Category Archives: trans talk

relationshipping, trans talk

How to lose weight

How to lose weight

if you’re a transsexual and you live with me.

GF thinks she’s fat.
*sigh*
Here we go…
She’s not fat but most women feel fat sometimes.  I think her gender dysphoria has transitioned into body dysmorphia.  Anyhow, her plan is like this:

GF: I’m going to start eating the same amount of the same foods that you eat.
Me: Uh…okay.
GF: You’re much skinnier than me so by that reasoning I can’t help but lose weight.
Me: Sure, but we’re not around each other 24/7 so you won’t be able to truly mimic what I eat.
GF: That’s okay because you eat a lot more than I do anyway.  I mean, you eat a lot of food so I should be sated when we do eat together because you eat so much.  Seriously, I don’t know how you do it.  You should be a lot bigger…I kind-of hate you for it.
Me: I should be bigger?  Wait a second, you really know how much I eat?  Suddenly I feel self-conscious.
GF: Uh yeah.  We’ve been living together for almost three years and we usually eat together; you’re a bottomless pit.  Even when we started dating I was amazed you could take out more food than me and stay the size you are.  Face it, Rumi- you devour the fridge.
Me: What the fuck “face it” are you talking about?!  I have an overactive thyroid (which will probably come to a sudden pre-menopausal halt as soon as this is published) which is the only reason I eat non-stop.  I have to.  I get all shaky like I need hard drugs if I’m not consuming calories every hour.

On a side note, while GF has been taking careful measure of how much I consume in relation to my height-weight ratio, she has managed to completely ignore said ratio when dosing me with psychoactive substances.  It literally just now occurs to her, many moons after superintense brain trips, that maybe she shouldn’t have dosed my 5’4½” (163.83cm), 105-lb. (47.63kg) ass as one would a 6′ (183cm), 170-lb. (77kg) man.

You think?
Because honestly, I feel really lucky that most of my brain bits came back from that other world, the one where I was howling for hours among tall-as-me green reeds at night with only my long-haired tabby cat as my guide, who magically grew into supersized lion and let me ride on his back while holding onto his whiskers.

how to lose weight

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trans talk

I’m a coward

I'm a coward

and dishonest, sometimes.

I’m memory tripping twenty months ago, recollecting a shopping trip (one of many) with my GF.  We’re sifting through racks of maxi dresses (she really wants a maxi and she’s tall enough that it won’t do the shapeless sack thing) and the palpable relief on her face breaks my heart a little.  She feels so much safer and less self-conscious when I’m with her; my presence seems to dull the voices in her head that make her feel like everyone is suspiciously staring at her.

When we started shopping for her, I would rationalize her still very boy presence amidst flowy, lacy, short and tight things by saying things like, who are they to know you’re trans?  You could be buying clothes for- STOP.  What kind of stupid am I talking?  Why am I considering other people’s hate and intolerance?  Why do I have this compulsion to accommodate their discomfort?  I don’t like this tendency within myself.  It makes me feel like a coward and that I’m not a true supporter of my GF.

So I work on permanently shifting my perspective.  My instinct to justify behavior that highlights her transness through other people’s lenses is to protect us from hate, I tell myself.  Transsexuals are on the very bottom of the LGBTQ totem pole (that there is a hierarchy is so maddeningly ironic); they are and have always been targeted by everyone else because apparently it’s okay to be completely (and violently) not okay with transsexuals because they’re so fucking weird (huge, exasperated eye roll over here).

But I’m not being completely honest.

I give hateful people an iota of consideration because focusing on them deflects and delays my acceptance process because a part of me is still holding onto him.  Because the shameful truth is that I’m not yet able to be 100% supportive.  Yes, I’m absolutely her best friend and biggest cheerleader but I’m dragging my feet- big time- at fully accepting that BF is not coming back.

But…tick tock…tick tock enables me to ultimately accept that my BF is part of my past, which further enables me to unabashedly retail therapy with GF whilst making judgmental and ignorant fools ridiculously uncomfortable- that’s right, we’re buying dresses for him, thank you/fuck you very much.

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trans talk

Happy last birthday

My Mexico mistakeas a guy.

I surprised BF with a Tulum trip and we soaked up salty blue, delicious, windy, underwater caving, blazing, pyramid-gazing, path-climbing, crazyhappy, rocky, starry beautiful, challenging, mind-expanding experiences.

Also, driving in Mexico is fun.
Until you get pulled over by state border patrol police sporting AK-47s (intimidating) and Raybans (hot).

Why the hell are we getting pulled over?
In unison:
Him: You probably shouldn’t say anything.
Me: I’m not talking.

We are promptly ejected from the car and BF and hot Mexican terminator #1 are Spanishing…permiso de conducir…mas español…traficante de drogas…still hablaing…placa de matrícula…yo no comprendo.

I’m sitting on the side of the road, looking at the other border patrols sitting under a flap of canvas-like material supported by four thin, metal poles.  They’ve got a red cooler and I think I see Gatorade but it could be a mirage, wishful thinking because it’s sweltering.  The heat is beating me cranky but then my eye catches a flat-top concrete building that’s the same color as the dirt I’m sitting in and I feel anxious as I picture holding cells in there, holding people for what reason and how long I don’t know.  Then I start thinking about having to spend the night there and that’s no good so I force myself to look away.  So I switch to staring at their guns.  I can’t help it.  I’m terrified and fascinated.

And this doesn’t feel real.

Him: Do you have the rental car agreement?
Me: I don’t know.  I check my purse.  Nope.  Can I check the glove compartment?
Him: Spanishes my question.
AK-47 man #5 opens the door for me and I look in the compartment…nada.
Me: It’s not there.  Crap, where is it?  Did you check your bag?
Him: No, I know it’s not in there but I’ll check.  Do you have any idea where it is?  Basically, that’s my license.  My American one means shit here.  Since he doesn’t live in America, how’s he to know it’s not fake?
Me: Right.  That makes total sense and I’m forcing my brain to speedfire retrace our steps…beachwalkingcetlibanksmarg- oh crap.  I know where it is.
Him: And?
Me: In our room, in the safe deposit box, too many fucking miles away to matter, basically.
Him: Why- but he stops, knowing that it’s useless. 

BF updates AK-47 #1 about the definitive lack of legitimizing paperwork.

Him: He wants my passport.
Me: Do you even have it?  No fucking way.  You will never see that shit again.
Him: Yeah, I’m not going to give it, duh.  We need to call the rental car company and see if they’ll vouch for us.  Because right now they have every right to think we’re smuggling drugs.
Me: ???!!!!
Him: The latest cartel trick is switching rental plates and right now we have nothing that verifies who we are.  So we’re not guilty but we’re not innocent.

Thank god their number is saved in the phone; I dial and hand it over to BF.

|             /¯¯\   |\      |   /¯¯\        /\      |¯¯   |¯¯    \        /\        /   /\       |   ¯¯¯|¯¯¯
|            |      |  ||  \    |  |            /    \    |__   |__      \      / \      /   /  \      |         |
|            |      |  ||    \  |  |    __   /—–\        |      |        \   /   \   /   /—-\     |         |
|_____  \__ /   |      \|   \__/|   /         \  __|   __|         \/      \/   /        \    |        |

While I’m sleepyangrytiredhungryscaredasfuck, BF and #1 are passing the phone so many times it might as well be a hacky sack.

And then:
Him: The guy totally remembered us and everything checked out so now they want to search everything.
Me: Okay.  I have never been so happy at the prospect of a thorough search because this means we’re making progress.  A little relief sets in.  WAIT.  DO we have drugs in the car?  I’m superrapido thinking, going over last night especially hard.  

Because drugs are really easy to come by in Mexico, especially if your BF speaks near-fluent Spanish.  And you pick up a Mexican hitchhiker who tells you from which house to buy the shit after offering to smoke you up at his house.

HUGE Thank. Fucking. God.
The guys even wish BF a feliz cumpleaños.  Actually, they’re like, heh heh…cumpleaños because they think it’s hilarious that we were held up for multiple hours in the Mexican desert on his birthday.

They’re right, it is hilarious.  Because we’re driving away, screaming joyous freedom and elation after sweating bullets for some hours.  He, experience junkie that he is, loves everything that just happened.  But more than that, seeing him so deliriously happy and free makes my little heart burst.  These moments of pure abandon are rare in his life as he debates and thinks, thinks really hard these days about who (s)he wants to be.

So what just happened was priceless in the best possible way.

Happy (last) birthday, sweet.

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relationshipping, trans talk

She doesn’t hear me

She doesn't hear me anymore

because she’s got her own issues.

Which I understand because I get consumed by hormonally induced insecurities but I swear, these days I’m listening to my former mirror and it’s jarring, understandable and kinda hilarious.

2011:
Me: I can’t fit into my jeans.  Any of them.  I’ve gained like 10 pounds since yesterday.
Him: That’s impossible.  You did not gain 10 pounds.
Me: It feels like it and I still can’t fit into anything.  I’m crazy bloated.
Him: No, just crazy.
Me: I look pregnant.
Him: Well, you’re not.  You’re beautiful and aren’t you going to be late for work?
Me: I can’t find anything that fits!  And I’m always late, which means I’ll be on time.  I have to maintain the routine; otherwise it’ll confuse the work folks.  Besides I can’t wear this.  This would be a housecleaning outfit that I bet BF has already taken a secret blackmail picture of: yellow and orange striped knee-high socks, green leopard print underwear, some bizarre hand-me-down thermal crop top and weird mid-calf boots.  I do this.  Cleaning is way more fun when I play some deranged version of dress up.
Him: Huge eye-roll, big smirk.  Dammit, he did take a photo…so fucking opportunistic.

And now:
Me: Arrrghhh!!!  I’m going to be so fucking late.  Crapshitfuck!!!  I hate this part of living in Tokyo.  I’m always late because I’m not early.  Since when is being on time late?!
Her: Do you see THIS?!!, pointing to her head.
Me: Huh?  What are you talking about?
Her: Seriously?  You don’t see it?
Me: Uh no…do you have something in your hair?  Check the weather.
Her: Unbelievable.  My hair was perfect and now it’s totally wrecked.
Me: What?  It looks fine to me.  I don’t get it.  Crap, where’s the umbrella?
Her: This is sticking straight out, pointing at the same spot on her head.  I look ridiculous.  I can’t believe you were going to let me leave the house like that.
Me: Is she pointing to a curl?!  I thought it looked all natural and purposely kinda messy.  Really, I have no idea what she’s talking about; I don’t see it.  Why don’t you pin it?  Snacks!  Pack snacks.
Her: Because that would look even more ridiculous.
Me: Okaaay…ponytail?  Ready!  Gotta run.
Her: Totally unimpressed eye-roll and…sliding tatami room door.

I believe I have been (r)ejected from this conversation.
Great, are we both PMS-ing?

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relationshipping, trans talk

My new normal

My new normal

isn’t so abnormal, is it?

My life isn’t contained in this crazy-magical, rainbow-confetti snowglobe whirlwind filled with exploding closets, overcrowded vanities and non-stop tucking.  Really, my life is fairly mundane.  Everyday I am just being me, staying busy, surviving and hopefully thriving.

Even to my chosen family (amazing, beautiful fucking weirdos) my situation is a tad incomprehensible.  But I get to thinking and the root issue with my transsexual GF is simply a matter of dealing with constant (sometimes massive) change and the overriding question on a steady loop in my head is, how much change can I really handle?  Sure, most people aren’t in my exact situation but don’t we all face this question in life?

I think I’m super adaptable and I like the idea of change but in my current relationship, my capacity to adjust and evolve is constantly and scrupulously examined.  My self-proclaimed open-mindedness and willingness to explore new and uncomfortable spheres haven’t been tested like this before.  

And it is daunting.  

Beneath my wanderlust and seemingly fluid sexuality, I don’t like experiencing too many changes at once.  And currently, many looming changes require perpetual shifting, transitioning and adapting, which means I’m experiencing consistent discomfort and insecurity.  My logical brain is over this taxing process, but my slightly sadistic side appreciates a mental earthquake and an emotional jolt.

Despite the confusion I face when thinking about the future with my GF (namely, is there one?), I really try to stay in the moment and not overthink what lies ahead.  This is difficult for me but it’s the only way our relationship has a chance of working out because who the hell knows how emotions and attractions will change; there is just no telling.  Staying supremely in the here and now is a huge challenge but the rigorous honesty it demands certainly keeps me from becoming complacent and that’s an excellent thing.

So moving to and living in Tokyo with a transsexual in transition means: people change, ideologies metamorphize, assumptions disappear and serious growth occurs…okay, wait, I totally lied; I do live in a  crazy-magical, rainbow-confetti snowglobe and I feel really fucking lucky for it.

P.S. Thank god for stupid fucking DOMA getting its ass kicked, right?

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trans talk

Hormonal hesitation

hormonal hesitation

is on my mind.

I often worry about the effects of the hormones GF’s taking.  We both think about her mones a lot but in different ways.

Her: I think my breasts stopped growing.  I’m definitely going to need surgery.
Me: I thought you said they weren’t finished?  And I thought I was impatient.
Her: They’re not growing as much these days.
Me: Didn’t you up your hormones?
Her: Yeah.
Me: Wait, did you up them again?  I have learned that when GF is down about the rate of her physical transition it’s because she’s increased her dosage and she’s not seeing results on the immediate enough.
Her: Yeah…a couple weeks ago.  Don’t worry, remember they started me on such a low dose that I can take a much higher dose and be okay, especially compared to the amounts my friends have been taking for years.
Me: …okaaay.  Of course I’m worried; hormones are fucking powerful and worrisome.  

a few hours later…
**CRASH**
What the hell was that?!  Except I’m on a damn Skype work call so I can’t check to see what broken mess awaits me in the bedroom.

A couple hours later, post-Skype sesh, GF asks if I heard the crash?
Me: Uh, yeah, kinda hard to miss; what was that?
Her: Oh, I passed out and fell into the mannequin which crashed into the clothes rack against the window.
Me: Jesus Christ, are you okay?!  How are you always so casual about these things?
Her: I’m okay but I wondered why you didn’t come in here when I fell.
Me: I was on stupid Skype for work.  Is it because you upped your hormones?  I’m not scapegoating her hormones but surely it’s no coincidence that she started feeling faint when she had been on them for a couple months…and passing out has become more constant as she has increased her dose.
Her: I don’t know why I did, you know it’s been happening for a while now.  It could be any number of things.
Me: Maybe cut down on the cigarettes?  I don’t think they help.  Quitting hormones is out of the question and she will never attribute her passing out to them but I do want her to quit smoking.  She knows this.  I believe there’s a link between the cigarettes, hormones and passing out**.

Oh hormones, such necessary but troublesome little fuckers.

**My dumb ass didn’t realize that a BIG part of why she passed out was because she was fasting.  Yeah, fasting for days on end and passing out = correlation?  Duh.

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trans talk

Let’s talk HMU

Let's talk HMU

Hair and makeup, oh my.
I thought I was into hair and makeup.
Until my girlfriend. She fucking loves makeup.
I realize now that I like what I like, namely highly pigmented lip pencils (thank you, NARS) and colorful eyeliners (M.A.C.=awesome) but for my newbie transsexual, it’s a glorious candyland of glittery, shimmery, matte, scented, deeply pigmented F-U-N.  And though it’s always a good time to look through the aisles at Sephora, I’m experiencing it through the eyes of a teenager who has been let loose in the most fun candy store yet, meaning it’s completely endearing but a tad exhausting- literally.  I cannot remember the last time I looked through almost every makeup brand’s products.

I say, get a bunch of different things; you just have to try it out to see what works.
Trial and error, much?  And her skin tone and features are so different from mine that we will not be sharing products.  But not sharing is okay as I like to keep a certain order to my things and she is a veritable tornado.

So as she is getting into her makeup routine, this is how our mornings go:
Me: I think I’m wearing too much eyeliner.
Her: That’s just because you can actually tell that you’re wearing makeup.  You’re just not used to it.
Me: I can feel the weight of the mascara though, like every time I blink.
Her: Look, the thing with mascara is you put on more than you think you need then add two more coats.
Me: Hmm…so it’s like lube (when you think it’s too much, it’s almost enough?).  I don’t think you’re taking into account how different our features are; your eyes can take twenty pounds of mascara and look natural (hmm…I might be a little J about this).
Her: No, it’s that when you wear makeup you can barely tell you have it on.  And you still haven’t answered me; how do I look?  She’s telling me this when she’s only been using the shit for, like, a week?
Me: You look good; wait, close your eyes…maybe smudge your right eye shadow more, but it only looks uneven when your eyes are closed and I’m really close to your face which means no one else will notice.

Welcome to another new chapter in transsexual adjustment.
The vanity is way more crowded but I kinda like it.

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trans talk

The thing about parents

The thing about parents

is that they are so predictably unpredictable.

Take, for instance, the coming out experience.
My girlfriend, who was only ever referred to as my boyfriend to my parents, was slated to meet them for the first time as we were leaving the country.  L.A. was our hello-goodbye pit-stop before our one-way flight to Tokyo.  Because my girlfriend was newly into her transition and she felt weird about the whole, “Nice to meet you, I’m actually a transsexual, please use my new name with correct pronoun as your daughter and I are moving halfway across the globe in six days” introduction, we decided to skip her coming out to my parents.

Oh parents…I suppose I wanted to keep this pre-move visit simple.  After all, I am that person who came out to them during a rare winter vacation stay, on Christmas Eve, many years ago when I was in a lesbian relationship.  Well, impulsively coming out to one’s not-so-socially-liberal family after holiday dinner probably wasn’t the smartest thing, especially regarding the crossroads of my expectations and their reactions.

My father: That’s abnormal, immediately followed by his leaving the dinner table and heading upstairs.  Case closed, i.e. I am not talking about this, i.e. if I ignore this it will go away?  This non-acknowledgement continued for quite a few years.
My mother: I always suspected something like this was happening (really?!).  Why didn’t you talk about this sooner? (hmm…maybe for the same reason that you couldn’t bring it up as well?).  Well, you really shouldn’t rush into anything (ok, duly noted).

After that long-term relationship ended, my mother had this to say: I always had doubts, felt you were unhappy and knew it wasn’t going to last (awesome, appreciate the honesty after the fact).

Fast forward to October 2012, we’ve been in Tokyo for a couple months and I (with the help of omnipresent Facebook) decide it’s time to have the my BF is a transsexual talk. My mother doesn’t take the news so well; I am informed via email that she needs to stop communicating with me until she has finished processing and please don’t tell your father about this.  Okay…

A few months after that, my mother started emailing me again, noticeably excluding the girlfriend from all conversations and I figure my dad is still none the wiser.

Oh, the parentals.

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about Japan, trans talk

The thing about Tokyo…

The thing about Tokyo

…most people don’t give a fuck.

It’s been awesome to witness the acceptance and encouragement a transsexual in transition is given in this crazy, crowded megalopolis.  Transition ain’t easy; in fact, it may be the most difficult (and defeating at moments) experience I have observed in this life.
And I am so glad that she is able to do it in Tokyo.

Tokyoites (mostly) not giving a rude fuck about someone in transition isn’t why we chose to move here but it is a decided perk.  It’s a strange and beautiful thing that the inhabitants of this city can be so conformist yet respectful of an individual’s self-expression.  Yes, there is a massive sea of businessmen and office ladies in their requisite suits and skirt-suits with black pumps, respectively, but behind those 9-5 (attached with massive overtime) outfits are characters who let all kinds of freaky flags fly into the wee hours, or not.  Point being that people here recognize and respect that everyone is multidimensional and who are they to judge?  Not only are there all kinds of daily queer sightings, gender-bending has always been a part of popular culture here, from the historic Noh theater to the beloved transsexuals on popular variety shows to the crossdressers in the cosplay neighborhood of the anime capital of the world.  In the states, especially in the South where we were living, there is no way she would have gotten the support she currently receives from her university peers, faculty and administration whilst transitioning. Just the other week, a very concerned teacher called twice, left a voice-mail and texted because she realized she had unintentionally hurt my girlfriend’s feelings and wanted to remedy the hurt and misunderstanding ASAP…that’s the thing about Tokyo.

I’m not saying that people can’t be hurtful with their stares or what might be downright dirty looks, even, but that’s as bad as it has been thus far.  No slurs, no bullying, no discrimination and certainly no acts of violence for crossing genders.

Tokyoites really embrace one of my golden rules:
As long as you’re not hurting yourself or anyone else, do what you want.

And that’s pretty damn cool.

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relationshipping, trans talk

HOW can you think you will stay the same?

HOW can you think it will stay the same

It goes against all my logic.
I WANT to believe him when he says he’ll be the same on the inside.  I want this to be true because my insides are still blown away by his coming out and I’m actively processing at seemingly every moment, asking questions like: how much are things going to change, what will he look like, what will his transition entail (are there surgeries in the future- how many?), how long will it take for him to be happy, the list goes on.  At this point it’s been a couple months at most since he’s come out to me.  I’m still in love with him and if he’s right- that who he is on the inside will stay the same- then there’s a chance we can stay together…right?

Except:
I don’t know how he can stay the same.
The argument he presents is that he’ll still like the same things, treat me the same, have the same sense of humor etc.
I can see his perspective but- BIG but- what about all the external changes that will inevitably affect his identity and personality…who he is, in essence?
For instance, I don’t see his wanting to do things like picking me up off the ground in a big bear hug, slinging me over his shoulder, and swinging me around as I protest, kicking and screaming.  I’m already missing his manhandling me in the future.  I don’t want his new feminine identity to have to take a backseat because he knows that I want, possibly need, these very masculine acts of ownership in a relationship.
I wonder what will happen to us as our individual needs and wants seem headed toward irreconcilable differences.

And…

What if:
I become unattracted to her because she will, slowly but surely, no longer resemble the man who made my heart skip a beat?  I’m already grieving the future loss of sideburns, chest hair, lean but really strong arms and him in a simple white t-shirt and black hi-tops. This list of desirable traits lost will grow as time passes and whether my attraction takes an undeniable nosedive in relation to it remains to be seen.  Thinking about the future, this uncertainty scares me because sexual attraction doesn’t lie and its absence won’t be ignored.

Yeah…so my future holds potential personality changes and shifts in sexual attraction…all very straightforward and complicated.

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