21 - Post.

I didn’t dare look down at first. The nurses would come and check for abnormal swelling or bleeding every few hours and I might have had a few quick glances, but nothing prolonged. I wasn’t ready. It was all too medical. There were tubes coming out of me and machines going off left right and centre. It wasn’t going to be me when I looked down. It was going to be a medical procedure.

So I waited. I distracted myself with anything else I could so as to not get fixated on what was happening below my double chin. It was all done in such a matter of fact way that you could detach yourself from what was happening. It could have been anyone. Had they not checked my name and date of birth every few hours with my medication, I could have convinced myself it was someone else. But it wasn’t, it was me. I had done it. I had done the thing i’d been thinking about since those things started growing on my chest at age twelve without consent.

Brave, people kept saying. People had called me that before in a context I couldn’t understand. Was it because it was going to hurt? Was it because I was going to get stared at for looking different? Brave for having the courage to be yourself, they said. Because sadly, that requires bravery. Brave because I couldn’t pretend anymore, maybe? Brave because I voluntarily let someone carve up my body and put it back together at their own discretion while I was sleeping! Either way, I didn’t feel that brave. If anything, I felt a bit silly and self-indulgent. All this fuss I’ve made over myself. Where I come from, one shouldn’t make such a fuss of themselves.

I made quite the fuss though. I asked all my friends to come help me after I got out. And just like that, they did. No questions asked. For me, this has been the most profound part of this experience. Just how willing others are to experience it with you. I guess I’ve always been more inclined to go solo. Saves the risk of being disappointed if you don’t get what you wanted when you asked for help. All that rejection is a bit much for this delicate little flower. But this time round, I’ve discovered just how worth it is if you do ask.

One by one my home filled with familiar faces offering themselves in any way that might be helpful. My inbox began to flood with messages of support and love. People I didn’t even realise I was connecting with were there with me, rooting for my recovery, but more so, for my happiness. For my piece of mind. It is one of the most humbling experiences to watch your loved ones respond to your call for help. I can honestly say I’ve never felt so loved. That surgeon could have attached my nipples to my nostrils and I would have still felt on top of the world.

Be vulnerable. Ask for help. That’s one thing. Then you have to learn to receive it, that's a whole other thing. The internal push back. The urge to say ‘it’s fine, I got this’ and not let people do one of the most human things they like to do, to care, is surprisingly difficult. So I remind myself to step back. To reply to messages. To allow myself to be loved. To be cared for. It is as beautiful as human connection can get. Enjoy it.

Three days later, I looked down. Like, a good look. I stared in the mirror at this weirdly alien, yet oddly familiar body that reflected back at me. They were my shoulders. That was my belly poking out underneath. I ran my hand across the breadth of my torso. It was my skin. I could feel it. I pressed down. They were my muscles. Hidden beneath the mounds of dysphoria, was the chest I had always wanted. I smiled and tucked myself back into the surgical vest, already excited about the next time I would get to see it again. This feels good.