The Little Prince and the Fox

[Trigger warning: depression]

I’m in a very dark spot again. 

This is probably another bout of post-op depression and I’m really struggling. 

Physically struggling with exhaustion and these stress headaches I tend to get in my left temple with a searing pain (migraines?). 

But especially struggling mentally and emotionally, which is also causing most of the physical symptoms such as my left-temple stress headaches. 

I’m going through an existential crisis. It’s not the first of my life, which is partly why I recognize it so well. 

My work feels totally pointless to me. And this is not only the depression speaking: I’ve struggled with finding a deeper motivation, a longer-term goal to the types of scientific/technical work that I’ve done for years. It comes in waves.

Sometimes it’s the novelty of the topic, the excitement of a new project and/or of a new team; sometimes it’s simply the fun aspects of learning something new (I love to learn new stuff); sometimes it’s just the practical aspect that a particular job will allow me to achieve other goals that in a specific moment of my life are important to me: all three of these aspects or combinations of them often buoy me for months, even years, in a job. In fact, all three of these aspects led me to choose and also sincerely enjoy my current work for several months. But now I have no enthusiasm left. I don’t believe in the topics on which I’m doing research, i.e. I don’t believe either in their being useful/helpful/beneficial to the world or in their leading to anything “good” nor do I enjoy most of the daily tasks connected to my work. Moreover, I’m feeling frustrated with my supervisor and almost guilty for feeling this way because on the personal level he’s such a nice human; but professionally I feel, in turns, either micromanaged by him in ways that feel limiting (& almost insulting) to me or abandoned to my own devices when I would actually need support (like some scientific brainstorming or advice). And finally, in these days specifically, I’m feeling terribly stressed out about a huge conference I have to attend next week, leaving in two days and staying away a full week and presenting scientific results that aren’t ready.

This conference doesn’t just feel like some temporary “extra stress” that is part of my work, but actually feels like an odious huge effort and terrible threat to me. Because I don’t care about the work I’m doing. But especially because it will expose me to hundreds of people flying in from all over the country (& even the world), most of them probably not wearing masks and thus threatening my physical health: if I get sick now, after five weeks of total inactivity and being stuck at home most of the time, if I’m forced to several more weeks of physical inactivity because of getting sick at a conference in which I have no interest, I don’t know what will happen to my mental health. The temporary meltdowns I’ve been having in the past few days might blow up into one huge, uncontrollable, irreversible breakdown.

This afternoon, exactly one month after my gender-affirming top-surgery, I went on my first post-op hike: a real, 4.5-mile hike with almost 500 feet elevation gain (after a 2.5-mile walk). 

One of my closest climbing buddies took me on the hike — or, rather, he drove us to the trailhead and I took us on the hike. Just like the times we rock- climbed (& ice-climbed) together, just like buddies do: each doing their part for each other. 

I hadn’t seen him in five weeks. We went rock-climbing together outdoors five weeks ago, four days before my surgery. And to “just” hike together was a new experience for us. We have had some “buddy times” sitting on the open trunk of our car drinking beers or standing in the refreshing creek, chatting after a whole day climbing together. But this was the first time he had ever driven out to visit me and keep me company while I’m convalescent. Not knowing what I’d be up for — at the end he said, “I’m glad to see how much energy you’ve got. I know you were struggling a little while ago and I wasn’t sure how you’d be doing today, what your energy would be”. But he came and visited me nonetheless. This means the world to me from any friend, of course; but maybe I expect it less, or am more surprised by it, when it comes from friends like my climbing buddies who are used to seeing me & interacting with me in “power mode” or in “hyperactive mode”: if these adventure buddies are willing and happy to spend downtime with me, it adds an extra — or a new, special level — to our friendship. 

It also meant a lot to me that when we got back to my place, although he didn’t need any food or drink that I offered him, he purposefully switched off his car’s engine, saying, “I’m just switching off my car so I can get out and say goodbye properly and give you a hug” — which he did, giving me the longest, tightest hug he’s ever given me (a very long and tight hug which is unusual for him as he’s not at all touchy-feely). It almost seemed that he’s even more comfortable with me now that he’s seen my flat chest. Which feels lovely — validating and affirming and sweet — to me, especially given that he’s a cis-man. 

These friends’ hugs mean the world to me. My friends actually getting out of their cars to give me a proper hug, to show me their affection, to hold me, means the world to me. 

There have been many — too many — times in my life when I didn’t feel held. But recently, and throughout the past month, I have felt wonderfully held by many lovely friends. Like the one who came to pick me up from a conference yesterday when I had a meltdown and then drove me to get a hot chocolate and joined me for a walk and finally dropped me off at my place, also stepping out of her car to give me a big, warm, bear hug. Like the friends who have been driving me to my doctors’ appointments & other errands. Like the friends who have been visiting me and hanging out with me for meals and chats. Like the friends who have been calling me and texting me to check in with me. Like the friends (including my cis-male climbing buddies) who have been eager to see my post-op pictures and validating and encouraging my physical as well as mental recovery.  

There has been lots of pain and loss in my life and I still am afraid of what might come, especially in some settings or scenarios. But my wonderful friends have made, and are still making, it easier or, at least, less solitary to walk my path(s). 

Today’s exactly one month since getting my gender-affirming top-surgery. 

I don’t regret it. I’ve never felt so well and aligned with/in my own body and this is wonderful. 

But today I am feeling sad and afraid. 

Sad for all that I’ve had to leave behind me and already lost; afraid of what I still might lose going forward.

I used to have a particularly pretty mole on my right breast, visible also in the portraits I got taken of me before my top-surgery. 

Until the other day I hadn’t paid attention to this detail. I noticed it again after seeing my pre-surgery nude portraits and my “new” chest as the scars (especially around the replaced nipples) finally start healing more clearly. 

That mole is still there. Of course, its position has changed, its relative position has shifted: instead of being under some breast tissue, an inch or so below my right nipple, it is now right at the edge of my masculinized (i.e. smaller & repositioned) right nipple. Different position but same mole. 

It feels so beautiful to still have, to still see that mole — and actually see it even more clearly and visibly than before. It somehow feels very sweet to me. 

I’m also realizing that having had a friend who is a non-medical person actually see my “new” chest in person and not only give me the validation of it looking like a teenage-boy swimmer’s chest but also say that the scars and bruises don’t look bad at all, that he hardly even noticed them, that those were not the things he noticed when looking at my “new” chest — all this has helped me see my “new” chest in a different way. I’m seeing it as more healed and less battered than I was perceiving it before. Of course, having the doctor say it’s healing well is extremely important and reassuring for me; but having a friend see it in person and say that it looks good, healthy, “normal” somehow feels even more affirming and “good” at a different level, maybe at a deeper, more personal level. 

I really, really LOVE my “new” chest and the boy that transpires through it. 

I love my “new” chest and that mole that shifted position but remained with me.

This afternoon I showed my “new” chest in person to a friend (a non-medical person) for the first time. 

With one of my closest (cis-male) climbing buddies I am working on a project about non-binary/transgender athletes and he came to visit me today to continue some work on this project. We hadn’t seen each other in several months and he hadn’t seen any post-op pictures of me. When my friend arrived today I needed to treat my scars with ointment that he had picked up at the pharmacy for me; so I took the ointment from him and said I’d go fix up my chest and then be back to start work on our project, but he asked, “Can I see?”

I’m always very wary about showing people my chest now because it could be bothering to see with the bruising and scars and all, so although I was delighted by his request, I cautioned him that it might look “ugly”. But he reassured me not to worry so I slowly took off my sweater, shirt, and thank top and showed him my bare chest. 

There were several layers to this act and how it felt to me. 

There was a layer of slight embarrassment to overcome — even though having been brought up in Europe I’ve always felt relatively comfortable about topless females (& going topless myself), I was after all socialized as a woman so there is a level of ingrained modesty and/or awkwardness around baring my chest, especially for a hetero-/bi-sexual male who’s not my romantic/sexual partner. 

There was also the aspect of learning to do something new — connected to the previous layer — i.e. to remove my clothes and show my naked chest to a hetero-/bi-sexual male who’s not my romantic/sexual partner. In some sense, maybe, I was learning to do something “normal” (or considered normal) for a boy — i.e. to remove my clothes and show my naked chest to another boy. 

I was being a boy with a boy. 

And in fact, the final layer was the recognition that I (the boy in me) got from this other boy as my friend exclaimed, “WOW, it’s amazing! It’s perfect! It looks like the chest of a sixteen-year-old boy swimmer… you look like a sixteen-year-old boy swimmer! And boy, you have more muscles in your back than I do!” 

It’s hard to put into words how affirming moments, and comments, like these are for me, for the budding boy in me. Seeing the boy through other people’s eyes, not just my own. Like when two other friends the other day (& then my climbing buddy this evening) saw my pre-surgery nude portraits and they all said that my breasts seemed to not belong, to not really “fit” my body, that the rest of my torso was just too masculine for them. 

These are little gems, precious little gems, that now more than ever I need to treasure.

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.