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