Some part of my brain is having trouble accepting that it’s already December fifth. Time is flying by lately, and I have no idea why – but I am not complaining, in fact, just the opposite – I love it. Every second that passes brings me closer to the beautiful date of December thirteenth, in which I shall go to CHEO and talk to Dr. what’s-his-face and unload my awkward pile of transgender issues that has been piling up steadily the last sixteen years, ever since I was a developing cell that had the misfortune of getting smacked in the face with an X.
And the best part is, Dr. what’s-his-face can, or so I assume, actually help me. That is quite good. I prefer doctors that actually help.
Unfortunately I think I’ve got some unreasonable expectations. I’ve been watching transgender documentaries and videos on Youtube religiously for the past little while, to get familiar with the whole process, and what I’ve learned is that it’s painful, expensive, and it takes forever. In short, I’m not going to just get tapped on the head with a magic You’re a Boy Now! wand and wake up in the morning feeling satisfied with my existence. I realize that it’s going to be a long wait to get where I want to be – and I’m already pretty tired with waiting to feel happy, but I guess there’s a certain price to pay. All I know is that, after being sad for so long, when I finally AM happy, I’d better be REALLY FUCKING HAPPY.
I’m all silly right now. Figures. It’s one in the morning.
Sleep? No. Sleep is for normal people.
On we go – with more of this bizarre late-night transgender ranting which one spam bot and some random religious person who wants to save the souls of the LGBTQ community are reading. Or so I assume. I feel like I’m talking to empty air, or just to myself; I do talk to myself often anyways, usually in the form of spontaneous French monologues in the shower (well? I have to practice, you know, for school) and while I accept that no one’s actually reading this, it would be nice if someone was. Whatever, doesn’t matter. I already have the feeling I’m going to wake up tomorrow and read this over and ask myself what the heck I was thinking posting this craziness for the whole internet to see – but who cares. I write the best stuff at one in the morning, anyway; it’s always neat to read it over later and try to figure out what randomness was going on in my head at the time.
So! Stay on track, overtired me – you can do it. Well, I’ve got all these expectations for Dr. what’s-his-face (I call him that because I don’t feel like I should announce his name to the internet for no good reason) and I’m so excited right now that my mind won’t stand still. I still have another week and a few days to wait, assuming the Canadian health care system doesn’t screw me over again and push it back ten months, so there’s no point getting all giddy about it when I still have nine-odd more nights of waiting ahead of me – but I can’t help it. I’ve been waiting to feel better about myself ever since I realized I didn’t feel good about myself – all the way back in elementary school, or around then – and now that the beginning of feeling better is so close, and it’s starting to hit me, I just can’t seem to shut down my excitement over it. I don’t give a single crap what other people think about transgender people – really, I don’t. I used to, but I don’t anymore, because you wouldn’t understand, unless you were in my position, how desperate I am to get this done. I don’t care if it’s an illness or a fluke or whatever, the fact is my life is agonizing in girl-form and I can’t do it for the rest of my life, it needs to be changed, and that is the end of the story. I know other people feel the same – it’s not something you can live with, unless you get it fixed. I’m like a broken muffler. I’m just going to keep being loud and annoying until you fix me, and then I’ll be quiet and everyone will be happy again.
Well, I think it’s that time of the night again where I completely lose my grasp on normalcy.
Who cares. I feel like I had to write, so I’m writing. In the darkness of my room, I’m bending over my laptop, squinting against the bright screen and listening to the white-noise drone of my fan in the background. Waking up begins in approximately eight hours; so, best case scenario, I get seven hours of sleep or so. Well, that’s not terrible. And if I really can’t sleep at all I’ll just hide under my bed and tell my mom that I refuse to be taken to school – and then I’ll watch some more transgender videos and pet my cat or something.
I wonder how my appointment with Dr. what’s-his-face is going to go. Maybe I’ll burst in there with a glued-on mustache and a plaid jacket, steel-toed boots, a baseball hat, and a chainsaw. Or maybe, (and this is much more likely), I’ll just slide nervously in dressed in my usual old man hat and holey sweater and proceed to awkwardly stutter out my problems.
That’s me: awkwardly stuttering out my problems since, I don’t know, 1998. Whenever I learned to talk.
I hope the appointment isn’t one of those vaguely useless and only very, very vaguely satisfying appointments where you go in, you talk to some sympathetic adult, and they tell you they’ll help you while you spend the next five months not being helped. I hope he’s the sort of doctor that means business and gets things done – I’ll say ‘Okay, testosterone, please’ and he’ll drop it into my lap, rather than saying ‘Oh, are you sure? It’s a big step. You might regret it.’
I’m just tired of waiting, that’s all. My whole life is like a waiting room, a not particularly interesting one, with only a couple of old, gross-smelling magazines and some annoying person coughing in the seat next to you. It really isn’t all that much fun.
I don’t know how fast the health care system can be, even when you push it to its fastest – and I know this is unreasonable, but I’d love it if I could remove the annoying jiggly things on my torso (see how I completely avoided saying it? I’ve had practice) before the summer comes around. Summer is always hard, practically agonizing, when I can’t hide behind sweaters and am forced to wear t-shirts, which make it super apparent that I’m a “girl”. If only that could get done before the summer. The rest, whatever; but that? Please, as soon as possible. There’s at least six months to go before the depths of the summer, in which wearing a t-shirt is absolutely mandatory; so maybe by then it’ll get done. I imagine it won’t, but who knows, I might get lucky.
I don’t want to end this post. I like rambling – especially at one thirty in the morning, apparently, who knows – and the idea of having to face tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, while being a “girl” is very hard to swallow. It’s like a giant pill, with spikes on it – all pink and frilly with GIRL stamped on the side. Meanwhile, the elusive BOY pill is this sugar-coated, little pinhead-sized thingy that can be easily taken, which I most certainly do want to take, as soon as it becomes available.
Good night, I suppose? I’d rather not say good night. I’d rather step into a wormhole and come out without boobs, a year or so in the future, as my happy, boy self. But I guess the minuscule wormhole of sleeping is all I can ask for at the moment; so I’ll take those seven hours, and struggle along when tomorrow comes.