The Little Prince and the Fox

It’s hard to put into words how hard this phase is. It might be the hardest experience since my horrible COVID illness in the spring of 2020 (& long COVID throughout 2020). 

Today is exactly three weeks since I got my masculinizing mastectomy — at this time three weeks ago I was getting my chest masculinized under general anesthesia. In some ways, it seems like yesterday. And yet, it also seems like a different life. It feels like I went through a portal. That’s really the only, or the best, way I can describe it. 

This portal leads to a new life for me, to a “new me” in many ways, to an even more wholly authentic me. But before opening up into the “new world” ahead of me, it leads to a dark antechamber, which is where I am now. A dark antechamber of gloomy thoughts, of looming depression, of existential crisis (mainly around my professional career), of unfathomable exhaustion (mental and emotional as well as physical), and of nagging FOMO. 

When I see myself in profile in the mirror with that sweater I got in a men’s department in December falling straight down my flat chest, or when I rest my hands on my hard & flat chest as I fall asleep at night, I feel happy. Profoundly happy and deeply myself. I love how this chest looks under clothing and how it feels to my gentle touch. But seeing it naked is painful. The bruising, the redness, the long scars, the sore scabs, the lingering swelling: it’s all visible proof of how much my body is struggling now, how much it’s suffering.

Visible, tangible proof of that dark antechamber in which I have to sit and wait patiently — for how long?  

Happy Singles Awareness Day!

“[…] When two people visibly ride the Relationship Escalator together, this fact alone often yields some increase in their security, prestige and comfort. These advantages spring from social couple privilege: the assumption that people who are coupled up are more important, and worthy of greater consideration and reward, than other people. […]

Consequently, all else being equal, people who are coupled up Escalator-style (or who appear to be) often receive more respect, validation, support and recognition than people who are unpartnered, or unconventionally unpartnered. […]

Couple privilege is a subtle but powerful social force. It offers tangible and intangible benefits and opportunities — from better access to health insurance and tax cuts, to a better chance of being considered likable, competent or trustworthy. […]

Generally, people in traditional intimate relationships tend to face less suspicion, scrutiny, resistance and prejudice. Singlism is rampant: the common stigma associated with adults who are entirely unpartnered — or at least, who do not appear to have a ‘committed’ (potentially ‘Escalator’) relationship. […]”

[From the book “Stepping of the Relationship Escalator — Uncommon love and life” by Amy Gahran]

Important note: what is being said here is not that normative relationships (e.g. the so-called Relationship Escalator) are wrong, but rather the fact that they are considered “normal” is the problem.  

Happy Singles Awareness Day!

Yesterday I experienced the first extremely tangible example of the world behaving differently towards me now that I have a “different”, or new, body. 

About a month ago, I proactively scheduled physical therapy to regain mobility and strength in my shoulders, as suggested after my masculinizing mastectomy. When I called to make the appointment, I specified the type of therapy I needed and was given an appointment for Monday, February 13th. But when I arrived for my visit yesterday, at the front desk I was told that the provider I had been assigned refused to see me because (I quote) “after reviewing the medical chart, the therapist felt they couldn’t help” me. Fortunately, another physical therapist happened to have a free spot at the same time yesterday morning and was able to see me — and actually was a wonderful human and professional. But this is besides the point. The point here is that I was refused medical care based on my medical chart. Now, let’s be clear on what my medical chart shows. Among other things, it is clearly stated that my “sex assigned at birth” is “female” but my “gender identity” is “non-binary”; that I use “they” pronouns”; that I am taking testosterone for gender dysphoria; and that I recently had masculinizing mastectomy, also for gender dysphoria. In short, my medical chart clearly states that I am a trans person. 

I have done a lot of physical therapy for lots of different types of injuries in several different parts of my body, including my spine & back, my neck & upper shoulders, my left ankle, my left hamstring, tennis-elbow, and regaining mobility & strength in my shoulders after having my arm in a sling for over four weeks when I fractured my humerus. Never once have I been told that the “physical therapist doesn’t feel able or comfortable or qualified to treat the injury”. Every single time, a physical therapist (without any particular specialization mentioned) visited me and helped me regain mobility & strength in whatever body part was concerned. So being told that for this particular type of diagnosis or recovery the “physical therapist doesn’t feel able or comfortable or qualified to treat the injury” to me seems like blatant transphobia that is trying to camouflage itself as some sort of medical excuse. 

Moreover, after doing the therapy session with the physical therapist who did visit me, I can state that most of the exercises used to regain strength & mobility in the shoulders for my current type of recovery are the same as the ones I had to do when recovering strength & mobility in the shoulders after my humerus fracture: factual proof that no particular specialization is needed to treat physical recovery from masculinizing mastectomy (at least as far as regaining strength & mobility in the shoulders is concerned) and that any qualified physical therapist could do the work with me. 

Even a day later, I am still appalled and furious about this. 

I am very proud of how I acted during and after the incident yesterday. At first, I calmly listened to the receptionist when she told me about the change in scheduling and did my physical therapy session with the provider who was willing to see me. Afterwards, I went back to the reception to schedule future appointments with this same (lovely) provider. And finally, I calmly asked the receptionist if she could explain again to me the reason for the first provider refusing to see me. She gave me a similar reply to earlier that morning but using the term “diagnosis” instead of “medical chart” and adding that the mistake had probably been made by the person in the general call center when scheduling because of lack of knowledge of the details. I calmly but firmly replied that I had been clear when scheduling my appointment a month ago and that this incident to me felt very much like a case of transphobia. So the receptionist asked me if I wanted to report the incident and I replied “Yes”. 

Only a few years ago I would have flown off the handle and/or burst out into tears. Or maybe ignored it and let it go in a feeling of powerlessness. But not yesterday. Yesterday, I took in the upsetting information without letting it overwhelm me; I processed it (also with the help of a lovely friend who was there with me); I got the best out of the physical therapy session that I was able to do; and then, once I was more calm and also had more information from having actually seen & done a physical therapy session for this particular type of recovery, I went back and advocated for myself, calmly and politely but firmly. And I’m not done with it: I am going to report this incident and that particular physical therapist higher up: to my health insurance and to my employer’s HR department. 

This incident reeks of transphobia: if it isn’t, they’ve got to prove it. 

Two weeks after my gender-affirming top-surgery…

I think part of what I’m experiencing now might be post-op depression…

Ouch. It’s painful. And scary.

It is often said that grief comes in waves. 

An acquaintance once put it as, “Grief comes in layers became if it came all at once we wouldn’t be able to bear it”. 

Whether it’s layers or waves, it comes and goes and sometimes one level hits harder than the others, deeper than expected. That’s what’s happening to me today. 

Maybe it’s the suddenly increased time alone I’ve had over the past few days after being in almost constant company of loving, supportive friends and caregivers for ten days around my surgery. 

Maybe it’s the second round of sadness from the loss re. the relationship with my non-binary climber friend from California. 

Maybe it’s the almost sudden realization that the rupture with the cute, genderqueer lesbian who picked me up at the climbing gym in December is actually real and most probably irreversible. 

Maybe it’s the fact of finally allowing myself to seriously entertain the idea that I will likely never see my father alive again.

Maybe it’s also the dawning on me of the sudden change to which I exposed myself, my body — maybe even the loss of “my tiny tits”. 

And also, once again, the grief for that boy who wasn’t allowed to be for so very long, as a vivid memory of teenager me pops into my mind — me going to get my first real haircut at age fifteen, cutting off my long hair for the first time and getting a “boy’s cut”, and then coming home to a barrage of criticism and harsh comments which continued for years around my hair being ”too boyish”, “not feminine enough”, etc.

That boy was trying to be and all he got from his parents and many close relatives was criticism and limitations. He might not have survived if it hadn’t been for the support of my friends, my godmother, and some other mentor/surrogate-parent figures. 

This morning, I woke up with the song “Yours & Mine” by Lucy Dacus playing in my head.

“I’m afraid of pain

Both yours and mine

Both yours and mine

I’m afraid of pain

From where it comes

And where it falls

Somebody lit the store on fire

Somebody lit the house on fire

Somebody lit the crowd on fire

Marching away and you’ve got nothing to say

You’ve got nothing to say

Have you got nothing to say?

For those of you who told me I should stay indoors

Take care of you and yours

Take care of you and yours

But me and mine (me and mine)

Me and mine (me and mine)

We’ve got a long way to go

Before we get home

‘Cause this ain’t my home anymore

This ain’t my home anymore

This ain’t my home

Somebody lit the store on fire

Somebody lit the house on fire

Somebody lit the crowd on fire

Marching away and you’ve got nothing to say

You’ve got nothing to say

Have you got nothing to say?

For those of you who told me I should stay indoors

Take care of you and yours

Take care of you and yours

But me and mine (me and mine)

Me and mine (me and mine)

We’ve got a long way to go

Before we get home

‘Cause this ain’t my home anymore

This ain’t my home anymore

This ain’t my home

Take care of you and yours

Take care of you and yours

Take care of you and yours

Take care of you and yours

But me and mine (me and mine)

Me and mine (me and mine)

Me and mine (me and mine)

Me and mine (me and mine)

Me and mine (me and mine)

Me and mine (me and mine)

Me and mine (me and mine)

Me and mine

We’ve got a long way to go

Before we get home

‘Cause this ain’t my home anymore

This ain’t my home anymore

This ain’t my home anymore

This ain’t my home anymore”

This morning I’m sad. 

This sadness started yesterday evening after spending a couple hours with someone who had been very special to me. 

Ten months ago, this person had come to visit me in Colorado, staying with me a whole week a few months after my move from California. This time, they were in town for a family reunion and made some time to see me in between family commitments. 

This person was my non-binary climbing friend from California. We met in August 2021 through common climbing friends and then we started climbing together and/or meeting up for a meal & walk together beyond or besides the events with the rest of the climbing group. When we met in August 2021, we clicked and we both actively put in the effort to build a friendship that included but also went beyond climbing. It felt good but also a little scary to me. In fact, while the summer of 2021 had been really wonderful for me — healing, joyful, and empowering, building on all the growth and awareness I had reaped during that spring — the fall of 2021 was extremely tough and stressful for me. 

By the autumn, I had a crush on this person, but I didn’t dare bring it up or let it show for fear of “ruining our friendship”, out of wariness for my own delicate emotional/mental state, and also because of “bad timing” since I was actually starting to plan my move to Colorado. By the time I was on my way out to Colorado in January 2022, our friendship had gotten very close and intimate on the emotional and practical levels, including a couple (platonic) sleepovers. While still remaining totally platonic, our friendship deepened after — and despite — my move to Colorado, with plenty of video chats and my friend expressing their eagerness to come visit me ASAP. Which they eventually did, when I finally felt ready for it, in April 2022. And then it became clear that the crush was mutual. Which was lovely. 

After our physical intimacy in April 2022, my friend quickly started using phrases like “I love you” & “in love with you”, and expressing the availability & desire to come visit me again ASAP. Again, it felt lovely but also a little scary — maybe “too much” or “too soon” — for me. But I think the main dealbreaker was our different take on (non)monogamy. 

We broke up at the end of May 2022. At the time, and for several months afterwards, I had neither the practical time nor the emotional bandwidth to fully process the rupture and consequent loss: I was able to do so only in bits and pieces spread across several months. And our final “breakup repair” has been very recent — we haven’t really even started “being friends” again (e.g. calling or chatting or texting much). 

So while I felt not only ready but sincerely happy & eager to see them again yesterday, the meeting was actually somewhat painful for me. There was some awkwardness, moments in which it was a little hard to keep the conversation going. But especially, at least for me, there was a deep sense of loss: our differences and distance became so clear and apparent. And, in particular, it became painfully evident to me that our friendship will never be as close as it had been (even on the platonic intellectual/emotional level). 

With many friends with whom I’ve had a phase of “benefits”, after the physical/sexual intimacy ended and all parties involved had time to process the loss/rupture, the closeness as platonic friends or buddies actually deepened. Which led not only to a more profound closure from the loss/rupture but also to a more profound sense of healing from it — including a shared, mutual healing. Yesterday’s meeting with this friend, though, made it clear that I will never have that with them. And it also was a clear reminder of what I (we) have lost compared to a year ago. 

While I don’t regret anything of what I did or said in the relationship with this friend, I still do feel a very intense sadness today.

Somehow, this is still “the old me”; and yet, in many ways, I will never be the same again, neither to myself nor to the world around me.

Almost two weeks ago, when the unexpected and joyful possibility of having physical intimacy before my masculinizing mastectomy dissipated as the plans with that person crashed, I remember feeling a particular, intense grief at this lost opportunity because, as I clearly expressed it to a close friend, “I will not be the same person after my top-surgery”. 

I knew I would be different. Not only physically different — which would already be a huge change since I’m getting a radically “new” body after having been used to the “old” one for a quarter of a century. Also mentally, emotionally different. I had a clear, albeit in some ways still partly vague, intuition that the gender-affirming surgery would radically change how I felt about myself, within myself, and thus in the world. 

I felt that having gender-affirming surgery would be like going through a portal for me. Not a transition, but rather going through a portal: on one side, the “old” me, the person who had to live with themselves and the world around them with/in a female body that didn’t really align with their identity; on the other side, the “new” me, a person whose body would finally fully align with their identity and thus allow them to move in the world in different ways, new ways. Which includes relating to people on various levels of intimacy in new & different ways. 

I am not, and will never again be, that person that the cute lesbian picked up at the climbing gym. 

I had this clear intuition before my gender-affirming surgery and now it’s getting confirmation as I embrace my new body and the feelings associated with moving with/in this new body. Most of the time it’s a beautiful, empowering, liberated feeling; but sometimes it’s also scary and/or full of grief, and hard to grapple with. (Today is emotional and hard to grapple with.) And whether liberating or scary, these emotions need the support and reflection from people who know me well, who understand me, who care about me, who might share parts of the experience, who are willing and available to be near me & hold me now.

Nothing could have really prepared me for what I felt when I saw my “new” chest yesterday after the surgeon removed the bolsters from my “new” nipples. The therapy and counseling I’ve been doing; hearing the experiences and seeing the results from other people who got masculinizing mastectomy; the sharing with other non-binary/trans persons; the wonderfully supportive chats with my dearest friends (of all genders and across the globe). These were, and still are, invaluable: all of these people and experiences have been extremely important, fundamental, for me to get where I am, to actually have the clarity and courage to undertake this step in my journey — I couldn’t have done it without them all. And all of their sharing and listening and reflecting back to me what or who they saw in me was wonderfully encouraging, validating, and affirming: as such, it helped prepare me for the positive feelings post-op. But what I saw in the mirror yesterday brought such intense, profound, mind-boggling emotions that I never could have imagined or expected at such a deep level. 

I couldn’t believe what I saw — in a good sense. There, opposite me in the mirror, stood a boy, a person with a “real boy’s chest”. Despite the scars being still dark and very long and visible; despite the lingering bruising; despite the slight swelling from fluid accumulation; despite the nipples still being shriveled and black. I really have a boy’s chest now. My torso really is a boy’s torso now. 

It’s hard to put into words what I felt yesterday, what I’m feeling now. Maybe it’s how Pinocchio felt when the Fairy Godmother finally turned him into a “real boy”… 

As I saw myself in the mirror yesterday, all of a sudden I saw my real self. It felt so intense and deep and mind-boggling that, beaming in the doctor’s office, I exclaimed, “Oh my gosh, that’s the real me!” And then, after a moment’s pause, “I really am trans!” — glowing with joy and also some surprise.

My entire life, I’ve been striving, and often even struggling, to be (or to be allowed to be) my whole, authentic self, often fighting or pushing back against conventions and expectations that family, society, and culture laid on me. I’ve been fortunate that along people ostracizing my authentic self I have also had plenty of wonderful people nurturing, encouraging, and supporting the “real me”. Since moving to California from Europe seven years ago, the process of finding, being, and openly expressing my full authentic self has accelerated, partly being easier in the places where I’ve lived here in the U.S. What I saw yesterday, though, made me realize that the process of finding, being, and openly expressing my full authentic self has, until now, been through the things I did: the clothes I wore; my haircuts; the ways I acted; the friends and acquaintances and communities I chose; the activities (both professional and recreational) I undertook. Because those were the only ways I had, or knew, to be and express my authentic self. And they were fine, they were and still are great. But they can only go so far. Changing one’s body to align with one’s identity goes much deeper and still feels somewhat unfathomable (at least, that’s how it feels to me). 

Finally, after decades, having the body that feels to really belong to me, is incredible. It’s one of the most amazing — maybe the most amazing — feelings I have ever had.  

Somehow, this is still “the old me”; and yet, in many ways, I will never be the same again, neither to myself nor to the world around me.

Recently, I’ve been devouring the book “Polysecure” by Jessica Fern and I would strongly recommend it to everyone, even beyond polyamory or romantic relationships. 

I think many of the concepts and tools presented can be helpful for any relationship based on mutual attachment, and for myself I’m finding many parallels with my close, platonic or non-romantic friendships. It’s also brought me a significant sense of relief with respect to my capacities to be in healthy attachment-based relationships. While I often “messed things up” with romantic partners, I’m realizing that with close friends I have often been able to build healthy, mutual attachment relationships that are “safe havens” and/or “secure bases” for both or all parties involved. So I guess that when my therapist said to me, “I think you are ready for a romantic relationship if the right situation arises”, they really were right.

Adding the romantic level seems to be the tricky part for me in relationships, maybe partly because of the difficulties in managing the closer intimacy and/or increased time-commitment. But realizing that is where I “get stuck” or “mess up” with my (potential) romantic partners helps to know where to start to solve the issues. And realizing that I am, and have been, able to build to build healthy, mutual attachment relationships with many friends is a wonderful relief and gives me the hope of not being too “broken” after all…