The Day I Lost My Husband

I had a few friends come out as transgender in the last five years. When I saw this piece posted by my friend, about their own processing in the relationship, my eyes welled up. I couldn’t help it. I later read it to my boy, who didn’t respond to it emotionally on the same level I did, but still listened intently and nodded along. I don’t know what he saw in it, where it met him. I do know that it made me feel a little less like I was betraying a promise of who he signed up to be with, and made me feel a little less alone.

 

The Day I Lost My Husband

Two years, not long to be married, practically still newly-weds, but then it happened. He had been sitting there in front of me. There was a deep fear in his eyes, his hands were clutching mine as though to let go would mean our last parting, then he was gone. I mourned him then, and sometimes I mourn him still. Never again would I be held by manly arms or protected by his masculine presence as I walked. There would be no strong pecs to rest my head upon as we watched TV at night, no strong square chin speaking my name in whispers of love. No deep voice would ever again tell me how much I was loved, protected, and cared for. There would be no deep flirtatious whispers, no manly romantic gestures, no masculine presence to wake up to and fall asleep in the comfort of. In the space of a moment, it was gone, he was gone, and I mourned. Sometimes I still do. This is not what was supposed to be, this was not our male and female union we promised to be, forever, until death do we part. He was gone, but hands still held mine in their frantic grasp. My eyes still met dark, beautiful, exotic eyes. And I asked the only thing that I could think to ask, “Are you leaving me?”. She replied, “Of course not!” and then I kissed my wife. I held my wife. My wife held and comforted me. We talked, as we had always talked. We joked and laughed, as we always had. We even told the same jokes. The soul in front of me said, “I love you.” And my soul responded with every ounce of it, “I love you too.” I realized I couldn’t lose my husband, I had never had one. I didn’t mourn for a husband lost, but for a trip Mammoth Caves that went to Virginia Beach instead, for the vanilla ice cream cone I ordered, though they gave me cookie dough instead. I mourned for the loss of the beauty of Earth’s second moon, the boat I never sailed nor moored. I mourned for the husband that I, for a moment, thought I could have had. Truth be told, there were never any manly romantic gestures or well defined pecs. No deep voice had ever passed her lips, and it wasn’t a masculine presence that comforted me as I went to sleep or woke. These things only existed in that moment of loss when my mind turned to the what if’s, the “this is how it’s supposed to work,” and “this was not the plan”. Love called me back to myself, my soulmate still spoke to my soul. And if there is some discomfort as I wonder if my friends will abandon me, or if a public kiss will be met with disgust, it is worth it. My soulmate let me see her true soul. My wife upheld her vows that day. Together, we will be our true selves, together our souls will journey, we will be there for sick or well, for time and trials. And, most importantly, we will tell the same dumb jokes, comfort each other as we always did. We will cuddle and hold hands and if anything has changed, it is this: Today as I look in beautiful, loving eyes and hold soft, gentle hands, I know that she is my wife, and always has been. One day, in one moment, I lost a husband, but truth be told, I never really had one.

-Jennifer Bennett Plowman

 

In which I’ve lost neither pounds nor inches and yet am trimmer…

Soft and silent in a combative way, my self hatred spawned from a young, young age. It sat at my brain stem and sent little twitches of loathing, as central a part of my being as breathing or eating.
I am reclaiming my hate.
I’m coming for it.
Ink and hormones and surgeries will bring me closer.
Time spent in the gym will bring me closer.
I love what my body does.
I love the powers it has, I love the strength I have that no one expects of me.
But I do not love my body.
I don’t know that anyone who is trans can embrace a traditional form of body positivity.
I will seek out my male form, though.
I will sculpt it from underneath my hips and my breasts.
I will find a way to present myself, somewhere under there.

I weigh 333 pounds.
It’s a pretty number, but it’s not a pretty sight.

That’s up five pounds from three weeks ago, when these first pictures were taken.

Why did I take them?

I was starting Plexus. And I’m a skeptic.

Granted, I’m a skeptic with impulse control issues and poor budgeting skills. I wanted to try it out, and I wanted reference. I’ve gone up and down and up and down in my weight, over and over again. I usually try to not be entirely honest with myself about my body. I find its better for my mental health.

However, I’m on the cusp of some major changes. Testosterone for my transition. Bariatric surgery. I want to track how I change. I want records. A little bit of supplementation is a minor place to start, and easy enough.

They’re expensive, and sold through multi-level marketing. Does this mean there’s cheaper equivalent products out there? Maybe. But this is what I was going to try, after seeing how great my friend Susie and her family was feeling with them.

Naturally “becoming an ambassador” or buying in to the sales program gets you cheaper prices. I signed up. I got my shipment. I started my Triplex.

There’s the Bio Cleanse, which is basically a fancy magnesium supplement that’s supposed to help keep you regular. There’s more to the pitch than that, but that there’s the basics.

Probio5 is a probiotic that’s supposed to have great success surviving to get to the gut and actually do its work, it also has chitosanase which is supposed to cut through yeast overgrowth super effectively.

Then there’s Slim, the pink drink. You add one of these drink packets to your morning routine, and it helps to keep your blood sugar balanced and energy up. I can honest to god tell the difference on days where I’ve forgotten my Slim, I’m sluggish and crabbier and have worse cravings. It tastes a lot like a cherry tootsie roll pop. Not just the candy coating, not just the chocolate part. The whole damn thing at once.

I’m not big on thinking that shitting more regularly and an extra bottle of water each day are going to cause much of a health shift. It’s been three weeks, and I did not change my routine. I didn’t change how I ate. I intentionally set out to “work out” exactly twice.

I also have less joint pain. Fewer headaches. I’m less forgetful. Not as sore. And there’s tiny sections around my body where it almost looks like I’ve been pricked by a pin and am deflating slightly.

I see fat loss in my arm, the top of my belly and sides of my hips. I see more definition in my shoulders. The changes are subtle, but they’re there.

I’ve also gained those five pounds, proving that you have to measure victories on more than just a scale.

I don’t give a rip if you decide to try the Triplex. It’s great if you do, I’m excited to share the journey with you, but I’m not gonna go around trying to be a salesperson.

The person that I care about getting this stuff to most? Myself.

I’m kinda selfish like that.

Wanna check it out?

http://shopmyplexus.com/reximoriarty/

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Band-Aids

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.

It’s not supposed to be this easy.

I have been positively blown away by how lucky I’ve been and how good that the system has been to me. I called my PCP’s office to see if I could get in earlier than my next med check to discuss the potential of starting hormones at some point after my bariatric surgery. They had an appointment available the next day. He was absolutely awesome, and referred me to an endocrinologist, saying that it’ll probably take me two-three months to get in.

 

The endocrinologist’s office called me that day, and THEY had an appointment available the next day. Absolutely unreal… I feel so blessed.
So I went to that endocrinologist that morning, picked up the vial from the pharmacy at like 11, and on Thursday I have my instructional session.
They said I can start before the bariatric as long as I skip the injection a week or two directly before it.
This way might be a little harder. I don’t really know.

I’ve never been more excited for a shot in my life.

 

Also, today I got a haircut. Witness!

 

I’m very much afraid.

There are plans in place to move to Arizona next year. I was going to do it secretly. I was going to cut ties with everyone I knew back home, but for a select few. I was going to start over. I was going to give up on people that I’ve known for ages, on the chance that they will reject me. That’s borderline personality talking, if you’ve ever heard it whisper.

There are plans in place for me to get bariatric surgery. In a couple months, my body will begin to change rapidly. I was going to start hormones then. I was going to try to be sly.

The truth of the matter is that I will be rejected by some. I will be found out. And this is not the authentic way to live my life. I will regret it.

So I’m going to make the brave choice.

I’m going to choose the words that will baffle, will hurt, will likely come back around to show me pain in the face of a deeply conservative community.

I am not what I was made to be.

I am transgender.

I have had these feelings for a long, long time. Not feelings, really. Knowledge. A soul scab that never quite heals right ’cause it keeps getting torn.

I push it away. Again. And again. And again.

“It’s not natural. I’m just a tomboy. There’s not enough women in manufacturing, you might be an oddball but you’re an important one.”

“They’ll hate you forever.”

“They’ll think their kid is gonna go to hell.”

Probably a dozen psychiatric hospitalizations. Maybe half that many semi-serious suicide attempts(I say semi about the results, not the intent).

I’m on about $1600 dollars worth of medications each month and I still can’t work through the anxiety of going to a goddamn second-run theater.

I was already in hell. I’ve been there a long time. I was in second grade the first time I told someone I wanted to kill myself and I didn’t get any kind of therapy or medication until I was 19.

This is the chokehold, the silencing factor, that a belief system can have.

Maybe I won’t be accepted.

But the time has come.

And I’ll run it if I have to. To Arizona or anywhere else.

But today I declare my journey.

Today I take the first step.

 

 

 

 

 

Please consider donating to the costs of transition here:

https://www.gofundme.com/lets-just-get-rid-of-those

What is this?

Blog number 5? Damn you WordPress.

Like I really needed five distinct blogs to catalog all the nothing I do.

In any case, it’s time for a whole new identity. I’m reinventing myself!

I don’t think I invented my last self, but whatevs.

A part of me is lurking in the back of my head, telling me to make a sperm joke. That part of me is skeeving the rest of me out. Another part of me is calling for me to build a wall between that part of me and the rest of me.

Diplomacy is hard, y’all.

I’ve been struggling lately. There have been a few dreams about gender transition that have really shaken me. I’ve always had the thought. For as long as I can remember. I’m also hyper aware of how much easier my life would have been had I been born a boy. How much more natural it would have felt. How much better I would have fit in. Maybe I wouldn’t have all the mental health struggles that I do. I don’t know.

I don’t really wanna play those games. It only leads to pain.

The truth of the matter is that I have pushed away these thoughts for the 27 years I’ve been on this planet, because of my upbringing. My parents, who are great people, are not great parents. At least not for me. Hyper Conservative Christian Evangelicals.

HCCE’s?

I can’t pronounce that. It’s like coughing up phlegm at the back of your throat.

I think I’ll tell a little story in a bit.