Going full time, with my liver tied behind my back

Everything was coming together. The two-plus years since I started coming out have been cataclysmic. I’ve been one of those messy, crazy, crisis trannies in a lot of ways, though I worked as hard as I could to stay in control. It just unfolded as a crisis.

So, after more than two years—losing my marriage but holding onto my relationship with my ex-wife, hanging onto my parents and friends, losing faith in my own sanity and stability, and shredding my career and my psyche in a crazed battle between two pieces of myself—there I stood. Separated amicably, living “as a woman” except in front of my son and, less importantly, in front of my father (strange symmetry, huh?). My ex was still using my male name and male pronouns. My social transition was moving along nicely.

My beard was history. I had been on T-blockers for about four months. My looks had just passed some passability threshold, and I was moving through the world with comparative ease. I was set to begin voice therapy in July. I had an appointment to see my Endocrinologist on July 23, and I was on a waiting list to see him sooner. My physical transition had been frustratingly slow, but it was moving.

On June 17, his office called. Someone else had cancelled. On June 18, he agreed to prescribe female hormones for me once he had good blood work and a brief note from my psychotherapist.

I walked out of the hospital feeling my life changing profoundly. I suppose people with transfigured lives must stagger out of that door into the brightness all day long: new parents, newly bereft, freshly diagnosed, cured. All day, walking into the light, stepping around the clump of bikes locked to the bike rack, and walking stunned, heedless of traffic, across the street towards the single bench on the sidewalk, in front of the parking lot.

I sat down, and packed my fake cigarette with weed from my dugout. A woman dressed in the loose pastel cotton pants and shift of a hospital employee sat down next to me and, in an English accent, asked if my cigarette was fake.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Oh—is it for quitting?”

“No. It’s for smoking my marijuana. I use it medicinally.” I’ve felt more comfortable saying this since Dr. M. offered me my medical marijuana card. (He’s just trying to protect me from bad weed, I think). Now at least, I could be a legal medicinal marijuana user, providing the proper paperwork was completed and fees paid. I’m not sure I’ll ever bother getting the card, but I’m still going to refer to all weed smoked during business hours as “medicine.”

“Oh,” she replied. “I was hoping you had some new way of quitting smoking.”

“Sorry,” I said. Embarassed by my mid-day drug use, I pushed myself to my feet and walked over to unlock my bike from the signpost it was shackled to. I fitted my helmet over my hair clip, climbed astride my steed, and wobbled my way slowly down the pedestrian walkway leading to McCaul Street.

I wanted to stop and tell everyone I was passing. I could see myself clutching the lapels of a middle-aged Chinese man in a blazer: “Can you believe it’s actually finally going to happen?”

I decided to go visit S., since she would be more understanding than the random people in the pedestrian walkway. She hugged me, and I told her “I need to be careful not to get too crazy over this.”

On June 19, my endo was on the phone at 8 am. My liver was inflamed. Had I filled my prescription yet? I shouldn’t. In fact, I needed to stop taking my T-blockers now. I could have a new blood test next week. This sort of thing didn’t normally happen to him.

My psych (still June 19) was worried too. The liver is a non-redundant completely vital part of a person, so they get antsy when it complains. He withdrew my mood stabilizer (good riddance), and continued tapering my anti-depressants. “This is drug-induced. One to two months,” he said. I was still hoping that my next test would show a different picture.

The next blood test was worse. “No hormone treatment until your liver function is normal. Sorry” said the neat printing of my endo’s assistant on the post-it note stuck to my results, which were taped to the door in a sealed envelope.

Two days later, Pride began, and the day after that, I left for nine days in Italy.

Once D. and A.’s wedding was over, eight days after that fate-sealing second blood test, sitting in a villa in Tuscany, it caught up with me. I realized that my physical transition was regressing, that I was back on my natural testosterone, and that I had lost my traction. I freaked out silently for a few hours, did yoga, and then freaked out some more (unheard of, post-yoga freaking).

I paced erratically around the Villa, holding my head, worrying—being upset. Finally, I picked my way down to the poolside, where some of my oldest friends sat, and awkwardly admitted that I was breaking down, and that my life was, once again, falling apart. I held the sides of my chair and gnashed my teeth as I explained. Holy fuck can I be a drama queen.

When I returned from Italy, I tried to make the best of it. If I have to lose my physical transition for now, then I’ll have to really work on the social part, I told myself.

The depression continued to settle in. I found myself spending hours on the couch or bed. At my worst, I proved unable to shower for four hours. I spent the first two hours lying on the sofa clutching a pillow, listening to myself breathe, wondering when I would feel strong enough to go to the shower, then I stood, removed the muumuu I was wearing (don’t ask) and then fell onto the bed, and lay there naked, immobilized for two more hours.

I held on as best I could. I began work on my legal name change. I met my mother for lunch, and explained that I had to meet with my father “as a woman,” since once my son returned from the trip he was on, I was going to come out to him, and then there would be no “man” presentation (such as it was by this point) left. The little island of man-ness that I had let my father linger on was disappearing.

I had procrastinated transitioning myself fully around my Dad because he’s a bit of a loose cannon. I knew it would work out in the end, but also that he might fire off a couple of shots during the process. Now, I needed to find the strength to invite him, and meet with him, while depressed, with my physical transition’s regression weighing on me and my confidence.

We met for tapas, and it went quite well. As expected, he was awkward, but he did it! The worst part was the look on his face when he first talked to the waitress. He, corporate titan, was afraid of being judged for sitting across from his transsexual daughter. She probably clocked me as trans, but was oblivious to his shame and vulnerability.

That was what I came there for, truthfully. I wanted him to see it not be a big deal. Although it felt like the unimaginable to him, it wasn’t going to turn me into a social outcast. He needed to see that. It worked, I guess.

The liver results kept getting worse. My Mom started begging me to come to their cottage to convalesce for a couple of weeks.

I agreed, and I ended up coming out to J, my son, there.

A week later, I was still there, and my extended family was converging on the place. My Mom’s the oldest of eight. Family get-togethers regularly top 20 people. Every summer, they hold a tournament featuring horrendous golf, grilled sausages, and campfire sing-alongs. This is no joke. I actually have this family.

Last weekend, we had 28 for dinner on Friday, and 30 on Saturday. The 25 or so additional people who came this year were around for most of the weekend, and holy shit were they working hard to assimilate my transition! All but the lesbian couple (who have already got it down) were stumbling over my name change, and my pronouns, and correcting themselves, and correcting each other, and taking me aside to express their support. It was really touching. Even the teenagers were great with it. Everyone just took the whole thing in stride. It was awesome to behold.

I’m beholding the awesomeness in hindsight, because my mind was awash in white noise and exhaustion the entire time. 30 people I love, including my parents, one of my brothers, my ex-wife, and my son, all partying around me for days. They might as well have clapped a suction cup on my head and sucked the energy out of my brain like villains in a Dr. Who episode. That might have been less exhausting.

On Tuesday—it was a long weekend here—they were all gone except my parents, and I woke after nine hours of sleep, hopelessly depressed. There were massive bags under my eyes. I ate breakfast and showered in silence, rage bubbling just beneath my surface, for no reason.

I crawled back into bed around noon, and slept for four hours. Since then, my body and brain have slowly been returning to equilibrium.

Yesterday, the enormity of the milestones I’ve been stumbling across while caught in this bout of depression began to dawn on me. I’ve come out to my Dad. I’ve come out to my son. I’ve transitioned socially so completely that my ex, my son, my parents, and my extended family, are calling me by my new name, and are expecting nothing other than me-as-a-woman, for the rest of my life.

Rather than gracefully sail into womanhood, I’ve limped my tortured ass across the line, but I’m fucking there!

There is NO ONE who matters to me in this world who hasn’t accepted my transition. I don’t think I’ll ever be expected to appear as a man again. I suppose that will take years to sink in completely, but it’s blowing my mind right about now. Holy shit!