Need you like water in my lungs

Need you like water in my lungs

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I’ve had the flu. It sucks. It kinda crept in 2 weeks ago. Starting as just a little cough. I could tell there was something in my lungs, but it wasn’t a huge deal. By last Sunday, the aches in my hips and my knees had started. I initially attributed it to chasing my kids around all weekend.

However, when I woke up Monday, I had hit full peak bullshit. Most importantly, I couldn’t talk. I tried the usual thing, make some hot tea… try and loosen up whatever was going on in there. That didn’t work. In fact, it still hasn’t. We’re 9 days in, and I still can’t really talk. I can croak. I missed the entire week of work. It wasn’t until Saturday that my fever finally broke. On Monday, I trudged to work. Even though I couldn’t speak clearly or for any length of time. I assumed that I would be able to convince management to give me some other task. Something to keep me off the phones.

Of course, I would be wrong. I managed to chew up the first half of yesterday getting caught up on what changed in the previous week. But the center manager wanted me on the phone at that point.

This brings me back to extreme dysphoria. Let’s talk about my dysphoria. My voice. I hate my voice. Since the earliest parts of my transition, I listed my voice as being the thing that made me dysphoric the most. I’ve worked very hard to get a passable female voice on the phone. One where I don’t have to argue with customers and other employees about my gender and my very existence. Obviously, in my current condition, I sound like a 70 year old man that smokes 3 packs a day with a terrible smoker’s cough.

However, as is with most things trans related, my employer just doesn’t really give a shit. I’ve been told how smart I am, how well I know the systems, and my ability to troubleshoot problems and correct them better than some of the people actually tasked with that job. So, why not let me help reps with their orders. Apply promos, do something productive. Something that has to be done anyway. Nah. I don’t sell enough stuff to get a job where my skill set is actually utilized.

Let’s put the transgender woman on the phone so that she can be aggressively misgendered all day long. Fuck my life.

livia

So I did what any sane person would do, I filed for another Job Accommodation. I go back to the doctor tomorrow. She’s probably going to tell me I have pneumonia or lung cancer or some such shit.

HOWEVER COMMA…

Before I go to my primary care doctor to be given news of my impending slow, painful, and probably humiliating death… I have a consult with a plastic surgeon to talk about my boobs. I’m going to the wizard to talk about boobies. This is all very exciting.

I’m hoping, but not holding my breath, to have that done by the end of the year. Since I’m pretty much maxed out on my out of pocket costs with my insurance, why not? I mean, my lovely company might not care about my mental wellbeing, but they can pay for some consolation prizes.

empty.

empty.

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Today is world mental health day. Which is fitting, because it feels like my mental health has reached the Mariana Trench. I just feel numb. I feel blank. I feel like I’m just occupying space, taking up the free oxygen in this room. Yesterday seemed ok. I had fun last night. But I think the reality of the situation caught up with me today and I hit a wall.

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Yesterday was Joey‘s birthday. It was the first birthday since he killed himself in April. We wanted to get people together and remember him. Of course, we went to Hooters. Which is totally where Joey would have wanted to go. I had a great time, we laughed, ate and drank too much. It was a nice time, despite the missing person at the table. Today, I’m looking through Facebook memories and I come across this post:

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That one hit me right in the feels. It was one of those times where we couldn’t quite draw Joey out of the house. So I was trying to give him a little crap because, well, that’s what we did to each other.  Such is such and so and so and whatever..

Earlier in the day, Kayla and I had gone to a wedding. Megan was there as well, with the kids. It was supposed to be a happy occasion, but with it being so close to my divorce, it just sort of stung. It’s like, I’m glad that it’s over, because it drug on too long. However, at the same time, I’m still sad and angry that it had to be that way. While I love the new life that I’m building with Kayla, I still miss my family. I miss tucking Grayson in each night and saying the same old corny stuff we’ve been saying for years. I miss Hunter running around here like a madman, even if he has been a big grump for the last couple weeks. I have so much in front of me, but as is normal with me, I spend a lot of time dwelling on the past.  It’s what I do. My mind is basically just one huge flowchart where every stop is a “What if” question. It’s dumb.

Anyway, I sit at my desk and pretend to be chipper to my customers, lying that I’m doing great. Trying to not let my soul get any more dings in it than it already has. At this point, it looks like my old samurai. Rusty and not a undamaged surface to be found.

I keep thinking about the cocktail of medications that I take on a daily basis. I wonder which, if any, are helping me feel better. Or more likely, which are exacerbating the situation. Having also just changed dosage and method of delivery on my estrogen, I consider if that has anything to do with it.

largeman-pills

I think I’ve said enough at this point. If I keep going, it’s just going to devolve into a drivel.

 

I took the pills, I took the advice

I took the pills, I took the advice

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I feel like I am barely existing right now.  I’m so exhausted all the time. Mostly physically, but mentally I’m running on empty as well. Just like a Jackson Browne song…

I’m still healing. It seems to be getting better, but I think that has an impact for sure. Working is tedious. It’s hard to stay focused. I’m now on 3 different anti-depressants and I’m just kind of drifting along on autopilot, it seems.

Additionally, I just was forced to switch estrogen delivery systems. I had been on injections for the last 7 months ago. However, as of late, injectable estradiol is not available. It’s on a national backorder. For reals, It’s on the FDA website and everything. So now I’m using patches. But I’m only being prescribed half the dose that most people I know. I have to wait a month and go have my levels checked. That could be impactful to my energy levels.

Mentally, I have the stress of a divorce, trying to build a new relationship, and dealing with all the crap in my office. These days, when HR calls me, I have to ask which complaint we’re talking about. Still waiting on some movement from EEOC/Fairness Ordinance complaints that I filed, as well.

Used to be, when I was stressed, I would drink. I drank a lot for a number of years. Mostly alone, at home. Lately, I don’t even drink. I just want to sleep. Or watch TV.

This will all come to pass. I hope. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

GRS — 4 Months Later

GRS — 4 Months Later

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Actually, nearly 5 months. 141 days later. Whatever.

Right. So, I have a vagina. Which is weird, because I didn’t always have one. For near as makes no difference, the first 36 years of my life were spent with a penis. It wasn’t all bad. In fact, I said before surgery and I’d say it now, I wish I was comfortable being non-op. Or maybe just an orchi (think castration), if only to avoid the lifetime of anti-androgens.

However, I wasn’t that lady. I survived the tucking game for over a year, and it was all fine and dandy, but I never quite felt whole. I remember when I first came out as trans, people would ask me if I was getting “the surgery.” Kind of a rude question, but at that point I was just glad people still spoke to me. I wasn’t sure if that would be a thing when I posted the letters.

In any event, everyone inevitably asked about “THE SURGERY.” At first, I was coy about it. Even to my psychologist. I said “maybe, if finances allow.” However, in my inside voice I was screaming, “FUCK YEAH, BUST OUT THE SCALPELS AND LET’S DO THIS DAMN THING!!!” Or something like that, I can’t recall actual verbiage, but I’m not faking the sentiment.

In fact, when I sent in my application to Dr. Bowers, I was less than 2 months on HRT and being “full time.” I’d been in therapy for just over 5 months. I had been researching the surgery since I was an early teen. I already knew what it entailed. I was ready, or so I thought.

Fast forward to today. I’m still learning as I go. I still hurt. Dilating sucks. I’m not sure if I’ll ever quite fully understand the flora and fauna of my vagina. I don’t get a period, but I suspect I use more “feminine hygiene products” than any cis girl I know. I’ve been through a whole case of lube and I’m into my 2nd case now. Also two tubes of Metrogel. All the lube is not for happy happy fun time. It’s for dilating. If anyone implies that dilating must be like masturbation, please slap them in the face.

Dilating sucks. Mostly because it’s just a time suck. But then there’s the messiness and the discomfort. For the first 12 weeks, I was supposed to dilate 3 times a day for 15 minutes each session. However because I went back to work after 7 weeks and my workplace couldn’t accommodate my needs…. I just went to two times a day. As far as I can tell, I did lose a little depth from the missing sessions, but everything else seemed to do all right. So I have to continue to do this twice a day for the next 8 or so months, until I hit the 1 year mark. Even then, my surgeon still recommends dilating once a day for the 2nd year, then going down to like once a week at a minimum.  This is something I’ll have to do for the rest of my life. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Oddly, the pain is interesting because a lot of the skin and tissues down there are still numb or only have limited sensation. That seems to be continuing to improve over time, but some parts are like the exclusion zone. DEAD. I’m constantly exhausted as my body continues to heal. I have to remind myself that this was a major surgery. It doesn’t seem like it, but it took Dr. Bowers nearly 5 hours to carefully craft and that kind of detail doesn’t heal over night.

So with all the whining, you might think I regret doing it. But you’d be wrong. No regrets, none at all. Even though my vagina ultimately cost me my marriage, I still knew that I had to do it. I remember the anesthesiologist telling me he was going to give me something to relax me. I was already relaxed. I never had the jitters that morning. I was oddly at peace. I wasn’t scared about things going wrong. I was just ready. The recovery has been rough, short of a friend that came down from Michigan to stay with me a few days, I didn’t get many visitors. No one seemed too awfully concerned with checking on me. I don’t know if it’s because they see it as a cosmetic surgery or what. It’s also cost me a lot of time at work that I could have been making money. I’ve missed out on a lot of fun summer time activities…. but despite it all, I’m happy. I’m more comfortable with my body than I’ve ever been in my life.  That’s worth a lot.

I’m not going to proofread this, I’m too tired. (insert dealwithit.gif)