The first night of playing was mostly getting all the teams in one place, going over rules and policy, and having a few quick, fun games. I fully exhausted myself by the end of the last game. It felt great. We went for drinks/food after and got a bit of socializing in.

I was sore for the next week. Muscles I haven’t used in years were complaining very loudly at me. “What have you done, girl!?!?” I think I was limping every day until our next game night.

I was worried about the logistics of playing in a league based in East Vancouver, considering i work in Richmond (near the airport) and live in Abbotsford. That’s a lot of commuting all over the place.

So far, it’s not that bad. Transit can get me close, and I can either walk, or catch a ride with a friend on the team.

The second night of playing, things took a bad turn. I took transit in to Vancouver, and decided I’d walk the 2.5 miles to the venue, as a warm up. I go walking all the time, I should be fine. I was wearing socks that didn’t cover my achilles tendon, and as a result my shoes rubbed my skin until I got some lovely water blisters on both ankles. The pain from that, affected how I was walking, and the walking itself was making me sore.

By the time I got to the school where we play, I was already fatigued, and my muscles, which had not recuperated from last week, were showing signs of being over worked. I was getting small muscle spasms. I tried to stretch as much as I could before playing, but I didn’t get enough in (I don’t think I could have stretched enough that night).

Within my first game, I pulled a quadriceps muscle in my right leg (near where I already have a muscle tear – from being equally stupid years ago). So, I played a LOT more conservatively that I would normally play. Not a lot of running, just being hyper aware of incoming throws, and making my shots count.

Somehow, I managed to play well enough to get voted ‘gold star’ (best player in the match) by the opposing team. I think it should have gone to another player on our team, but I did play decently.

The second match things got worse. I was trying not to push myself. Walking more than running, and just being mindful so I didn’t have to dodge much. I jogged up to the centre line to grab a ball, and as I reached for it, every muscle in my right leg said, “nope. You’re on your own lady,” and promptly gave out on me. I fell across the centre line (didn’t have much choice in the matter) and that put me out of the game. My calf was spasming, my hamstring was spasming, and my quads were spasming.

I figured I was done for the night. After resting, and more stretching, I was able to get in for the last game, and did not do too bad. But my leg was fucked. It still isn’t 100%, and we play again in 2 nights. And I will play.

Mentally, joining this team is huge for me. I have really missed playing team sports. Our team is not competitive. Some of us are self-competitive, but we only pressure ourselves to do better, not others. It feels very supportive. I’ve never been anything other than self-competitive. I’ve never blamed or shamed other players on a team, even when I was running on testosterone. I just wanted to play the best that I can.

I grew up as an athlete. I would say that role defined me more than any other. Athletics were also my favourite escape. When I play a sport, (and this still definitely happens) I focus on the game. Everything else fades to black. I poured myself into sports growing up because I could forget about everything else. It’s like meditating in that way for me. Gives my brain a break from all the damn over thinking it does.

I could ignore my dysphoria, my anxieties, my fears, my self esteem issues, my stressors, everything. It was and is pure relief. Nothing works better. Reading is still too cerebral, and I can have my other thoughts drift in. Gaming is a close second, but unless I’m raiding (team thing again) I don’t have that pinpoint focus that I do with sports.

Sports also offers the ability to completely physically exhaust myself. I find that being in that state, my emotional well being improves. The endorphins don’t hurt either.

So, I will keep playing as long as I can. I will try and not get more injured. And I will have fun. The only thing that will stop me from playing will be actually getting my surgery. Which, I should be a step closer to, after my appointment on Oct. 3.

It seemed to be triggered with some kind of emotional cycle I have now. I’ve had a cycle before, in my teens, it was a couple manic days every 28 days. This does not seem to have a mania. And the period (scientific term, not menstrual) is different this time – 21 days.

Every 21 days I seem to crash emotionally. At least since I started tracking, and it’s pretty exact. One was 22 days. but 4 in a row now. Usually it’s just being really emotional (for me this is saying something), and a bit depressed. It lasts a couple days, and I get better.

That didn’t happen this time.

On day 21, I woke up feeling crappy because I didn’t sleep well. That is normal enough for this cycle. I showered, and got dressed. Felt a bit better. I think we went and looked at an apartment open house, and went for coffee. That evening Teresa had wanted to get dressed up nice and go for dinner down by the ocean. I thought this would be a great way to get me to cheer up, I always like getting dolled up.

So, we headed home, got changed, and I put my hair up, put a flower hair clip in, did my makeup and that’s when things went south. I took a couple selfies because I thought I looked good, but none of the pics were looking flattering. I went to the kitchen for different lighting, and tried again. I sent one to Melissa who said I looked great. Teresa said I looked great. The more I looked at the photos, and then back to the mirror, the less great I thought I looked.

I began to hate how I looked. I eventually took the flower out, and let my hair down, which helped enough to get me out the door. The damage was done, a spiral had started. I was quiet on the drive, but was trying really hard to snap out of it. After all, I know I look somewhat attractive. People keep telling me this. I had been telling me this for the last 7 months or so. All that disappeared in a cloud of self doubt and even some self hate.

At one point I went to the bathroom in the restaurant and cried. After dinner we went and sat by the pier for close to an hour. Hundreds of people much have walked by, with no looks of disdain, or scorn, or hate. Just a few smiles, and mostly just people glancing over me, not singling me out for anything (even with purple hair).

It didn’t help how I felt at all. When we got home, I took my makeup off, and that actually eased the dysphoria a lot. I don’t know why. I had done it the way I usually do when I put a lot of effort in. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but it felt like it just accentuated all my masculine facial features.

The next day wasn’t much better. I put less makeup on, and that helped, but I was still only seeing ‘boy’. Talking with Melissa later, I figured it might have been from me being dehydrated a bit combined with non-uniform swelling from electrolysis. Subtle changes in skin can really affect how you look.

It took 5 more days until I finally saw me in the mirror again.

The makeup thing is still there though, I think. I feel way better about how my face looks with just mascara and lipstick and a touch of blush. If I start going overboard with eyeliner, or foundation, my brain is rejecting it. This is fine, but I’d like to know why or what changed.

On the flip side of this, is an amazing ability to go days without shaving, and not having dysphoria about that. My face, essentially, does not need shaving anymore. I don’t think I would be doing as well with it, if the stubble was on my face. But it isn’t on my face, it’s on my neck. And 99.5% white hair.

I’m a little worried about it in bright sunlight (white hairs tend to be fairly reflective), but so far, my feelings about it are pretty good. I’m ok with the stubble because it means less shaving (the act itself is dysphoria inducing) and it means the hairs are much easier to deal with at electrolysis.

So, just a wordy update that I wanted to get out there. Thanks, as always, for reading.

Hugs.

PS – I was able to hold off from any self harm even though the desire was super high.

Sorry it’s been a while. I’ll do an update post soon, but this is going to be a pretty specific post.

I went to see my therapist last week, as mostly a catch up session; it’d been almost a year since we’d last spoken, and I’d gone through a relationship breakup, losing friends, blood clots, surgery approval, a new relationship, changes in self image, etc…

At the end of the session, I made another appointment, and told her a few things I wanted to discuss. One was about mourning the life I never had – much in the same way I’ve mourned the child I’ll never have. This is turning into a more complicated issue.

In a discussion with my girlfriend, or actually one of her alters, I found some startling similarities with how my mind worked in that regard as well. While I don’t believe I have Dissociative Identity Disorder (I lack a few diagnostic criteria), the mechanism that my brain used is quite relatable.

I essentially created James. He (as I’ve mentioned previously, James was as close to male as I could make him) wasn’t created over night. He evolved from a need, or desire, to conform to my world. In an act of protectionism, I created this persona to present to the outside world.

That persona allowed me to:

avoid being bullied
avoid being alienated
feel less abnormal
hide and/or fit in
disguise myself
have a life

Of course it wasn’t perfect. In situations like this it never is. I was drawing on those around me to base this persona on, because as I’ve found out, it certainly was not me.

So anyway, I was chatting with her alter, and recalled that my therapist had me try and manifest James and myself in a session, to see what they might say to each other. It was more meta than actually thinking I had 2 distinct personalities (and the reason I don’t think I have D.I.D. is that they are not separate identities).

When that happened, I had a rather profound moment of James apologizing to me. I’ve written about this in the past. But we didn’t really explore more beyond that. I got really emotional, and that kind of ended the moment. Now I’m exploring that a bit deeper.

The apology was, essentially, for keeping me locked up deep down, underneath all the shit that he couldn’t deal with (which included me – he didn’t really know how to deal with me). He tried letting me out in controlled environments. But I was still caged, and I don’t just mean by location. He would not give up control, he’d just enlarge the prison a bit. This is what my ‘crossdressing’ was, and why I always had trouble moving or expressing naturally until I got rid of the James part.

In my talk with Melissa the next day, I was saying that i didn’t really forgive James for what he had done to me, even though I know he was trying to protect me (that was why I built him). She then asked if things would have been better if I had been out 10, 15, 20 years ago. No. I would have been in a lot more pain, a lot more depression, WAY more acute dysphoria, and very likely suicidal.

So, James actually did save me. I can admit that. So, I can, and do, forgive him. The real issue is that I don’t forgive myself yet. I didn’t even try to unbury myself. I never tried to wrest control from him. The one time cracks did form in his protective bubble, I tried to kill myself. I needed him for sure – he kept me alive. But where was I? The real me? I can’t blame James for me not trying to exist.

In fact, it likely was me helping keep the self denial in full effect. I whispered that I was fine with existing in private situations. Why was I okay with this for so long? Why, when I did sense freedom, did I just want to end everything? (yes, there were other circumstances in play, but still).

Early in transition, I just attributed this to being so deep under everything, that I wasn’t able to exert in any way. I don’t think that’s true. I think it was fear. I was afraid of all the things I built James to protect me from. I never faced ANY of those fears though. They MAY have been true, real fears, but not once (to my recollection anyway) had I ever been threatened with any of that.

I had been able to live without any real gendered oppression early in life. I played with wigs and skirts and stuffed animals and cars and action figures. When I saw dozens more children, eventually, in kindergarten (or maybe it even started before that, and just accelerated in K) I decided to emulate those I looked like. I know I got asked often if I was a boy or a girl. Maybe someone said something about my long hair? I don’t know.

I’m rambling. The issue is why didn’t I at least try and face my fears. Why was I so content to go the route I went. I was a fairly extroverted kid until about age 5. I distinctly remember switching from outgoing to shy. That was the point James took over. What was I hiding from so early? It’s infuriating that I don’t have a ton of memories from this stage in my life. I have vivid memories from before this. Then things are muddy for a few years. Around age 8 I start remembering things again.

So, what do I need to do to forgive myself? I can’t change the past. It’d be nice if I could remember more of my mental state back then. By the time I start remembering again I’m in full self denial. There must have been a transition stage for that. Maybe I’m putting too much responsibility on a very young mind.

Hmm, maybe that’s the problem. Ok, this kind of makes sense. Because I, buried under everything, was not always super present, maybe it took me a while to grow up. Everything was coming in under a heavily processed filter. This could explain a few other things too (such as my inner child). I shouldn’t expect that I was as hyper self aware as I am now. Of course I wasn’t. I was just a kid. We don’t know why some children self assimilate, they just do. It could even be instinctual.

I know I’m not weak. I consider myself to be very strong. I feel I’ve been thinking about this all wrong. I’ve always been driven by frustration. Every major change or decision in my life is driven by frustration. For good or bad. Maybe this was true of myself even back then. Something about how life was going at that time was frustrating me. Something I didn’t know how to even process – maybe it was, in all likelihood, dysphoria. Seems like a good enough scapegoat.

Maybe THAT was what scared me, or frustrated me at least, to bring about ‘James’. If it was something that was rational like that, I can’t even blame myself. I survived as best I could. And I DID survive. Ultimately, that’s the most important part. I am finally out from my prison. James has been integrated and no longer exists as a semi-separate entity. I’ll go into that in another post.

I’m going to process this some more, but I think I’m on a good track. It’s something that makes sense. It may not be accurate, but I don’t think I’ll ever know exactly.

*******

A brief exposition on my personalities. I have a few. Most of us do. The extent of their separation varies from person to person. People who put on their ‘game face’, or inner child, or the salesman, the teacher, the domme etc…

My personalities have a bit more separation and distinction between them.

James – The protector. The outward male persona that developed over 30+ years of hiding myself. Also the athlete and the gamer. The one that did not like eating mushrooms, raw fish, squash, food on the bone. An introvert by necessity. The filter. James doesn’t really exist as a separate persona anymore. He’s been integrated. He’s part of why I ultimately identify as non-binary. I’ve tossed aside his ridiculous parts – the filter, the strange eating rituals, the introvert. But I’ve kept the protector, the athlete, the gamer, and a bit of the masculinity (which used to worry me, but I’m cool with it now).

Jessica – me. The totality of me. Including ALL my personalities. I grew up without really having a name except maybe Jamie when I was young, but then James co-opted that. It wasn’t until I was in my 30s that I got a new name. Part of me was allowed to express in total secrecy (Starting at age 8), and then my prison got larger as friends were allowed to see some of me. They were never getting all of me though, because James (as the filter) was still there. I am VERY strong. Extroverted. Talkative. Loving. Emotional as hell.

Lyrren – my inner child. I have claimed this name for this part of me. I express my inner child at times for many different reasons. I never want to lose my ability to play, and be silly. But also this part of me is ULTRA vulnerable. Lyrren isn’t seen directly by many, except a close knit group of friends. She’s the one that does Lego, does jig-saw puzzles even after saying I don’t like puzzles, and demands I get certain stuffies. Lyrren also serves as a way for me to recapture something that was lost to me. MY childhood. I grew up fairly fast, and from age 5 up, it was more James’ childhood than mine.

There are other nameless personalities too, more like what everyone else has.

I’ve even made progress with how I feel about my breasts. They’ve been growing ever so slowly, and yesterday I was able to go without a bra for the first time since June. Maybe I let my guard down because things were going so well.

Today started off well enough, but then after my shower I had to shave. And that’s when things went sideways. For some reason the hair on my upper lip and my chin were very problematic today. I wound up bleeding and splotchy right in the most prominent area of my face.

Then I was seeing masculine features again in my face. At this point I’m not sure if that was psychological or real. It doesn’t matter, my brain saw it. I broke down. Then after about 10 minutes of waterworks, I pulled myself together and covered the scabs and redness with foundation.

The rest of the afternoon/evening I was feeling normal again, until I got home from school. Then it hit me again. So, I cried a bunch more, and decided to write this post.

My coping mechanisms are working and I did not resort to self harm. Crying is still my best defence. I also played some video games to release more stress. And my support network also came through (I only needed a couple people to talk to and it helped). I’m hoping tomorrow will be a better day, and that today was just a one-off because of school stress, and a buildup of emotional fatigue. It feels like that is what it was.

It still takes effort to go out, no matter how confident I am. That effort builds up over time, and eventually I need to reset. I’m going to leave my homework for tomorrow and try and sleep this off.

Thanks for reading,
Jessica

The train trip itself down to California, was pretty cool. I was seated next to Karen. A lovely woman from Eugene, Oregon. She was originally from Denmark, so I actually had quite a bit to talk to her about, as I had spent many hours around Danes. I did not need my mp3 player until she got off the train many hours later. I even got a hug.

Also of note, I was not the only transwoman on the train. There was one other (that I saw) and she commented on my purple/burgundy outfit, so that was nice. It looked like she was with 3 or 4 other people, so I didn’t wind up talking to her at all.

Dinner was interesting, as I had decided to partake of the dining car reservation. When I got to the table, there was already a gentleman seated ahead of me. It was quickly apparent that he was not very social. We exchanged names, and destinations. After a bit I tried to initiate conversation again, and we had a very stilted conversation about Vancouver.

Thankfully, a couple (man and woman) got seated with us pretty quick. They were much more chatty. They were from Oregon as well, and it seems I tend to get along really well with people from there. Must be a forest/coastal/ocean thing. Conversation went from Canada/US differences, to local govt infrastructure idiocy. Dinner was really good, but portions were smallish, and VERY expensive.

I managed to get a little bit of sleep on the train, and the rest of the trip was mostly me watching Monty Python on my Sony Walkman.

I arrived in Sacramento about half an hour before I was supposed to. Luckily Melissa is like me, and likes to arrive places half an hour ahead of time, otherwise we feel late. So, she actually showed up about 5 minutes after I got outside the station (as I was trying to find wifi to send her a message).

My face must have lit up when I saw her, but it was very cold, and I was so tired, so we only managed a hug before getting into the warm car. It was at this point that I knew this was going to work. Without ever having been around her before, it all just felt so comfortable. I slid my hand across to her thigh, as we drove to get some breakfast.

The 13 days went by so fast, but I feel we got a lot out of them. We saw Star Wars Rogue One in IMAX 3D, saw Cirque Du Soleil: Luzia in San Fransisco, had ostrich burgers at Fudruckers, walked a bit around the San Fran waterfront, ate a lot of amazing home cooked meals (Melissa is a wonderful cook), gamed together, slept together, showered together, but more important than any of that, is we got to touch.

We are so completely compatible. We are so incomprehensibly similar, and yet any differences we have are perfectly synergistic. It’s like we were made for each other. Even after dating for a few months now, we both marvel at how good we are for each other.

I cried a lot on the last day. I didn’t want to leave. Maybe it was a good thing the train coming home was so horrendously late, and that I didn’t sleep well on it. I was over tired, and the tears seemed to stop. The last few nights have been tearful though. I figured this would happen after finally being with her. I’m prepared for it, and I’ll continue to cry, because it’s how I deal with it. I have amazing friends that will distract me from missing her as much as I do. And of course, we talk every day.

Neither of us knows what our future is. Nothing can be figured out until we’ve both had our surgeries. Until then, since we both identify as non-monogamous, we’ll try and find other partners that are close for now, probably just casual things. That being said, we will be together sooner than later. Where? Who knows at this point. I’m willing to move to her. She’s willing to move to me. Whichever makes more sense when the time comes.

I have known Melissa for quite a few years. We were introduced to each other in an online game (World of Warcraft). At the time, we were both still trying to pass as guys. We wound up in the same guild, and spent many weekends raiding together. I developed an actual affinity for this person, and was genuinely sad when she missed a weekend, or I had to miss a weekend.

A brief description of what ‘raiding’ is. For us, it was a mostly disorganized attempt to kill boss monsters as a group of 10 players who all got along more or less and didn’t yell at each other as we died many times. Somehow, this was fun for us. We were WAY more successful than we had any right to be. *lol*

Melissa played a character named Gnomerology – a gnome (duh) mage. I played a an elf (again duh) priest. Most of the time we were both filling damage inflicting roles. Meaning we went pew pew pew a lot.

When raiding, some semblance of communication is required, so we all used a program called Ventrillo which allowed us to speak to each other with headsets. This is where a lot of the camaraderie developed between all of us. Speaking allows you to convey more information, and at a faster speed, than typing. So you wind up getting to know people a lot better.

Gnomer and I developed a rather healthy competition each week to see who could do more damage throughout the raid, and thus claim that it was her or I (or Sunilt – rarely *lol*) that made the day successful. (as opposed to the healers or the tanks)

When she quit playing, about a year before I did, I actually missed her. And we lost contact with each other.

Fast forward a few years, and I had our Guild Mother on my friend list on Facebook, and she happened to still be in touch with Melissa. This is when I get a fairly random message from her…

“Pssst! Remember Gnomerologyyyyyyyyyy?
“Xxxxxxxx” has become Melissa, and is just starting her own journey. I was just wishing her well, as she had posted new pics and her announcement.”

In the last 6 to 8 weeks, I have developed really good self esteem.

Never in my entire life did I think I would ever have this feeling. I was sure that every time I looked in a mirror, I would see all the things that are ‘wrong’ with my face and ‘wrong’ with my body, because that was how I always saw my reflection. I had even, cursorily, considered surgery to possibly correct a few things.

Granted, things had gotten better with my body feminization from hormones. I was really loving my body more than I ever had before. I think developing that definitely helped with this overall feeling. Of course, there’s still one thing I need to correct with that, but I know that will happen.

The main part of this high self esteem is coming from my face. I am simply not seeing my past at all in the mirror. None of my features look particularly masculine to me anymore. Yes, hormones have affected my face some, but I don’t think to the degree that I am seeing. I think this is just as much mental as it is physical.

When I have low self esteem, all the little things stand out as ‘wrong’ or ‘manly’ or ‘ugly’ etc… That’s not happening anymore. Instead, I’m seeing all the little things that stand out as ‘right’ or ‘womanly’ or ‘pretty’ and they are overriding the negative view.

I keep mentioning to the people that I’ve talked about this with, that it is such a bizarre feeling. I’ve cried several times just walking in to the bathroom because the image in the mirror, to me, looks 100% acceptable and beautiful to me.

The opposite of dysphoria is euphoria. I do feel kind of euphoric. The only thing that has caused me any dysphoria lately has been shaving, and winding up with razor burn on my neck. It’s just weird I tell you. There’s no reason for me to have developed this feeling, other than from any actual changes that have occurred from hormones.

I’ve always had a confidence about myself since self-acceptance. This makes that confidence take a bit less effort to maintain. I’m glad for it, and to those that I keep mentioning this to, I’m sorry. I just need time to adapt I guess.

Many of you already know, but I think most do not. Teresa and I are no longer a romantic/sexual couple.

There are a myriad of reasons for this, and I’m not going to go into the details publicly at this point (if ever).

It is not because I’m a woman. I’m the one who has lost the romantic spark, not Teresa. Teresa did everything right (for the most part) to keep us together during my transition. Transition did play a role, but not in the way most relationships fail during transition.

This actually happened many many months ago, and I/we tried to work on it.

We still love each other, and support each other. We’ve both committed to helping the other change careers. Our dynamic is different now though. More like sisters or best friends. We don’t fight nearly as much, and we don’t hurt each other as much either. This is a good thing.

We sleep in our separate rooms more often than not lately. We’re not against sleeping together, but with my school schedule, it makes sleeping in the same room difficult. Our finances are separate now as well for the most part. It’s like having a roommate again.

I have a fair amount of guilt over this. Logically, I don’t believe either of us are to blame. It’s something that happened, and not on purpose. But, as I’m the one that was not able to rekindle certain feelings, emotionally, I feel to blame.

The guilt is lessened by the fact Teresa is in a great relationship with someone. I would feel a lot worse if she were feeling alone during this. I still have that protector mentality, and when I hurt someone, it shakes me to my core because it’s the antithesis of what I’m about.

That is sometimes, why I make the mistake of not being honest with someone when I need to. Because I don’t want to hurt them, I try too hard not to, and then it all blows up in my face. I’m getting better at this, but I still fuck it up from time to time. Quite recently in fact.

So, anyway, we don’t know exactly what the future holds for us. For now, we’re still married and not legally separated or anything. It’s likely that will change, especially as our own personal relationships change, though we will always be in each others lives.

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My blood clot treatment is over. It was over August 7th. I could have gone back on estrogen at that time. Instead I decided to get a tattoo and some more piercings. Things that I wanted for me. Things that I can’t really do while on blood thinners (the piercings maybe, but I wanted to be safe).

I’m very glad I got the tattoo and the piercings. They have helped my mood immensely. I look down at my tattoo (even in its healing phase) and am filled with senses of determination, strength, and joy. It will always be a beacon to me, keeping me going.

There’s a lot of symbolism in the image. The overall image is that of a dragon – an intelligent, beautiful and strong creature. Things I aspire to be. The design is abstract, with both the colours and the line art of the dragon itself. This was important to me for this piece, as it signifies the ways in which I think. The lines are graceful, something else I try to be.

The semi-colon has become a significant symbol for suicide survivors. In literary terms it allows an author to continue a sentence, when he could have ended it. As you readers know, I attempted suicide some 22 years ago, and I survive 3 people in my life (including my best friend) succumbing to suicide. The beautiful tail of the dragon points to the spot where I held my box cutter, just barely breaking my skin, for half an hour, as I cried kneeling on the floor.

The piercings don’t have as much meaning to me. I just have wanted them for a long time. And I love the earrings I got…