Shortly Post-Op

Look ma, no tits!

June 5th, 2012
I spent a lot of time on crying jags during that terrible final-year-as-a-lady, when I was living in the ass end of nowhere Japan and hating the fuck out of my job and my life, and spent a lot of it drinking, because alcohol, right? It brings all those buried and long-simmering emotions to the surface, and it all ends in tears and anger or whatever.

What we forget is that alcohol doesn't make you sad, or angry, if you weren't already, it just makes you honest.

So there I was, two weeks post-op, enjoying being able to have a glass of Sangria again, when I swung through the bathroom (as happens when you're drinking), took a glance at myself in the mirror and was momentarily struck senseless at it.

Me. Wearing a button-down shirt because I still can't lift my arms above my head which precludes pretty much anything else, but I wear them and I've sort of stopped bothering to fasten more than two buttons, just because I can, because I don't have to dress to hide anymore. And I looked at me and I started laughing, because, because -- !

I am this! I've got this!

This is the first time I've run a hand across my chest, drunk, and found not what I expected to feel, but what made me comfortable to feel. It doesn't feel weird to run a hand over my chest and not find breasts there.

(Also I've been sober for so long that drunk-me has no idea what became of my chest and is like, What? When? How did this happen? Where did they go?)

I'm sure sober-me could expound on that -- in terms of weighing time-I've-spent-wanting-this vs. time-I've-spent-having-this -- but drunk-me (as it's always done) hit the more vital and visceral feeling that accompanies it.

Incredulous joy.

If you know a trannie, wish them nothing but luck in their process.


I was looking at my scars -- healing up surprisingly quickly -- and it got me to thinking about how strange and unique bodies are, like a canvas that we personalize over the course of our lives. There are the obvious modifications, piercings and tattoos and whatnot, but it's everything. The ounces of fat we put on, or don't, the scars and the calluses that tell the story of who we are and what we've done.

And all at once I have a brand new set of very dramatic scars that tell my story pretty plainly for anyone who knows what they're looking at, scars that not many other people share. They haven't been incorporated into my self identity yet; my mental image of myself doesn't include them, they're still a surprise every time I look in the mirror, so it's strange to look at them and try to absorb the idea that they will be. That I'm going to carry these with me forever and they're going to become as much a part of me as every other mark my body has accrued over the years.

And I'm perfectly fine with that.

When I was looking through transbucket, at all the horrifying post-op pictures, I would see what looked to me like frankly terrifying results, the frankenstein stitching and the scars and nothing that looked natural at all.... and I would read the OP's accompanying comment, where they said that they were completely happy with the results.

Low standards? I wondered. Trying to convince themselves?

But I think I get it now. And it translates to, Better than the alternative.

I used to wonder sometimes, Why was it even necessary? I had a binder that would flatten me enough to wear whatever I wanted, so what difference did it really make? Why was it worth seven grand and all the risks that accompany invasive surgery?

(Part of me wondered that; the rest of me got on with making it happen. In retrospect, this whole process has been sort of schizophrenic, with half of me agonizing over my choices each step of the way, and the other half just doing what needs to be done. My halves, they don't talk much.)

I don't why it's necessary, but it was. I look at myself in the mirror, at the chest I'm not used to and the scars I should be horrified by, and I say, "Awesome," and then I wander back to my computer.

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