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3/3/21 — on being yourself, changing your mind, and hrt

On the evening of the third of March 2021 – a lucky date; 3rd day of the 3rd month and 2+1 from the year add up to 3 as well – a family friend who’s a nurse came over to our house and taught me how to give myself an intramuscular shot of testosterone. It came in a little pink packet that stored five tiny glass vials with a thick, oily liquid inside each one. I was beyond excited, rushing to my room as soon as it was done to tell all my friends about how I just got my first t-shot and record a little video to keep track of the changes that would happen over the next months and years.  And I would repeat this ritual every two weeks – assemble the syringe, draw the medication, change the needle to a thinner one, check for any air bubbles, disinfect my skin, stab myself (which became harder and more anxiety-inducing as time went on, but more on that later), and slowly inject it into my thigh. And trust me, it went slowly. But let’s go back a few years to the time before I started hrt. ...
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bus posting

 Hello, blog readers! I am writing to you from a bus. Okay, coach. Did you know you can write a blog post on a bus? It’s actually allowed. 

After a long day of travelling – and I mean long, I woke up at 5am to catch a 6.20 train and it’s nearing 6pm now – I’m finally winding down. We’re driving past quiet towns and villages. I can’t see much most of the time between them, because it’s dark already, but whenever we approach a slightly more populated area I get to look out the window and enjoy the view. 

We drove through one bigger town. It was just starting to get dark and the air was that almost fluorescent shade of blue it sometimes is on winter evenings. All the shops and cafes were still lit up, employees walking around them with brooms or organising inventory. People with dogs on walks. Pub windows fogged up with condensation so much that you could not see inside, they just radiated a soft glow. Fairy lights hung in windows and in alleyways, not sure if they’re a remainder of christmas or just the charm of that place.

And every now and then, a row of little brick houses lit up with yellow and white. And every house, every window where someone’s setting up a table or someone else is watching tv I think about what if one day my boyfriend and I live in a little house like that somewhere, making dinner and living a little life in the warmth of the yellow light of the lamp hanging over our kitchen table. Maybe just because I’m on my way to see him.


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