My own child

Having a child that is so much like you. It is you. An extension of yourself. A SAFETY BLANKET. A reassurance that it is ok to die, because half of you is left. Or two halves.

I am at the point in my transition where I still have spot bleeding. I have ovaries. I know, if I were to stop testosterone my fertility would come back.

The fertility that disgusts me. The thought of pregnancy repulsive. The 98% knowledge that I do not want a genetic child, or any child, or to inflict my genome onto any living being.

Then there is the 2%.

I know there is enough love in this world. And I have a lot of love for those, genetically unrelated to myself.

I don’t actually have a choice. This isn’t about choice. I can’t wait. There is no waiting. I have already waited.

I know I would be a good dad. I have these parts of me. This hope, I guess. Nurturing. Willingness.

Maybe I just want someone to look after to distract from myself.

There is no turning back.

But right now, all around me, I see people who are related to people.

I am not close to my parents. I love them. They love me. But we are not close.

Maybe this helps.

You don’t have to have the same genetic make-up to be close.

You can be half of a person and so far away.

Or a tiny percentage and close.

I have to ring my uncle, because he doesn’t understand (about me being transgender). I have to reassure him. My sister and I are the sole beneficiaries of his will, I found out recently. He doesn’t have any children. He is a man I hardly know.

I know it’s just about time.

My mum, I am in awe. I know how hard it was for her. And my God she has tried, and she is really getting there. It just makes me so happy, I have tears in my eyes.

A guy dropped his glove in the street today, I picked it up, he says “thanks love”. We exchange smiles, I’m pleased about the exchange but walk away, what… What just happened, why did he think, my god, my thighs are so big, I shouldn’t have worn these skinny jeans.

In the music shop, a guy “excuse me mate”. I move out the way. I’m his mate now.

And the realisation that this is not even about pronouns. It’s not even about renouncing “she”. There’s a lot to be said for “she”. It’s just being comfortable.

I have not ever felt this attractive. I’m not phased by having a vagina and tits. I am so happy topless. Its weird. And I have this new-found ability to see people as, you know, people.

And vaginal, internal orgasms, as masculine.

Anyway, I’m due in for stage 2 of my intestinal operation (for an ileo-anal pouch) +/- hysterectomy.

I have a lot of questions about hormone imbalances. Menopause.

Life is a struggle, without money.

Work is appalling and I may have to quit for my own sanity if nothing else.

I had a wobbly patch, I doubled my dose of sertraline, after advice from my doctor, and now I feel stable. Not crying.

I have so much love for the NHS, without which I can unequivocally say, I would not be here.

And just the love, I’m in a band, something I’ve wanted to do for blistering ages.

I feel like I’m really strong, to have got this far, but my God, it is so hard, and there is even further left to go.

I’m 30 years old, what is that, half of my life?

I guess I’m just going to keep on going.


Peace & Love



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