1 week post top surgery, or, the whole upstairs affair

[Ed note: I haven’t posted anything here about it, but I wrote a bit about my 2019 trans awakening in a recent Instagram post. Then I had top surgery last week.]

One week post-surgery verdict: I look like a giant baby who’s seen some shit.

Fat, unsexed, bloodied and bruised.

I traded two boobs for a belly. Sitting or standing, it’s all I can see from up here. From sweater bumps to smuggling a lap cat. From Venus of Willendorf to Homer Simpson.

And even with the chest swelling, squaring things out a little and having no nipples really un-genders the whole upstairs affair.

So yeah, I spent over $9,000 and risked death to look like a drunk-tank cupid.

But wait! Here’s the perverse part:

Part of me wonders, why aren’t they throwing roses at me and my new, clearly improved body?

Smell that? Eau de Male Privilege. A helluva drug.

(And it’s putti, not cupid, I know…but nobody else knows, so.)

The puzzle I’m working on since it’s too soon to work out

I am not an incremental thinker or a bit-by-bit believer. Sowing and reaping is for farmers, and people who believe in an afterlife. I’m a global thinker, into eurekas and epiphanies, big bangs and unfurling the rest later. Details are for peons, you know? Scoffs: What experience do I have with step-by-step progress?

Getting through school? Bah. I was but one small speck of the disaffected phalanx carried on the college-prep current, until I was nearly carried out on my shield.

Going blind and losing big weight a la 2011? Closer, I suppose, though Part A had no logical connection to Part B. I did get in the habit of being delivered to a gym, doing stuff, and doing it all again a few days later. Until I didn’t anymore, because I started

Making babies? But that was a miracle that happened adjacent to me, practically in spite of me even if inside of me. I ate, we grew. I walked, we grew. I rested, we grew. No logic there but being, as much plant as animal.

But this trans thing IS a piecemeal process, and this surgery is laying part of a foundation for something else to come. Something, but I don’t know what. I can’t explain it to anyone else. I can’t even really verbalize it to myself, which goes to show how it hid in plain sight for uhh 30 years.

It’s an ur-narrative, as simple as a couplet: first this, then that.

It’s an ur-narrative, as confused as truth: first me, then me.

¿Por qué? Porque.

Off to learn everything I can about embodied cognition and fatboy fashion. Chins up!

Photo by Jorge Zapata on Unsplash
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2 thoughts on “1 week post top surgery, or, the whole upstairs affair

  1. Megan Beene says:

    It’s funny to do something in pieces like that when life does seem to happen in bursts. Feels a bit like going to a concert for a band you don’t know and trying to figure out what they’re a bit with each song. Fun? Sorta. Jarring? Yes, especially when a lot of the people around you seem to LOVE the band and know every word. And a stranger experience in general bc even though you don’t know the words or how every song will sound, it still feels good and familiar somehow.

    Idk what to say but that I’m glad you’re doing all this and I’m excited to see what comes. Hope you keep writing over here so I can keep up a bit better. Love you, proud of you, excited for your fatshion explorations. I’ll see if I can rec some stuff ♡♡

    Like

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