This is it, I turned 50 today and I am not sure what to really talk or consider about it.
I can tell you I don’t feel bad, I feel really good. I am in a great marriage of 29 years this year. I am happily working my way through the transition to be who I truly am, and we are financially stable (albeit in eternal debt). All of this is far beyond what I pictured at the age of 20.
I do think I look better now than pretty much any other time of my life. Not necessarily just because of my physical looks in general, but because what I see is more closely aligning with what I feel. That plus I have kept my 100+ pound weight loss off for two years now, I am feeling comfortable letting loose a little, I think I found a good set point.
That is it, no big insights today, just wanted to say I turned 50, my husband spent a wonderful day with me, and I am an incredibly happy woman. Here are some pics of the day of going out to breakfast with my hubby, then getting home and running him a game while our daughter attempted to get his attention for hours 🙂
I look back and I notice that the last post I did was the beginning of May, here it is the middle of June and now I am just getting around to posting. I suspect that is because this was a lot harder recovery from surgery the normal. I think it resulted in me having a huge disassociation for a few weeks and to be honest I am still coming around. Who would have thought a tummy tuck, liposuction and fat transfer to my waist/butt/thighs would be so intense.
Don’t get me wrong, my skull surgery was definitely more “invasive” but that was the only one. This last surgery was about liposuctioning off around 1.5-2 liters of fat around my mid-section (that is all he could get out of there) and putting it around my thighs, ass and hips. He did very well with that.
Combine that with removing a twenty inch wide, and at least 6-8 inches wide set of skin, and then using a plasma device to seal it down the wound recovery was far harsher then I had anticipated externally, not even counting the suck of wearing a compression suit for 30 days. The scar is pretty big, but already starting to retreat.
That being said I think the hardest part was going through two full doses of anesthesia for my March surgery with the thyroidectomy and my April surgery and recovery. I am doing well now, and I am fairly excited that I might get my GRS (is that the correct acronym now, it feels like it keeps changing) within 18 months, then that will be the end of transgender surgeries… unless of course I want to get a little vanity work done around my eyes, or get a thigh/butt lift after my GRS/GCS, both of which are options, but are more for my personal aesthetic then trans related.
Even with all this though, I haven’t pulled at my belly once and I feel like I look really good on my abdomen, thighs, butt and hips. That will be its own set of posts though, I just wanted to share here that I am alive, functioning at almost normal and feeling really good.
Seems I am coming out of my funk, that makes me feel better. Also will mean I hope to write more, sorry about the communications silence. I hate it when I do that.
It is uncommon for the hubby to get pictures of me. Especially pictures I am not aware of. Here is one of those, plus a second from same day (but I was aware of that).
The hubby decided on this day to take a couple of pictures of me. Evidently, he couldn’t get enough of my “Magically Delicious” butt with those Lucky Charm pajamas while he was working on his school work (this is before he came out).
He also got a pic of me later in the day getting tattoo work. Of course, this is all four+ years before I started to transition. I ended up losing that weight since then. I have no idea who the woman was though, and it was vaguely uncomfortable that my tattoo artist had her stay to watch. I was pretty dysphoric anyways (no one knew) and I hated who I was.
This picture is closer to what I look like about 18 months ago. I suspect it will look even different in four weeks after my Avelar Tummy Tuck and fat transfer as well next week.
By the way, I still love my tattoos, in fact I love them even more. The left arm tattoo has been filled out and vastly expanded into 1/2 to 2/3 sleeve as well.
Last night I had a weird, anxious and intense dream that lasted all night. Probably part of it is anxiety, finally system clear of narcs and any other aid to help sleep or maintain my mood.
Wolsey and I had moved to what looked like Seattle, a large city in a rainy area. We met up with some of the people that lived around there and it turned out a lot of them were people I knew as a teenager in Bellingham. Not any of my closest circle of friends, but all people I interacted with regularly.
Side note – when I was a teenager, I went to five high schools. There was a combination of homelessness, drunken Vietnam Vet/underworld shit along with our family having a contract on our head and the first year of repeated moving was literally due to avoiding having another attack on our family.
If I get brave I might go in-depth about it at some other time. If my childhood was a tv show, it would be a bad “gritty drama” because people would think no way all that shit happened, but it did and it shaped the core of who I am.
I finished off the last two years of high school at Bellingham High School (yes that means I went to four high schools in two years before). I had a couple of friends I considered really close, and it is also when I met hubby. I never fit in with the high school crowd though.
I suspect part of it was that I had grown up in a lot harder position than almost any of them. The other, and probably bigger part, was that I was new to Bellingham, I wasn’t a local and I hadn’t at least lived there in middle school or earlier. Bellingham and all of Whatcom County were extremely insular then. People had lived there for generations and the only real new people in town were usually just going to school at Western Washington University, then they would leave.
It meant the friend’s cliques were already established and I ended up on the outside of all of the established groups that were involved high school-wise. The one advantage though is that I interacted with almost all the groups because of it. I wasn’t considered “the enemy”, just someone that was around school.
I spent most of the night talking with people like Clark and Boris (last names withheld to protect the innocent). We got along in high school, and to be honest, Boris was always really nice to me. For whatever reason, though they had a weirdness about them towards me during our discussion over lunch that time and distance didn’t create.
I didn’t know that reason was at least until I realized that I looked like I do now while I was in the dream and all of these people I haven’t seen since long before I started transition.
The rest of the dream now has faded mostly. I talked with several others and left the area feeling uncomfortable and saddened for an unknown reason.
I was going to post more about the dream, there were some fine details, but I wanted to make sure I was right that it was Clark that was in the dream. So I went onto classmates.com and found I was right.
It is also when I remembered I don’t have a picture in the senior yearbook for 1989. At the time I was too poor to afford a color photographer and they weren’t offering the black and white packages to seniors so they told me I couldn’t get my picture in the yearbook. They also somehow left my name out of it, that is a negative side effect of not being in any group.
That is the end result of joining up in Bellingham High School as a junior and being poor. At the time I wasn’t angry about any of it. We had just avoided dying, being homeless and to be honest I think I was too much of an adult in too many ways (but not in all the ways that you need to be) that I just sort of pushed through it.
I think I am angry now. Not really any one thing that I can define at the moment. I do think it might have gone better if I was able to come out then. Actually it was the 1980s that shit wouldn’t fly so no it wouldn’t have changed anything, just gave it a different taste I suppose.
Oh, and I just found out that Boris is an author/artist and his stuff is still as different as it was in high school. Good for him!
As for anyone reading this, it sort of went tangential and then off the path completely. Sorry about that :).
Last week I received two very obvious acts of aggression towards being transgender. One was a macro aggression, where someone attacked me verbally (and was going towards physical) and the next day the most obvious type of micro aggression. The sad fact is, the micro aggressions bother me more.
I think the last time I directly talked about dysphoria was back in 2019 (and it was face related). I thought it would get better as I was scheduled for major Facial Feminization Surgery. It did go away a lot, the first and second surgeries were awesome. It never went away fully though.
The first surgery corrected bones, the second cleaned up the first by cleaning up skin, muscle and my upper lip. Both of them I think truly did a great job for me. That being said, I have never gotten rid of the dysphoria, in fact I get it pretty bad now.
The subject is really heavy and probably something I can’t break down in one or two posts. In fact I don’t think I can talk much about my facial dysphoria at the moment (it is surging pretty bad). That being said I can acknowledge logically I am much closer to where I want, I just don’t feel it sometimes.
That is except yesterday. Even struggling with still trying to get my electrolysis done (thanks COVID for fucking that up) my body is shaping up fairly nicely. When I first came out I tried on makeup and immediately freaked out imagining it was what a football linebacker would look like if they put on makeup. The sad part is that observation isn’t wrong.
I am not nailing on myself, I weighed 320+ pounds, had not started hormone replacement therapy, and had stubble of the viking born. It was what it was.
In August of 2018 we had moved to Tacoma, I had just started a job I knew I would transition at but hadn’t come out to work. In fact this was only a week or two after coming out to my friends. I knew I hadn’t lost all my weight, my HRT numbers were in shambles but we tried it anyway. It is a basic feminine bit of clothing and I expected it wouldn’t work yet. I was right.
If I saw another woman (cis or trans) in this photo I would think nothing of it, I would believe that they looked just fine. Sadly I have never been able to judge myself with the same eyes.
The way I looked flipped me out and I felt at that point I would never get to a point where I could accept myself. I realized I had many surgeries and hormones coming but it was a crushing feeling. So bad I deleted all the front-facing photos and the only one I know of that I have left is from me behind. Even now it makes me cringe, even though I would never second guess someone else, my dysphoria has a power over images of me.
It has been two and a half years since then. I still am wracked by dysphoria, but the difference is I have moments I feel whole and complete, or at least close enough. Yesterday I pulled out the same camisole in the above picture (I hadn’t tried it on since the initial picture) and thought I didn’t look too bad (honestly, the 38H chest doesn’t hurt).
The hormones, breast augmentation, and surgeries make me feel like I might get to where I can accept myself. I took a couple of selfies after a long day of work, and I found I was ok with myself.
I know the dysphoria will come back (actually already hit earlier today) but I wanted to share that it isn’t always black feelings towards my look. I just wanted to share my feelings, at least the beginning of my dysphoria.
I do have to admit, I am a little nervous sharing these pictures, but I feel like the camisole works better and maybe things are going well. Not bad for turning 50 this year :).
The last few days have been hectic, and while I haven’t left the house much since the Tuesday before Christmas (it is now Sunday after), I had two distinctly different experiences being read as a woman.
You heard it right, it seems like twice I have not been clocked, at least not in the beginning.
The first time was more expected by me. The hubby and I were in the grocery store trying to pick up the last bits of food for upcoming Christmas Dinner (on Xmas eve, that is when we celebrate it). It was a wednesday and it wasn’t packed so we hurried on out to Safeway.
As we wandered the aisles, the hubby stepped away to get some cheese I believe. Meanwhile, I was bent over and crouched down reading the different egg nog labels in an end-cap, near a group of Safeway workers who seemed to be hauling stuff from the warehouse.
I couldn’t tell you what caught my attention, but I heard one guy (turned out to be an older, shorter guy) talking to another. I heard him say “Check her out.” I am not sure what made me start to turn and stand up, but I did.
As I turned to stand I could hear the guy start whispering harshly, “Don’t turn around, don’t turn around, don’t look.” Just as the older man finished speaking I had stood up and turned around to see what was going on, just in time for a young man, maybe in his early twenties who was standing next to me, to turn around towards me and bounce off my boobs.
The older man fled, I swear he was almost jogging to get away as I bounced back. I had seen that the younger male hadn’t even heard the older male’s words, instead his face had been fixated on my chest (I forget they are 38H, probably dysphoria) and had been so fixated on seeing what the older guy had done that I think he literally had taken a step forward, not realizing how close I was, or that I was standing up and moving towards him.
The young man’s faced became incredibly red as he quickly apologized and retreated back into the warehouse. Part of me was annoyed, I had never done that as a guy and I found the hubby to bitch about it.
It wasn’t until I was talking with him that I had assumed wrongly. I thought they were checking out the “trans girl”, but he pointed out that no, I probably wasn’t clocked in that short time and they were just acting like guys seeing boobs.
I was both weirdly annoyed and pleased about the situation. No guy should act like that, and being objectified sucks. However, it did help reassure me that maybe someday I can pass more fully. Part of me likes that objectification because it somehow proves my efforts.
The second time happened a couple hours ago when I dumped a couple of bags of garbage and a small light that died. I had gotten out of my car at the garbage area. A small meth-ridden homeless man stopped me and asked me if he could have the light. I had no problem and after talking with him I gave it to him and moved back to my car.
That is when I caught behind the garbage area (it is a walled off area) was a guy that lives in the complex with a large pit/mastiff type dog. He had been watching carefully, and it wasn’t until then that I realized as he smiled and walked off, that he was watching out to make sure I was safe.
Both the hubby and I are pretty sure he hadn’t clocked me, and that he was just making sure that the woman wasn’t harassed by the homeless guy. I almost argued with the hubby that it couldn’t be that, but the hubby was right, I wouldn’t have waited around if a guy was dumping garbage, when I was still a boy, unless something was really wrong.
Evidently the guy with the dog either thought I was cisgender, or maybe he was still worried about my feminine appearance enough that he stayed around anyways to watch over it. Either way I found it strangely nice that he had registered me as someone that needed to be watched over.
Don’t get me wrong, at 6’2″ I don’t think I was in any danger from the homeless guy, but there is something about that treatment that reassures that at least people see a feminine person when they see me. I will undoubtably get tired of the staring at my boob thing in the store, and maybe of the watching over me, but either way, that was twice this week that I was at least partially treated like someone who I feel I am would be treated in this society.
I will completely admit that I found it amusing a few weeks ago when gay men started posting pictures of themselves holding hands, kissing, being intimate, and tagging it Proud Boys. I noticed though sometimes it bothered me as well, I couldn’t place it. It wasn’t the gay men that bothered me, it was the cis-gendered straight white dudes, but I didn’t realize that at the time.
Fast forward to yesterday when I was on Facebook and a good friend, who absolutely had no ill intentions, posted an image of two men holding hands. I completely admit it, yes I love to watch Proud Boys members squirm. I think they are ridiculous, and I also admit that isn’t the high road.
I have been really quiet for the last five plus weeks since surgery. Mostly because it has been a real emotional rollercoaster, and also because I wanted to see how it turned out before I posted about it. The very brief TL;DR of it, IT WAS A RESOUNDING SUCCESS, even though there might have been some crying along the way (or more than “some”) I feel it was all worth it.
Here is the Too Long Didn’t Read Comparision before surgery and after.
The day of surgery was actually really good. We ended up getting up early, prepping and heading in. The traffic was extremely light and we got there in record time. I will admit that I was a bit more nervous about this then I was the first surgery. The first surgery I didn’t care how well they did in Scottsdale, it would be better than where I was at. This I was a bit more worried, not only that something might go wrong and I will have to take a step back, but that it won’t have any effect at all.
Once I got into the surgeon’s clinic they sat me down and Dr. Mangubat went through and marked my face and chest. I am always amazed at the sculpting ability of good surgeons. I look at those lines and it means nothing, but they can create works of art (just like people who draw out patterns). Changing something from two dimensional lines to a three dimensional form is pretty fantastic. Also, Dr. Mangubat and his assistant were awesome. I wish I could remember his assistant’s name, he was also a very skilled surgeon learning the trade from Dr. Mangubat. Dr. Mangubat himself was incredibly kind, jovial and reassuring.
To be perfectly honest I know they rolled me into the surgical suite, I remember the nurse talking with me and giving me an IV and the next thing I remember is waking up in my bed at home. What I do know from talking to the husband is that surgery lasted about 6 hours, about half the time of my surgery with Dr. Ley. He got me into the car and drove me home.
I do know from him as he tells me even now how hard I was to get up the stairs. I might weigh a 100lbs less, I still am 6’2″ to his 5’6″ and I outweigh him by 40 lbs. The stairs were evidently an issue. I am told I stopped in the middle of the stairs and wouldn’t move. Hubby had to yell at me to get going (and it sounds in the same manner my dad would when he needed us to do something).. Thank you hubby for getting me in to the house and into bed.
The next few days were sort of a blur. I remember lying in bed, the hubby feeding me and giving me pain meds and then the hubby playing video games while he laid beside me. By Monday though I was feel really good about myself. I was really liking how it was looking and things were good.
We went to the follow up appointment where they took off my main head wrap and looked over the incisions (there were a lot). The docs all seemed happy, I was happy and life was good. They gave me a wrap to put around my head and neck to help the skin heal tight.
Meanwhile my boobs were healing excellently. I had to wear a weird little maternity bra, but they were huge and somehow the doc fit 800cc implants in through my armpit, so no scarring under the boobs.
Within a day and a half though, the skin around my incisions started having a skin reaction. Much like when I have an allergic reaction to bacitracin or other antibiotics. It started getting bad and we called the doctor back. They immediately the next day had me come in to look at it. No one was sure what I was reacting to. It could be the wrap around my face, it could be the staples in my head or it could just be a normal infection.
Whatever it was, Dr. Mangubat put me on anti-fungal, an antibiotic and an antiviral. The worry was the infection would reek havoc with my healing and skin. I am glad I saw him immediately. He actually commented that it was unusual that a patient be so proactive. I blamed my hubby being a nurse, my own experience in a doctors office, but honestly it was also my anxiety. Probably mostly my anxiety that propelled me.
I will admit I was also having weird panic attacks. I felt like I couldn’t breath at night with everything wrapped around my head. I was short tempered and I did have an emotional/anxiety breakdown. To be honest nothing was ever that bad, but the rebound from surgery and just all the stress had caught up with me. Also, I do not do well with opioids. They aren’t the most effective to begin with and they wreck me emotionally, every single time.
I had one night with a complete breakdown and I was a jerk to Wolsey and lost my shit, panicking that I had somehow fucked my face up and all the work the surgeons had done. I am grateful that he loves me so much. Also things started healing up, although the breathing panic attacks still happened at night. However I was looking way better.
Later that week after things had calmed down I talked to my therapist (they specialize in LGBTQ, Trauma and Trans stuff) and they mentioned it isn’t uncommon. Both my dysphoria and evidently inability to breath at night. The dysphoria is kicked off as a delayed sort of thing. It isn’t any regret on my part, but rather just processing (and not even close to the processing I will probably be doing over the years). The other part was the breathing. Evidently it is not uncommon for trans women to be uncomfortable trying to breath laying down. The fact I have 38H sized breasts with 1600cc’s worth of silicon on my chest is a new sensation and is just my body getting used to things feeling different. Evidently trans guys go through the opposite sometimes, they feel light chested.
That did make me feel better, and it definitely made me realize I wasn’t the only person going through this.
However within a few days, with the help of all the meds, my face started healing up. My breasts were already in good shape healing wise and I had no problems sleeping after the first couple of weeks. By the time my one month had arrived I was in pretty good shape and now 7 weeks out the scars are starting to fade out. I am so happy with what happened. I can’t thank Dr. Mangubat and his associate enough, but I most especially can’t thank my husband enough. He helped me get the surgery, he took care of me, and I hope he understands how much I truly love him.
I even took some photos of me several weeks after the fact just to see what I looked like.
That is it, things are great and I attached all the pictures above plus several extra as a gallery below.
I really do mean to post more about all the little incidents, microagressions and triumphs I have on a day to day basis, but for some reason it is hard. So here I am trying to renew that.
I think I am going to need to change the park I visit on lunch for a couple of months. Not that I don’t like the park, but I think I probably feel safer giving it a break. I decided yesterday to go to it during lunch. I needed to step away from the dumpster fire of an audit I was doing so I drove down and parked.
There I listened to my music with a vague hope that the birds would be there. Sadly no birds at all, and the park was fairly full. I stayed in my car, with mask ready in case I wanted to walk around. I noticed how many people in the actual park (out of their cars) had no mask and I decided discretion is the better part of valor and I didn’t need to risk myself.
So I sat there for awhile listening to loud music when I noticed a park bench full of guys laughing and talking, probably 10+ years younger than me. I didn’t get the impression they were laughing at me, but they did keep looking over. Eventually one guy waved me over and I just watched him for a little while. Eventually they yelled over I should join them.
I shook my head and mouthed something along the lines of “No thanks” (I remembered yesterday the exact words, but evidently sleeping made the specific sentences disappear). They turned and gave me a little bit of a hard time. I think I was passing close enough and they hadn’t caught I was transgender yet.
They did it again and something annoyed me by it. Probably the realization that this is what women go through every day their lives. The expectation that it is ok for guys to bother a woman and that she owes them her time. I shook my head again and turned up my music. I think at this point it was that I was listening to White Zombie (specifically “More Human than Human”). I think this was a surprise because they had heard my earlier music that was more techno/nightcore like.
A few minutes later this one guy kept on it. Every few minutes he would yell over to me. At some point I am sure this became a game with them, but it didn’t truly bother me. I am not sure what he said when the voice of “John Bradley” came out (my father was incredibly witty, and antagonistic when pushed and so when an instinct comes over to do something that is completely socially unacceptable, and I do unapologetically, we call it pulling a John, or a “John Trap” or something like that, RIP dad).
I just leaned out and yelled back in my very masculine voice (no attempt at feminizing and I have a pretty deep voice) something along the lines that “if anyone wants their dick sucked, they would have to suck mine in return”. I swear it was actually more witty than that, but the meaning was clear and I can’t remember my exact words. With that I just turned the music up louder and it was Marilyn Manson.
The whole table just froze. I am sure it was a combination of my deep male voice and the reference to my dick. A couple of the guys at the table burst out into laughter that was obviously directed at the guy at the table that had been harassing me. That guy just looked shocked and within a couple of minutes the whole group got up and left.
They didn’t threaten me, although a couple of them looked unhappy (and the one guy looked pissed). I decided after a few minutes that maybe that wasn’t the best thing to yell at a group of guys and mock them that I was trans. I wasn’t scared of them at all, but there was the realization that no matter how tough I thought I was, there was still multiple guys there and I was transgender and mocking them.
So I drove out of the small park and down a couple miles towards my place. I found a cool little park on the beach further down and spent the rest of my lunch there. I like the original park and I will eventually go back, but I probably am going to avoid it for the rest of the summer. I didn’t recognize those guys and they definitely don’t go down there during the winter, but probably best if I don’t come across them if possible. I will remember to take pictures of the new park (no trees, and its kind of cramped but its was less cramped then Thea’s Park).
Here it is, another little micro aggression, this time I think it was based on them thinking I was cisgender female. That part made me happy, it was a little validating. Then it wasn’t validating and I found it annoying.