Well yesterday I made the first step of shedding my old look.
Since the weight loss started in March I have dropped from 300+ lbs down to 217 today in September. I feel good, I think I look a lot better (but I do feel I am not done), and because of this I have a LOT of clothing that I can’t wear.
Most of the clothing is my boy clothing of course, especially my work clothes. I have a ton of clothing that is just hanging out in boxes and bags because it won’t fit me. Yesterday we decided to get rid of the clothing, and not to keep it any longer “just in case”.
We will be giving my boy clothing to my younger brother. He doesn’t have a lot of good clothes anyways and I like being able to help him with what I do have. Combined I am giving away
- 14 T-Shirts
- 1 brand new suit (bought in march)
- 5 belts that are way too long and can’t be cut down.
- 5 long shorts
- 2 gym shorts
- 7 polo shirts
- 4 casual office pants
- 3 jeans
- 8 dress shirts
- 4 dress pants
- 1 pair of fatigues
- 1 sports jacke
This leaves me with a few bits of boy work clothing that are much smaller size (from waist size 46+ to now a 36, same with the shirts in reduction.
The surprising part is now I have to get rid of all my initial girl clothing as well, and that is the clothing that made me feel a tinge of worry and maybe regret. None of the boy clothing did that.
Don’t get me wrong, it is great I went down from that size, but it is still a little sad. Also, I will probably have to shop in plus size most of the time anyways no matter how skinny I get, since I am 6’2″+ tall.
So next month when I go up and see my brother I get to give him a new wardrobe. Both the hubby and I figure even if I gained weight back, I won’t be wearing those types of clothes by the time it happens anyway.
I am still working on my new wardrobe. The hubby is busily buying things for me as he finds them, and we are both surprised at the sizing getting smaller as we go. He says it is the first time in our 26+ year relationship (26 years married on Halloween, then a couple years before that) that I seem to enjoy getting clothes. I think he is right.
Overall the experience of shifting out clothes is distorted by my body changing shape. I have some pictures of me just in underwear from March of 2018 (what I looked like under the suit) vs now in September. However I don’t think I am ready to see that up here yet, it really makes me dysphoric.
The funny part about this is I couldn’t name why I hated myself so much before I decided to transition, but I truly did, and I still struggle a little now. Although it is getting less, and I am starting to like what I look like better. That is probably a whole entry by itself, but not today.
So there it is, I am making my first full step in shedding my old self, by packing up forever my old clothing. It is scary, but also pretty exciting.
This morning is going to be big, I am giving my notice to the Department of Defense. I am probably committing career suicide with my changes. Transitioning even at its most successful will reduce my privilege by a lot, and if the transition isn’t as successful as I want then it will impact it even more.
That being said, I can’t work for the toxic Department of Defense. I listen to fellow auditors talk about “guys in dresses”, make fun of Caetlyn Jenner and Chelsea Manning and just talk shit. I am fortunate, they have never talked shit about my husband who is FtM and they knew it, but “he was different then the rest” is how it feels coming from them.
My hubby got harassed a lot by certain members of management. They even sent out an email to there management saying that the hubby was “crazy because he had the lower surgery”. Hubby was brave, he filed a complaint and three weeks later the person in charge of the “investigation” said there was no proof it was harassment. The things that supervisor did would have gotten anyone fired anywhere (and it didn’t help that they were already under investigation for racist harassment of others).
That told me all I needed to know. I have been on hormones for a little over two months, and I can’t be here. If nothing else I need to stay sane, plus I am tired of participating in the production of weapon systems designed to kill others (usually in an unjust war on top of that).
So the decision is good. I am going to have my soul reclaimed by doing this. However I will lose my seniority and probably not make that much money again. I am hoping I can earn half that with any jobs up coming (now there have been some frustrations on interviews as well, but that will be a different post).
We are moving to a cheaper apartment, and soon the husband will be the only one working. I am going to cash out my retirement and come close to paying off all our short term debt. If this occurs (the DoD/Fed government takes months to cash you out) it means he can support us, actually he can support us with only part of it paid off with my vacation payout.
I don’t mind being poor, but he is stressed, I am stressed and his car that we still make payments on but doesn’t have a warranty is having problems. I gotta figure something out. Maybe I can work from home if I can’t get hired on somewhere.
Well this is the start of my “Freedom Day”…. maybe? I will report back on how good or bad it went.
I know for a fact I was born in the wrong body.
This isn’t a new thing. I have felt this way since a child. I never quite felt like I fit most things on the male side of things. I liked sports, but I hated the individual competitiveness about it. I always preferred “Home Ec” over shop classes (mainly due to the “boys club” that happened there), I preferred sitting inside with the girls while the guys went outside to be manly and posture with each other. There are so many things I preferred that I couldn’t even start to list them here.
I know truly inside myself that I wasn’t supposed to be 6’2″, built like a linebacker with the wrong appearance in the mirror. I hate my facial hair, I dislike the “manliness” that I exude, just none of it is me on the inside. None of it.
The purpose of this very short post was just to establish this in the beginning. That I know on the inside I am more suited for a female body, that is where I should be. The anxieties, worries and bad days in the future are not because I am going the wrong course, but because of either external pressures to conform, or because I am trying to work out the dissonance between what I see in the mirror and what I feel.
This post is to give myself and everyone else a peek at the solid foundation of what I am, before I start unpacking everything else.
It has been a rough month since my dad passed. The funeral, the family issues, the constant driving to Bellingham. However, I am a very very lucky person, I got to speak to my dad as he was passing away.
There are no real lost words or expressions of love. We have always told each other that we love each other. While my childhood had a lot of problems with poverty and alcoholism, there was never a lack of love. That includes actually saying it and showing it, not just an “unacknowledged” understanding.
Jello and I were fortunate though. Jello was able to talk with him on the phone before my dad lost the ability to talk that way. I know Jello wished he could have made it up to see dad, but the surgery results wouldn’t let him travel that far.
I was fortunate as well. While I was up visiting my mom as she and the rest of my family watched over him in the last week. I went into the bedroom, hugged him, kissed his forehead and told him that Jello and I loved him.
As if from a zombie movie, his eyes shot open and focused on me. There was a bit of shock on my part, he had been unconscious all day, hadn’t really even responded to me earlier. He grabbed my head and lifted himself up to kiss me, hug me and tell me how much he loved Jello and myself and how proud he was of us.
We talked for a few minutes more, but he was so tired and exerting so much effort that I just laid beside him for a minute and told him it was ok. I was there. He went back to sleep.
That was the last time I talked to him. I know he woke up and talked a bit with the rest of my family, and when I came up the day before he passed I sat with him for hours holding his hand as he slept. He would respond if I told him I loved him by squeezing my hand. I probably could have pushed him to come up again, but he was finally resting, no pain, no trouble breathing and he was calm. So I just held his hand.
Today there was an article that Fred Phelps, the founder of Westboro Baptist Church, is in a hospice dying. I have thought about this day in the far past, the final days of one of the most hateful men is actually something I put thought into before.
Years ago I would have cheered his death. I would have hollered, hooted and made it a reason to throw a party. Even before my husband came out, I had many friends (including my at the time wife) who were either gay or bisexual. Not only that, but his treatment of pretty much everyone else made me hope for his death. It wasn’t just the protests of funerals, but the way he treated his own church members as well.
I would hope not only that he dies, but that he would die in extreme agony, alone and distraught that no one cared for him. I even hoped that maybe he would think at the end that it had all been a lie. I hoped for whatever last moment crushing of his spirit (and body) that could happen.
However, today when I heard about his impending death I realized a few things.
- I haven’t actually thought about him in a long time, even when I see the shenanigans on the tv, he leaves my mind as soon as the news article is over. I haven’t given him a single ounce of energy beyond the initial response everyone has to his church’s actions.
- I realized that I wasn’t ecstatic that he was dying. There is no overwhelming joy, and no desire to throw a party. In fact I kind of felt empty about it.
- After I read the article, my response was for me to hope that he found some sort of peace in these last few days. I know some people don’t think he was troubled by what he did, and that may be true. Something was broken inside of him though, I hope maybe he got some clarity.
I am not sure what the change in my outlook is, or really when it happened. I suspect as I grow older that maybe I take a longer view of the world, or maybe I have just seen enough hatred in the world that I don’t want to give it any more energy then it gets from me.
I don’t forgive him for what he did, and I wouldn’t weep if he ended up in his own hell (if something like that exists), but I don’t have the hatred myself towards him. Unlike a lot of people who are crowing upon his demise, I just sighed, clicked the link and moved on (well except for this blog post and my realization I didn’t have the hatred anymore).
Earlier today I posted a shortened version of this pet peeve in my Facebook. The husband unit and I have both talked about this before, but I thought I would share it all with you.
Lately I have been reading the Anita Blake series. Yes it is typical urban fantasy, much like Dresden Files. It does tend to have more and more sex in it (which I have no problem with at all), along with a Mary Sue character. My complaints have nothing to do with any of this. I like romance-esque type novels and it fits well for my style.
However, I firmly believe that eight books into a series, I would hope the character is older, that their life changes like a real person and that the story writing shows the advancement in age. When you have had eight major threats to your life, impressed powerful adversaries and made powerful friends, it isn’t going to happen over a few months or even a little over a year. This happens in all mediums (tv, comics, etc) and it bothers me each time.
I am sure part of my issue is that all books are about teens/twentysomethings (and I have a rant later about that), but even barring that I feel like a whole HUGE section of the story isn’t being told. I like the idea of the story also including the journey of the person through their life, not just episodes that seem to happen one after another.
If I ever did start writing, I would generally age the character(s) AT A MINIMUM the amount of real time that has passed. If they started out age 25 when the first book was written, then four books over four years pass they would be 29 (and by the 20th book they would be AT LEAST 45, assuming you right one book a year). I do this in my roleplaying games that I run. The minimum time between adventures is the time in real life since the last session (unless of course we stopped halfway through last game, but that is the exception, not the rule). I love watching characters progress, and I think the eventual aging only adds to the story.
I really don’t have an answer, and I will still read the books. Maybe I will actually start writing again and see if I can bypass this instinct that writers seem to have to not progress time. I just wanted to share a pet peeve I have with you, so there you go!
Lately there has been a long string of incidents where I post a point of view that isn’t lock-step with others in my equivalent social group. This has ranged from political, racism, sexism, “the transgendering” (yes that is not a real word but it is a real phrase used to me and those I love), privilege and even into personal tastes in entertainment.
The average scenario starts with me posting something provocative or counter to what others think. There is usually some support and some opposition to my post. This is absolutely normal and I expect it. Hell there are times when the conflict gets heated (and I love a good argument, because I was literally raised by human wolf pack).
At some point, someone feels hurt or put out (or says something about Jello – that is my nuclear button if you want to push it). Then they either flounce off or just stop talking.
I am always caught off guard by that, my family/friend background usually meant we all hugged at the end and laughed about it no matter how bloody it got (once again I know my experience growing up is not normal).
Then they all of a sudden post some passive aggressive crap about the situation (oh I note the irony that I am doing that here, but it happens so much I wanted to write about it). I never feel I should address their passive post, it is after all their journal/page and their right to do so.
I used to just boot people for being passive aggressive like that but it happens enough I stopped doing it (except if they bitch about jello then they are gone and I burn the ground and salt it, told you that was my nuclear button). However now I just mock it out loud and move on. Although I do have a message for those who are like that, it’s not politically correct but that isn’t my problem.
Guess what sugar britches. This would be a boring world if everyone agreed with each other. I don’t agree with a lot of people but it doesn’t bother me personally when it happens. If you want to be an open minded adult you may realize that not everyone thinks alike. I am not going to agree lockstep with other gamers because some gamers think everything is cool. I am not going to agree with other white guys that we are oppressed. I definitely won’t agree with most fiscal and social conservatives. Let’s just say to everyone, I probably won’t agree with everyone on everything (and contrary to what some believe I don’t even believe or like everything Jello likes… I know I know your mind is blown by that).
What I am saying to all of you sugar britches out there, get over yourself, not everyone has to agree with everything you believe. You can still like someone with differences. Oh and yes before we get anywhere I am an elitist jerk, but I am ok with that :).
Oh and this post might seem weird because I typed it on my iPhone and that is a lot harder than you would think.