Top Surgery Anniversary

Today is the 1 year anniversary of my top surgery. 

I couldn't have gotten here without all of the support I had. From my wife, from my community, friends, chosen family, oh-and my therapist. I really don't know what to say beyond that. It takes a village, and I got a village. 

I remember in my first semester of German class one of my classmates saying how she had dreamed in German. I took 3 semesters of German, but I never dreamed in German. My dreams are weird; when I dream about people I know they rarely look (or act) like they do in awake-world. Even when I dream of my own meat sack, it's not necessarily a 1:1 awake-to-dream match, but interestingly, a few months after my top surgery I started to have an awareness that my dream body was breast-less. It IS my body, and even my psyche knows it. 

When I look at pictures prior to my surgery, that body is foreign to me. I remember the shame, embarrassment, discomfort of those days, but when I see those photos I know that that is NOT my body, THIS is MY body. Since my surgery I have had several people comment that I seem more "myself" since surgery. Yes. I have returned. 

Perhaps I'll have more cohesive thoughts later. But for now, yeah, I finally get to inhabit a body that feels like...home.

Holding Grief

 It's funny, I've been talking with some of my patients about grief- about how it's not just about losing a person or pet to death, but also the loss of a home, independence, the ability to do the things we used to do due to declines of our body and/or senses. Funny because I'm having a lot of grief about my body.

My last post was about starting the process of tattoo removal so I can have my pecs tattooed with something more appropriate for where I am in my gender-journey. I had my first session, and my left pec has had terrible edema. To the point it looked like I was growing a breast back. I've been doing lymph massage, using compression, and taking some supplements but the edema is still pretty pronounced. And it brought up some huge emotions for me. Fear that after these 2 surgeries that were painful AF, that left me in a brain fog for months, that cost weeks of work, and weeks of strength training, that the surgeries would be undone. 

When I spoke, via his nurse, to my surgeon I felt pretty dismissed. Like this had nothing to do with the surgery. And this isn't the first time I've felt dismissed, and not heard by my surgeon. Case in point when we had our preop I corrected him about where my areas of dysphoria were, and when he was marking me up and spending so much time on the area that was NOT on my dysphoria area, I stopped him and stated "I don't really care about that area, my big concern is 'here'" and indicated the area. And guess what I woke up to? Not being listened to, not being heard. And that right there has been a huge source of grief that has had me in a tail spin since my last surgery. The part of my body that caused almost as much dysphoria as my chest did, was little more than an after thought for him when he did my surgery. And I was very fortunate in that my insurance covers torso masculization, but it was still $5000 out of pocket, and again the pain, and the effects on my brain. Not worth the calories as Pru would say, or not worth the pain and suffering in this case. I grieve for not being heard, and I grieve for the body I expected to wake up to, but didn't because I wasn't heard.

During that surgery I also had scar revision done on my top surgery scars, as well as him cleaning out the pockets where I'd had seromas (pockets of fluid) after my top surgery. Although the seromas were drained (3 seperate times), I was left with thickening under my pecs that took away from the definition of my pecs (which I have been working very hard to develop), and because of the roundness gave a bit of a "breast" shape to my pecs. Now that edema has settled into that same area on the left, and I don't know if it's going to go away or not...I'm in this place of "was it all for nothing?" Will my chest go back to what I've worked so hard for, and been through so much to create?

And going back to the whole "not being a listened to/heard"- oof, there are a lot of layers of trauma there. Not layers I will get into tonight, but know they are there, and this isn't just about my surgeon not hearing me when I said "here".

Another layer of grief goes back to the loss of the body I had before I took Buspar. I was strong, I was in pretty good shape (never "thin" and that's ok, but strong). Granted I had gained some weight like many of us during the early pandemic shut-down, but things got bad after Buspar. I gained about 20 pounds in the first couple months on it, then after I stopped it (to prevent myself from suiciding- oh yeah, there was another dr who was not listening when I was saying, "this is making shit worse", and I had to be the one to say "I can't take this anymore or I am going to die") my brain chemistry was so fucked up I could barely get out of bed for a year. Literally. And the weight packed on, and I barely moved. Even going upstairs to our bedroom I had to pull myself up on the rail because I was so out of shape. I've worked my ass off, struggled with injuries and disordered eating, but I've lost a lot of that weight, but the what has remained has been over in the areas that were already dysphoric areas for me, and now even more so because of the excess weight there that I can't seem to get rid of. And those areas are a reminder of how bad it got for me, and how, once again a doctor didn't listen to me when I said "I need help". 

A thought occurred to me this morning. What would it be like to let other people help me hold my grief?

I'm tired (TW)

 An article from the Huffington Post came across my feed this morning about a female massage therapist who stopped seeing male clients after having had a male client ejaculate during a session. She spoke of feeling violated- how he turned a non-sexual encounter into a sexual encounter without her consent. It brought me back to an incident many years back in my own practice. 

Something that I heard over and over during massage school was that it was "normal" for men to get erections during massage, and that it was our duty not to make a big deal about it UNLESS they tried to touch us or asked us to touch their genitals. Granted, there was constant discussion about it being inappropriate for us to have relationships with our clients, and yet when one of our classmates spoke about how he thought it wasn't a big deal to get on the table and have sex with a client "if they were into it" there was never any reprimand or consequences. And when he continually fucked with peoples' boundaries, his behavior wasn't taken seriously, and the women around him were made to feel like they were someone the ones with the problem. And there was never discussions about when an erection was more than just a "natural response"...essentially, as long as they didn't touch us, if there was a problem it was us (the female massage therapist). 

As for my own disconcerting experience... several years ago I had a client who had had an erection during the massage, and I ignored it (as I was taught) along with the light moaning (maybe he was just moaning because the massage felt good in an appropriate way??? right???), but he didn't try to touch me, he didn't say anything inappropriate to me, so as per what I was taught, this was "natural" and if I was having an issue, *I* was the problem. After he had dressed I returned to the room to take his payment, and give the obligatory post-massage hug that we were taught to give all of our clients. But this time, the hug felt sinister from the start- the much taller, much older man cupped my head (eek!) and pulled me up against his body, holding me firmly as he shuddered, convulsed and groaned. And this from a man who had been telling me with great pride how he had recently become a deacon in his church.

For years I questioned the experience. Did he really ejaculate? I mean, I don't have a lot of experience with men, maybe I misread what was happening? Surely, it must be my perception that was wrong, right? But I know in my bones I was not wrong about what happened, but I had been trained from an early age as someone born in a female body to discredit my own perception of things, to defer reality to whatever the man said, to not "make a big deal" of what ever horrible thing a man had done. 

And here we are. We have multiple politicians and church leaders/ministers warning of the dangers of trans people and queer people, and everyone is all stirred up, yet when these same people (men in power), OVER AND OVER again are the ones arrested for child sexual abuse, and rape no one seems to bat an eyelash, because they're so worried about the  LGBTQ people who are a "danger" to cis women and children as per the crowd that are the actual folks hurting women and children. This is patriarchy. And I'm tired. I'm tired of being villainized as a AFAB person, as a lesbian, and as a non-binary person. I'm tired of carrying the burden of keeping myself safe from dangerous men, and shouldering the blame if I don't succeed. I'm tired of predatory behavior by men being dismissed as "no big deal" or it being me "making a big deal out of nothing." I'm tired of being told it's not ok for me to take up space. I'm just tired.

Advice to my younger self

 This evening I was on an "elder"  Zoom panel for the Transgender Resource Center of NM, and  our audience was trans teens from throughout NM. At one point we were asked what advice we would have for our younger selves. I spoke a bit about knowing your worth, and "screw the haters," but it wasn't until the call ended that I had more concrete thoughts about my advice to my younger self (and current younglings). 

1. Find your tribe. And know that your tribe doesn't have to be queer folk. For example, the Highland Games community is my Tribe. For many years early on, other queer folk were few and far between, but they remain my family, and some of my closest friends are my HG family. Even though I am a Pagan, my Christian brothers and sisters from COGS are some of my closest spiritual family, and again, queer folk are few and far between. And in this is the lesson that we are so much more than one thing; yes I'm a non-binary, butch lesbian, but I'm also an athlete, a judge, a spiritual person, a Gothi, a healer, and advocate, and artist, and so much more. And ALL of those parts of me are important.

2. It's ok to cut people out of your life who are mean, toxic, shaming, unsupportive, demeaning, etc. Even if they are family, even if they have been your best friend (for, like EVER!), and even if they are your therapist. You deserve to surround yourself with people who respect, love, and support you. If they can't do those things they don't deserve your time, or energy. Someone who says they love you while doing things that hurt you are a rot that must be removed before it spreads. I've been re-reading some old journals recently and noticing a pattern of family members saying really hurtful things to me, but I kept letting it go because 1. they were family, 2. I didn't feel like I deserved anything different. It's take a lot of therapy, and a lot of support from true friends, but I'm learning that I deserve better.

3. Queer folk throughout history, and throughout the world were revered as healers, priests/priestesses, and wisdom keepers. We exist in the liminal space, the Holy space of In-Between. We have gifts to bring to this world, we need to let our Light shine, and going back to number 2, we need to surround ourselves with people who don't try to stamp out our Light. Living your Truth, helps others to live in their own Truth, whatever that is. 

Tattoos as gender affirming care

Something I have been wanting to do for  a long time, especially since I had my top surgery is to get my frogs covered. When I got these frogs, they were meaningful to me. The black frog came from the cover of a Ranger Rick magazine that I had carried around for years until I could afford to get it tattooed on. I went to a reputable shop, but the artist did a rather terrible job in rendering the frog including just leaving off several toes that were hidden behind a leaf  that he didn't include in the tattoo, and that I eventually tattooed on myself as best I could during my short tenure as a tattooist. According to Jamie Sams' Medicine Cards, "Frog sings the songs that bring the rains that cleanse the world" or "brings the tears that cleanse the soul."  I loved that message. I think I loved it more when I wasn't able to cry. It's not the message I want to carry over my heart anymore. These days I want my heart covered in protection, and in fierceness. 

The black frog is also a cover up of my first professional tattoo, a tattoo that happened to be a matching tattoo of the one my ex got. It being a rather dysfunctional relationship it felt important to cover it, and when I covered it, it felt like a tendril that had been connecting us was severed. Conversely, years later when we were on friendly terms I visited her and she hooked me up with her tattooist friend who did the other frog.

I had a consult scheduled today about finally getting these tattoos covered. I was filled with joy at the prospect of the coverup, and what I realized is that covering them up is a part of my gender-affirming care. Yes, the images no longer fit where I am, but also the placement and size were all about working around breasts. These are remnants  of chest that no longer serves me. In so many ways these tattoos no longer fit me. I am long past ready for them to be gone.

Unfortunately, I learned at my consultation what I had feared: they will need laser treatment to be adequately covered. Yeah, I could try another artist, but I've done the cover up thing before, and I have old tattoos poking out from the sides, or under. My chest is important to me, and I need to do it write. So, I'm disappointed. I felt like I was almost at the finish line, but now I have to run another race before I get back on track, but I know in the long run I will be happier if I go through the laser process first. Anyone know how I go about making money by selling pictures of my feet or some other low effort means of making extra cash?

 

Did I make a difference?

I know a lot of us are feeling hopeless, and/or helpless. Many of us look at the activism work we did over the years, and see where things are now and think, "Did anything I did make a difference?" I want to assure you that, yes, it did. Yes we've gone backwards in many respects as homophobia, racism, anti-Semitism, transphobia, etc rear their ugly heads like a fecking hydra. Yes, things are bad, there's no sugar coating that. AND, the work you did DID make a difference. Whether that work was sit-ins at the lunch counters in the 60's, volunteering with AIDS patients in the 80s, starting as GSA at your school in the 90s (as I did), or just being a kind human to someone who needed to know that someone out their was "safe." All of these things made a difference, and the world would be a much more dangerous place for marginalized people if the work that was done hadn't been done. 

Yes, my right to be legally married is now in question, but I never thought I would see gay marriage become legalized in this country, and yet for 10 years my marriage has been recognized. I KNOW what is possible, and if we lose it we will fight for it again because we know what is possible. Even though the GSA I started in 95 collapsed after I left DSU I know I laid a foundation, I know I planted seeds, I know that the work I did made it just a little bit easier for the kids who came after me. I know that me being out has helped others to come out to their families and friends, and that me being out has helped parents to be more accepting of their own queer kids.

Sometimes I think it's easy to forget how impactful the "little" things can be. Saving a life isn't always jumping in front of a bullet, most often it is those little moments- a smile, a kind word, your undivided attention. Many people have saved my life over the years. Mrs. Fuller when she took me aside and told me, "I don't think anyone has ever told you how bright you are." That one conversation turned my hatred of school into a love of learning, and learning is what got me the fuck out of ND. Mrs. Anderson who took seriously something I'd written in my creative writing journal, and told me that she couldn't bear losing another student. My friend Debi who was just THERE during one of the worst periods of my life-I wasn't able to really talk about it/process it with her, but having her solid presence there grounded me as I was tossed about in my sea of chaos. It is not an exaggeration to say each of these people saved a life, my life.

Thinking about the more global sense of "making a difference",  I think back to something Jane Goodall said during the pandemic: (paraphrasing) it's easy to get overwhelmed and feel helpless and hopeless with all of the bad going on in the world, and we as individuals can't fix those big things, but what we can do is look to our own microcosms, our own communities and find ways to get involved and make a difference for the people (even one person) around us. And in doing so, we do change the world for the better.

As SNAP cuts loomed on the horizon I saw multiple restaurants in my community posting that they would feed kids, I saw people on social media asking where best to donate food, I saw community organizing. If people didn't have money to spare, they compiled lists of places to go for help. 

We can all make a difference. We can all change the world. Little acts every day- dropping a quarter in an expired meter, letting a friend know how much they mean to you, buying something off of  a giving tree, volunteering at Meals on Wheels, speaking up when you hear bigotry, holding the door for someone whose hands are full, donating your old coats to Transgender Resource Center. You can make a difference, and you ARE important.

Resiliency (TW discussion of suicidal ideation)

 

This weekend I was at a Women's Retreat on Resiliency.

One of the takeaways that I had was that I went into the retreat thinking that I had no resilience. I think about all the shit that my grandmother went through, and yet she was (to my young eyes) solid as a rock. She was the one person in my family who made me feel truly loved, and cared about. And I see myself; "dependent" on therapy to function, battling life-long struggles with anxiety and depression...and my many struggles with suicidal thoughts.

In one of the activities we were to share with a partner about a time we did NOT feel resilient. I was sharing about a period on time in 1991 where I'd experienced several losses, and traumas in a short period of time, and one night when my roommates were away the weight of it all crushed me. And it wasn't just the events of those few months, but the accumulation of unresolved trauma from my childhood. With the weight of all of that I had started sobbing with all of the grief (and I was not a crier...I cried at my dad's viewing and funeral that September, and I was DONE! Cowboys don't cry after all, right?), and I went into my gun cabinet, got my dad's .357, crawled under the table and put the cocked gun to my temple. As I told my partner in the retreat of the moment a tiny spark of hope said to me "what if tomorrow is better" and I put the gun down, it occurred to me that perhaps THAT was resilience. In that moment where I felt there was no hope for things to ever get better, for me to ever feel better, maybe, just maybe I could hang of for one more day.

And I've been thinking that maybe instead of all the times I have been at those crossroads where I was ready to close this show being examples of me not being resilient, perhaps the fact that each of those times I chose to cling to hope, I tried to reach out for community or support are examples of me being resilient. 

I recently shared with a friend who was going through some shit about what my couples therapist had said about letting the relationship hold the hard stuff. One person can't hold the huge shit, but when we share the load it's manageable. In the retreat it occurred to me that letting others help me hold the load, ore even letting them hold me up doesn't mean that I'm not resilient, it means that I'm resilient enough to know when to ask for help. Maybe?

Anyway, one of the other activities was to write a blessing to ourselves when we most needed it. Here is mine:

Holy One,

May you find your Power and your Voice,

May you know Love,

May you know the Divine, and see the Web of Life with Clear Vision.

May you know Joy and Peace,

May you know your purpose and live it fully,

May you embrace your gifts and your worth,

May you share your gifts with the world with an unwaveringly open Heart.

May you heal your own Heart, in healing the world.

May you find peace in your body.
May the hurts and wounds that struck so deep be healed, and may your 

    Spirit be at peace.

May you be surrounded with protectors, and those who know your worth,

May you be surrounded with love always.

May you live authentically knowing that you are enough.

May you live joyfully knowing that you loved.
May you live courageously knowing that you are safe.
May you live mindfully knowing that you are resilient.