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…

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.

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…

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…

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.

 

 

 

 

 

Comfortable in my own skin

Those of you who have read my earlier posts about my breasts will know that for most of my life I have had a rocky relationship with my body. Remember ‘Men in Black’? The bit where the alien ‘borrows’ the body of a hapless human? He can’t get the body to fit right, and spends half the film trying to hitch it round into a comfortable position. That’s a pretty good metaphor for how I have always felt about my body. Discomfort, and that nagging feeling that something ‘wasn’t quite right’. Clothes never felt good, and I was never happy with how I felt or looked. In short, I was uncomfortable in my own skin.

It’s been 5 months since I had chest contouring surgery. Over the course of a few hours on September 12th 2011, my D-cup was transformed into a chest suitable for a man. I’m not flat as a pancake – as my surgeon pointed out with a wry smile, what man my age and weight has a flat chest? Instead, I have a chest that feels and looks right for me.

I have been left with long welts of scars, stretching from my armpits to nearly the centre of my torso on both sides. They’re not pretty, but I don’t care, and I know they’ll fade. What’s far more important than a couple of scars is that the stress, discomfort and horror I used to feel looking at my own body is also beginning to fade. It’s not an overnight process – you can’t just miraculously disappear issues years old – but it’s happening.

I can run now. Not fast, or with any diginity, but without automatically folding my arms across my chest to a) stop people seeing my flying boobs b) avoid doing myself a damage and causing pain. I still occasionally catch myself clutching my chest, to run up the stairs, then realise half way up that it’s no longer necessary. The feeling I get at those moments is enough to make me want to cry. Happily, in relief, and huge gratitude to myself that I’ve made the decisions I have.

Before my surgery, I knew how desperately I wanted to rid myself of my breasts, and anticipated I’d feel better for doing so. I could have had no idea what a dramatic longer-term effect my surgery would have on my self-esteem and body-image. It’s mind-blowing. My posture still isn’t all it should be (I’m a huncher) but it’s improving, and damn…I look and feel good! (Ironically, as I type this, the radio is playing ‘Sexy and I Know It’…well, I’m working on that)

With my surgery 5 months behind me, and nearly a year into testosterone therapy, I am starting to feel comfortable in my own skin for the first time in my life. The feeling is beyond compare.

Sartorial Inelegance

I have never been what you might call a snappy dresser. I hid in oversized clothes for years, and most attempts at dressing up just added 20 years to my age and a sense of huge discomfort. I did try, especially in the last few years, to dress in a femininine way, particularly at work. Largely because I felt so unfemininine inside, and was convinced that somehow it would leak and People Would Know. So I did my best, wearing make-up every day, choosing dangly earrings and accessorising furiously. There’s nothing wrong with any of those things, but for me every little spray of Impulse, every touch-up of lip-gloss in the Ladies’, every compliment I got on a blouse I had bought reluctantly, was another death knell to the little person hiding inside of me.

That does sound a bit over-dramatic, doesn’t it? Clothes are just clothes. Baubles are just baubles. But when the image you are projecting is so drastically different from that scared inner self, clothes are as much prison as armour.

I started binding during the summer of 2010, flattening my chest, and very much improving the way I felt about the way I looked. At around that time, I stopped trying to pretend that I was this feminine being, most notably at work. It was due to be my last term of teaching, and I was desperately unhappy, and just couldn’t keep up the pretence of court shoes and eye-shadow. Of course the students at my school noticed. I increasingly became the butt of lesbian jokes, despite the fact I’d recently got married and changed my name to Mrs. Ok, ok, you and I know I married a woman, but that wasn’t common knowledge amongst my pupils. Though they sure as hell suspected it. So I dressed reasonably smartly and androgynously, and put up with comments like “She’s just bitter cos I’ve got what she’ll never have” (male student pointing to his dick).

Finally, leaving the classroom, I could present myself as male full-time, which led to a whole new problem – I dressed like my grandad.  Of course, jeans and a t-shirt are fine for down-time, but being smart for work was tricky for me. Men’s trousers sit strangely on feminine hips, tending to ride upwards, so I’d end up with a very high waist. Hence my newfound celebration of sleeveless jumpers, covering the waistline, and also helping to disguise the bound chest. All very well – clothing as armour, yet again, but not very sexy.

Testosterone is slowly changing my body – my shoulders are broadening, my hips are getting smaller, as is my bum (well, so I’m told: it’s a bit hard to see round there). My tummy is a little bigger (think man smuggling mini-wok), but I’m keeping my weight down, so hopefully I won’t end up looking like Andy Capp over time. As a result of all this, trousers are fitting far better, and the reliance on sleeveless jumpers has practically disappeared.

Chest surgery has, of course, made a huge difference to the way I feel about myself, and changed how clothes fit and feel. As much of a stereotype as this may be, my outside and my inside are starting to match up, and this has made shopping for clothes far less of a trial. In terms of trying things on, I now look in the mirror and think “wow – you look pretty good”, rather than “oh god, it’ll do”, which is far healthier for the soul.

My final problem remains – the clothes may be fitting properly these days, but I still have no style! Beyond jeans and a funky t-shirt for casual, and shirt and tie for work, I am clueless about what to buy. So many years experiencing buying and wearing clothes as a chore have led me to become a nudist have given me a deep-seated distrust in my ability to get it right.

Ages ago I asked a couple of lovely friends to take me shopping, but never had enough money to do it. Thanks to my birthday, I think the time has come to hit the shops in earnest…

 

Happy Birthday To Meeeeeeeeeeeee!!

Hurrah! I’ve made it to 40! And I would like to take the opportunity first of all to say that I do not feel my age. I was chatting recently to a lady who I don’t think would mind me describing as “older” (I’d guess she’s in her 70s) and we got to talking about how perceptions of age have changed over the years. We agreed that whereas in the past, 40 was definitely seen as the age where one started to slow down, settle down and start the gentle roll down into old age, this is no longer the case.

Certainly when I was a child, I saw 40 as old, and as I grew up, still considered 40 as ‘middle-aged’ which can have very negative connotations. 40 has, to me, always implied sensible clothing (think M&S and Viyella), grown-up leisure pursuits (think golf rather than skateboarding), mid-life crises, and the onset of middle-aged spread. Also, it is drilled into women that if they get to 40 without having had a baby, Time Is Running Out. But for just about everyone these days, the negative messages about this age are increasingly out of sync with how people actually live.

For a start, we are *generally* in better physical shape in our 40s than our forebears, and overall the average age at which people die is creeping up and up. So 40 is becoming less a gateway to old age, and increasingly just another age, albeit at the upper end of young.

Statistically, a lot of people my age have had a number of partners, and are far more likely to be on a 2nd or 3rd major partnership by the time they hit 40. At which point most of the ‘middle-aged and married’ jokes do lose their point a little, and it is probably fair to say that most people of my generation have enjoyed a much more flexible approach to relationships.

The same goes for jobs. Very few people that I know are still doing the same job at 40 that they started out doing. The economy has become a place for temporary work, short-term prospects and flexibility. So again that image of the 40 yr old with a steady job-for-life and 2.4 children is waning.

And me? Well, apart from the ‘not feeling 40′ thing, on a personal level, and also when considering my life against the stereotypes I grew up believing, I am currently going through a 2nd puberty. Which at my age is a touch undignified, but can be quite fun. I have more spots than a Domino’s pizza, have the sex-drive of a crazed rhino, am inclined to slam doors, and spend endless time trying to express my thoughts. However, I also get hot flushes, whether due to the testosterone, or my ovaries giving up the good fight is hard to say. Believe me, combining puberty with menopause-like symptoms all makes for an interesting 40 yr old life, very different from my childhood expectations.

As for middle-aged spread, despite generally eating more now than I used to, I am still the same weight that I was before starting hormone therapy. My muscles are growing bigger by the day, despite my exercise regime being rather sporadic, my face changes practically every week and I am stronger and more energetic than I have ever been. When so much physical change is going on, and I’m in good physical shape as a result, I think I can postpone middle-aged spread to my 50s, or even 60s.

So, 40. The goalposts have definitely changed – firstly because despite still clinging to outdated stereotypes of what 40 year olds are like, society has changed. Secondly, because by changing my body, outlook and happiness, I have removed myself from the expected path through life. I rather like that I am no longer expected to conform, though as I mentioned in a recent post, I do still hold on to my own, ridiculous, expectations of success, and it is these, not anyone else’s, that I need to focus on kicking into touch.

Some jokes about being 40 that are about as far from the truth as you can get:

At 40, you get two invitations to go out on the same night, and you pick the one that gets you home the earliest.

At 40, every time you suck in your gut, your ankles swell.

At 40, I realize that I was built for comfort, not speed.

 

Yeah, right. Speak to me again when I’m 50.

FTM Health issues

It is a bit tricky to comment on the health issues facing transmen, as we’re not always very good subjects for studies. Firstly, there’s not all that many of us, and many of us are not the ‘signing up for research’ type. Secondly, whilst people have been transitioning for decades, it is still hard for researchers to be able to put together enough statistics to be reliable. In short, they don’t really know what’s going to happen to us in the long-term.

That said, there is enough evidence to be able to make some broad statements about the effects of transitioning through hormone use. I will do my best to talk about a few of them, but please bear in mind that I am not medically trained, and if you’re worried about any of this, you should go to the doctor for a more educated picture of what’s what.

Taking testosterone (“T”) can have some interesting effects on our bodies. T increases the number of red blood cells swimming around your system. This has two main effects – in a minority of people this can lead to Polycythemia, or excess thickening of the blood, which can cause potential health problems. On the scary side, it can lead to thrombosis, haemorrhage or heart failure. Less scarily, this can be dealt with by looking at your testosterone dosage. I believe immediate problems can be sorted by drawing some blood off, which sounds a touch mediaeval, but hey, if it works…

The other thing caused by all these extra red blood cells is higher blood pressure. Mine was always pretty low, so increasing it hasn’t affected me (other than being a bit red in the face!) Again, scarily, this can lead to strokes or coronary heart disease, but just as not every man with naturally occurring testosterone is about to die horribly, neither is your average transguy. A healthy lifestyle and regular medical checks is all you really need to do to keep on top of most of this stuff.

T also destroys ‘good’ cholesterol and increases ‘bad’ cholesterol. This can lead to similar problems to those outlined in my last paragraph, but again, with sense and medical supervision, there’s no reason why your average trans-Joe should have to worry too much.

Testosterone can increase the body’s resistance to insulin, and also has been documented as causing liver problems and a potential increased risk of some cancers. The trouble is with this ‘documentation’ is that (as mentioned earlier) we are a very small group of people, even internationally, and also it is often the case that factors such as previously existing conditions, and lack of access to healthcare have not been taken into consideration. A lot of studies take place in the US, where healthcare is largely expensive to access. It is also the case that a lot of transpeople fear to seek help because of discrimination (both perceived and very real – both lead to a fear of seeking care, and cannot be discounted). This is not to say that the studies are therefore worthless, but you need to be sensible before taking them as gospel.

Now here’s a quick biology lesson, which may also explain ‘Bodybuilder Moobs’ to you. As transmen, we take testosterone, but also have some oestrogen swishing around in our bodies. This is generally ok. However, if we take too much T, it turns into oestrogen. Who’d've thought it? That’s why bodybuilders who take very large quantities of testosterone indeed, in the hope of becoming very manly, can end up with quite large amounts of oestrogen in them. And moobs.

So where is this going? It is thought by a lot of medical types that excess oestrogen can increase the risk of a number of cancers: endometrial, ovarian, vaginal, uterine, cervical, to name but a few. This is why it is SO important to get your testosterone levels checked regularly. Quite apart from not wanting to slow down masculinisation, nobody wants to increase their risk of cancer when it could be avoided. Transguys, if you’re not masculinising as fast as you’d like, don’t be tempted to increase your T dose. Not worth it.

Speaking of moobs, even after chest surgery, breast-tissue cancer is still a risk. After all, it’s not just women who get it, so keep checking for lumps, bumps, crinkles and changes.

Another vitally important thing is to keep getting cervical smears while you still have a cervix. Believe me, it’s cripplingly embarrassing to try to book in a smear at the doctor’s surgery when the system has you down as male. It’s scary as hell having to reveal your testosterone enhanced ‘bits’ to a nurse. Being penetrated by a speculum when the last thing you want to do is identify with any femaleness ‘down there’ is awful. But while you still have the equipment, you need to get it checked.

This hasn’t turned out to be a very positive post, has it? However, I believe in honesty and being informed, and I really believe that by knowing what we’re doing to our bodies, and looking after them as best we can, we have the best prospects for a healthy future. Eat well, drink sensibly, pleeeease don’t smoke! Exercise, have regular blood tests, talk to the doctor about this stuff. The average GP in the UK (I can’t speak for elsewhere) knows next to nothing about the health of transpeople, so knowing yourself what risks you face will help you keep up a useful dialogue with your doctor.

I don’t mean to preach. I do want to be healthy, though, and enjoy my new life as long as I can. Which brings me to longevity. We all know that men tend not to live as long as women, and whilst studies on trans mortality rates aren’t that advanced, most medical authorities acknowledge that a transguy will probably live around 5 fewer years than he would had he not transitioned. I’ll take that.

I won’t go into a lot of detail here about hysterectomies, as it’s something I want to cover in much more detail further down the line. Many doctors do recommend that after a few years on T, transguys consider having a hysterectomy, with one idea behind this being that this will remove some of the organs at risk of cancer. Another aim would be to reduce naturally occurring oestrogen, amongst other things reducing the need for as much testosterone. Other doctors argue that this isn’t necessary. It’s a tricky one, and a question that I will be considering very carefully before deciding how to proceed.

I have written at length about transhealth today. However, I am also currently involved in “Movember”, a month-long charity event raising money and awareness of prostate and testicular cancer. Not conditions I will ever have, but a charity worth supporting nonetheless. A close family member had testicular cancer recently. He has survived, but he and his family went through hell in the process. Movember is a light-hearted way of raising money for research and support, with men across the country growing moustaches for money. However much testosterone I may be on, my top lip is not yet up to that challenge, but as you can see, I have taken an alternative approach to growing my ‘Mo’. Crochet rules. For non-Norwich supporters, yellow and green are my local team’s colours.

To support my fund-raising efforts, please consider donating to my support of the Mo at http://www.movember.com/m/1481124.

Whether we are transgender men, cisgender men, or their families or lovers, we all deserve to have the best health possible.