The surgeon handed me a consent form outlining the risks of the procedure. If I put pen to paper and money in his account, he will remove my breasts and reconstruct my chest into pecks. That was our exchange.
I put on my best ‘I definitely read a forms before signing them’ face and went through the list: “undergo procedure at own risk ” “results vary between patients” “risk of possible infection”. Responsibility gets spread as thin as Vegemite on toast around these parts. None of those risks really spoke to the concerns I had dancing about in the back of my mind though.
What happens if this was a bad idea? What happens if I dislike my new body more than I disliked my old body? What if it doesn’t feel any better? What if I feel real weird and unattractive?
Every morning since my consultation with the surgeon I have stared at myself naked in the mirror. An unfamiliar act for me as all my life I’ve avoided spending too much time in front of my reflection. I’ve always admired women in public bathrooms who would stop and fix eyes on themselves as soon as they caught sight of a mirror. They pause and stare at themselves as if uploading what other people have been downloading about them. Studying themselves. Swapping angles from side to side, correcting anomalies as if no one else is in the room. Aren’t they embarrassed? I would think, keeping my head down while I washed my hands. Apparently looking at yourself in the mirror is not embarrassing for some.
The longer I stare in the mirror, the more my questions are put to rest. You are so ready for this I tell myself, covering my chest and uncovering it trying to get a sneak preview. It is not just the physical transformation I need to prepare myself for though. It is everybody else.
I will become visibly different to others. Will people who knew me before notice I am different? Will people who didn’t know me before realise something is different? There are certain spaces where I won’t be able to avoid people’s suspicion. I will be exposed.
Change rooms. Bathrooms. Gyms. Pools. Beaches. Bedrooms. The consent form doesn’t talk about the risk that these might become uncomfortable spaces. More so than ever. I don’t get to consent to those risks. How will I manage them? How will I protect myself? How will others protect me?
There is a sense of vulnerability starting to creep in. As much as being misgendered hurts my feelings and I’m always disappointed when I get read as female, I still feel safe. I can hide in a woman’s body if I need to. But once that body is modified, there is less room to hide. Maybe I will need to use men’s change rooms soon? I’m not sure I could confidently walk into a male only change room. That doesn’t feel safe to me yet.
Am I excited? People keep asking. You fucking bet I am. I can’t wait to button up a tailored shirt and have it fit flat across my chest. To casually walk out to the kitchen in the morning to make a cup of tea without having to bind myself up first. To take my shirt off in a sweaty festival when i’m overheating and tuck it into my belt. To feel a lover run a hand over my chest and not worry about the pending dysphoria that rips me away from enjoying the moment.
No matter what uncomfortable things might follow post surgery, surely it will be worth it for that feeling.
Two weeks.
Thankyou for sharing yourself with us. 😘 Through your words, your vulnerabilities, I feel like I am learning so much more about you (obviously) but also about the experiences of trans people. Hopefully your blog will allow us to better support you, and others. And empower some to make the changes they need to be who they truly are. Love you long time T. Xx