7 years of waiting...

7 years of waiting

*don't read this is you have issues with really sad shit that talks about gender identity and dark themes like self harm*

I am the forgotten Tranny, doomed to wither away before I ever get to see my own face.

Roughly 7 years ago I started a trial dose of hormones and began my transition. 7 fucking years. I've been on a full regiment for HRT for 4 years now. I was medically able to get started with gender confirming surgeries at any point after the first 2 years.

That means that 5 years ago I could've started taking substantial steps towards realizing my real self. And why haven't I, you ask?

Because I am stuck in a loophole. One that has been created by the lack of care that has been given to me by the V.A and the lack of forethought that goes into the implementation of OHP.

According to Oregon Health Plan I make too much money from my V.A disability stipend. If I wanted the insurance they offered it would cost me money out of pocket that I simply do not have. So that's that.

According to the V.A the things I need are considered "Cosmetic" so they simply will not give them to me. Even getting help with finding an electrolysis clinic has been a nightmare.

So here I am.

I am the forgotten Tranny, doomed to wither away before I ever get to see my own face. But I get to start getting mammograms! -_-

Honestly and truly it makes me feel so hopeless to even think about it. It makes me feel alone. It makes me feel like I am dying.

At the same time that I find myself forced to endure this holding pattern I am trying to find what I need inside myself. I am trying to accept the flaws that I have and come to terms with the reality of my situation. It's hard. It takes up much of my energy. It is what it is.

I barely have enough spoons for the day to day. Finding some way to hustle up what I need, that doesn't somehow jeopardize my health, well being, or safety, is effectively impossible.

What am I to do?

On one hand I could just get used to it. Many of my friends strongly urge me to start using cosmetics. It makes me feel daunted to even approach that world. Not to mention that I can't afford to paint on beauty.

I've been given suggestions about places to reach out to. So far nothing has been successful. I keep trying tho. What other choice do I have?

To wither. That's what I have.

You know the funny thing? It makes me feel bad to even talk about this. I think of all the other people that need things, that would give anything to have what I have, and I feel guilty for wanting something for myself. I already feel so fortunate for what I've got and been given that asking for more seems selfish.

Or am I just asking for what I am entitled to?

You see, for someone like me certain procedures that people know of as "Cosmetic" can actually be life saving.

For me what's called FFS or Facial Feminization Surgery is normally called a facelift and a couple of other things. To most these are things that rich women do to feel self confident, or try to keep their worthless husbands.

For me it's the difference between feeling like I can face the world without anxiety or not. For me it's being able to look in a mirror and not cringe and despair at what I see. For me it's a relief from the compulsion to sometimes want to take a blade to my face. Ain't that a shame?

Breast Augmentation. Posterior Fat Injections. Body Contouring. Lip and Cheek Aug. Hairline restructuring. rhinoplasty.

To you these are acts of decadent, age defying, self-centered vanity. You make reality shows about it. You roll your eyes when you see a woman with too symmetrical, too full boobs walking by and think of her as a bimbo. You have so many opinions about all these things.

But have you ever thought about what they mean to someone like me?

For me, these things are salvation. Relief from constant emotional strain, depression, panic, and despair. For me they are medicinal.

But what does the world care about my problems ? The world is too busy trying to decide if I have the right to pee in the same place as "real women."

It's too busy lavishing praise on women that have been able to access what I cannot. It says they're beautiful, bold, courageous.

What does that make me? I will tell you. It makes me nothing. It makes me meaningless. It makes me alone.

But do I have a right to complain?

Most people have two opinions, primarily, about people like me. Either they think we're insane people that need to be coddled or we might lash out at the world, or ourselves. Or people like me are thought of as weird, self-centered, attention whores that are trying to force our perverted, distorted selves into the cishet world's zeitgeist.

I once had someone I love dearly tell me that while they love me, "Sticking feathers up my butt does not make me a chicken," in regards to my gender identity.

That's one of the kinder things I've heard.

My mother accused me of not wanting to be her child. My father told me that the likeliest reason I feel trans is because I "smoke too much pot"

I had a buddy in the army that played the Sims and would "kill them faggots" if any of the babies his sims had turned out to have same sex inclinations.

I am lucky not to be treated with outright hostility in the world. To ask for something beyond being able to exist would be simply absurd.

So what's a mutant to do?

Many people I know are, or have, turned to selling drugs. To sex work. To take extreme amounts of credit debt. Austerity measures such as eating nothing but hamburger and rice for months to save every penny.

I heard stories about a trans women in prison trying to castrate herself and flush the discarded parts just to get rid of them. Using whatever sharp things that they could get a hold of.

Reread that. Now you might start to see why I feel alone and hopeless. To see why I feel like asking for anything is asking for everything.

In a sea of people with all kinds of problems, needs, traumas, etc. Who am I? What does my shit matter?

It doesn't. Not beyond the facile.

I am no one. I am pretending to be a chicken. I am an invader of your sacred shit room division. I am a lunatic. A crossdresser who’s gone too far. A guy in a dress. A freak. A mutant. A nuisance. A needy, insane, sex crime perpetrator in the waiting. An embarrassment. A fetish. A joke. A novelty on dress up holidays.

An anecdote.

I am the forgotten Tranny, doomed to wither away before I ever get to see my own face.