp. Tonight is the first trans support group meeting for the new session.

My biggest concern last night was why Commander in Chief was not on ABC at 9pm?! (Though, if that's my biggest concern, I'd say things are going well.)

Still haven't told my family that I've started T...

T-1

2006-02-07T09:21:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was T-1. Well, more like T-1/2...cc, that is.

Prior to yesterday, I thought that perhaps the world would come to a halt, take a moment, then begin spinning in the other direction. Perhaps the sky would turn pink, and surely, I thought, large, furry mule-like ears would sprout from the top of my head.

Instead, yesterday was T-1 -- my first shot of testosterone -- and this is roughly how it went:

8:02am - woke up rather excited about the whole thing
9:25am - had a stupid argument with E.
9:26-10:24am – grumped
10:25-11:10am - informed my therapist she wasn't doing her job efficiently enough
11:11-11:49am - waited for E.
11:50am - E. arrived to see me mucho grumpo
12:05pm - on a cold, windy 14th street, E. cries, I held her (we are in love still and always)
12:20pm - E.'s tears began to freeze
12:25pm - lunch at Thai joint
1:30pm - waiting
2:15pm - meet with Doc, sign away life, get script
2:45pm - trek to the pharmacy
2:46-3:30pm - waiting
3:31pm - tried not to cry
3:32pm - insurance covered half
3:33pm - trek to clinic
3:45-4:00pm - got my shot (it didn't hurt at all)
4:01-4:20pm - cried on the cold, windy street, E. held me (we are in love still and always)
4:30pm - walked in late to class
6:10pm - wondered if i did the right thing
6:45pm - tried not cry
8:10pm - is it too late to suck it out of my leg?
9:16pm - felt good, happy even, looked forward to a late-night beer (probably a cheap Pabst)
10:25pm - my leg was a little sore
1:01am - my leg was a little more sore
2:02am - kissed E. goodnight

But still, the sky is blue and my ears look the same.