Day 266

10.56     Some days ago, I shockingly regarded a thought that sprung into my mind: it is almost exactly three months until the one-year anniversary of my first shot of testosterone. I don’t know where the months have gone; but there ’tis.

The only thing of much importance regarding transition of late has been some days ago, in fact perhaps the same day as previously mentioned, when I realized I had not bothered to measure the various areas of my body which I have been tracking monthly. And so it was presented that, since March alone, my thighs have skimmed off an inch in diameter — in addition to the inch already lost between January and March. My butt, which tragically was not a thing I thought to measure prior to March, has flattened considerably, shedding a full three inches.

This explains why the clothes that I bought since February to replace those which were literally falling off are now, in turn, slipping down alarmingly. I must say that despite the delight of losing — may I say again in revelation — three whole inches of fatty tissue, the idea of increasingly smaller sizes of clothes fitting for mere months before their need of replacement is slightly off-putting; remeniscent of female puberty, only in reverse.

Day 253

20.30     Much time seems to have passed since my last post. Of late, there has been little to inspire writings; though several observances worthy of note have made their way into my mind:

At nearly nine months, it has become increasingly apparent to me that I find it inherently offensive when I am told how well I am “passing”; or, only recently, how much of a guy I am.

These statements, which brought so much joy and pride to me pre-T, I now find I am personally offended by. I am no longer “passing”. I have not “passed” for a number of months. I am living. Day by day, I am going through my life as male. Not a single person mistakes me for female, and none have for seven months at least.

And of course I am “such a guy” — would the same comment be presented to a bio-male as a compliment, as I am aware it is intended towards me? Does this remark validate the male identity that so many question in us transmen? Does this make those who speak it feel they are confirming in their own minds that I am, in fact, male; and prone to the same idiosyncrasies, habits, perceptions and bias as any other?

At what point does one cease “passing”? Does Jamison Green “pass”? Do people compliment Calpernia Addams on her presentation of femininity when she speaks opinions judged to be those of a female-only perception? When do we as transfolk stop being perceived as pretending and truly seen as we are?

Or are we ever seen as we are?

The frustration of remaining in-between runs high at this point in my transition. Coming to terms with the contradictions between body and mind created by testosterone has been no easier than those created by estrogen. My body; sturdy, hairy, and muscular as it has become; is tiny. I feel that I am a miniature version of male — small framed, short statured, delicately featured. My small hands, though obviously male in appearance, can be of no comparison to my brother’s or my father’s. While no longer delicate, slender and soft, they are unmistakeably small. The two inches of height gained on testosterone lends me nearly nothing for overall size. I admit that the acceptance of my terminal tininess has not yet been something to occur.

I have, however, begun to maintain a slight grasp of control on rage at this point. Irrationally violent and verbally uncontrollable in its intensity these past months, I have at last gained a semblance of maturity on the matters of upset. At the least, I have learned to regard the problem at hand a second time to determine its actual catastrophic status before, if it is truly as horrible as it seemed the first time around, I implode.

Nonetheless, it is a start.

Day 220

10.30am      Yesterday marks my seventeenth injection.

The first time I attempted to self-inject within the confines of Dr P.’s office, I recall the nurse commenting upon my frustration at grasping a handful of muscle into which to inject, (it being less painful in this manner than to simply shove it in) “You just don’t have enough fat to grab!”

So it comes that I notice increasingly less and less fatty tissue at each injection, and coupled with the firmer, tighter muscles, it makes for a very small amount of anything to bunch in one’s fingers. I do believe it might be easier at this stage to merely plunge the needle straight in.

In other news; on Saturday, in a stroke of inspiration, I emailed Dr. Brownstein regarding the first steps to getting top surgery. I must say that during our correspondence over these past days I am continuously surprised at the speed at which he replies, even on a Sunday and a holiday — within half an hour has been the standard.

After regarding photos of my chest, he concluded that if I feel strongly towards the “keyhole” technique; where an incision is made around the perimeter of the areolae and liposuction is used to remove the breast tissue, therefore resulting in minimal scarring; I may be a candidate for the procedure. It is most commonly used on A cups to very small B cups. Due to the lack of scarring this is famously the procedure that everyone wants; though after observing several of the “unfavourable results” slides at Dr. Brownstein’s presentation at the IFGE conference, admittedly I was somewhat deterred. I am however, as he puts it, at the in-between size; perhaps small enough for the keyhole, but we have agreed to plan on the more common technique of removing the breasts altogether and transplanting the areolae; and, when he sees me in person, then make the final decision.

We shall see. It is still nine months at least before the money, resources and time can be obtained for the surgery.

Nonetheless. Excitement!

Day 200

12.00pm Growing up, I was, as one perhaps might expect, a tomboy; generally preferring the company of the rough-and-tumble, crass, bug- and snake-oriented masculinity of boys to girls, whom though with several I did associate I usually attributed to being boring and far too concerned with growing up to be mommies than I felt was necessary.

“You’re not a real man,” I recall my brother commenting once, as he, our best friend and I traversed atop a beaver dam to cross a swamp near our house, “unless you’re doing something stupid.”

I felt this very appropriately summed up the majority of our adventures; yet it occurred to me that it did not, in fact, apply to me entirely. Of what purpose was I here, in the midst of this stupidity? “You’re not a real woman,” I replied with confident conviction, “unless you’re following a man doing something stupid.”

After the onset of puberty, I found that many of my friends also going through puberty had become vastly different than I. While we continued to share an affinity for many similar things, our relationships became increasingly distant. Wresting stopped being fun once their testosterone-fueled bodies were capable of overpowering my own at every turn. Their outlooks, opinions and vocabularies no longer remained the same. Crudeness, sex jokes and swear words occurred far more in their worlds than mine, and as far as I could gather, were immensely funnier to them than I. Often, I felt offended at offhand comments or actions of which they seemed unaware had even originated from them. For several years, my circle of friends became exclusively female; whom I now found were not nearly as different in mindset as I had always believed.

And so it comes now that I realize I, once again, prefer the company of men. Several times, I have unintentionally insulted a female accomplice by my words and opinions, and been entirely unaware until approached on the subject. It takes a great deal more thought and careful consideration to talk to women than men; for though I have not personally noticed much change in outlooks, vocabulary or perceptions, it seems that I have become one of the blindly insensitive males that teenage girls like myself strayed wearily away from.

In fact, I find that being in the company of women is considerably more challenging. Wary of offending them at any moment, I am distinctly less articulate for the time it takes to choose words more respectfully. Recently it has been put to light that many things I find hilarious are often lucky to be merely amusing to females I share them with.

“You’re such a guy,” I hear more and more frequently, with any varying amount of annoyance or amusement. “Really?” I answer vaguely; considering the statement I might have made to prompt such a declaration.

Though this of course does not come without its advantages. Some days past, a female coworker commented on her surprise that nearly every guy she works with much prefers music with female vocals to male; while she herself has always held a preference for male vocals.

Immediately, not even considering the words, I explained to her that this was due to the inherent biological attractions that exist between hetero men and women. It is a subconscious psycho-sexual draw, I would explain. Women’s voices are soft and high by design; and we men, being physically incapable of producing such a sound, are inherently obsessed with that which we cannot possess ourselves. “Women’s voices,” I said, “are simply beautiful to men. Especially in singing, it’s such a full, powerful yet soothing sound that we ourselves cannot possibly replicate; and therefore it is something to worship.”

“That’s how I feel,” she said, rather surprised. “There’s just this deep, rough quality to men’s voices that I love.”

I also find that I have become a helpful asset to female friends regarding boyfriends. “I never would have thought of that,” I have received several times in response to explanations of male behavior that was incomprehensible to them yet seems trivially obvious to me.

Unfortunately, I further find that women have become increasingly more perplexing. To the same friends I have become less and less understanding of their side of the relationships. It is a small yet missed sacrifice.

And here I thought before T that I would be a wonderful boyfriend in the future due to being able to see issues from both perspectives. There goes that idea.

Day 196

2.20pm My father, at last, has acknowledged T.

After six months of denying it, making mere grunts whenever I would mention it, and refusing to realize the difference in my voice and appearance, today he has made reference to the fact that he is actually aware anything is changing.

This came about because of the trees he has recently been cutting down on our property. Breezing in this afternoon for a break before chopping it into firewood, he commented; “You should be out there chopping up firewood. Put that testosterone to work!”

A small yet enormously significant occurrance. Never before can I recall the word “testosterone” actually coming out of his mouth; and certainly not on the subject of anything regarding me.

Day 191

10.56am     I am actually growing facial hair.

That is to say; it has, at last, surpassed mere “long peach fuzz.” While my mustache is admittedly still rather white, my beard has grown in black, though sparse, to a length of about a quarter inch. Extending down my neck it is considerably more sparse; yet the fact remains that it is growing; and as I had not expected much of anything past a few chin hairs until a year at least, this is a pleasant development.

Six months seems to have been the catalyst for changes to really begin — it seems as if everything has suddenly sped up to twice the speed and effect. My body is now, at last, distinctly male. My upper body is decidedly masculine in shape and structure, to the extent that my breasts now look out of place — a bit like the stereotypical image of a pre-estrogen MTF with breast implants: unsightly lumps residing under broad shoulders and chest, strangely incongruent with the rest of the body. it is this that makes me even more eager for top surgery; not only will I at last be over with binding, which has been a torment throughout these past five years, but now with them actually looking like they clearly don’t belong, it will be an obviously great relief to have them gone.

Though admittedly also, the increase in effects could be due to the extra 25mg of testosterone I have taken in these past two shots.

Insofar as of yet, little move has been made to pursue top surgery. Financial capabilities are limited; and though I am still fairly certain of my going to Dr. Brownstein, a Dr. Toby Meltzer — rather well-known in the trans community — is another consideration after attending the IFGE conference. Unfortunately his website seemingly has no photos of his work; but perhaps they would be available to look at upon request from a prospective patient. The decision remains to be made.

Something that without a doubt the 200mg has affected is rage. Unarguably uncontrollable before; now, it becomes debilitating. Anything and everything sets me off; not matter how inconsequential.

I drive to the store to buy water, trash bags, a package of frozen corn and cash in a number of scratch tickets. I can’t find the corn. Where is it? Frustration mounts and turns to anger as I peruse the aisle in continuing inability to locate it. As I pace, I become aware that I have forgotten the scratch tickets.

Fuck!

The thought stops me. I forget about corn as I stand, motionless, feeling the rage instantly rush through my veins like adrenaline. After a moment, I remember how to breathe and take a deliberate breath. I can’t believe this. This small detail becomes overwhelmingly important, and has instantly become the full focus of the venture.

After a time, I find the corn. Small relief. I can bring the tickets later. Trying to focus, I pick out a jug of water, pay, and exit the store in near frenetic urge to leave.

As I walk out, another thought stops me once again, this time in the parking lot: I forgot the fucking trash bags!

This is almost too much to bear. Solutions race through my mind, each one pondered for a split second before it is discarded. I will not go back in the store, not now. As I stand, seething, I have a powerful urge to throw the water jug to the pavement and watch it break, watch the water burst out with a violent sound of thick plastic cracking against concrete. I barely manage to put it in the car, which I stall trying to pull out of the parking lot. I can’t get it started again. At last, it surges forward as I jam the gas pedal into the floor. I swing around the corner.

This is insufferable.

By the time I get home, I am no less angry but able to function. I retain a dark mood for the rest of the day, inconsolable.

Still it is not certain to me how to deal with this; it seems it is easable by nothing. How does one cope with the urge for violence without becoming violent?

Day 177

2.24pm      About six months along. Today was my fourteenth injection.

It is odd to me: It seems that my voice, slowly, gets increasingly higher during the days before my injection; and then, almost instantaneously, it drops several octaves following the shot. As such, I have made a habit of recording all voicemail messages and calling everybody on the day or day after my injection.

Physical observations of late include this morning, when I happened to regard, startled, that my eyebrows are thicker. I had considered this occurring prior to T; but I must say I had forgotton about such a small change until it was to actually be noticed. Upon further inspection, it was to be observed that my facial hair, after lazily neglecting to shave for over a week and a half, is beginning to grow along my jawline, just below it, and down my neck. Several long, individual hairs populate the area near my Adam’s apple that have been there since the first hairs came into being; but now it appears to be growing in a more naturally male pattern: That is, all over.

Also, my acne has returned after a short hiatus. Lovely.

A new voice clip from today is up.

Day 174

An expansion on thoughts on scrap paper hastily written during an incident of upset:

I understand abuse.

I used to wonder how a man could, morally, strike a woman. Hurt her, beat her, rape her; on purpose. Or anyone, for that matter. I didn’t understand how they could live with themselves. Could they not see it wasn’t fair? That she couldn’t defend herself? Did they not recognize how much stronger than her they were? How terrifying it would be for her? I find that I no longer wonder.

Rage. Anger. Such anger; uncontrollable, powerful. Raw violence and hatred, undiluted, surging through my veins like electricity. The urge to hurt something, someone, almost overpowers my better judgement. My whole body shakes. My heart pounds in my chest, hard and fast, as if I have run a great length. I’m so angry. Everything I look at makes me angrier — everyone.

I’ll fucking kick your ass, motherfucker! I scream at the walls, imaginary enemies visualized against them, cowering, terrified. Of me. Yes. I laugh. Imagining this pleases me. How powerful I am. How threatening. Yes. Feel my power. My dominance. Recognize that I rule over you. Scream, motherfucker. Show me exactly how much that hurts. How much better I am than you.

I can’t believe how intense the emotion is; I can barely function. Jesus. I’m so angry! Injecting testosterone is like injecting raw death metal into my veins. The intensity of emotion — all, not just anger — is overwhelming. I blast music on the stereo, shaking the bookcase from which it comes. I don’t care. I turn up the volume. Somebody help me chain this animal I have become. I scream at nothing. At the walls, at the empty air, at the stereo. Yelling the lyrics back to it. Somebody get me through this nightmare, I can’t control myself. I throw a fork against the wall in the utter and complete insanity of testosterone-fueled, 18-year-old rage. It punctures the plaster, creating a small neat hole; and I stare at this dent, triumphantly, victoriously; proudly, in fact. Proud of the damage I have created. Harming things, breaking things, is the only release for this raw, powerful and insane violence that pulsates through my body.

I can’t escape myself
So many times I’ve lied
But there’s still rage inside
Somebody get me through this nightmare

Afterwards, it scares me. I am afraid to be challenged, not knowing what I will find I am now capable of; morally, physically. I have not yet had the chance to test the extent of my newfound strength, to indulge in my overpowering rage. I am afraid to find out how capable I really am of hurting someone.

Though also there exists the undeniable lust for violence. Why do young boys go searching for fights? Enlist in the military? Do nothing all day but play graphic, explicit, violent video games? Like sex, like food, it is a need that I now understand. I feel the urge to strike people at the slightest provocation.

Sometimes, I fantasize about someone jumping me, grabbing something from my hands as I stroll down the street; stealing my wallet, pushing me. Provoking me. What would I do?

Day 168

3.34pm      Much is there to be reflected on regarding the IFGE conference, which I have only several hours ago returned from after driving since 5:30 last night. Admittedly not the wisest decision; however, it was not without some masochistically enjoyable adventures of its own; including one involving a first trip to Starbucks and a dent in the rental car having gone unnoticed until this moment.

Regardless. First, a rough address of the timeline: My mother and I, having signed up for only Thursday and Friday of the conference, left Sunday morning for a sort of pre-vacation vacation, as it were; and we arrived in Tucson on the eve of Wednesday. After some discussion, it was decided that registering would be more important than dinner at the particular moment the decision was made. There were as it turned out various slight complications regarding a number of things having to do with our registration; fortunately, no damage was done and the incidents were waved away with little consequence.

And so came Thursday morning with much excitement, anticipation and certainly some level of reserve. For me, having only been in the company of other trans people merely once or twice in my lifetime, I found it simultaneously comforting yet strange: I of course had known of the existence of other transfolk experiencing exactly the same as myself, but somehow the reality that a great many of them were in fact residing directly in my physical vicinity was slightly shocking: They really do exist!

On a particularly noteworthy note, Jamison Green gave an opening speech prior to the onset of the sessions. Having attended presentations of his twice before yet, having been unfunctionably shy prior to T, been unable to actually meet him personally, my mother dragged me determinedly to his side and introduced us. And so it came that I was finally able to shake his hand after having known of his existence for many years.

My mother, incidentally, I do believe will hold a lifelong reputation among the population gathered there as the holder of the honorary Amazing Mother award. “Jason,” I was to hear several times over the weekend as people’s eyes traveled to my nametag, “Oh, with the amazing mother from the other session!”

And that she is.

Day 167

8.26am Today, my mother and I depart for home. We have been now three days at the IFGE conference, which I must say has been so far one of the highest on my list of most neutrally interesting — neither bad nor good — experiences in my short life. Perhaps I’ll post reflections on it upon our return home.

On Sunday, I injected a full cc of my lovely testosterone cypionate; since, I have had not a single cramp save for when I absorbed nearly a litre of soda; — clearly not the wisest decision — not a single speck of blood; and the hot flashes are returning. And so it comes that it would seem the extra 25mg is indeed working.

Today is the date of Dr. Brownstein’s session on chest reconstruction; and hopefully, we will get the chance to meet him personally. It is lucky that his session falls directly before lunch; as we will not have to worry about missing the beginning of any other sessions should we end up talking to him longer than expected.

Excitement!