Six Months on T
My leg hair came in right away. There was an interesting war between my lower leg hair growing up, my thigh hair growing down, and my pubes spreading out. The result is I can no longer identify where my pubes end and my leg hair begins—a seemingly important detail (or maybe just to me).
I have what may be called “aggressive peach fuzz” on my face, but otherwise, I don’t have any facial hair. This step is crucial to my social transition, and I come from a long line of hairy Italians, so it may happen eventually. This is probably my biggest anxiety about transitioning… and the slowest to happen for most transmen on testosterone. Great.
I’m not sure what I thought my voice changing would be like—I guess I thought it’d be like when my friends went through puberty—but this is what happened: I slowly began to lose all my upper vocal ranges—replaced with an eighty-year old smoker sound. Yes, I talk lower now, but not because I have lower vocal ranges. It’s because I don’t have any higher ones. Inflection, projection, and enunciation have been difficult, and I feel tired when I talk. It’s work to get words out.
My shoulders have gotten wider, and my legs have definitely become more toned, but otherwise? Meh. I gained fifteen pounds the first three months on T, and now I am desperately trying to lose ‘em. Currently my body believes that stacking fat on my butt, hips, thighs, and stomach is the way to go. My joints are also achy and twinge. Fun times.
Before I started T, I hadn’t heard about the changes that happen down there, so it was a surprise, to put it mildly, when my little guy started growing. He even gets hard, and I call those engorgements “mini bones” (because if you can’t make fun of yourself, then you aren’t doing it right). I did know that my libido could rise on T, but I didn’t think it’d be a big deal. I remembered puberty, and I’ve always had a fairly charged libido. How bad could it be, right?
I had a friend inform me about “maintenance masturbation”. I didn’t really understand what he meant then, but now I do—if you don’t take care of it, you’re literally stupid. Game over. Go home, idiot. Don’t even open your mouth. You’re done.
I’m still pansexual, but I am much more of a porn person than I was. Let’s not talk about my tumblr. I have no adequate excuses.
No sees me as a man, so I’m treated as a woman, and therefore I still present as a woman. But I wear guy clothes, and have a men’s haircut. More people think I’m a lesbian than before, which is ironic, because when I literally had vagina in my face, no one thought I was a lesbian. Life’s full of little riddles.
I’ve culled most of the girl clothes from my closet, however; I have to buy women’s shoes and boy’s shirts, and I tailor nearly everything. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother, but the clothes can make me feel better at times.
It’s obvious I’m never going to be one of the guys. I was raised as a girl, and the past still lingers in everything I say and do. I giggle, and do the finger wave. I suck at sports. And I don’t completely understand male social behavior, and probably never will. I act cute, because that’s how I’ve always gotten what I want, but now my cuteness is seen as repulsive by men.
I’ve been much more even tempered. It’s been six months since I’ve cried. Even so, I can get depressed that I haven’t changed much. Will I ever be at a place where I look in the mirror and see myself? I don’t know. But I’m trying.
“She”, “he”, “they”, and “ze”—I hate them all. When people ask me what name or pronoun to use, I stare at them blankly. I feel bad, but I can’t help it. It’s probably part of the process. Sorry.
It’s insecure being in between, and I understand why we lose so many trans kids and adults to suicide. Because of my bipolar disorder, I’ve made an effort to be understanding with the process. I walked into this journey saying, “I don’t want to be a man. I just want to have a deeper voice, more muscles, and hair everywhere.” And yet, I’m becoming more and more uncomfortable with my femininity. It wasn’t something I planned on.
Even with small steps, the changes can be sudden. One day I’m wearing girl clothes; the next I’m burning them all in a fire, and laughing hysterically. One day I’m pissing sitting down; the next day I’m standing. One day I’m fine with people calling me “woman”; the next I’m gritting my teeth over it.
It’s probably part of the process. One step at a time.