Catholic deception

An article on a site called Catholic Exchange has been getting a lot of attention lately, mostly, it seems, from the people it targets. The article was published to try to keep gender identity and expression out of the Employment Non-Discrimination Act, to support a non-inclusive ENDA. Imagine—a Catholic article that does not take issue with ENDA for lesbians and gays but goes straight at trans people.

The article is so full of misinformation and bad science that it's hard to know where to start. Several people in the comments attempted to set the record straight, only to have the editor of the article come back with even more bullshit. Listening is clearly not her strong suit.

Such persons [transsexuals,etc.] deceive themselves, deceive others, and are being deceived by mental health professionals and surgeons. Well, no. It wasn't my therapist who told me I was trans. Neither was it the assessing physician. It was me. I felt it in my heart, and it was incumbent on me to demonstrate how I felt to them. They both came to agree with me, but they never told me what I was.

The public is being deceived by the media and activists into believing that so-called 'transsexuals' were born with biological problems that are remedied by surgery and that it is possible to change your sex. The media and activists? How about research scientists and mental health professionals? They are the ones doing the research, research that more and more undercuts the premises of the article.

No one can change sex; it is written in DNA on every cell of our bodies. So to the author, apparently, women with Complete Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome must be men, due to their XY chromosomes. Yet they are women, not men. And what about all the other karyotypes, including mosaic types in which a person has both XX and XY chromosomes? The article is silent on anything that cannot be forced into black and white categories.

A clearly male person presents himself in public as a woman. He has had surgery and hormone treatments to perfect his impersonation and he demands that we pretend this makes him a woman. Clearly male person? For one thing, no sane male person would ever undergo hormone therapy and genital surgery. Anyone who does so is clearly female. The author, however, seems to be a lookist. Given her assertion here, she must have a problem with women-born-female-bodied who have typically male features and men-born-male-bodied who have typically female features.

The circle of deception created by this "gender ideology" begins with those who want to be the other sex deceiving themselves. I can't speak for others, but I can certainly speak for myself. The only self-deception I engaged in was to convince myself that I was male because of the body I had. I kept that up for 50 years. Coming to terms with being female was the opposite of self-deception. Jesus said, "By their fruits shall you know them." My life since coming to terms with my gender issues has been amazingly positive and free from the self-medication, self-indulgence, and confusion that were the hallmark of my life as a male.

As children they may have been wounded, traumatized, abused, or rejected. They fell into envy and fantasy, imagining "If I were the other sex, I would be safe, loved, valued." This envy grew into an obsession. There's fantasy here, but it's the author's. This certainly doesn't describe my life. Upon what was such an assertion based?

While those applying for surgery may insist that they have the brain or soul of the other sex, they really don’t know what it means to be the other sex. Clearly the author needs to meet me, and several of my friends. She seems to have missed us.

While persons who want to be the other sex desperately want to believe that they were born with this problem, there is no evidence for this. Except that there is, and a growing body of evidence at that.

The article goes on from there into the autogynephilia fantasy, complete with quotes from the thoroughly discredited Anne Lawrence and J. Michael Bailey. It seems the author chose not to look at the real science but instead preferred quackery that supported her quack arguments. It gets worse when the author advocates so-called reparative therapy, as cruel a deception as could be devised.

Their words distort and deceive. I know whose words are distorting and deceiving here. This article assumed its conclusion and cited only those references that would support its position. That is not science. That is propaganda, pure and simple.

In my life, I deceive no one, and have no wish to deceive anyone. I wish only to be as much myself as possible. That meant that I made a social transition, living as a female all the time for more than a year now. That's not deception. It's just me. It will be me for the rest of my life. It meant that I began hormone therapy, which certainly has the effect of feminizing my body (somewhat), but more importantly gives my brain the right chemical balance for the first time in my life. Anecdotal to be sure, but I can show the author and editor the crutches I have left behind as I finally learned to walk proudly. And finally, I will have genital surgery in order to bring my body in line with the image I have had of myself since I was a child. Calling it mutilation doesn't make it so, especially not when the result will be beautiful.

I will never pretend I was born female-bodied. If you ask me, politely, I will tell you my story. I have nothing to be ashamed of, and indeed a lot to be proud of. It's sad that the Catholic author and editor, members of the church in which I grew up, will stoop to such deception. You always hope that Christians will be charitable, compassionate, and above all truthful.

It's a holiday in Victoria

You have to sing that to the tune of an old Dead Kennedys song for it to make sense. :)

Sweetie and I just got back from a weekend in Victoria. Yes, we were there at the beginning of May, but that was just an overnight. We hadn't got our fill yet. And there was this deal on a nice hotel downtown, so I booked two nights.

We took the 9 o'clock ferry and arrived at the hotel shortly before noon. I loved how at check-in the clerk checked to make sure that a room with a queen bed was right. We just aren't perceived to be a couple! We left our bag there and, after a quick bite, commenced shopping. A bunch of that was at The Bay, which might seem silly, since there are Bay stores all over the Lower Mainland, but the one at Bay Centre in Victoria is just nicer. I had been bugging Sweetie to help me pick out a perfume, and this time she did. She even bought it for me! So when I want to smell nice (and no one will bitch about scent, which happens around here), I will be wearing Princess by Vera Wang. I promise to use it sparingly!

We didn't spend time at the rest of the mall stores, because really, we do have those at home. We went exploring the little boutiques on the side streets. We were shopping more than buying, but that was just as much fun.

After we burned out, we went back to the hotel, checked in for real, and relaxed for a while. In the evening, we had tickets to see King Sunny Adé and his band, from Nigeria. King Sunny is a big deal, so it was quite a treat to be able to see him up close, outdoors, as part of JazzFest International 2009. We danced for an hour and a half at least, until a steady drizzle started to soak us, and it was near the end anyway. I was dancing down in my hips, moving in ways I never have before. Sweetie said I was looking good. I really want to take belly dance lessons!

On Sunday, after much sleeping in and then breakfast at De Dutch Pannekoek House (a local institution, somewhat tacky but with tasty food), we finally did something that most tourists do their first time in Victoria—visited Butchart Gardens, up the Saanich Peninsula from the city. It's a nice collection of gardens, started in the early 1900s. I especially liked the Sunken Garden, which was once a limestone quarry, and the outstanding Rose Garden, with 250 varieties, some in colours I didn't know roses came in. We enjoyed the walk, and spotting many different plants, but we didn't linger.

Yes, that's how I look when I forget my hair dryer and styling brush. My natural somewhat wavy hair. I was wearing eye makeup, but no powder or blush, because I was slapping on sunscreen every couple of hours.

We were back in the city by mid-afternoon. More shopping! Much of that was in a favourite independent bookstore called Monro's, but I also found a really cute tunic (a dress really) for half price at a boutique called Breeze.

We gave ourselves plenty of time to get ready to go to dinner at an excellent seafood restaurant on the harbour called Chandlers. We make fish at home a lot so we don't often have it when we go out, but this was definitely worth having. And the restaurant is in a great old building. And their dessert speciality is tiramisú! If you've never tried tiramisú, you should.

Despite all that food and even dessert, I was up for a pint of Murphy's stout before we went back to the hotel. And for Murphy's, you go to The Irish Times. It's in another great old building, with lots of nooks and crannies. The pint was too cold—hardly any North American pub serves good beer at a proper temperature—but it was good. Nice and creamy, like dessert number two. It was Irish music night, and the first act wasn't very thrilling, but after a break a young woman started playing fiddle, accompanied by guitar. She was very good! We stayed a bit longer than we might have just to listen to her.

That's really it for the trip. Checkout time was 11, so we didn't stay very late, and caught the noon ferry back. It was a much needed respite for both of us, and we had a great time—just being there, and being together.

And yet...and yet...at night, mostly, as I lay in bed (pretty comfortable, actually), I was going through some things in my head. About my wait for genital surgery. About stealth versus openness. About things I'm going to talk to my therapist about on Wednesday. I might write about them before, or after, or not at all. We shall see.

The difference a year and three months make

I knew when Sweetie took photos before we went out to dinner and the theatre that there was a certain similarity to the last time she took photos, in front of the same red curtain, in March 2008 before I went to be a volunteer coat check girl. But it was Samantha who put the two photos together and sent me an email. I thought I'd share something similar here.



Hormone therapy, a year and three months' worth of facial hair removal, some sun damage removal (dark spots), regular skin care, and better makeup. And slightly different lighting. No surgical procedures, although I'm still considering those.

The weight of the wait

I'm not thinking about how long it will take before I can see the assessing psychiatrists. I'm really not. I have plenty of life to occupy my mind. But I find that it's there in the background. Maybe it will fade away. I don't know.

I admire trans women who have the confidence not to need or want genital surgery. I applaud their choice. I know some who have made that choice, and they are no less women to me than those who have had surgery. I wish political jurisdictions would recognize that they are female.

Even though I have huge amounts of confidence in my daily life, I'm afraid it doesn't extend to being OK with my penis. Perhaps I'm not courageous enough, or maybe I'm just too conventional. Whatever the reason or reasons, I know I will go through the pain and hassle in order to have a vagina, clitoris, and labia. That's how I think of it—not as losing something (other than my testicles), but as gaining something I want very much. I have visualized myself that way since I was a child. It's about time I had the correction made.

I guess that's why the delay is depressing. I've been on hormone therapy for a year and a half. I've been full time for more than a year. I live my whole life as a woman. Others see me that way, and I see myself that way. I want to complete the process. For me, the year of real life experience was necessary, but now I want to proceed. I wish I could have got a jump on it.

Continuing to live with my current configuration shouldn't be a big deal, but it feels like it. It gives me pause sometimes. I would never try to join an all-female health club. There is no way I would be comfortable right now in a women's locker room, and almost certainly no way other women would be comfortable with me. I probably wouldn't even go to a Pilates class or anything similar. I have worn a bathing suit exactly twice since I started transition, both in very controlled circumstances. When I wore the lavender dress on Saturday, I was glad for testosterone suppression. There was no margin for error, even with a gaff.

I don't want anything to show. I want it changed.

I guess even though I think of my non-op friends as completely women, I don't feel quite that way about myself. Yes, I am a woman, especially out in the world, and proud of it. I wouldn't let anyone say otherwise. But I'm conscious of not having the complete physical package yet. I'm reminded when I get dressed. I'm reminded when I shower. I'm having a hard time waiting for that to be different. But wait I must. Might be time for a therapy appointment. At least I can get that without too much delay.

My first flowers

My sweetie, my beloved, came home from doing errands just now and gave me these flowers—red roses and Alstroemeria. These are the first flowers anyone has ever given me, except maybe after a play. She said they were to cheer me up, what with this psychiatrist stuff. Yes, I am cheered up. These are tears of joy.

I have the best spouse, partner, companion, and lover in the entire world. ♥

A night on the town

We bought tickets for Les Misérables quite a while ago. When Sweetie got laid off (many school districts are squeezed this year), I added on dinner at our favourite place to help cheer her up.

Well, just the other day, Sweetie got recalled for a good position. Meanwhile, I got the news that I was probably a long way from an assessment for surgical readiness (I wish they knew how ready I am now). So dinner and theatre turned out to be a celebration because of Sweetie's job and a much-needed lift for me.

As I've mentioned before, Vancouver is often a style disaster. But for a nice dinner and a play, many people do make the effort. We certainly did. As you can see, I finally got to wear my "Project Runway Canada" dress, one of two I got on sale from Winners (the other is black). The curves aren't quite there yet, I know, but now that my testosterone has been beaten into submission, maybe fat redistribution will go better. At least I managed to get rid of most of the accumulation in the middle. That was also my first attempt at putting my hair up, and it wasn't quite what I wanted, but no matter. I will experiment with that now that I know I have enough hair to play with. Oh, and I love those shoes—cork wedge sandals with four-inch heels, amazingly comfortable. I don't get to wear them very often.

Sweetie looked gorgeous herself in a black halter dress with a full skirt, a bit "Marilyn Monroe" style, that she bought a couple of years ago at a lovely little boutique in Portland, Oregon. As reluctant as she is to actually use her camera, she is adamant that I take no pictures of her, which is a shame. So I have the picture in my head.

Dinner was at CRU, where they know our names. Seriously. We seem to have our own personal server there. He knows us, knows what we like, gives us great conversation without being intrusive, and makes excellent wine recommendations. We think he's the greatest waiter EVAR. Our starter was a spot prawn salad. Spot prawns are local prawns (large shrimp), and these were literally only a few hours out of the water. They were served over greens, marinated red onion, thin sliced radishes, with an avocado-coconut puree and pine nuts. It's hard to imagine how anyone would dream up such a combination, but it worked beautifully. We followed that with pan-seared halibut (also local) paired with a rosé from Joie Farms, a Naramata winery we're really coming to appreciate. Dessert was a chocolate mousse cake with peanut butter mascarpone—don't knock it till you've tried it! CRU is a small place, fairly quiet even when it's full, as it was last night, so you can actually talk. There are many reasons we go back there more often than to any other haute cuisine restaurant in this area.

Les Misérables was amazing. We know some of the music already, and not just because of Susan Boyle. It often shows up in figure skating routines. I had not realized that this show really has no book. All the dialogue is in song, like an opera. Constant entertainment! There were many fine voices in the cast, even in the ensemble. The actor who played Jean Valjean had a beautiful tenor voice countered by Javert's very strong baritone. The woman who played Fantine did a wonderful job with "I Dreamed a Dream," and later the woman who played Éponine brought me to tears with "On My Own." The Thénardiers, first disreputable innkeepers then later petty thieves in Paris, were very funny. The boy who played Gavroche, the street urchin, was a surprisingly strong singer. We've never seen the show on Broadway, but this worked for us.

Sweetie is thrilled to be employed again, in a better situation than she was this past year. I am still not thrilled to be facing such a long wait to see the psychiatrists. But last night helped get me out of my wallowing. And I felt pretty, whatever the photograph shows. I'd never worn a dress like that before or put my hair up. It was all very affirming.

Feels like forever

This isn't a whine. It's gone up a notch or two into bitching.

I heard back from the psychiatrists' office today. That's the only good news.

Four months. The woman who called said the wait is around four months. I didn't pitch a fit, because that would have done no good. I did say that was a very long time. Obviously, she was used to hearing that and didn't even respond to it.

I had been warned. My doctor had it wrong. He thought they were about two months behind. My friend had it right. She urged me to start the process sooner, but it wasn't possible. Only my doctor could put in the request, and he would not have done so before I had finished my year of real life experience. It seemed from what I heard on the phone that he had forwarded the copies of my documents to them, because the woman said everything was in order. That's a new wrinkle.

Four fucking months. More than an entire season. One-third of a year. It's torment. The only thing that could save me would be if someone were to cancel and they were to call me to see if I could take the appointment, which I would drop everything to do. As I mentioned, that's what happened for some friends of mine. I told her that I wanted to know about any cancellations. I will probably keep calling periodically to remind her. If they're going to make me wait four goddamn months, then I'm going to make sure they remember me. But not in a bad way, I hope.

I'd say any hope for surgery before the end of the year is pretty much dashed. So much for our fantasy of Maui in the spring. Probably more like Montreal in the spring, if nothing goes wrong.

Sweetie says I'll be OK. She's right. But at the moment, I'm feeling pretty crushed.

Female-normal

Yesterday, wedged between meetings at work and shopping downtown followed by more meetings, was the most important part of the day—my appointment with other-doctor. My own doctor is away, on holidays or whatever, and I was fortunate to be able to see other-doctor, because until my doctor returns he is the only doctor covering trans health at the clinic.

He gave me the good news: my free testosterone level had finally dropped to female-normal. It was low before, but not low enough. Now it's practically not there. I had suspected that was what he was going to tell me. Since changing from spironolactone to cyproterone acetate, my energy level and libido have both dropped, my breasts have become even more sore and sensitive (and sometimes itchy), and I gained five kilograms, all indications that estrogen was having an easier time doing its job.

He told me that what I was experiencing was expected. I had already lost strength and muscle mass, but I can feel the result of the even greater reduction in testosterone. I am still going to keep up my strength as much as possible, but "possible" is going to be less than it used to be. I said that I needed to do more aerobic exercise, and he encouraged that. I'm not sure where I'm going to make the time, but I must. He also said that with my testosterone so low, my body should do a better job redistributing the fat that I seem to have accumulated. I've been waiting for that to happen. I've pared back from the alarming high of 75 kilos to close to 72, but I still have an awful lot of accumulation in the middle. Please go to my breasts and hips!

I wish the drastically lower testosterone had been true all along. It was supposed to have been. I hope any possible physical development has not been lost. But if so, so be it. Things are better now. My doctor would never have gone straight to cyproterone without trying spiro first. For one thing, it's very expensive. For another, there is a much greater risk of osteoporosis with long-term use. Other possible side effects are more severe than with spiro. Other-doctor said that it's potentially hard on the liver, which estrogen already is.

As for the permanent removal of those little producers of testosterone, I still have not heard from the psychiatrists' office. I have called twice so far. Other-doctor assured me that I would hear back, but I don't know when. Even when they call, they are likely to give me an appointment at least a month or two away. My hope is that there will be a cancellation and I will be able to hop on it, as happened to two of my friends. That's why I'm sticking so close to home for the nonce.

It was nice to see other-doctor. I like my own doctor, and he takes good care of me, but other-doctor is very kind, and treats me as though I were his own patient. Not to mention that he's very handsome. I noticed that a lot more this time than I did when I last saw him a bit less than a year ago.

He was also not very late for the appointment, which left me lots of time to have a nice mocha and then to go shopping. I needed specific items, and I found them—an inexpensive white purse for summer, nice and big; a white linen blazer on sale; and some flat sandals, also on sale. The store clerk said the blazer is actually part of a suit, skirt or pants, so maybe I'll go back to get the rest.

Good news and shopping therapy help mitigate the seemingly endless waiting.

Unwhining

I was feeling emotionally vulnerable today. I don't know why. Just get those days sometimes. After I finished work, I wrote a card to my mom, who had sent two "thinking of you" cards recently, and that's always a bit scary. I want to keep that tentative line of communication open, but I fear to say something wrong, as I have before. And then it was electrolysis day. I figured, that's fine, it's a good day for pain. And also for unloading a bit to my electrologist, who is kind of my rabbi sometimes. She's sweet that way. And I listen to her boy troubles in return.

So after my half hour, I get back home and slap on the ice. I had a bit more zapping on my upper lip than usual. Some weeks are like that. And then my sweetie came home. And she says, you got a letter from the Ministry of Health.

Now, I had checked the mail earlier, well after the time it usually gets delivered, and there was none. So the mail must have come really late. Sweetie always checks it in case I forgot to do so, and thus she found the letter.

It tells me that my name has been submitted to the psychiatrists who do assessments for genital surgery for the province. It also says that I should call them as soon as possible to confirm an appointment date. Yes! It's only four o'clock, so I call the office, but the message says I have to call between 9 a.m. and 2 p.m. I know what I'm going to be doing at nine tomorrow.

OK, so now I feel bad for all that whining, and for thinking my doctor might not have followed through. It was really more about not trusting the clinic personnel than not trusting my doctor, who has always taken good care of me. I feel like I should do something really nice for him. Not that he reads my blog, but still. I am so bad. And I am so happy!

Different paths

I'm probably going to get whacked for being an essentialist again. But that's a topic for another post.

I just had a brief exchange of emails with Dan Savage, editor of The Stranger and author of Savage Love, a weekly syndicated feature in which he gives serious sex advice with more than a dash of humour. He had written a brief article in The Stranger about Chaz Bono (thanks to BlogHer for the link), saying he had no problem with Chaz's transitioning. Then he went on to say that he had never known any gay men who transitioned to female.

I wrote to tell him that I have known at least two, but it's true that the paths of trans men and trans women tend to be very different. I was talking about that with Sweetie last night. Like Chaz Bono, it seems that most trans men were lesbians before they came out as trans. I don't know the statistics, but it seems like the usual progression: hetero woman, lesbian, trans man. Obviously, most lesbians, however butch, remain women and lesbians, but trans men seem very often to come up through those ranks.

You don't see the same thing among trans women. Those who transition young have usually never been sexual involved with anyone, male or female. They become sexually involved, usually with men, after transition. Those who transition when older seem most often to have tried to be heterosexual men, and that means a wife and sometimes kids. There is usually no phase of being gay before coming out as trans.

And yet, and here's the kicker, not all of those married dads end up lesbians after transition. Sometimes, sexuality shifts along with the changes involved in transition. I've experienced it myself, and I've known others who have as well.

I'm afraid I don't know enough trans men to know if any of them experience the same kind of shift or what the prevailing sexual orientation is among trans men, if there is one. My friend and fellow blogger Linus is partnered with a woman. I have two friends who are probably a rare case: a lesbian couple who became a heterosexual couple when one transitioned to male and then became a gay male couple when the other transitioned. When Jillian says that love transcends gender, she's certainly right for some people. I know only one other trans man, and I don't know what his sexual orientation is or if it's important to him.

I don't have any answers as to why the paths are so different. I don't know why so many trans men were butch lesbians first, yet most trans women were heterosexual males, at least seemingly (many never liked sex or were fundamentally asexual before transition). I don't know why it's so infrequent for trans women to go through a gay male phase. I imagine it has something to do with the fact that, in general, the brains of men and women are different, and thus the experiences of gender dysphoria are different as well.

No answers, but I do find it all very interesting. It will be interesting to see what Chaz's transition does for the profile of trans men, who are often the invisible element of trans people. And maybe what it contributes to the education of people on trans issues in general.

Fine whine

I was surprised to find that I had never used that title before. It's certainly not the first time I could have done so.

I just finished whining about this and that to two wonderful friends who put up with me when I'm like this and help me feel better. Still, I think it helps me if I spell out why things are not great right now.

Just yesterday, I said in my Facebook status that I'm happy. I am happy. Overall, underlying everything, there is an abiding happiness and peace. That doesn't go away, which is pretty amazing. But sometimes an accumulation of stuff puts me in a temporary funk.

First off is that currently I'm in the dark about my status with regard to the genital surgery approval process. I hope my doctor followed through around my anniversary date, two weeks ago. I don't know if he did. I hope I'll be able to find out from the other doctor a week from today, but I might still be in the dark. Meanwhile, a couple of friends have received their second letters, and another friend has a date for her operation. Yet another friend just came home from her procedure. I am truly happy for all of them. I just want the same for myself. I want to know that I'm waiting for the call from the province and not waiting for the thing to start in the first place. That gnaws at me.

Maybe I'm being punished for going through the public system when I can afford to pay for it myself. When you pay, you have more control over timing than when you go through the provincial approval process. I don't want to shell out approximately $20,000 if I don't have to. I would allow insurance to cover any other necessary surgical procedure I might need. But the waiting for this, especially if it might not even be started, is killing me.

It will be a relief if I learn that things are all on track. Here's hoping.

The other major annoyance is that I suddenly gained several kilos. Recently, I topped out at 75 kg on my 176 cm frame. I'm not even going to convert that for you metrically challenged folks. It's bad enough in metric. I was holding steady at 70 kg, and this sudden rise with no food-related explanation caught me off guard. It's not like I'm chowing down on french fries and chocolate cake. Now, this sudden weight gain might be an indication that the cyproterone acetate is doing a better job of suppressing testosterone and allowing estrogen to work better, and that would be fine. But so much extra weight so quickly, much of it in my midsection, is not good. I don't feel good when I'm this much over my optimum, roughly 68-70 kg. I know I don't look as good. And yes, vanity comes into play. Sweetie and I are going to see Les Miserables a week from Saturday. I want to wear a particular dress that is not very forgiving of figure flaws, and I want to look fabulous. Of course I do!

So I've been working on the situation, and today I weighed in at 73 kg. Hopefully a redoubling of effort to keep portions small, staying away from snacks, being really careful about certain foods such as peanut better, and other weight=control measures are helping.

Then today, I had a bit of a break between the end of work and starting my DJ shift in Second Life. I thought, I'll cheer myself up by taking some pictures. My current standard icon is two months old. I like it a lot, but I also like to change and update. So I put on a nice top, and I did a good job with my makeup. And I shot a whole lot of photos, feeling relaxed, thinking I was getting good results. Eh, not so much. I've already tossed out more than I've kept, and I might well toss them all out. They just aren't impressing me. And that was kind of depressing. The funny thing is that later when I was talking with a friend and I had my webcam on, I thought I looked pretty good. Who can 'splain?

There is so much good in my life that I shouldn't let these things get me down. I'm truly privileged. Anything I can change, I just need to change, and anything I can't change I just need to accept. I mean, I have friends in dire financial straits, dealing with serious problems. Compared to them, I really have no justification for whining. It's just that the brain has a mind of its own. It doesn't always respond to logic. Fortunately, it tends to respond to the passage of time. And time will certainly pass.

Small is beautiful

I'm beginning to think I might be the last unaugmented trans woman I know.

That's an exaggeration, of course, but it does seem that more of my friends are opting for breast enhancement than not. I can't fault them for it. No matter when in life we transition, but especially if we transition late, breast growth often does not live up to expectations, even when those expectations seem quite realistic. Each of us responds differently to hormone therapy. A body the age of mine says, hey, I'm kind of set in my ways. What's all this about late-onset puberty? Bodies can be terribly uncooperative.

Even if our bodies respond well to estrogen, they can still interfere with the feminization process by continuing to pump out testosterone at a higher than expected level (which is why I am now on a more powerful anti-androgen). That makes the estrogen work uphill, as it were.

Those who experience decent breast development can still have problems such as asymmetry or not-very-pleasing shape—two things that can also happen to women-born-female-bodied, and sometimes lead them to seek enhancement as well. In the end, it's a lucky trans woman who gets breasts she is happy with. Even that is not always about the development of breast tissue. Since breasts are mostly fat, those who have more body fat will likely have larger breasts. Lose the weight, for health reasons if no other, and the cup size might go with it.

And if that weren't enough, even decent breast development can look too small, depending on frame size. We look at breasts in proportion to the rest of the body. I see tiny East Asian women with small breasts who look perfectly fine, because their breasts are in proportion. Even larger women can look fine with smaller breasts. But there aren't many of us women-born-male-bodied who are fortunate enough to have the narrow shoulders and smaller ribcage that most women-born-female-bodied have.

I don't know how much more breast development I will experience. I have a 36-inch ribcage and I just about fit an A-cup (I'm definitely not overflowing). At least they make bras in my size, and push-up bras work rather nicely. And at least my nipples are now just about past those stupid bottom ribs that stick out (family trait). But I am far from well endowed, and I'm nowhere near proportional yet.

It's tempting to go for enhancement. I hate finding a dress or a top I really like only to realize when I'm trying it on that it's cut for a somewhat more ample bosom than I have. I would love to be proportional, nicely balanced. Really, I would prefer an operation that would reduce the size of my upper body, but that ain't gonna happen. So the only choice for proportionality is artificial augmentation.

I might change my mind, but at this point, I'm still thinking no. For one thing, I want to wait and see how much I can get naturally. I don't think I'm done yet. For another, it would take a lot for me to get used to the idea. I'm just not all that keen on carrying implants in my body. And finally, I know that my beloved does not want me to get enhanced, and her touch is more important to me than endowment.

Cleavage, softness, a bit of movement—all sexy, no doubt about it. But not the only way in which a woman is sexy. I've known very under-endowed women who were extremely sexy. How? Pretty face, graceful carriage and movements, a personality that shines through, and attitude. I think I do reasonably well on those first three (with makeup), but I think the last one is most important. The sexiest women are sexy because they know they are. And I have long walked around as if I were prettier and sexier than I really am, because I love myself now and I'm proud to be out in public. It's about attitude. Attitude enhances everything, even if not specifically my cup size.

Evolution

I've changed the name of this blog at least once. I've changed the subtitle several more times. It's the subtitle especially that represents how I'm feeling about myself and where I'm at in my life.

I changed the subtitle just the other day. It used to be "A mid-life journey across gender boundaries." Now, as you see, it's "A story of late-blooming womanhood."

The "mid-life" is still in there. No question about that. I spent five decades trying to be a decent man, muddling through and avoiding controversy. Hitting a crisis was the best thing that ever happened to me, because it kicked me out of my complacency and forced me to deal with things I had barely dared to look at myself. I am so much happier as a result. So what if I'm a late bloomer? You know what they say late is better than. It's also better than dead.

But I took out the part about gender boundaries. I think that part of the journey is behind me, even though I have not yet had genital surgery. The surgery will be for me, for my beloved (I hope), and for annoying governments that use it to determine whether I am officially a woman or not. (Some of my fellow trans people use it for that as well, but let's not go there right now.) But to the world, and to myself, I am completely Véronique already. I have been full time for over a year. This is the only life I have now. Everything before is part of my memories—some good, some not so good.

Surgery will be a threshold, and I think it will change how I look at things in more ways than I realize now. But it won't make me more of a woman. My brain determined that right from the start. It just didn't get listened to until a few years ago, neither by me nor by my body. I'm sure there will be other thresholds. I crossed one when I started my practice counselling at a place that is not a safe LGBT cocoon. That threshold won't be the last.

But all of that is about growth—not growth into being a woman, but growth as a woman. I am still learning. I have so much to learn, all the rest of my life. My impulse to be decent, to be good, to be skilful, has not gone away. I want to be a woman I can be proud of, a woman others will want to know, a woman others will turn to in need. If anything, I want it all the more now that I've dealt with my gender issues.

A change of subtitle. Nothing revolutionary. Just evolutionary. Sliding from one phase into the next. The adventure has only begun.

Trust but verify

I completed my official one year of real-life experience a week ago. Shortly before that, per my doctor's instructions, I went to the health centre and left an envelope for him that contained copies of all the documentation I will need in order to get approved for surgery. I enclosed a note asking him to let me know if anything was amiss.

I don't know for sure that the envelope reached my doctor. I have to trust that it did. I don't know for sure that he then followed up with the Medical Services Plan of British Columbia. I have to trust that he did.

I attempted to follow former US president Ronald Reagan's advice—"trust but verify"—by calling the health centre today. I did not expect to speak with my doctor. He was with a patient, as I figured he would be. I left a rather more detailed message with the person who answered the phone than I wanted to. Sometimes dealing with a public downtown clinic sucks. They don't want patients calling doctors.

I just want him to confirm to me that I am waiting to hear from MSP and not waiting for the process to be started in the first place. One minute. That's all. I'd like just to trust that it has all happened. My doctor takes good care of me, and I know he is concerned for my welfare. Still, no one cares about this more than I do. I wouldn't expect them to. So I want to know for sure. And I want to know how to follow up. I understand there is a number you can call at MSP and a real person with whom you can speak.

And the thing is, I won't see my doctor for another two months. I have a lab check coming up in two weeks, but that's with the other doctor. My doctor wanted me to come back six weeks after my last appointment, when he prescribed the new anti-androgen, but that was a day that he is not there. I could not speak with him then, so I made a decision to book an appointment with the other doctor. I've seen him before. He is just as good. But there is a potential for information disconnect.

I hope I'm worrying for nothing. I hope the process has been started, and that at some point before long I will get a phone call with a date for my appointment with the assessing psychiatrists. I just don't want any more delays than are absolutely necessary. I am so ready for this surgery. Every day that goes by without it reminds me of how much I need it.

Ep-elation

I finally got myself a Braun Silk-épil. I had been meaning to for months, ever since several friends recommended it, but somehow the task never made it high enough on the priority list. When the weather still sucked, I cared less, and eventually I'd do another waxing to remove the urgency. But waxing is a time-consuming pain in the butt, and I finally determined that I was either going to buy a Silk-épil from a store or order one on the web.

I should have checked at London Drugs straight away! There it was on the shelf, all pink and cute. I bought it on Tuesday, and as soon as I got home from electrolysis and finished applying ice to my face, I took it for a test drive.

I absolutely love this thing! I had waxed my legs a while ago, but there were enough stray hairs there to do a good test. The Silk-épil did the job and did it well. You do have to change direction sometimes because hairs grow in different directions, but the result was excellent. I had also waxed my arms a while ago, but it's easy for me to miss hairs there, so I did a complete cleanup. Again, the result was excellent.

Yesterday, after I showered and dried off, I sent the epilator to my armpits. You definitely have to go in several directions there, but again, it worked great. Then I went for one last area—the bikini area.

I've heard people say that epilators hurt and irritate your skin. Here's what I found out. In areas that I'd been waxing for a while, where the hairs are soft and weak, I felt no pain and experienced no irritation. For me, that means legs, arms, and pits. I am even going to start using the other attachment so I can get closer, at least for legs. I had to be more careful in areas that have been waxed but not as much and where the skin is looser, like my upper thighs. It's not so much fun when the thing grabs your skin and stops (and probably isn't good for the motor either). I had to make sure the armpit skin was stretched taut.

Where things got really bad is any area where I'd never waxed. You do not want to do hair plucking for the first time with this device! In my experience, as painful as early waxing is (it gets less painful over time), it's nothing compared to using an epilator on virgin territory. Now, I've been shaving my southern zone for many years, but I've been waxed only to a certain point. Nonetheless, I bravely, or foolishly, went for the triangle.

OMFG! Pull, yank, rip. That's some serious pain. I gritted my teeth and I plowed on. I haven't quite finished the job, but I'll say one thing. After the worst of the pain, and the irritation that follows, it's no longer virgin territory, although I bet it's going to take a few more times before the hair is anywhere near as soft as what's on my legs and arms. And it might never be, since it's a different kind of hair.

No, I'm not silly enough to use it anywhere else down yonder.

Despite some painful lessons, I am a very happy epilator user. I don't mind that it's corded. I don't mind that it's noisy. It does a great job, and that's what counts for me.

Watch her strut

Most days, I feel good. Some days, I feel like crap. So it's nice that there are other days when I feel irrationally exuberant to balance out the crappy days. Like yesterday. I don't know why those days happen, but I don't really care, as long as they do.

Yesterday was hot. You might think it doesn't really get all that hot in Vancouver and so when we say "hot" we're really meaning "kind of warm." But no, we're in a genuine early heat wave right now, for another day or so. Yesterday, the temperature was close to 30°C, which is roughly 85°F for my metrically challenged readers. Fortunately, when it's hot here it's usually dry as well, and that's how it has been during this heat wave.

Around mid-afternoon after I was done work, I had to walk down the street for electrolysis, and I had a few errands to run on the way. When I go for electro, I don't wear makeup, and frankly, like most women my age, my face can use a bit of paint. But that was not an option yesterday. The only thing I put on my face was sunscreen.

It was so hot, I was not about to go out in jeans, not even cropped. I wore a really cute and flirty wine-coloured sun dress I got a few weeks back from American Eagle Outfitters. It's nice that my shoulders and upper arms have reached a point where I can wear sleeveless things without looking like a pro wrestler. The bones are the same, but the reduction in muscle mass has helped a lot. It occured to me that this dress would go well with my espadrilles with the black silk ribbons, which I love but rarely have occasion to wear. I even tried them on, and I was right—they looked good. But then I figured that it might be just a bit over the top to be walking around my neighbourhood doing errands wearing four-inch platform heels tied up with sexy black ribbons. Too bad. Those shoes are actually amazingly comfortable. I went with my favourite two-inch-heel sandals instead. Who knows. Maybe I should have gone all the way with my irrational exuberance. :)

I took a chance and pulled my hair back into a ponytail, leaving some wisps of hair along the side to frame my face. Normally, no makeup and a ponytail is a recipe for me to get "sir"ed, but somehow the exuberance was carrying me along. I did wear my big hoop earrings.

First stop was the grocery store, just for one item. The cashier smiled at me, and the transaction went smoothly. Next stop was the spa where I buy Jane Iredale makeup. It's expensive but really good for my skin, and it lasts a long time. I needed a new cake of pressed powder, and I also got a peach base eye shadow that I've wanted for a while. It matches my skin tone much better than the whitish base I got at MAC before I knew what I was doing. The spa was also featuring the OPI South Beach collection of nail polish, and I saw the lilac I'd been going to order anyway, so I grabbed it. The clerk wanted to enter my name in their database. I told her I was there already, but I gave her my thoroughly French name anyway so she could check. She said, "Are you from Quebec?" I've heard that before. It means the person thinks "Véronique" is my birth name. Here I am, no makeup on, hair pulled back, and this woman is reading me as female. How good do you think I was feeling at that point?

My final stop was at a place that sells and repairs shavers. I asked the guy there if they carried the Braun Silk-Epil. He said they did not but that I should try London Drugs. I'd thought about that before, but I hadn't checked. As it turns out, London Drugs had it! So I finally got my epilator, and at a good price too.

After those errands came a half hour of electrolysis. It's painful, but my electrologist is really nice, and we always have good conversation. Girl talk. She told me she thought my dress was pretty.

Electrolysis leaves your face red and bumpy for a while, and it's about a 10-minute walk home. But I never care, and yesterday especially I was still feeling good anyway. I put on my sunglasses and walked home—quickly, to get out of the sun, but still confidently.

Just to be fair, there is something that I know helps my confidence: my circumstances. I am blessed in so many ways, including financially. I can buy nice clothes. I can buy nice shoes. I can buy Jane Iredale makeup and OPI nail polish. I can buy an epilator. And I can pay for electrolysis as needed. Many trans women don't have it nearly as good. They struggle to make ends meet. They battle depression that at least partially comes from living in marginalized circumstances. They are afflicted with the same gender dysphoria as me, but they have many fewer options for dealing with it. Sometimes, they engage in risky behaviour in order to get by because they have so few choices.

I never forget how good I have it. I try to keep that in mind whenever I'm tempted to whine about something, and I express gratitude every night for what I have. I try not to get too attached to material goods, but I know I am. I hope that if my circumstances change, I will have the strength of character to make it through the way so many of my sisters do. And providing free counselling is one small way that I can help.

For LGBT—and all—families

Today is Blogging for LGBT Families day. At first I was thinking that this wouldn't really apply to my sweetie and me, since we don't have kids. But Helen Boyd in her blog entry reminded me that it only takes two to make a family. Besides, we have a cat, and our cat has two mommies. :)

Once upon a time, the most we could claim in the queer letters department was to be kind of inactive Bs. Since we were committed to each other in what was then a heterosexual relationship, our bisexuality was more theoretical than anything else. Mostly, it meant we were both free to comment to each other on the hotness of this or that person, regardless of the person's sex. We were, and are, appreciative of members of both sexes, or maybe I should say all sexes.

Things have shifted since then. The tiny little lowercase t in the background turned into a big old T in boldface type. That would be me, of course. Our committed relationship made us Ls, although there is still some inactive B in there for both of us (quantity to be determined).

We are very, very lucky to live in Canada, where equal marriage has been the law since 2005. Our marriage is grandfathered, even in the States, but if we wanted to, we could actually get divorced and then marry each other again. And have another cake! Mostly it would be cool to have my proper name on our marriage certificate. I still haven't determined if the Commonwealth of Massachusetts will let me amend ours.

I'm about to leave for one of my volunteer gigs, personing a phone line for callers with questions about LGBT issues. My other volunteer gig, the one for my practicum, is not specifically LGBT-related, but one of the reasons people make refugee claims from certain countries is because of sexual orientation (I'm not sure if they can do it for gender identity or if it gets all mashed together). For two years in a row, I have marched in our annual Pride Parade.

Could I do more? I'm sure I could. For now, here's my blog entry. All kinds of families rock! We are proud to count both opposite-sex and same-sex couples among our friends, and even a trans couple. No more second-class citizenry! Equal rights for all, not just equal marriage but protection against discrimination in areas such as employment and housing. It's long past time.