Deviations

Learning the mechanics of HRT took time, but so did the realization of being trans. Long before I knew how deep to push a needle or how to dissolve a pill under my tongue, there were other examples. They were mostly found in the media—the fringe culture of society. Sure, there was Boy George, but there was something more "real" on daytime talk shows. It wasn't an image reflected onto society, but a microscope zoomed in on it. The stations available in the river bottom were few—two, exactly. Maybe a third on a clear night. On sick days spent at home, or during the long boredom of summer, I would watch Sally Jessy Raphael or even Donahue. The people on these shows were hand-selected; the examples producers deemed worthy to show. But whenever the ones with diverse genders appeared, my ears perked up. "Transsexual" was the standard term in the early 90s. Their lives seemed hard. There was talk of living on the street, or having to perform acts society deems unworthy of dignity just to survive. As the years went on, these shows evolved. Jerry Springer became all the talk. The way these individuals were perceived there was much more vivid. The treatment was aggressive. It was a cruelty seen through formative eyes, and it had its impact. It was not a life I felt I could live. I could barely stand to be seen through a crack in the curtains. Stepping onto an open street near a tower of concrete and steel would have felt like stepping onto an alien world with no oxygen to breathe. But with all those years of pent-up yearning and the new knowledge of my "condition," I took some steps. I knew that if I wanted to be me and feel safe, others would have to be involved. It felt dumb. Driving 200 miles just to talk to someone. To tell them why I want to exist and hope that I am "valid" enough for medication. It felt diminishing. Like I was a smaller being—not physically, but mentally. Being judged and evaluated for worthiness left a bitter taste. It felt like I was some kind of show dog—trimmed and fluffed, then scooted onto the floor. And for what? My treat? No. That should be given. Something I require to live is not a treat; it is the water that hydrates my soul. And regarding these "souls," these things we name—really, they are just an unknown variable. We are what happens when entropy erupts from a massive explosion. Nothing more, nothing less. If there were a god, it would be an unjust one in my eyes. I cannot be saved from this, so do not attempt it. In my view, those that believe are the misguided ones. I have sympathy for them. The tradition of understanding runs deep. If everyone tells you what to see before you even have vision, how can it not be true to you? How can it be verifiably false? A word must be taken on faith. And for me, faith is a blind arrogance that ruins lives and sometimes ends them. No, I do not blame them. But I believe in accountability. A line is drawn with me. If you cross it, then to me, you no longer exist. Sorry, but not really sorry. There is an animosity that brews within me. I cannot say it is entirely a blind hatred. It is calculated, and to me, it feels logical. But I suppose this is far from the point I was making. Consider the soapbox gone for now. Driving to and from work was taxing on minimum wage in a poor state. But I did it. Working in a warehouse at the age of 19 was not a fun experience, but it gave me money for games and music—my escapes. Sometimes I even bought clothes for myself. Pretending they were for someone else was scary; odd looks from clerks made me feel like scum. A plague on society. It was going to the doctors in the big city where validation had to begin for me, I guess. I felt more confident with the medical recommendation to continue my transformation. As off-putting as the gatekeeping was, it was a mandatory step towards something bigger. More permanent changes. The HRT was to be a test. I hoped it performed well on my post-pubescent body. I was overweight and lacked definition anyway, so I assumed there would be some change. There was a hopeful optimism in every pill I swallowed. I felt some soreness, but it never really felt like much change. I still held to it rigidly, though. I had spent time, money, and effort, and I felt it was worth the commitment. Over time, amidst major environmental and social shifts, I found a plot and planted my flag. I stayed steady at my job and my medical regimen, and that was it. There was nothing left after that anyway. The gas station where I was employed was 20 minutes away from my home. I had the money to drive to the doctors, pay my bills, and eat dinner. None left over for much else. I had lost my games in my last move, so I had those couple of TV channels and I had my thoughts. My family was busy with their own lives and commitments. My social anxiety kept me from going to many places, and most of my friends had moved away or did not want to talk to me anymore. The radio could help, but it could also do much worse. My depression, isolation, and hopelessness led to me stopping my HRT. I had a psychotic break. I started to believe that the way the songs on the radio were played, and the ads that followed, were aligning into a narrative. Something someone was trying to tell me. And only me. I believe now it was the abrupt change in testosterone and estrogen that led to the break. I think I may have even been warned by the professionals about weaning off of it rather than just stopping. Regardless, they had an intervention for me—and rightly so. But perhaps, for some of them, it was for the wrong reasons. I was grateful for the help in hindsight. But without the HRT and the immense loneliness I was carrying, I went back in the closet. I remember telling my mother with tears in my eyes, staring up at her from the couch: "This will always be a part of me."