One small step.

On 2 June 2017 at 5:19 pm, I received my first testosterone shot.

Thus far, all I’ve noticed is a sudden airheadedness: I managed to forget pasta on the stove until it burnt four times in a row. I hope it eases.

I am very, very thankful for my doctors.

By the fingernails.

The calendar recently flipped years for me. I spent it playing video games with long-distance friends, drinking amaretto, eating the lemon meringue pie I’d chosen for the occasion, and vaping on a new mod I bought myself as a gift. Yay, I guess.

I originally bought a small, pen-shaped device to begin vaping with, mostly in the hopes of keeping my hands busy and drinking less. It’s sort of worked.

On the other hand, the bigass bottle of amaretto I got is now half empty as of two days later, and the craving for it didn’t go away with the vaping mods. I guess this means I’m an alcoholic, and I don’t care. My gender/body dysphoria has gotten worse, as has the passive suicidal tendency, and damn but my tinnitus is loud when I’m tired. My sleep pattern hasn’t really changed since the last time I wrote on it.

Still no word on the disability application. Not so yay.

I don’t know what to do anymore.

Time, time, time, see what’s become of me.

It felt like May would never end, and yet it has.

I noticed what looked like bug bites on my arm a few weeks ago, coinciding with work on the now-empty suite across the hall. I thought at first a mosquito had gotten in, as I’d left the window open for a night or two, but found it odd since I no longer smell like food to them. One morning, as I sat up reading in bed, a very distinctive insect scuttled across the sheets.

Bedbugs. Again. You little fuckers.

The end result: several loads of boiled, roasted, bagged laundry; said bags and bins loaded with bedroom detritus piled between kitchen and living room; disassembled bed; two pest control visits two weeks apart; and me sleeping on the couch, now with a paranoid itch reflex and scars from the bites. Had to throw out all my pillows and the Devil May Cry 3 standee I’d kept from my EB Games days — I really liked that souvenir, you little shits! I’ve since put the bed back together, but nothing more. Energy, what is it.

The insomnia-hypersomnia cycles have returned in force. Last week, I spent two full (non-consecutive) days asleep, lost in vivid, exciting dreams I didn’t want to wake from. I woke only to feed the cats, but didn’t bother feeding myself before passing out again. I’m so tired, and yet. And yet.

The disability forms finally arrived. I visit one doctor tomorrow for bloodwork results and to fill them out, the other doctor on Tuesday to fill out a second copy. I also made copies of existing diagnosis letters to send along with them. Here’s hoping it’ll be enough.

If nothing else, the desperate panic I felt when I couldn’t find my binder as a result of the packing confirmed I’m on the right track for something.

Starting to hallucinate now. That means it’s time to sleep.


I slept 25 hours.

My head hurts.

Depression and dysphoria.

I’ve had an unpleasant relationship with my body for a long, long time. It started when I was very young — think single digits — and had something to do with TV. I’d look at the screen and see women I thought were lovely, and think (I shit you not, this is verbatim), “I believe I have her face.” Oh, how deeply the hooks sank in.

I don’t know how old I was when I actually dared to look in a mirror, but when I did — and I chickened out several times before I finally managed it — I experienced a profound sense of disappointment. My age was still within single digits, and I was never consciously aware of being taught to be unhappy with how I looked, but that’s the way advertising works, isn’t it? It’s fucking insidious that way.

It wasn’t until my 20s that I more or less came to terms with my appearance. I reasoned that I was stuck with what I had, and I might as well get used to it or be miserable forever. Being miserable sucks, so I opted to try for the former, and largely succeeded — or so I thought.

Two decades later, the tables have flipped, and not in a way I ever conceived they would.

It wasn’t until I tried on my first (too small) binder that I realised just how much I hated my chest. Really, really hated. I was relieved to see it gone. I also hate the way the rest of my bits look, even more than my chest, but there’s nothing short of drastic surgery I can do about that except not look at them, and, well, that doesn’t really help.

The other night, I altered my face with a makeup pencil, and for a moment I saw myself differently: for the first time, I was utterly thrilled at what I saw in the mirror. I looked Really Good to me, and it was an extremely odd feeling to have. If nothing else, it strengthened the tentative thoughts I’ve been having about myself the last few months, and confirmed that a certain doctor’s waiting list is where I should be.

To paraphrase my gyno: I’m 41 years old. If I’m going to live another 30 years, I might as well be happy for them.