Decidedly Obscure Human Complaints.

Prior to starting hormone therapy a few years ago, I had literally resolved to stop dating. Zilch, done, ~fin~ . It was just, too painful and triggering. Every attempt was an incredibly potent reminder of how I was trapped in a body that felt disconnected and uncomfortable. It wasn’t worth crying every single time and spiralling into weeks of hopelessness. Without intimacy, I could wear a binder and never look at myself in the nude. Easy peasy. Solution foreva! But, the idea of hormone therapy scared me. Socially, I was adverse to the idea of losing my visible queerness. Health-wise, I was terrified to head down a path that insurance companies and numerous doctors explicitly exclude and discriminate against. There's limited research that hormone therapy in persons assigned female at birth may increase cancer risk, cause liver damage, increase cholesterol, acne, etc. This aversion was further compounded by all of the seemingly insurmountable logistics, such as finding a trans-...

For almost three years now I’ve been self-injecting. The very first time my hand quivered and I literally couldn’t do it - but every injection since then? No problem. It had become such a menial automaton task that when I switched from bi-weekly injection to every week it wasn’t no thang. But then, something happened. About a month ago. I don’t know what the hell it was, but when I went to self-inject, I just … couldn’t do it. This was a little over a month ago. I remember feeling extremely frustrated and confused over the whole ordeal and eventually cracked and had a friend help me. I figured that this was just a one-time anomalous incident. But no! Ever since, every Thursday, I can’t self-inject. I couldn’t even look until last week. What the hell? Seriously. So this morning I wake up, determined to self-inject. I get the needle ready, cleanse the injection site with an alcohol wipe, go for the plunge and… nothing. Couldn’t do it. I felt closer this time, but still froz...

My apologies in advance for what will probably be my most boring blog post yet - but, ya know, it happens. It’s only bound to get worse. Anyway, whenever we do in-class surveys in my Statistics class I’m always the “outlier” (illustrated in picture over this way —>). Every time for whatever reason I’m surprised; probably because I live in an oblivious bubble on planet trans zot. More on that later. We received the following three survey questions: What is your college GPA? What was your high school GPA? What is your gender? The moral? To compare the differences. In the land of highschool, I received all D's and F's and ultimately dropped out, so I answered “1.0”. But in college, I'm doing well. ( sidenote: I actually just learned that I’m in the upper 10% a few weeks ago when I was initiated into a national honors society called Alpha Chi . My impressions of college “initiations” prior included something like spanking or drunken branding - but I only had...