Domestic abuse

I want to state this for the record. 

Two days ago, on Thursday, for the first (& hopefully last) time in my life I called the “domestic violence/abuse hotline”. 

After months of verbal, emotional, and psychological abuse, on Thursday morning my housemate actually became physically threatening and her transphobia mixed with general disrespect towards me went totally overboard. 

As soon as she had left for work and I had been able to calm down enough after yet another traumatic episode with her, albeit still shaken, I was able to pull myself together enough to get advice from the “domestic violence/abuse hotline” and help from friends. I packed up my most necessary/valuable/pressing belongings and left as soon as one of my friends could come pick me up — and I won’t go back to my place again except to pack up my stuff for good, during the weekdays, when my housemate is away. 

“The Guernsey Literary & Potato Peel Pie Society”

[Spoiler alert: details, including the ending, of the film “The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society” are mentioned quite explicitly.]

In the past week, I have been binge-watching the film “The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society”. 

I sometimes do this, with songs as well as with movies: I go through phases of days, weeks, sometimes even months, when I play the song or movie over and over because it somehow appeals to, reaches, and touches something profound and/or particularly sensitive in me at that particular moment. 

I discovered the film The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society during the height of the pandemic and back then it appealed to me, spoke to me, mainly because of the topics of isolation, threat, and human connection (with the happy ending after hardships). 

This morning I’ve been wondering why this movie is appealing to me and speaking to me so much now and I think it’s for several reasons. Probably I’m still — or again — resonating with the topics of isolation and human connection and happy ending after hardships as I finally come back to life after a hard, and quite isolated, winter (first with my second round of COVID in November 2022 and then with all the pre/post-op preparations & recovery). But there’s also other levels or elements speaking to my heart even more strongly now. 

There’s the element of living — and surviving — with the enemy, in a hostile environment: the Guernsey islanders with the German occupants during WWII; me with my hostile, controlling, passive-aggressive housemate (who’s recently been acting up). 

There’s the theme of personal liberation even going against expectations as the leading female character makes her own path, finds her own way, following her heart, breaking a stifling engagement, stating her independence. And also, the related theme of the importance of getting support from the right people in finding our path or in finding the courage to actually walk our way. 

Another important element is also that of the “chosen family” or “village”: so much of the story in this movie is about not being able to have or connect to or be loved by one’s biological family but finding support and connection and love within a group of people who are a chosen family, a tribe in which persons support and love one another profoundly and without stifling each other. A theme that is extremely dear to me and similar to what I have experienced in most of my life. 

And finally, there’s the topic of the “impossible love”, of the profound, instinctive, almost immediate but also unexpected connection and understanding and attraction between two people who seem so different and yet share so much deep inside them. Something I’ve experienced, too, more than once: for me those connections, those moments, were lovely and beautiful and wonderful, even joyful, but also painful sometimes because many of them didn’t last as much as I would have liked them to or didn’t develop as fully as I would have hoped. In the film The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, instead, the seemingly “impossible love” — the profound, instinctive, almost immediate but also unexpected connection and attraction between the writer and the pig-farmer — ends happily, somehow giving me some vicarious catharsis, I guess.

Striptease of liberation at the crag!

Yesterday, I had one of the loveliest and most wonderful celebratory moments of my life. At the crag. A dream of decades come true: I climbed totally bare-chested amidst several other people, without hiding anything. And I didn’t do it discretely: I did it loud and proud — heck, yeah! 

After eight weeks of no climbing at all (& seven weeks of no real physical exercise), yesterday I went climbing outdoors again with one of my best climbing buddies: someone with whom I climb regularly, whom I trust fully, and who really gets me (he’s also one of my closest and most affirming cis-male friends). 

I was excited but also a little anxious or worried, uncertain of what my body (especially my upper body) could do, still feeling vulnerable: both physically vulnerable because the forced rest to recover from top-surgery has weakened my upper-body but also emotionally/mentally vulnerable because it truly isn’t easy — it’s actually terribly hard & scary — to be a trans person in this world. 

My buddy & I got t the crag, which was quite crowded because of it being one of the few that are exposed to sunshine. We found a spot towards the end of the main wall and started warming up on a couple of easier routes, to help get me back into things, and we sort of spontaneously fell into some casual conversation with the people (a mixed group of about half a dozen persons) climbing next to us. During this time one of the girls said a couple things that seemed referred to me using “she” pronouns. Although I was quite certain she was referring to me, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure and we weren’t interacting directly so I decided to let it go, at least for the moment. Then, this group next to us was having trouble retrieving their climbing gear from a 5.11b (i.e. very hard) route and asked if we might be willing to help — which, of course, we were, as all climbers are always willing to help each other, especially outdoors. So my buddy got on this route and after several attempts at the initial roof, which was really hard and probably the crux, he eventually made it all the way to the top and cleaned the route for them. 

[When the girl from the other group once again referred to me with “she” pronouns (now unmistakably referring to me), I turned around to them and said, politely but firmly, “I am not a woman. I use ‘they’ pronouns”.] 

By this time, the caution and almost fear I was feeling on the first routes that morning was gone: this route that my buddy had just cleaned was exactly my style (I adore roofs and overhangs) and I felt an irresistible desire to climb it. I said to myself I would just attempt it and if I couldn’t get over that initial roof, it would be okay, this was my first day climbing after surgery, after all. But deep inside me I could already feel that irresistible desire of actually DOING IT, i.e. of getting over that roof and getting all the way to the top. So I got on the route, wearing my three layers of clothing because of the cold, and started tackling the roof. It was hard, really hard, but the more I tried, the more I could feel the energy coming back to me, my physical energy but also my mental energy, that fire in me, that will-power that is one of the strongest drives I have. The physical exertion warmed me up so I removed the top layer and after a couple more attempts, I finally got over the roof. At that point, I made a couple more moves to get myself into a relatively comfy position where I could rest momentarily and then I knew it: I would get to the top of this route and I would do so with my bare chest. To celebrate it, to bring this boy’s chest of mine into the world, to bring it to the top of a hard route, to show it the view and to show it to the world. So I told my buddy to keep the tension in the rope for a moment longer and I stripped: I removed my helmet so I could get the long-sleeved T-shirts over my head; I got one off; and then, finally, there was the last layer between my chest and the world. And when that was removed, I didn’t do it discretely. I did it loud and proud: I took it off, twirled it in the air, and then launched it off to the ground with a cheerful “Woohoo!”. Probably the whole crag heard and saw me but I didn’t care. In a sense, I wanted them all to see. Either way, at that point I was at some other level of consciousness. I had a full, clear, and powerful awareness of the strength but also of the extreme vulnerability of my body, and of my upper-body in particular. At that point, there was both a sense of pride (my Ego?) but also a sense of vulnerability in getting to the top of this route clean, i.e. without falling or slipping: because in that moment, more than ever before, slipping and scraping my still-delicate boy’s chest on the rock wall would have been extremely painful (& maybe even somewhat dangerous). In some ways, I was extremely self-conscious and aware of my body, of its exposure, of several eyes down below looking up at me; but in other ways, I was also just in that magical state of consciousness that comes over us when we climb outdoors, of being totally in the flow of the moment. In any case, this was a new me, the real me, in the flow of the moment. The real me climbing bare-chested, at last. 

When I got back to the ground (after a clean rest of the climb to the top), I was so happy, I was besides myself with joy — beaming, glowing. And of course, I got my buddy to take a photo of my naked “boy’s chest”. 

I couldn’t contain my joy, and I didn’t. I told my buddy out loud, “Let’s take a picture of this boy’s chest!” I cheered out loud about this being my first time climbing again after surgery. And I ignored the slightly embarrassed looks on the faces of some of the other climbers (in the other group). 

Fortunately, their embarrassment seemed short-lived but it definitely was there, as it was when earlier I had stated firmly, “I am not a woman. I use ‘they’ pronouns”. 

But it’s not up to us (trans/queer/non-binary etc.) persons to take on extra burdens to try and alleviate the embarrassment or “uncomfortableness” that cis people, in their privilege, might feel around us, around our “weird” bodies. And so I let that roll right off me yesterday and I reveled in my joy. In the joy of another liberation, of one of my greatest and most profound dreams coming true at last. And I even said it out loud: when one of the guys who had been there during my “striptease” and celebration later mentioned my celebration again and asked me in a nice friendly tone, “So, you’ve just started climbing again after surgery?” I replied, “Yes, but it wasn’t just the climbing after eight weeks that I was celebrating: my celebration was for something that I’ve been waiting to do my whole life”. Which is the truth. 

My entire life I’ve been wanting to live like a boy, to be a boy — for the world to see me like a boy. And although I am painfully aware that most of the world will never see me or treat me as a boy, and there are plenty of people who will actually see me and treat me as a “freak” or as someone who doesn’t have the right to be, I am also profoundly happy and, as my good climbing buddy said yesterday, “more connected to my body now than ever”. 

My “striptease” at the crag yesterday was a wonderful, liberating moment of celebration for me — one of the best in my life. But it was also a statement, a political act, especially in this moment when so many people in my community are under attack, risking their lives or not allowed to be, to live as their authentic selves. Like I wasn’t for decades, either, with my own family ostracizing me. And somehow, having had my gender-affirming top-surgery on the day of my sister’s birthday and my liberating striptease at the crag yesterday on the day of my mother’s birthday feels even more significant and empowering to me, since they are among the people who have most ostracized me and the boy I’ve always been. 

But this boy is alive. He’s alive and strong and brave — and grateful to all the supportive people on his path. 

Yesterday was one of the most beautiful days of my life and I’m going to revel in this joy as long as I can — and hopefully be able to use it to improve the world around me and life for other people, too.

Back in my body, Back to life

It’s amazing how much the ability to be active in my body again has brought me back to life in the past two days. 

I had had glimpses of this wonderful feeling again with the visit of one climbing buddy who took us to explore a National Park three weeks after my surgery and then the hike with another of my closest climbing buddies a couple of weeks ago. 

For a month and a half, I was in survival mode. A survival that was made much easier and even more joyful thanks to the loving support and practical help of so many friends and acquaintances — I don’t know what I would have done without that, without them all. But I didn’t realize how much I’d been in this survival mode, how deeply I had dissociated from my body and even from some of my most intense feelings and memories, until this past weekend, until I was officially out of my recovery time/sick leave and could start doing all of my physical activities again — until I started running again.  

I’ve started living in my body again, not just surviving in a wounded shell of a body. 

I cannot survive in a wounded or sick shell of a body for long — at least, not without severe damage to my mental health, which is one of the reasons why COVID & long-COVID were so hard for me in 2020 and I’m so terrified of getting very sick again. In order to survive in a wounded or sick shell of a body I dissociate from that body. Which is, in fact, a trauma response and also a possible symptom or aspect of depression. 

I don’t in the least regret getting gender-affirming top-surgery but now that I’m active and living in my body again, and thus being my whole self again, I realize how traumatic the past four weeks of recovery have been for me.  

On the other hand, I’m also realizing how joyful it is, or can be, to be on the other side of it. The sheer joy, the profound happiness I’m experiencing at feeling in my body, with my body in motion again, is wonderful, despite my relative weakness and lack of fitness now. It’s a different level of consciousness for me — that’s how it feels to me. I experience myself as well as the whole world in a completely different way when I’m active in my body. And now that I have a partially new body, and a body that finally aligns with how I feel inside, it’s even more wonderful, even more joyful. It’s also strange and a little melancholic, though, at times. 

Strange because I haven’t got fully used to my boy’s chest, yet: it still looks unfamiliar, almost surreal to me both when I look at it naked in the mirror and when I get dressed in ways that make my flat, masculine torso evident, especially when I’m out in the world and feel very self-conscious of how other people might perceive me. 

Melancholic or a little sad because being alive in my body again, and especially in this partly new body that I love so passionately, reminds me of the physical cravings that I have: my sexual “hyperdrive”; the need or desire for cuddles; the fact that I’m touch-starved. And also some melancholy coming from emotions or situations or memories connected to other people that I had shelved while recovering or that I don’t really think about in my daily life anymore but that are coming back in wavelets now. Re. one person in particular, the memories of our “special feelings” have come back with the wish of showing him my “new body”, of showing him how real this boy is, how similar to him in some ways. I know this wish cannot be satisfied and the memories, fortunately, are not so painful anymore (oh, the miracles of time healing!). Although I know this boy in me was clearly visible even through my feminine clothes three or four years ago and therefore that the boulderer fell in love with this boy and without knowing it helped this boy in me come out, he would probably never admit it or understand it or fully appreciate it, so it’s best to leave this wish on the shelf. 

Admitting the existence of this wish or feeling, though, is important for me because it is part of my coming back into my body, part of my coming back to life: I live wholly only when I can be fully in my active body and finally having this body that externally aligns to how I feel inside intensifies not only the beauties and joys but also some melancholy. Which, for me, is all part of life: beautiful, joyful, but also sad sometimes.

Let the body-hair come!

It’s hard to put into words the joy I am feeling in this moment. I’m almost besides myself with joy. 

The boy is running! 

I’m a trans athlete! 

The boy is running, I’m a trans athlete, and I’m ready to let the body-hair come! 

Today I went for my first post-op run: my first run in nearly seven weeks; my first run after six weeks of hardly any physical activity; my first run after masculinizing mastectomy; my first run ever without a bra! 

But the joy is not about not needing that garment (the bra) anymore. As much as it feels liberating to be able to ditch bras for good, the joy I’m feeling now is a much deeper one — a happiness with much deeper roots and a more profound significance. Because this was my first run in the body that really feels like me. 

It’s not just that I don’t have to wear a bra anymore (unless I want to, of course): it’s that, at last, I have a truly flat chest, actually a boy’s chest. At last, the body I see in the mirror, the body that I feel under strain running on the trail, is the body that belongs to me, the body that feels like me: a non-binary/trans boy’s body. 

I’m a boy. I’m a boy with XX chromosomes (as far as I know); I’m a boy with female genitals, a boy with a uterus, a boy who was brought up as a girl: but a boy nonetheless. 

And now I am ready: I am ready to let the body-hair come, to let it grow, to see what happens. I’ll probably then shave it off, at least on my upper body (if I get any there), but I’m ready to let this happen. I’m almost eager to let this happen, to see what might happen, to see what this boy will look like. 

And then to go race on my next trail run, with my now-legal ‘X’ gender marker, in the male category. 

I am trans, wholly and proudly trans. A trans athlete. 

God, I feel so liberated…! 

“I am me, Hear me roar!”

There are several verses of the song “I am woman (hear me roar)” that I relate to deeply, and the title/refrain has often resonated with me, albeit it changing it slightly, sometimes. 

Sometimes, due to my upbringing & past experiences, I’ve resonated with the original, “I am woman, Hear me roar”. 

At other times, I’ve felt like, “I am human, Hear me roar”. 

Yesterday what rang in my head was, “I am boy, Hear me roar”; and this morning it’s simply, powerfully, “I am lion, Hear me roar”. 

I’ve just come back from my first foray into the “outside world”: I had to attend a huge scientific conference which was held at a convention center on the Strip in Las Vegas, NV. So it was a very extreme, a horribly extreme, first foray “back in the outside world”. It wasn’t just tipping my toe into the water of a small, quiet lake; it was being plunged into an ocean during a hurricane. The biggest yearly conference in my scientific field with thousands of participants held in a place that is already teeming with people and a continuous, overwhelming deluge of sensorial stimulation; and both at the conference and in Las Vegas itself, mostly people who are totally unawares of (at best) the non-binary/trans realities. So my brain collapsed under the overload of negative/threatening/difficult triggers: my impostor syndrome was back at its worst, given that this was my first scientific conference in years and I haven’t been able to do my work as well as I’d wanted to recently because of health issues; my autistic brain was completely overwhelmed by the sensorial overload that couldn’t be escaped anywhere else that my hotel room (and even there only barely); my COVID-related PTSD was re-triggered almost uncontrollably by the swarming crowds of people (hardly anyone wearing facial coverings) everywhere; I got constantly misgendered (I guess the world now sees me as a flat-chested woman despite the all-masculine clothes I was wearing) and the conference was very non-inclusive towards gender issues, so I felt invisible and/or not represented there, too.

Each one of those triggers or levels of difficulty would have been hard enough — and, in fact, I have already experienced them before. But having to deal with all four levels, all four triggers at once, and in such a delicate moment, too, still recovering from a surgery that feels life-changing to me — that was just too much. 

I had one major and one smaller meltdown. Full-blown meltdowns that, although I remained wholly aware of what was going on with me, were really scary: I was scared of the monster I saw. Sunday & Monday were the worst two days I had had in ages. They were dark and scary, and I don’t know how I would have made it through without some friends and my therapist. I was so bereaved that I wasn’t able to finish the work necessary to prepare and then present my talk at the conference, so I had to withdraw it — which felt (and still feels) like a huge failure. 

But I was also able to self-soothe and self-regulate, which is a good sign.  

I was able, in the end, to pull myself together and get myself home (earlier than originally planned) to feel safer. I was able to help and save myself. To get myself out of that hellhole. 

And I’m feeling stronger, more motivated, on the other side of it. The “fight” part of the “flight/freeze/fight” PTSD reaction has now simmered down to the healthy aspect of anger that motivates me to do and to be: to be myself unapologetically (for example, not asking people to not call me “M’am” but rather to use some phrases I’m finding that make people actually stop and think and apologize for misgendering one); to do my work so that I can show my supervisor (as well as myself) that I am actually capable of it; to do my work so that I can present it at some other conference; to get back out there in the world, on smaller, safer, more reasonable scales, like going to the gym and out for dinner with friends, to get myself used to a relatively safe and/or manageable, and hopefully pleasant, social life again; to start exercising again, now that I can, and get “buff” again. To be the boy that I am, whether the world sees it or not. To be the lion that I am and fight not only for my right to be myself, authentically & apologetically as I am, but also for the rights of others by engaging more in forms of activism. To make all these f***ing flaws in the system evident and to help change them.  

I went deep down to the bottom a few days ago, plunging (or being plunged) into scary, dark waters; but now I’m back up again and somehow I feel stronger than before… 

Heck yeah — “I am a lion, Hear me roar” — “I am me, Hear me roar”!

Dark spot

[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.

Thank you, buddy!

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).