I’ve been up since 5:37 am. My partner is snoring beside me. I can’t get back to sleep. Why?
Today is the day.
Today I get my instructional session on injecting Testosterone. Today I get my first dose.
It marks a huge milestone quite early on in a long journey. I’m excited and nervous and completely unable to shut my brain off.
“Will my snoring get manlier? I’m not sure that my snoring isn’t already manly. Must consult friends and family.”
“Will it be worth it?”
“Ooh, my belly hair will be socially acceptable!”
“When will I pass?”
“What a great opportunity to bring my Iron Man band-aids into the world of adult endocrinology.”
“I wonder if I’m gonna get beat up.”
“I think my voice just cracked!”
“Should I go into sex work to afford my transition?”
“My toe twitched, I wonder if it’s getting stronger, oh god what if the muscles come in asymmetrical and I end up walking lopsided or upside down or something.”
“Maybe self defense classes are cheaper for women, I should jump on that.”
“I’m kinda horny. I wonder if that’s, like, regular horny or T horny. I bet my genitals are gonna start finishing before my brain gets the chance to, and then roll over and go to sleep. Typical…”
“How much will they have to slice apart my body to sculpt something tolerable?”
“I’m on my period. Can a uterus have a testosterone seizure? Would that be any different than regular cramps?”
“When will I feel like myself?”
“My beard is coming in so PATCHY. Wait, I think that one has been there for awhile.”
“This isn’t going to make the pain of growing up go away.”
“Nevermind on the horny thing, I think it might have just been gas.”
“I’m driving up costs in every insurance pool I’ll ever be in.”
“I’m kinda hungry. Well, I’m essentially a teenage boy now, so…”
“One of these days you’ll have to talk to your parents.”
“How fast does facial hair grow anyways? *SPROING*?”
“Living authentically is hard. Wouldn’t it have been so much easier if one of those suicide attempts had worked?”
There, right there at the intersection of mental illness and dysphoria, my frontal cortex quivers. I grow ever more hopeful as I pass these milestones, or when people who haven’t seen me since my haircut do a double take. That doesn’t stop a lifetime of self loathing from caressing the smooth edges as it slithers knowingly down into the grooves it has worn into my thinking.
I take another step in my journey, knowing there’s a hundred thousand more.
I might get blisters.
But I packed Iron Man band-aids.