Tracing Trans Years: 6 Years on T

Six years ago today I started taking T. In my moments of reflection on this date, certain things stand out to me. The anxiety leading up to the day, the sleepless night before, driving to the doctor in my best friend’s beat up car… the face of the nurse when she refused my care… crying in the empty waiting room. I was 22. Four months before that I had called the doctor, introducing myself through a thorough history of trans pathologization and why I deserved transitional health care without a gender identity disorder diagnosis or mandated therapy. After sitting through the typical barrage of trans questions asking how I “knew,” when did I know, and why, if I really wans trans, I wasn’t what they expected, I got my script for T. I setup my appointment to get my first shot on the morning of Sept 4th. When the T came in the mail, I left the box unopened, sitting on my dresser, waiting… It was like a creature there to save me, or to destroy me, or both. It was the egg of my body’s phoenix.

I watched the nurse’s face as she spoke awkwardly, “Actually, the doctor said we aren’t going to do this today…”

I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was the breaking stress from the build up, maybe it was crushing disappointment, maybe it was my exhaustion after a night awake crying and writing… I broke down and cried right in front of her. As soon as I could speak I said, “I want to talk to my doctor.”

“She isn’t here….”

“Where is she? This appointment has been set for a month. Why didn’t anyone tell me this was going to happen? Get my doctor on the phone.” I said, “I want to talk to my doctor.”

I paced the grey nurse’s break room, clutching the plastic hospital phone. My exhausted despair had given way to my primary defense mechanism: anger. I was ready to fight. “You’re my doctor.” I said, “You’re supposed to help me. I told you I wasn’t going to do therapy. I don’t need therapy because I’m trans. I know who I am and I’m not going to pay some uneducated “professional” $200 an hour to tell me why I’m not normal.”

The doctor’s voice was diffident and anxious. I still remember the sound of her voice as she tried to placate me, saying how GID therapy was for the good of trans people and that she was trying to help me.  “I don’t want help if it means giving up what I know is right for me.” I said, “I can’t walk around fighting a system that I’m feeding into. I can’t do it and it isn’t fair for you to ask me to do it. This isn’t fair.” I’ll never forget the insulted shock I felt as I heard the doctor say, “Well, maybe you can just not tell anyone…” I gathered myself and said, “What kind of health care is this? You want me to be forced into therapy I don’t need, and now you’re telling my to lie about it – to lie to all my friends, my family, and the people I work to help… I don’t think you understand what you are doing here.”

“I’m trying to keep you safe…”

“Safe? You do know I have this T in my hand right now and I could just go out into the parking lot and shoot up, with no guarantee I’m doing it safely or properly. I’m here, in a doctor’s office, looking for support and education on how to care for myself properly and you are turning me away. I want you to know that if I end up at risk, it is because of you and your inability to rise above the outdated notions you were taught that trans people are mentally unfit. I can respect your professional boundaries, but I can’t respect any institution that would rather put a person at risk than bend to the idea that it might be wrong.”

Obviously, since I am writing this post six years later, I got my shot that day. With the support of friends, and a little help from some bodybuilding websites, I took my first shot. Like most people in the trans* community, I learned as I went and took what I could get. I was privileged to have had access to T in the first place; to have been able to save up money from my shit job to afford it; to have access to a computer where I could get reliable medical information; to have a community of friends who were there for me when I felt like I had no one else. With all that happened, I was pretty lucky. I consider myself lucky to have had it better than a lot of our people, especially those who are affected by racism, poverty, globalization… the list goes on.

I was looking through my pictures to find the quintessential pre/post photos that I (and almost every trans* person) loves to put in their blogs. Instead, I found one of my absolute favorite pictures of me ever. It is from when I was 17, on a high school photography club trip to Red River Gorge hiking the Natural Bridge trail. My disability made it so I couldn’t take the trail as fast as everyone else, it made me feel weak. I didn’t have a lot of friends and I was afraid of socializing with the other kids cause they tended to tease me, so I hung in the back of the group near my teacher, Mr. Ferguson. I remember walking the steep trail, looking up at the trees, and just feeling the energy of the forest. I remember feeling very alone, but it is hard to feel too along when you are in the woods.  I sat in a shady spot near the top of the bridge; I changed my roll of film and got out the same lunch I eat every time I travel: PB&J sandwich and an apple. I watched the other kids goofing off and talking a few yards from me; I felt invisible, but in a mix of positive and negative ways. The leaves were changing. I enjoyed the silence and the view. Mr. Ferguson’s voice broke my thoughts, “Hey, Alice,” he gestured with his wide, closed palm arm wave,  “Come over here. I’ll take your picture.”

JAC2001

Two weeks ago, I walked that trail again. I looked up at the trees and felt the energy of the forest. I still took it slow, climbing the rocks and roots behind the others, but I had some fast moving company: a 17 year old I’ve had the pleasure working with for a couple years now. He goes to the same high school I did, and is in a lot of the same clubs, but unlike my high school self, he is out as trans*. I didn’t even know what trans* was when I was that age. I see a lot of myself when I see him, but he’s much more impressive. He was much more animated on the trail that I was 12 years ago; he was excited to be with trans* community, racing up the path with other transboys, climbing on everything in sight (much to my anxiety’s displeasure).  I hung back and enjoyed the walk and the views. I get so over-saturated with work now days… or really, I’ve been so over-saturated with work ever since I came out. When I came out, I took to trans* activism and never looked back. Sometimes that meant I didn’t stop to look around either. If I can take a lesson from the me of 6 years ago, it is to use the same care and attention to my process as I did back then. I used to write a lot more; do more photography; I used to dance more. Looking back, though I was afraid and anxious about making the right or wrong move for myself or my life, I did a lot to keep in touch with who I was and what I was feeling. I’m not one for making resolutions based on some event or special date, but I do like to make clear decisions surrounding change. It is important to keep myself in touch with what progress I need to make. When I was 17, I was afraid of most of the world. When I was 22, I was angry with most of it. I don’t know how much progress I’ve made since 22, lol, but I hope it is at least some. At 29, I am hopeful that I am continuing to improve myself, and to know myself. And I am grateful that I have the ability to live as I do, and work as I do, so that the folks that come after me might not be so anxious, or so angry. So, here’s to the continual fight for trans* liberation and the gift of slowing down to see the journey there.

JAC2013

 

Seeing is Believing; Self-Portraits and Finding Me

I read a quote that really moved me. It said  “self portraits (selfies) are often such an act of self preservation and resistance.” I take a lot of self portraits, and sometimes I catch myself feeling silly about it. I wonder if it makes me vain, or makes me appear narcissistic, and people often tease me about it. Most of the time, I don’t give it a second thought. I really like taking pictures of myself, and I have a good reason for it.

A special note from me: Most the photos in this post have either never been seen by anyone except me, or haven’t been seen by anyone in years. I ask you, the reader, for kind eyes and minds as you view them.

When I was about 14 or 15, my lifelong best friend Jess and I took our photography hobby to a new place. We were late into a sleepover when, either out of boredom or innovation, we dragged out the big black trash bags of dress up clothes from when we were kids. We found the old slips and used prom dresses of our pretend-time past. Jess had the idea to do a photoshoot; she has always been a fountain of empowerment and I was in awe of her ability to own her body. We tried on the old dresses, clothes, slips, and costumes and posed before sheets covering the old furniture and cluttered boxes of my old playroom. No one ever saw the photographs; they were just for us.

Store dressing room shoot, early 2000. I was deeply embarrassed  by this picture because of the cleavage.
Store dressing room shoot, early 2000. I was deeply embarrassed by this picture because of the cleavage.

We did these shoots for years, and occasionally I would spread the practice among some other close friends. It became a passion, an addiction; especially early on, it was the only time I felt pretty. It was the only time I really felt I was what I was supposed to be: a girl. A pretty girl who could look like the other girls; who had a body like the other girls; who was one of the girls. Looking at the photos now, it is funny to see the tame, sometimes blurry shots I thought were so risque, and others where I think “Holy shit, I had no concept for how sexual that pose was!” It was an amazing experience for body empowerment. Jess and I did these bonding shoots all through high school, roaming all over the city documenting our faces, our bodies, and our lives on film. Attics,  bedrooms, parks, cloudy train tracks, mall dressing rooms, big box store aisles; we would try on everything just to see how we looked in it.  When I was 17, I wrote a poem about my intimate relationship with my camera. From what I can remember, I wrote how I wanted to “sit inside the camera lens” so that I could touch the “frozen perfection” that only film could create. I remember chalking the poem on the cement commons of my high school grounds, spiraling around in a giant drawing of a camera lens. I used to have time to create things like that… I was learning to love myself, and my body, by finding ways to portray it through art.

Spring 2002: Night diner adventures with my oldest friend, Jess. I am wearing a 1970s dress and Jess is in a thrifted costume from the Cincinnati ballet. We balanced the camera on a booth across from us.
Spring 2002: Night diner adventures with my oldest friend, Jess. We balanced the camera on a nearby booth and rushed to take the shot before the camera fell. I’m wearing a 1970s party dress and Jess is in a thrifted costume from the Cincinnati Ballet. Everyone in the place was staring. This shot, called “Seasoned Salt,” represents so many memories. Jess, you have given me some of the happiest moments of my life. I am free whenever I am with you.

When I went to college I started doing self-portrait shoots on my own. It’d be late at night in my dorm room and I’d have the urge to create something out of myself. It was around that time I formally fell in love with the “pin-up” and found a huge amount of body love and acceptance through doing pin-up inspired shoots.

Freshmen year of college, 2002: My first solo lingerie shoot. For many years I saw this picture as being very representative of what I like about how I looked.
Freshmen year of college, 2002: My first solo lingerie shoot. For many years I saw this picture as the key representation of what I like about how I looked.

I started to like myself more. I started to like how I looked. I began to put pictures of myself up around my apartment, and enjoyed talking pictures with people instead of just of them. Sometimes people would say, “You have a lot of pictures of yourself…” I would feel shy and awkward about it, but I secretly responded “It’s to remind me to like myself.” I wanted to like myself, and I did what I had to do. And though I wasn’t going to fully admit the importance of what I was doing, I was also not going to apologize for it. When I came out, I realized that I once again had no idea what I looked like. I wasn’t sure if I had ever really known. I could recognize my face, my body, my eyes… but I did not know what I looked like. My coming out and transition was extremely painful. My mind’s dissonance of what I was and what I wanted to be, of how I looked and how I imagined myself to look, is a torture I have carried for most of my life. It was not JUST about being trans, or of being a boy or a girl, of having a body part, or not having one. It was, and is, the issue of knowing who and what I am for the sake of knowing myself. Coming out as trans was a new avenue of self understanding that brought many things I had never understood to the surface… and it was excruciating.

February 2007: The "Nudes Shoot" was a five hour portrait shoot that became foundational to my trans* self portraits. It was spurred by my decision to start T. The photos discuss my feelings about my body and the "trans requirements" of it as well as to document my body before the effects of hormones.
February 2007: The “Nudes Shoot” was a five hour portrait shoot that was foundational to  how I approach my trans* self portraits. It was spurred by my decision to start T. The photos discuss my feelings about my body (and the “trans requirements” of it) as well as document my body before the effects of hormones.When I did this shoot, I had been out for year, and hadn’t done a portrait in almost as long. It made me feel like myself again. It brought me home to myself. 

I have never been the type of trans* person who wanted something specific for my body. I have gone through times where I thought I might want something in particular; a flat chest, and angular body, a taller frame, a more muscular physique, but over all I could never decide exactly what I was going for. Masculine, feminine, man, woman; this language can be useful at times but I have found that all of it is secondary to the understanding of my own humanness. When I was 18, and newly discovering femininity and “womanhood,” I learned to like the body I had. Over several years I began to own the breasts, hips, legs, waist, and overall form I had. I then went from owning my body, to loving it. When I came out, I was told that I had to change it, and even destroy it. I’ve always been more about creation than destruction. It is why I am an artist. I approach life and art the same way, and I’ve always wanted to be better at both. I went to art school once, for photography and sculpture, but dropped out within a year. I wanted the freedom to make my art whatever I felt it needed to be without someone else telling me it was good or not.  My favorite sculpture medium is clay because of its ability to take shape as anything. Throughout my childhood and adolescence, I would spend hours creating forms, primarily of the female body. They seemed so real I felt I was the clay. A couple years ago I wrote a song called “Clay.” It was primarily about my muscular disability and the feelings of powerlessness that comes with it, but as it developed I feel it became a combination piece of how I felt about transforming my body in general. When I started to take testosterone, I approached my body like clay. I realized that my body is malleable,  fluid, and moving. My body is mine. I do not have to fit my body because I can make it fit me. I am the sculptor of my own shape. I do not have to destroy it to change it, I do not have to change it to own it, but I have the option and I can own the changes I make.

 December, 2007: In my bedroom, four months on T. This shot encompassed the exact image of masculinity I wanted to embody.
December, 2007: In my bedroom, four months on T. This shot encompassed the exact image of masculinity I wanted to embody. This shoot grounded me in an otherwise empty and confusing space.
 July, 2008: Newly pink-haired, the "Fuschia Shoot" was a turning point for my self-portrayal as a genderqueer body, though I would not come to think of it in that language until several years later.
July, 2008: Newly pink-haired, the “Fuschia Shoot” was a turning point for my self-portrayal as a genderqueer body, though I would not come to think of it in that language until several years later.

This Sunday marked my 7 year anniversary of coming out as trans (or my transiversary, as I like to say). Several friends asked me “Does it feel like it has been that long?” to which I answered “It feels like it was just yesterday, at the same time, it feels like it’s always been this way.” This isn’t about me having it all figured out or that my journey with gender is “over.” Quite the opposite, actually. I spent most of this past year feeling like I was coming out all over again (but that’s a whole other blog post). The difference, I suppose, is how I have been addressing the process. The concept of processing gender, though no less painful, has become somewhat normalized to me. It’s like when you’re a teenager first experiencing heartbreak you have no idea what to do or how to help yourself, but when you’re an adult you’ve been there so you already know what to do. You can say to yourself: “Yeah, I recognize this shit. It hurts but it’ll be over soon enough.”

 December, 2008: When I did the "Watermelon Shoot" I didn't have the insight to recognize what I was processing. which was inner conflicts with sexuality (and gender). At this time, I had emotionally isolated myself, creating terrible heartbreak for me and my (incredible) partner at the time. This shot, and the emotion expressed in it, was captured accidentally. This also accounts for the skewed angle catching the framed pictures of myself and friends at a simpler (and more butch) time in my life.
December, 2008: The “Watermelon Shoot” was about seeking sexual power. This shot was captured accidentally in between poses, which makes it even more significant. My expression reflects the exhaustion I was feeling towards my inner conflict with sexuality (and gender). Trapped in an emotional ice age, I isolated myself causing terrible heartbreak for me and my partner at the time. The shot also conveniently includes framed pictures of me with friends at a simpler (and more butch) time in my life. I dedicate this rediscovered piece of myself to you, Jackie. Thank you for all you went through for me and for being one of the best friends I could ever dream to have.

My transition was a pivotal time for me, but after seven years its significance (in some ways) seems to fade and blur into the rest of my life. What is left is just being me; thinking about it, working on it, and noticing that some of it happens to be labeled as genderqueer/trans. And as “trans issues” fade into the paint, I am left looking at the walls, my walls, that I built a long, long time ago… I might have even been born with them. Walls are not always bad; Walls are needed to protect and manage our inner selves, but they can trap us. Walls, and the need to hide behind them, is so easily enmeshed into the trans experience. For a while, the main reason I was hiding was greatly connected to all the shit that comes with being trans. What I think I lost sight of was that being trans wasn’t my only reason for hiding. I have spent so much of my life hating myself. I have spent so much of my life hiding. In hiding I have found ways to love myself more and protect my self better. Because of hiding I have spent so much time fighting… All of these feelings have been carved into my walls, and as I read the writing on them I have discovered that I am flat out afraid of showing myself to anyone, sometimes even myself. When I do a self portrait, I am facing myself. I am reminding myself that I am ok. By showing these portraits in this post, I am making the decision to face the world.

A couple years ago Kate (Bornstein) and I were goofing off taking selfies, one after another. She laughed and said “We trans people fucking love pictures of ourselves. We can’t get enough!” I smiled and clicked the shutter on the camera, thinking of how right she was. Like anyone, trans* folks work really hard to be ourselves, and we work really hard to look like ourselves. Many of us hide from our own image, sometimes we don’t even know it. I have never been a stranger to the mirror. Throughout my life, I have spent a lot of time looking at myself, especially as a child, because I was trying to learn what I looked like. I would stare deep into the mirror hoping that the image of my eye would swallow me into an Alice in Wonderland hole, dropping me into my mind so that I could see who I was face to face. I would often comb my hair to the side, like my dad does his hair (and ironically similar to how I do my hair right now). I remember  one time, combing my hair over and looking deep in the mirror; for a split second I felt like I saw something real. It scared me so much I jumped off the sink, mussed up my hair, and started pacing the bathroom floor in a panic. I must have been about 12; I remember  writing about it in a prose series I wrote to myself called “Dear Jim.” The poem started with “I saw you today.” I am continually trying to re-capture the image I saw back then. Over the years, I have gotten better and better at it. The result has been more and more pictures of me. The statement “self portraits (selfies) are often such an act of self preservation and resistance” says more to me than I can really describe. It speaks to the mes of the past, standing alone with a camera, trying to capture my insides in the shape of my outside. I still love to do photoshoots. Every now and then, I’ll spend a few hours finding some form of temporary, personal perfection in my body. In the split second it takes the shutter to engage, I can see myself, and I am real. It is an act of resistance against a world that would rather see me erased. It is an act of self preservation to remind me that I am alive and that I am human. No one ever sees these photographs. They are just for me… and now some are for you.

March, 2012: This shot, called "Bubblegum," is out of the "Suicide Boy" shoot which was very significant in the processing my genderqueer identity and femme body. This was a shoot that healed me.
March, 2012: This shot, called “Bubblegum,” is out of the “Suicide Boy” shoot which was very significant in the processing my genderqueer identity and femme body. I was heartbroken. This shoot helped heal me.

If you find yourself feeling alone; if you are suffering, please know that you are not the only one. I am like you and I promise to try to show that more. There is no shame in hiding, it is something we all need to do sometimes… sometimes for a long while. Take your time. I hope that me taking this tiny step out of my hiding place will encourage you to feel safer in yours, and maybe help you take a step out too someday. I am grateful to all who have been there for me, helping me come out, or stay in: My amazing parents, my beloved sister (and new brother), Jess, Alex, Al, my family and chosen family, my friends, my mentors, my people, and my kitties too. Thank you.

The State of T and Me

I started taking T three years ago. I knew it was something I wanted, I was positive, I was prepared, I was terrified.

Me, less than one month before starting T:

[image description: JAC – auburn hair and brown eyes, looking directly into the camera. His shoulders are bare, shirtless and leaning on a white pillow]

This is the only self-portrait shoot I did from before T until two months in. I decided not to photograph myself in any structured way. At the time, I felt enough like a science experiment without documenting myself in mug shots. I did take my measurements – everything from my chest to my wrist. I also recorded my voice. Being a singer my voice was of particular interest to me. I recorded it at every shot for a year, then every 6 months, then every year. Its fascinating listening to my voice then. I remember recording it, but only after playing it back a few times did I notice how nervous I sound and that my voice is shaking.

My voice before T

I remember being excited and sad when I found I was no longer a mezzo soprano, and discovering a tenor falsetto which, funny enough, made me feel really butch. I listened to my voice from a year ago and was pleased to find my voice today is a little deeper. I keep shooting for that baritone, haha, but I don’t think I’m ever gonna get it.

My voice now

I really like what T has done for me. When I started T I told myself I was going to take it until I didn’t want to take it anymore. No pressure, no deadlines, no “goals” (fuck you GID). I knew there was a possibility that my health would deteriorate and if that happened I would deal with it when I came to it. So far, though it has had some not-so-desirable health effects on my disability I find that the price is worth paying. As Kate says, its about doing whatever you have to do to make your life more worth living.

Me, 3 years on T:

[image description: JAC – pink hair and brown eyes, looking directly into the camera with a slight smile.]

I’m very pleased in that I look almost exactly the same. I started taking T in order to look more like I wanted to look, to sound more like I wanted to sound, and that’s exactly what happened. I took my measurements and every one was within one inch of those I took three years ago. Its funny because my body looks very, very different from before which just shows how little change can go a long way. Before I started T I was terrified. I was terrified of my health deteriorating, terrified it would make me go crazy(ier), terrified of being denied health care, yeah that was all in there… But what scared me the most was changing into someone I couldn’t recognize, living in a body I couldn’t imagine as a me I didn’t know. Really its no different than the fear I had as a little kid, dreading getting older because I didn’t want grow up and be someone I didn’t know in a life I couldn’t imagine. Now it all seems so insignificant, now that I know myself better, know my life better. Honestly, I don’t think being trans has much to do with it, I think I’m just getting old and being genderfucked along the way. Is shit perfect? Course not. Sometimes the androgyny pulls on me so hard that I don’t know if I can stand it anymore. I dream of a voice I’ll never get in a body I’ll probably never have dressed in a metro-fashion I’m incapable of affording let alone pulling off. The reality is that yes, I want to be read as male, yes I want to pass, I hate being stared at, I hate being afraid… I hate being different. But this is who and what I am. I lived so long as a lesser version of me either trying to be more femme or more butch than I am, more of a girl or more of a guy than I am, always trying to pass as something other me. And if I’m not going to go all out now, well, what would I be waiting for? For it to get easier, for the world to get better? I don’t have time for that. I don’t think anyone does. This is the only life I have and I figure its good enough for me and if nothing else, I have really fabulous hair.

Doctor, Doctor

Remember that time I went to the gyno, and I looked like a man?

My gynecologist’s office is out in the suburban area of Morrow and Montgomery, which is about a 20 minute drive from the center of Cincinnati, where I live.
I was a little nervous. It was my first visit since I started T. I wondered how male I looked, or if I just looked androgynous. I glanced at my reflection in the glass door. I felt I could pass for a girl… a really androgynous girl….

I walked into the waiting room. The place was empty except for one woman. She looked up at me, and then quickly back at her magazine. I was used to the other patients being a little thrown off by my appearance. They were almost all suburbanites, and from what I can tell, suburbanites seem to be used to their own people, their own world, and they act as if nothing exists outside of it. I might as well have been an alien with a space suit on.
I went up to the window and looked in at the two receptionists boxed inside. The younger of the two tired not to stare at me. I didn’t take it personally. After all, I did have a fuchsia faux-hawk, and my nails were painted two different colors. That and, I looked like some androgynous middle-sex.
The receptionist asked me my name. I paused. I knew my medical chart was under my birth name, but JAC was written in quotes next to it. I wasn’t sure what I was listed under. I decided.
“JAC Stringer.” I said, hoping if nothing else, the last name would be a clue.
“Ok. Here for Dr. Phelep, right?”
I relaxed a little. “Yep.”
I busied myself in the basket of lollipops and waited to update my information. I could feel eyes on me. Suddenly rush hour hit the waiting room and a rush of normative, suburbanite-looking women swarmed the room. I filled out forms as I listened to the foreign conversation of two women, a man, and their teen daughter who where sitting behind me. I got up to submit my paperwork, feeling the eyes of the teen girl following me in every step. I met her eyes for an instant, and quickly looked away. I pretended to feel normal. I pretended I belonged there. I did belong there. I didn’t attempt to pretend to read magazines. Instead I sat awkwardly, secretly watching the other people. I couldn’t shake that I was making them a little uncomfortable. I didn’t know whether to feel guilty or proud.
My name got called, my birth name. The girl watched me get up and walk out. I kept my eyes forward. Once I was out of the waiting room, I could feel a little more normal. I was sure the nurses were somewhat aware of who and what I was, and even if they weren’t, to them I was just another patient. It didn’t really matter how weird I looked.

I sat up on the table as the nurse took my blood pressure and asked the usual questions about medications, exercise, and my female body.
“Are you using and contraceptives?”
I kept my answers short. “No.”
“And when was your last period?”
I stopped. “Um…” I looked up, pretending to think. My thoughts started to cloud in panic. I couldn’t think. I wondered if I should say “I’m on testosterone so I don’t get it any more.” I didn’t want to say it.
“Here’s a calendar, if it’ll help.” The nurse handed me a small calendar of 2008.
I stared at it, almost laughing at myself. “Well, this isn’t gonna help me at all.” I thought. “Um,” I finally spoke, “It’s been months…”
“Oh, ok, I’ll just write months then.” said the nurse casually. “Dr. Phelep will be right in.”
I sat alone in the room and waited. It felt like it had been more than a year since I had been there last. Everything was familiar, but like a dream was familiar. There was a knock on the door and Dr. Phelep appeared from behind it. She smiled a big smile at the sight of me.
“Wow, that’s a new color.”
“Yeah,” I said, still a little shaken from the period talk.
“Let’s head into my office and catch up.” she said, leading the way across the hall.
I don’t know if it’s possible for a gynecologist to be associated with comfort, but if it was possible, Dr. Phelep would be the one to do accomplish it. She had been with me since the beginning.

Two years earlier:
I sat in her office, listening to her explain the newest birth control. I stumbled over my words, telling her I didn’t need it anymore… because I was dating a woman. After being her straight, female patient for almost five years, I could tell it wasn’t exactly what she expected to hear, but she didn’t bat an eye.
“Oh, alright, then you certainly don’t need it, do you?” she smiled.
I brought down the other shoe. “Also… I just came out as transgender… and I’m living as a guy.”
Again, clearly not something she expected, but I didn’t have to explain it to her. She knew exactly what I was talking about. She wrote JAC on my medical chart, and immediately started practicing male pronouns. She even answered all my questions about safe sex with women. She treated me like I was normal, which was priceless.
A year later, I decided to start taking T. I was having a hard time finding a doctor who knew what I was talking about. I was hesitant to go to one of the two doctors all the other transguys saw because I didn’t want a Gender Identity Disorder diagnosis. I knew someone who had avoided GID by getting a prescription through their gyno. I had high hopes. I brought her all the information I could find, and popped the question. She looked at me intently.
“I’ll be honest. I don’t know anything about this. That makes me hesitant to be your primary care giver for this… I’ll read everything over and let you know.”
She called me a day later, saying she felt it would be better if I had a doctor who knew more about it, incase something went wrong. She said she was more than happy to run my blood work, and do anything else, but she couldn’t give me the script. I wanted to try to convince her, but I didn’t. I understood her reasoning, and could respect it. I wouldn’t want her to go against her better judgment or her knowledge base, especially if she was treating me.
I tried my general practitioner, Dr. Wooster. He said the same thing. “I’ll gladly do the blood work, but I won’t give you a prescription.”
It’s not that I wasn’t grateful for the offers and support; it’s just that it wasn’t enough. Blood work wasn’t what was hard to get, it wasn’t what I needed. I needed the piece of paper. I needed the prescription. And I needed a doctor who would give it to me.
I went back to trying the doctors who were experienced with transguys. I picked the one who seemed mostly likely to be supportive, Dr. Gess, and called her up. I used all my big words, theorizing about oppressive, outdated thinking and medical gate-keeping, jumping through every hoop to win the prize. Dr. Gess was impressed, and agreed that she could give me what I was looking for.
“I’d like you to do at least one psychological screening.” she said.
I hesitated. “Ok.” I understood she needed to know I wasn’t maladjusted or schizophrenic. I was willing to compromise.
I wanted to do things safely and honestly. I didn’t want to hide my life, my sexuality, or my medical history in order to get T. I wanted it all out in the open. After six months of working, and searching, and negotiating, I got the script. I got it filled. I knew nothing about injections, other than seeing a friend do a shot of T once. I figured it would be better to have a nurse teach me. I called in an appointment, and showed up at the doctor’s office. Today was the day six months in the making, a year and a half in the making… I had stayed up all night. I was nervous. I was pumped. I was charged. I was ready. The nurse checked the testosterone and needles.
“Where do you want to inject it?” she asked.
“Um,” I tripped over my words, trying to avoid vulgar phrasing, “I my upper ass cheek?”
The nurse smiled, and started to fill out forms. There was a bit of confusion with my chart so the nurse called Dr. Gess to double check the dosage. I sat in the empty waiting room with my friend, Al, and kept my hands tightly clasped around my Stroheckers box. We waited… and waited… and waited. Finally, a nurse came out. She didn’t call us back. Instead, she came out to us.
She sat down next to me. “Dr. Gess said she doesn’t feel comfortable with you taking your shot today.”
“Why?”
“She said she wants you to talk to a counselor before you do it.”
“I already did.” I said shortly.
“She wants you to see the counselor again. You can come back and do it after that.”
I stared out into the room. All my adrenaline crashed down in an emotional implosion. I couldn’t hold it in. I bent my head, and cried. I remember the nurse rubbing my back a little, saying something I wasn’t hearing. I remember she got my pronoun wrong and I corrected her. I remember Al clenching her fists.
I don’t know why I got so upset. Maybe it was the exhaustion kicking in, maybe the stress letting loose, or maybe I was just feeding some dramatic sense of oppression. I thought I had finally made it to the finish line… and as soon as I saw the tape, it was taken away. Everything felt extreme. I couldn’t think ahead. I couldn’t rationalize or reason to myself. I was physically and emotionally exhausted, and now there were more demands.
I collected myself. “I want to talk to Dr. Gess.” I said intensely, “Personally.”
“I’ll try to get her on the phone for you.” said the nurse, getting up. “Do you want a pop or something sweet?”
“No… thank you.” I growled. “Just get her on the phone… please.”
After about twenty minutes the nurse called me back into the small conference room/break room. The phone rang. I picked it up.
“What’s going on here, Dr. Gess?” I said. I seethed, silently listening as Gess started to sympathetically bloviated about how I should at least plan on going into therapy regularly. “I signed a consent form, and got a psychological screening that said I was well adjusted enough to take T. Why do I need therapy in order to take testosterone?”
“It isn’t just because of testosterone,” she said, “There are other concerns when it comes to your mental health.”
My heart sunk as I saw my plan for doing things “honestly” blew up in my face. I stayed calm. “I understand that you want me to be well-rounded in my health.” I said, “But what does me being bipolar have to do with me being trans?”
“Nothing but…” she paused, “Don’t you agree that therapy is a good idea when you’re experiencing a big change? And this is a big life change.”
“So is pregnancy,” I argued, “but you don’t need therapy to have kids, do you? The parents can be bipolar or alcoholics or drug addicts or homicidal maniacs, but they still get the right to choose without having someone controlling their choices. What makes a couple having a baby more trustworthy than me? I’m actually more trustworthy because my decision isn’t affecting anyone else. I’m not bringing anyone else into it.”
“These are the regular standards the treatment goes by.”
I took a deep breath. “The standards are wrong.”
“There has to be reasons so many people use them.” she said.
“The reason is society would rather think I’m mentally unstable than to challenge it’s concept of gender!” I said strongly. I calmed a little. “I understand why you’re doing this. You’re trying to be responsible. You’re inside a system and you feel the need to watch your back. But the standards of care aren’t law. They’re suggestions derived from one straight, cisgender man’s opinion which he falsely presented as psychological research over 25 years ago. There is no real evidence to support the idea that trans-people are incapable of being well adjusted enough to make their own decisions about our bodies.”
“But therapy is a positive thing.”
“I know it is!” I stressed, “I’m studying to be a psychologist for crying out loud. I think everyone should be in therapy, but no one should be required to be in it. Studies have shown again and again, mandated therapy is not constructive.” I wanted to laugh at myself for using the expression “studies have shown” in an argument, but it wasn’t the time for it. I was doing all I could to remain professional and mature on the outside, but on the inside I was a kicking and screaming. “If I’m maladjusted about something, I’ll go into therapy.” I said, “My gender identity is the one thing in my life that I’m actually adjusted about.”
“But you already said you were going to go to into therapy the first time we discussed this.”
“I told you I was willing to go to therapy after taking T if I ran into problems.” I said, “I never agreed to go as a requirement.”
I could tell she wasn’t trying to be difficult. She kept angling for me to say “I will go to therapy,” even if I didn’t mean it. As long as she heard the words, she could say yes. “Why don’t you just go for other reasons then, and don’t make it about taking testosterone?” she asked.
“If it isn’t about testosterone, then we don’t need to be talking about it. I said. I will go if I need it, but it will be by my own decision made for me. I won’t do it just for you and your approval because even without a GID diagnosis, it wouldn’t be any different than following the standards of care. I refuse to support that system.”
“If you don’t work within the standards of care, you can’t take hormones.”
“The informed consent policy is used in big cities.” I said, “It’s used in Canada, it’s used in Europe… Why can’t we use it here?”
“Because I’m not comfortable with it.” Gess said.
“I don’t understand why.” I said, starting to loose steam…and faith… and hope. “I know you are trying to create a safe space for me.” I said, “But you’re doing the exact opposite.” I felt my ego pumping up again, “You don’t seem to understand, Dr. Gess. I don’t need you. I can do this by myself. Don’t you think I know other transguys on T? Don’t you think we have a knowledge base beyond your doctors’ offices? I was trying to do things the right way. I wanted to do it as safely as possible, and you are preventing that. I already have the prescription. I can go shoot up in the parking lot right now, instead of wasting 80 bucks on watching a nurse do it. I don’t need to be here…” All at once my heart felt heavy again. I started to feel guilty for ranting and raving like I did. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings… My eyes felt hot and wet. I inhaled. “Like I said, I understand why you’re doing things this way, but I think that it is the wrong way. And I think it was unfair for you to wait until now to tell me this, and not even in person. I don’t hate you and I’m not blaming you personally. I’m just very, very disappointed.”
“Yes. I understand you must be very upset right now.”
I swallowed my tears. “Upset doesn’t even begin to describe it.”
“I’m on my way to the airport right now for a conference.” she said, “How about we talk about this when I get back? I’ll try to get a hold of a counselor for you.”
I spoke with a dead voice. “You do what you have to do, Dr. Gess. I’m going to do what I have to do. I will tell you though; by the next time we talk, I probably will have taken my shot.”

I pushed the door open, slamming it on the wall, and stormed out of the back office. I waved to Al. “Let’s go.”
Al stood up. “What?”
I wrapped my anger and pain in my pride. “It’s not happening. Let’s go.”
“Are you serious? Why?”
“Because I’m bipolar and won’t go into therapy.”
Al furrowed her eyebrows, “I thought bipolar was a manic/depressive thing, not a boy/girl thing.”
“Guess not.”

I curled up in the car, and we drove back to Al’s place. After an hour or so I thought “What the hell. Today is the fucking day. Let’s do this.”
I had seen my friend take his shot, and had it explained to me. I basically knew what to do. I just needed a little more information. So, I looked it up online. Where else? Then, in Al’s bathroom, with my friend Ale video taping, I sterilized everything and measured out the T. But stabbing yourself in the ass with a needle doesn’t come easy, at least not to me. So, I had Al do it.
“Ok,” Al picked up the syringe, “The website says to throw it like a dart.”
“But you don’t really throw it.” I said as I clung to the bathroom door, “…Right?”
“That’s throwing the needle.” she said, “You flick your wrist… or something.” I looked over my shoulder and watched Al flicking her wrist back and forth.
“This situation seems a little ridiculous.” I said, laughing to ease my nerves.
“You think it’s ridiculous.” Ale laughed from behind the camera, “I’m the one videotaping your butt right now. Crack is whack, JAC. Crack is whack.”
I held the door and closed my eyes. It didn’t hurt at all. I looked back at the needle. It was just about as weird to have a needle in my skin as it was to have Al’s face about three inches from my ass. The syringe was plunged, pulled out, Al and Ale clapped.
“Yay Jacy!” Ale cheered. “You did it!”
And that was my first shot. I’m glad it happened the way it did, in the warm and ridiculousness of a friendly, familiar space, not a stuffy exam room. We walked down to the bar were our friend Amanda was bartending. In honor of the occasion, we made up my very own shot called the JACY-T shot, also to be known as the JAC’s Upper Ass Cheek.
Two weeks later I got a call from Dr. Gess.
“How are you, JAC?”
“I’m doing great, Dr. Gess.” I said, secretly gloating about my victory. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, thanks. I was calling to see if you wanted to make and appointment to talk about your testosterone therapy.”
“Yeah, we can do that. I took my second shot yesterday.”
There as a pause. “Ok. Well, then I should come in and have your blood work checked in a couple months. We’ll see where your levels are.”
I smiled in relief. Dr. Gess was the kind of doctor who would monitor their patient no matter what. I assumed she understood I was going to do what I want, so she might as well make sure I was ok.
Everything was going well. I was pleasantly morphing on my baby dose of T and I didn’t have to sell out to get it. Gess was going to level out on my end of things, and it was all going to be alright. Then I read my prescription label more closely.
“NO REFILLS REMAINING.”
Shit.
After three months I went in for blood work. I told her how well I was doing and she agreed that I looked like I was “progressing nicely.” I pointed out my lack of refills.
“I’m not going to refill it if you aren’t in therapy.” she said.
We spend the next hour repeating our phone conversation, except this time I had a slightly lower voice. I told her I couldn’t budge.
“You don’t seem to understand.” I said, “All my activist work circles around how the GID system is wrong. I can’t do all that work speaking out against it and then use it for my own personal gain.”
“You could just not tell anyone.” she said.
“You’re suggesting I lie to my family and friends about being in therapy? How is that healthy?”
She let out a sigh. “I think we’re just at an impasse here. If you aren’t willing to do things this way, I’ll have to recommend you see a different physician.”
“You realize there are no other physicians, right?”
“There’s one other doctor…”
“A doctor who is even more rigid.” I interrupted. “That’s why I picked you over him. He won’t take a patient without a therapist letter. No one in Cincinnati is going to do this for me without a GID diagnosis.”
“Then perhaps you should rethink what you want. If you want to continue on testosterone you will have to choose.”
“No, I’ll just go to a different city.” I said, “Chicago’s not that far from here.”
“What if I can get you a second opinion saying I didn’t need therapy?”
“I might be able to work with that.”
“Ok.” I took a deep breathe. I had one more try.
Gess felt so bad about how things went she said I didn’t have to pay for the visit, which was very convenient because I was already semi-planning on walking out. It was a semi-plan because sure as hell didn’t’ want to pay $80 for an hour of disappointment and emotional tear down, but I wasn’t sure I had the balls to go through with it. I didn’t want to be an asshole. I really believe that Gess was trying her best.
I made an appointment with one of the few known therapists who worked with transfolks, Dr. Bower. She only had experience with women, except for one guy she saw, who was a friend of mine. I went to see her, ready with my speech about what I wanted.
“Well, it’s clear you are very intelligent.” she said, “But for all I know you could just be a very convincing multiple personality, or a very controlled schizophrenic. I won’t be able to just write a recommendation without seeing you more.”
“But you’ll write it once you’ve seen me more?”
“No.” she said, “I support the standards of care. It’s foolish to go outside of them.”
“Foolish?” I said, trying not to show how offended I was. “How is it foolish to want to be autonomous?”
“The standard of care is a good system.”
“It’s an oppressive system.”
“It’s not oppressive.” she argued calmly.
“You aren’t trans.” I stressed, “How can you tell me I’m not oppressed? You don’t think it’s oppressive because it doesn’t hurt you. It pays your bills.”
“I don’t think this is really about politics.” she said, “You’re just doing this to rebel for the sake of rebellion.”
“That’s a comfortable way to invalidate me.” I scoffed. “This isn’t just some act of teenage trouble making for my own entertainment. This is a massive movement. I’m not the only one. There’s a lot more where I came from.”
“I would not consider you to be an average transsexual.” she said, “Another reason why I feel you need further exploration in therapy.”
I was so irritated, I couldn’t even speak. “And I suppose you know what the majority of trans people are like. You have met so many of us. You know exactly where the bell curve is. Or are you basing your opinions off of what you might have read by of other non-queer, non-trans people.”
I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I was partly in shock at how horrid she was. I only paid her a third of her price. I told her I didn’t see a reason in paying for an hour of degradation, but I was paying her for time, not opinions.
Bower talked to Gess, which I wasn’t expecting because I didn’t sign anything. It was the last nail in Cincinnati’s coffin. I never saw Dr. Gess again.
I took my time paying Bower, which lead to communication over email. She seemed to be worried about me and, even though I hadn’t yet paid her for the last session, she offered to continue seeing at a lowered price to fit my budget. I don’t know if it was because she wanted to help, or because I was an interesting “non-average” case. I politely thanked her for her kind offer, but declined.
“…Seeing that I have no problems in my adjustment, interpersonal relationships, or personal function, I don’t see a need for therapy. Especially if therapy is as detrimental to my obtaining testosterone as our last session was. Each professional I have seen continues to make it more and more difficult to safely obtain testosterone. I now have little choice but to go outside the city for resources Cincinnati practitioners are too close-minded to provide. I believe that you are unable to truly understand the trans position, regardless of how many trans patients you have seen.”

I also sent her some web site links and book recommendations in hopes of having the last word on proving the presence of the genderqueer revolution. She politely thanked me for the information, and I never spoke to her again.

I made a second attempt with my Wooster and Phelep. Their answers were the same. When I told Dr. Phelep about the trouble I had been having, she called Dr. Gess herself to try and find a solution. She didn’t find one, but she was able to explain Gess’ position better than Gess could.
“I think you’re just gonna have to go out of Cincinnati for this.” Dr. Phelep said sadly. “The city is just too conservative. It’s awful.”
I had all but run out of options, and all but run out of testosterone. I was so tired and emotionally raw… I started to doubt myself. Was I doing the right thing? I couldn’t hear myself over all the doctors speaking against me. Should I just do it their way? Or should I do it at all? Am I conforming somehow by desiring testosterone? No, I was sure I was right. It was what I need to do. It was what was right for me, and I had a strong support system of friends and other genderqueer kids backing me up. I was sure I could get more T, and I did. I went to Yellow Springs, a random hippie down nestled in Ohio, and got a vial. I was set for another 6 months.

Back to the present:
Dr. Phelep and I sat down on either side of her desk. She couldn’t stop smiling.
“Forgive me for staring at you,” she said, “You just look fantastic. I’m amazed.”
Somehow, her compliments didn’t make me feel awkward. I was able to smile and thank her more genuinely than I ever have with anyone else. Maybe it was because she was a doctor, I felt completely asexual and objective to her. I didn’t feel like her comments were othering me or fetishizing me.
“It’s like you’re a completely different person.” she said, “I mean, I saw you a year ago and you didn’t look like a regular woman, but you still looked very feminine. Your face has become so masculine.”
“Yeah, I was thinking about that on my way here.” I laughed a little. I wasn’t sure if I would weird people out or not.”
“I was thinking about it myself.” she said, “Right before you got here I thought to myself “Wow, I’ve never done a pap-smear on a guy before. I wonder how this is going to go.””
Some how I managed to find a balance in Cincinnati doctors where the good ones do enough to keep the shitty ones from destroying everything. When Dr. Gess pulled out, my general practitioner, Dr. Wooster started to do my blood work for me. He recorded the labs under various related things the insurance would cover it. That’s a big favor, considering labs cost hundreds of dollars that I don’t have. I’m so used to not being accepted by the establishment, and not being recognized by people, that when I am, I go into a slight shock which is then followed by a warm, indescribable gratitude. It’s as if my brain can’t even conceive how amazing that person is for giving me recognition. As closed minded as this city is, there are always little pockets of “open” popping out and surprising me. The word queer started to resonate though the city, and like a big gay marco polo, people came out of the wood work. Every now and then I catch a new one. Even the people who hinder me, and label me, are often times trying to understand and trying to do right by me. They just don’t know how. The system warped them into ignorance… I just get tired of always being the one to bend them back.