(no subject)
I find that I can't open a map on a streetcorner without someone stopping to give me directions. I credit thi this to Boston's friendly attitude.
But vuge tells me that I need to get a bra.
Background:
I've been tweaking my estradiol and progesterone levels for a few months now. Normally, you take a given dose of E and P and test your blood for their levels. But instead, the doctor I'm seeing recommends adjusting them until your pituitary emits levels of follicular stimulating hormone and lutenizing hormone in line with cissexed women. The idea is that your pituitary is lying back in a warm endocrinal bath and sighing ahhh... just right. Now let's ovulate.
There's no ovulation, but there is better mood and sleep. The clinic I was going to in Vancouver modeled their trans care after their previous specality: harm reduction for injection drug-users. While tehy're nice folks all-around, they prescribed as little as possible (post-op 50ug patch or 2mg pill of E; no P).
I think I'm sleeping better on the new dose. But my body seems to be completing the puberty that it stalled out on. So I go to goodwill to donate the pants that are too small on my hips and bum, and I buy new ones that fit.
And a bra may be in order. At least if I'm going to go running (ouch!) or to a job interview.
Behind me, vuge says, "no, you should wear a bra all the time."
I'm not sure about this.
"You see those striations on your shirt? That washboard effect running from nipple to nipple?" Vuge asks. "I last saw that in anime."
I don't know how I feel about this. I don't like the idea that I have to cover myself with an extra layer of fabric. An extra layer to wash by hand. An extra layer to shop and spend for, difficult normally, but even moreso due to my insistance on ethical sourcing.
I could cut down my dosage and see if they shrink back, but I'm not sure that's best for my body, my mood.
I like the fact that my body is finishing puberty; that it hasn't stalled out halfway; that it's doing what it should. I'm alarmed and annoyed at how my prior doctor thought this was the end of the line; that no more was to occur; that I should slow down and stop. And since I have trouble remembering that I've changed sex, accidentally knocking one breast with my upper arm now and then serves as a good reminder.
I don't particularly like the extra attention from men. Or rather, I don't like that this sexual expectation, or that it's contingent on the shape of my chest.
I wore a button down shirt to visit vuge in the hospital. When I left, she overheard the nurses respectfully discussing whether I was a boy or a girl. Given this, given how people associate "btuch " with "dyke," the men who cross the street to give me directions that I don't need, then strike up a conversation that ends with "I wish we could spend more time together." would figure I'm gay.
"Yeah." says vuge. "But they're probably thinking, hitting on her is probably not going to work. But if it did? .... Yeah. It's worth a shot."
I'm thinking: sports bra.
But vuge tells me that I need to get a bra.
Background:
I've been tweaking my estradiol and progesterone levels for a few months now. Normally, you take a given dose of E and P and test your blood for their levels. But instead, the doctor I'm seeing recommends adjusting them until your pituitary emits levels of follicular stimulating hormone and lutenizing hormone in line with cissexed women. The idea is that your pituitary is lying back in a warm endocrinal bath and sighing ahhh... just right. Now let's ovulate.
There's no ovulation, but there is better mood and sleep. The clinic I was going to in Vancouver modeled their trans care after their previous specality: harm reduction for injection drug-users. While tehy're nice folks all-around, they prescribed as little as possible (post-op 50ug patch or 2mg pill of E; no P).
I think I'm sleeping better on the new dose. But my body seems to be completing the puberty that it stalled out on. So I go to goodwill to donate the pants that are too small on my hips and bum, and I buy new ones that fit.
And a bra may be in order. At least if I'm going to go running (ouch!) or to a job interview.
Behind me, vuge says, "no, you should wear a bra all the time."
I'm not sure about this.
"You see those striations on your shirt? That washboard effect running from nipple to nipple?" Vuge asks. "I last saw that in anime."
I don't know how I feel about this. I don't like the idea that I have to cover myself with an extra layer of fabric. An extra layer to wash by hand. An extra layer to shop and spend for, difficult normally, but even moreso due to my insistance on ethical sourcing.
I could cut down my dosage and see if they shrink back, but I'm not sure that's best for my body, my mood.
I like the fact that my body is finishing puberty; that it hasn't stalled out halfway; that it's doing what it should. I'm alarmed and annoyed at how my prior doctor thought this was the end of the line; that no more was to occur; that I should slow down and stop. And since I have trouble remembering that I've changed sex, accidentally knocking one breast with my upper arm now and then serves as a good reminder.
I don't particularly like the extra attention from men. Or rather, I don't like that this sexual expectation, or that it's contingent on the shape of my chest.
I wore a button down shirt to visit vuge in the hospital. When I left, she overheard the nurses respectfully discussing whether I was a boy or a girl. Given this, given how people associate "btuch " with "dyke," the men who cross the street to give me directions that I don't need, then strike up a conversation that ends with "I wish we could spend more time together." would figure I'm gay.
"Yeah." says vuge. "But they're probably thinking, hitting on her is probably not going to work. But if it did? .... Yeah. It's worth a shot."
I'm thinking: sports bra.