Effort…

Actually, I think it’s not a matter of vulnerability, or aggression. I am talking about the sushi incident.

As a friend said recently to me, it’s a matter of effort.

In a day-to-day basis, my reality is quite uncomfortable. Reasons why, there are plenty of them. It is a personal space thing, probably. I don’t own my space. I’ve never done. I’m alert, as I’ve always been.

It makes no sense being alert. I mean, no more than usual. And probably I could afford being even less alert. I just had an uncomfortable moment with a guy who didn’t realise he was approaching a transsexual person, and that probably didn’t know how to approach one. And he actually did quite well, because he didn’t know what had happened. I corrected him, and he stuck to the correction.

I’m tense. It was a stressful moment, as if I needed any more stress in my life. I’m always making another small effort. And then another, and another one. I just need time to relax.

And I’m tense because I don’t feel comfortable if I’m not in control. I can’t control other people, I must accept that. I like to know what others think of me, because it gives me information about how to deal with them. I don’t like interacting with people unprepared or unaware. I like to know from where the blows will be coming.

It’s not healthy. It takes a lot of energy. And in the end, it makes me feel bad.

It’s a huge effort dealing with people when you don’t know how many of them will react badly to you, and when you may expect many of them doing so. Even when your expectations are a lot worse than reality. So far, most people have been perfectly correct to me.

However, I need a bit of time alone.

Time…

I need time.

It’s not so early now. I’ve been thinking and writing for a couple of hours now, and I wish I could stay here for a couple more.

I haven’t written in a long time.

But I need to move. I need to go to work, and put off everything what’s important for me now, for the sake of duty. And I need to pack my feelings and be professional.

I need time.

Vulnerable…

When you think you’ve occupied your space; when you think you’re comfortable in your world, something happens. And you feel vulnerable again.

And it doesn’t need to be something big.

Yesterday I was walking home from work. I had my plans for the evening in my mind. Having a quick meal, then a short nap, and then start working out again.

As I was opening the building door, the owner of the sushi bar passed by. Some years ago, girlfriend and I were quite adept to this sushi bar. We’d order sushi at least once a week, and the people there would treat us very warmly and politely. We liked that place.

But as I transitioned, as I removed my beard, I grew more and more reserved. I felt uneasy outside, especially at those places where I was known. People could notice me changing, and sometimes they were puzzled.

This was the case at the sushi bar. They started making comments about my skin, about how soft it was becoming. Maybe it was just politeness, but I felt uncomfortable. So, in the end, we stopped going there.

Yesterday, the owner of the place passed by, and I don’t know why, but I said “hello”. And he recognized me.

So, he greeted me.

He was quite effusive, as he used to be. “Hello, Mister!”, he said. And, in the middle of the street, not knowing who was around, I explained him that I was not a “mister” any more, that I was rather a “miss”.

For me, this was too much to handle at the moment. I must say that he remained polite at every moment, and that he seemed to understand. He does not speak the local language quite fluently, so this made all the scene a bit more awkward. But I guess he understood, because he said that I looked pretty. We shook hands, and said goodbye.

I entered my apartment all cold and shaky. I guess it is normal. We have levels of acquaintances. We have relatives, and closer or distant friends, and then we have people who are just there. And transsexualism is a difficult matter. It always is.

It is a difficult matter because it is controversial. People they take positions about it, even when they shouldn’t. And the problem is that you cannot hide that you are a transsexual person, unless you pass.

I usually pass. I don’t raise quite a lot of suspicion. And it is quite likely that, if I hadn’t said “hello”, this would not have happened. But he recognized me, and then I felt exposed, and forced to talk with someone who is not so close about something that is quite intimate for me; something that is such a delicate matter, and that may cause many people to immediately take position against me.

I felt naked and vulnerable. Probably if I had had the chance to talk about this in a more relaxed way, in a safer place… It would not have felt more comfortable, but at least I would’t have felt so naked.

I don’t see bad intention here, however. This man was just greeting some person he had recognized. He was just being polite.

Maybe it is time to return to the sushi bar, and face my own fears…

The kitty asks for food…

The kitty asks for food. He wants to eat, right now. It’s only 5.25AM. I don’t know if he’ll let me finish this post, or if he will insist until I’ve fed him. I’m trying not to feed him until 6 o’clock, so that he gets used to it and doesn’t wake us up too early. But today I can’t sleep.

In these past months I’ve had my own emotional turmoil. I guess this was the reason why I stopped writing here. Depression grabbed me, and I couldn’t get free of it. I had to fight my way through it, just to be able to keep moving. I’ve been spending all my energies in keeping myself up and running.

I didn’t feel like writing. At least, not in a calm, orderly and thoughtful fashion.

It comes from a long way away, from those days when I started taking my blue pills of hormones. Today I can try to point out why this happened to me. I thought it was because of the girl, because I fell in love; but now I think it is more likely that it has to do with my own emotional fragility, my own vulnerability to some of the things that we usually face every day.

Too cryptic, maybe?

I’ve got a lot of writing to do. And I don’t believe this all fits in a single post.

In the meantime, the kitty insists. All right, I think. I put some of his food in his bowl. Now he goes back to bed, to cuddle up with my girl. At least, I got some quiet to write.

It feels nice to have my own space here. I’ve been missing this a lot.

Let’s get physical…

Again, as we could say, “long time, no see, girl”… Almost four months since the last entry.

And during this time, I got my surgery.

The month before the surgery the hormonal therapy had to be stopped. The reason for this is that testosterone blockers and oestrogens increase the risk for thrombosis, and may cause blood clotting problems during surgeries. So, hormones out. And everybody says: “Don’t worry, you won’t notice”.

Bullshit.

Okay, effects are not so dramatic. But they occur. And I was probably too afraid to having the testosterone again ruling over my body, so I was too vigilant.

And I had this huge project at work. So I felt stress.

That month I was scared. I was nervous, I was irritable, I was angry, I was sad. Because I didn’t want to have to pass through all of that. I felt it was again this huge boot trampling over me again and again. And all the comments from people, telling me how brave I was or how good was I going to feel after didn’t help much. It wasn’t their genitals what was at stake, right?

The hormones didn’t help a bit. I don’t know how much of my mood was caused by having increased levels of testosterone running through my blood, but I definitely felt my breasts to shrink, my facial hair to grow and my skin to become oily again. It was not something nice to feel, especially after a year and a half waiting for the oestrogens to work.

So, the day came. That last night I spent at home before checking in I masturbated. July, 30th, 2013, this is the last time I have had sexual pleasure so far. The day after that I went to my office to give them the forms for the medical leave, I drove to the station to pick up my parents and then I drove to the hospital.

And the next day, at 1pm, they took me to surgery. As I entered the surgery room, I had this thought, “God, what am I doing? I hope seen my girlfriend again”. The surgeon was there, and reassured me that everything was going to be fine. Not that my genitals were my major concern at that point. And everything went dark.

I woke up. My feet were cold, and the nurses in the reanimation room were talking. I had to call quite a bit until they paid some attention to me. My throat was sore, and my lower lip hurt. And my crotch felt as if I had some thick codpiece protecting it.

I was taken back to my room, and they tell me I was joking. I didn’t gave much of a damn before surgery, and I didn’t gave much of a damn after. All the days before I had become detached of myself. I was kind of looking from outside. And when the surgery was done, I remained like that. This was something that had happened to me, just like things happen to people.

It was during the next night that it fell down to me. I had made that happen. I had signed that consent form, I had paid for that surgery, I had driven myself to the hospital, I had placed myself on that stretcher and put myself in the hands of those surgeons. I had done all of those things. I had been able to make those things happen. I had been able to detach my consciousness from my emotions and just make a puppet out of myself, and push that puppet in that direction, without a hint of fear or doubt, just because I had decided that this was something I wanted to do.

That thought made me feel uncomfortable. It wasn’t willpower. It was more like not fighting. Like lowering all my defences and walking directly into the fire. I’ve got to do this, right? Well, let’s do it. It was acceptance, and it was the ultimate level of trust placed in other people’s hands.

Still, I didn’t know if everything had gone well. I was told so, but still I didn’t have any actual proof, other than the surgeons’ word. But I felt quite well, aside from the fact that I was told not to move.

The third day since surgery came, and they removed the bandages. Then I realised that I wasn’t wearing any codpiece or protection at all. That feeling of numbness came from my own flesh, that was swollen and insensitive. I could touch it and my skin wouldn’t feel a thing. And yet, there it was. I could see it in the mirror. It was swollen, but nothing more. It looked quite healthy, given that it was made only three days before. I had a vagina.

And I could move. They allowed me to get up from bed and wash myself. So I started moving.

Four days later they took out all the bandages that were still compressing my vagina from the inside, and I was taught how to do my dilations. So there I was, back home, with my dilators, and about to spend almost a month with lots of time to think but unable to sit and do things to distract my mind.

Time with myself…

These days I’ve been really busy. Overworked. I had lots of appointments, duties, chores and tasks to perform.

These days, also, I’ve felt like noisy inside my head. I’ve felt disconnected from myself.

It feels like an eternity since I was able to just stay at home, alone, and be with myself. In the past months and years, however, it didn’t do good to me, because I stayed at home munching and twisting thoughts that my head created, telling me that I was inadequate, ugly, disgusting. I stayed at home and yet I felt repressed, because the things I wanted to do, the clothes I wanted to wear, the movies I wanted to see, and the books I wanted to read were not those a normal heterosexual boy would choose.

And it hurt being alone, because I expected to receive validation of my own worth from others. And these other people, instead, were living their own lives, maybe enjoying themselves doing exciting things with exciting people, maybe just having a boring evening watching TV.

I’m beginning to feel different. It’s like, at last, I can be fine with myself. It’s like I don’t need anyone else around, but me. I can enjoy myself, because I’m beginning to feel my own worth. For me it was a breakthrough discovering that my self-esteem depended only on myself, not on others. But that’s a thought, and it has to get rooted in order to work. Now, however, I’m beginning to feel it.

I’m beginning to feel that it is not wrong to be myself. It is not wrong to feel the way I do. It is not wrong to like the things I like. And that is my own whole universe, where I am queen. That’s where I am, where I’ve ever been, taking care of myself, trying to choose at all times what seemed best for me. I, in my own universe, am the worthiest person I’m ever going to meet. And I’m going to be here, for myself, always.

That is a lot. And instead of looking around, trying to find happiness in other people’s love, as I always did, I can now rely on my own love.

Still, I need time. I need time with myself, alone. I need time to do things with myself, to learn new things, to explore. I need time so that I can know myself, and enjoy myself, and love myself.

These last days I felt disconnected from myself, because I had such a little time to spare. But now, as I type, I’ve found here, on my own, and I’ve felt again that warm sensation of being with myself.

I hope this feeling gets deeply rooted in my heart, and never, never, goes away again.

Self-esteem…

Two months since I last wrote here.

I’ve been down. I am still down. Probably I’ve been down all my life, since I was a child. Back then I felt sad, different, inferior, weak. I felt uncomfortable, scared of other people. I felt safe with adults, because they would not attack me, or berate me (at least, too much). With equals, children, adolescents, as I was growing up, I always felt in danger, or at least, uncomfortable.

But this was my normality. I’ve never *ever* felt any different from this.

Now I’m trying to get up. Not like every other time I’ve tried to get up, by bashing myself, by repeating to myself that I must not break; that I must move on, like a horse under the strokes of a whip. I’ve finally identified that I’m depressed, and I’ve looked for help, to address this specific problem. I’m also reading David D. Burns “Feeling Good”, which I’ve been told it’s a nice book to get tools and methods to try to fix your depression.

I’m not aiming too high. I’m not aiming for happiness, for instance. I’m just looking to be “not depressed”. I can feel sad, and I will feel sad, but not in a pathological way.

Burns’ book says this is achieved by changing the way you think about things. Thoughts, distorted thoughts, are the way we interpret reality. Reality just *is*. We don’t have much power to change it. But we perceive reality, and our brain understands it, abstracts it into thoughts. And these thoughts sometimes hurt us, and cause us pain.

These thoughts are just simplifications, abstractions. Because they’re just that, they are flawed. They are distorted, because they don’t reflect the whole reality. Just a part of it. And sometimes, they’re only the parts of reality that make us despair.

I know I’ve had a difficult life, so far. One of the most disturbing, harming thoughts I’ve always had about it is that I should have started my transition much, much earlier. If I had done that, I would have had a happier life, I would be now a more adult person, instead of being like an adolescent now, and I would not have got into much of the trouble I’m now in. It’s easier to straighten a sapling that it is to fix a grown oak tree.

But I’ve, I am trying to stop bashing me for that. It was not my fault. I’m trying to learn this. My life was the way it was. But how I think about it is up to me.

I never had any chances of something different. All the messages I got at all times were telling me that I was flawed, weak, that I cried too much for a boy. I was taught from everywhere that gay people were wrong, and that transexual people were odd, strange, and ultimately deranged. I didn’t know what I was, especially when I started being concerned about my adolescence, about sex, about the things that drove me. I didn’t know anybody who was gay. I didn’t know any gay people until I was 15, and this person was seen as wrong, as bad, because he just came out and divorced his wife when he couldn’t stand living a life that wasn’t his.

The worst part was that I was told that I was lucky, because I had an open, tolerant family, and I could talk about sexuality, about ethics with them. I’ve wished so many times to be *just* gay, it would have been so easy…

But my family was not that open. Transexuals were seen as pitiable, and sex had to be restrained, saved for something else. For a higher goal. Not procreation, they were not like that. But sex had to be preserved for a meaningful, loving and lifelong relationship. Sex, for the sake of sex, was wrong, was lowly, was dehumanizing.

And sex had to be natural. Fetishes were weird. And people who had sex with too many people were, at least, irresponsible, and immature.

I had no alternatives. This was the “open” approach. And I had to feel lucky because I had people who were “open”.

I was too scared to move. I felt deeply wrong, being what I was: A bisexual transexual woman who was deeply kinky and fetishist, and who felt that could be involved with more than one partner at the time. I had everything set in place in my head, I was already defined, but I just felt that everything I was, in my most intimate core, was wrong and sick.

Wow, it would have been so easy being *just* gay…

Years later I met wonderful people. I met transexuals, and I saw they were just like me. I met bisexuals, who can love the very nature of people, and not get stuck in their genders, and I just love them. I met kinky people, who taught me what “respectful” means. I met polyamorous people, who showed me that love doesn’t just have to be restricted to one person to be “proper” love.

I just discovered then that I was not wrong. And as soon as I learnt that, I was able to move on.

It never was my fault to be like I am. I just had the bad luck to be born in an environment that made me thing I was flawed. I knew I had to go away from all of that, so I did as soon as I could.

I’ve always felt bad about studying this career that I didn’t like as much as others. I did that because I was told I could get more money doing this. I knew then I would need money. I labelled myself as a greedy person. Now I’m learning I’m not, I just knew, or felt, I would be needing a lot of money just to be secure, and to be able to become the person I am. I don’t feel guilty any more about having fought so hard to finish these studies that didn’t make me feel fulfilled. I just reached my goal – to be self-sufficient.

I never got any satisfying sex with people. Until recently, I’ve always felt inferior, damaged because of that. But you can’t have satisfying sex, unless you’re just being what you are. You can’t feel good if you’re just trying to please someone else, and trying to hide what you really are. Well, that is not my fault either. I’m not inferior, or worse at sex. It is not my fault, either. I’m not boring, or damaged, or bad. I’m just different. Maybe someday I will be able to be just myself at sex, and then maybe sex will be wonderful.

I feel this is going to be difficult, because people usually will tag me as weird. I will be in their eyes as a circus freak. I may feel a disappointment for heterosexual men who are worried that their masculinity will be damaged if they sleep with a person who was born male. I may feel a deception for lesbian women who feel tricked into believing I was just a girl. I don’t care. There will, there are people who will like me as I am. I have a friend who is just in my situation, and she feels bad because the only people who find her attractive are bisexuals. Well, I say, God bless bisexuals. I wouldn’t feel any bad if all of my partners in what remains of my life were bisexuals. I’m lucky for that. It’s a nice filter, actually.

All my life I’ve tried to comply to the standards of people who weren’t remotely like me. I’ve struggled so that people who didn’t like what I was liked me. And I’ve done that because I grew up in a world in which everybody was like that.

Now I realise I couldn’t have done better, and that I’m responsible for quite much of what I’ve got.

I didn’t lose my job, but that is because even when I’ve been feeling anxiety and depression, I’ve shown I cared about my work.

I didn’t lose my friends. I feel lucky for having the friends I have. But in the end, I’ve chosen them. I’ve chosen to get closer to people that was a bit more like me, and I’ve left behind lots of people I got close to just because they were there in the first place, and I needed so that I could have a beer with somebody. It’s quite much like other transexual people experience. When they open up, lots of people reject them, but they find new, better friends who accept them. I just did the same, but I chose who I filtered myself.

At the moment I’ve lost most of my family. I mean, I’ve given up on them. Only my parents, my brother, and a couple of relatives are in the know. Maybe when the rest of them know about me, maybe then they’ll give up on me. Or not. I don’t care much about this.

I am what I am. My transition has not been much different, or easier than anybody else, I guess. I did it when I felt I could. And this doesn’t make me a coward. I’ve fought hard, and the only thing I regret was to deny myself my own value, in trying to satisfy lots of people who didn’t deserve that, people I grew up around, and who taught me that I was wrong, and that I had to abide by their rules.

I am what I am, I like what I am, and I don’t have to feel guilty for that. I don’t have to please anybody, I just have to enjoy being with people who enjoys being with me. I don’t have to prove anything, because I’ve done always the best I could, and I don’t deserve being judged just because I couldn’t do better.

I just have to experience my life, the rest of it, from now on. I have the right of doing that. No less, no more. I have the right of being myself, and to feel that I, my feelings, my tastes, my inclinations, are perfectly fine. And I have the right to dismiss anyone who doesn’t agree with that.

My own value is not to be questioned, not even by me. And this feels good to know.

How does it feel like…

This is another rant. If you don’t want to hear me complain, please go somewhere else.

I’ve been asked recently why I am not happy yet. Some people tell me they’re worried because they thought transitioning would make me happy. I’ve achieved a lot of progress, I should be happy by now, trying to enjoy my life as much as I can.

I should be positive, not negative.

The unexpected thing is… I’m trying to enjoy my life!

I’m feeling better than ever. I can concentrate, and I feel smart again. I am not bothered by that male libido I had, so I can focus on sex when I want to (and I can’t stress how much easier this does make the whole transition process). I look good, and I like how clothes fit me.

The truth is, it is not that easy to be happy. At least, for me.

I’ve grown up without anything I could like. I didn’t have my body. I couldn’t wear clothes that I liked. I couldn’t attract the women I liked, only some heterosexual women who wanted quick compromise and lots of kids, and their men to be manly men.

The only thing I could do was study. And then, work.

Now I’m achieving things. I’m almost granted authorisation for changing my documentation. I can wear whatever I like. And people don’t tell me that I should behave more like men did, and people congratulate me for this.

People say I’m doing great because I can get my ID card with my own name. People say I’m doing great because I can go to a shop and grab a dress. Really.

And I feel belittled. I don’t feel happy about this any more. Because these are things I should have been able to do every fucking day of my life. I’m just claiming back the same rights everyone has, and I didn’t.

I say this, and people get defensive: Not all the people can do what they want in life. Ok, granted. But me neither. I have to work, I have to pay rent and bills, I have responsibilities and duties. I don’t want anything but the same as everybody else.

And I complain, because it is unfair. Because these things are not achievements, they’re just extra efforts to put me at the same level as everyone else.

Ok, yes, but there are blind people, for instance. Or people with disabilities, who have to do some extra effort to achieve the same. Okay, that is true.

The problem is, I’m not disabled. I’m a fully functional person with all my senses and abilities working. I’m not ill. I’ve got just the same possibilities than any healthy person in my environment.

My problem is not me. My problem are the social structures in which I’ve been raised. My problem is that, by putting me in an environment in which I had to bear a wrong tag (many wrong tags, actually), by educating me according to those wrong tags, by telling me I had to act according to those, I couldn’t live. My problem is nothing but this load of crap called society.

So, please, don’t tell me I’m achieving great things. I’m not. I’m just getting what is mine, what is granted to everybody else but people like me.

And don’t tell me I have to accept that I was born with a problem. No, I’m afraid I have no problem. The problem is this ship that doesn’t accept all passengers as they are.

So please, please, if you’re just going to ask me why do I feel bitter, please don’t.

If you’re going to tell me that I should be grateful, don’t.

And if you’re going to tell me why I can’t be happy, please don’t. And think a bit.

This is about me…

Warning: This is a rant. It is not going to be a pleasant post. It’s not going to be about how well it’s going my transition, and how happy I am. So if you don’t feel like reading my complaints, please don’t read on.

Transition sucks. Especially at this point. And I’m not happy.

Yes, I know I’m making lots of progress. I’m really close to be able to change my documents, and I’m really close to have my SRS. But I’m not happy, and I’m not hopeful.

I’m sad.

And I’m sad because I feel my body has stopped changing. My breasts grew a bit, but they don’t hurt now, they don’t feel swollen anymore. My ass is certainly a bit rounder, but my hips won’t grow, they won’t become wider. And my hair seems to be stuck. Some new hair grew, but not enough to cover my temples.

I’m not saying I am horrible. I look good. I look much better that I did at the beginning, or even before. I feel better with my body than I’ve ever felt before. What I’m saying is, when I get home and I remove all the padding I wear, in the bra and rear, I look at myself in the mirror and what I see is a man’s body.

I see a man because I don’t have hips. I see a man because I see broad shoulders. I see a man because my breasts could be taken for pectoral muscles. I see a man because I see a penis.

I’m afraid. I started my transition at this point because this was the only moment in my life I could dare to do it. I had the right environment, I had savings, I had a job in which I could dare to do it. I was, at last, living on my own. And I could take this decision.

Also I started because it felt right. I didn’t have the chance not to grow as a man. I didn’t have the chance to stop my puberty. And what I saw around, the transexual women I saw, in the media, were not role models for me. I didn’t want to become like them. I just wanted to be a woman. Because of this, because of my own fears, because of my self-rejection as a lesbian transexual woman, I didn’t step up then.

When I started this, it was my last chance to do it. It was my last chance to try to be something close to happy in my life.

And now I see that my body is a man’s body, still. I still will be patient, and let hormones do their work. But my hopes aren’t no longer high. I know that I’m going to have lots of surgery to have a body in which I can feel comfortable. I will have to put implants in my tits and in my buttocks. I’m already scheduled for my SRS. Hormones only work fine during puberty, and mine is a long time past.

It’s okay, I will save more money, and I will look for the best surgeons I can afford. I’m not defeated. I’ll have a body I’m comfortable in. A body that looks as it is, without paddings or tricks. I don’t care about the money, and I don’t care about the pain.

I know my transition is the path I should walk. I don’t regret anything. But right now my transition leads to a barren tree which can yield no fruit. I feel hopeless. And I feel alone, because I can’t talk about this to anybody without having to listen to lots of comments about how I should learn to accept myself, about beauty models, and about women having different bodies, and all that things.

I feel tired, and I feel alone. I feel tired because transition is not easy. It’s a lot of effort. And yes, it has paid so far, but I’d love it to be over, so I can just rest, and enjoy. And I feel alone because I can’t speak about it without the comments of my not trying hard enough to accept myself. I’m trying. But it’s so hard when the only thing you really long for in this life is being someone I can like.

Yes, the only thing I really wish for is being a woman, who looks like a woman, who feels like a woman.

And I still have a man’s body. And I feel I’m stuck in my male body, and that the only chance to change it is long gone. And I’m trying to accept myself, and people ask me why am I not happy yet. And they tell me that I ask for too much and that I should accept what I got. Well, if I could do that in the first place, I wouldn’t have started transitioning.

I just want to have this body all the time, not just when I put on all the padding to go out. Because here inside, at home, when I’m alone, I’m still stuck with my male body.

Not alone…

Today a friend sent me this article.

It is something I could have written myself. I feel completely represented in each point. But I’d like to point two of them.

First, microagressions.

Yes, it happens. I’ve talked about it with my friends, and some people don’t seem to understand why I feel uncomfortable when somebody points out that I must be very brave to be doing this, or that I’ve got a lot of luck because I keep my job, my friends, my family and my girlfriend.

I know that I must accept the world as it is, because doing otherwise is a perfect recipe for frustration and sadness. And in the meantime I keep the hope to help changing it a little bit. But still, it hurts to be reminded that I’m lucky, because my luck consists in not having suffered the problems lots of trans girls have to suffer. I’m not lucky because something good happened, I’m lucky because something bad didn’t.

And since those bad things that could have happened didn’t depend on me, but on others, this gives me a pretty good perspective of how life is. I am okay because the world around me gives me permission to. I am fine because I am allowed to.

No, this is not a comforting thought. I’m trying very hard to be happy, by doing lots of things, by exploring all the things I love, and by showing lots of courage. As much courage as I am capable of. And still I’m fine because now the prejudices against people like me are weaker.

And second, the transition does not fix everything.

But hell, it gives you a nice starting point.

Because of the transition, I’ve been able to start speaking about myself, instead of hiding. I’ve been able to start telling my friends how I feel, and what I like. And I’ve got lots of advice, support and love.

I’ve learnt a lot, both from talking to friends and from reading things they suggested to me. I’ve talked, talked, talked, and I’ve expressed my feelings.

I’ve been able to become emotional, to connect with people.

I’ve been able to start learning how to put my head in order. And I have found that I could focus better than I did before. I have still to learn how to cope with depression and anxiety, but right now I’m doing better than before. (Hint, having your own place to be yourself helps a lot)

And I’ve been able to perform better at my job, to start playing guitar in a regular basis and see some progress, to think about what I want to do with my life. I’m thinking about projects, about studies, about doing things.

And I’m thinking about sex and kink. Now I can picture how I want my life to be, and I’m working so that I can some day have it.

It is a huge lot of work, and sometimes I just get tired, sad, and I feel I won’t be able to do it. But I’m doing it, step by step. I just wish I would have been able to start a lot before, but I’ve started already, and I’m completing stages at full speed.

Still, it hurts a bit when people seem disappointed because I’m not as happy as I’d like to be yet. No, I am not. Because transition is not magic. It is just a starting point.

I got some relief from reading that article, mostly because I don’t have a script for this. It feels reassuring to see that somebody who is one year ahead of me in her transition feels what I feel, that my views on the world I’ve just discovered aren’t too warped. It shows me that I’m not doing it wrong, just that the world is this strange and unwelcoming place to live in. But I’m coping with it.

I can cope with it.