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| Week 82 |
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| Breast growth and my hips took a big jump. Totally my butt. Gotta be. |
My father did just that recently. One of the items on his list was "the last time you cried." He filled in the spot with "28th January 2015"...
On that date, I made my way to Little Rock via Jonesboro to meet with Dr. Cathey for the very first time. I was scared, filled with so much anxiety and hate for my then self, and wanted it all to be done with...on either side of the fence. Yes, death was still a distant option for me at the time. I didn't want to live. But I had the tiniest glimmer of hope residing inside of me.
I hesitated in turning around three or four times on that 135 mile trip to Little Rock. I was tortured. I was tormented living in that previous body, and the ferocity of the testosterone in my body was fighting vehemently against what my mind and physical sense knew to be true. But I stayed the course. I stayed the course with the absolute sickest feeling in my stomach the entire drive there. I made it. I arrived, met with the absolutely wonderful Dr. Cathey, and she brought so much peace and structure to my internal self and the forthcoming events that were about to unfold. I'm eternally grateful to her for that, and she means the world to me because of it. I'm sure she knows this. :)
But my father cried. My father very rarely ever cries. It's not a masculine thing for a man to do, according to words I would hear from him constantly growing up. Boys were supposed to be tough, to be aggressive, and to not show sensitivity in emotions. Raw and unkempt, males were supposed to act.
I was none of that. I have never been any of that. I attached myself fairly quickly early on to my mother. I viewed her physicality as being more in line with what I felt I was as a human being. She would put on pantyhose, I would put on pantyhose as a kid. I'd see her wear flats, and I would wear another pair of her flats, too. I'm not sure if my father ever truly noticed this. I replicated quite a bit of her actions and mannerisms. It felt right. I knew it to be so.
But yet on that date last year, he cried. He cried because he thought he was losing a son. He cried because he thought his son was destroying her body. He cried because he thought his son was bringing about the end of the family. I know these things to be true because he posted all sorts of related memes and bigotry-fueled stories over the matter all over his social media.
He wasn't crying for any of that, however. He cried because of his own self-infliction.
He cried because...instead of seeking truth and understanding, he disavowed acceptance of who I was and refuted any proof of the like. He cried because his own narrow-minded and blinkered father was an utter asshole and raised him as a child on a level 50 times worse than how my father tried raising me. He cried because of how tortured his own internal self had been scorned.
My father doesn't have to be tortured, though. All he truly has to do is vanquish that barrier of refusal and unacceptance, and then learn to love the proper way — unconditionally.
But at this point in time, he can't do that. He can't do that because his warped version of religion tells him to not do so. In his religious view, I'm an aberration and an abomination. It's one of the major reasons why I despise and loathe religion altogether. The last few attempts I made at returning to my parents' house to see them, he would cowardly run away to the bedroom and lock himself inside with the telly on so that he couldn't hear me. Deplorable and embarrassing.
It's utterly an absolute shame that the tears he cried that day weren't joyful and streaming from happiness in knowing his child was about to turn her life around for the better. They could have been.
I drove back to my little apartment in Jonesboro that day with the tiniest of smiles beginning to emerge, and all of those sinking feelings I had in my stomach had disappeared. Immediately, I began feeling stress whisper away. It was surreal. It felt good. And yes, I cried, too — for the right reasons.
I messaged a few friends once I arrived back in Jonesboro, telling them I was about to pick up my hormone prescriptions and how my life was about to begin anew. Excitement, little by little, began stirring up in my veins. I'll never forget the entirety of the day that was the 28th of January 2015.
I'm sure my father won't either — for the wrong reasons.
Because there is no shame in showing your body...my physical changes after 81 weeks of HRT. (I took these photos the day after last week's post.)
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Be good, do good. Love! <3
- 27 August
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