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.

It’s a small world (after all)

I started writing this blog to reach out to family and friends about the changes I am going through, and the reason why I have made these decisions in life. It was also intended as a useful way of me committing my thoughts to print for my own future reference. I’ve never been any good at keeping diaries, so a blog seemed like a pretty good idea.

My blog has by no means gone global in the usual sense – I haven’t had any calls from newspaper or magazine editors or funky online zines begging me to contribute, and my viewing numbers, whilst steadily rising, reflect a fairly small audience. I average around 280 post views a week, as opposed to 100-ish a week this time last year, which makes me very happy.

I have gone global in a different sense, though. On February 25th this year, WordPress started providing bloggers with information about what countries their views come from. It makes really fascinating reading. The picture at the top of this page shows all the different countries where people have sat at a computer, and viewed my blog since Feb 25th. The list runs downwards, rather than across. Everywhere from Jersey downwards has just had the one post view, but all others have had more than one.

I’m no egoist (though some might disagree) but the thought that my blog has been read so far across the world, and in such diverse places, is exciting, and a little scary. This isn’t just me talking about my boobs for friends and family any more.

Now I’d be the first to admit that it is unlikely every one of these post viewers was looking for information on the trans experience. It’s clear from what search engine terms people use that actually they’re looking for p*rn, or advice on swollen ankles. However, I like to think that for every misdirection there is another person who has found exactly what they needed. For every “what on earth have I found??” there’s an “It’s not just me, then”. Whether that’s in Worksop, Walnut Ridge or Warhapur, that makes me very happy.

The internet has opened up the world, there’s no doubt about it. Arguably that isn’t always a good thing, but in the case of linking up trans people across the world, it can really affect quality of life. In places where people experience no support from family, friends or the wider community, reading a blog, watching a YouTube video or chatting to someone via Messenger, or using Skype can mean that you feel a bit less alone. Whether the person you’re in touch with is on the other side of the world, or in the next town.

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The map below shows all the countries where someone has looked at my blog from 25th February 2012 to the present.

Filtering Out The World

I was bullied throughout my school years. Well, most of them, anyway. The war of spite, put-downs and vicious mockery started when I was about nine. Not so coincidentally, about the same age I started self-harming, but that’s another post. The bullying continued whatever school I went to, so I reached the seemingly obvious conclusion at an early age that it was me that was doing something wrong, and that other people were justified in whatever they were saying or doing to me. Not good for a little head.

After a few years of that, I think my brain started putting up a filter, so that I was able to go about my business in some ignorance of what was going on around me. An example of this is one occasion where I got off the school bus, aged 14 or 15, and someone I knew asked “Are you ok?”. I replied that I was fine, and asked why. She looked at me a little oddly and explained that throughout the journey a group of my schoolmates had been shouting comments at me, laughing and joking at my expense, with an audience of the whole of the lower deck of the bus. I genuinely hadn’t heard a thing, and there’s not a lot wrong with my hearing. Thank you, brain, for filtering that one out.

Whilst I was still having problems with bullies when I left school at 18, adult life brought relief. Over the years, as my self-confidence reasserted itself, and I didn’t need the filter any more, it gradually disappeared. And I grew to miss it, as I once again became aware of the negativity that goes on everywhere.

A lot of people hold strong views about trans people, and all too many of them think it’s ok to direct their venom at us as a community, and at individuals. I am fortunate in that people I know and mix with have either had the courtesy not to say anything hurtful to my face, or at least lacked the guts to.

However, without my filter against the world, I am very sensitive to whispering and stares, but with the wonderful advent of MP3 players, I have managed to create a reasonably effective filter for myself – music. By creating my own personal white noise, I find myself much more able to zone out others around me, and help the Paranoia Monster lay down and sleep for a while. I firmly believe that all the people who go through life with earphones permanently attached are probably doing much the same thing as me.

Sadly, I can’t do this all the time, particularly not with social networking, the internet generally, and the media skewing and attacking wherever it can. The trouble is, I tend to take criticism of my community generally very personally, and this snaps me straight back into being a child.  If someone somewhere in the world posts an article claiming that parents who decide to transition are selfish and disgusting, I start wondering if they’re right, despite being a logical(ish) intelligent person who knows that’s just a personal opinion, and a bigoted one, at that. Reading that another trans person has been vilified by their family fills me with fear that the acceptance I have been offered by my family isn’t genuine. The more ‘evidence’ I see that very many people consider my path in life to be wrong, the more that I feel everyone must think that about me. And so the Paranoia Monster operates.

There are a couple of logical solutions to all of this – firstly, put things in perspective, and secondly, don’t read it. To look at the second first (!?), I do try to limit what I see online. I ‘hide’ stories or pictures on Facebook that set off an unwanted emotional response, and avoid the Daily Mail Online like the plague. It’s actually not all that often that an online newspaper says anything so stupid it can’t be written off to lousy journalism, but the comments below any article to do with LGBTIQ stories are often horrendous. So much hatred and mockery, directed at people like me, or like those I love, is far too triggering, so I leave well alone.

But I am an “out” trans person. By writing this blog and making my own YouTube videos, as well as contributing to a collaborative channel (details to the right of this page) I am putting myself to some extent into the public sphere. I don’t want to build myself a little cocoon and hide in it forever, as I feel it is important for me to fight for the rights of people like me (and those unlike me, too). To do that, though, you need to know what’s out there, and respond it it. Otherwise, the haters really will win the battle and scare us into submission. To face up to these challenges, though, you need to have some sort of filter in place, or you’ll fall apart. Just as my childhood brain recognised.

So, perspective must be important, and it is this that I am working on, as my adult-style filter. You know that saying “It’s not all about you”? When seeing things online, or hearing them on the street (if they’re shouting loudly enough to drown out the Red Hot Chili Peppers) or reading them on Facebook, I have to reaffirm that it’s not all about me.

Funnily enough, some recent trolling on one of my videos bothered me not one bit, despite the comment reading something along the lines of “People like you shouldn’t be allowed to make videos. You’re disgusting, you f****** f****t”. Why would that not upset me, but someone commenting elsewhere online that ‘trans people are clearly mentally ill and should be locked away’ make me feel attacked?

I’ve a long way to go on this one, and I’d be interested to hear how other people keep their heads when all around them are losing theirs.

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.

Man enough?

Throughout my life I have spent a lot of time trying to see both sides of arguments. Even in situations where I feel very strongly, it’s always been possible to see why the other argument has been made. In many ways this has been a blessing, in others, a curse. It is hard to be really rabid about something whilst simultaneously appreciating the opposite perspective. Not agreeing with, mind, just appreciating. Perhaps it is this that means that whilst I hold very strong political views, it is rare that I choose to bang my political drum. And all the more upsetting that when I do poke my head above the parapet over an issue, it has been seen by some as ‘unnecessary’. Trust me, if people were aware of the strength of my feelings on a lot of issues, they’d realise how much I choose to hide, out of consideration for ‘the other side of the argument’.

From the perspective of a trans person, it can be helpful to recognise and appreciate that not everyone agrees with or applauds the right of a person to determine their own gender identity. Unfortunately, if I do happen to get into a conversation about the politics of gender, some people can be quick to level the accusation of some sort of ‘gender evangelism’, or to be more crude ‘shoving it down their throats’. To bring up a side-issue, this also happens because I am a vegan. I can be happily chowing down on my chosen meal and a fellow diner will then ask ‘Well, WHY don’t you eat X?; so does that mean you are JUDGING me for eating X?; what about X ludicrous scenario involving a desert island and a tub of Philadelphia?’ Funnily enough, I’m not crazy about discussing food-production techniques at the dinner table, and am happy to say so, but you can bet that if I actually answered the questions, I’d be seen as trying to thrust my views on others. This also seems to be the case regarding my transition – people ask lots of questions (which is fine) but not always in the most appropriate setting, and not always without seeing the answers as an attack on or affront to their own gender identity. No, honestly, I’m not recruiting.

I have come across the idea on more than one occasion that choosing to hide your beliefs, feelings, etc. can be seen as a favourable attribute in a man. ‘Stiff upper lip’, ‘sucking it up’, ‘manning up’ and so on, tend to refer to putting aside what you feel and ‘getting on with it’. There have been plenty of times recently where I have had to swallow my pride and refrain from saying what I actually think or believe, because I don’t want to be seen as someone who constantly flies the flag for the Kingdom of Transgender.

As I have mentioned previously, I am very honest, and find it hard to lie. I was at a birthday ‘do’ recently – very few of the people there actually knew me, and those that did were, let’s face it, not sending out an addendum to the invitation reading “Attention, there will be a transgender man at the party. He is short, wears glasses and looks kinda masculine, but not quite. Please do not refer to him as a lesbian” Because it wasn’t all about me, nor did I want to stick out.  We were sat with some really nice people, and chatted on and off throughout the evening. At no point did I make any reference to myself, my business, my gender ‘stuff’ or anything like that. Later on, one lady asked ‘so, how long have you and your wife been together?’ I replied we’d been together 7 years, and married 18 months. At which point she looked me in the eye and said ‘Ah, is that because it’s only recently been made legal for couples like you to marry?’ Did I put on my poker face and ask ‘what sort of couple do you mean?’ Did I give her a brief but thorough run down of my transition, and how it has affected the status of my civil partnership? Did I hell. I smiled sweetly and said ‘that’s right’. On reflection, I’m pretty sure that the majority of people there saw us as a lesbian couple (but MY wasn’t the short one with glasses BUTCH?!) and it would not have done me any favours at all to pitch my Kingdom of Transgender flag in the middle of the birthday cake.

So maybe I am ‘man enough’ to take this kind of situation on the chin, but what are the immediate psychological consequences? Hard, actually. However much I realise that these things are just going to happen, that people don’t mean it, and will have gone home completely oblivious to any identity crises on my part, it hurts. Of course it hurts to be misgendered (and yes, I KNOW how easily that happens/that it’s early days yet/etc. Please see first paragraph re: The Other Side Of The Argument) but it hurts more to have to hide how much that hurts, for fear of being seen as a freak, or even worse, an attention-seeking freak.