We All Fall Down

Pivot Points

  • Reading time:9 mins read

On prior form it may take a couple weeks to see how the second laser session pans out, but even 48 hours later I can see some funny results like a clean circle in the midst of a darker area on my chin, leaving a sort of crust around the fringe. I can assemble the story easily here; where she put down the laser, lost her place, moved on.

The face thing, it’s striking for me. It’s not just the decades of intense dysphoria around the hair, or the general sense of moving on in the transition, though all of that is important. It’s that taking action to repair this damage also represents a sort of qualitative shift in my body autonomy. I have of course taken many steps for myself, most significantly getting on HRT some 15 months ago. But there’s a directness here that feels different.

HRT, I took mostly for the mental, emotional, health benefits. I knew that physical changes were possible, some were even probable, but I wasn’t planning that far ahead; didn’t dare to hope; didn’t fully know what to think, even. And I knew that I was old; knew not to expect anything. This whole process is one step at a time; focus on the moment, and accept what may come.

The intervention sure has brought some changes, gee whiz, but that’s been less an active process on my end than my body doing its thing, responding in the way it feels best to the basic attention that I’m finally giving it. The consequences to my just taking care of myself are removed enough to be almost incidental. Even the dramatic, permanent changes are just kinda things that happened on their own, because they wanted to inevitably happen. All I did was hold the door open.

Even my boobs, which are so very eager to exist, I didn’t know to anticipate or put any kind of thought into. They’ve now become so central to my identity—this sort of symbol of my freedom and awakening, this clear irreversible change that my body decided it wanted to make, when allowed to make that choice; this indicator of who I really am. But like everything else, they were just a side effect. I didn’t even know what to want, and my body made its own decisions. All these biological changes are just me, growing, healing. What happens is what must happen.

The face, though—yes it’s also a kind of medical care, also about repairing damage. But by comparison, this is a direct, conscious operation. I’ve made a choice to actively change my body. Superficial as it may be, this also is irreversible. That’s the point. There’s no undoing this action, no going back. And yet, here I am. Doing it.

When this procedure is done, no one will ever hold that control over me again. Already after two sessions I’ve ruined this unwanted part of me that I’d so long been told I had no right to touch—and the only way out is through. There’s no salvaging this. I might as well finish burning it off now. Finally I have taken control of my life, drawn my own boundaries. This body is my own. It’s a part of me. I’m a real person. I get to say what happens to me now, same as anyone else.

To that end, since last August, maybe September, I’ve been dancing around the question of piercings. We know this. I’ve talked about it. I never understood the practice before; why people would do such a thing. But as soon as I began to wake up, and realize that I was real, my head came full of all these questions, all this potential. Who was I? What was appropriate? What did I have the right to do with myself? And why would I want that?

Turns out it’s about making a claim on yourself. One of many ways, but an ancient, relatively harmless, and extremely normalized one. With that, suddenly it make a kind of sense—so I kind of put a pin in it (as it were), realizing that while I was doing this reclaiming, that was a sudden option. A novel one, possibly an exciting one. On the edge of becoming a fascination.

Since then my mind has kept going back, so it feels less a possibility than an inevitability I’ll get at least my ears pierced, and probably sooner than later. It’s just a matter of when. The concept is starting to thrill me. This time, this choice, it’s not even about healing. I’m not doing necessary maintenance. There is no medical need to poke holes in my ears. For once, this claim is 100% elective. This time it’s about me. It’s about what I want for myself. About who I am. About being allowed, allowing myself, to make that kind of a decision. For maybe the first time in my life.

After that second laser session, this kind of euphoria swirled in my head for about 24 hours. The fact that I came back, that the first session wasn’t a fluke—I was committed to this thing. I was really doing it. I had this kind of a power over my life. Over my own body. On the evidence of this experience, I have the ability to enact change, to make decisions, to cause things happen to me. So the next day, I looked into that tattoo parlor that my therapist had recommended me.

From the look of things, this is actually one of the most renowned shops in the area; almost universal praise—and yes they do piercings, of course. She told me of their professionalism, how they’re the go-to for all the queers, etc., and from the look of things, yeah, on both counts. It’s always a kick when local places rock a big “LGBT+ Friendly” tag front and center. Which shouldn’t be a surprise here on the basis of what I was told. I just didn’t realize what a big deal this place seems to be, for its particular field.

No prices online, but how much can a simple piercing be? Nothing fancy. At least to start. I still need to resolve a few things in my brain, puzzle out a few weird angles that still bother me. But there it is, when I’m ready. Sometime this summer, maybe?

Step by step, it’s like—it’s not that I’m getting myself back. I never had myself before. I always existed for someone else’s benefit. (Or their burden, depending on how they felt at the time.) This whole concept of autonomy, I’m figuring it out from nothing. It’s so new to be, and so strange and kind of surreal. What kind of dream logic is this? How can this be possible? But I’m getting over this terror of failing to keep myself mint-in-box, at the risk of being discarded as worthless. Finally breaking that seal, you know.

Nobody owns me now. I’m all on my own. I guess I’m theoretically an adult, whatever that means. So this whole process, it’s not like it’s random rebellion or anything. I mean yeah I have the hormones of a teenage girl, and my body is going through all these wild changes. But this isn’t just a reaction against crappy circumstances. This is me, learning to make decisions about myself. And goddamn, such a simple thing is such a wild reorientation of my whole relationship to life. To start to accept that I can, and have the right to, make these decisions.

It’s almost too much, you know. This floodgate. This realization of what it means to be my own person, living for my own sake rather than exclusively for someone else. To choose who I want to be, what is right for my health, not for someone else’s comfort. To follow the things that I enjoy. To understand that I have the right to enjoy things, to want things for myself. That I can just do things that make me happy in some way. That happiness is a thing worth looking into at all. That I don’t have to apologize for any of this.

Each one of these decisions I make, to another person they might be mundane. But to me they’re these mind-shattering pivot points, that challenge every bit of toxic, abusive, neglectful garbage that’s been put on me for my entire life. And each one makes the next choice a little easier. If I want it, then yes, I can do that too.

Does Azure even want earrings? Well. Maybe. I mean. Yes? I think she might. They can be pretty. We are starting to enjoy our jewelry, and this is unexplored turf. Our ears are shaped a little strangely, and I’m still not sure the best way to handle things. There are some considerations, a few things that give me pause. But the point is, this is our decision to make. No one else gets a word in. Ever.

For all the seething and spittle I’ve absorbed about how stupid and irresponsible it is, that I have taken so unfortunately to heart, this is a perfectly normal thing, that people do all the time. And it’s not that big a deal, cosmically speaking. It will never make the world explode. It will never hurt another person. I am a real person. I get to make choices. And this is a choice.

We can explore things. We can figure out life. We can figure out us.

I just want to be me, whoever that is. I just want to be her. We just want to be alive. We’ve never been allowed that before. And now we’re starting to get it. It’s becoming clearer why people put so much value in living. It’s different when you actually want to be here.

So. One thing at a time. I’ve got so much garbage I’m dealing with, right now. And I’m not even fully vaxxed yet. And the year is still young.

But I’m starting to get a grip. Bit by bit.

Just let me be alive.

You Say Allo; I Say Goodbye

  • Reading time:4 mins read

My second face session went even better than the first. After all the new people at Planned Parenthood the other day, we got a new nurse here who kinda rocked to be honest; she seemed like a person it might be cool to know. She marveled at the confidence I had walking in, “this little gothic steam-punk diva.” Which was, uh, one way to put it I guess.

We’re making progress, but there’s not much to really talk about yet. At best we’re like a quarter or a third done. And it’s working! Just gotta keep on keeping on.

The return though, mask all full of the smell of burnt hair—I didn’t even make the bus before the misadventures began. First I swear to God I got a wolf whistle from a car as I crossed the street. Then while I sat at the stop, under the little bus-gazebo structure, whatever it is, there was the, uh, social interaction.

This guy ambled up from my right—and to his credit, he did keep his distance.

“Excuse me miss,” he said, “I wonder if I could have a word with you.”

I felt this boulder in my stomach. Here we go. What do we do here? “… Er, thank you so much for expressing an interest,” I said, “but no, I’m okay.”

He boggled at me. “You’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” I nodded. After a beat I asked, “Are you okay?”

He was flustered but determined. “I just want to get to know you,” he said.

And well, fuck. There it was. “Well I’m very flattered,” I said, “but that’s all right. I’m not—I don’t do that sort of thing.” I tried so very hard to keep my calm, to get ahead of the situation, to use an affirming, if firm, tone. This is not a scenario where I want to mess with a male ego.

Even so, he was getting frustrated. “What sort of thing? All I want to do is get to know you,” he repeated.

“Yes, well, thank you for the gesture, seriously.” I made a point of looking right at him, leaning in. Acknowledging what he was doing, even as I refused to entertain it. “But right now I’d really prefer to just keep my space.”

Ultimately he did back off and leave me alone, though it took a few rounds to make myself clear—if the bus hadn’t arrived just then I’m not sure how long this would have continued to drag on. He boarded right after me, and sat behind somewhere, putting me on a sort mild alert the whole ride home. I wasn’t sure exactly where he was, or when he meant to get off. I continued to document things as I sat, just for… reasons.

And I made it home fine. There were no further events. I don’t want to make more of it than it was. I mean, he did keep several paces away. He did actually say hello and ask if we could talk. And in the end he did accept that I wasn’t having it. But gee was he assertive. I’m so bad at people stuff anyway—and I expect learning to navigate eager horny dudes is hard for anyone, never mind this timid autism space cadet girl here.

There’s this diplomatic balance. I feel a need to handle male pride very carefully, because—it’s probably fine, but, well, things have been known to happen at times. And being trans only heightens the danger. Socially I’m not good enough to really have a sense about any of this, so it’s just this blanket caution I’m trying to exercise. Not paranoia, but… one will be mindful.

Anyway. I guess this is my life now. These are the decisions one makes. I can’t control other people; I can only work on myself. So I’d better figure some shit out.

Which isn’t to suggest I never got this kind of thing before—just, uh, not from dudes, typically. Only very occasionally. But I didn’t know what to do about horny allos then, and it freaked me out even coming from women. The exact dynamics here are… perhaps a little more treacherous. And gee whiz are they continuous. Going outside is kind of this whole thing for me lately.

I don’t want people being horny on me. I don’t care who they are. I’m just Azure. There are, I am certain, plenty of other horny people toward whom you might better direct your energies. Nothing’s ever going to happen here. Allos go home.

Feminine Phase

  • Reading time:11 mins read

So we have now, at least in principle, completed our trifecta of girl pills. The insurance is another issue, but we’re working on that. In the moment, my latest follow-up went smoothly—if a little strangely. Everyone I met was different from before. New, kinda rad physician (don’t know offhand if she’s a doctor or NP or what), unfamiliar nurses. Different procedures, different room. But it was all straightforward and so supportive: just walk in, say that things are great, ask for what I want, and get it. No hitches at all! I brought it up to her and she nodded and was like, “Uh-huh! Yeah, that makes sense. Yeah, we usually want to wait until about where you are now. So, you know how this works? You do? Okay.”

The practitioner was complimenting me on how reliably boring my bloodwork is. It’s always the same, she said; nothing of any note with general body stuff. Hormones remain in ideal range. If I feel fine, then there’s nothing to talk about. The new pills complicate things a little, otherwise she wouldn’t even have me come back in person for a while. But with the change, we’re following up in another three months as usual.

August again, already. Cripes, 18 months!

It only comes in 100mg or 200mg capsules, I’m told. The starting dose is 100; the max is 400. So on prior art, I’m guessing I’ll be gradually stepped up over the next year, such that on my second “birthday” I’m likely to land on 400mg. Yet another landmark for next February. This will be a big day.

On the way back I picked up some groceries across the way, then the bus driver took a second to say hi, and complimented me on my “chain”—he gestured to his neck. Which was nice. Some non-creepy random affirmation, for once. Dude seemed all right; I later saw him chatting to someone else. Just an amiable fella. However he also did not stop when requested, and drove like four blocks further. Which uh was less than wonderful. But still, girl got so much cheese. It’s nuts.

So things were at a high—and then next day, reality hit. The prescription was showing up strangely online, and I had to call and talk to the pharmacist. I did so (waiting on hold for 15 minutes), and the fella was like, “Um, I’ve never seen this before, but it says your insurance won’t cover this for males…” I told him that, erm, I was transgender actually and that this was kinda the whole point, and he was like, yeah, this was weird. It didn’t seem right. He said I should call my insurance and see if I could get an override or something, because this was super irregular as a policy.

So I called my insurance; after 10 minutes of infuriating menus, the rep I got was flabbergasted. She also had never seen such a thing—and there was nothing in the system to account for it, for her to know what to do. So she called her supervisor. Her supervisor was equally stunned. Maybe it’s a prior auth issue, he ventured; I should contact my provider and have them request a prior auth; see what happens with that.

So, fuck. Fine. Next I called Planned Parenthood—and, as it happened, got a trans on the other end! I explained the situation and she was all, WTF! She had just started progesterone herself, and also had never seen a thing like this. She said they’ll work on this for me, and call me when it’s sorted out.

In summary: health care. Even under the best conditions, we now must navigate health care while trans.

Anyway the pharmacy has the pills in stock. They’re perfectly ready to fill this. They just need the insurance to say okay—and it’s unclear why they’re not, because no one has ever seen them not, in regard to this medication, for this reason before. But Planned Parenthood is good, and is gearing to fight for me. So I just have to trust this will work out fine. It’s just weird, and may take an extra few days.

I am sure I will be alive in a few days. This will be the smallest of bumps. And I am encouraged by how very baffled and sort of upset everyone has been on my behalf.

I’ve said this before, but I feel like people have been a lot kinder to me since I’ve come out than they ever were to my precursor. I imagine that living in New York helps this a bit. But in general people do seem to genuinely want to help me now, to an extent that surprises me every time. Why this is, I don’t really know. But there’s this sort of a protective tone, in the space where I’m used to getting suspicion and scorn and dismissal. I’m used to being so alone, being brushed off no matter what I’m dealing with.

And, sure, okay. I will accept being treated like a person. This is good. Confusing, but I sure will not complain.

Anyway, this is just a nuisance. The progesterone is happening, and I’ll have it in a few days probably, and I am so excited. Like, I’ve got nothing left to do with my estrogen levels, and my T levels—which ideally I should be keeping under 100, are at uh, nine, last I saw. So this is the last thread. Supplemental girl juice, adding the art to the rough architecture hewn by the estrogen. We’ll see how this it goes, but transfeminine legends well precede it.

(Of its indicated effects, I sure could use some mood stabilization, cripes.)

The nature of progesterone speaks to what is I guess my year-two mission: refinement. Next February is gonna be so good. My face stuff should long be done. I’ll be up to final dose on everything. My ID issues will probably all be resolved. At least for the short term, there will be nothing really left to do except to keep going. Even as changes will likely keep on churning for a few years yet, the actual transitional phase of transition will be done. I’ll have the basic elements of me all checked off and can move on to figuring out how to just live.

I have so many frickin drugs now. Goddamn. Fixing me up. Making me who I need to be. It’s all good. I’m proud of myself, tending to my needs after a lifetime of neglect.

You know how when you meet someone special you’ll have this sense of, if only we could have met years back; we’ve missed so much time together? That is kinda what gender euphoria can be like sometimes—this sort of, gosh, what could have been, had I met myself 25 years ago? Appreciating the moment, looking forward to the future, while dreaming idly of the past you were denied. What would it have been like?

It’s not so much lament as it’s a matter of wanting more. It’s about having trouble quite believing that relationship wasn’t always there, because it’s so obviously right and true and natural that it’s hard accept a life without me. Wanting to fix the history I know, so that it makes a sense I can accept in light of the present.

I can hardly believe I’m on progesterone now. Two years ago I was like, clearly I’m not cis. I didn’t know what I was, beyond that I’ve never been what they tell me. That the gender I was handed had never worked, never fit; it grossed me out, made me not want to be alive. But I didn’t really get gender, had never had a chance to develop my own relationship to it, and was reluctant to commit to any conclusions.

I was so nervous. Clearly I was a kind of non-binary. Beyond that? Well. I had… thoughts, feelings. Were they real? Were they reasonable? Was I just confused? Did I dare own up to them? How much sense did any of this jumble really make? Did I even understand it properly? There was so much, I hardly knew how to chip away.

For an age it was just little, cautious gestures. One by one. Step by step. Stitch by stitch. Does this feel right? Does it hold together? Does it follow from what I know to be true? Is this leading in a direction that I like? Yes? To all of that? Is it secure? Is it gonna hold? Okay, then. What’s next?

And at the same time, every bit of femininity that I embraced, I had to reconcile it with this fundamental disagreement with the concept of a gender binary. What was I even doing? Why was I doing it? Was it for the right reasons? Was it truly coming from inside me? What did it all mean? I had no goddamned clue. Just grasping in the dark.

I had these idealized notions, but they were like some pipe dream, surely just beyond my grasp. Surely it was a folly. Surely that could never be me. Surely I wasn’t that much trans. Surely it was way too late. Surely I’d never have the support. Other people can do things. I’m not other people. I’m just me. I don’t have any options in life. I’m not allowed happiness. Whatever that even is. Anything good is a forever what-if.

But, well, I kept asking: okay, but, what if? Just, one small if at a time. Gnawing on the question. Refusing to move on until I got an answer that made sense. Take another bit. How did it feel? Did I die? Was it a mistake? No? So—one more nibble, then?

I mean, we make our own gender. We figure out our own ideas about ourselves. I kinda knew I was some kind of transfeminine, from the moment I realized I could be trans; that all I needed to be trans was to want it to be true. I just, I couldn’t allow myself to think more than a yard in front of me. It was too much. I had too many obstacles, and I cannot multitask.

Ultimately I am just Azure. I’m not quite a woman; that doesn’t seem to fit. Maybe someday it will. Maybe if I ever grow up? I can’t know yet. But I am exactly the kind of a girl that I want to be. On my own terms. A person I can love.

Damage aside, I am the person whom I was always so depressed that I couldn’t be, that I wasn’t allowed to be, that I was cursed not to be. The only thing I’m lacking is a past—all those years that I lost, when I was asleep. I mean I was always in there. I’ve always existed. I’ve always been me. But this other person was steering the ship. Badly.

And God, I genuinely am this much trans, huh. Specifically, this much transfeminine. We’re not even sticking with the basic HRT; we’re going for the good stuff. And it’s the correct thing to do. For a non-binary girl, there is a heck of a lot of girl going on in here, goddamn.

I mean, gee whiz, it just keeps going. More girl, you ask? Why certainly, yes. More? Absolutely. Bring it on. Keep bringing it. This is working. This is good. This feels good. This is what it’s like to actually feel good. This is what it means to be human.

And I am allowed. I get to define myself. I get to make the rules of me.

Two years ago I was aiming at androgynous. Now I have no clue where I’m going, but it’s making me so fucking giddy. I’m so deep into the forbidden zone now there’s no way to find my way back.

It’s just that every step I make is so right. I have never been so right about anything. It’s bewildering to me. I’ve never gotten so much out of trusting myself.

It seems though I’ve had little chance to articulate or explore or come to terms with it, deep down I have a very firm idea of who I am. Or at least, I know what’s right when I come to it—and I’m not prone to wild, incautious leaps. Everything true has to be based in something more basic, right. Piece by piece, there’s a logic to how it all fits together. I can extrapolate pieces by the empty spaces.

This is me, apparently. I am whoever Azure is. Quite reasonably I think, I am who makes me feel alive. And I’m nowhere near done with me. I’ve got half a lifetime to catch up on, and another half to enjoy.

What a goddamned thing, to be alive. I had no idea what it was like.

How alive will I be a year from now? How much love will I have in me then?

Mass Migration

  • Reading time:7 mins read

For all that I moan about my inability to hang onto body fat, at the moment I appear to weigh about 185-190 lbs, which is almost certainly the heaviest I have been. As an adult I’ve tended to stay vaguely in the 165-175 range. So it seems I am hanging onto something! I may not be a string bean forever!

What’s curious is the way this is happening. I know how soft tissues are expected to redistribute and all, and they certainly are doing that, but the way this is creeping up on me keeps throwing me new surprises. Some parts don’t seem to be gaining any more mass exactly, but rather are just taking a more refined shape. Other parts are shrinking in ways that baffle me, as I’m not sure what there even is to lose.

I feel like my breasts are getting fuller all the time. I don’t know that the volume per se has changed much the last six months, but there’s a roundness that wasn’t even there a few weeks ago. Until recently I have had shallow breasts, with all this material spread out across my upper chest. But now stuff’s moving around, figuring itself out.

A commonly used reference image around the Web; it is difficult to work out the original source, as it’s repeated so often.

I have these distinct east-west boobs, right. Even as the rest has rounded out, the sides have always been kind of weak and unsupported, creating even more of a taper with the nipples pointed out at an angle. Structurally now it seems like the sides are starting to fill in a little, evening out the support and smoothing the overall curve. Like they’re just taking on this shape that pleases me.

There’s also this general, uh, boinginess, that feels pretty new. I think the new bra first brought this to attention, but now that I notice it, it’s there just in my bathrobe now. It’s like the texture and elasticity of the meat has changed, fairly recently. I don’t remember them moving much, previously. They were uh, comparably unripe i guess.

Regarding the bra, for all the clear improvement over my earlier ones, I did have some vague issues with the fit and support, etc., that I didn’t know how to narrow down. I just adjusted all the straps, though, and zap. That was it. Well, obviously it would have been. It just took me several weeks to get around to it, because, you know. Azure. But now it’s pretty much perfect actually. I dig. This will absolutely be my point of reference for future ventures.

(For anyone it may help—bras are such a goddamned thing—this is a “Freya Fancies” underwire plunge bra, in 34 G. It’s good for east-west and possibly side-set breasts. Different styles for different boob shapes, right? There may be better options for people who have money. I got this on a sale, because I of course live in astonishing poverty.)

That adjustment, though, it speaks to a thing. Just months ago—not even six; as recently as maybe three—I had a 35-inch under-boob, which on some advice is why initially I rounded up to 36-inch straps but now am rounding down instead. This bra is a 34 G, where its sister size would be a 36 F, right? So okay, fine. I’m a 34 G. Except now, somehow my under-boob has gone down to 33. Which, uh. How did I have enough soft tissue on my lower ribs to shed so much? I know stuff is meant to move around, but it’s mostly bone! What are we losing??

I mean if we are now in fact looking at 33 rather than 35, a 34-inch strap is still valid by the same rounding logic. I just need to use the middle hook instead of the last one. And on top of my continued growth and their deterioration, I can further see why my older bras will not fit as they need to. That’s three inches too big! Even if they were still new, taking it down two hooks will only just barely keep me contained, which has been the case.

The other aspect of this is that, if I have a 33-inch under-bust, then the other way to round would be a 32-inch strap. But uh. The other way to go, the more snug direction, would be 32. Which would mean that, sister-sizing the cup upward—uh. Right now, I would be looking at an H-cup. I’m not sure that I’m in a place to process that right now. But we will see where time chooses to bring us. And God help me if that progesterone scrip comes through.

For the moment my new bra is very good; it fits. I like it. And I guess I’ve got a solid place to work from when I need to figure out its replacement. Maybe someday we’ll settle into a consistent size.

A funny thing about all this is that my breasts don’t even look that big, even as the numbers will not lie. The issue is my height. Yes, I have a slender frame, and relative to that canvas my tits are like 37% larger than average. But my body is so long, they kinda get lost along the way. It does help a bit when I go with a high waist, which just looks flattering for me in general.

The changes to my lower body are also helping to accommodate that. My hips and butt and thighs are gaining all this mass, that’s tipping the scales even as my mid-section is slimming down, which—well, I have never not wanted to work on and emphasize my lower half, and that’s finally going on. I’m getting some curves that are building in a little distinction. I’m getting some strength down there, to carry all this weight and stress that I try to push downward these days, away from my neck and shoulders and upper back. Some flexibility so I can actually move my hips, claim my space with a bit of style.

Even as I seem to lose literal inches from my waist, I keep on getting heavier. Which is… good. This is how things should be going I think. Not that I necessarily care about my waist as such, but if we can draw some distinction here between the bust and the hips and allow each to stand on their own rather than as just aspects of this endless featureless torso, that will ease so much weirdness I’ve always felt toward my body. Just the boobs were such a revelation on their own. But the more we can differentiate, the more human I think I’ll feel.

It’s hard for me to judge any of this day-to-day. But every so on we get these concrete numbers, and then suddenly I can see it. Or rather, I guess, my vague building sense of things gets validated, and I’m no longer questioning my judgment or sanity or motivations for thinking the way that I am. No, I’m actually right. What I’m seeing is real. I’m real. And I’m actually healing. Bit by bit, yet so very quickly. I’m already so far along, so much further than I had dared to hope, and I’m still only getting started.

Making it Up

  • Reading time:8 mins read

My face has changed so much in just the last year. It’s so gradual it’s been hard to tell day-to-day, but yikes. Similarities aside it’s not clear to my eyes that it’s the same person. There is of course the feminization; I feel like my naked face is androgynous as hell right now, not clearly masculine or feminine, but whee is it a leap from last May. But also, I look much younger. Significantly so. I swear, like a decade or so.

And then there are the eyes. People have mentioned this to me, but God, even last May, even three months into HRT, they were so haunted and empty. There was nobody there. And whatever husk of a person there was, they looked like they were bracing to be hit at any moment. Whereas—well, I still obviously have all these problems, right, but as autistic-blank as my expressions will remain unless I force the issue, I can now see an animating spirit in there. Azure is actively alive, in a way that other person was not.

Of course I’m still super insecure about the facial hair, though we’re taking care of that. And there’s a lot more I’d like to see happening with the cheeks and the jawline, and so on. But gee whiz, I easily look better now without makeup now than I did then with it.

Makeup is such a word, isn’t it. I mean obviously all our notions of gender presentation are exaggerated, made-up nonsense. Even if you go with a binary model of sex, people really aren’t that dimorphic. Most people are kind of androgynous if they don’t take the time to build up and decorate themselves and behave and hold themselves certain ways. The differences are so slight and individual, and easily nudged. Culturally we lean into them to try to make them big, to set the genders apart and clearly mark out who lives in what camp, lest we make an error and mess up our power structure somehow.

Gender as we know it is so unnatural and difficult to navigate, even for cis people. You can find all these stories of cis men who freak out when they see cis women in the morning with their makeup off and they just look like people. The men feel lied to and start to wonder if the women are even really women. It’s so weird. It’s like we all mythologize ourselves and the other and grow upset at every piece of evidence that the stories don’t fully map to reality.

Which isn’t to say that gender, or even sex, aren’t “real;” it’s just that it’s more helpful to think in terms of language than rational structures: here is how I choose to relate to myself, to others, to the world; and here are all the ways that I signal this kind of a relationship.

We exist in the doing. None of us is a static object. We change every day, every thought that comes into our heads, every action we take, every new memory we form. We get to highlight the features we feel important, that inform our ideology about life and how we want to live it. To be a complete person is to choose the pieces that make you up and decide what kind of a person you want to be. What you want to stand for. What you cherish. How you want to behave. How you want to treat others and to be treated in return. And all of that can change over time.

My whole life I felt this numb bottomless shame that I was forced to be a boy—seemingly with no escape. I never asked for it, never wanted it. No one ever asked my consent before bringing me into existence and telling me who and what I was, and nobody cared if I hated it. And I did more than hate it; it revolted me.

I never got the message that I had a choice. That I didn’t have to be a boy if it distressed me so much. That I was allowed to just make my own decision. I knew that trans people existed, and they fascinated me so much. I envied them. I just never made the connection. Like, they were a fact; there they were. But there I was, also apparently a fact. And I hated it, but what could I do. I was what people told me I was, and nobody told me I was trans.

I had to be good, had to do what I was told, had to carry everyone else’s shit for them that they didn’t want to carry themselves. My life was not my own; my body was not my own. I was an object in one person’s life after another—a broken object that never worked as intended. Because of course, they always got it wrong. Their map did not fit the reality of me.

I just never had that self-possession to realize I could just do things, make choices, shape my own story. I never got the message that I could just be someone else. That I could just be the person I wanted to be—that I could just be myself, and that this was not only okay but the correct thing to do.

What kind of advice would that have been, thirty years ago? “Pretending to be a boy making you want to die? Well, maybe don’t do that then. Always thought it unfair you couldn’t be a girl instead? Well, maybe that’s because you are. Give it a shot. See what happens. Neither make sense to you? Then screw em! Whatever makes you want to be alive.” We really need to work on this messaging. People don’t need permission to be themselves; that’s not for anyone to say. You don’t owe anyone your identity. You never asked to be born. You get to set the terms for who you are. You like what you’re given? Great. If not, fix it.

I am a girl because I know that I am a girl, because I want to be a girl, because I have always wanted to be a girl, and because my whole understanding of what it means to be a girl, to me, suits my views of right and good and positive, in regard to my whole place in the world. To dress in a certain way, to make myself in a certain way, to hold myself and move in a certain way, it’s arbitrary to an extent. It all serves to exaggerate slight physical features that we all have, and that can be nudged with some dedication. It’s all just signal, really.

But that’s what gender is: it’s signal. It’s role; it’s ideology. Given this common humanity, it asks, how do we want to play this? What do we want to do with this life, this body, this person, we’re given? What message do we want to put into the worlds, and affirm within ourselves? When I dress in a way that gives me joy, when I use makeup to exaggerate my features ever so slightly, bring focus to the parts I like, draw attention from the parts that don’t suit me, when I move and act the way that I do, I am reinforcing what is important and real to me.

The first person I reinforce that to is to myself. This is part of how I underline and repeat and affirm that who I am matters, that my ideas about myself are valid, that my ideas about the world are good and true and worth caring about and making real through the doing.

I am as it turns out a real person. And so I tend to the parts of what it means to be a person, to be specifically a human, that inform and reflect my principles, and I cultivate them, refining the good, the message, the relationship, the principle. I seize the affirmative. And in reifying that conversation with myself, in becoming ever more the me that I can, I serve to sort of automatically communicate with others, and with the space and the situation around me, and tell them what I consider worth caring about. And I hope that it matters to them.

If it doesn’t, well. Everyone has their own thing going on. But I know from my own conversation, the more that I knock out the truth of it, refine what works, strip out what doesn’t, that what I’ve got reflects something real and important. Something worth declaring and owning.

I am Azure because it is vitally important that I be Azure. Because now that I understand who Azure is, at least to the point where I am in the story, I recognize that Azure represents something that needs to exist in this stupid fucking world. And I am so honored to be her.

I love myself so much these days. I don’t think it’s vanity. I think it’s earnest. I think it’s based in care and in principle and in very good assessment of what matters in this life. And I hope that I can pass some of this on to others. That they can love themselves the same.

Triangulation

  • Reading time:4 mins read

So on top of everything else, I think I may be polyam. And when I say I think, it’s less doubt and more me starting to come to terms with things that have been there forever. Yeah, hi, this process is still ongoing. There’s a lot about me that it turns out does not fit into the models I have been fed. Who knows what else the future will bring!

Obviously I’m aroace; averse to sex and romance and everything to do with dating culture, etc. But were I to be in a committed relationship, that shape makes most sense to me—which feels like it should feel weird, considering how introverted I am; how much space I need mentally, physically, emotionally, in sensory terms. But there is a certain security and stability I feel with, say, a hypothetical two (?) others that’s not there with one. More context for stuff. Less individual pressure to change myself to someone’s expectations. Less of a linear powderkeg of two people against each other when problems come up. More motivation to compromise and just be kind and understanding. More room to just be human, and more resources and support and just more to appreciate and be appreciated by.

I cannot of course conceive of a practical application to any of this. As with anything to do with intimate relationships or sexuality or things involving other people (e.g. that pan business), this isn’t like some map of what I actually want or plan for in life. It’s just a matter of how I seem to be wired, what my models of emotions and relationships and the world and myself look and feel like. And I think this model has never not been true for me.

What’s kind of wild is, I have never really explored this topic actively, but on some very cursory reading it turns out that polyamory is a pretty common sort of framework for aces and demisexuals. For those who don’t build their models of relationships around sex or don’t have much interest in sex more generally, it seems to be a lot easier to rethink what an intimate relationship structure can look like. I uh was unaware of this phenomenon, though now that I see it described in so many words, it does fit things I have noticed with others in my orbit.

Again this is nothing new for me. It’s not like some idea that just landed in my head, that I’m suddenly latching onto because it seems neat or whatever. I think it’s been with me at least as long as this idea that, gee whiz, life would be a lot better if I were a girl instead of what people are telling me I am, or that I have had… certain ideas about hypothetical people of different genders. I’m just continuing to dig down, to get at the truth of me. And willikers, is it a relief to acknowledge this stuff.

This piece just kinda needed a little more time to bake, I guess. I am still unsure what to do with these thoughts, as they’re just now rising to the point where I can put words to them. But they do kinda inform how wrong the shapes of certain things have always felt to me.

Again, like. I will never fuck. This isn’t about that. It’s about my perception of myself in relation to the world and other people; what makes sense, and feels right and psychologically, emotionally healthy and safe to me personally. I just think uh I am kinda wired toward polyamory. Which, like anything else about me, is neutral. It just is what it is. As aggressively non-standard as that may be.

Late Sleeper

  • Reading time:3 mins read

Continuity of self is a weird thing. I mean we’re each a different person every day we continue to live. All the matter in our bodies turns over every seven years. But in my case it’s a bit more… specific and pronounced.

I haven’t always been here. Though this body is mine. Like, it’s always been mine. And I’ve always been me. But I wasn’t always awake, and present. I only fully came alert last summer, and inherited this body and these memories and attitudes from the person who had been carrying them around all those years. And it’s wild to sort out.

Like, I’m the real person here. But now I’ve sort of waltzed into this situation four seasons in, and I’m like okay, fuck, how much of this actually pertains to me, how much do I need to pick it up from here? These aren’t my memories and thoughts, but some I can claim easily. Other baggage I’m like… why is this here? What does it have to do with me? Why did they leave it behind? What do I do with it now?

This is my life now. I’m a complete, stable person for the first time, as many problems as I may continue to have. But there’s this ongoing process.

When I think of things that happened before, when that other person was stumbling around with this body and this life, I don’t know what to do most of the time but to say “I.” All these memories are in the first person, you know, even if I wasn’t there at the time. But I really feel like I need to stress, I was alarmingly, destructively dissociative for most of my life. And now that I’ve shed that, and I get to just fuckin exist here, the past becomes this deeply weird territory to relate to. There is continuity, but what do I do with it?

I almost feel like I’m lying when I speak in the first-person about the past.

People I knew before, like, last summer—well, obviously I know you and have all these carry-over memories and feelings and whatever. But I feel like I’m recompiling all these relationships now, and there can be occasional… hiccups, while I figure out how to build my own kind of connection. It’s funny to see all this confirmed in my interactions with people who knew some previous me. Like my therapist, who soon after the hand-over quickly realized that I was not the same person she had been talking to before.

But it’s also frustrating at times when people don’t get it. Like, people I know from years back, who kind of just behave as if nothing is different, as if they’re still talking to that person. I mean, I get it. But I’m not them. The ideas and memories that you have may not necessarily apply. I’m right here, you know. I have my own identity. Let’s try this again, maybe.

Anyway. I’m happy to be me. I just uh, kind of wish someone had set the alarm clock for 1996 instead of 2020.

Growth Cycles

  • Reading time:4 mins read

So now like three weeks and endless exfoliation later, it’s becoming clear that my first laser session did in fact do things. I have neglected to shave for a few days here, and the way things are growing in is kind of wild. A patch will seem pretty normal, then it’s just blank. It’s just ragged bits and pieces all over my lower face, though my cheeks—which are lowest on my priority list—seem to have been hit the hardest. My upper lip, which matters most to me, is only thinned in a few small irregular dots.

I do of course also have a mix of coloration; it’s not completely dark. Some is just naturally blonde or red. A few white hairs have been sneaking in the last few years. It’s unclear how much of an issue that will be in the end. But there are prickly areas with not much pigment.

Anyway this is just interesting to see, after a few weeks of thinking, hunh, well, maybe I’ll start to see some kind of effect after the second treatment? It’s pretty random what’s cleared and what isn’t. A right old mess, really. But hey, it’s definitely a start!

Getting rid of this garbage is not just a general dysphoria issue, though it’s bothered me for like 25 years, increasingly so as it filled in through my late 20s and 30s, and it’s maybe the biggest physical problem I have with myself right now. There’s also a body autonomy thing. I’ve talked about how I just… did not have control over my body for about a quarter of my life there, and how this was a particular thing I was not allowed to touch, even as it made me deeply miserable. So there’s a liberation in being able to say, fuck you, no. In closing that door forever.

God, this time next year—if I can take care of my face, and I can be on progesterone for a year, and be another year along with my steady e levels… I feel like I will be very close to where I want to be. There won’t be lots more to repair, that can actually be addressed. The only other thing I can think of is, maybe in a few years looking into FFS—but I’m really not certain about that. It’s not unimaginable, but we’ll just see where things are and how I feel. It’s hard to entertain right now, and that’s fine because now would not be the time.

That’s kind of it, though.

Maybe after my second shot I will start to think about getting my ears pierced. That’s kind of beside the point, but it’s proximate and it uh feels like it’s gonna actually happen, and sooner than later. Probably this year.

After I deal with my current… situation, that’s giving me all the stress, I’ve got someone eager to help me with my whole legal identity thing. Pro bono even. So that will also be untangled soon.

It’s astounding to me that I’ve set personal goals and I’m meeting them. When has that ever happened? My two big transition goals this for this year, they should be pretty well done by summer. I’ve even added another goal in there, that should happen in the next couple weeks. Broader life goals, I’m getting them done. Psychiatrist stuff, social services, etc.

I guess after my second shot I can also start thinking about my left-over medical stuff I didn’t get a chance to tend to last year. Of which there is so much. Getting a GP. Finally going to a dentist, after 20 years. God. I am getting my life in order. For the first time ever. What. Gee whiz.

After all this, basically the only thing left will be, how do I support myself? We’ll see how it goes with the disability. If that happens, there’s our answer; I get to just fuckin live. If not, uh, I don’t know what to do. But at least I’ll be a human being. All my parts will be in place. Despite everything. And we’ll just see where we can build from there.

The Sound of Silence

  • Reading time:5 mins read

Some thirty years ago I messed up my big toe in taekwondo class—the final excuse for quitting, which I’d been trying to do forever. The studio smelled like feet. The mix of students was strange. I didn’t really understand what I was asked to do, and was socially weird in ways that made everyone uncomfortable.

The instructor for those classes, he did try to follow up a couple of times. There were answering machine messages that I deleted. On the basis of earlier conversations, I think he was convinced I was being sexually abused. Which I wasn’t, at that time. Not as a kid. But, well. I guess there has always been something “off” about me, right.

This is really tricky and problematic to put to words, and I apologize for how it comes off. For a large portion of my life it felt really surprising to me that I hadn’t been sexually abused as a child—to the point I kept wondering if I had repressed or forgotten something important. Like, I always felt like so much about me would make more sense if that had happened to me.

In hindsight I sort of get it now. Like, it wasn’t that exactly. But I did suffer years, decades, of abuse and neglect—much of it dealing with fundamental aspects of who and what I am, and my concept of reality. This total denial of my self, this fear of allowing me to exist. This understanding that I was dirty and broken and wrong, and shameful for even considering my humanity as an individual. That everything about me had to be hidden and controlled. That I would never be good no matter what I did; that all I could do was pretend, to do my best to please. I was brainwashed, told to doubt everything except what I was told, by people who hated who and what i was. Filled with an essential fear and disgust of myself. I was basically ready to die from the time I was 11.

Some of that was to do with neurology and general mental health. A lot, though, gender and sexuality.

So this is, like—I absolutely do not want to compare my experience to other people’s violent trauma. I’m just trying to work out why it was that I always used to feel the way that I did. And, well, I certainly dive have my own trauma—much of which had to do with sex and gender, and gaslighting about the reality that I lived. It was just a different kind of violence. A different kind of self-erasure. I didn’t have the language to actually identify what my problems were. I didn’t have the resources or the models. So that comparison was the best I had available to me: some kind of abuse; something about sex (??).

Having made that comparison, though, all I could do was brush it off, because I knew that hadn’t happened to me. Or, I was pretty sure. I spent so many years going through that same weird routine: something was obviously very wrong, but the one thing I could identify that seemed to fit, didn’t really. So I had to be making it up. It had to be nothing. But if it was nothing, why were things to obviously wrong, then? Round and round.

How much this uncertainty plays into… later problems that I experienced, I don’t know. I’m not really in a place to speak to that, or begin to wrap my head around any connection. I’m just seeing a thing to note here, and going, huh. Well. There that is. But many things set me up for trouble. Broadly, not knowing who I was—except that I was broken and I needed someone to show me how to not be bad—basically guaranteed that I would wind up in ugly situations, with people eager to take me up on that dynamic; continuing to tell me who I was, and what was wrong with me.

So much of the abuse I’ve suffered over my life, I didn’t really understand what was happening. All I knew was I was failing, in ways that felt unfair but that apparently were all my fault. And I was too miserable to really question the circumstances beyond the message that I was responsible. Without the words, without the pictures, without the connections, I had no way to step away and see the dynamics for what they were.

Silence is how abuse is possible. Limiting of information. Stopping discussion. It’s about controlling knowable reality by force of will.

I make so many mistakes. I’m wrong about many things. For all my ideals, I can be as callous and petty and careless and inconsiderate as anyone. But, like. I try to deal in truth. I do my best. Because it matters. Even when it’s inconvenient, it lights the path away from harm.

It’s just amazing how knowing the right things, having the terms to communicate or look into ideas, completely changes one’s relationship to the world. It’s so empowering to be able to describe what you see and know it to be real. To be able to assert your own experience as valid

That is I think most of why I work all this shit out in public. What good does it do just in my head, or hidden away in some obscure corner of my own? That’s what abuse expects and hopes for.

I’m not afraid. I’m not ashamed of me. And maybe I can pass a little bit of truth on.

We all need help.

The Girl I Know

  • Reading time:3 mins read

A long way to go, but I am getting more and more pleased with my lower body. The shape it’s slowly churning around to. My relationship to it. The way I occupy space and move with it. Butt, hips, thighs, abdomen. It’s all starting to make sense to me the same way my chest has been

This has I think always been on my mind. From the moment I understood I wasn’t cis, to the extent my mind went to anything physical, it was my hips, my thighs, my butt. I got into hrt for the brain and mood stuff, but if it did something down there too, I felt that would be good.

It’s just, such a thing, my body actually feeling correct and familiar to me. Like, oh, there you are.

I never recognized that other person. They felt like such an alien to me. This body, it doesn’t feel new to me, like I’m creating a thing. It’s like I’m finding a thing I lost.

I feel I can’t fully articulate how right I am starting to feel. And how not-new it feels. How it’s this relief of empirical reality validating one’s memories, sort of. Like a thing you saw on TV when you were eight that you knew you didn’t dream or make up, but no one else saw. Then one day you stumble on it, and it is precisely, eerily as you remember, and you kind of go, oh my god, I’m not insane. This is the thing I’ve been carrying around all these years. I knew it. And you can show it to people and they understand what you mean at last.

I’m not eager to show my butt on the internet, mind. Or in person. But I’m just saying.

It’s not that I am feeling pleased with this whole thing that I am working to put a certain way that I want it. It’s that my body is reverting to a shape that I already understand as me. Like all the scales are falling away, and there I am underneath. This person I have missed so dearly, so painfully, even if technically I guess we never quite met until now. They’re still alive. I did not rot away from neglect. Not entirely. There’s a lot left to salvage.

I’ve got so much to do. But I have come so far, in such a short time. I have never had faith in a thing like I have certainty of the truth of me, despite everything I have been told, despite all the damage. I mean there she fuckin is. And I love her. Why was I kept from her?

Time Bomb

  • Reading time:3 mins read

I feel like I am so obviously trans, it weirds me out a bit when people don’t seem to notice. The people who are being strange at me from a distance or maybe just incidentally, okay, I can get that. But being two feet away, looking straight at me, having a drawn-out conversation?

Obviously none of the stuff I do with myself has to do with “passing” or whatever, right. Hell, I’m non-binary. I’m just trying to figure myself out, build a healthy relationship with me. Other people don’t factor into my mess. I spent my life pretending for their benefit.

It kind of messes with my head a little when none of the fuckin’ glaring signifiers seems to tip people off and contextually I know they’re not just being polite or treating me as Azure specifically, but seem to interpret me as some random cis woman I guess. Like, it’s one thing to be considerate to me because I’m a person and treat me like anyone else. It’s another to jump the fence and say, oh clearly she’s in this other box. I will project this new set of assumptions on her, rather than the set of assumptions I might have before.

How do you imagine that I am cis? I have no control of my voice when I speak to other real people. I am an alien insect giraffe, twice as tall as you. My face is maybe androgynous at best, and littered with hormonal damage. As for my throat, well. There it is.

I guess it builds up this pressure in my head. At what point will they notice? What will happen when they do? How much of their own nonsense will they then blame on me, as if I’m not just minding my own business, being myself? As if I’m responsible for the way their head works? Like there is some kind of a time bomb, and I don’t know how big it is or what the timer is set to. Like their not “Getting it” somehow becomes my problem. I am so used to accepting everyone else’s problems, accepting blame for whatever garbage they project on me. No more please.

I guess there may be ways to avoid accepting that kind of responsibility. Boundaries are still this strange and difficult territory for me. I guess Azure does deserve someone to stick up for her. It’s a bit of a puzzle how to do it, though. That’s not my native tool set.

Anyway, people are people. None of them are categories or functions or anything to do with you in particular. Each is an individual, and none of your expectations necessarily apply, so when you deal with them, do your best to wipe the board each time and take them as they are.

I’m just Azure. I’m not, whatever you want or expect or imagine me to be. I’m just me. Don’t try to get me to perform shit for you, to make you feel better about your grasp on the world you live in. That’s not my concern.

And same goes for anyone. Same goes for you. Be a person.

A Different Era

  • Reading time:7 mins read

I started to notice the genital changes around the 11-12 month mark. I wasn’t sure, but it’s been pretty clear for a while that stuff is happening. As it might do. And—sure, okay. To an extent, whatever. This isn’t a big priority in my life, you know.

I’ve gone into this before, but I have this sort of ambivalence toward my genitals, in the sense that I like them, find them pretty, wouldn’t change anything; have no desire for, wouldn’t see the point of, anything else. But I also don’t like to use them for anything. They’re just decor. They’re just kind of there, and flattering to me. I am so pleased that I don’t really experience random arousal the way I used to and that they generally don’t work as they did, which always bothered me. I don’t like to stimulate them. But they’re a part of me, right.

So the mechanical changes I’ve gone into, and they’ve been going on for a while. But more recent are the physical changes. And. I mean. Sure? They’re no more a surprise than any of my other changes. Even if this super bothered me, I wouldn’t change anything else I’m doing in response. There is what I can now say is obvious shrinkage, haha—to all components. I’m not whipping out calipers. But it’s noticeable. Which in combination with the changes in texture and behavior, it’s—well, interesting I guess. In some ways it sorta reinforces my identity. Kinda.

I don’t know how best to phrase it, but… well maybe like this. The two sexual partners I have had made a very emphatic and continuous deal to me about my anatomy down there. I would try to shrug it off; I guess it’s just proportional! I deflected. They assured me it doesn’t work like that, and continued to insist.

And, well. It is now working on a different scale than it was—vestigial, by comparison. Likewise my testes seem to be half the size they were; maybe not quite that far, but it’s getting there. And the whole area covered by the scrotum has shrunk and kinda smoothed out. Combine this with the very different shape that my abdomen has been taking on, with all that puffy feminine pubic padding and all, right, and it’s all kind of… different. I mean, yeah, girldick; internet; memes; words; sure. This is a thing that people talk about, and we know this. But in the specific case of me, the overall tone of everything has shifted. It’s frickin’ feminized, that whole area. And that process is ongoing—soft tissue continues to moosh around on me—but it’s also very much the current reality.

And. This is good. It’s also weird. And I guess I’m just having trouble fully wrapping my head around it. The changes mostly suit my whole self-concept, in gender and in role and in priorities and this and that and whatever. But I guess there are a couple of things I’m sort of. I’m not fully digesting yet.

One is the just—I don’t know, maybe knowing what the “before” was like in my case it makes a difference, but it feels so surreal for my pubic area to be so feminine, right, and in such a way that this feminized penis fits right in somehow, and just—it is so clearly a girl’s dick, right. It’s not masculine at all, unless you’re going to be some weirdo who genders genitals. And okay, but it’s not just about the penis or the scrotum or whatever, but the whole scenario and how it fits together and the impression it gives. And—what is my point here, exactly?

I guess, I just did not anticipate the scale or the coherence of the changes. There could just as easily be a vagina there; I could imagine one clearly—but there isn’t. There’s a penis, that looks and feels every bit as natural where it is. And I like it, and it’s good and nice. Obviously. It just feels a little surreal, I guess. I feel like I still haven’t found words for exactly what I’m feeling, or why. It’s not negative. It’s not necessarily positive either. It’s just… different, in a way I can’t quite understand yet. It’s confusing I guess.

And I guess the other thing—whee, well, uh. Again it’s not a big deal. But I used to have, I guess, a really big dick. Significantly so. Which was neither here nor there because, you know. Who cares; it was never going to be of use, etc. But now, it’s not, so much.

People in my past who… I guess never really respected me as a person, kind of… would not shut up about this particular part of my body, right. It was one more thing to objectify. And it kind of embarrassed me. But also, it was sort of an interesting thing to be aware of, right. You know, a factoid of the self. Azure actually has a really enormous cock. Not that you’d ever know! Not that more than two other people have ever seen it since I’ve been an adult!

Except, she doesn’t. Not anymore. Or, not in the same way at least. I have no real frame of reference.

And instead she has this whole other situation going on, which is interesting and confusing in its own way, and I’m not 100% sure how I feel, which isn’t to say that it’s bad. And again there are many ways to argue that it’s Good Actually. But, it’s a big change I guess.

I guess I’m sort of trading structures here. As one shrinks, others grow. My tits are their own strange situation, though it’s easier to know how to feel about them of course. And I suppose it’s a fair enough trade, all things considered. I get infinitely more from them than I ever did my dick. My penis never had anything to do with my self-image or my presentation or my concept of reality or my gender, or anything to do with me really. Again it was always just kinda… there. My breasts have changed my world in ways I never could have anticipated. They are significant to me.

I guess, maybe this is just—sometimes things pass, you know. Even things that didn’t really mean a lot to you personally, when they’re over, there can be this poignant moment. That’s done. We’ll never be back there again, huh. Weird. That world is over now.

That’s what it is. I’m pretty sure it’s like—that stupid pizza shop on the main street of the town where I grew up. It was awful, and it changed its name every five years, and never got less awful. And I’m never returning to that town again. But, I saw that it had finally closed a while back. I was never going to go back to that dump, but now I never can. Nobody will ever go there again. My memories of it are all that exist—well, mine and others’. And that feels so strange. It’s like I’ve shifted timelines.

It was always there. How could it be gone?

But, that’s life.

The Uplifting Plunge

  • Reading time:5 mins read

I absolutely needed a new bra. I’ve been feeling for a while like the camera is gaslighting me on the matter, considering the empirical data I know I have. Clearly my situation is not insignificant here, and the tools I got ain’t containing things for more than a couple minutes at a time. And that inadequacy may speak to why it’s so hard to document my boobage. Gotta keep the material in one place. That’s the point of the things. Otherwise, the meat will meander. Obviously presentation isn’t the biggest concern. I just always feel weird how in pictures it’s like, where are they?

I was so nervous of how it would fit. I’ve done the measurements so many times, I have the technique down so hard now, I knew they were correct in theory. I put all that research into different bra shapes and boob shapes and how different styles and features support things differently. I knew I should be looking at stuff like plunge bras and things with side support. But I also get things wrong, and I can’t control for outside factors. Different bra styles fit differently. Different makers do things differently. I didn’t know how the material would feel.

My first couple bras, I basically just looked for things in my then-size, that looked nice and were cheap. I had more theory going on this time, which made for more things to mess up. Theory does not necessarily map to reality! And one misses things. Frequently. I guess I was just scared of disappointment. I am so easily scared of my own emotions, is really what my problem. I needn’t be, of course. My feelings are my own. They’re not some invading force. I can just let them be what they need to be. And it’s fine; it’s normal. And It’s just a frickin bra. Chill, Azure.

So it came today. And when I unwrapped the thing I was like, oh no, did I get this wrong? Why is it so big?! I knew that sounded off. I don’t see how I could have messed up the measurements or the calculations but of course I did. How would it makes sense for me to be 34G? What kind of vanity was I injecting into this process?

…

Welp.

No, I didn’t get it wrong. It’s only that big because uh, whee!

Jesus.

So okay, I guess I really do have bigger-than-average tits huh. Fer realz even. Not just theoretically.

Ok.

Well, uh. Sure, fine. I guess I’m okay with that.

So, this one fits way differently from my previous bras. There are lots of things going into this. The band is the correct size, for one; I’m in between sizes, right, and previously opted to round up. Nope. Down is the answer for this girl.

Also this is my first bra with an underwire, which uh… really… feels unusual. This rigidity is—I mean, I’m not sure what to make of it yet. Between that and the (necessarily) tighter band, I’m getting even more of a corseting effect. It’s a major whoomph to slide into this, compared to the old ones. And that’s fine. It’s whatever. Maybe it’s good? I don’t know yet. It’s only been a few hours.

The cups work very differently also, from what I’m used to. I guess the underwire carries a lot of the weight now, and the different shape here works to a different mechanical purpose. This is a plunge bra, which is meant to be particularly suitable for my breast type, so the cups are shaped to encourage the tissue to sit a certain way. And yes, they do indeed collect it well, all in one place. But the fit is sure something to get used to. Also though it’s clear this is just about the right size for me, the opaque part of the cups just barely covers my nipples—which is, I guess, a stylistic choice? I don’t know.

My previous bras have also been lightly padded, so I don’t know how this is gonna be with the chafing and—well, another angle on the potential nipplevision situation. But I guess these things one will come to understand in time.

An result that I did not anticipate, from having my breasts supported properly for once and all sort of in one place, is that I am, uh, experiencing a kind of… a jelly effect, that I did not previously know. Like, there’s this… fluid quality, as they sit there. I’m not accustomed to this particular kind of a boing.

So whereas this seems to be something close to the right bra for me, right now, it’s kind of wild how different this is as an experience, compared to what I have known. It is indeed not the case that a bra is a bra is a bra. You change a couple of things, and they have a totally different effect on your body. I expect this won’t be the last time I think these thoughts, as my body continues to change.

(Seriously, where did all this jelly come from?)

A hilarious thing to consider is, what effect progesterone may have if I do get on that in a couple weeks. It’s only like 16 days until my next follow-up! I’m mostly after the mood stabilization, but—well. It sure is known to have its other effects, is it not.

Well, we shall see how this pans out.

Crossed Wires

  • Reading time:3 mins read

Everyone is different, right, but being aroace can and often does mean having the most bonkers inner life, even as one has no interest in seeing it manifest. Like, this is just for me. And that lets it ply on certain ideals, to elide certain logic, to do exactly what it needs to. In hindsight I can see how this might possibly have been confusing for my past partners. Every… intimately complicated relationship I’ve been party to—I’m unsure how to define half of them—has begun online, way back to 1994 or so. And my actions have never added up to the words I can spin.

It was never my goal to lead anyone on. I guess I just still am working to understand how it is that allos live really. All this stuff I see in our culture that seems so silly, that people don’t really think or behave those ways… I guess many of them do actually. It’s bizarre. Yeah, I have this whole universe that does not and never would translate to reality. I’m bursting with goo in the abstract. But, like. I just don’t feel that stuff in the concrete. I don’t comprehend it in real terms. Or want it. I just want to be me, and for that to be enough.

But it never has been. They always want the other thing. The thing that makes no sense to me, that makes me so uncomfortable. And they can never understand why I’m being so weird about it. And they make up so many stories in their own heads as to why I am the way that I am. And all the time I’m like, why don’t they even seem to like me? I thought we were friends. Why are they demanding I perform all these things for them? Why do I feel like some broken toy?

I imagine they must have their own questions. But they never communicate. They just accuse. I’m always denying them what is theirs. I’m always holding them back. I’m a cold fish. What’s the point of even having me there if I won’t fulfill my part of the bargain. And I’m just like. But, I like you. Why don’t you like me? I don’t get it. Why is it always like this?

Anyway. I guess I can see how I might seem to send mixed messages. Which sucks. I never wanted that. I’m just, you know. Me. I’m just a dumb ace girl who falls in the deepest platonic love, who adores the teeth of one person after another, who all end up being after some goal.

A Kind of Speech

  • Reading time:3 mins read

It’s not about a power dynamic, not really. I don’t do power stuff. I don’t get it. It’s about roles and ways to relate to another. I’m the receptive one. I’m so very receptive. Receptive to anything, if it’s true and it’s kind and it’s fond and made out of love for the other. I’m not the actor, never the active agent. I will not assert—except perhaps in reception. Active listening, if you will. Following up. Touching base. Making sure. Finishing a thought. Continuing the conversation. Demonstrating my interest.

There are so many ways to receive it’s hard to know where to begin. In my dreams, there is so much to do. Maybe start with four of them? One to occupy my g-spot, another my tongue. A couple on standby, maybe to lend me something to grab. And as things progress, so they swap in. I’ve been on the other end; I know these things can’t last forever. But I can, now. Or just about. As one finishes his run with me, and sends me his gift, the next steps in with his own distinct energy.

It all starts so gentle, then grows to such an eager pitch—the thrust and the slap and the rhythm and the pressure. Kind yet firm and overcome with the frenzy, sending the shudder through my perineum, radiating up all the nerves of my body. Warming my chest and my face. And that’s before even the warmth of the deposits—in me, on me, drizzling so slowly down my tummy and my breasts and what parts of my face they find. As the ones I’ve teased earlier each rotate in, find my main hole, and one by one give me what they’ve brought.

I want it. I want it all. I want the burning heat of it. The sickly slick of it. In my dreams it’s always love, it always means something. It’s never just the thing. It’s always a kind of speech. The semiotics can be so perfect I never have to question, never have to hedge. The semiotics of semen. All the signal, clarifying my being.

And as my face and my arms and my chest explode and my legs and my toes threaten to cramp forever, I want nothing but to live. To be. To exist. Right there. No rush to clean up. No shame. Just stars in my vision. Just me, being human. Just the fondness of the other. The hypothetical form to hold. The light and the music and the feel of the pillows. The lilt of the air of the fan on the ceiling, reminding me of my flesh. This awareness of the moment. This drunken existence. My femininity.

I am a real girl. As I have always been. It’s never been a mystery. But there I am. And I am reminded. And I am in love with myself, as I should be. As I was never afforded. And through that love, I love everything else.

It is worth being alive. I never really got that message.