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[bmfpcdm]

Citação

Mitch Kellaway

My therapist blinks placidly as I sob on his couch. With infuriating poise, he lets his next query land carefully: “Do you think there’s something wrong with not knowing if you need to be a man, but being sure you need to be a father?” Our back-and-forth on the matter had already led to my current weepy dead end, but this time his curious therapeutic magic does the trick. As if holding up a mirror, he repeats back my concern as a calm-voiced question, and I finally hear in it what I need to.

“No?... No.” I respond shakily. “It has to be okay, because I know it’s what I need.” I feel electrified to release the knot of guilt and confusion I’ve carried until now. I take a deep, clarifying breath and steady myself. I’m unashamed to cry in front of him, as I’ve been succumbing to it for the past several weeks. But suddenly I know that this is my last time.

Tears had burst forth unexpectedly the first session—one second the quiet, the next second the storm. That was about four months into our six-month therapy stint, right on time for a clichéd Hollywood “breakthrough” moment. And what a breakthrough it was. Having come to his office to simply obtain medical clearance to begin testosterone therapy, I balked as soon as my goal was in sight: one of my patented self-sabotaging moves. Can I really handle gender transition?

I knew then, as I know now, that I’m a man. I’ve known so ever since I first read the word transgender, setting my heartbeat racing as I shuffled through the rest of my high school library shift. A light bulb had clicked on within the dusty gender attic of my head, illuminating the possibility that the sex designated to me at birth didn’t need to remain static over a lifetime. Though I didn’t despise my body or being a lesbian, I felt an immediate certainty that I would be a man someday. It shone like that far-off fairy tale ending I’ve been reaching for since childhood, filling me with the same satisfied warmth I felt whenever I thought about finding the love of my life or creating my own home.

Why, then, did the same trusty thought I had once turned to for comfort now halt my therapeutic progress in its tracks, sending waves of anxiety screeching through my body? My inexpert diagnosis: adulthood. I’d spent the intervening years in college, then almost failing college, then on an extended sanity-gathering hiatus. For seven years that same dream of manhood had called out to me, but I’d shelved it for when I had more time. But there was never more time, until my need bubbled over, throwing me into an existential crisis and academic nosedive.

When I unceremoniously hit the “real world” of apartment-hopping and bill-payment-postponing, I quickly saw the framework of the “system” that I had long suspected was keeping me from my gender-actualization dreams: it wasn’t that I had no time, it was that I didn’t have money. Or much goodwill towards men. I’d been theorizing about this ever since I made the joyous discovery that I could obtain a whole degree in studying gender, but there’s nothing like the daily grind to put abstract notions into practice.

 Patriarchy. The unseemly social system that hierarchically places men above women, working hand-in-glove with capitalism, the beastly economic system that hierarchically places the rich above the poor. Oh, how I loathed it all! I saw injustice everywhere I turned, and male bodies doing most of the dirty work, intentionally and unintentionally acting out the roles handed to them. My demanding restaurant job was like an incubator, compressing the worst of it into a cramped, sweaty space.

 The weekly onslaught of newly-hired female hosts and male kitchen staff fueled an established undercurrent of sexual harassment that we all, scarily enough, acclimated to quickly. We inherently understood that management wasn’t going to intervene without a unified protest, and even then none of us wished to be the reason that a man, should he happen to be an undocumented worker, be deported. So, flying by the prep cooks with trays of steaming food and piles of greasy dishes, I withstood a barrage of comments about my body, unrelenting flirtation despite firm rebuffs, and a cacophony of other men heaping similar attentions on female co-workers. They agreed on how to split us up between them.

When I envisioned my man-self, I was nothing like this. In fact, I held the same sensitive, pensive, feminist core. The deluxe upgrade was that I could externally carry the facial fur, resonant voice, blocky frame, and flat chest I sensed under the surface, needing only a drop of hormonal potion to unfurl. But the cat-call gauntlet I walked daily from kitchen to dining room— an experience which, according to my femme—presenting friends, is amplified exponentially on city streets—gave me serious pause.

If I had lived in a vacuum and been handed a gender-swapping switch, I would have flipped it without a second thought. But these new social interactions, unbuffered by the polite reticence of my upper-middle class hometown or political correctness of my university campus, exposed me to some of the lowest of what people might surmise about me whenever I entered a room, exuding manhood through my beard and baritone. And I wasn’t sure I could tolerate the weight of assumptions. I vibrated with uncertainty as I envisioned men considering me their confidant in sexually objectifying women, or a feminine shadow hastily crossing the street as I came up behind her during my nightly home commute.

Besides, I’d worked as a server until I was bone-tired and emotionally raw, and I still couldn’t afford health insurance. I was blessed enough to manage therapy out-of-pocket, but my wallet couldn’t sustain a full-blown medical transition. The $8,000 price tag on chest reconstruction loomed, getting further and further out of reach as I calculated the cost of the bi-monthly hormone injections, regular check-ups, and periodic blood work I’d need for the years I scrimped and saved.

Desperately, I tried on gendered combinations in front of my mind’s dressing-room mirror. Could I see myself as a butch in a binder? How about hairless, high-voiced, and staunchly reissuing a daily demand for male pronouns? Could I begin testosterone and only partially transition, halting at the highest pinnacle of my voice’s cracking, at the downiest dusting of facial hair, foregoing the plunge into vocal depths and daily shaves? I’d seen others pull off these masculinities, and every embodiment in between and beyond, with such panache. But on me, they were that ill-fitting shirt I wanted to make “work,” but would never quite satisfy me when I donned it, rendering me self-conscious and restless.

Trying a different tack, I bounced words of my mind’s sounding board. “Sir” aged me. “Mr.” did the same. “Dude” and “bro” left me as cold as the frat-favorite beers I didn’t like to drink. “Man” worked okay, though I already got that casually from other twenty-somethings. “Husband.” Getting closer, but it rang awkwardly as I struggled to imagine my queer girlfriend voicing it after a year of us simply being “partners” to each other. “Father.” Yes, I could imagine that. In fact, I was delighted to discover a whole related set of fuzzy scenes mentally stored away, only waiting to be sharpened into focus.

A young body toddling towards me, reaching upwards with open arms and tiny splayed fingers. “Dad!” she exclaims, beaming with the simple joy of seeing the only man who can fit the title. I smile down, scooping her up to hold tightly against my chest. Dad. Dad.

“I know I have to be a father because I can’t imagine it any other way, and I would be incomplete without having children,” I continue to my therapist. “But,” I hesitate, mental gears working overdrive to find a way—any way!—to avoid the next conclusion I draw.

“Is this just a way for me to make up for not having my own father?” At this point, we could recite his reply in tandem. “Do you think it is?”

I don’t. Not really. And I kick myself for pushing our session to its clichéd “daddy issues” max. But if I’m going to take the wary leap into new social territory—something never done lightly by this confirmed introvert—I have to consider every angle. I’m gripped by the urge to know if transitioning has anything to do with my absent father—and I need the answer right now and unequivocally. This, of course, is the cue for our appointment to end. My therapist’s reassurance that we’ll pick up our conversation in two weeks is anything but comforting.

Sniffling and puffy-eyed, I descend the carpeted staircase into the lobby. A heavy cloud of doubts hang about me as I absentmindedly emerge onto the sidewalk. Why is “father” the only thing I know for sure I want to be in life? How can I be so certain when I don’t have a clear idea of what it feels like to be fathered? Is this something I need to figure out before I start transitioning?

I search myself for signs of an internal father-shaped hole, and come up empty. Whenever past conversations about paternity had sprung up around me, I had performed this ritualized precaution, just to confirm what I’ve been since birth: whole. Even I marvel at how little angst I’ve felt about my lack of a male role model, having been heaped with the requisite social messages about the natural logic of a two-adult, heterosexual household. In fact, I had always found my single mother more than enough, and I believed her earnest claims that a marriage between her and my biological father would have given new meaning to the word “dysfunctional.” Before this panic-stricken hour in my therapist’s office, I’d even carried a certain pride that of all the insidiously limiting social prescriptions, I had least internalized the fiction of one family structure reigning above all others.

Just like that, what I was apprehensively starting to consider the next wall between me and transition falls, a welcome anti-climax. The only father I will ever know in this lifetime is me. Within the ten minutes it takes to reach the subway station, I’ve become buoyant with the thought of the precious blank slate I’ve been handed. My fatherhood has no predecessor, no flawed archetype to continually refer back with a sighing “When I have kids, I’ll never be like that...” refrain.

I dig in my pocket for my cell phone and jot off an email to my therapist suggesting we up our visits to every week. It seems to me that all of the processing from here on out can only be a mere formality. So when, over the next two dry-eyed months my medical—clearance letter fails to materialize, I call an end to our therapy sessions. The distant beacon of fatherhood has set my compass firmly due north, and I have no time to squander.

It could induce deja vu, this experience of sitting in front of a man who holds the key to unlocking the next door to transition—but it doesn’t. This time I’m the opposite of a tearful puddle; I’m a stone monument of determination. I will not leave the office until I get the medical clearance I came for.

Then again, it’s easy to be dauntless when the goal is guaranteed. My latest medical home is a large, urban LGBT health center, offering providers who are up to date on the latest standards-of-care. Their approach, following the “best practices” model agreed upon by experts in trans health, places trust in the patient to know the right time to transition.1

The only requirement I face is articulating an understanding of all possible outcomes—something I’m duly prepared for, having spent many an evening poring over other men’s transition narratives—and signing an “informed consent” waiver. When I enter the building to meet my new doctor, the fresh breath I take in comes as much from the air-conditioning as it does from releasing the burden of being at my therapist’s mercy.

“Hi there, I’m Dr. Miller. I understand you’re here to begin testosterone therapy?” My doctor’s kind eyes meet mine over a firm handshake. We exchange formalities and within minutes I’m within sight of the goal that had so unnecessarily eluded me for months.

 Not wishing to sway my consent process, Dr. Miller keeps his face as blank as my former therapist’s and hands me a paper checklist. As I place “X”es next to each box on the form, he politely averts his eyes towards the floor. My heart warms at the attempt to give me privacy, but the small space can hardly afford it. Besides, I don’t need any more time to think. The unquantifiable amounts of physical, mental, and spiritual energy I’ve spent over the past half-year spill out with the ink, sealing my hairy, low-voiced, paternal fate.

So I’m not anticipating, as perhaps he is, that I’ll be blindsided by my first reason to grieve. About halfway down the page, my eyes halt their forward march.

_X_ I understand that it is not known exactly what the effects of testosterone are on fertility. I have been informed that if I stop testosterone, I may not be able to become pregnant in the future. I have been advised to undergo gamete (egg) banking if this is a concern of mine.

“Do you have any questions?” he asks after I nonetheless sign off with little fanfare, save the flourish I still excitedly give to writing my newly legalized name. I see no option but to take a chance on my body’s ovarian potency: without the prerequisite manhood, I’ll never achieve the fatherhood I personally envision.2

“No, I don’t.” I focus on keeping my voice even.

 “Did you read the portion about banking your eggs?” I exhale a deep breath into loaded silence.

“Yes, I did.”

I hadn’t imagined discussing my distantly-planned pregnancy any time soon, much less right now. I fear that, much like weighing my mixed feelings about my father, considering my potential impending sterility will only stall my momentum. If it won’t cause my doctor to withhold transition from me, my own overactive imagination could.

“Well,” I begin. His eyebrows rise expectantly. “I just thought guys could give birth if they stopped testosterone.” He nods slightly. “At least if they haven’t had a hysterectomy.”

“That’s right,” he assents, pausing to let my thoughts flow now that I’ve broken their dam.

“I’ve never heard that T makes you sterile. I know men who are pregnant. And I see there’s the option of egg banking, but I imagine that’s expensive.”

We share a joyless chuckle at how preposterous the financial demand is, probably enhanced by our previous phone conversations about just how little money I have to put towards my medical care. I’m not sure why I carefully avoid centering my own desire for pregnancy in our conversation; perhaps I feel that if I don’t offer it, it can’t truly be taken away from me.

“There just haven’t been long-term studies done on the effects of testosterone on trans men’s fertility. While it’s definitely not guaranteed to render men sterile, I also can’t say that it won’t. Without proof, I’m bound to inform you that it might. If you ever want to try to get pregnant, we’ll stop your hormone therapy and get the ball rolling, okay?” “

I nod, heartened but tight-lipped. It seems a cruel twist of fate to possibly lose out on the future joy of carrying a life within me so that I may be at peace with my gender now. I have only a moment to consider retracting my hormonal green light, and I instantly feel the weight of potentially becoming an invisible man once again descend upon me.

My spirit cannot endure the years of misgendering that would inevitably pass before I could even get close to being financially and emotionally ready for in vitro fertilization. I simply cannot wait any longer to embody the mannish aura I catch glimpses of when I stare hard into the mirror. It’s calling to me, siren-like and visceral. I place a prayerful bet on the numerous success stories I’ve heard from other men, wagering that my fertility’s chances are as good as any other.

“Yes, okay.”

“Alright, that’s all I need to know!” He claps his hands together, flashing the genuine smile of a doctor who knows he’s about to change a patient’s life. “I’ll go grab the testosterone.”

***

_________________________________

1 The World Professional Association for Transgender Health first established the international Standards of Care (SOC) for providers working with transgender patients in 1979. The document has evolved ever since to come increasingly in-line with the needs trans patients articulate for themselves. The most recent edition is SOC Version 7, published in 2011. In it, the WPATH updates the pre-transition requirements they had held since the previous edition’s publication a decade before. Rather than the formerly required three to six months of talk therapy, the current SOC asserts that as long as a trans patient is determined to be in sound mental health, they should be able to access hormones after being informed of all side effects and signing their consent. Should a mental health concern present itself, the patient should be treated, and once stable should still be allowed informed access to hormone therapy.

 

Eli Coleman, et al, “Standards of Care for the Health of Transsexual, Transgender, and Gender-Nonconforming People, Version 7,” International Journal of Transgenderism 13 (2011): 181.

 

2 It should be noted that all transgender, transsexual, and gender-nonconforming individuals do not need to medically transition (i.e. undergo hormone therapy, chest reconstruction, and/or genital reconstruction) to attain fatherhood. Each individual knows what’s right for themselves; it happens that I know my path is to transition hormonally and have my chest reconstructed before I become a father.

 

***

 

_________________________________________

This essay contains material adapted from “Transgender Sterilization: Sweden and Beyond” by Mitch Kellaway, from The Huffington Post (July 1, 2013).

Excerto retirado de: "Finding Masculinity: Female to Male Transition in Adulthood"

[a.lopes]

Se acordam de manhã para trabalhar como conseguem e o que fazem para ficar até tão tarde acordados? 

 

[Hammerfall]

Citação de a.lopes, há 17 minutos:

Se acordam de manhã para trabalhar como conseguem e o que fazem para ficar até tão tarde acordados? 

 

procrastinadores natos 😄

[FabioK]

Citação de a.lopes, há 17 minutos:

Se acordam de manhã para trabalhar como conseguem e o que fazem para ficar até tão tarde acordados? 

 

Durmo de tarde 😂

Eu sou gajo mais de horario noturno e quando tenho que acordar as 4h30 para entrar as 6 custa me, mas raramente me deito antes da meia noite , 1 da manha. Tambem agora so faço 2 manhas e depois passo para as tardes, o que me acontece é que a primeira manhã não me custa ter dormido pouco, a segunda ja a sinto no corpo, mas depois como passo para as tardes deito me a mesma hora mas durmo ate as 11/12 e compensa lol como depois apanho 2 tardes e 2 folgas acabo por estar nesse meu horário natural. Sinto me sempre mais desperto a noite. As vezes tenho uma moleza do crl a tarde, mas a partir dali as 19/20 começo a despertar e é quando quero ir dar uma volta com o pessoal , beber um copo, etc. Tudo menos tar em casa. Ja à tarde nao digo que nao a estar com a peidola no sofá 

[a.lopes]

Citação de Hammerfall, há 33 minutos:

procrastinadores natos 😄

Mas dormes alguma sesta durante a tarde? eu compreendo deixar algum trabalho para mais tarde, mas fica acordado tantas horas consecutivas sem estar a fazer uma actividade interessante é do crl 

Citação de FabioK, há 29 minutos:

Durmo de tarde 😂

Eu sou gajo mais de horario noturno e quando tenho que acordar as 4h30 para entrar as 6 custa me, mas raramente me deito antes da meia noite , 1 da manha. Tambem agora so faço 2 manhas e depois passo para as tardes, o que me acontece é que a primeira manhã não me custa ter dormido pouco, a segunda ja a sinto no corpo, mas depois como passo para as tardes deito me a mesma hora mas durmo ate as 11/12 e compensa lol como depois apanho 2 tardes e 2 folgas acabo por estar nesse meu horário natural. Sinto me sempre mais desperto a noite. As vezes tenho uma moleza do crl a tarde, mas a partir dali as 19/20 começo a despertar e é quando quero ir dar uma volta com o pessoal , beber um copo, etc. Tudo menos tar em casa. Ja à tarde nao digo que nao a estar com a peidola no sofá 

Assim faz sentido

 

Eu tenho continuado com os meus habitos de sono simplesmente porque não quero "sofrer", depois do jantar é um sofrimento para mim, normalmente é a altura em que já não é suposto fazer mais nada e enquanto a senhora se entretem a ver alguma série eu não consigo porque passado um tempo no sofá começo a ficar com o pescoço super tenso e quando começa mesmo a doer estraga-me logo os proximos dias 😠

[Hammerfall]

Citação de a.lopes, há 7 minutos:

Mas dormes alguma sesta durante a tarde? eu compreendo deixar algum trabalho para mais tarde, mas fica acordado tantas horas consecutivas sem estar a fazer uma actividade interessante é do crl 

Eu estava a pegar nos exemplos deles.. o meu dia até podia ter 26 horas que eu agradecia. Ontem era 23:30 quando estava a acabar de preparar as refeições de hoje e quarta. Não me deito mais cedo porque não consigo xD E acordei as 6 todo fudido a arranjar desculpas para não ir treinar. Lá me levantei as 6:10 😛 

[smashing_pumpkin]

Citação de a.lopes, há 2 horas:

Se acordam de manhã para trabalhar como conseguem e o que fazem para ficar até tão tarde acordados? 

 

Fico acordado até à meia noite/meia noite e meia apenas e só para ter algum tempo para as coisas que gosto, pois de manhã sinto quase sempre que devia ter-me deitado (bem) mais cedo. Basicamente só depois das 22h é que consigo ler/ver um filme/jogar ou qualquer outra coisa que me apeteça fazer sem ser trabalho/tarefa doméstica/ser pai.

[Ghelthon]

Eu devo ser de uma espécie diferente, porque durmo na boa umas 12 horas, se puder. 😂 Normalmente durmo as 7/8 habituais.

E não fico nada rabugento ou assim, fico bem na mesma.

Editado 16 Julho 2020 por Ghelthon

[Petar Musa]

Citação de Ghelthon, há 1 hora:

Eu devo ser de uma espécie diferente, porque durmo na boa umas 12 horas, se puder. 😂 Normalmente durmo as 7/8 habituais.

E não fico nada rabugento ou assim, fico bem na mesma.

Se calhar já és rabugento de ti e não se nota diferença!

[bmfpcdm]

 

[Capa]

Aqui as insónias são f*didas e não me deito antes das 3/4 da manhã acordando ou não cedo. Se for antes para a cama é uma boa forma de passar a noite toda acordado.

[Mayday]

Fiz um dói dói num joelho, nada de muito grave, aquelas feridas normais, embora tenha ido um pouco fundo, depois fiz o processo todo normal, começou a sarar, fez crosta, mas depois da crosta ter caído, em vez da ferida desaparecer, ficar só a marca ou a cicatriz, ficou uma espécie de sangue pisado (é o que parece, não sei se é), uma marca vermelha quase crua, mas que está (ou parece estar) sarada. Tenho continuado a desinfectar, com Diaseptyl, mas não vejo nada a acontecer.

Poderá ser Queloide ou uma cicatriz hipertrófica, como me diz a internet?

Que fazer?

Editado 23 Julho 2020 por Mayday

[Keyser]

Viver com ela

[Bumba]

@Mayday  tens queloide. Nunca ouvi falar, mas tens. 

 

Uma vez bati com o joelho num muro a sair de um jipe, ainda hoje tenho sequelas.

[Bashir]

Bons ortopedistas na zona do porto, o que aconselham?

[Visitante]

Durmo 3,4h desde miúdo e sempre tive imensa dificuldade em dormir.

Há noites que faço directa mesmo depois de jogar futebol e trabalhar 12h.

Sou uma pessoa ansiosa. Já tentei basicamente tudo mas nada funciona e quando falei há uns anos com a médica de familia ela disse-me para fechar os olhos -.-

[Plagio o Original]

Citação de Lewa, há 1 hora:

Durmo 3,4h desde miúdo e sempre tive imensa dificuldade em dormir.

Há noites que faço directa mesmo depois de jogar futebol e trabalhar 12h.

Sou uma pessoa ansiosa. Já tentei basicamente tudo mas nada funciona e quando falei há uns anos com a médica de familia ela disse-me para fechar os olhos -.-

Como é q tu ainda estás vivo?

[Lestonks]

Citação de Lewa, há 1 hora:

Durmo 3,4h desde miúdo e sempre tive imensa dificuldade em dormir.

Há noites que faço directa mesmo depois de jogar futebol e trabalhar 12h.

Sou uma pessoa ansiosa. Já tentei basicamente tudo mas nada funciona e quando falei há uns anos com a médica de familia ela disse-me para fechar os olhos -.-

🤣

 

i'm feeling sad, what can i do?

stop being sad

[Visitante]

Citação de Plagio o Original, há 1 hora:

Como é q tu ainda estás vivo?

idk, ultimamente descobri que comprimidos de melatonina ajudam nalgumas noites e tomo meia hora antes de me deitar mas maior parte das vezes não funciona

Editado 2 Agosto 2020 por Visitante

[Hammerfall]

Citação de Lewa, há 2 horas:

idk, ultimamente descobri que comprimidos de melatonina ajudam nalgumas noites e tomo meia hora antes de me deitar mas maior parte das vezes não funciona

Suplementares com zmb6 ajuda na tua qualidade de sono e há evidência científica sobre isso, podias experimentar.

[Visitante]

Citação de Hammerfall, há 1 minuto:

Suplementares com zmb6 ajuda na tua qualidade de sono e há evidência científica sobre isso, podias experimentar.

Acho que até tenho disso ali, não notei diferença nenhuma

Também já experimentei extracto de ash qualquer m*rda, etc... nada

[Hammerfall]

Citação de Lewa, há 8 minutos:

Acho que até tenho disso ali, não notei diferença nenhuma

Também já experimentei extracto de ash qualquer m*rda, etc... nada

Assim mais radical e fora da caixa, podias tentar hipnose

[Plagio o Original]

Citação de Hammerfall, há 1 minuto:

Assim mais radical e fora da caixa, podias tentar hipnose

Eu sempre achei q isso é só nos filmes

Até ser hipnotizado n acredito

[Mayday]

Citação de Hammerfall, Agora:

Assim mais radical e fora da caixa, podias tentar hipnose

Porra.

Experimenta antes fazer terapia do sono.

[Hammerfall]

Citação de Mayday, há 9 minutos:

Porra.

Experimenta antes fazer terapia do sono.

@Lewa secalhar era isto que queria dizer... Mas o próximo passo é a hipnose 😅