I was surfing around YouTube again tonight and came across this video created by a Transguy called Tyler:
I think it says a lot very, very well.
First blog post
9 years ago
Showing posts with label Introspective. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Introspective. Show all posts
Chocolate and Cream.
Tap.. Tap.. Tap.. ugh..
It's Wednesday morning, I'm at work and I've just checked my bank account for about the 500th time. It's there, enough to be safe in the assumption that the rest will come shortly.. enough to see this thing through.
So what am I waiting for?
There's no one else in the office at the moment so the incessant sound of my pen against the desk isn't driving anyone batty. Except for me. And I'm more annoyed with myself than batty right now.
Tap..
Actually, I know exactly what I'm waiting for. It's fear. A churning, gut wrenching, leg miring fear. I'm waiting for the fear to go away. Only it doesn't. And I know it's not going to until I actually go and address the thing that is causing the fear.
.. .. Tap.. Tap..
I've just skipped a beat thinking about it. It's silly really. All I have to do is get up from behind the chocolate-brown desk I'm sitting at, pick up my wallet and iPhone, and then walk down a flight of cream tiled stairs, out through a single glass door and continue walking straight up the street for around 200 meters. It's not hard, and it's certainly not impossible.
I just have to do it.
The thing that seems the most insurmountable is the first step. And not because I'm concerned about going through my transition, far from it, I'm excited. What's got me tied up in knots is that at the end of my relatively simple walk up the road is a GP (a General Practitioner - sort of an entry level doctor) who has to a) Understand what I want to do and then b) Write me a referral to a psychiatrist to will give me the green light to start my treatment.
I look over to the folded piece of A4 paper that has Dr Toohey's details hidden inside of it, the guy I need the referral to. I don't know the name of the GP that I'm going to see because I don't actually have a regular GP, and I hate most GP doctors in general because I think they're essentially quacks. However, I have to force myself to walk up the street to this no-name guy and get him to understand that I need a letter from him that's going to change my life at the most fundamental level. And if at any stage he says no, for whatever reason religious/personal/or otherwise, I then have to go through it again with someone else.
Daunting is an understatement.
.. Tap.. Tap.. CLUNK.
Right, that's it. I've had enough of being afraid and sheer annoyance has taken over. I gather my gear, paper in hand and make a beeline down the stairs and up the street.
I get to the medical centre and make my way inside, standing in line behind a young woman with a chronically coughing child. Subconsciously I'm trying not the breathe in here and contract some sort of airborne disease while I get called to the counter. I explain to the receptionist that I need to see a GP. She sort of eyes me up and down looking for some sort of ailment while asking for who I want. I tell her I don't need someone specific, I'm just looking to get a referral. I get a clipped nod, fill out some paperwork and get directed to a seat.
About 15 minutes later an elderly tight-lipped chinese gentleman makes his way briskly out of his office and barks out a version of my name. I follow him in and close the door behind me, taking an uncomfortable seat. He asks me what my problem is and before I can squeeze out a reply proceeds to take a phonecall while he waves me into silence.
Now I'm more than annoyed.
Once done, he turns back to me and asks again what my problem is. I tell him I don't have a problem but that I need a referral to the doctor on the sheet of paper I push in front of him. He asks me what kind of doctor it is. I reply it's a psychiatrist and his eyebrows raise slightly. He starts tapping on the computer and asks me for what reason I want to be referred. It's that split second where time slows.
"I want to speak to him about gender assignment surgery."
There's silence in the room while he tries to work his brain around this concept.
"I'm sorry, what was that?"
I squirm slightly. I don't have time to explain to this guy the ins and outs of GID and quite frankly it's shit that I should have to. I tell him again that I'm looking to have gender assignment surgery and that I need to have a referral to a psych as the next step in my treatment. It's at this stage his eyes have dropped to my chest and seem locked there.
His eyebrows have shot off the Richter scale by about now but he turns back to his computer as each keystroke sounds like a gunshot. He grunts slightly and then proceeds to ask me where I intend on getting the surgery done. I explain I'm having it done in the US. This seems to irritate him even more than having someone in his office he can't prescribe a drug to fix.
"And why aren't you having it here in Australia? There are many fine surgeons in this country."
I explain to him that Dr Brownstein, the guy I'm hoping to book in with at the end of this year, is the best in the word at what he does. (I've seen some hideous results from other surgeons and I'm not taking any chances.) I'm then asked what the cost is, to which I reply it's going to cost me around 20 grand all up.
He grunts again and prints out a letter that has his 6 syllabled name on, and then pushes it at me. I glance down and make sure that it has what I need it to on it, a single sentence, thank him and flee the building while he follows me out and barks for his next appointment.
"I am referring this patient to you for the purposes of discussing Gender Assignment Surgery."
It's all I needed from him and the space around me returns.
It's Wednesday morning, I'm at work and I've just checked my bank account for about the 500th time. It's there, enough to be safe in the assumption that the rest will come shortly.. enough to see this thing through.
So what am I waiting for?
Tap.. Tap..
There's no one else in the office at the moment so the incessant sound of my pen against the desk isn't driving anyone batty. Except for me. And I'm more annoyed with myself than batty right now.
Tap..
Actually, I know exactly what I'm waiting for. It's fear. A churning, gut wrenching, leg miring fear. I'm waiting for the fear to go away. Only it doesn't. And I know it's not going to until I actually go and address the thing that is causing the fear.
.. .. Tap.. Tap..
I've just skipped a beat thinking about it. It's silly really. All I have to do is get up from behind the chocolate-brown desk I'm sitting at, pick up my wallet and iPhone, and then walk down a flight of cream tiled stairs, out through a single glass door and continue walking straight up the street for around 200 meters. It's not hard, and it's certainly not impossible.
I just have to do it.
The thing that seems the most insurmountable is the first step. And not because I'm concerned about going through my transition, far from it, I'm excited. What's got me tied up in knots is that at the end of my relatively simple walk up the road is a GP (a General Practitioner - sort of an entry level doctor) who has to a) Understand what I want to do and then b) Write me a referral to a psychiatrist to will give me the green light to start my treatment.
I look over to the folded piece of A4 paper that has Dr Toohey's details hidden inside of it, the guy I need the referral to. I don't know the name of the GP that I'm going to see because I don't actually have a regular GP, and I hate most GP doctors in general because I think they're essentially quacks. However, I have to force myself to walk up the street to this no-name guy and get him to understand that I need a letter from him that's going to change my life at the most fundamental level. And if at any stage he says no, for whatever reason religious/personal/or otherwise, I then have to go through it again with someone else.
Daunting is an understatement.
.. Tap.. Tap.. CLUNK.
Right, that's it. I've had enough of being afraid and sheer annoyance has taken over. I gather my gear, paper in hand and make a beeline down the stairs and up the street.
I get to the medical centre and make my way inside, standing in line behind a young woman with a chronically coughing child. Subconsciously I'm trying not the breathe in here and contract some sort of airborne disease while I get called to the counter. I explain to the receptionist that I need to see a GP. She sort of eyes me up and down looking for some sort of ailment while asking for who I want. I tell her I don't need someone specific, I'm just looking to get a referral. I get a clipped nod, fill out some paperwork and get directed to a seat.
About 15 minutes later an elderly tight-lipped chinese gentleman makes his way briskly out of his office and barks out a version of my name. I follow him in and close the door behind me, taking an uncomfortable seat. He asks me what my problem is and before I can squeeze out a reply proceeds to take a phonecall while he waves me into silence.
Now I'm more than annoyed.
Once done, he turns back to me and asks again what my problem is. I tell him I don't have a problem but that I need a referral to the doctor on the sheet of paper I push in front of him. He asks me what kind of doctor it is. I reply it's a psychiatrist and his eyebrows raise slightly. He starts tapping on the computer and asks me for what reason I want to be referred. It's that split second where time slows.
"I want to speak to him about gender assignment surgery."
There's silence in the room while he tries to work his brain around this concept.
"I'm sorry, what was that?"
I squirm slightly. I don't have time to explain to this guy the ins and outs of GID and quite frankly it's shit that I should have to. I tell him again that I'm looking to have gender assignment surgery and that I need to have a referral to a psych as the next step in my treatment. It's at this stage his eyes have dropped to my chest and seem locked there.
His eyebrows have shot off the Richter scale by about now but he turns back to his computer as each keystroke sounds like a gunshot. He grunts slightly and then proceeds to ask me where I intend on getting the surgery done. I explain I'm having it done in the US. This seems to irritate him even more than having someone in his office he can't prescribe a drug to fix.
"And why aren't you having it here in Australia? There are many fine surgeons in this country."
I explain to him that Dr Brownstein, the guy I'm hoping to book in with at the end of this year, is the best in the word at what he does. (I've seen some hideous results from other surgeons and I'm not taking any chances.) I'm then asked what the cost is, to which I reply it's going to cost me around 20 grand all up.
He grunts again and prints out a letter that has his 6 syllabled name on, and then pushes it at me. I glance down and make sure that it has what I need it to on it, a single sentence, thank him and flee the building while he follows me out and barks for his next appointment.
"I am referring this patient to you for the purposes of discussing Gender Assignment Surgery."
It's all I needed from him and the space around me returns.
After the dust settles..
It's been a very long six months leading up to this point. Epic battles waged by (many) different people who I am forever grateful to help me secure the funding I need to go forward with this. My partner getting cut into the redundancy side of the workforce. Starting a new business. Phew.
I knew 2010 was going to be a cracker but we're only in March!
Last Tuesday I got partially paid the huge wack of commission money owed to me by the company I work for, which was the final barrier against actually starting my transition process. After 8 years of research, wistful wandering around the net viewing transmen sites and wishing, I'm finally in a position to get the outside of me to match the inside.
Let me explain a little more about GID and how I feel on a daily basis. Imagine, if you can, waking up each morning and feeling like you're wearing a very ill-fitting sumo suit. It's not only baggy, but parts of it are unweildy and you can't move very well inside of this thing.. it sort of.. sits 'on' you. You adjust your gait, slouch your shoulders and kind of fold in on yourself as you travel through the day.
You can't hug the people you love properly with it on, you can't have sex without being acutely aware that it's there which effects your ability to be 'in the moment'. You don't like your lover actually touching the suit so it becomes awkward for any deep level of intimacy and things become very one sided in the bedroom. You have difficulty in standing up in front of a crowd and speaking because you know they're seeing you through the suit, and not what you actually are.
To try and deal better with the suit you put on several layers of support around the chest area by way of bra's/sports bras/anything that will stop the reminding movement that's present with every step. While this provides a small measure of relief, your shoulders ache from the increased force needed to strap tightly enough, then your back aches and most afternoon's you end up with a raging headache.
You go to bed, uncomfortable but at least free of the supporting strapping so your shoulders can take a break, and then your partner tries to cuddle into you and rest her head on your chest, but again, the suit gets in the way.
And each day that you wake up you know one very important and crushing thing.
You can't take it off. It never stops.
So that's me, I walk down the streets of my life not fitting. It's a different feeling to being on the outskirts of a social group, or a racial group, because while I completely acknowledge people struggle greatly with those challenges, it's very, very hard not being able to 'fit' within yourself on such a fundamental scale as your gender identity.
Throughout most of my life there was a large focus on my mane of long hair. It was a living, breathing thing that my mother had proudly displayed to her social set during my childhood and earned me many a pat on the head. As soon as I was old enough to understand I carried a brush with me everywhere and took great pains to ensure it was tanglefree and in best possible condition for show.
This naturally translated into my teen set and my hair became a defining point as a method of identity. The women in my social circle would stroke it, it was commented on, and yet for some reason I was incredibly uncomfortable looking in the mirror while having it cut by a stylist, so it remained growing and wild for most of my teenage years.
Come adulthood and the requirements of a workplace where such hair isn't considered a professional asset, trips to the hairdresser are done once every 6-8 months on the outside. It's a horrible, horrible experience having my hair cut and styled, albeit ever so basically, in a feminine cut. I spend most of the 2+ hour sessions staring at the floor. Yet the accumulated weight of reinforcement about how important my hair is to my existence remains and it's just something to be tolerated.
Flash forward to around 2 years ago when my partner Mel helped me work up the courage to get it cut correctly to a male style. She thought, like the hairdresser who did the actual deed, that I would freak out once it was gone but both I think were incredibly surprised in how overjoyed I was with the result. I'm still not quite sure if the stylist really realises how much of a difference she made to my life.
I love getting my hair cut now and have it done around once every 3 weeks. It's a relaxing, enjoyable experience. This may seem trivial but it's a fundamental thing.. my hair now fits me. The me who I am, not this suit that you see.
I can only imagine at this point how good it's going to be when the rest of me experiences the same thing.
I knew 2010 was going to be a cracker but we're only in March!
Last Tuesday I got partially paid the huge wack of commission money owed to me by the company I work for, which was the final barrier against actually starting my transition process. After 8 years of research, wistful wandering around the net viewing transmen sites and wishing, I'm finally in a position to get the outside of me to match the inside.
Let me explain a little more about GID and how I feel on a daily basis. Imagine, if you can, waking up each morning and feeling like you're wearing a very ill-fitting sumo suit. It's not only baggy, but parts of it are unweildy and you can't move very well inside of this thing.. it sort of.. sits 'on' you. You adjust your gait, slouch your shoulders and kind of fold in on yourself as you travel through the day.
You can't hug the people you love properly with it on, you can't have sex without being acutely aware that it's there which effects your ability to be 'in the moment'. You don't like your lover actually touching the suit so it becomes awkward for any deep level of intimacy and things become very one sided in the bedroom. You have difficulty in standing up in front of a crowd and speaking because you know they're seeing you through the suit, and not what you actually are.
To try and deal better with the suit you put on several layers of support around the chest area by way of bra's/sports bras/anything that will stop the reminding movement that's present with every step. While this provides a small measure of relief, your shoulders ache from the increased force needed to strap tightly enough, then your back aches and most afternoon's you end up with a raging headache.
You go to bed, uncomfortable but at least free of the supporting strapping so your shoulders can take a break, and then your partner tries to cuddle into you and rest her head on your chest, but again, the suit gets in the way.
And each day that you wake up you know one very important and crushing thing.
You can't take it off. It never stops.
So that's me, I walk down the streets of my life not fitting. It's a different feeling to being on the outskirts of a social group, or a racial group, because while I completely acknowledge people struggle greatly with those challenges, it's very, very hard not being able to 'fit' within yourself on such a fundamental scale as your gender identity.
Throughout most of my life there was a large focus on my mane of long hair. It was a living, breathing thing that my mother had proudly displayed to her social set during my childhood and earned me many a pat on the head. As soon as I was old enough to understand I carried a brush with me everywhere and took great pains to ensure it was tanglefree and in best possible condition for show.
This naturally translated into my teen set and my hair became a defining point as a method of identity. The women in my social circle would stroke it, it was commented on, and yet for some reason I was incredibly uncomfortable looking in the mirror while having it cut by a stylist, so it remained growing and wild for most of my teenage years.
Come adulthood and the requirements of a workplace where such hair isn't considered a professional asset, trips to the hairdresser are done once every 6-8 months on the outside. It's a horrible, horrible experience having my hair cut and styled, albeit ever so basically, in a feminine cut. I spend most of the 2+ hour sessions staring at the floor. Yet the accumulated weight of reinforcement about how important my hair is to my existence remains and it's just something to be tolerated.
Flash forward to around 2 years ago when my partner Mel helped me work up the courage to get it cut correctly to a male style. She thought, like the hairdresser who did the actual deed, that I would freak out once it was gone but both I think were incredibly surprised in how overjoyed I was with the result. I'm still not quite sure if the stylist really realises how much of a difference she made to my life.
I love getting my hair cut now and have it done around once every 3 weeks. It's a relaxing, enjoyable experience. This may seem trivial but it's a fundamental thing.. my hair now fits me. The me who I am, not this suit that you see.
I can only imagine at this point how good it's going to be when the rest of me experiences the same thing.
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