“A journey does not need reasons. Before long, it proves to be reason enough in itself. One thinks that one is going to make a journey, yet soon it is the journey that makes or unmakes you.”
[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!
From Annie Dillard’s The Writing Life
soooo much stress eating
I’ve had a pool going for a couple of years now as to whether Georgia would first recognize gay marriage (aka “marriage”) or legalize cannabis.
With the Supreme Court likely to rule soon in favor of enforcing the former, I’m intrigued that a bill just passed to also begin the process of making way for the latter.
Georgia Gov. Nathan Deal on Friday said he would sign into law a bill that would make the Peach State the 24th state to legalize medical marijuana, continuing the rapid expansion of cannabis into the Deep South and underscoring a dramatic shift in pot politics for social conservatives in the US.
I was the only participant in my pool, so financially it’s kind of a wash. But historically? 2015 is shaping up to be a pretty interesting year.
I just got a cheap new pocket knife in the mail and I am too excited about it.
To keep in my purse, mostly, and surreptitiously open packages taped shut by mean thrift store employees who seem to want me to buy a pig in a poke.
But it’s good for anything! Just wait. You’ll need a cutting implement soon, and I’ll come to the rescue.
It seems like sometime in the last few years, there has been an explosion of interest in naming gender(s) and sexualities. But I have yet to see one that seem to fit ME.
Because along with pocket knives and matches and baseball, I also like bugs and tadpoles and treehouses.
What is it be called if I’m a woman-body with the soul of an 8-year-old boy?
I’ve been to at least 6 countries, seen 2 oceans, a couple of seas, and more than a few major landmarks, artworks, and icons.
But never in my 34 years — until tonight — had I seen a woman in a restaurant finish her meal and then start clipping her fingernails.
And all this time I thought it was just because nobody would want to read that menu after you finish with it.
Turns out it has something to do with neurology and cell types.
Via Interview: David Linden, Author Of ‘Touch’ : Shots – Health News : NPR. (of all places!)