Transition-focused

Gardasil

During my last check-up, I got my first shot of the Gardasil HPV vaccine. The administering nurse did mention at the time that it would sting; and I say that she lied, it is only in the sense that the sensation was closer to what I would describe as a tremendously uncomfortable burning.

(I've accidentally achieved a similar effect when injecting my estradiol, by giving the alcohol I swab my skin with insufficient time to evaporate before inserting the needle.)

I did some research afterwards to see if there was an explanation as to why the vaccine had developed this reputation; the manufacturer indicated that the discomfort was the result of "Virus-like particles" in the vaccine content (which strikes me as a cop-out if ever there was one).

Today was my second shot; and playing a hunch, asked my nurse to try injecting the vaccine slowly. This was hardly a scientific test, but she kindly agreed and the injection experience was definitely more tolerable.

I am most certainly not medically trained; but I was instructed by my endocrinologist's office to administer my own estradiol and progesterone shots as slowly as possible. (My takeaway was that injecting a sizeable amount of fluid into a muscle at high speed causes unnecessary trauma to the surrounding tissue.)

Conversely, I've noticed that vaccine administration is usually done extremely quickly - I assume in part because the amount of fluid injected is much smaller; and also to minimize the length of the procedure. (You really don't want the patient to get restless and move while the needle is still inserted...)

It appears the Gardasil vaccine might utilize a larger amount of fluid; and a thicker medium, also. These things being true, I can see how rapidly injecting the stuff could be a lot more unpleasant versus most other vaccines.

So: if you're getting the shot for yourself, or for your loved ones - maybe ask the administrator to go slowly?

Unexpected HRT side-effect #16

So I had Nongshim Black ramen for lunch; I was snacking on original-flavor Takis; and thinking about making chicken for dinner and liberally heaping Lousiana hot sauce on top.

It occurred to me: when did I start eating so many spicy foodstuffs?

Not that I was ever spice-averse; but in my prior life, I certainly didn't seek the stuff out. Now, however, I cannot get enough heat (with the proviso that it's cut with lots and lots of acid; spiciness by itself isn't particularly fun).

I would attribute this particular zag to a routine change in taste; but the exact thing happened to my friend A also once she started her HRT regimen. So - what I lost in temperature tolerance, I apparently now make up for in love of heat!

Oh no

I was doing my progesterone shot last night and the plunger in the syringe got stuck 20% of the way in. I really put some force behind but, but it wasn’t moving and I was terrified that if it did suddenly give way I’d dump the entire contents of the syringe into my thigh in a split-second.

(I’m not sure of the exact ramifications for doing so, but my nurse practitioner was quite clear during instruction that this was an undesirable outcome.)

I really didn’t want to toss the rest of the progesterone (it’s not like I had more on hand), so I withdrew the syringe and switched to a fresh needle. Poked myself again, depressed the plunger, and...

...The syringe got stuck again.

As classic “Well, what the hell do I do now?” scenarios go, sitting there with an immovable syringe sticking out of your thigh has to count pretty highly, I reckon.

I wiggled the plunger a bit and applied more force than sensible, and finally the damn thing overcame whatever the resistance was and immediately dumped half the load (so I guess I will find out why that’s a no-no in short order). Everything proceeded smoothly from there.

I’m still nonplussed as to what the issue was. A manufacturing defect in the syringe itself perhaps? Some kind of sediment in the progesterone blocking the barrel of the needle? I have no idea.

I just really hope that this doesn’t happen again...

Update 1: I talked to my friend about this and her first go-around, the needle disengaged from the syringe while it was in her leg. OMG!

Update 2: I had more soreness than usual but was otherwise okay; so I’m guessing that firehosing half the dose didn’t do too much damage, thankfully.

Parallel

Recently, there has been a spate of articles in the following format: "Anti-vaccination, anti-mask advocate dies from COVID complications". Sometimes as often as one or two a day.

I don't take pleasure in the passing of others; even those that are ideologically opposed to me. From the perspective of our collective well-being, they are at best dangerously misguided and at worst, sociopathic. However, they also had friends, family, loved ones; and they will be missed.

I do feel it appropriate to note that the net value of humanity has gone up in their absence; which I consider a sufficiently damning indictment.

More so however, an interesting parallel has presented itself:

The onset of the AIDS epidemic claimed the lives of numerous gay men; men that could have gone on to become speakers, organizers, leaders in their community. They were handed a death sentence by a disease they had no forewarning of, no knowledge as to how they might protect themselves; and as a result, an entire generation of the 'G' portion of LGBT advocacy is simply... missing.

President Ronald Reagan's slothful response to the issue, and the general mischaracterization of AIDS by social regressives as a wrathful, immorality-seeking illness are well documented.

There is now an irony to be found: that these same people are seeing their membership chipped away by a virus that they deny is real, is contagious, is dangerous.

There is a key difference, of course: these people have been offered all of the tools necessary to protect themselves; they simply have chosen not to use them.

Again, I don't delight in their suffering. I am, however, interested to see how the landscape of conservative advocacy will be reshaped by the needless loss of these people.

Animal friend #1: Jexer

For the previous six months, I’ve been at the center of a triangle with PTSD on one edge, work stress on another, and transition-related depression on the third (itself a mix of “Why did I wait so long to do this” and “I’m never going to escape the fact that my biological starting point is ‘male’“).

During my first flashback, I instinctively grabbed my (then three) animal friends for support. This became a reoccurring pattern - I would clutch them tightly during each subsequent flashback; hold them at night; and sit them next to me as I worked.

It’s difficult to tease out whether the comfort they bring me is some kind of holdover from childhood (there’s a certain logic in the idea that the trauma I experienced was as a child; therefore the antidote would also come from that era); or if it’s the result of a kind of mythological girlhood (one that never actually took place, and exists purely in my head; a phenomenon that warrants its own post).

Either way, they have been very effective and keeping my anxiety at generally manageable levels during a trying time.

I wanted to talk about one of them in particular: Jexer, my hedgehog friend. He was delivered to me by a crane machine in the Isle Of Wight when I was eight years old; but this suggests that he is some kind of possession, which could not be further from the truth. He’s my friend, and I love him dearly.

(You may notice that he has a blue nose; this is because the original was lost in an incident involving a much loved but at that time, also rather destructive puppy. The new nose was a skilled repair conducted by my dearly missed grandmother.)

Currently he goes everywhere I go. He sits on my lap when I am at my desk, and when I am driving. There is a special compartment in my bag reserved for him when I have to go into places.

I had a little blanket made for him; because he is a British hedgehog, and quite unaccustomed to the extremes of cold weather that pervade the North American continent.

All of this sounds quite insane, of course; but that’s how things are - when life threatens to drown you, no raft is unwelcome.

The Brutalizer

I was in a really, really bad spot a few weeks ago. I found myself sitting in the bath, crying my eyes out, when my friend messaged me.

On a crazy whim I asked her if she wanted to video chat, and that’s exactly what we did (with me doing my damnedest to keep the camera above neck-level).

She was having a pretty bad time of things too; and it was really good that we were able to talk and be there for one another.

To cheer me up, my friend then shared with me a recent experience: during a visit to a sex shop, she encountered an object for sale of both prodigious length and alarming girth. The name of this objet d’art - alarmingly - is The Brutalizer.

I would like to stress at this point that the two of us are super sex-positive. (You do you! If it isn’t harming anyone, why should we care?)

However, there was a fundamental absurdity to this particular item that kept us giggling: it’s gargantuan proportions (intimidating for all but the highly experienced); it’s bizarre marketing (including emphasis on the weight of the product); and perhaps best of all, a glowing appraisal from a professional online reviewer (hidden, like some kind of butt-stuffing landmine, in an otherwise tranquil field of gardening product and Bakugan reviews).

The store had three of these things on display! (Presumably to combat a rush of customers?)

There was much-needed laughter.

During this episode, I made the offhand comment that between the name of the product and the ultra-macho slogans adorning its packaging, I could very much envisage an ‘80s buddy cop show where this inanimate, intimate object plays the role of the maverick detective.

...And that engaged my dark muse. Despite the inherent ridiculousness, I then went on to paint this monstrosity:

(Actual Brutalizer censored because it’s Tumblr; but you know, use your imagination.)

My daughter described this, with utmost aptness, as a ‘physical shitpost’.

The painting is currently moving through the transit network of the US postal service as I type; winging its way to my utterly unaware friend. I very much look forward to seeing her reaction when she realizes that I have immortalized our in-joke in a format that can never, ever be displayed before polite company!

Lessons learned:

Planning typography is laborious, but so worth it!

Watercolors and rough canvas still don’t mix, but I’m persevering.

Also, watercolors are not great for ‘80s-style neon colors.

It feels like cheating somehow, but fine-tip Sharpies are great for outlining!

Update: It arrived! My friend’s reaction: “😂🤣👮‍♂️🍆🎨“!

“We constantly battle the sins of the fathers, thought Guilliman. That is no less true on an eternal scale than it is within the history of a single world. We suffer because of those that have gone before.

Heaving a sigh, the Primarch resumed the protracted process of correcting his unruly VLOOKUP.”

- Guy Haley, Dark Imperium

It is kind of funny that the entire fandom have agreed that Perturabo’s nickname is “Perty”, when he in canon has a perfectly fine nickname.

Dress-up

An interesting aspect of the trans experience is looking back on one’s former life, and inspecting certain signs, behaviors, interests and activities through the lens of hindsight.

In this particular instance: for many years I have enjoyed video games in which one can control the appearance of the various player characters. I have spent considerable time armoring my rogues, outfitting my Sims, and coordinating the ring attire of virtual pro-wrestlers.

It occurred to me recently that I was in some respects engaging in a kind of ersatz dress-up. Much like actual dress-up, I also now find the skills that I developed being applied in my day-to-day fashion choices: pairing tops and bottoms, socks and shoes, and so on.

I can’t even begin to untangle what aspects of a person's behavior are based on their biology and others, their social identity; but it’s fascinating, digging up these examples where - even while boxed in by the gender expectations of that time and place - I was seeking, and finding, ways to escape that jail.

Professional wrestling is a strange blend of fact and fiction; a form of theater in which the characters are extensions of the athletes that portray them. Fans are encouraged to participate in the performance; to display the sort of passion and vitriol normally reserved for world sporting events.

To be clear, however: it is a performance; and there should be no room for the kind of fans that cannot distinguish between, say, booing a villainous character, and hurling the kind of abuse that leaves performers and fellow attendees deeply disquieted.

I have attended AEW / ROH events; and they are upfront about their expectations regarding fan conduct, and the consequences of violating said expectations (up to and including immediate ejection from the arena).

However:

At one such event, I had the displeasure of being seated next to a small cadre of inebriated fans that kept up a continuous stream of obnoxious, disrespectful, and at times, highly offensive chants for the entire duration of the show.

In wrestling parlance, these fans were attempting to 'get themselves over'; a phenomenon that could be understood as similar to heckling in that a portion of the audience has decided that they, in fact, should be the focus of the show.

(And - also much like heckling - neither those performing, or those also in attendance, care for this behavior.)

Having grown weary of the group and their incessant personal grandstanding, I asked arena security to intervene - who promptly did no such thing. The chants were also sufficiently loud that Christopher Daniels - then sitting at the commentator's desk - signaled for these fans to desist (which, inevitably, they did not).

I am deeply sorry that Skye Blue - one of AEW's quickly-rising homegrown talents - found herself in the position of suffering a tirade of abusive comments from a fan with zero comprehension of appropriate conduct.

However, I am more frustrated that the man in question was not removed until the match had concluded.

I am not sure as to why the delay; and when in doubt, try to apply Hanlon's Razor (i.e. inaction as the result of mismanagement; rather than some sort of malicious intent).

Whatever the case may be: while AEW has the right idea regarding their policy of fan conduct, they need to be a great deal swifter in applying it.

Skye Blue is such a lovely lovely wrestler its so sad she had to go through this

i dont understand why theres still people like this in 2024 :(

Unexpected HRT side-effect #11

Sore thighs! My goodness.

To be fair, this isn’t really a side-effect of HRT, but rather my chosen delivery mechanism: intramuscular injection. Let me back up:

There are a lot of ways to ingest estradiol (everyone’s favorite, sexy estrogen). Pills (swallowed), pills (held under the tongue), pills (held under the lip), patches, creams, injections, implants...

How much of the hormone actually absorbed into the body (as opposed to being accidentally digested, say) varies between methods; and what works for one individual might not work for another.

I was advised early on that injections were the way to go; and that’s the route I took. I think it’s worked out pretty well in terms of the speed of my results!

However, it does mean that every two weeks I get to to inject 1ml of estradiol cypionate into my thigh muscle.

The injections themselves aren’t fun, but are actually pretty painless if all steps are followed to the letter (a process that really deserves its own post). Barring the occasional mishap, they are quite tolerable.

However, the muscle does not immediately absorb the estradiol. Instead, a depot is created - a little 1ml bubble of fluid that lives in my thigh and slowly releases it’s hormonal goodness into the surrounding tissue.

The day after it can feel pretty sore (as if I had caught my thigh on a piece of furniture); and frankly, it feels kinda weird having this tiny marble in my leg. It’s a small price to pay however for getting to be me; so I pay it gladly!