The days have gone by in an amorphous haze. Every one is a blob filed under “existing.”
I’ve kept up with the testosterone shots in a timely fashion; my next one is later this week. Some of the physical changes were noticeable within the first week, particularly clitoral growth and sensitivity — that was interesting (read: uncomfortable) for a while — and existing body hair in a few places has gotten longer, but not thicker. Body weight distribution is beginning to shift to encompass more of my midsection. Some breast sensitivity showed up a week ago. My voice is beginning to crack at the higher registers and deepen at the lower ones, if inconsistently. Most notable and annoying is my skin drying out, my scalp being the worst spot, and a sudden abundance of small pimples on my face along my hairlines. I find I have to shower more often.
Psychologically, well. The airheadedness faded, thank fuck, and I’ve had several bouts of impostor syndrome while struggling to figure out more of my personal identity. Executive dysfunction has worsened. The worst things right now are the anhedonia and complete blankness of inner emotion. There’s just nothing there. I’d be worried about it if I could be. I’ll tell my psychiatrist about it when I see her next week.
The body dysphoria waxes and wanes, and I no longer leave the house without wearing a binder. Assuming I wake in time, tomorrow I’ll call the trans doc to get on the top surgery list for the surgeon I’ve chosen. I’ve been spending a lot of time saying goodbye to my breasts, looking at them in the mirror and remembering how much I wanted them when I still identified as female and hadn’t hit puberty yet. Now, they’re in the way, inconvenient and distressing to see, yet they’ve been such a fixture of my body over the last 30 years that I know I’m going to miss them for a while.
In other news, this is Sofia.
She’s a Salvi Mia harp, and something of a mixed blessing because, in a nutshell (non-nutshell version here on Pillowfort, a site I hope will replace Tumblr soon), she represents a bribe from my parents (mostly my dad) for my affection after I stopped accepting anything from them over the last year due to their emotional abuse. She’s also about 20 years too late, since that was the last time I played a harp with any regularity, and my situation at that point in my life effectively killed any passion I had for creating anything related to fine arts. My pain levels and deteriorating brainmeats are now the biggest obstacles to just sitting and playing.
And so my existence plods along on its alcohol crutches.