Since I was 16 and have first heard of the word “transsexual”, I perhaps thought for over a decade that I may have been one. As hard as I tried to live with the label “butch” or “lesbian”, I felt uncomfortable in women-only spaces. When people addressed me as a man, I felt some kind of gender “euphoria”, til someone “corrected” them and pointed out I was born female.
Twelve years ago today, I went through an event that had people, both inlaws and people who I thought were good friends, humiliated me for my body. I gave birth in a hospital using painkillers, and couldn’t nurse. I was mocked for not giving birth at home, for not forgoing painkillers, for using a male gynecologist instead of one of my female midwife “friends”. And when I chose formula because I wasn’t nursing right away, that was mocked! I’ve never felt so ashamed about my body or my life, and thank God haven’t since then. (Bad enough they were putting me through a double of conversion therapy, they had to put me through this, too?!)
Eight years later, or four years ago today, I had top (chest) surgery, to reclaim my body as my own. Yes, I was sore and swollen, and I had everything bandaged. Luckily, I didn’t have drains, which would have caused the major episode of depression I was still enduring at the time to worsen—it was bad enough I wasn’t allowed to shower for two weeks!
Since then I’ve had a botched hysterectomy to count as my bottom surgery; I was lucky to have it March 2017, about 9 months later. Within 18 months of starting testosterone therapy, my sex change was complete. The relief of being free from my gynecological sex organs, even though complications from it ended my chances of getting metoidioplasty, was still nowhere near that as being free of the chest tissue that triggered such depressing sex dysphoria.
Undergoing a sex change was for me like someone undergoing surgery to remove tumors. They were growths that, while technically harming my body, had the potential to harm. Even if I did not see myself as a man, a mastectomy and hysterectomy were in my eventual future because of a family of gynecological cancers, and I knew if I could hold off til my 30s I could have them all removed via insurance, because I was fine with my body pre-puberty, but have since not identified with it since my breasts grew and menstruation happened.
Yes—sex dysphoria. Just like as I tell others I had a “sex change” or I “changed sexes”, I didn’t experience “gender dysphoria”. For me, it was all about my body. My sense of self and identity I have rarely had an issue with. For me it was always more about my body, and wishing to be a member of the opposite sex. I identified with the opposite, sex far more than simply distressing with labels and whatever society assigned me.
Today I live my life on my own terms, as I always have. I do not let social norms dictate what I can and can’t do. Since I’ve been free of most gynecological issues, though I still go to my gynecologist every couple of years to make sure my vaginal health is optimal. Phalloplasty is not an option for me, because for me the complications and risks with getting one far outweigh any benefit I could get with one. I finally started packing, and I’ll write about that after I’ve had my packer for a good week or so.
Im not hear to bash on transgenders, genderqueers, nonbinaries, or others who aren’t transsexual but don’t live as their assigned sex. What I am here to speak about is my critique of the “trans agenda” and how cult-like the establishment has become. I am also here to tell my story as I describe it, now how this cult wants me to word it. Let me know what you think!