Latest Posts by pamprinninja - Page 3

Dress-up

An interesting aspect of the trans experience is looking back on one’s former life, and inspecting certain signs, behaviors, interests and activities through the lens of hindsight.

In this particular instance: for many years I have enjoyed video games in which one can control the appearance of the various player characters. I have spent considerable time armoring my rogues, outfitting my Sims, and coordinating the ring attire of virtual pro-wrestlers.

It occurred to me recently that I was in some respects engaging in a kind of ersatz dress-up. Much like actual dress-up, I also now find the skills that I developed being applied in my day-to-day fashion choices: pairing tops and bottoms, socks and shoes, and so on.

I can’t even begin to untangle what aspects of a person's behavior are based on their biology and others, their social identity; but it’s fascinating, digging up these examples where - even while boxed in by the gender expectations of that time and place - I was seeking, and finding, ways to escape that jail.

To my followers

I know that a number of the people following me fall into one of two categories: those that are trans but remain closeted; and those that have an interest in (and please excuse me for any incorrect use of terminology) the femboy and / or sissy lifestyle.

To the people in the first group: I see you! You are valid. If you ever want to talk to someone about how to take those next steps, please don’t hesitate to send me a message.

To the people in the second group: if you’re just following me for your own personal, uh, ‘enjoyment’ - that’s okay! I take no offense. Live your life!

I will say that for a long time, I did something very similar: lurked in the shadows, and lived the trans experience vicariously through the lens of fetishism.

(In fact, the very moment I knew I was trans came when another trans person gave an example of a lie they had told themselves in their past life: “It’s just a fetish”; words I too had previously uttered.)

So if you think maybe you are more in the first group than you initially realized... feel free to reach out to me too. I don’t hold all the answers, but I might just have the questions you need to figure things out.

A year in review: 2021 edition

Tracking my transition progress!

There have been lots of big developments this year: I returned to the office as Lauren (the last and biggest social hurdle); began trauma therapy; attended CONvergence in Minneapolis; started my journey as singer, piano player, and guitarist; and gained new friends.

For what was in many respects Pandemic Year: Redux, it’s been a productive time. (Although the way 2022 is shaping up...)

Silencer

My company had its employees work remotely for much of the pandemic. In June, with the widespread availability of vaccines and the dropping infection rate, we were recalled to the main office.

This was, personally, a terrifying prospect; for I had left the office a Lawrence, and returned as Lauren. Acceptance of my transition was overwhelmingly positive; but such events took place during the remote work era.

Put simply: in-person is a different matter.

Put bluntly: I was deeply frightened of now having to share a bathroom with my cis female coworkers; and how they might react to my presence.

For weeks and weeks post-recall, I tried to time my bathroom breaks in such a way that I never interacted with another employee. I wouldn’t enter the restroom if it was occupied; I would hide in my stall if others should enter the space.

Eventually the inevitable occurred, and I crossed paths with my coworkers. Some were obviously surprised at my (wholly logical) presence; but remained true to their word on embracing the new me.

I’m not sure I will ever quite shake the fear of a bathroom interaction gone bad; but for now, matters are manageable.

This does however bring me to a wholly unexpected observation, and the title of this post.

It’s a multi-stall bathroom. There were times where cis-women were present, and using a stall for one of its many intended purposes: peeing. Not just peeing, but peeing loudly. It was if someone had turned the spigot on a hose pipe!

The difference was only noticeable because I had, at times, found myself also trying to pee; and as stealthily as possible at that. Where theirs was a torrential downpour, mine was but an imperceptible and gentle stream.

It was in one of these strange moments of comparison that it occurred to me that I was capable of such feats - and they were not - because, anatomically-speaking, I am currently equipped with a silencer... And this metaphor has not left me since!

Two more tests

For the duration of my tenure with my current employer, there has been an IT Guy. He is older than me, and has twice as much practical experience.

Unfortunately, he is prone to failures of common sense. I know him as someone that chooses his tools based on his own personal level of interest (as opposed to their suitability), and frequently over-complicates each and every task in front of him.

It is not possible for him to be removed from the company; therefore he has instead been moved to a position in which his ability to disrupt IT proceedings has been minimized: that of company compliance officer.

For the most part he has left IT alone, except for occasionally requiring that we demonstrate our systems have various redundancies and backups in place. (This was spurred, in part, to mitigate against the possibility of a production system resource group being inadvertently deleted... after he did just that.)

A few weeks ago I walked into the kitchen to find him wearing a mask (uncharacteristic) and blowing his nose loudly. “Don’t worry!” he said, “It’s not COVID”! (Truly, confidence-inspiring.)

Well, wouldn’t you know it but a few days later both I and a fellow IT employee get hit with The Cold From Hell. So... I had to go get another test done. (Thankfully, no insane pipe-cleaner swab this time.) Fortuitously, it was negative.

All the same, my long weekend was ruined by the misery of illness. I return to the office, and have a talk with my boss about how our compliance officer - the man chiefly responsible for ensuring business continuity (i.e. that everything keeps working in the event of a crisis) - brought a transmissible illness into our work environment during a pandemic.

A week, nearly two goes by; and I suddenly develop a sore throat (welp) as Omicron numbers soar. My spouse - who contracted the cold from me - is likewise experiencing chest symptoms. So off we go, again, to get tested.

The chief reason I keep returning to the same testing location is because they do not require appointments, they are quick, and turnaround on results is usually within the hour. Thus, imagine my surprise when I see that the parking lot is completely filled with cars, and learn that turnaround time is now closer to six hours.

This Omicron business is something else. Part of my would like to write in detail about how we’re (a) right back to square one in terms of required measures to prevent transmission (quarantine; mask mandates; public gathering limits) and how (b) absolutely none of these things are happening.

i will defer for present. I was so convinced this time around that COVID had caught up to us; because I have never experienced before a common cold that caused a sore throat weeks after initial sinus symptoms; and this revelation initiated a twenty hour-long panic attack. I am desperately trying to put such things out of mind at present.

Suffice to say: the tests were negative. I am in many respects glad; but also concerned (for the cold is doing a real number on my lungs, and I worry how that might compound an actual COVID infection). Such is life.

I’m not sure there’s any moral in this story; other than the general sense that we could have handled the pandemic far better, were it not for the widespread lack of common sense that my coworker typifies... And that I am very much fed up of having my bodily integrity violated with sample collection swabs.

The second song is now up for preview from my friend’s new album, Sleepyhead. It is by turns pretty, and pretty raw; go listen now!

Blue Hair

I popped into the mall today to see if the meat and cheese stall had bacon jam in stock. (They did not). I was deep into the act of perusing the other products when a tiny voice rang out:

“I love your hair!”

I turned to see a little girl of perhaps five years, dragging her parents to a standstill just to impart this critical message. “Well - thank you!”, I replied.

Then, in the indomitably declarative fashion that only young children can manage, she responded with: “IT’S BLUE”!

Yes. Yes it was.

It’s been a long and arduous day; but this one interaction was an absolute highlight, and one I will cherish!

Piano: addendum

To continue the metaphor: if playing the piano is analogous to Dance Dance Revolution, then the the right-hand A# in the ascending F major scale is some sort of special arrow where when you step on it, it explodes and kills you!

ADHD

Ah, so.

What can I say?

My daughter was diagnosed with inattentive-type ADHD this year. I also have three adult friends that are very open about their struggles with the disorder. Between the four of them, I've learned a great deal about the issue.

As often happens in these sorts of situations, I started to see the kind of symptoms they were describing in myself. It went from "Ah, I can relate" to "Why am I in this picture?" to "Wow, I seriously need to get myself checked out". (The straw that broke the proverbial camel's back was a set of compliance courses my employer requires be completed each quarter. The courses themselves are, empirically-speaking, poorly designed; but I struggled with them to such an extent - and my peers did not - that it really highlighted that we weren't having the same experience.)

There has already been an initial assessment; and the takeaway was that I most likely had ADHD too and that a fuller assessment was warranted (which is now scheduled for February).

In the interim, well: in the last three years I've transitioned; begun treatment for PTSD; and now, apparently, discovered that I require treatment for ADHD also.

I am familiar with the gross unfairness of only getting the help I need with the first two so late in life; and fully expect the same sort of feelings to hit me at some point regarding the latter. This hasn't happened yet; but we shall see.

(Not to mention: how the hell did I make it this far in life - let alone remain sufficiently functional to build a career and support my family - with three major irregularities in my brain structure and chemistry? I'm honestly nonplussed.)

My friend has a new album in the works; and released a preview of the title song: Sleepyhead. It’s an achingly beautiful piece; go take a listen.

Piano

The more I learn about playing the piano, the more I am convinced that it it is fundamentally analogous to Dance Dance Revolution - but with ten legs, and eighty-eight pads...

Unexpected HRT side-effect #16: addendum

I mentioned previously that - improbable though it seems - HRT has awoken in me a love of all things spicy.

That particularly journey began with my friend A; who developed her own love of hot sauce when she transitioned, and shared it with me.

I now find out, completely independently, that my adopted daughter P - also well on her hormone therapy way - has suddenly discovered a fascination with hot foodstuffs.

As much as I report on such phenomena with my tongue firmly in cheek, I'm beginning to think that this might an actual measurable side effect!

For a friend

I finally completed a painting for a friend:

This person has done so much to help me in my transition; I wanted to do something in return, and commemorate her two wonderful cat sons.

The line art for the cats came together fairly quickly; but then I found myself stumped for months on end as to how to effectively transfer it to the canvas. (Ideally I would have projected it on to the surface and traced over the top; but that would require, you know, a projector of some kind.)

To complicate matters - the lines were inked with a fine point marker; but the canvas would not absorb the ink and the ink would not dry. It was in incredibly frustrating experience, constantly finding new smears and smudges. Next time I will try a permanent marker instead.

(That being said: I fully recognize that much of the issue comes down, as always, to my belligerent insistence on mixing mediums that simply don't belong together. This kind of canvas is really designed more for acrylic and oil paints; I'm the lunatic trying to apply ink and watercolor.

Pain tolerance

Last week I happened to have an electrolysis appointment, followed immediately by a laser hair removal appointment.

Electrolysis involves permanently destroying the roots of undesired hairs with a fine-tipped, superheated needle. It smarts; but is generally bearable.

Matters change however in areas of the body with high numbers of nerve endings - like the upper and lower lips. Which is where the hairs are. On my face.

My electrologist is very aware of how much discomfort this procedure produces; and does her best to minimize the pain. All the same: it's common for her to end sessions with the phrase "You can breathe now". It's a literal instruction; in the last few minutes I will hold my breath in an attempt to ignore the pain.

(I cannot, alas, grit my teeth; as this would flex the very muscles underlying the areas my electrologist is working on.)

At my laser appointment, I discovered that my regular technician had left the clinic; and that my session would be conducted by a replacement.

Now, said technician was incredibly nice and did everything she could to put me at ease. (This was wise; it takes courage as a trans person to disrobe around strangers.) No complaints there.

I also know that in my prior sessions, I had the laser practically set to "Max". (The settings aren't quite that simple, mind you; I understand that the technician can control the size and intensity of the laser pulse, and the wavelength and how far it penetrates into the skin.)

High settings result, of course, in more discomfort. The treatment works by (once again) superheating the roots of unwanted hairs; albeit in patches approximately the size of a quarter. Where electrolysis involves singular, painful pokes in the skin, laser hair removal is more akin to sudden explosions of pain below the surface.

If there's no hair in the area, you feel nothing. If there's a lot of hair, it can really sting. (God help you if there's a long, ingrown hair snaking its way under the skin!)

I let the technician know I was okay with higher settings. (Another consideration: laser is, on a per-hair basis, extremely fast; but it is also not cheap. Turning down the power is an exercise in avoiding discomfort now, only to have to pay for additional treatments later; it's not a compromise I was willing to make.)

Well, I don't know what she set the machine on - I'm currently guessing some kind of wavelength with greater penetration of the skin -because she zapped my collarbone (where there is notably no visible hair) and I about screamed.

The only time I've felt laser light-related pain of this magnitude was (a) the aforementioned ingrown hair scenario, and (b) when my technician used a new machine that was later determined to be "Running hot".

(The latter actually left a couple of burn marks on the skin; they looked like dark splotches. Given their unfortunate location, one could posit - most inaccurately - that I had known carnal relations with a cephalopod.)

As painful as those experiences were, they were also isolated (perhaps one zap in every ten or twenty). This was just... constant. I was glad to be wearing a mask, so that my technician could not see me clenching my jaw; beads of sweat were running down my forehead. It was bad.

I came within a hair's breadth of tapping out and asking my technician to dial the power back; but again, could not stomach the cost. (A prevalent issue: American healthcare is needlessly costly; trans healthcare more so, do it's perceived elective nature.)

Things actually got better until we got to the lower inside portion of my left forearm, which again was agonizingly painful. I have no idea why this was the case - there's virtually no hair there; there were no visible marks left from the procedure.

(Sometimes you find small, yellow bruises from small blood vessels that were accidentally zapped; no evidence of that here either.)

It's still sore in that area; four days later. Whatever happened there was clearly non-trivial, and something I will bring up with my technician next time I see them. (This is also a prevalent theme: me trying to power through things I bloody well shouldn't.)

Anyhow, I mention all of this solely to state that the stupid pipe-cleaner swab they used in today's nasopharyngeal test was somehow worse than both being stabbed with electricity and shot full of lasers, and that I hope wherever the people are that designed the blasted thing, that their day is ruined!

Another Test

It came to my attention this afternoon that a colleague had left the office on Friday, feeling unwell; and come Saturday had tested positive for COVID. This individual is someone that works two offices down for mine and is often in close proximity.

This meant, of course, that it would be wise of me to go get tested again. The last time I was tested, it triggered a lengthy flashback.

(As always, I stress: my response to these kinds of medical scenarios is a result of my PTSD, and not an indictment of medicine. Get tested, get vaccinated, protect yourselves and others!)

Anyhow: I wasn't super thrilled about this turn of events, and let my boss know that I was heading out and most likely would not be back for the day. He did very kindly point out that we had some test kits in-office (allegedly; nobody seemed to know where); to which I countered that the last thing my coworkers needed to see was me in tears.

Fast forward: the system for registering an appointment at the test site worked well this time; and apart from a small hiccup (they had moved a mile down the road to a new location), everything was pretty much the same. The technician asked me to sit in the car and came back with a swab and sample vial.

Now, here's where things differed slightly: when my spouse was initially tested (all the way back at the start of the pandemic), the swap took the form of an elongated Q-Tip. Having this pushed all the way to the back of the sinuses was unpleasant; but I understand the discomfort subsided quickly as soon as the test was completed.

When I was tested for the first time, the swap had clearly been updated with comfort in mind: there was a thin, flexible plastic stem with a small, soft, sponge on the tip. It wasn't inserted fully into the sinus, and frankly, there was no pain or discomfort to speak of.

This is what I was expecting to see again; so imagine my unpleasant surprise when the technician withdrew from its sterile wrapping what I can only describe as a fiercely-bristled pipe cleaner.

The technician proceeded to tell me to hold my breath for five seconds, which was also a new and highly discouraging change in procedure.

I warned her that I might be somewhat unresponsive after the test was administered and not to take that personally; and she understood. Then came the part where I tilted my head back, closed my eyes, and felt this monstrosity enter my left nostril. The technician counted to five while sawing this thing back and forth along every side of my sinus cavity.

To be clear: I am no stranger to unpleasant sensations (which I will note shortly). This, however, was absolutely misery-inducing. I broke down crying the moment the technician turned away from me.

Six hours later, and my sinuses still hurt. They itch, constantly; and my nose has been running all evening. I cannot possibly fathom which person thought it was a good idea to take what was already an invasive, annoying test - and make it infinitely worse.

Eyeliner

I ran out! I have one of those twisty little plastic eyeliner pencils, and this morning the tip broke off and that was it - no more eyeliner left in the pencil!

I'm so excited; I used up my first eyeliner pencil!

Unexpected HRT side-effect #16

So I had Nongshim Black ramen for lunch; I was snacking on original-flavor Takis; and thinking about making chicken for dinner and liberally heaping Lousiana hot sauce on top.

It occurred to me: when did I start eating so many spicy foodstuffs?

Not that I was ever spice-averse; but in my prior life, I certainly didn't seek the stuff out. Now, however, I cannot get enough heat (with the proviso that it's cut with lots and lots of acid; spiciness by itself isn't particularly fun).

I would attribute this particular zag to a routine change in taste; but the exact thing happened to my friend A also once she started her HRT regimen. So - what I lost in temperature tolerance, I apparently now make up for in love of heat!

Malapropism

Recently my singing instructor has had me practicing runs (i.e. moving up and down notes within a single sung word). It's a lot of fun, and especially welcome given that it allows me to practice while working around the lingering effects of the cold I caught six months ago.

My instructor is all about helping me understand precisely which parts of my vocal system I'm engaging at any particular time; and that end she asked me: "When you are singing this run, where do you feel it?"

"Kind of... at the back of my throat?" I answered.

"Ah, okay. So you feel it in your..." - and I saw the gears whirring - "...vulva"?

At that point our eyes met; and we both burst into laughter.

"Uvula! I meant uvula!" she yelled.

Now my instructor can't wait to share this particular mix-up with her whole family; and I get to tell people that there are apparently even more esoteric singing techniques than I was originally aware!

Escalator

While attending CONvergence, my friend and I needed to translate from one floor to another. Fortuitously, the venue had built an efficient escalator system for just this purpose.

As we escalated, a teenage girl (I presume; pronouns were not established) followed behind me. "I like your bag", she said; looking at all the little Mikus on the flap. There was a pause, and then she added, "I like your pins".

There are four pins on the rear of the bag - Amaterasu of Ōkami fame; one that reads "Hormone Therapy Club" and another, "Protect Trans Kids". (The fourth, less controversially, exclaims "Mom Vibes".)

"I wish the kids at school would stop calling me the f-slur". She said this with such quiet sadness in her voice. I didn't know what to say; couldn't say anything. It broke my heart.

We both stopped off at the next floor, and turned in opposite directions. I turned back. "Hey!" I yelled. "It will get better, okay? It will get better." That's the best I could manage.

I hope, wherever she is now, she's happy.

Parallel

Recently, there has been a spate of articles in the following format: "Anti-vaccination, anti-mask advocate dies from COVID complications". Sometimes as often as one or two a day.

I don't take pleasure in the passing of others; even those that are ideologically opposed to me. From the perspective of our collective well-being, they are at best dangerously misguided and at worst, sociopathic. However, they also had friends, family, loved ones; and they will be missed.

I do feel it appropriate to note that the net value of humanity has gone up in their absence; which I consider a sufficiently damning indictment.

More so however, an interesting parallel has presented itself:

The onset of the AIDS epidemic claimed the lives of numerous gay men; men that could have gone on to become speakers, organizers, leaders in their community. They were handed a death sentence by a disease they had no forewarning of, no knowledge as to how they might protect themselves; and as a result, an entire generation of the 'G' portion of LGBT advocacy is simply... missing.

President Ronald Reagan's slothful response to the issue, and the general mischaracterization of AIDS by social regressives as a wrathful, immorality-seeking illness are well documented.

There is now an irony to be found: that these same people are seeing their membership chipped away by a virus that they deny is real, is contagious, is dangerous.

There is a key difference, of course: these people have been offered all of the tools necessary to protect themselves; they simply have chosen not to use them.

Again, I don't delight in their suffering. I am, however, interested to see how the landscape of conservative advocacy will be reshaped by the needless loss of these people.

Interview

So; a funny thing happened at work today!

We're trying to hire in a junior developer. My boss is great at interviewing; but software development is outside of his area of expertise (he's more of a network / infrastructure guy), so he really wanted my input on this.

I straight-up told him: "You need another me; a generalist that can do everything from front-end to back-end, and more importantly, can figure out how to do things they have no prior experience with".

Fast-forward: we have a candidate coming in for an in-person interview. Two items peak my interest:

She's female. (This absolutely shouldn't be remarkable; but unfortunately, there is still a very, very heavy gender imbalance in the software world.)

Her name was simultaneously contemporary and fashionable, yet rare.

This really made me wonder... And my suspicions were confirmed when I entered our conference room and saw that she had bright blue hair.

I can only wonder what her thought process was - how intimidating it must be to walk into a prospective job interview as a trans woman, only for one of the interviewers to be introduced.... as a trans woman.

It was a good interview. Afterwards I told my boss: "When I say you need another me, I didn't mean literally"!

The final decision isn't mine to make; but part of me really hopes that she gets the job. I see a lot of my younger self in her (outside of the obvious parallels); and I would love to be able to mentor a neophyte developer, in much the same way that I was tutored by my friend and colleague.

In my experience, there are four approaches:

Take an existing name, and translate it into a unisex or opposite-gendered equivalent. (I went from 'Lawrence' to 'Lauren'.)

Select a different - but otherwise traditional - name. (Often this is as simple as a person seeing or hearing a name and thinking "I like that; I could be a _____".)

Choose a name with symbolic connotations. (I know a devout trans girl that settled on 'Faith'; and another that chose 'Phoenix' for fairly obvious reasons.) This option appears to be particularly popular with non-binary individuals.

Create a new name from whole cloth; running letters together until something unique and lyrical emerges.

Of course, one can combine these approaches in various ways. (One girl I know chose a new first name; and then converted her original first name into a female equivalent, and made that her new middle name.)

As for suggestions? Well, that depends on what direction your child wants to go in. Do they want to retain the spirit of their current name? Then seek out other-gendered versions. Are they looking for something different? You could stroll through a baby name website together. Perhaps a more representational name? Then discuss how they see themselves and how they want others to see them.

Lastly: don't feel pressured to get this right first time. Let your child try different names on; call to them by their new name, and see how they feel. Even if you get all the way down the road to a legal name change, there's generally very little preventing you from changing it something else if needed.

(I mentioned that I went from 'Lawrence' to 'Lauren'; I skipped over the year in between I spent as 'Lawrie'. It's okay to take your time on this!)

So like, if you’re a parent whose child not only trusts you enough to discuss their trans journey egg hatchery with you, but asks for your input on their new name-

Like, that’s a big deal and you’d want to do right by them, right? So how would you go about finding/making suggestions? Aside from avoiding names prevalent in pop culture and/or that can be overtly or incidentally connected to people/things that suck.

Struck a nerve

Every two weeks I inject estradiol into my upper thigh muscle. There are six sites to choose from - the inner, middle, and outer surfaces of each leg - which I rotate through.

I'm a fan of middle thigh area. It's very easy to get a nice, perpendicular needle insertion. (The inner and outer thighs are trickier, often necessitating holding the needle at an angle or in a way where my own hand obscures the target.)

My last shot was into the right middle thigh. Perfect! I readied the syringe, swabbed the skin with an alcohol wipe, let it dry, pulled the skin taught, darted the needle in and screamed.

See, you can't really see what's under the skin; so sometimes you hit something on the way in that you shouldn't - like a blood vessel. I have an unerring ability to find blood vessels. It sucks, and it's unpleasant, but bearable.

This wasn't a blood vessel. It was a nerve.

There was probably a good minute or so of straight crying - needle sticking straight up out of my thigh, a tiny monument to my act of self-sabotage. Eventually I calmed down enough to inject the syringe contents and clean up.

I get that these sorts of things will happen when you routinely stab yourself on a fortnightly schedule but all the same, that was an experience I hope never, ever to repeat!

Gardasil

During my last check-up, I got my first shot of the Gardasil HPV vaccine. The administering nurse did mention at the time that it would sting; and I say that she lied, it is only in the sense that the sensation was closer to what I would describe as a tremendously uncomfortable burning.

(I've accidentally achieved a similar effect when injecting my estradiol, by giving the alcohol I swab my skin with insufficient time to evaporate before inserting the needle.)

I did some research afterwards to see if there was an explanation as to why the vaccine had developed this reputation; the manufacturer indicated that the discomfort was the result of "Virus-like particles" in the vaccine content (which strikes me as a cop-out if ever there was one).

Today was my second shot; and playing a hunch, asked my nurse to try injecting the vaccine slowly. This was hardly a scientific test, but she kindly agreed and the injection experience was definitely more tolerable.

I am most certainly not medically trained; but I was instructed by my endocrinologist's office to administer my own estradiol and progesterone shots as slowly as possible. (My takeaway was that injecting a sizeable amount of fluid into a muscle at high speed causes unnecessary trauma to the surrounding tissue.)

Conversely, I've noticed that vaccine administration is usually done extremely quickly - I assume in part because the amount of fluid injected is much smaller; and also to minimize the length of the procedure. (You really don't want the patient to get restless and move while the needle is still inserted...)

It appears the Gardasil vaccine might utilize a larger amount of fluid; and a thicker medium, also. These things being true, I can see how rapidly injecting the stuff could be a lot more unpleasant versus most other vaccines.

So: if you're getting the shot for yourself, or for your loved ones - maybe ask the administrator to go slowly?

Dose three?

It is currently being reported that the federal government will shortly recommend that all two-shot vaccine recipients receive a third booster shot, approximately eight months after their second dose.

(Recommendations on boosting the single-shot vaccines are still being formulated.)

On the one hand: I'll do whatever it is I have to do to ensure the safety of my friends, family, and others; if that means getting a third dose of COVID vaccine, then so be it.

On the other hand: I've detailed previously how the first two doses each triggered a week of vicious flashbacks. (I still don't know why - I'm literally typing this right now with an arm sore from my second round of Gardasil; no major mental upsets.)

So... chances are sometime around the end of the year, the spouse, daughter and I will go round three on shots... And I will have to set aside time for another nervous breakdown.

(There's also a conversation to be had about the wisdom of Americans consuming three doses of vaccine each at a time when much of the world is struggling for adequate supply; although I am currently thinking of this as more an exercise in half of America taking the vaccine doses of the other half to protect themselves from the aforementioned other half that won't take their damn vaccine doses!)

Unexpected HRT side-effect #15

My HRT regimen is an emulation, only simulating the real thing. Cis women experience a complex, month-long dance between estrogen and progesterone, swinging from one to the other and back again. I, on the other hand, experience an estrogen peak every two weeks, and a progesterone peak every quarter.

And that's okay! It's gotten the job done.

Sometimes however, my peaks and troughs happen to look just enough like an actual cis cycle to trigger some fascinating side effects.

This one occurred a few weeks ago. My day started as normal; but something seemed off. I got to work, and began to experience stomach cramps. My first thought was that I must have consumed some disagreeable foodstuff; but this was different - the sensations were prickly; and extended all the way into my pelvis.

It wasn't until lunch time, as I was driving my daughter home from summer school, that it came to me: these were menstrual cramps!

My hormone levels had aligned in such a way that my brain was now sending instructions down my existing nerve pathways to forcefully contract a non-existent uterus...

This state of affairs continued for two days; with what I can only describe as various muscle groups from the top of the abdomen all the way down to the thighs randomly and constantly pinging, eliciting a continuous stream of "Ow! Ow!" noises.

Now: is this exactly what cis women experience? I have no idea. Did the lack of uterus effectively cap the amount of discomfort I felt? Or did it cause the nerve signals to be redirected into other adjacent muscles, making their contractions worse? It's so hard to say.

What I do know is this: I already had a healthy respect for the unpleasantness of menstrual cramps as experienced by others; but this situation made for a very personal window into that world that really reinforced my prior understanding!

Addendum: there is a candy dish in my office that is periodically emptied, and refilled; fortuitously, its contents had been refreshed the day this all went down. My very audible "Oh, thank god!" drew laughter from one of the people that worked nearby and knew what I was going through!

Test

Last week I was at Minneapolis' very own CONvergence convention. A fantastic time was had! Obviously, attending a large public event in the current viral climate is not without risk; but I felt considerably more secure in matters given that (a) the organizers had capped attendance at 3,500 (half the size of the previous year), (b) required all attendees show proof of vaccination and (c) instituted a mask mandate.

Unfortunately, post-event, it was determined that an attendee has tested positive for COVID and had informed the organizers as such. They in turn notified all other event-goers, and provided information on the afflicted individual's path through the convention for contract-tracing purposes.

Unfortunately, it transpired that the two of us had attended a panel together; and despite the extremely unlikely possibility of having contracted COVID from this person, the sensible course of action was to go get tested myself.

This did not fill me with joy. As I have previously documented, there is a facet of my younger self - splintered by trauma - that bristles at certain medical interventions... And I knew this would be one of them.

At the start of the pandemic, my spouse required a routine medical procedure; and in advance of that, was required to get a COVID test. I drove them to the in-car test site, and my spouse rolled down the passenger-side window to talk to a fully geared-up nurse.

As many are no doubt aware, those first COVID tests required collecting a sample from the very, very furthest reaches of the sinuses; using what is essentially an extremely long Q-Tip. While not necessarily a painful experience, it can be irritating at best and deeply unpleasant at worst.

Both my spouse and I were a little taken aback when the nurse instructed them to tilt their head back and place their hands firmly on their knees because, and I quote, "Trust me, you will try to stop me".

The nurse swabbed my spouse's sinuses, and it was fine, and other than my spouse feeling like they had been somehow poked in the back of the eyeball, all was good. I, however, was a nervous wreck; because this act had in my mind overstepped the threshold of acceptable bodily integrity violation.

(How does that work? I can't say, as it isn't rational. I am pro-science, pro-safety, pro-vaccine; but the damaged part of me responds viscerally and insensibly to certain medical procedures - evidently of which, this was one.)

Later, my spouse experienced a terrible cold; and their general practitioner recommended another COVID test to be safe. This was at a walk-in clinic, and even though I remained in the car, I still ended up shaking at the thought that my beloved was being harmed in some way.

I have spent far too much time since then conceiving of how I might be required to submit to a COVID test myself some day, and how that would effect me. Fast-forward to that day.

There was a no-appointment clinic near our house. They have a rather slick online registration system; there were some issues completing the process, but a person met me at the parking lot and helped finalize matters. Then they went to retrieve their test apparatus.

Now, to the credit of the test manufacturers: they had clearly taken steps to improve the (deservedly-maligned) collection kit. The swab was a little shorter; no longer needed to reach the very back of the sinuses; featured a very slim, flexible stem (particularly helpful for deviated septum-sufferers); and the cotton tip had been replaced by a small, gentle sponge.

The technician was very nice and explained that they would gently hold the swab in place for the count of five, and in turn I explained that I'm sure everything would be fine and painless - but there was a possibility that I might become upset afterwards and that it was absolutely not their fault.

Then I scrunched up my eyes and held my hedgehog friend very tightly and the technician inserted the swab in my nose and ran it about inside my head and true to her word, the experience was not in the slightest bit unpleasant.

I then proceeded to thank her, albeit stutteringly, because as predicted this invasion of my bodily space had still had a triggering effect. I received my results less than an hour later and they were, of course, negative. Three hours after that, I stopped crying.

It's so strange - yesterday I had laser hair removal; and per my request, the technician turned the power up quite high. There were some moments when it really stung; but... nothing. Not a trigger. Likewise, in a few days I have to get my second HPV immunization; and despite knowing that it will sting (the manufacturer attests this to the "Virus-like particles" it contains), that should be fine too.

Why am I freaked out by some medical procedures, and not others? I really don't know. Probably there's a logic to it; but if there's a pattern, I've yet to discern it...

After many attempts, I was able to record myself playing the piano. I had only been playing for about three months at this point.

For the curious - the audio was transmitted from the 1/4" headphone jack of my Yamaha P-71 to a Behringer U-Phoria UM2 audio interface, which in turn transmitted the signal to my laptop. Video was from a Logitech c920 webcam, suspended by a hilariously rudimentary wooden dowel armature.

(Alas, the webcam was primarily designed for video chat; hence the constant auto-focusing. Purportedly there is a Logitech utility for disabling this feature.)

I've mentioned before my newfound propensity for stage fright. Apparently this carries over into video recordings; despite the lack of audience and my complete control over the recording environment! The human brain is a strange and silly thing; regardless, it took about eight hours of attempts before I finally got an acceptable take...

Back in the day, in the pre-HRT times, I found it tremendously difficult to connect with my own emotions. One of the few ways I could do so (at least, partially) was with the accompaniment of appropriate music.

For me, Any Other Name was a quiet, contemplative piece by which I could access the piercing sadness, the constant hurt, that punctuated so much of my early life. I have at times dubbed it a 'suicide song'; although this is perhaps a misstatement: it was by listening to these gentle notes, that I was able to release that pressure and stave off a dark fate.

I no longer require the service of this incredible musical work; but I will not forget it in a hurry, or the tremendous aid it rendered me.

Unexpected HRT side-effect #2: addendum

I have covered before the exciting world of nipple rotation. Well: now they are rotating back! I suppose it stands to reason; that the early stages of breast development result in a certain lopsidedness that self-corrects as the girls fill out.

The only reason this is noteworthy for me is that unlike most female pubescents, I have nipple piercings (acquired without moral hazard) and thus had a very visual gauge by which to observe this entire tilting process!

Recital

Eight weeks ago I had my first singing recital. As I have previously documented, I have been working uphill against the effects of a past cold; which have interfered heavily in my ability to sing. I then proceeding to catch yet another cold, which incited a flare-up of symptoms.

On the other side - I am, factually-speaking, a baritone; trying to sing like an alto. It's challenging in the extreme.

Every day of the week, any time the opportunity has presented itself, I've been practicing. I didn't feel confident per se; but I was a lot better of for doing so than where I started.

I was singing a version of "You Are My Sunshine", which is a song I learned from my spouse and one that holds great personal significance. There are three verses; the last of which contains a particularly high note. This had been the focus of much of my practice.

We arrived, my spouse and I, at the venue - a local church. My instructor was there to meet me, along with two teenage students - one obviously rather shy; the other bubbly. We did some warm-up exercises in a side room and wished each other good luck.

the student body of my music school is mostly kids; and so the recital was a fairly low-stakes affair - lots of beginners, stumbling along as best as they could. The audience of friends and family members were all very polite, and applauded each performer in turn.

Shy Girl acquitted herself well. Bubbly Girl rendered "Hallelujah"; spectacularly so. And then it was my turn.

There is anecdotal evidence suggesting that many MtF individuals experience issues processing their emotions; and that HRT resolves this problem.

This was certainly the case for me. An interesting offshoot of this is, in my prior life, I suffered little to no anxiety when it came to public speaking. The idea of stage fright was foreign to me.

I have spoken previously about a coming-out presentation I gave at my workplace. I did not mention how incredibly and uncharacteristically nervous I was at the time.

Likewise, I found my heart racing as I stepped onto the stage. I tried to slow my breathing, to no avail. My instructor began cued me in on the piano; and I began to sing. The first verse went well; the second was okay. The third, I hit the high note; but silently cursed as I forgot to breathe and effectively ran out of air moving into the next line.

The audience stared back, and there was a pause; and then they very politely clapped. It felt performative.

I returned to my seat, and tried desperately to hold back tears as the last few performers finished out their own pieces. The recital ended; we talked to my instructor for a few moments, and one of the staff told me "You did great!" on the way out.

We went home. I immediately went to the bedroom, closed the door, and sat in the void between the wall and bed that serves as my nest of safety. Despite my better judgement, I looked up the show's live stream and fast-forwarded to my song.

It was heartbreaking. My barrelled torso and broad shoulders were bursting out of my flower-pattern dress; my feet were planted far too firmly apart. I could hear the chest resonance in my voice and worst of all, the high note was wildly off-key.

I didn't see Lauren. I saw Lawrence.

I cried for an hour; big, heaving, sobs. And then I called my friend and talked to her for a while. It helped; but the damage was done.

There was a singing lesson scheduled the following week, with a very nice substitute. I explained that I wasn't able to sing, and played the piano instead. She was kind. Afterwards I spoke with the school's owner, and asked him to take down the recording of the show.

I'm glad that I participated in the recital. I am. I put myself out there for all the world to see, despite the overwhelming terror of doing so. I might not be the singer I want to be, and I might not pass to the extent I wish I did; but no-one can doubt my courage.

There is a positive coda in all of this. When I did chance to reconnect with my instructor again, she had a message to convey from bubbly girl. She wanted to ask the "Sunshine Girl" where she had found her beautiful dress.