Are we there yet? This thing is killing me...literally

So, those of you who follow me on Twitter or have held a conversation with me in the last few days and weeks should know by now that I moved from Blythe, CA to Orlando, FL by car...again...for the third time. Needless to say, it was an interesting and unique experience, even though I've traveled pretty much the same roads for the third time in less than 5 years. Yes, there's nothing more magical than driving 3,000 miles with your senior-aged parents and your 17yr old nephew, all whilst going through the transsexual transition, which means I still have boobs and have to wear an incredibly uncomfortable "corset" type thingy called "binder" for the entire trip and have to go the men's bathroom without feeling the "safety" of having an actual penis. This brings me to my first tales from the cross-country trip. How I experienced the trip during my transition.

As I said earlier, I'm going through the stage in my transition where I must wear a binder to flatten my chest, and I also must ALWAYS go to the men's bathroom because I'm going through what they call "Real Life Experience", which means I have to live as man in every aspect of my life. I must do this for AT LEAST one full year before I can get ANY surgeries. So with that in mind, imagine basically living out of your car for 3 days and having to go to those oh-so-charming truck-stop bathrooms where you're accompanied by flies and bugs during your "nature call". Not all the bathrooms where scenes from a M. Night Shyamalan movie, but I have to admit some would scare even Freddy Krueger in HIS dreams. I feared I would inevitably get a yeast infection, especially when one of the bathrooms had EVERY SINGLE TOILET going crazy. Those were fun, for five seconds. The toilets where the ones that flush automatically when they see your ass as you pull your pants up, and boy did they take that seriously. I barely unbuttoned my pants and they were already flushing, and not just your ordinary "Here, let me take your human waste" type of flush, oh no, these were "I WILL SUCK YOU DOWN TO HELL!" type of flushes that WOULD NOT STOP. At first I panicked, but the need to pee was far greater so I went ahead and did it. What I got for my bravery was my ass soaked in toilet water, since they really NEVER stopped flushing. If I had a penis I could have peed from safety without getting my ass wet. And yet, bathrooms weren't the worst part of the trip.

The worst part of the trip, the part that keeps playing over and over in my mind, the thing that wakes me at night and gives me mental, and sometimes emotional, diarrhea, is the fact that at one gas station in Texas the store clerk, whom I shall call “Peggy” for dramatic purposes, called me..."Ma’m". I have played that scene in my mind over a hundred times and can’t seem to find that thing that gave me away. I mean, do all women in Texas wear men’s button down shirts, baggy jeans, have a less than feminine haircut, AND have facial hair? I think not. I think. Who knows, maybe it’s a Texas thing, I don’t know. Anyways, she referred to me as a female. This bothered me because up to that moment, I had the ability to pass as a male in public. Or so I thought. This made me highly insecure for the rest of the trip, and gave me tiny schizophrenic attacks whenever I need to go to the bathroom. “Is anybody going to notice?”, “Will they yell at me?”, “Are they gonna pull my pants down in front of everybody?”, “Can they see my vagina?” These were some of the things floating in my mind during my bathroom breaks. Thanks to Peggy, I now doubt myself incessantly when in public. Yes, I endured much emotional stress throughout the trip, but it doesn’t stop there. I also endured some physical abuse.

Don’t get your undies in a twist, I wasn’t raped, beaten, smacked, spit on, pepper sprayed, run over, shot, tackled, or cut by anyone. I’m talking about physical abuse from wearing the damn binder. Yes, I classify that as physical abuse. Why? Well first of all, because its my blog and I can say whatever I want. Second, because when something is dangerous enough that it comes with a “Don’t-wear-for-more-than-X-ammount-of-hours-or-you’ll-suffer-internal-damages” warning on it, AND interferes with some slightly important bodily functions, like breathing or being able to eat a complete meal, I think it should be considered physical abuse. That’s right; the thing that is supposed to help me can also hurt me. And I had to wear that motherfucker for 3 days straight, from 7 or 8am to 11pm, depending on how long it took us to get to the hotels. By the time we got to the hotel, my torso was marked with those horrible red lines that you get when something is clearly strapped on tight to your body. These things aren’t bras, not even close. Bras hold your boobs up. Binders squash them down to make them less noticeable. Bras only cover your boobs. Binders come in different lengths but even the shortest ones cover your belly, making difficult to breathe, eat and digest. See the difference? Don’t get me wrong, I’m used to it by now, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy having the life squeezed out of me slowly. Not at all. Nevertheless, they are a necessary evil and until I can have chest reconstruction surgery, I shall have to wear them. Every day. Including Holidays.

To summarize, going through the trip as a transsexual is ten times harder than going through it as a “normal” person. So the next time you go on a road trip, a vacation, or an outing of some sort, if you’re a guy, remember to value your genitals for they are a privilege some of us don’t have but want and need quite desperately. And also, take a piss in a bush in my name. But don’t blame me if you get cited or arrested.

Stay frosty.

Three Cheers for Sweet...Prozac?

I recently started taking Prozac, and I have to admit it really does make me feel better. It takes away the heaviness and slow-motion I usually feel. And today I noticed something even better. It made me feel like almost my true self. Getting rid of the depression and anxiety gave me a small peek at what it would be like if I wasn't so emotionally damaged. It felt damn good. It actually made me feel powerful and slightly confident, as opposed to helpless and lacking confidence in every way possible. Yes, my little miracle drug is working, despite having some "slight" side-effects(increased anxiety the first few hours, paranoia and hyperactivity at night). Small price to pay for happiness, right? Besides, it also helps with my will and inspiration to write. My last blog is an example of what happens when I stop taking it and force myself to write. This time I have the Prozac in my system and am truly inspired to write. With that said, lets go a bit deeper into the meaning of the "other side-effects".

As I mentioned above, it makes me feel better, almost like myself, blah blah blah. But, as with everything else in life, there is a dark side. And no, I'm not talking about Darth Vader talking to me while I'm under the influence of Prozac. I mean an emotional dark side. There is something truly and utterly terrifying about being my true self. My fear can be divided up into 3 things: the fear of not liking my true self, the fear of not knowing how to be my true self, and the fear of not being able to control myself. The first two are pretty self-explanatory, the third one I will explain further. I'm afraid of not being able to stop shedding away parts of my current self and end up with an incomplete, egotistical, unstoppable human being who does not "play well" with others. You're probably thinking "Well, why don't you just take away all the bad stuff?" Well, sir or madam, I can't just do that because I don't know which bad stuff is the result of my depression and which bad stuff is just part of who I am. At this point it feels like the third Spider-Man movie, where Peter Parker finds the "Venom" suit thingy and it sort of takes over with time and he can't quite get rid of it. That's how my depression feels, like the Venom suit that's stuck on me and is now an integral part of my being. I fear that if I "surgically" remove the Venom suit, I'll inevitably lose part of myself and end up incomplete anyways. How do I know what and how much to remove from myself? How do I know where to draw the line that separates being free from being crazy and out of control? I hope at some point it'll become clear. But in the meantime, I'm scared shitless.

Paws up.

Boys, Boys, Boys...and a Girl

Since I'm still in the starting position with this blog, I won't saturate it with details of my childhood just yet. Instead, I'll express my current feelings and thoughts. Which brings me to my next topic: what exactly does a "girl" have to do to fit in with the boys? How do I, in my female body, get the other guys to see me as who I really am on the inside? Beats me. Guys are, generally, not so good with the "put yourself in the other person's shoes" thing compared to most girls, so they tend to be a bit more narrow-minded and less accepting. This is a problem for me since I'm 5'2, laid back, somewhat gentle, and have a thing for pop music.Unless I start punching people spontaneously, putting all my effort into "getting laid", stuffing my face to the point of regurgitating(fancy word for "puking") and farting in public(which actually doesn't bother me because I've already done it), they ain't gonna let me into their precious "Man-Club". What's a "Man-Club"? Its a place where nobody feels pain EVER, everybody can eat an unlimited amount of food, everybody can lift 3 times their own weight, and the president of the club is Chuck Norris.

So what can I do to get in? Well, I could become a body builder, date a model, expand my stomach, and only listen to rap or heavy metal. The real question is: Do I WANT to get in? The answer is: Not if it'll cost me myself. If I have to disguise myself in order to "fit in", it's not worth it. Besides, I've already spent my life being different, why not do it to the maximum? Why not truly express myself? It's about time the world saw a different shade of gray. Yes, my mission from now on shall be to preserve my true self no matter what. I will be a computer-loving, video game-playing, Gaga-loving, goofy DORK.

Stay frosty.

In the words of the Lady herself: I was BORN THIS WAY

Many people think being gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender or transsexual is a choice or a lifestyle. Well, I honestly don't remember being given the choice or waking up one day and thinking "Hmm, I think I'll become a "freak" in the eyes of society and suffer the rest of my life". Nope, doesn't ring a bell. What does ring a bell however, is being different from all the other little girls as a child. Never wanting "pink" things, loving going to get a haircut as short as possible, playing with the boys, preferring Hotwheels toy cars over Barbies. Now how do you explain that? You can't, it just is. Still think that was a choice? How about biological facts, like how my voice has always been deeper than most girls', or how I've got facial hair WITHOUT hormone treatment. How are those things a choice? I'm not trying to impose anything on anyone or convert anybody to anything. I'm simply saying I DID NOT CHOOSE to be transsexual, I DID NOT CHOOSE to be born in the wrong body. The only choice I made was to stand up for myself and not let anybody tell me I'm worth less than anybody else. That choice I do remember making.

Another more recent choice was to pursue my dream of being a comedian/actor with an ultimate goal of having my own show. Why? Many reasons, but one of the more important reasons is because I want to help others like me. If I can make it, I can use my voice to reach out and help. Someday, somehow, I know I'll make it, even if I have to wear a meat dress to get people to notice. Hopefully, it won't come to that but that is exactly why I feel inspired by Lady Gaga. She's very talented but she doesn't just sit back and enjoy the fame, she helps others through her music and her actions. I hope one day I could reach that point and inspire others to find their voice.

So again, in the words of the Lady herself: I WAS BORN THIS WAY.

Stay frosty.

Hello freaks, weirdos, abominations...and "normal" people!

Hello, my name is..in this profile so let's move it along. As you can guess from the title of the blog, I am a transsexual although I'm not exactly a "teen" anymore but it was better than naming it "Confessions of a Young Adult Who Happens to be Transsexual". "What is a transsexual?", you say? Well, it's a person who's gender doesn't match their sex and usually undergo surgery to correct it. Gender is "between the ears" and sex is "between the legs". I, for example, was born in a female body but identify as male. Get it? If not, Google it(smile). 

The reasons for creating this blog and sharing such personal things is because (a)I want to reach out to others in my situation and maybe help them feel like they're not alone or crazy (b)I also feel the need to express myself, and (c)I enjoy shocking people in order to open their eyes(and trust me, I fully intend to do so through this blog so help me God...and hopefully GaGa). Being transsexual is about as easy as running a mile with Chewbacca chained to your back. Yes, I said Chewbacca. Maybe I exaggerated a bit there. Judge for yourself: imagine feeling exactly the way you feel right now, being attracted to men/women except you being born in the opposite sex's body. It sucks, right? That's what I, and thousands of others around the world, experience EVERY single day. You can't turn it off like a TV and you can't ignore it like Paris Hilton ignores underpants. It's serious enough to conflict with daily activities such as: going to the supermarket, going out in public for any reason, making friends, finding jobs, etc. Even the name experts gave it sounds horrible: GENDER DYSPHORIA.I don't know about you but anything with the word DYSPHORIA makes me wanna hide in the closet(no pun intended).

Since this is my first post, I just wanted to give a short, simple introduction into being trans. For my next posts I will share more personal things and experiences as I continue my journey into the not-so-unknown.

Stay frosty.