I was going to title this “Our Bodies, Ourselves”, as a direct reference to the book(s) by the same name – though on second thought I figured it was safer to title it the way I did. Of course, it is about my body, so it makes sense the way it is anyways. Actually this update is a blending of several updates I’d been mulling over anyways, and it pulls together (as it always seems to) on reflections about my body, and of course myself.


I’ve been about a week behind in my hoped for near daily updates. For that matter, I’d like some day for this to be more than just about me being bitchy (well not always) about being transgendered. But I digress. Of course as soon as I’d decided that I hit a seven day dry spell. It started with my parents being in town earlier this week and ended up just being a rather surreal week, but for the sake of confidentiality on my part I’ll leave that out of it. It’s not really relevant to this blog anyways.


So it was about a week ago that I’d noticed the first signs of emerging hair on my back, not one spot but two, like a pair of damn wings in my low back (just above my hips really). The hair’s not really that bad, and I’m almost convinced if I shaved it that would be the end of it. Actually I tried shaving it and it sucks that I can’t reach it. I’m actually amazed to some extent just how much it makes me hate my male body. Never mind the rest of the body hair, never mind the male bits, a little bit of damn back hair and I’m suddenly more dysphoric then I’ve been in a while. Strange, at least I think.


So I found myself staring at, well, myself in the mirror yesterday morning. To understand what happened next, I had told my therapist earlier this week that “I never hated what the hormones did to my body”. As I write that it occurs to me that I’ve never mentioned my experiences with “hormones”. I did go through this once before, admittedly with the grace of a bull in a china shop, which speaks volumes, and with supervision took female hormones for almost a year and a half, then twice more for a period of months on my own. Practically speaking, DIY is not that hard to do, expensive yes, but hard to get the right meds, no. Having said that, I don’t recommend it. The point of it is I have breasts, my therapist calls them “breast tissue”, maybe I’ll correct him on the next visit – they’re somewhere between an A and a B cup, certainly more than just “tissue”. Aside from the hair, of course, and pushing in the love handles, I decide I like what I see, in fact, with my slightly more feminine shape, I feel ever so slightly less stressed about my current situation. I had also told my therapist in the same sentence, “I’ve had the money pass through my hands, on more than one occasion, to have my breasts reduced,” but I never have (had them reduced). To say that’s not normal for a male is an understatement.


I had, at one point, settled on calling this update “Mother Knows Best about a Back Hair”, yes all puns. Well we all know about the back hair, for better or worse and I did mention my parents were in town. Clearly my mom knows I’m depressed, she asked me point blank if I was happy or not. It would seem to me that it would be a default assumption that I was happy and wouldn’t require her to ask me if I was or not, so my mom must know something is up. I’d really like to tell her about what’s going on, but I know what happened the last time I thought it was a good idea to just blurt it out, actually I know what’s happened every time I just decided to blurt it out. She tries to save me. I love her, dearly, but I have no way of explaining it other then it becomes a toxic relationship. And yet I know at the end of the day, she’s just trying to do the best thing she knows, the only thing she knows. That I am a boy, and while my cross gender feelings deserve to be indulged, I am after all a boy. I hate being a boy, and the more I let go of my pretending at it, which is to say the more I indulge myself in hating being a boy, the more the depression of not being able to be true to myself comes through.


Cover of "She's Not There: A Life in Two ...


In her book, “She’s Not There”, Jennifer Finney Boylan frequently describes herself as being transgendered long before she ever comes to accept the term and use it in the present tense to describe herself. I told my therapist, that like her I had many of the same experiences at the same age(s), and it made me understand that accepting the label or not I have been and always will be transgendered. At this point, it’s only a matter of deciding what to do about it.


I’ve started playing It Girl on Facebook this week. I find myself enjoying it quite a bit. On the heels of my discarding of the tomboy label, and having the luxury of a completely female body, in the game of course, I find that I’m not as uninterested as I once claimed to be in wearing dresses. I still have no plans to be the next Donna Reid, quite the opposite I think I’ll be happy to just bum around in a pair of (cute) jeans and whatever shirt I happen to have on – but I can’t help but look forward to my girly moments to come.


This morning my “bed head” achieved a new look. Though initially unaware of it myself, someone was quick enough to point it out to me. I obligingly wet it down and smoothed it out, but not before I couldn’t help but think it had at least a bit of girliness to it and it felt good to feel that way.

The time for my body hair to go has come. As I let go more and more, it just becomes an ugly reminder of what I’m not. Of the things I’m not ready to do, this I am. For my own sanity, I need to reclaim my body, myself.