Transition Update: 2 Months on T
For the past two months, I have been injecting 25 mg of testosterone subcutaneously every week. The prescription says to do intramuscular injections, but according to my doctor, subcutaneous injections work just as well. I opted to do injections of 25 mg each week, instead of the standard dose of 50 mg every two weeks because I wanted to minimize potential mood swings as the testosterone (“T” for short) cycles out of my system. I’m still taking the standard dose of 200 mg a month, just injecting a smaller amount more frequently. In lieu of driving to the clinic every week for my injections, I learned how to inject myself (through my doctor’s instructions) and was amazed at how quickly I got over my fear of needles.
Here are some of the changes I’ve noticed:
My voice has deepened. I am still speaking in the same general register as I…
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My sister, Nettie, introduced me to Coke and peanuts. I guess it was a “thing” way back when. With my first ever bottle of Coke laced with peanuts on the bottom, I awoke to the dynamic duo of sweet and salty. My love affair with the combo ensued.
When I think of Coke, I think of Nettie. Bet she would have gotten a kick out of these “Coke Bottle Women” by Cranky Messiah.
The photographer writes that he shot this from his truck. He spotted the art on the side of a building in Baltimore, Maryland.
Via daily prompt: Bottle
My third child was born into a female body.
She was a girl, a curvy woman, my daughter. Tomboy? Yes, but a girl nonetheless. She was born into a time when women could be more: More assertive, more physical, more bold. And women could be less: Less feminine. Less dependent. Less docile. And I thought that was enough. She was midway into her 20s before she shared with us that she was lesbian. The news was not hard. The few tears shed were those of sadness for any pain she suffered in delaying the news. She met and later married a wonderful young woman who we love as our own. They compliment each other beautifully.
Several months back we learned
she is trans gendered. I won’t lie, the news was hard. Could this be true? Could my daughter actually be a boy? What is the difference between being, say, a “butch lesbian”, and being trans gendered? Fear gripped my throat. She is my little girl! Can a mother bury her daughter only to give birth to her again as a him? Is it possible to relearn everything you know about a loved one?
The data I read and hear lays flat. I have no feel for what I am taking in. It is foreign. Cisgender. Binary. Preposition of Choice. They and Them. It is a slow learning curve.
Will this ever become rote?
Note: This post is published with my child’s permission. Use of strikethrough serves as a “visual aid” in helping me to recognize the frequency that gender preposition is used in my everyday thought and language.
Photo Sony Reproductive System by John Watson
Her father warrior, her father most kind. His foreign fields now left far behind.
Then he defended and mended at will. Those days recalled are treasured still.
His sword now rests with memories mixed. A quiet life upon him is fixed.
Her mother, his great love, away has passed. But her framed face smiles, his sassy lass.
Now daughter dear, he nightly calls, to share his glorious find.
“Did you see the moon?” He begs response with tenderness refined.
“Yes, I see the moon. Thank you, Dad!” She holds each call to heart.
Love’s kind exchange is never trite with bonds that never part.
Dedicated to Shirley, with love.
Photo by Luis Argerich
via Daily Prompt: Champion