Swimming in dysphoria without a bathing suit

So, I've been feeling pretty good for a crazy trannie who just abruptly went off her mood stabilizers and androgen blockers, and further-tapered her anti-depressant dose (in response to the liver situation, discussed in the last post).

Today, not so much. I was getting along fine until I spoke with my mother, and she began dispensing relationship advice--I guess this is separation advice at this point--while I was trying to get out the door to get to my first voice therapy session.

The call shouldn't have been a big deal, and the voice therapy session was good. Yet, three hours later, I was still walking around glowering, thinking about putting my own eye out. Mood alert! I can't be trusted!

But I didn't change course. I couldn't see the iceberg hiding in Change, the lingerie store I was bound for, where I could purportedly buy better bras and bathing suits. I had some problems to solve before next week's trip to Italy

Everything looked fairly innocuous when I arrived at Change. Many of the bras were too lacy for me (i.e. there was lace involved), but there were some slightly sleeker ones too. As expected, most of the bathing suits looked like they would be too small to cover my breast forms entirely.

Then, suddenly, I was forced to submit to the fitting. It should have been fine. It really should have. But it was completely awful instead, sadly.

At Change, they have re-calibrated the bra sizing system (hence the purportedly better bra mentioned above). They've added bonus cup sizes to improve granularity, and they measure each and every new customer. Whereas I was wearing a 36B, I now find myself wearing a 32D (their size; a normal 32D will not fit me), and it's by far the most comfortable bra I've ever worn.

However, in order to engineer this perfect fit, the sales person needs to see you IN the bra. I barely let myself see me in a bra! My boobs are fake, and since they're expensive, and I hate their fakeness anyway, they're patched with packing tape where they've ripped in a couple of places. They could not be uglier, or more compromising.

She brings me this gauzy purple bra, and announces that she would like me to put it on, and then she would like to see me in it. I just stood there for a moment, staring, flummoxed.

"I'm not sure I can do this," I said.

"Umm...why?"

"I'm not comfortable with you looking at me in that."

She traded it for something less lacy. I put it on, and it seemed to fit quite well, but a large band of silicone breast could be clearly seen above the top of the bra.

She wanted me to show it to her. I demurred. She explained that all she needed to do was to tug on the band. I let her into the fitting room, covering the tops of my boobs with my hands, feeling utterly ashamed of the falseness of my womanhood, and of being seen with my disguise exposed.

She tugged at the band around my chest, and tightened it, opining that the band could be tighter. She brought another, but the cups hung away from my chest, leaving gaps at the tops. I requested something less airy, and the the third bra was the one.

Then I began trying on bathing suits. I tried on five or six, and eventually arrived at one that was ever-so-slightly too small to cover my boobs sufficiently. A year ago, I likely would have convinced myself to buy it, but I have learned that close to big enough = not big enough, when it comes to women's garments.

The whole time, she's talking to me, and handing me things, and being totally nice, but all I can do is hear my male voice (or my falsetto, whatever it is I've got going on these days), and see my tape-encrusted fake boobs jutting out of whatever cute bathing suit she's brought me, and I'm slowly descending into this pit of despair.

Thankfully, I still managed to be nice to the people at the store. But I've spent most of the rest of the day in a state of fairly pronounced dysphoria--really harsh, fist-clenching negativity. This is a part of the "real" drug-free me that I don't miss.