my own personal trans icon

Maybe it’s the flashback of Owen, where Maddy reminds him of what truly happened on those Saturday nights, where we see him wearing a dress, with that haunting look in his eyes.

There is something about tasting the forbidden fruit, tapping into the thing, that before you’ve only explored in private thought. The thought of it sounds magical, but in reality it can be the cruellest, most vulnerable and disgusting feeling.

It reminded me of the first time I wore a binder. I had ordered it online in secret, full of hope, after doing my research and saving up some money. I had waited patiently until the package arrived from overseas. And then I put it on, under a shirt, the shirt that had never felt right on my body, and I was devastated. It felt wrong. My guts were churning, my blood started rushing in the wrong direction, everything felt backwards. I ripped off the shirt and struggled out of the garment, the tight fabric amplifying the tightness in my chest that had never before been more noticeable. Bare chested, in front of the mirror, I wondered what had happened. It had not given me the feeling of euphoria that I had read other people talk about when they recounted the first time they wore a binder. It did not feel liberating, it did not fix what was wrong. That wrongness that was always there, that itch on the back of my neck, that throbbing knot growing somewhere beyond my reach. I felt out of place wearing it. An imposter. It felt like suddenly I was standing in a beam of light, all eyes on me, fingers pointing, the crowd shouting “wrong!”

Maybe it’s Maddy telling Owen about how they ran away, picked a new name and left their old life behind. When they say how it still didn’t feel right, maybe even wronger. 

The pursuit of answers is a winding path, its approach may appear straightforward, but often you find yourself backed into corners, slammed head-first into walls waiting where you thought solutions would appear.

It reminded me of how I moved to the city, far away, like something in me knew I had to get away to figure something out. As if my surrounding was what held me back, as if it was me being stuck in that old place that couldn’t allow me to wrap my head around something new. Getting away, reintroducing myself, living on my own terms—that would fix it, right? But instead I got stuck in limbo, one leg stuck in guilt, holding on to the ground that supported my steps before, the other one reaching out towards anything. A blind foot, tapping around in darkness, testing for soil that I could plant on. I was crushed by the awareness of this fleeting opportunity to reinvent myself, to start my new life. But I wasn’t ready. I thought my questions would answer themselves, but neither had I figured out what exactly my questions were, nor the fact that it was only I who knew the answers. I did not know what it was exactly, that I wanted to leave behind, and what it was that I wanted to carry with me. I was bound by fear to sever the ties to familiarity for a pursuit of something I couldn’t grasp at yet. Only one thing I knew, the fact that my name would have to stay in the South, hoping to bury its echo under the sound of a new introduction. I had spent the summer before contemplating names I could possibly use, but in the roster of sounds I had tried over the course of my life, none of them fit, none of them felt like me. But how do you pick a name that is supposed to represent yourself when you do not have a grasp of what that is supposed to mean? I picked one almost haphazardly, the only nickname I had ever gotten and suddenly I was thrown into a new sound, my new life already starting, me in the middle of it trying to catch up. Still, something was wrong, but now things were set in motion. And I was still waiting for that feeling of liberation, I was still hoping that a new name was all I would need. I was desperate for this to be the answer.

Maybe it’s Maddy telling Owen that that is not their name, telling him multiple times to stop calling them that. 

A name is just a sound that you respond to, based on habit. But a name carries so much more than that. A name is the branding stamp your surroundings plant on your being, it is the sound that represents your essence in your absence. That, in addition to the societal connotations names can bring in a binary society, and suddenly the sounds other people seem to associate themselves with so effortlessly become a distant concept, a crushing reminder of the wrongness you carry within. 

what you hardly ever hear is how excruciatingly lonely a transition can feel, even if you got most of the support from your surroundings. i guess because it’s hard and painful and difficult to put into words.

even when they’re accepting and supporting, talking with your family can stir things up that are dark and desperate. the emotional layers of pain, grievance, anger and guilt (so much guilt) are hard to navigate and overwhelming to experience. they are so oddly specific that it feels impossible to tackle or untangle them, so you end up just feeling emotional white noise with a nagging feeling of intense alienation.

ever since i’ve embarked on this journey there is an underlying craving for violence. not to cause harm, but to be on the receiving end of it. bar fights and black eyes start to sound romantic, i catch myself itching for trouble. this probably derives from the parts of myself where i neatly store away my anger and self hatred, to keep them from taking over the steering wheel. the remnants manifest as a buzzing excitement tingling on my skin at the thought of catching a strong right hook with my face. an urge quiet enough to ignore. but it is there. i long for physical labour, i want to shut off my brain, follow orders and be a proactive agent in my own destruction.

the ugly parts of being trans are usually easy to ignore. there’s so much joy to focus on, so many things to be excited about and so many people i can share this excitement with and receive love for it. but when the ugliness does surface, it is raw and desperate and sticks to my skin.

one week. what a week.

start t, add some bronchitis, a nasty case of pms and two scary doctor’s appointments to the mix and you get a rough idea of my past week.

but what’s done is done, the doctor still didn’t check my blood or my hormone level, but i do have an estrogen blocking, prostate cancer killing implant in my tummy now. what could go wrong?

with all the stress out of the way i think i can see some tiny changes happening now. my arms, where i spread the gel, are starting to break out a little more than usual (but that could also be caused by my nervous skin picking), and so is my back. i’m trying to get hold of it early and started using tea tree oil body wash, so let’s see what that’ll do. another thing is bottom growth. there’s something going on down there, although it’s still quite subtle. and this morning, i swear my arm muscles looked bigger!! my voice is still raspy from being sick but a tiny delusional part of me is like „what if it’s dropping already?“ i guess i’ll see.

today was the first day i was truly excited about being on T. For me, true joy is often shared joy. i can’t wait for the next few months, checking myself out in mirrors and witnessing myself go through second puberty - this time by choice.

blue collar husband. it’s weird to work in an environment where i’m hired under my new name and still be called „she“ all the time. they’re probably confused what a weird girl name Theodor is. it feels like a slap in the face, a painful reminder of how little i pass and that it’s not as simple as just changing your name. social dysphoria has always been my biggest enemy, but it’s experiences like this that then impact my physical dysphoria. i remember reading in a brochure that one should consider to only transition socially, since hormones impact the body so heavily. fuck that. i’d rather only transition physically and let society figure this shit out on their own.

i’m signed in as a help for hire, so those jobs are irregular and spontaneous. it’ll be interesting to see how they react to me being more and more masculine each time they see me.

the stupid meds i’m supposed to take along with testo (Androcur or something) are still not available so my doctor gave me an appointment to get a shot instead. it’s a depot shot, so they will inject me with three months worth of something. i’m not even sure what exactly it is, apparently some kind of estrogen blocker to ease me into starting testosterone or something. online i read that it’s used to treat hypersexuality in men. scary shit for sure. my usually so lovely doctor sounded annoyed at the phone today when i called again to ask about what kind shot that is because i’ve never heard any transmasc get that before. she told me to read the article she handed me. i still didn’t.

i don’t know what i was expecting but the packs look like those little pouches of electrolytes you almost choke on when you shove them down your throat to prevent a bad hangover.

the gel smells of rubber alcohol and it soaked into my skin within seconds.

it feels surreal that this small amount of liquid will eventually fundamentally change my body. i guess here it starts, my future or something.

after ten months of uncountable phone calls, infinite dead ends and useless appointments i’m finally on my way to pick up my prescription for testosterone.