Transitioning for me began when I
started to take the idea seriously. I'd reached
a point where I knew I had some issues with
gender and my body, and I wanted to get them
sorted out. I didn't know where this would end
up, but admitting to myself that I might be
transgendered, and doing enough reading to find
people with similar stories to mine helped me to
see the various options.
I eventually decided to find out whether I
would be able to take testosterone, even though
I thought I'd be laughed out of the doctor's
surgery for not being a 'real transsexual'. The
problem was, I couldn't really identify with
what I read about transsexual people. I didn't
know when I was three, I didn't think I was a
man when I grew up.
Eventually I read more and more, and thought
more and more, and realised that while my gender
may have been ambivalent, my concept and
awareness of my body had been consistently
masculine and male. And that although I was
perfectly aware I had a female body, I wanted to
do what I could to feel more comfortable in
it.
So, I worked out and cultivated some wispy
facial hair. I dabbled in packing and binding. I
thought and I thought and then I jumped through
the hoops and twiddled my thumbs, and after
eight months, had myself a testosterone
prescription.
It was delightfully strange to see the
changes starting to occur in my body. There was
a good deal of peering into the mirror to see if
anything had happened, much careful noting of
every new feeling or passing change. Almost for
this alone, taking the testosterone was worth it
- I'd never been so aware of my body.
Rather than being something that carried me
around and, more often than I would like, made
me uncomfortable, it became part of me. I had to
make lifelong decisions about parts of my body
that I had tried to ignore or had never
considered. I had to mourn my ovaries, my womb.
I might not have liked what they did to me, but
they were part of me. They functioned perfectly,
without complaints, until I made the choice to
override them.
Even as I started to look more the way I felt
with my eyes shut, I stopped recognising myself.
It wasn't only that I'd sprouted hair in
peculiar places, that my clothes fit differently
and my muscles grew stronger with less effort,
or even that my voice steadily dropped to a
loutish rumble. It wasn't that my libido
developed a two-week cycle and a much broader
range of possible attractions, or that I started
sweating more and smelling more when I did.
I didn't recognise my calmness, the
confidence to face forward and deal with my
family and the doctors and my own doubts. I
didn't know where the courage had come from. I
didn't realise how much anxiety and
discomfort I had been feeling, and I didn't
expect to feel as happy as I do.
