Top surgery 2: recovery

I had top surgery on Monday 21st July 2014. This is a record for me, and for anyone who would find an account of the process useful.

Recovery: first 10 days
(Pre-op and op)

I'm still alternating two binders; each morning I take the binder off, use baby wipes to freshen up, check that my dressings still look ok, and stretch out my shoulders a little. I take a few deep breaths (which I can't properly whilst wearing the binder) then line the fresh binder with absorbent lint and brace myself against the wall so my partner can wrap the binder round me as tightly as possible. 

I could do it myself, but when the nurse fitted the binder in hospital, she showed me both options - fastening in front, and fastening behind - and I found the latter vastly more comfortable. I'm sure I could fasten it myself behind my back, if I really tried, but I have a lovely partner who will do it for me, and there's no reason to risk stretching everything out and potentially slowing / harming the healing process if I don't have to. 

Donning the binder is about finding the right balance between being able to breathe and making sure everything is strapped down nice and tight, to prevent fluid build-up and make moving around during the day easier. It might sound counterintuitive, but the tighter the binder, the more comfortable I am (in terms of the wound sites themselves). The binder restricts movement, so the movements I do make are smaller and less painful. I wear my binder as tight as I can bear. Sometimes at night I will loosen it a touch, for comfort. 

My pain is almost always bearable. It's worst first thing in the morning and then from late afternoon onwards. I take 2 500mg paracetamol and 1 30mg codeine every 4 hours (ish). I usually take the first set at 9am, and the last at 9pm, and during the day I skip a codeine or two (the middle doses) so I can take one before I go to sleep and again if I need to during the night. Maximum codeine is 8 in 24 hours, so I've still got some to spare if I get desperate. I lowered my pain relief on the 3rd day, since I felt so well, and almost immediately regretted it, so now I'm back to the full dosage and will continue until it runs out. It's said that you should not 'grin and bear' pain during recovery from surgery, as that will probably make you more tense and slow the healing process. I knew that, but I still thought I knew better and started taking less pain relief too early. Don't do that!

Oh, I'm also taking arnica (2 'pillules' 3 times a day). My paperwork instructed that I do this 7 days before and after surgery. I'm still on the fence about it: I don't believe in homeopathic remedies, but this is prescribed by the hospital, so I guess I do believe in it enough to follow the instructions? If it's a placebo, well, the whole point of placebos is that they do in fact make a difference, and it can't hurt. 

I struggled to pee for a while after surgery - the nurse said it was due to a combination of the general anaesthetic and me being tense - but was going normally by the 2nd day. I'm still quite constipated, though, which is apparently a standard side effect of codeine.

As far as exercise goes, I have been diligently doing the physiotherapy that I was given at the Nuffield. The first time I did it (with the physiotherapist) it was difficult and painful, but the next time (2 days post-op) it was easier, and my range of movement was better, and it's been slowly improving ever since. Now I do it without thinking and it makes me feel really healthy. I guess I do it 6-10 times a day.

On the other hand, today I walked to the village (exactly half a mile) and back, and had to rest for the rest of the day. You don't realise how little you're doing until you try to do something! My advice would be, in trying to get a little exercise, take it very slowly and be prepared to stop a lot sooner than you think you should.

I have been sleeping upright. I'm not sure if this is recommended, but when I sleep flat, I am blissfully pain-free when I wake up, and then sitting up is agonising as the blood rushes back to my chest (this is my totally non-medical guess at what is going on). So I am choosing to sleep propped up, which is less comfortable overnight, but also less traumatic in the morning, and doesn't leave me desperate for my first dose of pain relief. I also try to stay mostly upright during the day (this involves sofas, armchairs and sunloungers). 

My appetite fluctuates a lot. On days 3 and 4 I barely wanted anything to eat, and sometimes I'm ravenous until I try to eat and then can't manage much. Most of the time my appetite is smaller than normal, but I drink as much water as I can (I'm terrible at drinking as much as I should) and eat lots of fruit and vegetables (which is basically my normal diet). Also, ice lollies, as it's been abysmally hot this week.

On day 8 I started to get some localised pain beneath my armpits, where the ends of the wounds are. I also noticed I was swollen above the top edge of my binder, at my armpits. The whole area was achey and tender. When this continued into day 9 I called Ginny (Andrew Yelland's secretary) to find out if I had anything to worry about. She asked me if I had noticed any visible changes through the dressings (I hadn't) and told me to loosen the binder, suggesting that as my swelling had gone down over time, I had probably been binding tighter and tighter and might have gone a bit too far. 

On day 9, incidentally, I met some friends at a local pub for dinner, and although I didn't feel up to walking there or back, I was pretty pain-free the entire time (although quite tired by the end). I feel like I'm getting there.

Coming up on day 10: post-op appointment with Mr Yelland.

Top surgery 1: pre-op and op

I had top surgery on Monday 21st July 2014. This is a record for me, and for anyone who would find an account of the process useful.

Consultation, pre-op assessment and surgery

I had my surgery with Andrew Yelland at the Brighton Nuffield Health Centre. I met him on July 1st for my consultation and pre-op assessment. He was really nice and relaxed: chatty, informative, unfazed by questions and concerns. In fact, according to my mum (who attended the pre-op with me), he was a little too blasé - but my mum is a worrier and his casual attitude didn't worry me or put me off. He had a look at my chest and told me I'd need double incision (which I had already assumed) and showed me how it would be done. He drew pictures and took me through a list of facts, risks etc.

At my pre-op assessment I had my blood pressure taken, was weighed and measured, swabbed for MRSA, and told how to prepare myself for surgery: remove nail polish and jewellery, wash with a special sponge they gave me, don't wear deodorant  / moisturiser / makeup etc. The nurses were lovely. Oh, something I wasn't told in advance was that they'd need to take a urine sample. So save some up for that!

My admission letter told me that I'd be admitted at 7:15 on the morning of my surgery, but when I spoke to Ginny (Andrew Yelland's secretary) the week before, she told me I was last on the list for the day, so could actually check in at 11. That made for less of an early morning, but also meant that the 6 hours of nil-by-mouth occurred over a much less convenient time. I didn't have anything between 9pm on the 20th and 5pm on the 21st (when I came out of surgery). I was starving!

When I was admitted, I was immediately asked to choose my menu for the stay. It made me even hungrier, but at least I could look forward to my tea - pasta primavera and a cheeseboard. Then I was seen by a nurse (she had a student nurse with her as well) who took another set of "obs" as they called them (observations: blood pressure, pulse etc) and measured me for my sexy surgery stockings. She took me through a pile of questions about when I'd last eaten, if I had any allergies, had I washed, had I followed all my pre-op instructions, did I have my binders, etc, and then supplied me with a wristband with my details on it. 

After that, I changed into my gown and delightful paper knickers and stockings, and hung out until Andrew Yelland arrived to draw on my chest. Soon after, my anaesthetist (Martin Street) arrived to say hello, check again that I wasn't allergic to anything, and it wasn't long after that that two porters arrived to wheel me off down the corridor. Nothing makes you feel sillier than being wheeled down a corridor under a duvet on a hot day, when there's nothing wrong with you. 

I was fitted with a cannula and then given the anaesthetic, which felt exactly as the anaesthetist said it would: cold in my arm, then a strange taste in my mouth, then nothing. I was a bit disappointed I wasn't asked to count back from 10. I guess that's just in the movies.

When I came round I was pretty panicky. There was a mask on my face and I couldn't breathe very well - I was very cold and uncomfortable, and I think I was thrashing around a bit. I asked if I could sit up, which made me feel a bit better, and then they gave me a bunch of morphine, which helped me calm down pretty fast. The nurses there were very kind and attentive, giving me little sips of water and chatting gently about music and weather and the like. It seemed like no time at all before they wheeled me back to my room.

The time after that is a bit of a blur. I know I was pretty woozy for quite a few hours - my mum and partner were there and apparently I was quite incoherent and fell asleep a lot. I also told them about four times (allegedly) that I intended to have a pedicure when I was better. They suggested I skip dinner (which was to come round at 6) as it might make me sick, but I wasn't having that! They brought it as promised, and it was the most enormous portion of pasta I've ever seen, and I slowly ate about a third of it. It was the best meal. After that I was allowed a pot of tea, and I managed to not spill any of it on myself, which was amazing. During this time I had a lot of care and attention from various nurses who took more 'obs' and kept my temperature sensible (I was freezing, then too hot, and generally just a pain in the arse). I had an automatic blood pressure check every ten minutes or so, thinning out as time went on. 

My visitors left around 8:30, and I spent the evening listening to the Proms on the radio, slowly eating my way through the cheese and biscuits, reading my book (well, looking at my book) and watching something with Trevor Eve in it on ITV3. I was given some antibiotics at around 10pm, and some time after that I called a nurse (as I had been told) to help me get out of bed for the first time. I was dizzy but it was ok - totally failed to pee though. I tried to change into my own clothes for sleeping, but eventually decided that the gown was probably more comfortable. I had been told - and this surprised me - that I should stay fairly upright for the duration. It wasn't as uncomfortable as I thought - and it meant that I never strained myself trying to get out of bed or reach for things on my table. 

I fell asleep easily enough, and was woken at about 1:30 for pain relief and more obs - after that, I slept straight through until about 6:30, when I had more obs, pain relief and the final shot of antibiotics. Then breakfast at 8, followed by a revolving door of visitors: Andrew Yelland came to see me, told me it had gone well, and undid my binder - blessed relief! He had a look at my dressings, poked around a bit, and told me I could leave it open until the nurse came to fit my post-op binder. It was nice being able to breathe for a bit. The anaesthetist popped in, checked I was ok, and left again; a physiotherapist came and walked me through some exercises to do once I was home. The nurse who had admitted me came to fit my binder, give me my prescriptions and talk me through my post-op care. I wish I could remember her name, because she was particularly great - although absolutely everyone I met at the Nuffield was lovely and helpful and reassuring and friendly. 

I had a nurse carry my bag downstairs, and sat on the terrace with a glass of water, enjoying the sun, until my dad arrived to pick me up. The drive home was appalling. DO NOT ignore the advice to bring a pillow to protect your chest from the seatbelt. I had one, also a very comfortable seat and a very good and considerate driver, and I was still in quite a bit of pain (my journey took about 2 hours). I dozed most of the day when I got home. 

I want to flag up the benefits of using absorbent lint to line the rough edges of the binders (you can buy these from the Nuffield for £10, but they're cheaper from Sports Direct). If I wear the binder as tightly as I feel I should, the edges chafe painfully, especially around the top (I'm very broad-shouldered, so your mileage may vary). If I'd known to do this before the journey home, I would have been in far less pain that day!

Machatunim

I had wanted to see S Bear Bergman speak at Bar Wotever, where I was sure he would be far queerer and less 'family friendly' than he would be at JW3, a Jewish community centre in North West London. But I was away for that event, so off to JW3 I went, along with another queer Jew of my acquaintance who was in a similar position, although more worried than I about drinking the tea of the occupation. (It was Oscars night at JW3, and my friend and I were surrounded by opulently dressed, exquisitely-groomed Jews who politely skimmed their eyes over us, the raggedy queers drinking g&t and peppermint tea in their midst. Apparently there was a real Oscar statue there, but I didn't see it.)

There were maybe 40 people in attendance, and I assumed that people had taken the write-up seriously, and brought their parents and grandparents to the event. It was nice, I thought. Bear's storytelling was marvellous, of course, and there was a lovely jumble of queerness, Jewishness and family in every story. 

It wasn't until the q&a at the end that things went awry. The very first question was "So ... you mentioned the word 'transsexual'. What ... er ... can you ... say more about that?" Bear answered that he is transsexual, and apologised (in a gloriously polite 'sorry not sorry' way) for not including the information as part of his introduction. Then he quipped that the line about his grandma asking him, as a youth, if he had a boyfriend yet, would have made a lot more sense with this information, and something about the amount of head-nodding in the room must have given the game away.

On going round the room, Bear discovered that there were 3 separate groups of people who had had no idea what they were coming to: about half the audience in total. At least one of the groups was a work outing. And in another group, one man explained their presence thusly: "Well, it was this or Wolf of Wall Street."

Another man, sitting right at the back, tried very hard to be polite as he explained that queer means homosexual, and that we don't really use the word here, as it's derogatory. (Outraged gestures no it doesn't! yes we bloody do! from the queers in attendance.)

Bear, to his credit, handled the whole thing tremendously. He was nothing but polite and sympathetic to the confused and they, for their part, were mostly respectful and seemed genuinely interested. There were some awkward questions ("So how long ago were you a woman?") but Bear handled them all with aplomb, and at the end, while the queer side of the audience huddled together to recuperate, it was wonderful to see that the other half of the audience had gathered around Bear. I was in the other half, of course, but I hope they were being nice to him. Maybe apologising a bit, or asking more questions, or just getting to know him.

On our side of the room, we were conducting shaky post-match analysis. I don't think I was alone in finding the q&a quite traumatic: for much of it I was near hysterical with a laughter which wasn't always happy, and others were acting similarly; I can't know their feelings, of course, but my companion confessed afterwards that she had felt the same. After things had calmed down, I found myself so shaky and short of breath that I recognised the sensation of an anxiety attack. Texting each other afterwards, S and I discussed the strange feeling of 'coming down' that we were both experiencing; S said her immediate response had been to want to get drunk, and that she knew she'd feel very tired soon. That's not how I processed it, but it certainly feels familiar! In the immediate aftermath, there was a feeling of euphoria amongst the leftover queers - we were laughing and talking, greeting old and new friends, bonding in a way that reflected the strange intimacy of what had just happened. I'm not overstating the post-traumatic feeling, for myself at least. It felt like we'd survived something together.

The leftover queers

And that brings me to machatunim. Properly, this Yiddish word means 'the parents of your child's spouse', but in his book Blood, marriage, wine and glitter, Bear expands it to refer to a kind of 'chosen family' which resonates particularly with his queerness: whilst queers might not have uncomplicated access to the traditional family framework that most people operate within, in its place we can access a different kind of family - a deliberate family. Bear's most recent book is all about this kind of family: mixed in with tales of his parents and grandparents and brother are stories about people tied to him not by blood but by love and kindness and choosing - wine and glitter, in fact. I've written before about the homo head nod, the sense of safety and support that can come out of being similarly marginalised, and this is what machatunim means to me. 

It means silent, fleeting recognition on the street, and heartfelt welcome in a hug. It means webs of connectivity across facebook and tumblr and gay bars and queer book readings. It means the shaky, euphoric release felt as we exchanged with one another broken fragments of the strange thing that we'd experienced. The ease with which we opened up. Becoming more than a handful of strangers in an anonymous room. Becoming, just for a moment, family.

Context Is(n't) Everything

Just found this in the Draft folder. Many moons out of date, and clearly unfinished, but I actually didn't mind my own voice in it, which is rare enough that I'm going to publish it anyway.

So, that Suzanne Moore, eh? She wrote a little article in the New Statesman, and all hell has broken loose. There are accusations of Islamophobia and language policing, there is sympathy from Caitlin Moran and Frankie Boyle, and there are defensive responses from Moore herself as well as the Julies Burchill and  Bindel (two people that everyone wants on their team). There are also a lot of responses from within the blogosphere; some are thoughtful, and some, like this one, are less so.

I think we can all agree that the attempts by Burchill and Bindel are nothing more than disgusting hate speech doubling down on Moore's own exposed hatred of transsexuality. For me, though, it's the subtler support that is the most upsetting.

I don't want to pick on Stella Duffy, but her argument seems to boil down to her feeling sad that she is now scared to say "trans", even though she ought to be exempt from criticism because 20 years ago she wrote a "lovely, loving, sympathetic trans character". She seems to be proud of the fact that she, a professional LGBT-focussed writer (by which I mean LG-focussed), wrote a trans character twenty years ago. Is this like the I-have-black-friends approach? Or its lesser-know cousin, the my-best-friend-in-nursery-school-was-black? As if the longer-ago something happened, the better your claim to progressiveness is. I see where Duffy's trying to go with this, but really she's just highlighting the vast disconnect between how much insight she has into transgender issues and how much insight she thinks she has. That in itself speaks volumes, and doesn't even take into account the fact that Duffy claims to be "the only person [she] know[s]" who has written such a character. I don't even know where to start with that. Suffice to say, Duffy is not the expert that she thinks she is. And perhaps she ought to hesitate before speaking on trans issues, particularly when "speaking on trans issues" means "coming to the defence of an unapologetic transphobe".

Now, for a more nuanced take on the issue, take a look at Pissers vs Wankers: The state of left-wing feminist debate?. I'm going to throw myself into the quoted circle jerk here, and to hell with the consequences. Here's a quote from glosswitch's worryingly relevant post:

"I wouldn’t have known the word “transsexual” alone could offend. I might have used it – I probably have – in a different context. Now I won’t. But if I were called out on it, I might have thrown a strop."

I think the point about this is that although the word 'transsexual' alone is often used in a purely descriptive (although outdated) manner, one's use of it can be something of a red flag, pointing to worrying attitudes towards trans people (almost always, and not at all coincidentally, trans women).

Partly this is because of the fact that it's outdated: generally, if one has engaged with trans issues at all over the past decade, one knows that the word "transsexual" now has a much more specific meaning and isn't used as a catch-all, having been replaced (ish) by transgender. So I generally assume that if someone uses "transsexual" as a catch-all or a punchline, they haven't bothered to engage with current trans issues and debates, which can be (although isn't always) a red flag.

Secondly, Moore's use of it ("a Brazilian transsexual") is indicative of some nasty attitudes behind the flippancy. For me, using "a transsexual" is unpleasant (like calling people "gays" or "blacks"), and the word "Brazilian" simply reinforces the idea that Moore has only one stock image of transgender people, and it just happens to be the most outdated, racist one of them all (bar perhaps going with the Thai version of the same 'joke').

And the point about context is important. The word "transsexual" is innocently descriptive in certain contexts, and is wildly offensive in others. An article about gender and feminism and the beauty myth and anger is not an innocent context for a throwaway one-liner about "a Brazilian transsexual". 

In my opinion, people's ears pricked up when they caught that usage of a word that isn't always on its own offensive, but can be when used in a certain way. Those of us who have to be alert to transphobia may have picked up on those little signals, and prodded a little, and unhappily discovered the seething pit of anger and disgust and condescension that lies beneath. That, sadly, isn't uncommon. It's like hearing the word "homosexual": inoffensive in itself, but often indicative of offensive attitudes.

Context is everything, but some words create their own context, and use of them can be a handy warning that someone is about to blow your mind with their factually inaccurate, morally indefensible "opnions". They'll probably also be quick to tell you that everyone is entitled to their opinion, and that haven't you heard of free speech?

Progress

In December, I started called the Charing Cross gender clinic repeatedly every day, as often as I could. At first I went out of the office, but after a while I started dialling and redialling from my desk. You know how when a phone isn't answered and isn't answered, after a while you sort of forget it might be answered? It became routine to hit redial and half-listen to the rings while I carried on working. This went on for a couple of weeks.

On 20th December, my last day at the office for 2013, the phone was finally answered. Turned out they had received my confirmation paperwork at the beginning of August, after my referral, and they had received my name change paperwork at the end of October. I wasn't hassling, I said, because I knew how busy they must be, but I just wanted to make sure I was in the system. When might I expect to hear about an appointment? If they'd had my referral before April, she said, they would probably get to me in January. If later, they wouldn't look at it until at least March. 

Lucky it was my last day at work! I'd been putting in mad hours so I felt justified in having a complete meltdown and leaving work at 2:30. I spent the afternoon having tea, biscuits and comfort sex with a dear friend, then went home to regroup. 

I spent Christmas with my family - nearly two glorious weeks with no jobs and no commitments, just games and food and jigsaw puzzles and wine and cuddles with my boy on the sofa. And when the offices started reopening in January, I booked an appointment at Transhealth. 

It's on Wednesday at 14:30. I'm anticipating it intensely - I always know exactly how far away it is - but I'm not sure whether with excitement or fear. Probably both. Since the initial GP consultation my feelings about the whole deal have been oscillating wildly, and that's taken a certain toll on my general health and wellbeing - not to mention the health and wellbeing of those closest to me, who have to deal with my angst all the damn time.

I don't know what's going to happen. I am very frightened - for no good reason - that I won't get what I want. I feel like it's a test I have to pass, but I don't know how to. 

Anyway, I am thinking of blogging my progress, assuming there is any, partly as a way of getting back into this blog, sadly neglected as it has been, and partly as another personal resource for anyone else scouring the net for information. You never know what's going to be helpful or reassuring, or what tiny insignificant detail will be the very thing that some other soul is searching for.

Having said that, I have been pretty flaky lately, so maybe don't hold your breath. But wish me luck for Wednesday.

Doctor Who and the Transgender Horse

What else would I do on a Monday morning but write a blog post about a throwaway joke in Saturday's episode of Doctor Who?

Although I barely kept up with the last season of Doctor Who, and didn't really feel its absence, so far this time I am keeping myself interested. It's only 3 episodes in, so not much of an achievement thus far. If I get bored I'll stop watching it - autumn is full of brilliant (awful) TV to keep me entertained.

So Saturday's episode was good, I thought. I expected it to be a bit silly - remember how, last season, we had deep philosophical heart-wrenching episode followed by funny looking aliens / bow tie jokes with nary a character-development in sight? Well, I'm pretentious, and I always liked the first kind of episode better. I find the silliness of Doctor Who tiring at times. I suppose you could tell me to not watch a kids' show, but a lot of TV does the same thing. One of my favourites, New Tricks, is majorly guilty of this. I guess they're filling an odd spot: family friendly often equals lots of issues to play with and lots of masters to please. Doctor Who often chooses not to integrate silliness with seriousness in one episode, but I think perhaps I've noticed more integration in these first episodes of the new series. All three episodes have dealt with big questions, emotional turmoil and ethical dilemmas - and yet there have been plenty of jokes, both aural and visual, and a fair bit of silliness, particularly in episode two (Mitchell and Webb as cranky robot soldiers, anyone?).

But it's one particular tiny, barely noticeable joke that I want to discuss today. Take a guess? It's the transgender horse, of course!

"He's called Joshua. It's from the bible. It means the deliverer."
"No he isn't."
"What?"
"I speak horse. He's called Susan. And he wants you to respect his life choices. Hup!"

I exchanged a significant look with my viewing partner. Warning: I'm about to overthink this massively, so if that kind of thing makes you roll your eyes, feel free to move on!

So, is this a transgender horse? When I was looking online for a transcript this morning I came across this opinion that no, Susan is not a transgender horse, because the Doctor still uses male pronouns. Ah, but is he misgendering the horse? Obviously the horse wouldn't have referred to itself using a pronoun, so perhaps it's the Doctor's mistake and he should have referred to the horse as "she" not "he"? The author then acknowledges the absurdity of the question:

and the ridiculousness of that very question is also why I really hate the idea of gender issues being joked about, especially through animals because yeah, even if the horse is cis *snort* it's still being really flippant with name choices that don't necessarily match up to other people's gendered expectations and that's definitely a trans* issue 

so even if the joke wasn't directly targeting trans* people, it still perpetuated the idea that asking someone to refer to you by your chosen name (and since it's a name generally associated with "the opposite sex", it hints at pronoun usage as well) is ridiculous, laughable, and a lifestyle choice.

So, ok, maybe this conversation is absurd. But that's no reason not to have it. Hell, we're so starved of any trans* visibility on our TV screens, I'll take a horse if it's on offer.

I think I disagree with dearjimmoriarty on this one. Yes, the joke is flippant. But who are we laughing with? We see the owner rolling his eyes as the Doctor gallops away, but it seems to me like we're laughing at the taken-for-granted notion that we slap names (and genders?) on our animals and assume that we've had the last word. Kind of like the mice in Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy who are running experiments on the Earth, although not as fully explored of course. We laugh at the realisation that animals have 'inner lives': the joke is in the reversal. Having said that, why make the horse trans*? I do think that this is a bit of a fail, since it's clearly a case of "what's funnier than flagging up the notion that animals have their own chosen names rather than our arbitrarily applied ones? I know, it's transgender!" But don't forget that after this little exchange, which is clearly set up to be a joke, the Doctor calls the horse Susan. The joke for the audience may have been the reveal ("haha! transgender horse!") but the Doctor doesn't treat it as a joke. And the Doctor, whilst hardly the moral compass of the programme, does unfailingly sort the wheat from the chaff in terms of what's important. He always hones in on the salient point, whether it's where Oswin gets the milk from, or why there are electric street lamps, or that Amy and Rory need a little push from a social engineer to 'fix' their relationship.

It's also a kinda neat bit of commentary on the issue of names for trans* people. What do we do, but reject the name that has been chosen for us and replace it with our own choice of name? That's our real name, right? The name that we choose, that fits us, that makes us feel known when we hear it. That's more real than Joshua.

And actually, I do think it's a choice. I may not have a choice in how I feel about myself and what my gender is, but I make a choice every day to refer to myself by my chosen name and pronouns. I make a choice to ask others to do the same. Sometimes I make the choice to be strict about it, and sometimes I make the choice to let a slip go and not make a big deal out of it. Sometimes I choose to ask people to respect my pronouns, and sometimes I don't mention pronouns but make sure that they have my name right. No, I didn't say Holly. Trust me, I am making choices all day every day.

Maybe this joke doesn't deserve too many analytical words. But in a way, I think its brevity is its power. Throwaway joke, quick laugh - and then the Doctor calls the horse Susan. As representation, it could be a lot worse.

Female-Bodied

Today I have such dreadful cramps that when I get up out of my chair, I make an involuntary sound of pain. That's pretty pathetic, right? But I'm not going to talk about how pathetic I am - not today. I'm going to talk about what my body means to me.

As a confusedly-gendered person, I spend a lot of time in conflict with my body. Sometimes I hate my breasts, which no amount of binding would disguise, even if binding wasn't so preposterously uncomfortable that I never even made it out of the house whilst sporting it. Sometimes I hate my hips, which are pretty unhappy about fitting into boy-trousers. Sometimes I hate my legs, which remain uncompromisingly short, and which ensure that I have never worn a pair of trousers that I haven't had to shorten, regardless of what gender they're intended for. And yes, sometimes I have hated my periods, hated them to the point of tears. I'm not going to claim that my hatred wasn't gender-related. In a way, how could it not be? In a culture where schoolgirls are shamed for having tampons or pads in their bags, where grown men as well as schoolboys make jokes about PMS and have gross-out competitions about period-sex, where many non-period-having humans genuinely believe that menstruation makes one "crazy", how can I be sure that my resentment of my periods was divorced from that sexist nonsense? I'm sure that it affected me on some level: one can't grow up steeped in misogyny and expect to emerge unscathed.

However, for the most part, my period-hatred was to do with the inconvenience of it all. I was never the girl who belonged in a Lil-Lets advert, dancing around joyfully with nary a rusty stain in sight. I was the girl whose periods were wilfully irregular, turning up at random with no warning seemingly just to toy with me, bringing with them days of disruption, discomfort and pain. Some of that is still true today - they're still painful and annoying, and my cycle is still anything but regular. And I'm still slightly resentful of the extra planning I have to do to accommodate them. But honestly? I actually kind of love having periods. Although I don't exactly enjoy the pain and the clock-watching, I don't hate it. I like the sense of control that I get from dealing with it, even when it's so fundamentally uncontrollable. Okay, so I can't dictate (or even predict!) when my period is going to turn up, but I can predict the kind of steps I'll need to take in order to deal with it when it does happen. And that makes me feel at peace with my body in a way that has very little to do with gender.

I hear a lot of anecdotal evidence from trans-men, trans-masculine folk and the like who hate having periods, much as they hate their breasts, because for them menstruation is incontrovertible evidence of their 'female bodies', which they often don't like to be reminded of. I have a lot of sympathy for that feeling - I have felt it myself, about many aspects of my body. On the other side of the same coin, I've also heard a lot of people describing that "female bonding" thing of having periods: it's something that all women share, and men don't understand! Actually, no. Not all women have periods, for a variety of reasons, and some men do, also for a variety of reasons. I don't really subscribe to either of these views in their entirety, although I understand the drive behind both. I hope that my acceptance of my menstruation stems from a growing empathy with the idea that no biological functions are inherently male or female, meaning that my periods are not an irrefutable sign of my womanhood. They may be an indicator that I'm capable of getting pregnant, but that's an entirely different kettle of fish.

I'm getting so sick of the essentialist language that is used to describe us. Progressives often use "female-bodied" in a well-meaning attempt to show that they know that not all people who have breasts or uteri are women, and I do appreciate the intent. But it's terribly unhelpful for all sorts of people, particularly trans and genderqueer people, who often don't want or need to alter their bodies, and would rather not be put into any particular box due to their personal choices (or lack thereof). I really don't appreciate being reduced to my biology in any case, particularly when it's just yet another stick to be used to beat my supposed gender into me. On a slight tangent, could we stop referring to male-heavy spaces as "sausage-fests"? A) it's gross, and b) it's factually incorrect, disturbingly erasing and personally insulting.

I like my periods ... they don't mean I'm a woman. I don't have a cock ... that doesn't mean I'm any less of a man. I am not female-bodied, and I never have been.

Dear Cis Friends

Dear cisgender friends and acquaintances,

Is it too much to ask, when I tell you that I am using a different name and pronouns now from the ones that you are used to, is it too much to ask that you just say "ok"? Must I every. single. time. hear how difficult it is going to be for you, how confusing it is to suddenly start using different words? Must I be told how supportive you are of my decision, and how brave you think I am?

Must you tell me every. single. time. that I must make allowances for you, and forgive you when you make mistakes, because it will be really. really. hard. for you?

Do you think you are special and different? Do you think you are the only one to say that to me today - this week - this month? Do you think you will show me how tolerant you are, by telling me that you will try your hardest but you will undoubtedly slip up sometimes, and I shouldn't be hurt because you're trying so very hard?

Listen, my lovelies, I know it's hard. I know I'm asking you to check yourself every time you instinctively reach for the words that you think identify me, and I know that it's a challenge and that you will fuck up. I even know that you know that, and that you mean so, so well when you tell me that it will be difficult for you. But how difficult do you think it is for me to hear that? Every time I tell somebody, I get the same response (when I'm lucky, and it's a positive response!). How difficult do you think it is to hear, over and over again, that my life is hard for you to rub along with? How much better do you think I would feel if you just said "ok Ollie" and then tried your best, rather than making sure that I know just how hard you're going to try? There's so much pressure there - so much weight. You know what I hear when you say that? "Ok, I'll tolerate this, if I must, but never forget that I'm doing you a huge favour, and make sure you make it easy for me by forgiving my errors in advance."

Now, I know that that's not what you mean. I know you are genuinely supportive, and genuinely conscientious, and genuinely worried that you will mess up and I will be upset. But can't you see the weight that puts me under? Can't you see how much you're adding to my load? I know you're going to mess it up sometimes. I'm not going to hate you for that, and I'm going to trust you when you say that you mean well and that you didn't do it to hurt me or deny my identity. I believe in your support, and your effort, and your love. Please stop asking me for constant preemptive reassurances that my identity can slip your mind with impunity.

Yours in hope,

Ollie

Clothes

Inspired by this as well as by some recent internet commentary, particularly at No, Seriously, What About Teh Menz?, I think it's time to hash out some of my feelings about clothing. Here we go.

1. Clothes are nice for thin people

2. Clothes are nice for (relatively) rich people

3. Clothes are nice for people who fit neatly into the gender binary

I am none of those things. And yet I love clothes! I went through most of my life thinking I hated clothes and didn't care about fashion. As it turns out, I love clothes and am pretty invested in fashion - up to a point, anyway. This revelation is linked to my adventures in gender. It's not that I fit into boy clothes any better than I fit into girl clothes - often the fit is worse, actually, due to the fact that I am short, have small feet and abundant hips and breasts. It's also much more challenging to go into shop changing rooms with armfuls of men's clothes when I am clearly be-breasted and be-hipped, than it was to go in with armfuls of women's clothes. It's possible that the odd looks I get are a product of my feverish brain rather than actual looks people are giving me, but the effect is the same. It's hard work.

The love, I think, comes from attempting to achieve a look that I actively like, rather than one that I think I ought to like (or at least aspire to). I may not be any more successful at achieving that look, but I feel better about myself - less conflicted - in this failure than I ever did in the previous failures.

So while I may weep in changing rooms when I totally fail to fit into a shirt of any combination of sizes (regular, tailored or slim fit, formal, semi-formal, work, fashion - what an endless list!) the very act of trying on shirts makes me feel a bit stronger in myself than the trying on of, I don't know, scoop-necked t-shirts or diamante-encrusted jeans.*

Having said that, I do like wearing women's clothes sometimes. One of my most enjoyable post-Ollie moments was going to a friend's barbecue party last summer wearing my favourite battered Converse, a fairly short handkerchief dress, and dangly earrings. But then, not everyone at that event knew me as Ollie at the time, meaning that I felt I had more freedom to present as femme than I did in environments where I always had been 'Ollie, the girl who wants to be a boy'. I came closer to a breakdown in that environment than I ever had before, when I was trying to decide on an outfit for a big event and felt that the whole world of femme was closed to me if I wanted to be taken seriously as a trans boy. I still feel that pressure more often than I'd like. But it's getting easier, as I expand my wardrobe incrementally when the sales are on, and start building a collection of clothes, men's and women's, that I can mix and match until I find a combination that's perfect (or at least appropriate) for the occasion.


*There's that femmephobia creeping in again! Obviously I detest diamante-encrusted jeans, because that's a totally rational reaction to such brazen femininity :-/

How facebook shapes my trans identity

I have an event coming up where I will see people that I haven't seen for a long time, few of whom know that I am transgender. I want these people to know who I am, and to call me by my preferred name and pronouns. How do I go about it? "I'm changing my names and pronouns" is how I've done it before, but ever since the first time I did that, I've been aware that it sets up a whole heap of expectations - expectations that I don't want to fill, and wouldn't know how to even if I did.

Here's what I've done in the past. "I'm changing my names and pronouns", a polite request for people to try their hardest to respect it, an acknowledgement that it is hard work, a mention of my new facebook profile and the fact that I'll be inviting them to join it, and a "looking forward to seeing you soon" sign off.

Oh, did I mention? I disclose on facebook. That might seem weird, but really, I never considered any other way. I guess that says something about me! It does make sense, though. Obviously that's not how my close friends or family find out. But when it comes to wanting to be known by my preferred name and pronouns at a certain event or within a particular group of people (a temporary job, a reunion, a night out etc), there honestly is no better way to announce it to the people who are your friends, but not your friend friends. Not the ones who you call up and go for coffee with. The people you know from various corners of your life, but only see in that context. The people who you only wish 'Happy Birthday' to on facebook. Your facebook friends. A semi-formal 'note' to the least well-known ones. A little personality added to the slightly closer ones. And invitations for all to my new profile, where I am slowly growing a community of people who call me by my preferred name or, if they don't call me anything at all, get used to seeing me as that person.

I think that might be the most important part. Due to the way I work and live, I have numerous non-overlapping groups of friends and acquaintances. Some of them I see only once a year. I appreciate that getting used to calling someone by a new name is hard work, and it's proportionally harder for people who have known me for longer. So for someone who hasn't seen me for a year, but has known me for 10, getting used to interacting with Ollie, even digitally, might be quite helpful. Particularly after the occasion has passed and we might not see each other for another 12 months!

It's selfish, too, of course. I don't want to make 50, or even 10 phone calls every time I want to disclose to a new group of people. It's not just that I'm self-conscious, although I would be. I think the phone call, or even worse, the in-person disclosure, puts pressure on people to respond. Everyone has to find something to say in response, and sometimes, the only thing you might be able to come up with is "Oh. .... Good?' I wouldn't criticise that! But the facebook message doesn't put that pressure on someone. It gives them the space to read, take in, consider - in their own time. Most people reply with something casual, often including the words "no problem", and often using my preferred name. It may not sound like much, but it's surprisingly comforting!

Now, on to the problem with this approach. I don't identify as male. What I do identify as is not completely clear. Sometimes it is boy, occasionally boi, often queer, often trans, sometimes nothing at all. I'm not convinced about what pronouns I want to use, or whether I will ever have any surgery. I don't know if I'll legally change my name or my gender. But I don't know how to say that in a short, relatively formal email and, more to the point, I'm not sure I want to. It's stupid of me, because I am setting up those expectations that I mentioned earlier. My message indicates a narrative of trans identity that is at least recognisable by the mainstream: girl becomes boy. Surely if I added a few lines to explain that it's not as black and white as that for me, I could make my point. But I don't want to invite the questions. I already have to deal with plenty of ignorant, nosy, inappropriate enquiries about surgery, whether I'm 'out' to my family, what my partner thinks, etc, often from people who I barely know. I don't want to add gender-uncertainty into the mix.

Sometimes, I like to talk about my gender-identity - what it means to me, how I (want to) present, how I feel about gender roles, whether I would be a 'father' to my children. But I don't want those things to be open to all comers. I want to discuss them gently, respectfully, with my closest friends, and only when I am feeling safe and comfortable. I don't want "so, what does queer mean?" to blindside me when I'm tired or afraid or hating myself, and I can't trust my 'Facebook friends' to know when that might be. For me, it is safer to keep the border clear and defined, not to blur it with my uncertainty and doubt. It's easier to laugh/brush off questions about something I'm not (transsexual) than about something that I am ( ... ?).

Is this messed up? Yes, definitely.

Would it be easier to not disclose at all, and keep being known by a name and pronouns that I don't identify with? No, not at all.

I hope that it isn't always this way.

A little more on femininity

As I was walking down the highstreet today, feeling another little flutter of femme-loathing, it occurred to me to wonder whether there is possibly an element of jealousy mixed up in my hugely emotional reaction to extravagant femininity.

If I was female-identified, I would almost certainly put that down to poor body-image, low self esteem or something in that area. I'm not convinced that there isn't a little bit of that going on, but I don't think it's the main cause.

I think that some part of me believes that I am not allowed femme*. I think that, in my brain, identifying as male/masculine/boy means that I can't embody anything femme without compromising that identity in some way. I have noticed this in the past, particularly, for some reason, when I'm dressing more formally. I have rejected wearing a dress to a formal occasion, choosing instead a more traditionally masculine ensemble of shirt/tie, not because I thought I'd be more comfortable in those clothes but because I felt pressure to present the gender I had announced rather than the gender I had been assigned. This has only been the case since I've been more open in more places about my gender identity. I don't want to undermine myself.

On a more rational level, I don't believe wearing a dress (for example) detracts from my masculinity or my boy-ness one bit. And to that end, I am going to try and do those things more often. I've no doubt that this will confuse people, and maybe they will ask me questions about it, and maybe I will say, "You know what? Today I'm a boy in a dress".



*That sounds grammatically incorrect, but I mean it to encompass all the things I'm not allowed: to be femme, to wear femme things, to have femme traits, to walk, talk, feel, breathe femme. Perhaps that doesn't actually make my meaning any clearer. And perhaps it is feeding into a false narrative of what femme even is - perhaps there will have to be more thoughts on this later.

Surgery

Having recently 'come out' once again in another of my social circles, I had to endure a whole new bunch of people navigating my identity, apologising for getting my name wrong, and asking well-meaning questions. On the whole, it went well, and there were no ill-effects (although at some point I will want to write about the minefield that is 'people getting your name wrong'). In many ways, it was wonderful! Inevitably, however, there were a few sticky moments. The most irritating comment came from someone who I didn't know all that well, having worked with him once a few years before but not seen him since. One night at the pub after rehearsal, he said to me "So, I guess you're sick of people asking you this, but are you going to go all the way towards, you know, actually becoming a man?"

So, I guess I should get used to people asking me about surgery.

To be fair, they do it in a variety of innovative ways - rarely does anybody actually use the word 'surgery'. My favourite one came from someone who had just met me, having heard all about me from a mutual friend. Having told me that I was 'not what she expected' and that I looked 'like a gay girl', she asked, in all sincerity, 'will you stay with C afterwards?'

The levels of offensiveness in those three phrases hit me right in the heart. I actually couldn't speak for a moment or two. We were at a party and there were other people around, so after spluttering briefly I think I evaded the question and we moved on. But that was 6 months ago and it's still bothering me now. It's not that I want particularly to be what someone expects, or that I'm offended that I look like a gay girl. In all honesty I might take that as a compliment - it's nice to be visibly queer, even if it's not quite the right kind of queerness that people see. But that final question was too far. Quite apart from the rudeness of it, it enraged me to have my relationship with C taken so lightly. Even assuming I were to transition surgically, hormonally and socially, why should anyone think that might change my feelings towards my partner of over two years? C was there with me at the party, and we were our normal tactile and loving selves, so it's not like this woman thought I had C hidden away at home, unaware of or unhappy with the situation.

But most of all, it's that little word 'afterwards'. There's no need to wonder what she meant by 'afterwards', right? After you change. After you actually become a boy. After the surgery. At no point had we discussed my having surgery. We were not friends. We had just met. The punch was the casual assumption that a) I was not a boy yet, b) I would be a boy once I had surgery, and c) there was no other way to be a boy. And despite all my knowledge to the contrary, despite my conviction that this is simply not true, and despite the plethora of knowledgeable and compassionate people, internet-based and otherwise, who are right there with me in my conviction, somehow it's these tiny, casual, curious remarks which make the most impression on me. I guess this is what they call a 'microaggression'? It doesn't feel very 'micro' to me. Still, I guess I'd better get used to it!

Ticking Boxes

I just came across this entry in my notebook, dated 17/6/11. It seemed appropriate.

Having filled in four pages - no, six pages - of questions about my experience traveling with London Midland today, I rebelled only on the final section. I had been generous with my answers, despite frequent disappointments regarding lateness, slow-running services, and entire service cancellations seemingly at random. I had been generous. But I lost patience when I got to the end, where it asked whether my gender was Male (M) or Female (F). 


Needless to say, I didn't answer. Then it asked for my name, and I didn't answer that either. My reasoning went something like this: my gender is not something I can limit to male (m) or female (f), so I won't answer. My name, whilst to me signifying little more than a convenient way of attracting my attention, may well be used by well-meaning data-inputters as a way of gendering me. They would probably assume I had accidentally missed the gender question, and fill it in for me. My email address would prompt the same response. So, no personal information for you, London Midland.


Which brings me to the real question: why do they need personal information? What could it add to their data to know my gender, my name, my email or my address? I suffered a slight twinge of guilt, thinking "perhaps they won't be able to use my form, since I didn't fill it in fully." Then I thought, "if that's the case, fuck 'em." Serves them right. That'll teach them.


A minor rebellion, but true and mine own. 

On femininity

A few nights ago I was coming home from work, feeling fairly unremarkable. Walking up the escalator at Paddington station, I couldn't help noticing the legs of the person in front of me, which were right in my eye-line. The legs were clad in knee-high white socks with some kind of repeating red design - little cherries or hearts or something. They had a red ribbon at the top which tied at the back of the leg, and on the feet at the bottom of the legs were little shiny red shoes with round toes.

It was a charming get-up, and I absolutely despised it. I don't mean I thought, 'wow, I would never wear that', although I did. What I thought was not exactly clear - I'm not sure there were any comprehensible words. There may have been a sneer on my face. I felt hatred. I hated the things themselves, I hated the person wearing them, I felt disgust for the obvious care which had been taken in the choosing of the things.  What I felt was hatred of femininity.

I know very well how utterly wrong this is. Fine, don't choose femininity (or whatever) for yourself, don't find it attractive, don't feel drawn to it in yourself or others - but don't hate it. Don't fall into that trap, because a trap it most certainly is. Like to think of yourself as liberal, progressive, feminist (gods forbid), open-minded? Don't be reduced to a knee-jerk, femme-phobic, misogynist, reactionary puddle of loathing. It's (dare I say it?) not big and it's not clever. It's stupid, small, petty, insulting, sexist.

It's what we've taught ourselves.

For my own part, in trying to look a little deeper, I came up with an excuse for my pathetic meanness of spirit, and here it is. It's not all that exciting, and it's also pop psychology at its finest. What I think is that my reaction is a leftover of hatred of femininity in myself. Now, I don't always hate my own femininity. Sometimes I adore it; sometimes I'm perfectly fine with it, sometimes it'll do. Sometimes, in the words of delisubthefemmecub, "it's all I have". But sometimes I want to run like hell away from it. Sometimes it's the thorn in my side, when my side is basically all thorn. Sometimes I hate the bits of myself that can be called 'feminine', whether that's clothing or make-up or my own body. Sometimes I want to cut those bits off. And sometimes, when I'm not feeling strong, that hatred turns on those who express femininity willingly (or what I perceive to be willingly - their reality might be entirely different).

I know this isn't right. It's cruel and hurtful to myself and others. Does it make me feel good to denigrate others in my head? No. For a moment it gives me a feeling of superiority, but it's a nasty, mean-minded feeling, and it doesn't feel good even to me. Even at the time. It's damaging and I don't want to engage in it. When will I stop engaging in it? Will I ever?

My Genital Affirmation

Here is a link to a YouTube video I came across on Genderfork:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j_IA1bJH4bU

It is called My Genital Affirmation, and its tagline is A Vagina Dialog: A Transgender Vagina Talks Back. (I use the pronouns he/his throughout (for Simon, not his vagina!), but I don't actually know if that's what Simon prefers. Apologies if I've got it wrong.)

Description: One person speaks from various positions in one room, with one camera angle. He wears a few different outfits in different shots - a suit and tie; trousers and a shirt, a white vest top. Sometimes he wears glasses.

Transcript:

"First things first. My vagina prefers male pronouns. If you don't understand that, then you probably won't understand anything my vagina has to say, and should probably just stop playing this clip right now.

My vagina is tired of the people who assume that because I'm (whispers) a man, I must hate my vagina. He is not hated. He does not hate himself. My masculinity and my vagina live together in harmony. Yes, sometimes they fight; sometimes they get along fine; but regardless, they always do and always will cohabit as me.

My vagina knows that he will be asked over and over again if he is still living down there and if he is, how he's doing. He's fine! I love my vagina and the history he represents. The strength, power, potential life that all vaginas represent. Yes - I'm saying that. He is proud to be a vagina.

My vagina can take a lot, and since he is connected to my hips and my thighs, he can give even more. He can give even more.

My vagina has grown accustomed to tentative bewildered hands and mouths fumbling. He does not expect anyone to know how to handle him at first contact, or even know how to address him without proper instructions. Don't worry, he will instruct you. He just wants an open mind. What he wants and what he needs sometimes changes from day to day.

My vagina wants to be listened to and heard and understood and validated.

My vagina knows that he is misunderstood and wondered about. He is used to it. Don't think he doesn't hear what people are saying. He hears it.

My vagina recognises that many people think that I am weak and less than other men because he is part of me. Sometime this gets to him. Sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes he is frustrated and angry. Sometimes he is just happy to be alive.

My vagina is silent, and he is sick of his silence.

My vagina is invisible and is sick of his invisibility.

My vagina is ashamed and hidden, but doesn't want to be.

I am all man. I am all man. I am all man. And I love my vagina. I am all man and I love my vagina."

I'm not really sure what to say about it. I love it, obviously. A few of the comments mention 'The Vagina Monologues' - one suggests that Simon tries to get My Genital Affirmation included in that, since it doesn't have any pieces on trans men. My own memories of seeing and reading The Vagina Monologues are positive, but it was long enough ago that it didn't occur to me to question that lack - or even, honestly, to notice it. I wonder what a queer/trans Vagina Monologues would look like.

The section on the "potential life that all vaginas represent" is interesting to me. It seems odd in this context, given the troubled history of equating 'women' with 'vaginas' with 'child-bearing'. Simon is making a powerful case for the diversity of the vagina. I hope I'm not misrepresenting his position, but I read this video as saying 'a man can have a vagina, and it doesn't make him less of a man, or his vagina less of a vagina. But suggesting that all vaginas represent potential life troubles me. What about vaginas that are part of people (men, women, trans, queer, whatever) who can't or don't want to 'create life'? Do their vaginas still 'represent potential life', despite their feelings? Does 'biology' trump desire?

I wonder if Simon is commenting obliquely on that with his immediately-following remark "Yes - I'm saying that". Is he acknowledging the controversial nature of his statement, and reinforcing his belief nonetheless that "all vaginas [] represent potential life"? Is his reiteration a defiance along the lines of 'yes, I'm a trans man and my vagina can create life'? Because that's lovely. I'm just not sure equating all vaginas with potential life is in line with the joyful liberating cry of 'this is who I am, and I love it'. 'This is who I am, and this is who you are' doesn't quite work as well, for me.

I love the sexiness of this video, and I love the pride in the sexiness. I love the unapologetic attitude of it - the 'fuck you'ness of it, if you will. I love Simon's curly hair and his white vest. I think he's kind of a hottie, actually! And, to top it all off, his vagina sounds like a total dude. Definitely keeping an eye on that channel.