Mtf - Blog Posts

25g

I’ve written before about how I administer my estradiol in form of a fortnightly intramuscular injection. The chief benefit is that it offers the greatest degree of bioavailability; but at the cost of... you know, routinely poking myself.

I actually use two different needles. There is a large, 18g needle for drawing the medication from the vial (because you want a large needle when pulling liquid into the syringe); and a 23g needle for injecting (because the smaller the needle, the less discomfort it causes going in).

Thankfully, the needles are color-coded; and over time, I learned to recognize them. When I’m having blood drawn, it’s with an 18g (which is why the “You’ll feel a sharp pinch” speech has some merit to it). One time the technician used a 23g needle (maybe my vein was inaccessible that day; maybe it was from personal preference) - I barely felt it going in!

(I think next time I’m getting blood work done, I’m going to ask them to use a 23g...)

I’m fascinated by vaccinations, because they give the same “You’ll feel a poke” talk but honestly, there’s hardly an sensation at all compared to my routine injections. I looked up the spec sheet and discovered they are using 25g needles; and the last time I saw my endocrinologist I requested they proscribe me some to test with.

Anyway, this is a very long-winded way of saying that I got to try out a 25g needle today and honestly, it was such an improvement - there was no pain popping it in! I do have to be a bit more careful now as depressing the syringe plunger required a lot more effort (I assume estradiol cypionate is a bit more viscous than whatever medium vaccines sit in); and that has to still be done in a very controlled way.

All the same though: great experience; would recommend!

Dysphoria

After receiving our second COVID vaccine doses, my spouse, daughter and I all experienced side effects. Now, there isn’t an objective way to measure a person’s discomfort; but subjectively, it appears that I had a better time of things than they did.

Of course, this might not be accurate. I may be female now, but the majority of my life was spent operating under the rule of male gender norms. One such unspoken rule was that bearing one’s discomfort stoically was admirable, and complaining unseemly; and I internalized that.

(It is therefore entirely possible that we experienced equal degrees of malaise; but I sought to downplay mine.)

There is also a growing body of evidence to suggest that the side-effects are hitting XX chromosome-holders harder - possibly resulting from some kind of interaction between estrogen and the immune system.

(Alas, I could not test this theory as I was almost at the end of my estradiol cycle when we got our booster shots; and even then, my cycle only superficially emulates the far more complex interactions of the real thing.)

Whatever the case may be... It felt like another unwanted and unneeded reminder that despite legally changing my name, changing my pronouns, adopting a new wardrobe and updating my appearance, engaging in all manner of medical treatments... That I am, and always will be, a woman with an asterisk at the end of that word.

Maybe one day I’ll make peace with that fact... but not today.

Tests

Every six months I have my hormone levels tested. I take a lab order from my endocrinology office, pop into a local clinic, have blood drawn, and see my endocrinologist a week later to review the results.

It was during today’s review that we discovered the lab had missed a test. It was okay - my provider was still able to make sense of the results.

However, I did give the clinic a call to find out what happened. I really, really like them - they are very pleasant to deal with, there’s no waiting, and their pricing is very reasonable.

However, this is the third time something like this has happened; so I gave them a call to figure out what the problem was and what I could do to avoid it in future.

Her: “Hi, this is [the laboratory]. How can I help you today?” Me: “Hi, this is Lauren. I think I might be missing a test result?” Her: “Well let’s see if we can find it for you, Ms. Lauren.”

I already like this person - calling me ‘miss’ instantly melts my heart!

Her: “Can I have your date of birth?” Me: “Sure, it’s- oh god, I just remembered I’m forty again.” Her: *Laughter* Her: “That’s okay! Welcome to the club.”

Seriously, this is one of the best personal interactions I’ve had all day!

Her: “So what test do you think you’re missing, Ms. Lauren?” Me: “Uh... testosterone.” Her: “Oh. Oh!” Me: “Yeah... Probably the last one you would have guessed!” Her: *More laughter*

It took some digging through their records, but this wonderful person helped me figure out that my lab order did indeed have a testosterone reading on it, and that this was overlooked. (Most likely because the lab order is a piece of paper that the blood draw technician is required to read and then re-enter into a terminal; there’s much lost between finger and screen!)

Going forward, I’ll be keeping a much closer eye on which tests were ordered and what was actually entered into the system - hopefully that way nothing else gets missed!

Phone

Today I went bra-shopping at the mall. At one point I put my phone down and thought to myself:

"This is just like that one coworker of yours - the one that leaves his phone laying around all the time. Glad I'm not like that!"

It was therefore inevitable that a few minutes later, I realized I no longer had my phone on me. Fortuitously, some kind soul had handed it into security; which I knew the second I walked into the security office as it was sitting right there on their reception desk.

What follows is, verbatim, the conversation that took place between myself and the security officer on duty:

Me: "Hello! I was going to ask if anyone handed in an iPhone 7 in a black case, but that appears to be it right there. Probably you want to verify it's mine; so I think you'll find the unlock code is ████."

Security: "Ah. Well. Can you tell me what the image is" - proceeds to hold phone very close to face, like a hand of poker - "...on the lock screen?"

Me: "Yes; that will be a picture of me and my daughter."

Security: "..."

Me: "...Of course, I look very different now. I don't have a beard, for one thing."

Security: "..."

Me: "..."

Security: "What was that code again?"

Anyway, I got my phone back!

Me

And the photoshoot results are in!

It's not often I do something like this - I'm still very self-conscious about my appearance - but it's nice once in a while to see how far I've come.

Office space: addendum

Yep... yesterday's workout did a real number on my girl muscles. I've got minor strains in my forearms, shoulders, and weirdly, thighs (which is what I get for trying to be a human jack, I guess).

I realize now that I'm reluctant to tell the men in my life "I'm sorry, I cannot physically carry this; you need to do it for me" because:

It feels sexist;

Despite all the physical changes I've experienced this year, my frame is still the same - and I worry that people will extrapolate from this that I'm still equally physically capable.

I don't know what the solution is, but I need to figure something out before too long because I'm getting really tired of these injuries...

Office space

My company has decided to rearrange our current layout; so I went into our location today for the purpose of conveying the contents of my current office to my new office.

Amongst other items, this includes some solid wooden shelves and a two-piece desk. These are not light items.

In the past, I've been able to move these things myself (albeit with great effort and probably minus OSHA approval); brute-forcing them onto a dolly and wheeling them to their destination.

Not this time around though! I just didn't have the strength. I was able to get some of the smaller pieces by myself, but when it came to the main part of the desk I had to rope our network engineer in for assistance.

(And he made it look so easy! At one point he had to take the weight of the whole thing while I moved and it didn't phase him in the slightest!)

It's fascinating because I don't actually feel, in any way, shape or form, weaker; but the evidence absolutely speaks for itself. As I've noted before - there's a serious danger that I will injure myself because I can't estimate my own strength properly anymore.

In addition, I ran into an older member of our organization. The last time we met I was in a dress, and he gave a sort of weird half-chuckle / smile that could be interpreted as "Good for her!" or "That's hilarious".

This time around, I said hi and he responded with "Yes, sir".

I can't tell yet whether he's just struggling to adjust or holds some actual, maladjusted views; but now I'm kind of wondering.

"Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. The third time it's enemy action." - Auric Goldfinger

Guess I will wait for a third time and see what happens!

Double oh-no

I swear, self-administering an intramuscular injection is like flying a space shuttle. It seems so simple - all you are trying to do is move an object in space from Point A to Point B - and yet there are so many little variables you have to keep track of; any which of one could result in a catastrophic failure if not accounted for.

Tonight I did my Estradiol shot; and I swear in short order I:

Couldn't relax my thigh muscle (despite my best efforts);

Inserted the needle at an angle;

Hit a vein on the way in (unavoidable, but annoying).

I'm not sure what the problem was with (1) - maybe the way I was sitting? I suspect (2) is because you are supposed to make the skin taut, and I've been doing that by pulling it in a single direction... Maybe I need to stretch it taut instead?

The things I put myself through for the sake of aligning my mind and body...

Photoshoot

As part of the process of becoming a US citizen, I was required (yet again) to travel to Detroit and visit a USCIS field office for a 'biometrics' appointment. As the name implies, they measure your statistics, take photographs, and fingerprint you.

(While I can understand the desire to prevent known malcontents from falsely acquiring official documentation, the process is overly invasive and to top it off, costs the applicant $80. That's a discussion for another day, however.)

What they did not tell me at the time is that the photograph would later appear on my official Certificate Of Naturalization - if they had, I might have worn something other than an oversized hoodie. Alas.

Now I have to have my Certificate reissued as my legal name and gender having changed and fortuitously, the USCIS allows for this (although there's another $555 fee, because of course there is).

Thankfully, they will let me supply my own photograph this time. So I put on my best dress, did my hair and makeup, and met up with my photographer nephew at the local park for a photoshoot. I'm excited to see the results!

As a fun bonus for the day: on the way home, I stopped for bubble tea at a new Vietnamese restaurant. I recommended the place to my coworker yesterday; and was entertained to see him walk in five minutes after I did to collect an order. I was more delighted to see that he didn't actually recognize me at first - presumably because he's never seen me in a dress before!

Cold

I've had a cold for what feels like six weeks now; very low-grade symptoms, but annoyingly persistent.

Nominally I would bear this with good grace; but it's both dragging the pitch of my voice down and is effecting my efforts to push my singing range higher.

Very, very inconvenient!

Unexpected HRT side-effect #13

For years, I've had a nuclear technique at my disposal: 'The Look'. It's a three-quarter profile, dimpled smile that would instantly summon bashfulness on her part and result in an averted gaze.

Not anymore though! I tried this a little while back, and... nothing! No effect. Through rigorous scientific testing (i.e. randomly and unexpectedly applying The Look), we have determined that it just... doesn't work anymore!

We have no idea why this is - only that it coincides with the changes that have slowly been taking place in my facial structure. It's okay - it doesn't impact our relationship at all - but it's still fascinating!

A newfound skill

I have yet to develop the requisite gentleness to avoid punching holes in lace; however, it does appear that they can be darned just as easily as any other type of fabric (arguably better, in that the repair seems less visible than in a plainer cloth).

This is a timely addition to my skill set as I just stuck my thumb through another item of clothing!

Darker

If my writing has taken a slight turn towards the darker of late, it’s because of this:

I have a tremendous aptitude for self-denial; specifically when it comes to convincing myself that I am not worthy of focus and attention (and thus by extension my concerns, challenges, and issues).

This is of course most notably exemplified by how I managed to deny the obvious regarding my transgender status for so many years.

When I did finally come to that conclusion however, I was at least thankful that I had escaped a lot of the vicious side-effects that other trans individuals faced: crippling dysphoria; self-loathing; depression; a propensity for being predated on, and so on.

What I’m now recognizing is that I did experience many of these things; but could not express them in terms that made sense to myself (let alone other people). This is a good thing; but it also means exploring those thoughts and memories, and I do a great deal of that work here.

So: nothing to worry about here; just digging through an old Pandora’s Box!

Purges

A friend introduced me to Andrea Jenkins and her powerful work “Eighteen”; and I recall thinking to myself “Well, at least I can be thankful I never purged my belongings.

Then I remembered that I threw out my dress because I was convinced I wasn’t going to live much longer (i.e. experiencing a particularly strong episode of passive suicidal ideation) and needed to make sure nobody would find it when sorting through my belongings.

The more I think about this, the more I realize there have been other times in my pre-out life when I’ve permanently disposed of items; either because my self-esteem had hit rock bottom and I was in full “I’m a monster” mode, or because I feared their discovery (or both).

I suppose it’s better that I’m being honest about this with myself; but all the same, it’s not a happy set of realizations.

Signs I was obviously trans and I’m a f***ing idiot for not realizing it sooner #1

This is something I beat myself up a lot about: I knew, at age twelve, that I was different. At twenty-two, I was actively trying to bust out of the gender box. For a variety of reasons however, I kept it sealed for another fifteen years; an act for which I am deeply remorseful.

Hopefully I can diffuse my regrets - if even only a little - by noting, tongue-in-cheek, all the obvious signposts that I blew past on my way to the city of Obviously Not-Cisville.

To that end:

Somewhere around 2008-ish, I spent a lot of time in a particularly dark corner of the Internet; a site that has been aptly described as the “Mos Eisley Cantina of the online world”. A place that, paradoxically, was filled with the most socially malfeasant individuals, yet accepted all.

There was a board that had originally been dedicated to the subject of cross-dressing; but for obvious reasons was now home to a thriving transgender community. Equally understandably, a major topic of conversation was achieving certain transition goals - e.g. modifying one’s physical appearance - without professional medical guidance.

(Bluntly - DIY’ing hormones. I’m no going to judge anyone that goes this route; although there are legitimate safety concerns to be aware of.)

Anyhow, this is all a long-winded way of explaining why, when sorting through some backup files recently, I stumbled across three guides I had presciently saved from those days. In order: “Cute Boy Aesthetics; “How To Achieve ‘Trap-Mode’ Aesthetics”; and “How To Girl”.

But me? Pshhh! Totally not trans! 🙄

Carrying

I was talking to my spouse in the kitchen the other day; and to be cute, I hopped up onto the counter. Apropos of nothing, they picked me up and carried me around for a bit!

(I was somewhat worried that it would be too much for them - I’m not the lightest girl - but nope, they made it look easy!)

It’s another one of those moments where I got to experience a long-overdue moment of alignment between mind and body. I cherish it.

A newfound pain: addendum

Not that this is in any way, shape or form a surprise but... sheer tights are fragile. Like, super fragile. You so much as even look at them the wrong way and a run spontaneously appears!

This makes lace look positively durable in comparison...

Singing

An interesting part of the transition process is that it represents not only a kind of second, physical adolescence; but also a psychological one. You are afforded the opportunity to review your identity; cast aside the parts that are no longer relevant; and replace them with entirely new and different ones.

One manifestation of this phenomenon is that I continue to discover interests - some new, some old but hidden. Like singing.

Seven months or so into my new life, and I was on my way to see IRIS perform live in Philadelphia (an event that really deserves it’s own post). This made for an eight-hour drive; so I loaded up the USB drive in my car with music - including their new album - and set off.

Cruising through the hills of Pennsylvania, I found myself listening to the same two tracks; and in a first, I began singing along. (I am told that my starting range is very similar to that of IRIS front-man Reagan Jones, which is perhaps where part of the appeal lies.)

This went on to become a routine - whenever commuting, I would fire up the same two songs and sing along. Eventually I incorporated a number of other songs into the repertoire; in particular, Unknown, from Awakening.

(This is a song that has a great deal of personal meaning to me: from the day of release onward, it invoked an emotional response that I could not identify but wanted to experience again and again. In hindsight, it’s obvious: it had become an expression of my inner gender war.)

The song features some comparatively high notes that are simply outside of my current range; and while a year of offhand practice has brought me closer to them by sheer dint of brute force effort, they are still unattainable. Further progress would require professional intervention.

This being the case, I had my first singing lesson yesterday. I was incredibly nervous beforehand; but Chelsea, my instructor, did a great job of making me feel comfortable and otherwise being terrifically encouraging.

(It’s also worth noting that I did elect to cover my transgender status, as knowledge that I have what are fundamentally male vocal cords is rather relevant to the subject at hand. Her response - “Congratulations!” - is to me a shining example of how people should react to such news!)

Although I was not planning on it, Unknown has become our first practice song; and Chelsea fully believes I can extend my range sufficiently to cover those higher notes and more. To say that I cannot wait for our next session is an understatement!

Jingle

🎵 “The worst part of shaving as a trans girl Is when you nick your nip” 🎵

Ponytail

At the age of fifteen I decided to grow my hair out and tie it up. It stayed in a ponytail for twenty-two years (excluding a brief period where I was foolishly convinced to cut it); even when swimming, or at night.

(In retrospect, I really wish I had been kinder to my hair; I’ve been fortunate to retain my hairline, but there’s some thinning at the front and I’m convinced that this isn’t age but rather, mild traction alopecia. Alas; live and learn.)

Leaving my hair down felt... physically uncomfortable. It was a rarity.

Fast forward to today, and I had temporarily tied my hair up to keep it dry in the bath. It didn’t occur to me until after: “Why does my hair feel so weird?”... And it was then that I realize that I still had the tie in.

It’s fascinating to discover that there are actual, physical sensations associated with my gender and how it might be perceived by myself and others!

Presentation

Last year my employer embarked on an initiative to improve presentation skills company-wide. We broke into groups of ten or so; ran through some training courses; and culminated things by each preparing a ten minute presentation on a topic of our choosing, to be delivered to our colleagues via video conference.

I was already out with half of the people in my group; so I figured this was as good a time as any to out myself to the remainder and to that effect prepared a presentation on the subject of transgenderism.

(It’s probably worth stressing at this point that I had been on HRT for a while at this point; and while the outward effects were minimal, internally it had realigned my brain and I was now all about being out; consequences be damned.)

Come presentation time, there were three people ahead of me. The first was the head of the customer service team, who delivered an excellent sermon on the subject of climate change. She was followed by a sales executive, who covered the importance of giving back to one’s community. The third was an intern from a musical family and sharing their passion.

(Impressively, he transitioned between his slides in such a way as to give the impression that he was flipping through pages of sheet music.)

Then it was my turn.

Alas, due to time constraints, I had neither prepared an accompanying PowerPoint, or practiced my presentation, or even put together anything bar the scantest notes taped around my monitor.

I launched right in with: “Today, I’ll be talking on the subject of transgenderism. This is a topic that is near and dear to my heart, because - as some people here already know and the others have most likely surmised - I am in fact transgender myself.”

(This brings me to two interesting asides:

First, I was dead wrong: nobody had deduced that I was trans.

Second, that human beings commit certain facts to memory in relation to their acquaintances - such as gender - and unless explicitly given reason to, will not update this information. I had bangs, pink streaks in my hair, and I was wearing a mint green top imprinted with a delicate floral pattern; and yet it was apparently still a surprise to some that I was not, in fact, male.

Both of these things were audibly confirmed when one audience member gasped into their microphone.)

I then proceeded to explain the concepts of gender identity and dysphoria; the pain the latter had brought me (having been actively suicidal as a teenager and passively suicidal as an adult); the process of transitioning and the many different parts involved.

Each presenter was given a few minutes afterwards to answer questions and solicit feedback. I opened the floor to my fellow group members, and our West Coast sales exec chimed in to let me know that she admired my bravery, and that she had my back. I was not aware at the time, but I had brought her to tears during my talk.

(This was apparently a common theme; several of my colleagues - including a number that already knew I was trans - had cried during proceeds.)

The course presenter then opted to postpone the next presentation to a later session, wryly noting: “There’s no way anyone tops that”.

In the following days I received emails from each and every person in the group; reiterating their support for me.

This was, for me, one of the highlights of my coming out process; but also, a most surreal event. What I perceived to be an nervous, stumbling exposition (made all the worse by hormone therapy, as I experienced stage fright for the first time in my life) was interpreted by the audience as a courageous baring of the soul.

If there is one takeaway for me, it is this: I had spent the entire duration of my career at this organization - a decade and a half - in utmost fear that were my second side ever discovered, I would most certainly be terminated. When it came time however to reveal my authentic self, I received only unanimous love and support.

There is no joy to be found in the anxious what-ifs; only in what lays beyond those fears.

Coming out

I have come out to a great many people these past eighteen months; and I have been fortunate in that there have effectively been no negative reactions. (I know too many people that have not had the same experience, and my heart bleeds for them.)

There were two instances where I was genuinely terrified of how the other party might react. The first was my spouse - not because I thought for a second that they would respond poorly, but rather because I felt that I was unilaterally introducing an enormous life change into a relationship that I value beyond estimation.

(Of course, I should not have worried - they accepted this new state of affairs immediately. That’s the kind of amazing person my spouse is.)

The second was my friend and colleague of fifteen years; a fiercely intelligent and analytic man of few words. He is an émigré of the Soviet Union and as such holds very different views from myself in many matters; including, I feared, the subject of transgenderism.

Again, I should not have concerned myself; as he delivered an answer that in one sentence perfectly encapsulated the man’s outlook, brevity, and uniquely blended mode of English and Russian speech.

“Ah, well; that’s just your decision.”

To those unaccustomed to his way of speaking, it might sound harsher than intended; but on the contrary, this was one of the greatest endorsements I could have received and remains a highlight of the coming-out process: “Hey, you do you”.

A newfound pain

...Ruining a perfectly good item of clothing by accidentally sticking your thumb through the lacy part. I’ve done this twice now! Girl clothes are awesome; but definitely more delicate than I’m used to...

Nouns

An interesting and unexpected part of transitioning is the process of adjusting the nouns I use in my inner monologue.

For instance, just this morning, an item fell out of the kitchen cupboard and I jokingly thought to myself, “Can’t a guy catch a break?!”...And then I corrected myself to “Can’t a girl catch a break?!”.

I think the reason this is taking so long (versus say, adapting to my new name and pronouns) is because there isn’t any one thing that needs changing - rather, I have a large library of gendered idioms, each and every one in need of updating.

On the bright side, I don’t get quite so upset about it nowadays; so I would call this a plus!

Housewife

I wish I was a housewife.

Perhaps I have overly romantic notions about such a thing; but I greatly enjoy cooking and cleaning and other domestic pursuits. It brings me such great joy, ensuring each day that my wife comes back to a house that is just a little nicer than the one she left.

Similarly, I greatly enjoyed the time I was able to spend with my daughter during her infancy; and took delight in being her tour guide to the world. Keeping home and raising my child seems pretty neat!

Instead I threw myself strongly into being a financial provider; and now I see that the same energy can exist in the role of homemaker - merely expressed through many small acts of love, rather than the singular act of acquiring income.

I try (with limited success) not to be overly regretful of my life choices. At least in this instance however, I do not blame myself; as I ended up a software developer and not a homemaker because of the godawful capitalist system we toil under and not because my perceived gender at the time drove the choice.

All the same: I wish I was a housewife.

Identity crisis: addendum

As a follow-up to my earlier post:

I have a friend that lives in Texas. He is eighteen; and was in the process of learning to drive when the pandemic struck. He recently visited the state DMV to renew his learner’s permit; and much to his surprise, was given a full driver’s license instead.

I get it; they are trying to keep the system working under a difficult set of circumstances. All the same, my friend is attempting to continue on with his driving education, for what he holds in legal capability, he lacks in actual practical experience and confidence.

This is what it feels like to become an entirely different gender at 37. I’m legally a woman, but I have no idea what I’m doing.

Identity crisis

I came across an interesting article recently, of the “Ten signs your self-esteem is in the gutter” variety. My self-esteem has indeed been in the gutter these past few days, so it was certainly a topical read.

A major reoccurring theme was: “Self-esteem should be a function of how you see yourself; not how others see you”.

This makes a lot of sense: self-esteem is, by definition, the measure of the value we place on ourselves. However, only we can truly know what is in our hearts, our minds; each and every facet of our person; who we truly are.

This unfortunately poses a challenge for me; as I do not, in fact, know who I am.

A person in my orbit once told me that he felt as if he had a mask for every occasion; a performative persona that he would adopt depending on the audience. However, he could not discern the person behind the mask; and this troubled him greatly.

It’s a sentiment I can sympathize with. I feel as if my personal identity is not a unified whole, woven from many individual threads; but rather, a fractured collection of parts that do not interrelate.

Matters have of course further been complicated by my gender upheaval; because one of the foundations of my character was that of a man, a husband, a father. I am none of these things now; and while I have technically replaced these epithets with woman, wife, mother; I don’t feel as if I actually have the requisite underpinning of experience to claim them.

As my friend Abigail wryly noted: we are women, born yesterday.

For now, I default to a measure of self-worth familiar to many raised male: that of one’s utility. As I am stretched rather thin at present, this does not seem to be working well; and alas, brings us full circle: it is a function of how others see me; and not how I see myself.

Cellulitis

For the uninitiated, cellulitis is a bacterial infection under the surface of the skin. It isn’t so bad by itself - some redness, some swelling - but by virtue of being trapped below the surface, it often takes medical intervention to clear. Additionally, if untreated, it can lead to some nasty and potentially fatal complications (like necrotizing fasciitis and blood poisoning).

I’m familiar with the premise as a couple of years ago I had a bout on my kneecap thanks to - of all things - the tiniest of ingrown hairs; one course of antibiotics and all was well in the world.

Until. Until.

As I have reported previously, my first few months of Estradiol shots went well (barring a period of psyching myself out). Thereafter, everything was good... Until the day I got a big, red, ugly patch at the injection site.

“Oh,” I say to myself, “I’ve really screwed up”. I fastidiously ensure that my medicine vial, needles, and leg are sterile; but evidently somewhere along the way I missed a step.

I went to see my family doctor; he agrees that it’s cellulitis (even deeper than normal as the bacteria was fundamentally injected an inch into my thigh muscle), proscribes doxycycline; and I’m on my way. (There was a slight detour where I suffered the most agonizing heartburn of my life in response to that particular antibiotic, but that’s neither here nor there.)

Fast forward: next shot, and the same thing happens. Like an idiot, I suddenly realize: “I’m using the same vial of Estradiol as last time; and it’s contaminated”.

(I should have thrown it out as a precaution; but the cost of American healthcare tends to breed a conservationist approach to medications. Plus, it honestly didn’t occur to me at the time.)

My doc probably thought I was an idiot but thankfully did not offer his opinion.

I bought more Estradiol, and was perhaps three shots into the new vial WHEN THE SAME THING HAPPENS AGAIN.

And I’m in tears. I don’t understand what it is I’m doing wrong; there’s so much surplus alcohol on my skin that the needle burns going in. There’s simply no way I can carry on with an injection regimen that results in an infection each and every time.

Thankfully, in this particular instance, it was a very small instance of cellulitis and cleared by itself. I was pretty shook up all the same.

My next best guess was that the Estradiol was being stored at the wrong temperature. It’s supposed to be at room temperature (which is classified as something like 68 - 75º F). I kept my medicine in our bathroom closet; and while I checked the temperature in there and it never seemed over range, the closet does back directly only the location of our furnace.

I also asked my endocrinology clinic if I should be storing my Estradiol in the refrigerator, and their answer could be summarized as: “IDK, maybe? It’s worth a try”.

(This isn’t an attack on them - they are great! As much as I wish it were otherwise however, trans individuals represent a small slice of the population. Medical provider experience is directly proportional to the sort of ailments they treat; and Estradiol storage issues are not something that commonly end up on their radar. This is one of the reasons why it’s so important for trans folk to become experts in and advocates of their own medical needs.)

Anyhow, I moved the medicine to the bedroom and so far, that seems to have done the trick!

My reason for mentioning this however is as follows: yesterday, post-injection, I had some major soreness in my thigh (as if someone had punched me right in the muscle). Most likely it was just regular, garden-variety soreness; but the sensation was close enough to the early onset of cellulitis that I seriously started freaking out.

Thankfully it’s calmed down today, and there isn’t a patch of redness in sight. Still: the trials and tribulations to go through!

Self-fulfilling prophecy

I’ve discussed before that I administer my Estradiol via intramuscular injection; and that sometimes this does not go to plan. This is not the only HRT-related mishap that I have experienced.

The first few months of injections were without issue.

Thereafter, I started to experience increasing amounts of pain with each shot; and in turn, I became more and more reluctant to - you know - actually stick the needle in my leg.

On the fifth go-around, I realized that I was breaking one of the (many) cardinal rules my endocrinology clinic had educated me on: don’t tense up! A tense muscle is a dense muscle; and it takes a lot more effort (and subsequently, discomfort) to push a needle through the tissue. My desire to avoid pain was, ironically, the cause of a great deal of pain!

I learned to relax, and not to hesitate when sticking myself (seriously, it’s like ripping off a Band-Aid - quick and forceful is so much more tolerable than slow and steady)!

I’m not going to pretend that popping the needle in is fun by any stretch; but it’s tolerable. If I have to do this twenty-eight times a year, between now and eternity, to attain True Girl Form... That’s a price I can live with!

Flowers

One of the first additions to my all-new female wardrobe was a floral raglan shirt. I own multiple dresses adorned with flowers; and my most recent clothing purchase was a pair of floral-bedecked high-tops.

As a kid, I spent a lot of time drawing flowers. I loved laying out the stems and leaves in intricate, rhythmic patterns; punctuated by colorful collections of petals.

I’ve documented previously my experience with PTSD-type issues; and during one such episode, I opted to seek calm via art therapy. I immediately defaulted to drawing a collection of flowers; each one different; ever-overlapping one another.

Incredibly, it only occurs to me now - far into my transition - that I love flowers.

It is a powerful testament to gender norms - to the guilt and fear they breed; the warping effect they have on our view of ourselves and the world around us - that only now, decades after the fact, that I can acknowledge this love.