My Number One Problem

This feels like a ridiculous thing to be writing about. Figuring out the mechanics of the bathroom seems better suited to a potty training blog for first-time mothers. Nonetheless, here we are. Bear with me, this is surprisingly relevant.

Bathrooms have become the prime public focus on the forefront of trans rights ever since North Carolina passed a bathroom bill in 2016, which compelled schools and public facilities containing single-gender washrooms to only allow people of the corresponding biological sex. Other states over the last few years have passed variants of restrictive bathroom legislation, or come remarkably close to doing so. Although this has obvious infringements on transgender rights, I argue the principal is far more psychologically damaging.

Ensuring a Dream

I knew I wanted to get sexual reassignment surgery (SRS) before I started transitioning publicly. It was something I secretly saw in my future prior to believing I had the strength or the power to pursue it. There was this looming sense my penis would someday not be hanging there anymore. You know what I would say when I got hit down there? “It’s fine, it won’t be there forever.” It is a strange way to feel about my own body.

Going into this, I knew the logistics behind surgery were going to be the hardest part of it all. It entails about a year of preparation–including thousands of dollars, dozens of painful hours, and a nightmarish collection of phone calls. The relentless war to secure insurance coverage deserves special note due to the countless false summits and nonsensical peaks.

Every Single Day

Mental health is largely ignored and undervalued in this country. People hide their abnormalities like it will devalue them, and most everyone around them is too afraid to ask about it. This standoff deprives both parties; the former continues through life feeling like their everyday struggles are insignificant to other people, and the latter misses a valuable opportunity to understand how something simple for them can be monumental for another.

I have found this particularly frustrating with being transgender. People around me were curious enough to ask questions and reach out following my announcement and at the beginning of my public transition. The questions were pretty standard:

“How long have you known?”

“Does this mean you like guys now?”

“Are you going to have surgery? Are you sure?”

Dreams Don’t Lie

It is an odd feeling to wake up angry. Anger is a choice I do not allow myself to make. To find myself launching a new day with vexation practically had me waking up underneath the bed. Surely, the world was upside down! The challenges I have battled throughout my transition revealed to me how much mind and body are connected–despite my historic determination to rule them separately.

Dreams have been a quality assurance process on my daily living. There were common themes of violence against me when I was struggling to grasp my gender identity, which has subsided since I got my breast augmentation. That surgery was my first real physical step towards aligning my mental and physical states, and it demonstrated significant improvement to my mental well-being. There has been a transgender dream drought recently, but it abruptly came to an end when somebody at my office dropped the wrong pro-nouns on me in the break room.

Girls Night Out

Did you know there is something called a period blanket? Yeah. That’s a thing. It costs around $300 and is designed to make sex more tenable during that time of the month.

You can get back at your arch-nemesis by painting their walls with milk. I feel obligated to say you shouldn’t do this…

30% of the women in my office are gay (myself included).

These are some of the things I learned while participating in my first ever girls night out!

Smoke and Mirrors

Hair, makeup, outfit, primping. Sometimes it feels like I’m putting on a show. If I stopped putting myself together for a few days, no one would believe I am a woman–not for a second. Throwing on some sweat pants and a t-shirt with an unshaven face shines me in a different light few people have seen since I transitioned. The only people I allow to witness me in this state are my family–more specifically my mother and brother. It is possible for me to do this without stress, embarrassment, or anxiety because I know they won’t judge me in any way, or put me in a situation where I would be uncomfortable. This is not the case with my father as of yet.

My dad is not as empathetic, and sometimes mentions things that are off about my appearance. He made a comment on the frizz in my hair when I was growing it out and trying to figure out the proper maintenance routine. Although it may have come from a place of sincerity within him, it left me feeling insecure about it. This remains true years later, even though I have made vast improvements since that day. He is not a malicious man, but I know he will notice if step off my game, and he would be the one to tell me when I am not looking my best. This has made me uncomfortable with seeing him without putting on the show.

Naked Time Machine

My outfit took 20 minutes of iteration, my hair is laying smooth and shimmering, and my face is done to artistic precision; I look fantastic, and I know it. For the rest of the day I will walk lighter, stand taller, and live brighter in my final form. This life-booster is unshakable until I retire to my closet to strip it all down. The top comes off to reveal the cavernous bra struggling to provide female form to my broad chest. I stand flat chested and empty when the bra hits the floor.

Skirts and dresses are my favorite. They provide free-flowing liberation and an inherent femininity not as easily achieved with a straight figure in jeans. I have found one pair that understands my unique body, but I’m definitely more of a skirt girl. My biggest shame comes out as I strip bare; an abhorrent bulge has been crudely stuck to me, supplying me ample discomfort on a daily basis. I can briefly forget about its existence since I got used to the pinching, pulling, and other distress throughout the events of the day. The problem is, there is no way to discount the presence of a penis when you’re naked.

Be Brave

I often hear transgender people are considered brave for simply stepping outside the door in the morning. Several people have said something along these lines to me after I came out and started living as my true self. Hearing such words from people I love, and some from people I barely knew has had a perpetually motivational effect on me. Having gone through this a few times, I am suddenly finding myself asking—why are trans-people perceived to be brave?

Is it because the mere prospect of being trans is considered to be insurmountably difficult? Hmm.. although likely true to some extent, it doesn’t seem to be the cause. After all, everyone faces difficulties in their lives. Why would mine be any more difficult than another? A matter of interpretation I suppose. From my interactions, I have found each person has an amazing journey with qualities promoting admiration.

I’ve Died a Thousand Times

I was in the living room enjoying a blissful afternoon with my wife and child. The place had a definite 50’s vibe to it, and it was my home. Everything was clean and organized as I watched my kid playing on the floor in front of me. Suddenly, the peace of the moment was rudely interrupted by a massive explosion, which blows out the entire side of my house in an avalanche of debris. My vision is dark and blurred from the trauma, but I use all my strength to lift up my head and see the lifeless blood-stained bodies of my beloved wife and child.

Two men in black approach, grasp my arms, and drag me outside. They slam me down on my knees and I raise my head to face the figure in front of me. All I see is a mirage of a person; a dark entity whom had robbed me of my entire livelihood. I crane my neck to the side to see a gaping void where the wooden yellow wall to my house previously stood.

There’s a loud pop, and pressure hits me in the upper right portion of my chest. My eyes explode with the impact as it is followed with a second shot to my lower left abdomen, and a final blow adjacent to my heart. I fall backwards as time decelerates and I meet the pavement. My sight fades in from the edges as I feel the my heart stop beating, and my last breath leaves my body.

The Next Chapter

(Note: These events transpired nearly a year ago, but I have some serious catching up to do. More soon!)

There is a feeling I have craved for many years. Something started in me with a simple curiosity and turned into a desire rooted deep within my soul. The feeling is quite simple, really. I’m immersed in a gathering of people, going about my business in my own quirky way; catching eyes here and there, but for all the right reasons. My heart is playful and my mind is at ease. I’m a woman in the crowd, and I belong. Nobody suspects me to be something I’m not, not even myself.