morgan_edwin | Recent Entries

Yes, of course! But my body isn't showing it quite yet, and I still see a lot of feminine features when I look in the mirror (BOOBS), So I feel like I can't stand up and say "I am a man." I feel like I'm in some nebulous space between genders, and not the kind I might want to be - gender-fluid and the like. I just don't see a man, yet,and I know it's going to take a long time, and I know that if I wasn't a man already I wouldn't be taking testosterone and planning to have my breasts removed..and looking forward to it. My chest will be a canvas, and I have plans for tattoos I'm going to get. (money is another matter.) I want to celebrate my new body, even if it is still fat You have no idea how much I'm looking forward to that.

But that's just the physical stuff. .I have these fears that because I didn't grow up male- that I was never treated as a little boy- that it makes me less me less of a man, or that learning how to socialize as a man is going to be extremely difficult. Then again, most of my friends are queer, and I don't see that changing, so there's that.

There's still that part of my brain that tells me I am making a terrible mistake, and that I should stop right now before I "ruin" myself. But then I realize words like "ruin yourself" are coming straight out of my mother's mouth. They're an artifact of her impact on my thinking, My mother doesn't really want me to be happy. She just wants me to be just like her. That's ho it's always been. This is as far away from "being her" as I could possibly get.

I know all this, have known all this, and yet, there is a hesitation, a hesitation that varies from day to day. But when I take that needle and pierce my skin with it, I feel a powerful sense of "me." At that moment, I know I a doing exactly the right thing, and that I will be happier and happier the more and more the hormones change my body.

Another affirmation: I am my wife's husband. Not will be. Am. And I like the sound of that.

I wonder how many trans men who keep journals have opened with that same line. Bad pun, but it get gets the point across nicely, doesn't it? I am sick to death of wearing binders. They hurt even if I wear them for only six hours per day. But if I go any looser, they are pointless. I've tried a couple of different kinds. One kind squashes my breasts to my chest to the point of being some kind of medieval torture device. The other has the opposite effect of what I want, pushing my breasts up and out! And of all the money I've wasted on trying different ones, the first one I bought is the only one that remotely works.

This has been your friendly neighborhood pre-op FtM bitching session move along. Nothing to see but moobs.

Nightmares resultant fear of (hot) baths
PTSD symptoms continuing, but I can handle them way better now that I'm back on Vraylar
Enjoying thing things again
General inability to deal with social environment now towards trans trans people and it's affecting my mood
Had an oddly simultaneously embarrassing / affirming moment toward passing
Testopel
Stressed about Jaymie's continuing to "continuing to to have to pull the the puppet pull strings at work because she isn't out yet
I see on her face when her face when it's been been a bad day and sometimes I am at a loss for how to comfort her
Severe "in between" dysphoria.

The world is for the young, and I cannot pretend that I am young anymore. Half my life is gone, now. I am not a twenty-something college student. I have blown through all my financial aid except for unsubsidized loans, and they won't pay for my whole degree.

And then, there's the fact that I will be a 40+ fat trans man looking for work in a hostile environment. I better take a deep breath and think about cats and Corvettes, because I'm about to be fucked with my theotrcal BS with no lube.

Not only that, but employers and other employees will look down their noses at me for getting a degree online, even though half these credits came from "real" unis.

Anyway, it's 5 am and fuck this.

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Went for a walk by the water, amid the new leaves. Talked things out with Jaymie. Did some more talking when we got home. Had a good cry. Addressed my issues with my gender identity. Lately, I have been questioning my decision to continue with transition, because of memories flooding back from "when I was a girl."

They are good memories. I don't want them to go away or be invalidated. And I was a girl, then, and I was having fun being a girl. I have not always been "a boy trapped in a girl's body." It hasn't been that simple for me. I may desire male anatomy, but I don't despise everything feminine. In fact ... it's fun to be a girl, sometimes.

I have come to terms with the fact that I don't hate "girl Morgan," and I've decided she can stay.

Before, even when I was identifying as non-binary, I was shunning femininity. Which is a gift, one I hadn't used. And that wasn't right. I was denying a part of myself. I was not whole.

So what does this mean? The desire for transformation is still intense. "Boy Morgan" needs to be unleashed, and it is a joyous metamorphosis. How many people get to experience life from the perspective of both female and male, and everything in between, in one lifetime? I will still take hormones (unless contraindicated by my new meds,) I will still have top surgery.

But I, Morgan, am gender fluid, a veritable splatter on the canvas of gender, and I AM OKAY WITH THAT.

My default pronouns are still male, but I may ask you to refer to me by female pronouns on a particular day, or they/them pronouns on another day. I know, I'm a pain in the ass, but if you have a problem with that, you can SUCK MY GENDER FLUID and GTFO.

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The above is a Facebook post I made today. I'm posting it here to expand upon it and explore the spiritual connotations.

I am Pagan. I am Norse Pagan. I am a Lokean. What does this mean? It means that I worship the old Norse gods, and that Loki is my primary deity. It would take far too long to explain my explain my complex relationship with this being. Let's just say that I am child, spouse, and blood-brother to Loki all at once. Yeah, it's complicated, but complicated just kind of goes with Loki. Anyway, in the myths and in my and many others' UPG (Unsubstantiated Personal Gnosis,) Loki is a shapeshifter, and the very epitome of gender-fluid. He is also the World Breaker, God of Chaos, God of Fire and of the Hearth (archaic,) and of course, the god of mischief and lies. So why in heavens would I ever get involved with a god like Loki?

The answer is that he got involved with me. I was feeling totally cut off from the divine, which was painful, and I was desperate. I screamed to the Universe and any being that could hear me, "I WANT MY FIRE BACK!" A while later, Loki appeared in my life. That was seven years ago. It's been a wild ride since, and it keeps getting wilder. Even when I am depressed and can't feel his presence, I know he is there, influencing my life.

He has been loving and nurturing, passionate and wrathful, cold and deceitful, and anything else you can think of with me, but always to prove a point. He is an easy god to fall in love with, but not an easy god to be in love with.

Anyway, I thought it appropriate that Loki's influence be mentioned in this journal, because he's always there. When I feel close to him, I feel more in touch with myself. When I feel disconnected with him, I feel unsure of myself, and often confused as to what to do next. These are the periods in which he stands back and lets me flail until I drag myself up from the abyss, stronger for it in the end. I would do anything to defend his name. A lot of Norse Pagans hate him, some even being fearful of saying his name. But that's a whole different topic.

Loki is guiding me through this transition. Loki led me to this transition. Loki knew I was going to experience this transition far before I did. Loki is my source of strength during this transition.

Current Mood: awake

I don't wanna talk about it. This will be my last entry for a while, until I have something juicy like a new relationship or something big like I finally made something again.

I'm sick to death of talking about "it," "it" meaning gender, and here I am, writing about why I don't want to talk about it. Well, how about a happy little bulleted list?

Do I have the time to listen to me whine? The answer is, increasingly, NO

I feel like my whole life is getting taken over by GENDER. Gender GENnnnnDER. Conversations, journal entries, appointments with TWO psychologists. Like some obsession. Normal, healthy people don't sit around and think about their gender all day, they just are what they are, full stop.
I'm DONE, FED UP, SICK OF, the nomenclature, the pithy little words we have to use to describe the difference between sexual preference, gender identification, gender expression, ET CETERA. Can't I just be me and walk away?

I'm tired of doing things like saying "hello wife!" and being greeted by "hello, husband" as if we need reminders, because that implies hesitation, a need for reprogramming and processing and processing and processing and processing and I'm just DONE with these kindergarten games. If we slip up once in a while, so what? We correct and move on.

I'm tired of the endless introspection, "Oh no, I liked a flower, maybe that means I'm really a girl! A plant girl!" NO! I am Morgan Edwin Odysseus Wagner, and this is MY odyssey, and I don't have any obligation to take anyone with me or explain it to anyone or ever get back if I don't want to.

My gender is rooted in the masculine, but the way I express that masculinity is my own damn business and I'll wear fur and paint my nails and put on eye shadow if I want to, and it doesn't make me any less of a man, Like, DUH. THERE ARE NO MEN LIKE ME and yet there are millions.

I AM TAKING T FOR SOME REASON AND I WANT TOP SURGERY AND I LIKE MALE PRONOUNS BUT I THINK I AM GENDER FLUID AND I AM NEVER GOING TO BE HAPPY PUT PUT IN A BOX OR MAYBE I AM JUST NEVER GOING TO BE HAPPY AND I'M SO CONFUSED

I sound half my age WTF

I ~~DON'T~~ KNOW WHO I AM AND FUCK YOU

Maybe i am a plant girl

Hormonal drama. A month on T. I've hit a wall. Does that mean anything?
Boredom. All I really do is sit around online all day. I don't go out and take walks (there are no sidewalks here) and even if I could drive, Jaymie has the car most of the day. I don't have people over, either, because mostly they have jobs and things.
Loneliness. See above.
Anxiety. The normal, garden variety kind and the "OMG, am I passing?" kind. Panic attacks.
Homesickness. I really miss Columbus, and the house. I miss the tree outside my window, that wasn't really our tree but it bent over into our yard. There are no trees outside my window, here. Not close, anyway. I miss the house. I miss hearing rain on the roof, and not hearing upstairs neighbors. I really don't like this place much. I never told Jaymie that. It was the best option at the time and it's one level. Best for me, right? And it had a blue room that was going to me my room so I concentrated on that. Otherwise, I'm kind of uncomfortable.
Lack of viable wardrobe for "passing."
Exhaustion. I keep falling asleep at my computer during the day. Poor sleep at night? Hormones again? Depression? Fibromyalgia?
Lack of ability to express myself. Yaaaasssss. This is a thing. I want to be Ziggy fucking Stardust but the world wants me to be Typical Guy in his 40s. I want to wear something other than polos and button-ups and tees in patterns other than plain or plaid or stupid. All the patterns I like are like $400 or something. I want to be fabulous and wear scarves and nail polish and maybe even more makeup than I wore as a girl. But I can't. Not yet. Not until...
The boobs. The boobs have to go. They're just kind of hanging there, not doing me any good, just getting in the way, dangling there like over-ripe fruit.
PAIN. OMG I AM SO TIRED OF BEING IN SO MUCH PAIN ALL THE FUCKING TIME JUST GIVE ME THE DRUGS ALREADY
I want a dog. And a snake. And a hedgehog. And an axlotl. But that has nothing to do with anything other than that I'm eccentric and I like weird animals. But an aquarium would be nice. It would give me something to do, at least

So how do I fix all this? That's another entry. I'm tired. All I can say for sure is that this is mostly situational and not chemical. My brain meds are doing their job; it's just that some stuff is weighing on my mind right now and I can't seem to shake it.

My subconscious mind is having serious second thoughts at this point. This journal is about being honest, even when the truth is baffling or doesn't seem to fit. Well, the truth is, I don't know if I am doing the right thing anymore. Whereas when I was a girl I had dreams of being a boy, now, I have dreams every night about being a girl again. They are not sexual dreams, or dreams about my body. They are dreams about who I was in the pictures Facebook shows me in my "Memories" feature. I look fondly back on those photographs. I see a beautiful girl, 50-75lbs thinner than I am right now. I didn't think I was pretty when I took the photos, but now, looking back, I realize I was beautiful. And I destroyed that beauty. I cut off all my hair, bought "manly" glasses, and started dressing in boring "boy clothes" to fit in ...and that's to say nothing of all the weight I've gained.

I have major dysphoria, maybe even body dysmorphia, about my weight, but I also feel kind of helpless to do much about it. I eat fairly healthy, I don't snack. I drink minimal soda, and I have started to go to the gym. But I am still limited. The medications I take make it very hard to lose weight, and I have both widespread and localized chronic pain from fibromyalgia and degenerative disk disease. Consequently, I am disgustingly fat-- like, I see "My 600 Lb Life" on TLC and I think,"That's going to be me in five years."

Is She-who-must-not-be-named right? Am I only becoming a boy as an easy way out because I destroyed the girl's beauty by becoming fat?

*tires screeching* Wait a minute. Live, right now, as I'm posting this entry, I'm having an epiphany. Typing it out and reading it out loud, it sounds positively absurd. Switching genders is certainly not what women think of as an option to be more attractive in public just because they gained weight. They just try to lose the weight. They exercise, eat healthier, join Weight Watchers, take prescription weight loss pills, and do gastric bypass when nothing else works. They don't up and decide to become men! This is a She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (henceforth referred to as SWMNBN) narrative. SWMNBN put me on Slim Fast was nine. NINE. FUCK HER!

When I look at my wife, and I ask her if she thinks I am doing the right thing, she gives me an unequivocal "Yes," without a blink of an eye or a change of expression. That means everything to me. I trust her implicitly. And I can't forget how excited I was just a few weeks ago when I came out. So why do I have these dreams? Self-sabotage? Left-over shame from SWMNBN? "Stage fright," like I mentioned before? Probably a combination of all of these things.

So, should I stop transition? She-who-must-not-be-named would say "Yes." But what do I say? Well, I'm still planning on doing my T-shot tomorrow. I can't stop thinking about it, actually. I can't wait.

*sigh* I guess I can't eliminate SWMNBN from my journal entirely, since I MUST mention her, at least in passing, when I find destructive narratives in my head that she put there. But SWMNBN will no longer be the focus of entries on purpose.

Physical changes!

I don't have any idea what T is actually doing to my body! I have only been on it for three weeks, so there aren't any truly noticeable changes yet, But Jaymie says she notices subtle changes in the shape of my face around my jaw, and I think my eyebrows are bushier. My skin has always been pretty oily, so it's hard to tell if it's been any more oily or thicker than usual. I've started using witch hazel as a toner before I moisturize, and it seems to keep the oil down.

I am somewhere between indifferent and disgusted by my breasts. They have scars from the previous reduction. They're still sort of "perky" from the lift I was automatically given when I got my reduction. I hope to gods my previous surgery doesn't get in the way of my top surgery now.,because of all the scar tissue.

Emotional changes!

I've been incredibly introspective and moody. I don't know if I can blame this solely on the testosterone and not simply the emotional shock of my transition being a reality. To be honest, I am still in shock, and i am still scared, and I am still on the brink of, "Well, if I turned back now, the T wouldn't have made that much of a difference, and i could just be a girl again. i could just make this whole thing go away and not ever think about it ever again." Of course, that's ridiculous, but it's hard, when I see a selfie from eight years ago in which I looked really pretty (thought I looked ugly at the time) and kind of wish I could go back. But then I'm left to thinking, was i really happy, or was i putting on a costume and fooling even myself? I'm already someone else. Does it matter? Is this something I should take seriously, or is it just "stage fright?" I constantly reassure myself that I am still allowed to like the same things, to dislike the same things, to not act like a typical cis/het man, that I am not passing my body and personality through a die that is going to cut away pieces of my personality. Instead, it's going to cut away stuff I don't need anymore, and I'll be stronger for it. Right? RIGHT?? Someone reassure me before I explode.

Sexual changes! TMi WARNING: MASTURBATION!
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Because of the psychiatric drugs that I am on, I am starting from absolutely rock-bottom, zero libido. I have been hoping against hope that T would help to change that. Well, I think it's beginning to. I'm starting to feel aroused again in certain situations, and I had an erotic dream the other night. I experimented with one of my vibrators and was able to get myself off within 20 minutes. However, there were no contractions with my climax. But an orgasm is an orgasm, and I"ll take it. I haven't been able to get off in less than 40 minutes in... probably years.

Stay tuned for Week 4!

This journal has become a repository for my feelings about my relationship with my mother. This is supposed to be my transition journal, not my mother's journal. As of right now, 4/22/2019 8:59 PM, she gets no more space in this journal, full stop.

Today, on Facebook, this guy picked a fight with me. I apologized profusely for having offended him in any way, but he refused to back down, so I blocked him. It's just Facebook, right? But here's the thing. What do I do in real life, if something like that happens with a cis het dude? I don't want to become ulra-masciuline to fit into a man's world, but I don't want to be a pushover, either. I can't just "block" someone in real life. I may have to engage in some unpleasantness that some men choose to solve by being physically violent, and I wouldn't know what to do in that situation. I wouldn't call myself a pacifist, but I don't know the first thing about how to defend myself. Maybe I should learn.

Is it weird that I am feeling more vulnerable now, as a transgender man, than I ever did as a woman? There's this whole mysterious "bro code" with cis het men that I'm going to have to learn, not because I want to be like them, but because I want to stay out of trouble. I don't want to inadvertently start trouble.

Realistically, though? I'm probably not going to get alont well with cis het men other than the ones I already know as friends, and I can count them on one hand. It's a good thing I'm a big guy, because I might get my ass kicked for being trans or for some other reason, or worse, talked about behind my back, and made a pariah, like I was back in high school.

Anyway, I have to go, so I will revisit this later.

FACT: I am taking hormones and planning surgery to make my body appear, outwardly, for all intents and purposes, male.

FACT: I get warm, giddy feelings when my wife calls me her husband or when someone calls me "sir."

OPINION: BOY CLOTHES ARE BORING.

FACT: I still like some PRETTY GIRLY SHIT and sometimes I might even want to wear MAKEUP.

FACT: I am tired of hearing the "screeching brakes" noise in my head every time I see an article of clothing or accessory I like because "guys don't wear that girly shit, I can't like that anymore."

FACT: What I wear is my choice, but, right now, I can't pass if I wear everything I want.

FACT: If I am restricted to wearing what I need to wear to pass, I feel miserable.

There. I said it. I'm not miserable as a boy. I'm miserable being limited to boy clothes. I mean, what the fuck, fashion? Men's clothes haven't changed since, like, the 1980s or something (minus the surfer jams) and formalwear hasn't changed much since the mid-1900s. And men don't wear nice clothes out anymore, either. Nobody wears hats or jackets as part of regular attire.At least the 60s and 70s were a little funky. Kinda wish I'd lived back then-- there was less of a difference between men's and women's clothing.

But I digress. I guess I already made my point. I was starting to wonder if I was doing the wrong thing, but now I realize it's just a case of being programmed with societal gender norms, and my desire to pass conflicting with my desire to express myself.

Sorry, mother. Still not a girl.

I called my mother today with the intention of breaking off all contact with her. I couldn't do it. I chickened out. At least I won a small battle? She said:

"I support you as long as you're doing what's best for you and what makes you happy."

Words from my mother I never thought I'd hear. She didn't tell me "I support your transition" outright; I don't think she can say the words, but it's the best I can expect from her. I also got her to say she loved me in my full male name.

I feel better, now.

I had been feeling icky because I had this image of her with an expression of revulsion on her face, pointing her bony finger at me and telling me what I was doing was a sin. I had that image because, well, that's the mother I grew up with. That was her Hyde persona.

Jekyll wasn't so bad. We would go shopping together, walk on the beach of Lake Erie, play pretend, and, when I was really little, she would teach me lessons, She was like my own private preschool teacher. (I never went to preschool, just straight to kindergarten.)

But Hyde was never far away, and would creep out at the strangest times, becoming angry at incomprehensibly petty things, turning them into conspiracies against her or grave commissions of disrespect.

Obviously suffering from mental illness, combined with abuse from my father, a narcissist with drug abuse issues, she never sought help. My parents fought almost constantly while I was growing up, and I often got the backlash.

But now! Now is new! Now I can be the real me. I can discover myself all over again, without having to hide anything or worry about getting in trouble. Yet, that fear of getting in trouble informs my anxiety to this day. I have to isolate that fear, tell myself it's just bullshit from my childhood that doesn't apply anymore. It's out-of-date programming that needs to be overwritten with reward programming instead Taking my T shot should make me feel proud, not scared, and excited instead of like I'm sticking a dagger straight into my mother's heart.

Whenever I see her again (it may be years,) I may look very different. She may not recognize me. But if she is repulsed because I resemble my father (whom she thinks is the devil himself) , that is her damage, not mine. And anyway, that day is a long way off, since she won't fly or drive more than 15 miles from her house.

I give myself permission to feel excited and happy. It should never be dependent on what she thinks, but it makes me feel better that she is at least starting to wrap her head around having a son.

I am exhausted from dealing with my mother. She constantly goes back and forth between almost seeming to understand, to thinking it's just some weird phase I'm going through. She'll use my words against me, as she always has, at her convenience. I told her at one point that I was having a midlife crisis. Why do I tell her these things? Since my wife is transitioning, too, my mother emailed me today saying she thought it must be a "joint decision" and my transition must be part of my midlife crisis.

I wrote her back a rant about heteronormative narratives and how she has always seen -any- change in me or my worldview to be abnormal, but it's not going to matter. She is half the reason I have PTSD; my father is the other half. Why do I bother with her? She is my last living relative. I don't have siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces or nephews, or children, so i suppose maybe that's it.

I hang onto this thread of hope that somehow I can have an adult relationship with this woman, but she constantly infantilizes me. She doesn't just dwell on the past, she dwells in the past; some idealized past where I was a Perfect Little Girl and Granny and Papa and Ieka and Doat were still alive. A note on "Ieka and Doat," - those were the names I gave my grandparents when I was two, and she still calls them that, and I think it's creepy. I also think it's creepy that she only ever called my father "Daddy" and never his real name. I asked her why once when I was a kid and she told me it was none of my business and clammed up about it.

A bit more about my mother: she lives in two houses, one hers and one that used to belong to my great grandparents, on the same property which was once my great grandparents' nursery. Every single stick of furniture, figurine, picture, knick-knack, and even clothing from three generations are crammed into those two houses, and she will not get rid of any of it. It's mostly a clean mess, it's not like "Hoarders" or anything, but it's still creepy. There are still shelves of figurines and decorative items that haven't been touched since the day my great grandmother died when I was 14 years old. It's nothing short of insanity. Some of these antiques are quite valuable, yet they sit, untouched, as if in a time-bubble, whilst my mother cries poor.

She wails that I am the only thing that she has, the only reason she has for living. That she loves me "no matter what." Yet, her words and behavior clearly suggest that there are conditions on that love. Not once has she asked me, "How can I help?" Not once has she said, "Well, as long as you're happy and healthy, that's all I care about." (That's what Jaymie's parents said, basically.} I mean yeah, it's a lot to get used to, but if you're a parent, you just want your kid to be happy. You trust your adult child to make their own decisions, unless those decisions are going to actively harm them or someone else. Trust is something my mother and I rarely ever shared, and I doubt we ever will, no matter how badly I want it. And without trust, there is no viable relationship. If I really am all she has, that's pretty sad.

It's her choice to live an insular life in her little brown house surrounded by giant green bushes so no one can see in or out with her co-dependent boyfriend-of-the-decade. It's her choice never to venture further than fifteen miles from her home and deem visiting me impossible. It's her choice to continually throw Christian literature at me, despite the fact that I haven't been Christian since early childhood (except for that one bizarre born-again phase I had when I lost my mind coming off Paxil.) So many times, I have come close to cutting her out of my life completely. Obviously, I have failed. I wonder if other trans folk have family members that they want to keep in their lives despite the constant emotional whiplash.

I just don't know what to do. I love her because she is my mother, but I don't like her at all as a person. I almost wish she had voted for Trump. Then, at least, I would have another solid reason to disown her. We have just enough in common that I kind of enjoy talking to her sometimes, but when certain subjects come up, it's a powder-keg. I have to walk on eggshells and keep the subject to the weather, cats, and maybe my health other than "trans stuff." But I can't explain to her what non-binary is, for instance. I can't talk about my gay and trans friends. I can't talk about polyamory. I can't even talk about my past pain. I made the mistake of telling her that I once bought a Plan B pill after sex and she was disgusted with me and said I had killed a baby. Her grandchild. It's still all about her.

All about her.

I feel better now. Couples therapy went really well today. I read the therapist my previous entry and they said that there is nothing wrong with me, and that I am not experiencing anything any other trans person hasn't felt. We talked about clothes and how boy clothes are boring in America and if I lived in any other country or any other century I probably wouldn't feel so boxed in. I'd love to dress like an 18th century gentleman, frock coat and heels and all. That's me, that's who I see inside. Maybe it's a past life. Who knows. If I had the money, I'd have clothes like that made for me.

Anyway, we talked about Jaymie's forced coming-out to her parents because of my mother and a Facebook "whoops" which I am not going to go into here. Jaymie has been feeling a lot of stress, living a double life. She is coming out to her supervisor tomorrow, and hopes to be out at work full-time by May or June. I don't even know how she could wait that long, or why. If it were me, once I told my supervisor, that would be it. But Jaymie needs more time to put herself together, and I understand that.

I'm not a freak. I'm just this guy, y'know? And I happen to like pretty things. I like some guy things, too. We went to Duluth Trading Co. today and I liked several of the shirts they had there. I got some new boxer shorts with hearts on them. I find it funny that (straight cis) guys will wear patterns like that on their underwear, like it's a dirty little secret or something, but wouldn't usually wear it out where people could see it. I also find it funny that I like Duluth Trading Co. so much, since it caters directly to the straight cis market... or do they? They sneak in really nice toiletries, good-smelling soaps and luxurious body washes, beard oils, and deodorants amid the Manly Man Attire. Boy, I hope I have use for beard oil at some point... now I'm just rambling.

One day I"m all rainbows and unicorns and cute little fluffy clouds, and the next I'm reveling in Scandinavian death metal and browsing goth shit and morbid medical oddities online. I'm just not a good fit for any box. I never have been, and I never will be. There's no word that defines Morgan. Morgan is an experience. My experience. Gods, now I sound like some conceited social icon or something. But I deserve a little self-love, don't I? I deserve to like who I am. And maybe I am a freak, by your standards and maybe I like it. So what?.

I guess I will just end this entry here, since I have embarked on a wild tangent.

BUT WAIT! THERE'S MORE! I take my second shot of T tomorrow, all by myself. I hope I don't screw it up. I think I'll stick it in my belly fat this time. We just got the syringes. I was worried they were going to be stupid expensive, but they ended up being only a dollar or something.

Okay. I'm done, now.

I saw some pictures of Matt and me-as-a-girl during our wonderful vacation to Florida two years ago. They made me sad. I didn't expect them to make me sad, and I feel weird and guilty now. I'm mourning the two of us who were. I miss Matt. I miss me-as-a-girl. Does this mean I'm making a horrible mistake? Does it mean all this trans stuff has been a phase, and I'm really female after all? I don't think it does, but I'm scared, now.

I feel guilty for missing Matt, because Jaymie doesn't want anything to do with Matt anymore. Jaymie is not mourning Matt, and I don't think it's normal for transgender people to mourn their former selves. I think there's something wrong with me. I was so elated in the doctor's office last Wednesday when I got my first shot of T. I love it when Jaymie calls me her husband. I love when someone "accidentally' calls me "sir." But I am terrified.

I'm afraid of losing the wonder and innocence that I had as a girl. I'm afraid I won't be attractive as a man. I'm afraid of losing my hair. I'm afraid of the long wait I will probably have between now and when I can get my top surgery. so I can stop feeling like a freak. Not that I think other men with breasts are freaks, not that women with penises are freaks, I don't think that. This is just what I'm feeling now, about my own body.

And I'm afraid of making the same mistakes I made 14 years ago. Throwing away everything feminine and being ultra-butch just to be recognized as male. My personality has splintered. There's a little girl inside me now who I keep safe. I call her abigail. I don't think it's DID because I am conscious of everything she says and does, but she is the remnant of me-as-a-girl that I feel like I need to hold onto.

Clothes. I don't want to look old. I'm 41. I don't even want to look like I'm 41. I don't want to tuck in my shirt. I want to wear things that aren't necessarily made for men. I identify as a non-binary man. That, I think, is pretty solid. I will always gravitate toward more flamboyant and colorful things (or sometimes, dark and gothy things). I don't want to give up my necklaces and my jewelry because society says I have to.

But until my body looks more masculine- or, androgynous, really- until the hormones do their work on my body and voice changes and my breasts are gone, I'm going to continue to be mistaken for a woman, and I am not a woman. I don't know, I am just having an extremely dysphoric day. My chest can't be flat enough and I want to wear a women's-cut t-shirt I bought, but I can't, because I don't want to be seen as a woman. I'm a complete mess.

Why can't I just be who I am without all the stupid steps in between that make me feel horrible?

It was inevitable that I make a post exclusively about my relationship with my mother, so here goes nothing.

In my very early childhood, our relationship was very good. She taught me things, got me reading at the age of two, There was a period of time in my tweens when she was my best friend. (To be fair, she was my only friend.) But as soon as I started trying to have friends of my own, thoughts of my own, opinions of my own that differed from hers, I was a monstrous thing who was abusing her and did everything I did just to hurt her. She always had to be the victim. She was paranoid, suspicious of everything I did, kept me isolated. She would ground me from the telephone-- not that I had anyone to call except for my grandmother, whom I had a very strange relationship with, but that's another story.

I wasn't really allowed friends. She was very concerned when I formed a friendship with a girl across the street when we were both in middle school. Sheri is Mormon (I'm still friends with her to this day), and my mother warned that their family was going to try to "suck me in." So I was only allowed to play over there for two hours at a time, even though I was right across the street.

Speaking of crossing the street, I wasn't allowed to cross the street alone until I was around 13 years old. My mother was a "helicopter mom" before the term was invented. She had her nose in all of my business. She would regularly raid my room, read my diary, and, of course, read the worst things into it that I never meant to say, making it all about her. (Which assured that the next time, it would be about her, and I'd have to find a better hiding place.)

She was also very concerned when I struck up a good relationship with one of my teachers, my "Special Talents Program" teacher, Mrs. Baker. I would write Mrs. Baker long notes about what was going on at home. Now, as an adult, reading between the lines, I think Mrs. Baker may have been considering getting child protection services involved. (My father is another story -- he was a jackass, too.)

In school, I was undiagnosed autistic and possibly ADHD. My parents would conduct "raids" on my desk or lockers if they felt my grades were falling too far, or my teachers told them that I "wasn't working up to my ability." They would, in front of everyone, dump the contents into a big black trash bag, bring it home with me, and make me explain every single piece of paper in it. Woe if they found anything that did not directly relate to schoolwork. Woe if they found papers with bad grades I'd been hiding. I was made to feel like dirt, admonished and condemned to writing lines or further meetings with teachers. And here's the kicker. My GPA rarely fell below a 3.0.

Like any kid, all I wanted to do was make my parents, especially my mother, proud. But my mother did and still does have an idealized, porcelain-doll princess version of me in her head that I could never live up to. Even though that was never me, I think my mother believes that her version is the "real me" that I've been repressing; "the way God made me." I haven't been Catholic since I started pretending for the sake of my own safety back when I was 8 years old, even though I didn't believe what catechism classes were teaching me.

My mother often made me feel shame. She bragged about how little she ate when I was a chubby kid, and put me on a Slim Fast diet. She once dragged me to confession minutes after she caught me masturbating (I was eleven). But no matter how much shame she made me feel, I just wanted her approval. And now, as I transition, it's no different.

I have tried to educate her. I have sent her two books, and loads of web pages on the subject. I have explained my own story over and over again. One minute, she seems like she understands and wants to be supportive, and the next, she uses that withering tone of disapproval over the phone when I mention going on testosterone and wails about losing a daughter. And when she uses that particular tone of voice, I am ten years old again with the contents of my locker spread on the living room floor. What does she expect to find? Drugs? Satanic texts? The Gay Agenda?

She thinks it's a phase. At 41 years old, she thinks it's a phase. I tried to come out 14 years ago. She thinks it's a phase. I've had dreams since I was a little girl that I had a penis. She thinks it's a phase. "You think God made a mistake?" she snaps. No. I don't worship your god, mother, but I don't believe I am a mistake. I am transgender, and I was made this way for a reason. This journey is my own. All I want is for you to love me as your son as you did as your daughter.
She says "I love you no matter what," and then she says, "You're breaking my heart." I sympathize with her somewhat. It is a shock, and it is a lot to take in. But the way she is acting is beyond bizarre.

The last time I went to her house, she had what could only be described as a shrine to me in my room, as if I were dead, and this was before I came out. Pictures, figurines, and candles all littered my dresser. It was creepy. She is obsessed with my early childhood, beyond what a normal parent should be. She sees me as hers. She always says "You're the only thing I have!" Like being a man has changed my soul. (Even the Catholics teach that the soul is genderless!) Like I'm less of a person, now. Like I will stop enjoying the same things as testosterone changes my body. Like my ethics will change when my breasts are gone. Like my body is still her property because she carried me for nine months.

Why do I try so hard? Jaymie called my Sisyphus last night, and it really does fit. It really is like trying to roll a huge stone up an endless hill. First, my mother sends me a bowtie and calls me "Sonny boy," giving me hope to the point of tears, and then, we have a conversation like we had last night, where she makes me feel like a worthless child.

Why should I even care what this bitch thinks of me? She may have not known what she was doing, may have thought she was protecting me, but she abused me for half my life. She is half the reason I have PTSD-- my father is the other half. (I don't communicate with him.) Why do I want her approval so desperately? Why is her approval and acceptance still the gold standard for my actions to feel legitimate?

I need to let go of her. I need her not to be such a big part of my life. But she is the last living blood relative I can talk to at all. We do get along sometimes. Until I came out to her as trans, our relationship had been improving. But is it worth it? Is it getting along sometimes and commiserating about the weather or medical issues or talking about cats really worth the emotional whiplash? All through my journey, she has been the only thing that has given me any doubt that I am doing the right thing for me. Should I cut the final tie to my old life?

Current Mood: sad

Before deciding to transition medically, I had decided that I was comfortable in the shade of the big non-binary gender umbrella. I mentioned in previous entries that when I came out before, I'd done it all wrong, shunning anything pretty or feminine and dialing up the "MAN" to 11. I am catching myself doing that again, and, so, I needed to think about why that bothered me, and what I could do to ease my dysphoria. The answer was definitely not to go back into the closet. That cat's out of the bag and he isn't going to let me put him back in there. I am not a woman, and I can say that comfortably and confidently without any pangs of doubt.

However, I am definitely not an average male. I never will be, and I never want to be. My goal is not to be so that I would pass the most rigorous tests of masculinity. I just want my outsides to match my insides, and my insides have always been androgynous, leaning toward the side of male.I am still excited to begin my medical transition- that hasn't changed. However, I have given myself permission to think of myself as a "non-binary man" instead of just "a man." And that fits. And it feels right.

But I discovered a fragment of myself in a dream last night who had been repressed for a long time. She is another me. I don't think I have dissociative identity disorder, or, at least, not severely enough to be treated for it, but finding that little girl helped me.

Her name is abigail and she's 8 years old and she likes dinosaurs and dolls, and hates licorice jelly beans. She loves dolls but they have to be special dolls, not Barbie dolls, she doesn't like them so much. She likes to play pretend by herself, and she likes kitties. Sometimes, though, abigail has very sad or dark thoughts. She kills bugs for no reason or pulls the cats' tails. Sometimes she bites herself until it leaves marks. She's scared of the dark, but she won't admit it.

abigail is not a constant presence. She comes out during down-time in a crisis (like a death in the family) or during anxiety attacks, or when the body is sick. She doesn't tell Morgan what to do, and I am completely aware of her words and actions. I am confident that I could stop abigail from doing anything really bad.

She had been trying to communicate when I spoke in a very small voice wrapped up in Jaymie's arms, when I was sad or scared, and she didn't sound like me, so it was confusing. She didn't say things that it seemed like I would say. She says "I'm sorry" a lot, even when she hasn't done anything wrong, or maybe when she has done something she thinks is wrong but nobody found out. She needs a lot of care and attention when she shows herself. She reminds me of the childhood that I came from, how my imagination and I basically raised ourselves. 8 years old was such a good year, but I really think it must have been a terrible year, and my mind has blocked it out.

Admitting that I might be a system (someone with more than one distinct personality) isn't easy, but it isn't exactly a surprise, either. So, I'm just your average transgender non-binary pansexual polyamorous system. Par for the course, right?

Current Mood: contemplative

Yesterday was a very long day. For me, most of it was good; for Jaymie, not so much.

First, the bad news: We found ourselves in an ER for over 5 hours, and came away with no diagnosis for a painful swelling in my lower jaw that I'd shown my doctor earlier in the day. She was concerned there might be an infection in my mandible. Well, my CT scan was fine, my bloodwork was fine, and my ECG was fine. I came away with a prescription for a few Tramadol pills, and that was that. Jaymie got really frustrated and kind of started to take it out on me, which she apologized profusely for. She was tired and hungry and had had a long day at work, starting early in the morning. She had planned to go work out in her new girl clothes from Torrid, and my going to the hospital screwed that all up. I felt kind of bad, but, I mean, I didn't have any control over how fast they were doing stuff, or how busy it was. I felt helpless, because nothing I said or did seemed to make her feel any better, and of course, she was having gender dysphoria from having to be called "Matthew" on official insurance papers at the hospital. The whole thing was a clusterfuck, and even though we talked later, I was still feeling bad about it when we went to sleep.

Now, the good news! Jaymie and I have found an amazing doctor. I had an appointment with her yesterday to discuss going on T, and , honestly, I was expecting tolerance but not exactly enthusiasm, and to be told I needed to bring in release forms from my therapist to get going with anything. I couldn't have been more wrong. Doctor Larson is exuberant, passionate and enthusiastic about helping transgender people achieve their goals. She actually had the office call me to see if I could come in early so we could spend more time together. I told her where I was in my transition, that I had been out full-time for the past month and feeling great about it. I described it as, rather than gender dysphoria, gender euphoria. She smiled and nodded as if she knew exactly what I was talking about.

After we talked, she gave me some paperwork to sign, and some basic information about changes to expect when going on T. She said I probably knew all that already, and she was right, but she had to cover her bases. I think what I'm most concerned about is losing my hair. I have male pattern baldness in my family. But I have a plan for that. I will just shave my head and get a tattoo, like a mandala or something, when it gets to that point. Until then, I'll just keep it cropped short.

Anyway, she confirmed that the bloodwork was to establish my current hormonal levels so that the correct dosage of T could be administered. She went over the different methods of delivery; I chose the subcutaneous shot rather than the intramuscular shot (ow!), the gel (messy, could rub off on Jaymie), or the patches (my skin doesn't like adhesives, and the doctor said they can be prohibitively expensive.) Now it's just a matter of waiting for my bloodwork to come back. As long as there is nothing funky with it, I will probably take my first dose of testosterone next Wednesday. That's a week from today! I never expected that it would go so smoothly. I'm overjoyed. Jaymie was so impressed with my doctor that she is getting an appointment with her, too.

I won't lie, there are going to be things about T that I'm not going to like. I already mentioned the hair thing. The other thing I won't like is the acne. My skin is already oily and prone to breakouts, and T will make that worse. Oh well, it's nothing a teenager doesn't go through, right? And this is my second puberty. It won't last forever. In the meantime, if it gets really bad, there are prescriptions for acne, so I'm not too worried.

So, yeah. Doctor Andrea Larson, you rock my socks.

Current Mood: ecstatic

Since I decided to come out, I have a completely new perspective on images of women I see online or on TV. No longer do I feel pressure to look like them, long to emulate their aesthetic, or bemoan the fact that my body will never look like that. I'm pansexual, so of course, I find women attractive, but now I can look at them, and they are, well -- them. As in, not me. I can find a girl hot and not feel like I have to look like her to be attractive.

I hope this does not end up translating into looking at images of men and feeling too much pressure to conform to an unrealistic male aesthetic. I don't think I will, though, because I will be too busy marveling at the changes in my own body and creating myself over again, This will, of course, include doing things like working out, but I never expect to be "ripped" or anything. I've got dad bod, and you know what? That's okay. I find it ever so much easier to love myself in my own skin as a man than I did as a woman.

Which is kind of sad, knowing there is so much more pressure put on women to look perfect all the time. I'm seeing it from the other side, already, even this early in my transition, and it is staggering. An unfair double-standard. A testament to the pain I went through most of my life, and most women go through most of their lives, just to be considered presentable. I can even see how some people might accuse me of transitioning because I want to be "lazy" about my looks, or that I just want male privilege.

Well, as I said in an earlier entry, male privilege is something I'm actually quite afraid of. I don't want to lose sight of reality, of the whole of my being--- who I was, who I am, who I will be-- and my responsibility to treat others with the respect and love they are due without pretense. I don't think I will fall prey to this, but I want to keep on my toes.

Current Mood: thoughtful

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MeoW

Recent Entries

Am I a man, yet?

i've got something to get off my chest.

To discuss at next session:

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Let's talk about T! Week 3

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