You’ll Just Feel A Little Prick

Actually, I’ve noticed that nurses don’t say that anymore when they’re administering injections or taking blood. Did they really miss that double entendre all those years, or was it completely deliberate…a bit of anarchy in the GP surgery? Either way, being told “You’ll just feel a little scratch” isn’t quite the same.

I spoke in an earlier post about the problems I’d been having with Testogel. As I was at pains to point out to Dr Curtis, my issues weren’t that it wasn’t working (I think this blog is testament to the fact it works jolly well) or even that I was finding putting on gel every day particularly inconvenient. Most of all, the daily dose of Testogel was a big hard reminder that I HAVE to have artificial hormones: that my body DOESN’T produce sufficient testosterone for me to be comfortable in my own skin.

Now, I’m a practical(ish) pragmatic kind of person, and I never imagined I’d get so hung up over this issue, but I did. I assumed that it was ‘just me’, that I’d ‘get over it’, that I ‘shouldn’t be so silly’ and even that I should just ‘Man Up’ (ironic, that one). You see, I’m my own worst enemy at times. Then I came across a YouTube video of someone my own age expressing exactly the same feelings, so I started asking around. It turns out quite a few people feel this way about testosterone administered in a daily form. Which made me feel less of an ungrateful baby.

Dr C was happy for me to give Nebido a go – this is a 3 monthly injected form of testosterone. As it’s slow release it comes in an oil base, so has to be given by a nurse (or someone else qualified to inject oil, I guess!) Apparently there are some issues connected with transferring from Testogel to Nebido, namely the possibility of mood changes, and break-through bleeding. Neither of which sound like a picnic, but I’m an adult, so I figure if it doesn’t work out with this, I’m mature enough to admit defeat and go back to the gel packets.

Knowing that a letter had been sent to my GP, I went to see her, intending to talk through the change, get my Nebido ordered and make an appointment to see the nurse. I wasn’t prepared for her to say that as the surgery has a small stock of the stuff in anyway, she could fit me in with the nurse in the next few minutes. Well, I wasn’t going to say no, was I?

Fortunately, I was with a nurse who knows me. I went to her a while back for a smear test, which she did sensitively, kindly and with understanding of my body issues. So when she asked me to drop my trousers and expose the top bit of a buttock, it wasn’t nearly as embarrassing as it could have been. Despite a quick mental survey of whether I had my good pants on…

A lot of people talk about how painful the Nebido jab is, but I assumed they meant the actual injection. Not the case (for me, anyway). The jab was quick (quicker than it should have been, I suspect) and easy, and I was trousers-up, striding out of the surgery with a cheesy smile in no time. It did feel fantastic, and I was overwhelmed with the thought “It’s INSIDE me!” Now logically, I know that the Testogel got into my bloodstream very efficiently, but somehow, in my head, having an injection was so much more potent. Funny thing, the human mind.

At the time, my bottom and the top of my leg felt a bit achey, but that was nothing to how I felt next day. My backside felt like I’d been kicked by a donkey, and moving my leg was sore. Not so sore that I felt I needed to go back to the doctor, but painful enough for a lot of swearing, and to require painkillers. That lasted for a couple of days, during which time I winced every time I stood up or sat down, couldn’t sleep on one side and woke myself up whenever I rolled over in bed. No bruising, though, or redness, or swelling.

Still, if this is making me sound like even more of an ungrateful so-and-so, don’t worry. Pain or no pain, I am still hugely grateful for the opportunity to move away from a method of taking T that was increasing my dysphoria, to one that allows me more freedom, and the chance to just forget for 3 months at a time that my testosterone isn’t self-generated. I figure a sore bum 4 times a year is worth the peace of mind.

So far, getting up in the morning and NOT having to do the testosterone smearing ritual is lovely. I don’t seem, so far, to be getting as much ‘flushing’ as I would get with the daily dose, but it’s early days yet. Mood-wise, I’d be lying if I said I’d not had any grumpiness. The last few days I have felt a little bit emotionally closer to the edge than I like to be, but I was expecting that, and can deal with it accordingly. Time will tell how going through that 3 month cycle will affect me, mood-wise, though I have been warned that towards the end of the 3 months, I may have some lack of energy, and be on a downer. No bleeding so far. Fingers crossed for never, as the logistics of dealing with tampons in a gents loo are too fraught to think about.

No form of artificial testosterone will be perfect, though from my limited experience, what is available is pretty good. Every method is bound to have its downside, and I know that I need to find the way that is best for both my head and my body. Watch this space…

Long Trip Alone

Just to make myself feel REALLY old this week, I looked up a few dates. It turns out that I was 17 when email became widely used, 22 when texting was invented, 23 when one of the first blogs was published, 25 when Hotmail was introduced, 28 when MSN messaging was rolled out, 30 when Yahoo Groups were first spawned, 32 when Facebook hit the general population, 33 when YouTube starting shaking up the world, and 34 when Twitter was launched. Ouch.

The thing is, as I did not start trying to find out more about my gender issues, and considering transition, until my mid to late 30s, I had all of the above to help me find out information, get in touch with people in similar situations, chat about my feelings, look at photos, explore different viewpoints, etc. etc. I’ve heard (often younger) FTMs state that the internet has ‘saved their lives’ in terms of being trans, and coping with that, and whilst I do not want to belittle the strength of feeling they’ve expressed, I’ve always argued that the diverse communication channels we enjoy these days simply make dealing with an age-old problem easier.

Whatever contact I have with other trans people via the internet/texting/etc. I still crave real human interaction with people like myself. Even just a little bit like me. However, this is often easier said than done.

The problems a lot of trans people have, in my experience, particularly transmen, is that there aren’t THAT many of us and we’re pretty widespread geographically. Another important factor is that many transguys choose either not to identify as trans at all, or to remain ‘stealth’ (that is, not ‘out’ as trans) in their everyday lives.

Currently in the UK there are a number of FTM groups that meet – not just to sit discussing Testosterone and surgery (though of course it’s always helpful to swap notes). Mingling over a cuppa and a jammy dodger, or a pint and pasta is, for me, something that gives me strength, and more importantly, helps me remember I’m not just a freak.

The first time I went to the FTM London group was mind-blowing – I’d never been in a room with people who were even a *little* bit like me. We were all different ages, outlooks and attitudes, with some far along the transitioning road, and some only just starting to think about that route. But it worked, and that (trans)human contact is what keeps me going along. But then I am fortunate, and I am able to travel to London easily. That’s certainly not the case for everyone, which leaves a lot of people isolated.

Up in the city where I live, I know there’s quite a few transguys. I know a handful of them – some by chance encounter, others via friends, and some from initial contact online. The thing is, of course, is that it just isn’t done to walk up to someone and say “excuse me, but are you by any chance transgender?” Even at the few trans gatherings I’ve attended, when there have been a large number of transwomen, and then maybe just myself and another guy I didn’t know, you can’t sidle up to that person, and say “so, I believe we have something in common”. I’m more shy in real life than I am online, and besides, I don’t want to get punched.

My city doesn’t have an FTM social group. I believe there once was one, but don’t know the history of what happened to it. For a long time I’ve thought about trying to start something, but felt that I wasn’t at a point in my transition where I could give very much. Perhaps, though, the time has come. TG2012, a conference for transgender people, is taking place in a few weeks at the local University. I’m thinking of having some flyers printed for distribution there, asking for input on starting a new group locally. Is this the way forward in helping those who identify as FTM in the area, or am I biting off more than I can chew?

The internet is a marvellous thing, and has opened up the world, with all its warts, for all to see. But I still feel we need to be able to meet face-to-face, even just occasionally, to feel less alone.

Ch…ch…ch…ch…changes

Well, this is the first time I have tried to write a blog from my mobile, so please forgive if my efforts are not as pretty as usual, and fall victim to the stupidities of predictive text. Ah, and it would appear I don’t have a ‘return’ facility, so prepare yourselves for one long paragraph! I shouldn’t complain…I love the fact that I can sit writing my blog on a phone the size of a postage stamp (but probably not worth as much, these days) miles from my computer. An iPad would be handier, though. Any rich people out there want to buy a gift for me?? I only ask because that worked for James Darling recently, when a fan of his Tumblr bought him a camera after he happened to mention he wanted one. So it’s worth a try, though I suspect I have less mass appeal than the lovely James…ANYway, the subject of today’s post is simple. Nebido. I went to see my doctor yesterday following a few months of increasing dysphoria surrounding using Testogel, as explained in an earlier post. He is happy to recommend Nebido to my GP, at least to give it a go. He has warned that I may experience fluctuations in mood and energy while my body is adjusting to having a 3 monthly shot rather than my current daily gel. Also, things like my (already bad) acne may worsen. Well, I’m willing to risk upsetting the apple cart a little to ease the psychological stuff that has been so unexpectedly caused by the gel. I should be starting with the Nebido in the next 2 or 3 weeks, so watch this space. And anybody with any experience of switching from Testogel to Nebido, I’d be really interested to hear from you.

Project Pee

If you’ve read any of my earlier posts, you will know that I am not all that keen on discussing the contents of my pants. This is partly because it’s often the only thing that people consider important in terms of a transgender person’s transition, and partly because, well, it’s nobody’s damn business.

However, on this occasion, I’m willing to break my own rule to an extent, to discuss a very specific issue. Peeing.

Now don’t get me wrong here – I don’t feel a need to pee standing up in order to prove my manliness, look more macho, or anything like that. I appreciate that for some transmen, being able to use the bathroom in a way that fully reflects their gender identity is very important indeed, but my feelings on the subject are driven more by practicality.

In the majority of situations outside of the home, using a stall to pee is fine, though I still haven’t really acclimatised to the filthy state of many men’s public toilets. Sane, sensible, polite, reasonable men do seem to turn into filthmonsters in a public loo. If I ever find out which specimen of manliness feels a need to pick his nose and wipe the bloodied result repeatedly on the toilet wall where I work, I will have words.

However, as I said, that aside, I’m quite happy to plonk my bottom on a toilet seat and spend a few minutes contemplating my naval, without any sort of gender dysphoria kicking in.

The time when I really would like to be able to pee standing up are on a night out, or when using unfamiliar toilets, particularly those with one stall, a broken lock, and poo on the floor…I mean, come on guys…who misses the toilet entirely?? Under these circumstances, I would love to be able to unzip, pee and run.

Also, as men use the stall to empty their bowels, they take their time about it. So if I’m stood in the gents waiting patiently behind 2 people for the stall, with 6 empty, shiny urinals  just a few steps away, I know I’m going to be there for a while. And really, do YOU like hanging around in toilets, trying not to catch anyone’s eye??

So what’s the answer to this? Three letters: STP, or to be more formal, a Stand To Pee Device. Used mainly by transmen, and occasionally by women, they enable someone with female anatomy to pee standing up, without weeing down their own leg. Or at least, that’s the theory.

STPs are often combined with packers. A packer being a soft squidgy object shaped like a penis and balls, which sits in your pants to give the impression of male anatomy. I think the psychology and practicality of packing deserves a whole blogpost of its own, so forgive me if I stick to the basics here and now. An STP packer has a wider ‘catcher’, into which you pee, and a tube through the penis to the outside world. It is, to put it mildly, a knack.

I own an STP packer, which also has the interestingly euphemistic third function of ‘Play’. Yes, it can be used for penetrative sex. Waahay! It is also, allegedly, one of the easiest designs to use for peeing. Hmmmmmm. As someone said when I first raised this question, “Practise in the shower. Lots”. This I have done, but my experience is that whilst something is pretty easy with no clothes on, and no audience, doing it in a crowded pub toilet is something else again.

When using an STP, you have to have very good control over your flow. I know I did all my Kegel exercises after having my daughter, but let’s face it, I’m 40, post-baby and not terribly toned ANYwhere on my body, let alone ‘down there’. To avoid backing up your STP, the flow must be even. Add nerves and a couple of pints into this equation, and you’ve got a problem.

The other issue is clothing. I just don’t have the guts to risk peeing all over my clothes in public (definitely not my fetish, chaps!) and haven’t yet got the hang of exposing just enough of myself to be able to fish around and get the STP in the right place, and pee, without looking like I’m having a little fondle in front of the urinal…

Because of all this, I’d sort of given up on the standing to pee, but having spent one too many embarrassing times waiting outside stalls, and far too many times wishing I could levitate inside the stalls, the time has come to get this nailed.

So, my mission is to work out the logistics of peeing, standing up, in public, in a nonchalant manner, without having to carry spare trousers, underwear, socks and shoes…I will report back. Any suggestions very welcome!

T and Me

This is a hard post to write, as I feel I’m going to come across like a spoiled child. Do you remember how it felt to get a new toy when you were a kid, and you played with it, and played with it, and then not long afterwards, the toy didn’t seem so great?

Let me elaborate. When I first saw Dr Curtis, he recommended I use Testogel, an alcohol-based gel that is applied every day, absorbing into the blood-stream via body fat over a 6 hour period. The gel has a lot of advantages. It is quick and easy to apply, and delivers a steady dose of testosterone, without the peaks and troughs sometimes associated with other methods. It seems to be offered to older transguys, though I’m not sure why that is, and I understand that my bipolar was also a factor in deciding that Testogel was to be the T for me. As bipolar causes me to have emotional highs and lows more marked than those without the condition, avoiding a type of T that is associated itself with emotional highs and lows seems pretty sensible.

And how I have loved my Testogel. The feeling of ripping open that first little sachet and applying the stuff carefully to my skin was unparalleled. I was master of my destiny, and had control over my own transition with every blob of hormone-laden gel. What was even better was seeing and feeling the changes that the gel brought about, and revelling in the resulting empowerment. Heady stuff. And so it remained for many months, until those little sachets stopped being my friends.

There are a number of reasons why Testogel (and any other gel-based T on the market, of course) is a pain. The 6 hour period when the gel has to be on your skin takes getting used to, and needs to be planned around. Living with a woman means extra care must be taken not to get the stuff on her. I play at chasing her around with testosteroney hands, but all joking aside, using a gel does mean you need to be careful for a few hours after application. She wouldn’t thank me for a receding hairline and baritone voice. I’ve not tried it on the cats. Testogel is pretty efficient stuff, quickly absorbed into the system, but this does mean that you have to apply it often and at regular intervals to keep your T levels up, and can be easy to forget. Some people argue that changes are not so fast with gel T, but I’m not sure if there’s any scientific evidence for that. I have no-one to compare with, as it’d take an identical twin using another sort of T, and living the exact same life as me to have a fair point of comparison. Which would be rather spooky.

The thing is, all of the things in the last paragraph are ok by me. I’m careful about application of the gel, put it in places that will be covered with clothing and avoid getting jiggy whilst within my 6 hours. I’ve never forgotten my dose, and the Testogel has clearly affected my body in the ways I wanted, and expected it to.

No, the problem is with my head. You see, the act of tearing open that sachet and rubbing on the gel has become a daily reminder that this is what I need to do to be me. To be reminded every single day that without the stuff in the packet I would remain “a woman” but for in my heart, mind and soul, has become increasingly difficult to deal with. When I first started to feel like this, I felt so guilty. After all, this is what I dreamed of, cried about and fought for, and now I’m complaining that putting a blob of gel on myself once a day is messing with my head. Diddums. But it’s a real problem. I want to be able to get on with my life living as me. Having to undergo a daily ritual, however benevolent, is getting in the way of that. It’s so hard to explain, and though I have wracked my brain for an analogy, I can’t find anything that seems appropriate.

The crazy thing is that I take tablets every day that are just as much of a reminder of my own weakness and fragility. Every day for the past 12 and a bit years I have taken medication for my bipolar. Every day for the last 4 years I have taken medication for hypothyroidism. I am a doctor’s dream, taking my meds obediently and regularly. I have no choice, really. But the daily Testogel is the thorn in my side, and here I do have a choice, of sorts. Whilst some forms of injectable testosterone would not, I believe, be very suitable for my needs. However, a form marketed as Nebido may tick the boxes for me. It is a 3 monthly injection, administered by your Practice Nurse. Four painful jabs a year, and then to go away and get on with life, sounds very appealing.

I wouldn’t be the first person to transfer from the gel to Nebido, and for much the same reasons as I have described. A problem that I thought was completely personal, and confined to my odd little mind would seem to be reasonably common. Completely by chance, I came across a video on YouTube describing the initial excitement and euphoria of using the gel, followed by increasing frustration and dysphoria related to the daily reminder that this hormone is not naturally yours. It was a huge relief to realise that I’m not being petty, or going mad, or being ungrateful, or at least that if I am, I’m not alone.

I have contacted my doctor about a change. Watch this space.

And It All Went Swimmingly.

I haven’t been swimming for years. A whole host of issues surrounding my body and transition effectively ruled out swimming for me.

The number one problem was what to wear. Swimming is one of the few sports where there is a distinct difference in the way men and women dress. And anybody not identifying with either of those poles has to make a decision which way to go, swimming cozzie-wise. Easier said than done, when your body says one thing, and your brain very definitely says another.

Technically, of course, I could have continued wearing a woman’s swimming costume. But in reality this would have been far too much of a mind-f*ck. Having my breasts on display in skin-tight lycra would, psychologically, have been disastrous. I contemplated wearing a T-shirt over the top, but let’s face it, once water hits a T-shirt, everything’s still clingy.

I know that in other parts of the country, it is more common for people to swim in T-shirts, or rash vests, but round here that seems to be less common (in my experience) and the last thing I wanted was to draw attention to myself.

I did briefly contemplate going swimming wearing my binder, and then a T-shirt, but bearing in mind how hard it was to breathe in a binder, and how close the whole scenario was getting to that part of your swimming badge where you have to jump into the pool in your pyjamas, I gave up.

Fast forward to the present, post-chest-surgery, and a little further on in my body’s slow but steady creep towards the stereotypically masculine. My bum, hips and thighs are smaller, I have a ‘treasure trail’ creeping up my stomach, no breasts, man-sized nipples, oh, and quite a lot of tattoos (which, whilst playing no part in my actual transition, do seem to mark me in people’s eyes as less feminine. Ridiculous, but true.) My hair is a shade short of a buzzcut, so most things are pointing, at a casual glance, towards me being a man.

There is the small issue of scars. I have a purpley-red raised scar running from not-quite the centre of my chest to my armpit on both sides. It’ll fade with time, but given my track-record with scars, probably not entirely. It was suggested to me that I wait to go swimming until the scars were less obvious, but sometimes you’ve just got to bite the bullet, haven’t you?

Besides – what could anyone possibly say that would stop me in my track? “Cor, you’ve got big ugly scars!” Yes, yes I have. “I saw that Transsexual Summer programme, and they had scars like that! Are you a tranny [sic]?” Close. I prefer the word transgender. “That’s disgusting!” You’re entitled to your opinion. “Woah! Were you in a car crash?” Yes, yes I was – they had to operate to reconstruct most of my ribcage. Etc.

So anyway, I decided recently that it was Time. I purchased my first pair of swimshorts – which contrary to my promises to friends are NOT covered in palm trees and scantily clad ladies. Remember the bit about not wanting to stick out? I sat at the computer plotting my movements, checking the timetable, price, etc. I decided to go to a particular pool as it has a unisex ‘Changing Village’, so no immediate ‘what are you doing in here’ issues, hopefully. I also had to plan when to put on my testosterone gel, as it has to stay on your skin for 6 hours, so that went into my bag. Deciding whether or not to ‘pack’ at the pool was an easy one. Quite apart from not feeling it was necessary, I had horrible visions of something coming loose, and my little silicone buddy floating off towards the shallow end (or doing the front-crawl, depending on how imaginative I was feeling) so that also had to go in my bag. It was like packing for a military campaign.

I walked down to the pool, feeling far more nervous than I had anticipated. Visions of being laughed at, pointed at, etc. filled my mind. I was having to do a serious job of calming myself down. After all, what could possibly REALLY go wrong?

The pool was shut. A pool cover problem meant no swimming til it could be repaired. I was devastated.

Which is ridiculous – this was just a trip to have a swim, but for me it meant far more. I was finally going to do what I’d never done before, courage girded, and suddenly couldn’t. As I was close to work, and it was raining, I called the boss, and arranged to start work a couple of hours early, and sat at my desk in a sulk for the rest of the day.

I tried again the following day, this time phoning to check all was well with the pool cover. Changing was no problem, but that moment when I unlocked my cubicle to go put my stuff in a locker took an unreasonable amount of courage. The other problem I had is that I take my glasses off to swim, and prefer to leave them in the locker, so I was flying blind. This could be an advantage, as if anyone had stared at me, I couldn’t see them! It did mean, though, I couldn’t work out which was the gents toilet (the sign was at the top of the door…too far away), and anyway, there was no way I was going into the loo barefoot without being able to see the contents of the floor, so I saved it for later (and no, I DIDN’T pee in the pool!!)

Getting into the water was a dream come true. It was cool, embracing, and on ME, not cloth. Amazingly, I could still remember how to swim (just – I’m a one-stroke-and-not-all-that-good-at-that kinda guy) but honestly most of my time was spent just enjoying how good the water felt, and how good I felt. How free. I stopped worrying about how I looked after the first 2 minutes. Having achieved a real dream has given me a huge confidence boost. And swimming 30 lengths, albeit slowly, made me feel pretty pleased with myself.

Having got myself out of the water without losing my shorts, and changed, and testosteroned, etc. I decided to treat myself to a cup of dodgy coffee and some crisps. I’d just sat down with my goodies, and was giving myself a mental pat on the back for surviving the experience, when the fire-alarm went off, and the whole building, including the pool, was evacuated. Had that happened 15 or 30 minutes earlier, I can leave it to your imagination how I’d have felt…

The Name Game

I changed my name by deed poll in December 2010, and was uncharacteristically efficient telling everyone (well, sort of everyone…well, ok, most people…some) that needed to know. One of the first things I did was get my driving licence changed, as it’s very useful to have photo ID with the correct name on when you’re changing other things (another Trans Top Tip!). The bank presented no problem, my GP surgery was fine, and so on. Mind you, all this time later, there are still a few things lurking in the woodwork in my old name. Partly because I was a wuss about changing some, and partly because I just didn’t get round to it.

The biggest change that I really must make is my passport. At the moment, I’m not able to leave the country, but until I can get my sh*t together and get a letter from a doctor confirming that my “change of gender” (their words)  is expected to be permanent (well, duh) and £77.50, I am destined to holiday in the UK.

I’m much better at dealing with things like this at a distance, eg: via email, or by post, if I can at all get away with it. In the case of my driving licence, all I had to do was send a copy of my deed poll, fill in a form, send them a cheque, and voilà – all sorted. However, sometimes it’s necessary to speak to someone in person. Despite my notable lack of modesty regarding my transition, I still feel uncomfortable telling complete strangers – “coming out” really, just for the sake of getting the right details on someone’s computer system. It took me ages to sort out my mobile account, because I knew I would have to take proof of my new name to the shop. I ended up doing it in London, because I figured that the staff on Oxford Street would probably be more cosmopolitan than here. Nope. You probably can imagine the sort of young guy who works in a mobile phone shop – times that by five, and imagine me explaining at the counter, then twice more, that I needed to change my name…and then watch their face when I handed over my paperwork. #bloodyembarrassing

My situation isn’t helped by the fact that I changed my name twice within 6 months. I went from being (let’s say) Spottyknickers Smith to Spottyknickers Smith-Jones when my partner and I got hitched, to Mark Smith-Jones. Of course, it would have made much more sense to get it done all at once, but life doesn’t always turn out that easy to organise. So I have two lots of name change paperwork. For a short while, my partner and I were both Mrs Smith-Jones, which was complicated enough even before my transition became official.

Just occasionally, this makes my life awkward, such as when I get a ‘phone call from someone asking for Spottyknickers Smith. Or Mrs Smith-Jones (do you mean the ACTUAL Mrs Smith-Jones, or the person who is now MR Smith-Jones??) Or just Miss Smith. At this point, I have a dilemma. I don’t want to say “yes, I’m Spottyknickers” as, well, I’m not. But I don’t know if the person calling is someone Dead Important, or just some poor soul in a call centre using an old contact list. So it can go a little like this:

“Hello, can I speak to Spottyknickers, please?”
“Aaaaaahhhhhhhm………….can I ask who’s calling?”
“It’s Curlylocks Hair Stylists. We’ve got a great new offer on at the moment”
(Audibly relieved) “Ooohhh, I’m afraid Spottyknickers hasn’t lived here for a while. Sorry!”
“Er, thanks…..goodbye”

At which point I realise I’m speaking to them on my mobile.

I haven’t yet had the guts to say “Spottyknickers? No, I’m sorry, there’s no-one of that name here”, just in case it’s information I might need, or the news that a Great-Aunt I’d never heard of has left me a squillion pounds. But really, as time goes on, the name Spottyknickers is increasingly redundant, and I guess the time will come when it can be quietly but respectfully consigned to my personal history book.

It’s my 1st Transiversary!

Happy Birthday to meee, happy birthday tooo meee!!! Well, if the Queen can have two birthdays, so can I. Today is the Ides of March (as in “Bewaaaarrrre the…” for the classicists amongst you) and it was this time last year that I first slapped on a handful of testosterone gel.

Those of you who’ve been following this blog for the full year may recall that my period started the same day, hung around for a few days, then NEVER CAME BACK! So that’s definitely also something to celebrate. Yeah, f*ck you, Madame Oestrogen…I won!

So what has testosterone done for me lately? I am happier, more relaxed, more in control, more confident, feel sexier, want to smile far more often for no good reason, am more logical, more able to cope with stress….and many more. And for anybody who says these are down to some sort of placebo effect…it doesn’t matter. All I know is that despite a year that has been challenging, heart-breaking in some areas and full to the brim with new experiences, I have come out feeling better than I have ever felt before. That’s not an exaggeration, just the plain truth.

And the other stuff? Well, I’m more muscular, my bum is smaller, my hips and thighs are trimmer, my tummy is podgier. I have hair growing in all sorts of untoward places. Instead of the manly stubble I anticipated, I sport a fuzzy halo of babyhair on the lower half of my face. I’m sexy and I know it…

My neck has broadened, along with my jaw, my face looks…well, different. My shoulders are broader, my hair line is changing, but not receding, despite having lost lots of hair over the year from my whole head.

I routinely use gents’ toilets and changing rooms, where I’m learning just to ‘do my thing’ and not worry about other men, because they Won’t Be Looking. I get called ‘Sir’ about as often as I get called ‘Madam’ and I’m trying my best not to mind when people slip up. I get called ‘Sirmadam’ a lot, as well as ‘Sirmadamsirohsorry’. Strangers frequently call me ‘mate’ and the men who call me ‘darling’ are either trying to chat me up, or have the grace to look a bit bashful when they look at me more closely.

Am I selling this stuff to you yet? Testosterone has saved me from the life I had before, in a way that I never thought it would. After all, you cannot expect a hormone to make your life better, or solve problems that were already issues in your life. But…I am now able to see just how many problems in my life were due to the chronic difference between my body, how I related to it, and how other people treated me whilst I was inhabiting that body, and my mind and heart. Life is not perfect, nor do I expect it to be. My problems have not suddenly evaporated, but believe me, my life is a hell of a lot better than it was.

And that is why today, to celebrate my 1st birthday as ME, I got a new tattoo – four stars on my arm. Why? Because the best analogy I have ever found for what testosterone has meant for me is this: Imagine you were a car, and ran on unleaded fuel your whole life, not knowing there was anything else out there, feeling that something was missing. Then someone filled up your tank with Four Star…

How To Write An FTM Blog – 10 Top Tips

It has been a year – happy bloggiversary! Well, it was on the 5th March, anyway. I’ve been posting every week, and occasionally in between when I got particularly over-excited. I have now produced 66 posts, of varying seriousness, usefulness and quality, and now I’d like to share my amazing secrets. Please don’t get me wrong, I know that there are WAY better blogs out there, dealing in the same issues that I raise, with far more panache, from a much more educated perspective, and getting a gazillion hits a week. However, I acknowledge my own brilliance, so these are my gems of wisdom…

1) Don’t try to “represent”.

One of the biggest things I have learned through speaking to, mixing with, following online and reading about people who come under the heading of FTM, is how completely different we all are. And I mean completely. I have never met anyone who shares exactly my aims, experience and beliefs regarding transition. I try really hard to make it clear that what I say in my blog relates to me, and whilst there’s a lot of stuff FTM people have in common, it’s not fair or accurate to try to speak for them.

2) Be honest.

I’m a terrible liar, and also have a core belief so deeply-seated that it’s probably become an internal organ by now, that I have to tell the truth. This has got me into trouble on numerous occasions, but I’ve learned to work with it. Society does, after all, require a certain amount of bending of the truth and omission in order to get by without dipping oneself in the sh*t, or hurting others. Anyway, this isn’t a post about telling the truth, but I did promise myself that this blog would be truthful, and that I wouldn’t censor what I said according to who I think might be reading. That said, if I’ve been really torn over something, I’ve developed a policy of “not now but maybe later”, as it may be that later on, talking about something may be easier, or more appropriate. Which leads me to…

3) Draw your boundaries, and stick to them.

I was chatting to someone in the pub a while back, and we agreed that sometimes it is possible to say more than you are actually comfortable with about your transition, particularly given the very searching questions people ask (and my personal honesty fixation). As I put it then: “Oh god, yes, I get carried away, and the next thing I know I’m talking about my clitoris”. In writing a blog about anything, but particularly personal stuff, decide right at the beginning what you WON’T be talking about. For me, it’s what’s in my pants.

Sure, there have been times where I think that others might benefit from knowing in more detail about genital changes through testosterone use, or the different paths available regarding genital surgery (or the lack of it). I do have opinions on these things, but actually, that’s not something I feel comfortable about sharing just now, and I’ve stuck to that. I’ll certainly make reference to things when appropriate, but really feel that just because this is often one of the first questions people ask about FTM transition, that does not mean it should be the first to be answered.

4) Think carefully about the words you use (general).

Talking about anything can be a linguistic minefield. As I’ve discovered over the past year, it is easy to get things wrong. ‘Transgendered’, for instance, was a word I used to use, until I learned that that’s just not a correct term, so made sure I used ‘transgender’ from then on. It’s tempting to go back and change early posts, but after all, this is the story of a transformation, in more ways than one. I feel that each post was the product of how I was feeling, and where I was on my particular journey at the time. I also used to refer to myself as transsexual (still do under certain circumstances, but that’s a whole post of its own) but now, knowing myself better, and appreciating the connotation of that word, tend to steer clear. The word ‘trans’ works well for me when referring to myself or others, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that one word can fit all. Some use ‘trans*’ to denote an umbrella term with the possibility of a number of endings according to the individual. Just be careful that language that you use and feel fine using does not have a different meaning or context for someone else. Tricky.

5) Think carefully about the words you use (naughty).

I made the mistake, being a bit of a comedian, of entitling a post “You typed in Cute Pu**ies and got WHAT?” Only with s instead of a *. You get it. Now, this post was looking at some of the referrals that search engines have sent me. It was largely a humorous post, but also challenged the reality that often people come to my blog because they want to see an FTM pen*s or something along those lines. This would have been fine, but me using the word pu**y has meant that that post has amassed the most individual hits of any of my posts, all year. Even changing the title hasn’t made a difference. I don’t think the picture of the shocked cat, apparently caught watching po*n helped…

6) Be aware of where your pictures may end up.

I like to have a picture on my posts, and they are often of me. That’s fine, as I don’t mind people knowing what I look like, or my partner for that matter. I make sure I have her permission to publish pics of the two of us. That’s all well and good, but I do know that quite a lot of ‘random’ traffic to my blog comes via G**gle Images. Occasionally I put one of the search phrases that has been identified as leading to my blog into an image search, and there are a lot of pics of me on there. How hard I laughed when I put ‘hot ftm’ into an image search, and just a few pics down was a picture of me, topless. That didn’t weird me out too much (though I nearly cracked a rib laughing at being labelled a hot ftm) as I have chosen to put these pictures ‘out there’. Just be aware, expecially if you are stealth.

7) Stay focused.

I challenged myself to write a post a week, and most of the time, that’s been pretty easy, as the nature of transition is that there’s usually something changing/bothering you/to look forward to, plus it’s a time when you are super selfish, and therefore convinced that everything you have to say is important. Which of course it is. What also helps is deciding right at the start what you will and won’t include in your blog. I don’t mean as in point 3, so much as generally. My blog is about my transition, and related topics. It’s not about the great night out I had last night, unless that had some relation to my transition, or how I feel about badger culling. I have edged into talking about my bipolar, where I feel it’s connected to my gender identity and/or medical treatment. Apart from that, I’ve tried to stay very focused.

8) Be prepared.

At the risk of sounding like a teacher (Flashbacks! Aaaaargh!) it helps to know roughly what you’re going to write about before you start. Don’t get me wrong, I mostly start with a rough topic in mind, then write off the cuff after that. I’m not a planner. But I always like to avoid that ‘oh no, I’ve got to do a blogpost and I don’t know what to talk about’ moment. I’ve made a habit of writing things down during the week, so I always have a stash of ideas. I use the ‘notes’ section on my phone, which is full of weird, wonderful and downright stupid ideas for posts.  Just looking now, there’s “You’re history, no good to me”, “More defence than Villa” and “You have the Rights to remain silent”. These may or may not ever be used, if I can even remember what I meant. Many of you will know I’m not a good sleeper (I’m terrible in bed…) and a lot of my note making is done at 3am. What makes perfect sense then tends not to the next day. Witness my weirdest note: “Elastical”. Hmm.

9) Find an audience.

I started this blog for friends and family. Quite selfishly I figured it would be a good way to avoid having to say the same thing over and over. ‘Look at my blog, here’s the address’ probably sounds a bit pompous, but does save repetition. Use the tags facility – I’m not very good at this, but tagging your post will help bring people to your blog who are interested in a particular topic. The stuff I mentioned earlier about G**gle etc can work in your favour, as those search engine people are very clever, and will pick up key words. Just make sure it’s things like ‘ftm’ and ‘transition’ rather than ‘pu**y’, as we’ve established.

Facebook is, of course, a powerful tool, and Twitter too (did anybody hear an owl?) Publish a link to your newest post. Hopefully your FB friends and Twitter followers will be interested rather than annoyed – I suppose it depends how aggressive you are! Word will get round – I’ve bumped into ex-colleagues that I haven’t spoken to for over a year who’ve said, ‘I read your blog’. That is weird, but good. Try linking to other, similar blogs, as people often want to ‘read around’ a topic.

10) Enjoy it.

Oh, I know it’s a cliché, but there’s no point pouring your heart out if it’s not fun. There’s only been a couple of times when I felt I didn’t want to do a post, and I do get a bit stressed, wanting to write something ‘good’ (well, don’t we all?) but otherwise, I love doing this. The whole process is very therapeutic, and I like to think that for a few hundred words a week I am A Writer. Of course, it would be cool if thousands of people suddenly became terribly interested in my blog (how DOES that happen?), but that’s not why I do it. I’m terrible at keeping a diary, but this way, I can see for myself how far I’ve come, and how far I still have to travel.

I have currently had 9576 hits on my blog, with 4993 of those on the home page. I never in a million years thought I’d be looking at nearly 10,000 hits in a year. I am undecided at the moment whether to continue doing a weekly blog, or perhaps try fortnightly, to keep things fresh. My transition is at a point where nothing very dramatic is happening, and as happy as I’d be to rant about gender issues every week, I feel that would skew the focus of the blog. I’m going to see how I feel when I get to 10,000 and re-assess.

My next blog will be on Thursday 15th March, to celebrate One Year On Testosterone…my Transiversary! All 1st Birthday greetings and vegan birthday cake welcome

Cryyyying over you…

I’ll start with an apology – those of you expecting a post about masculinity today, which I did promise, will be disappointed. That post is on the way – it is, as artistes might say, a ‘work in progress’. However, it’s been a lousy emotional week, so I’d rather delay a little longer, and write it properly over a longer period, than dash it off when my heart and head aren’t in it.

So yes, it’s been a hard week, emotionally, but I’ve coped, in ways I’d never have dreamed of a year or two ago. If nothing else, a few days of feeling wretched have served to remind me how much I have changed, in terms of my emotional response.

I used to be a crier. Oh, how I cried. Though once or twice in my life I have been accused of crying deliberately to make people feel guilty, that actually couldn’t have been further from the truth. It was just that in the days when oestrogen was my primary fuel, tears really were my natural response to…well, just about everything. I used to joke that I had a reservoir sat behind each eye, ready to burst forth at the slightest provocation.

I hated reacting like that – I felt it made me seem weak, unable to cope, manipulative. An ex partner once said “how can I ever argue with you, and put my point across, when you just end up crying?” And it’s true – by the time someone is awash with tears and snot, you can’t really bring whatever issue was being raised to a satisfactory, mutually agreeable conclusion. Well, I never could: there’s no joy in knowing a partner has given way on an issue simply because they couldn’t bear knowing they’d upset you to the point of crying. Not to mention your face looking like a swamp.

My lachrymose ways followed me into social situations, work situations, watching films, reading the newspaper…just about everywhere. Arguably this is because I spent a lot of years quite unhappy, stressed, and emotionally raw. However, even as I was experiencing the warm tweaking at the eyes that heralded another bout of tears, I wanted desperately to be able to react differently. After all, I was intelligent, articulate and more than capable of holding my own; why have all of that hidden under a bright pink nose and eyes like mini-doughnuts? That’s the other thing – I was never a dignified crier. Oh no. The shame I felt at crying was compounded by knowing that for a good couple of hours afterwards, the world would KNOW I’d been crying. And how.

Taking testosterone has lots of effects – many physical, more than you’d think emotional. It’s hard to describe how the way I perceive things, react to them and deal with them has changed, but I know I feel very differently from how I did before, and that is reflected in the way I react to things.

I think some people perceive that testosterone somehow stunts or removes someone’s emotional response, but that’s certainly not true in my experience. It’s still there, but different. Overall, I feel a lot calmer, less inclined to react to things that would have bothered me before. I find it a lot easier to view a problem or situation objectively, and rather than get upset, try to work out solutions. My anger brews much faster than before, but goes away as quickly as it came. That’s something I’m learning how to manage, but I’ll take it over the crying, any day.

I last cried on 17th July 2011.

For me, this is liberation. I’ve heard other transmen who have experienced this say they miss their tears, but I really don’t, not at this stage. It has to be said that not everyone taking T stops crying, but I consider I am one of the lucky ones. I love that my emotions aren’t written across my face in wet tracks. I feel that I am able to process what’s upsetting me much more easily if I can do it privately, within me, and react appropriately at the time so that I can go sort any emotional mess out after the event.

But, and there’s a big but, lack of tears does not mean lack of emotion. Don’t think that because I’m not crying over something upsetting that I am not upset. All the feeling is still there – it just doesn’t translate into tears. Some might consider being able to cry as a release I am missing out on, but I honestly prefer dealing with things differently. Feeling stronger and in control helps me a lot in processing emotional stuff, and my past relationship with crying has meant that I see that as a very negative thing in myself.

And before I have rotten tomatoes thrown at me, yes I know that Real Men Cry. This is not about a quest to be a stereotype, a super manly man or anything like that. I’m not saying men shouldn’t cry – anything but, as it can and should be a positive release. But for me, the tears were a burden, and I am revelling in how it feels NOT to cry.

Ironically, the only time I get a touch of wetness in my eyes is watching things like DIY SOS Big Build. But the wet eyeball is as far as it ever goes, and I am grateful for a new way of dealing with things.