Carrying

Escalator

While attending CONvergence, my friend and I needed to translate from one floor to another. Fortuitously, the venue had built an efficient escalator system for just this purpose.

As we escalated, a teenage girl (I presume; pronouns were not established) followed behind me. "I like your bag", she said; looking at all the little Mikus on the flap. There was a pause, and then she added, "I like your pins".

There are four pins on the rear of the bag - Amaterasu of Ōkami fame; one that reads "Hormone Therapy Club" and another, "Protect Trans Kids". (The fourth, less controversially, exclaims "Mom Vibes".)

"I wish the kids at school would stop calling me the f-slur". She said this with such quiet sadness in her voice. I didn't know what to say; couldn't say anything. It broke my heart.

We both stopped off at the next floor, and turned in opposite directions. I turned back. "Hey!" I yelled. "It will get better, okay? It will get better." That's the best I could manage.

I hope, wherever she is now, she's happy.

Transition-focused

Sometimes I worry that I come across as overly focused on the subject of my transition.

“So what have you been up to?” “Oh, you know. [Transition stuff].”

In project management parlance, transitioning is a multi-year project with multiple tasks, all of which have their own sub-tasks, and so on. Resources must be acquired; unforeseeable issues spontaneously arise and must be resolved.

I would not necessarily call this timeconsuming or overwhelming (although transitioning can be these things at times); but it’s pervasive. It touches every part of my life and requires constant care and attention.

A simple example: I wanted to change my legal name. In America, this generally means going to the county probate court and getting an order to that effect.

Every county has its own process and paperwork (although the vast majority at least try to adhere to some kind of nationally-distributed model process). All together, there were five forms.

I also needed to provide notarized copies of various personal records, so I had to get those.

Once everything was submitted, I had to wait for an invoice from the local legal news publisher; and then pay them to release a statement recording the name change.

I had to talk to the court and the publisher multiple times for input on what to do; to check up on the status of my case (”Oh, sorry - the person that mails out the confirmation was on vacation for two weeks”); and so on.

Eventually the court order was created, and I could pick up my copy of this incredibly important legal document.

Having done all this...

...I now get to reach out to the dozens and dozens of organizations that keep track of my legal identity and inform them that it has, in fact, changed.

...And some of them have their own requirements for updating their records; which necessitates addressing certain organizations in a certain order (BMV; Social Security; employer)...

All of this, all of this merely to change my name. One of a multitude of tasks.

Overall, this has been one of the most rewarding processes of my life; I would repeat it in a heartbeat. If however I do come across as eternally preoccupied with my transition, it’s because - at least for now - it constantly effects me, every day and in all ways (physically, mentally, emotionally, socially, legally) and I have no choice but to dedicate the necessary brainpower to managing these things.

Ramen

During the initial months of quarantine, the tent pole of my day was making ramen for lunch. I make no claim that the end product was particularly authentic; but it was a nice way of breaking up the monotony of working from home.

(I will however give a big shout-out to my friend J for teaching me how to make immaculately soft-boiled eggs.)

At this time, my go-to addition was thick-sliced ham - it's a relatively inexpensive and plentiful protein. This also pleased our two youngest cats, who adore ham and would converge on the kitchen on an intercept course for the purpose of acquiring their own cured pork off-cuts.

In due course, I moved on to making other things for lunch and the older of the two - Gracie - took this change in stride and left me to my own cooking devices.

Not Karkat though! She is definition of "High intelligence, low wisdom" - no matter what I am doing in the kitchen, she has determined that it could be at least slightly ham-related.

This is both cute... and rather inconvenient, as her chosen method of communicating her desire for ham is to circle my legs and rub up on them while meowing loudly (which is all good and well until I'm carrying a hot and / or heavy pan).

So... this is my life now. All cooking will, on a go-forward basis, involve delicately stepping around an insane kitten - like some kind of cuisine-themed, cat-based version of a sword dance!

Phone call

I had literally forgotten about this until tonight, when someone jogged my memory... but ten years ago, I got an obscene phone call.

It must have been three or four in the morning when the phone rang. I was, rather understandably, asleep at the time; and quite groggy when I answered.

The man on the other end sounded mid-thirties; had an American accent; and an inflection that I can only describe as “Poorly imitating the iconic Scream voice”. He wanted to know what I was wearing.

In my confusion, I thought that this person was a friend of mine; and told him to knock off this strange prank of his. But as he persisted with his request that I identify my clothing, it dawned on me that this was in fact not my friend. And then I hung up on him.

I don’t want to come across as downplaying the seriousness of unsolicited, sexually-explicit communication; but more than anything, I just found the entire event bewildering.

And you: who never thought to question If this was how things were supposed to be... I convict your conviction. History is contingency, And things could always have been otherwise. (And still might.) And still might will end in time, All you held so perpetual. All you thought was supposed to exist, I only suppose to exist; And may not - One day soon.

Hybrid always excel when it comes to crafting a memorable opening to each album; but even by their standards, Flashpoint is something special. The initial spoken word segment - a poem by author James Scudamore - is particularly evocative; read in a chilling, almost accusatory fashion.

Routines

I have a trans friend named ‘G’. She started her transition when she was 58; and it was perhaps three years after that I began my own journey and we started talking. She has been an incredible source of advice on the subject of hormone therapy, for which I am eternally grateful.

(She is also the recipient of a painting I recently completed; one of the few small ways in which I could think to pay her back.)

The two of us having been discussing for some time the strange phenomenon of when we can (or can’t) see our female selves in the mirror. I’m not sure if this is something that affects a large proportion of trans women or is perhaps more limited to just the older crowd; but it’s definitely something we both deal with.

I have a routine in the morning (or did; I’ve recently been struck down by a non-COVID virus and I’m waiting to see how that shakes out). It looks something like this:

Put up hair,

Reinstall helix clicker rings,

Apply makeup,

Let down and style hair.

During stages (1) through (3), I am acutely aware of every facial feature that I cannot currently control and broadcasts masculinity. As soon as I get to stage (4) however and the hair drops, suddenly I can see myself again in fully female form.

It’s interesting because the first set of feelings are not, per se, dysphoric in nature. Rather, it feels like... imposter syndrome? G and I have discussed how our preparatory routines are, in some respects, akin to a magic act; so perhaps seeing the mechanisms by which the tricks are achieved causes ones suspension of disbelief to temporarily halt?

What we do both know is that the more time passes, the more we both become comfortable in our new identities. This is why I wonder whether age plays a factor in the phenomenon - almost as if the adoption of a new gender requires clearing the (significant) backlog of experience as a prior gender...

Hon, correct me if I’m wrong, but - don’t you play the violin?

(I ask because my vision therapist once informed me that this is a common adaptation seen in people that practice independently focusing their eyes on objects at different distances - e.g. violinists, and their violin, and sheet music.)

(That being said, both I and my prescription go both ways; so perhaps there’s merit to the idea that they are connected? 🙂)

Complicated news from eye doc today but part of it is that one eye is nearsighted and one is farsighted so the punchline is even my eyes are bisexual 🤷🏼‍♀️

'Standard Clitoris™'

Apologies for those that read the title with confusion and / or an injured sense of propriety; there is critical context here, I promise!

Act I:

Two years ago, I contacted Mt. Sinai's Center For Transgender Medicine And Surgery; with the intent of pursuing gender reassignment.

(The people there are lovely; but this was still an incredibly involved and rather stressful process, as (a) my health insurer required numerous hurdles be jumped before they would authorize the surgery; and (b) the Mt. SInai health system is located in New York, whereas I am quite definitively not.)

I ended up consulting with renowned vaginoplasty surgeon Dr. Miro Djordjevic. For those not in the know, Dr. Miro originates from Serbia; and while he speaks excellent English, he also has a flair for creating unusual turns of phrase that are as delightful as they are unexpected.

To transcribe this conversation (to the best of my recollection):

"Dr. Miro - what level of control do you have over the appearance of the new vulva?"

"Oh, Lauren; many young girls, they come in here with pictures of other women, they say: 'Dr. Miro, please can you make my new vagina look like this'. And I say, 'I cannot, I am sorry; for the final appearance is very dependent on your individual anatomy'. However, I understand this, and I will give you a very good vagina, a very beautiful vagina; you will see."

"Ah! This makes sense to me. Let me rephrase my question: once I am healed, I hope to have my clitoris pierced; but I understand that this requires the anatomy to be a certain way."

"Lauren, in many surgeries, you are the first girl that has asked this. But! The clitoris, this I can change! You tell me what size your clitoris should be, and I will do this for you."

Act II:

Thus, I visited my local piercing parlor; and provided my piercer with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to specify the exact dimensions and (and other qualities) of the clitoris that they would, in future, be piercing.

The takeaways were surprisingly straightforward:

The clitoris needed to be large enough to pierce (with an overall diameter of 10mm suggested as an appropriate target).

There needed to be sufficient space between the clitoris and clitoral hood to comfortably fit a Q-Tip.

So armed, I prepared for the day of surgery (a tale in its own right).

Act III:

It is the 9th of February, 2023; and I am currently sitting in the pre-op room, meeting the vast team of individuals who will shortly be participating in the surgical revamp of my genitalia (or the critical task of ensuring that I remain wholly unconscious during said revamp, but not so unconscious that, say, my heart stops).

It is here that I see Dr. Miro once again; and remind him of our previous conversation and my subsequent fact-finding mission regarding clitoral anatomy as it pertains to piercing suitability:

"Okay, so: my piercer says that the clitoris should be around 10mm in diameter; and that there should be enough space between the clitoris and hood to fit a Q-Tip."

...To which Dr. Miro wryly shook his head, and proceeded to hew from his English lexicon a brand-new term that has lived with me ever since:

"Lauren, Lauren! Why didn't you say? This is Standard Clitoris™! This is what I was going to give you anyway!"

...And so it was, as I rapidly drifted towards my robotically-assisted neovaginal destiny (and away from consciousness), that the primary thought looping through my mind was: "I should have known: the Standard Clitoris™"!

How it started, versus how it's going...

I grew up in the UK, 30 minutes from Games Workshop's Nottingham headquarters; and my childhood heavily featured their games, miniatures, and routine trips to the local Games Workshop store.

During this time, I developed a particular affection for the work of Jes Goodwin. Initially an artist and sculptor, Jes' work was strongly geometric in nature; and displayed an unusually high degree of consistency (a particularly noteworthy achievement during a period where miniatures were sculpted by hand with ad-hoc tools).

For reference - one of Jes' early sketches of a Space Marine in Mk. VI armor; as featured in the guide that accompanied the very first Space Marine paint set:

I actually had the pleasure of meeting Jes in person at Games Day '94; and one of my treasured possessions is the souvenir program, which he kindly autographed:

During my teenage years, I came to possess a handful of Chaos Champions sculpted by Jes. As was so often the case in those early years, the miniatures had been designed as dual use; combining the sort of medieval aesthetics that would warrant inclusion in the Warhammer Fantasy Battle setting, but also the occasional technological greeble that would justify use in Warhammer: 40,000.

As I generally kept to the latter system, I set about cutting up and remodeling these miniatures, with the aim of making the science-fiction elements more explicit. And I was very happy with the end results, too!... Which makes it all the more unfortunate that these miniatures were lost when I relocated to the US.

Two decades later, and I have taken it upon myself to recreate these miniatures (albeit with the full advantage of the skills I have developed in the interim). The first mini on the chopping block is 021919 from the 1989 Citadel Catalog (frequently referred to by its most obvious physical characteristic, "Nurgle Chaos Champion With Fly Mutation"):

(It feels vaguely sacrilegious, taking a razor saw to what is now technically an antique; but I very much subscribe to the DIY mentality that was so prevalent during the initial Rogue Trader days, and - given that the model originates for the same time period - keeping the old traditions alive seems only appropriate.)

In my original conversion, I removed the haft and blade of the axe; and positioned an old Space Ork plasma cannon over the now unobscured shoulder. I also replaced the sandaled foot and exposed fly-mutated leg with their armored equivalents from a Space Marine Devastator.

This time I around, I opted to angle the right arm, to add a greater sense of movement; and completely reposition the left arm, as if to calling out a target:

(In doing so, I created a great many headaches for myself: the right hand snapped off at the wrist, and had to be repaired. Cutting the left arm free necessitated cutting through the hand; and the pins I inserted into the remains of the palm broke free, requiring JB Weld to resecure.

I cannot underscore the frustration inherent to these two experiences; at the same time, I'm a great believer in the idea that growth as an artist demands taking risks - up to and including potentially ruining one's art.)

The original version of the conversion also featured an extended barrel (fabricated from the Lord Fuegan's firepike, and a handful of random Genestealer claws). However, I wanted to replace this with something a little more appropriate for a follower of the Lord Of Pestilence; which ended up being the better part of a Plague Spewer:

In terms of next steps: I intend to strap a canister of goo-based ammunition to his left side; and continue to add new detailing to hide the various cuts and joins.

Absence

Apologies for not being particularly present of late; I’ve been dealing with some frustrating health issues.

As I noted previously, I was gifted a cold by a coworker in early December. The following week I contracted another respiratory virus. This was was rather more severe:

First, it induced acute bronchitis; the net effect of which is that I ended up in the ER with an oxygen saturation level of 85%. The blood tests, EKG, and chest X-ray all came back clear; so I was discharged with antibiotics and a course of steroids.

The day after, the virus began to affect me neurologically. My long-term memory, short-term memory, and focus all started to wane. I developed a sensation of weakness in my arms, palpitations, insomnia, severe anxiety, and an impending sense of doom.

The palpitations, anxiety, and sense of doom thankfully receded. Unfortunately, I also lost the ability to regulate my temperature and my blood pressure when changing position.

It looked like I was over the worst of it, until I spontaneously developed neuropathy in my lower limbs. That earned me another trip to the ER, where they ruled out - in their words - “Anything super-deadly”. (I also got my first ever IV catheter, which I found kind of annoying; and a lumbar puncture, which was pretty interesting!)

The neuropathic symptoms have also receded somewhat; but the weakness in my left arm has grown worse, and now there’s a tremor in my second and third fingers. I’m currently waiting on additional neurological tests to determine the cause (’waiting’ being the operative word; after all, heaven forbid I have an MRI without my health insurer getting to sign off on it first)!

I know where a lot of people’s minds are going to go given the timing, and I don’t blame them; but: it wasn’t COVID. Two antigen tests, three PCR tests, and a nucleocapsid antibody test all indicate that this was a routine respiratory virus that just got completely out of control.

Two fun sidebars though:

First: between the tests from last year’s check-up, and the tests from the ER, I discovered that my lymphocyte numbers are routinely low. As measures go, it’s not a one-to-one predictor of immune health; but it does suggest that there’s something not quite right with my immune system, and that this might explain why even minor illnesses cause me significant secondary issues.

Second: I’ve written at length about how COVID tests set off my PTSD. (It’s not a rational reaction; but one borne of my younger self confusing their invasive and required nature with past violations of my bodily autonomy.)

The second go-around at the ER, the nurse performing the test was extremely thorough and as a result, I experienced arguably the most discomfort of any test to date. However, I was able to manage the situation well; in large part, I now recognize, because that selfsame nurse had a warm and sympathetic bedside manner.

That leads me to think that it’s less the physical discomfort of these acts that I find triggering; and more that they are being performed without care or consideration for my person. I’m still trying to make sense of the ramifications of this insight; but it’s beginning to seem like the core of the problem is that I’ve been dehumanized in the past, and this is what I’m so afraid of happening again.