So you think you’re done with your transition?

There is this tendency when you reach a few octaves low and get the first facial hair, and finally yeet the teets to think that you’re “done” with your transition. Many people stop recording their changes, stop making youtube videos, and start living their stealth lives, as one would do. COMPLETELY UNDERSTANDABLE, I did that too.

And then I reached one and a half years on testosterone, and I changed the way I take it. And my voice started breaking again while I was two months in a new job – awkwaaard. And my face started getting round again, and I once again lost my perfectly sharp jawline and got a chubby cheeks fifteen year old’s face.

And my acne came back.

Is it the lockdown? Is it my diet? Is it the shots? Who knows?

All I know is that everything annoys me, I have infinite breakouts, my voice sounds like a squirrel, and I sweat like a mother fucker while having the sex drive of a kid that just discovered their genitals, while at the same time my back hurts and I find white hair on my eyebrows.


Will this ever be really over?


The Defective Human: When your human warranty is not valid anymore

According to health insurance companies, being transgender is either a “pre-existing condition” that they will not cover medical expenses for (which by itself it’s a bit ridiculous if you ask me) or it is not considered a medical condition, having possible medical needs (like surgeries or hormone treatment) fall under “cosmetic procedures” and therefore, not covered either.

This is not the post where I argue about the fact that gender affirming surgeries and other procedures are labeled as “cosmetic” and “optional” (they are optional, not all transgender people choose to have them and that’s ok – however for those who do, it’s not really an “option”, when it’s either that or severe mental health problems).

This is rather the post where I talk about how it feels when you suddenly start understanding yourself as “defective” in comparison to the general population, and you get introduced to various situations where your “human warrantee” that will allow you to navigate your body in society is being seen as “out of warranty”.

Personally, I have been defective my whole life, one way or another. When I was 6 months old my parents discovered that I have a severe case of atopic dermatitis (an autoimmune, non-curable thing that causes rashes and unexplainable wounds on your body, and can make your mother shit herself in fear when she discovers her sleeping baby covered in blood as if someone slit their throat during the night). It’s not a serious condition, for the most part it’s mainly inconvenient and the worst thing that can happen to you is to get bullied at school because your skin looks really gross, but it’s something that made me familiar with the idea that I am defective, in ways that I can’t really do anything about it.

When I was 13, I was diagnosed with depression and the deal was sealed. I am defective, a kind of human that was not cooked properly and ended up being a bit scruffy at the ends. Fast forward to ten years later, I’m also trans (oh the surprise!). And if up until now I was the only one aware of my defectiveness, now the whole world would know.

The thing with defective products that their owners still use, is that pretty much they are the only ones who know how to deal with them. If you have an electronic device with a specific problem that needs a bit of shaking or the press of two random buttons to work properly, chances are that if it falls in the hands of someone else (who is not an expert) they probably won’t be able to figure it out, and they will just abandon it, right after swearing a bit for how “dumb” it is.

This metaphor, although uncomfortable, is a very relatable way of understanding the way most people see us. Many medical experts don’t know “which buttons they are supposed to press”, most acquaintances don’t understand “how it works”, friends and family are wondering “why don’t we let this go already”.

But, you know, it’s our thing. And it’s not only our thing, it’s us that are the “thing”.

And as much as I want to be angry at the world that many times has no idea what to do to “make me work”, I also understand that whether I like it or not, I’m not easy nor ordinary (in the bluntest of ways of course, it’s not that I consider myself a special snowflake), and I have to learn how to live with that, with all my defectiveness and such.

And for the most part, that’s okay, because for what is worth, I know which buttons I need to press, and that’s what matters the most.

A guide to masculinity: The car service tales

I had to visit a car service facility recently because my blue dragon has been showing signs of anxiety and old age, maybe a bit of dementia, giving me warning lights when everything should be fine. Ideally this wouldn’t be the first thing that I’d do in any given morning, but there I was, in my black hoodie and jeans approaching the “service reception”. The guy asked me about the problem and called me Mr. Imalexnowsurname, until he asked if I was going to go back to work and I said I’m a PhD student, so he proceeded calling me “my friend” – does your car have any damage my friend? (no, it didn’t)

I feel so unbelievably uncomfortable around dudes that know their ways around cars. It’s so foreign to me, and although I am not completely clueless (I have a basic understanding of how a car works and what I will find when I open the trunk of mine), I can’t not seem like a total and utter noob when it comes to visiting places like that.

I don’t know if it’s the general music videoclip setting, with the greasy vibe and the muscular boys in dirty overalls, the way people talk to you and to each other, or the constant feeling that everything is going to go slow motion and a woman in a bikini will make an appearance any minute now – I don’t know man, car service facilities are intimidating.

I always feel like I should know more about cars, know more about the way men associate with each other using that knowledge. Like I should go to a car service and have an opinion about what my car needs, whether it’s correct or not. I have been witnessing behaviours like that my whole life, with the close males in my life that seemingly possessed some kind of “male-only car knowledge”, which in reality is just a facade because if you are a man, you have to know about cars, and especially, your car.

What is fascinating is that, while I was growing up the person who actually knew their shit around cars more than anyone in the family was my mother. However, her opinion was mostly dismissed by more powerful, and male members (and non members for the matter).

I’m pretty sure that if I grew up as a “son”, the amount of car-teaching I would get from my father would be at least double the amount I got as a “daughter”. Which, too bad for him, because now I am a son, and an unprepared to talk to car service people son. (Disgraceful)

That is to say, I’m really not that oblivious. I just feel like I am, because I was conditioned to be like that. And it always bugs me to think that something as insignificant and ubiquitous as freakin car stuff “knowledge” should be gendered and gatekept. Don’t want to even begin to think about other, more important stuff.