It’s been six months. Six months since first piercing my skin with the liquid gold that is Estradiol Valerate. Six months of growth: physical, emotional, mental, and otherwise. Six months of waves of dysphoria, followed by waves of euphoria, followed by new waves of dysphoria. And in this time, I’ve by no means unlocked the keys to self-actualization, but I can confidently say I have made some strides towards both getting to know myself and healing the wounds of not knowing myself for so long.
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My therapist put it perfectly when she told me,
“Your body and mind have endured immense trauma, and that’s forced you into being in constant, life-long fight-or-flight mode. After spending twenty-eight years living that way, it’s hardened you, caused you to put up intense and impenetrable walls, making you a sort of Fort Knox – a barrier that both protects your truest self from the cruelness of the outside world and prevents you from letting others, and yourself, in – to see that truest form. You compartmentalize yourself into different boxes as a means of protection, and throughout most of your life – you’ve only felt safe enough to open up a handful of those boxes, and while that’s kept you safe from having to endure additional trauma, it’s also robbed Margaux of living, breathing, existing. And so, as you’re traveling along in your physical transition journey, you’re simultaneously distancing yourself from the trauma you’ve experienced throughout your life and finding that you can slowly and more comfortably open more of those boxes at a time – and in turn, you’re mending your fragmented self to a more wholly encompassing picture of who Margaux really is.”
And so, as I continue along in this journey, I find myself consistently revisiting this anecdote, one of unboxing myself as a means of healing, letting down the walls that previously felt impervious – and each time, I’m surprised with how much I’ve learned and how much I’ve yet to learn – as I continually unravel the tangled mess of the woman that I am.
I believe Sir Isaac Newton was referencing the lived trans experience when he stated that, for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Okay maybe not, but he would have been right if that’s what he was referring to, and let me tell you why, diva!
Over the past six months on estrogen, I’ve learned that nearly every change experienced (whether that’s physical, emotional, mental, or otherwise) comes with a wave of gender euphoria. And for every wave of gender euphoria, there is an equal and opposite wave of gender dysphoria that follows.
In a physical sense, while on estrogen, I’ve experienced some weight gain, which has resulted in the rounding of my jaw, the plumping of my face, the widening of my hips, the budding of my breasts, and the fattening of my ass. The hair on my head grows thicker, while the hair on my body thins (and for the pesky hair that estrogen cannot thin completely, laser hair removal takes care of).
With this, I’ve felt some expected, as well as other less expected, feelings of euphoria. I’ve slowly but surely felt more confident in leaving the house without makeup. I’ve felt less beholden to strict eating patterns and exercise regimens (which tended to border on obsessive dieting and restrictive, disordered eating). And I’ve begun feeling like I’m starting to see the physical manifestation (err, tranifestation) of the woman behind those Fort Knoxian walls – and I really like her.
With that though, I’ve unlocked some new dysphoric obsessions, like how my nose, brow bone, and hairline don’t seem to fit my new rounded out face – how my rib cage feels disproportionately large when compared to my tits – or how when I open my mouth, my voice doesn’t always match up perfectly to my new, more stereotypically feminine features. My outer self has started to fit into the binary framework for womanhood, but it’s not completely there. And while I’m finding it difficult to make peace with, it seems that facets the outside world have an even harder time dealing with this juxtaposition.
I’ve found that, especially early on in my physical transition, previous looks of curiosity and glances of peculiarity (which have always been a part of my reality, given my life-long feminine swish, my faggy voice, and my girlish mannerisms) turned to stares that felt much more threatening, more menacing – as if to say, “How dare you take up space while portraying some kind of fucked up, fun-house mirror, contorted version of womanhood that differs from the outside, binary world”. On top of this, comments made within earshot of me became bolder, further validating my fears of feeling unsafe.
Experiencing the world with my new physical changes have, in some ways, increased my anxiety and fueled my adrenaline – and I often find myself feeling depleted, without enough energy to combat the stares with any form of self-love or care. As a result, I no longer can assume to feel safe doing normal, mundane things, out of fear of someone calling attention to my transness or questioning my gender presentation. Things like using public restrooms, going to the gym, or traveling through airports (something I do somewhat frequently for my job) have become feats. And while this seems to get better with each passing weekly dose of estrogen, it has by no means gone away completely.
I am happy to report, however, that Sir Isaac Newton was wrong, at least when applying his third law to transness. It doesn’t stop at, for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.
No, no. It’s more cyclical than that.
Because for every new dysphoric reaction, I’ve found that so long as I am patient enough, there will always be a new euphoric force to keep me pushing forward, one that feels stronger and more overpowering than the dysphoria itself.
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It’s the girls at the nail salon, always reminding me that I am that bitch.
It’s Tito and Stoli (my dogs), picking up on the scent of the estrogen in my body and as a result, forming a new, more affectionate, and protective bond with me.
It’s opening my mail and finding that I was sent my addended birth certificate – not just with my chosen name – but with Female listed as my legal sex.
It’s that indescribable feeling, when I hear the click, clack of my high heels on pavement.
It’s the immediate, unspoken bond I feel when encountering another trans person out in the world.
It’s my dad, seeing me in a dress – his smile beaming from ear-to-ear, welling up with tears in his eyes, and telling me I look beautiful – for the first time ever.
It’s the sigh of relief I feel, the melting away of anxiety – as I watch my husband seemingly fall more and more in love with the person I’m turning out to be, not despite my womanhood but because of it.
It’s the healing, the resolve I feel, as I continually unseal these boxes, break down these walls, and unravel my messiness – and find even more to love about myself.
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And all of that is what makes the uncertainty, the waves of dysphoria, and the ignorance of society around me pale in comparison to the beauty and the magic and the healing of the journey I find myself on.
You’ve got a long way to go, girl, but you’re certainly on your way.
I love you, Margaux Pearl. <3
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