Reflections on One Year of HRT

A lot can change in a year.

Sometimes things can go so wrong that things don’t really seem like it’s worth sticking it out anymore.

That’s what happened to me last September. I had been approved for my first doses of HRT back in September 2017 – shortly after my birthday, and despite my lack of job prospects and a rather complicated living situation, I was happy.

Then, after a few days, I ended up getting a phone call from my doctor in Minneapolis. He advised me to stop taking my HRT immediately due to a severe concern regarding my liver. Over the next few weeks, I kept going back to do testing before the doctors were able to determine that I had a fatty liver due to a Vitamin E deficiency, and I was put on a vitamin regimen to combat any potential damage.

Those were the longest few weeks of my life, and probably the worst my mental state had been in quite some time. A friend of mine had taken the steps to hide anything that could be harmful to myself, sometimes at my request. I was stuck in a severe depressed state due to the thing I wanted the most and the only hope for my future taken away from me with no guarantee that I would get to go back on HRT. I was, at the time, trapped in a dead end job with every single job prospect turning up nothing. I honestly felt like I didn’t really have much to go on with my life at that time, and I do feel like I was extremely close to deciding I didn’t want to deal with anything anymore.

Things changed, though, starting November 11. That day, my friend rescued a stray cat from outside of our apartment complex, and I ended up adopting her after trying to locate her owner(s). I couldn’t come up with a name, so I named her Pounce, after our college mascot.

The fateful first meeting with Pounce.

A few days after that, a phone call came back to me from my doctor in Minneapolis. My liver function tests had come back and I was given the go ahead to start HRT again! With that bit of news, November 15, 2018 marks my one year anniversary on HRT.

I have successfully made it to a point that I wasn’t 100% sure that I’d have made it to last year. I’m even considering possibly doing some sort of bottom surgery down the line and looking into possibly getting laser hair removal for what exists of my facial hair.

Despite the fact that I’ve still struggled with my depression over the past year, I’d like to think that things are getting better for me. I’ve gotten back on antidepressants lately and they’ve been helping me out immensely when I combine it with my regular visits with my therapist.

The biggest thing that’s coming for me is the impending court date for my legal name change in December. As of writing this, I have a little over a week until that fateful moment when the courts will determine whether or not I will still be known under my deadname.

I didn’t think I’d have made it this far, and I’m honestly still in some form of shock that I’ve successfully reached the one year mark. I thank everyone that helped me along in that time period, and I’m hoping that after my name change, things begin to look up even more. Hopefully by this time next year, I’ll have made even more progress, because as I said in the beginning:

A lot can change in a year.

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Let Me Tell You

They send me a message because, “God told them to”, and “they love me”.

Are we listening to the same God?

The message always reads something along the lines of, “You have been on my heart recently, and I want you to see the good God can do in your life, if you let Him”. There is often a sermon or Bible verse attached to a rambling message about my misdeeds; I wonder why they choose to use a sacred text to perpetuate hate. They call it compassion; I call it oppression.

I read the scripture. I listen to the sermon. Sometimes multiple times. I respond in as much kindness as possible. But I hate them.

I wonder at their accusations. Misled. Misguided. In need of prayer. The sins of my mother. Where was my father? I turned against Christ. Debauchery with the Devil.

Sign me up, Sinner, at least the Devil doesn’t mind getting kinky.

They all have strong opinions on my sex life. On my “struggle with same sex attraction”.

Why am I always a lesbian in this narrative? Where is my sexual fluidity? Has my gender taken the day off?

They never ask, but only assume. If they do ask, the questions route me back to a conversion story I want no part of. Different women are in my bed each night; I wonder where they’re finding all of these trans positive, sexually fluid women.

Sign me up, Sinner, sexual freedom is where it’s at.

They speak at me. I speak at them. No one listens. No one wants to change. I get angry. They pray. I snap. They tell me they don’t want to convert me. I quit responding; my heart has been scraped raw inside my chest. I think about what I want to actually tell them; they don’t deserve me. Or you. Or anyone.

I barely stop myself from responding.

Have you ever angry fucked after grown men with signs screamed obscenities at you simply for expressing affection? Because let me tell you, angry fucking in protest against men who’d rather see you dead is a hell of a rush.

Have you ever flipped off a car of young men after they screamed, “DYKE” out their window? They keep laughing and driving, but you and your partner watch for it to slow down, terrified they’ll turn around. Be ready to run. You encouraged them.

Have you ever fucked your way through years of internalized hate to self acceptance? Fucking is your rebellion, your resistance, and eventually your freedom. Sex is fucking beautiful when it’s you tearing down the cisheteropatriarchy.

Have you ever held your partner in front of unsupportive parents? Disgusting, sinful, selfish. How dare you force your lifestyle on them. The passive aggressive sneering. You’re carving out this space as people who are choosing to openly exist. This is a privilege. You will lose things. You already have.

Have you ever twined your fingers together with your partner’s? Only to quickly drop their hand when the looks, the words, the laughter, become too much? Have you ever kissed in protest? Homophobes hate wet tongues.

Have you ever been afraid of going to the bathroom? Which one do you use? You don’t really belong in either one. Your body has lost its sacredness. Peeing is your reclamation.

Have you ever seen the power of LGBTQIA2S+ existence in public? Felt the rage? The resistance? Rebellion? Lust? Desperation? Love? Let it swallow you.

Have you ever? Have you ever? Have you ever have you ever have you everhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyouever

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Haveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyou

 

Haveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyou

 

 

Haveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyou

 

 

 

Haveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyou

 

 

 

 

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Have you ever fucking screamed your soul out in the face of hate?

 

-Kain