Well, I have an official piece of paper (with signature and stamp and everything) that states I suffer from Gender Dysphoria (DSM-5 302.85) and that it is likely to persist long term unless treated with hormone therapy. If this were a civilized country, that would be enough for me to get hormones. Unfortunately, it’s Austria, so I still need 25 hours of psychotherapy and a two more letters from two other doctors confirming the diagnosis and stating that I’m mentally stable (FUCK AUSTRIA).
Also, my therapist thinks I may be overestimating the psychological effects of HRT, and thinks that maybe I could consider SSRIs. Of course, knowing the people I do on here, I know that she’s likely to be dead wrong on that front—being on the correct hormones is a damn-powerful anti-depressant.
Top: OOTD (left) and OOTN (right) from today. I went ice skating after work and my doctor’s appointment today. I failed to find a psychiatrist to write my second letter, but I can’t blame him, since his objection was basically that he thought gatekeeping was absolute bullshit and destroyed any sort of doctor-patient relationship and he wasn’t willing to participate in such a system (he told me to come back if we couldn’t come up with a better alternative). After skating we went for dinner and beers at a microbrewery and discussed misogyny in physics, among other things (hooray for 3 female physicists ice skating and drinking beer together).
Rear Admiral Grace Hopper would have been 107 today, and is being honored with a great Google Doodle. It’s quite literally impossible for us to imagine, as we sit here reading about her on the internet, but people used to use things like paper and pencils and chalk and slide rules to solve (and often not solve) complicated problems. Grace Hopper quite simply helped usher in the modern age, her impact, I think, is no less than the steam engine or the cotton gin.
Some awesome stuff she did: Grace Hopper developed first compiler, allowing computer calculations to move beyond simple arithmetic and into more complex problems. She also developed first standardized computer language, COBOL, which laid the groundwork for all the languages we use today.
One day she found a dead moth disrupting one of the electronic relays in the Mark 1 computer, and upon removing it (and fixing the computer), the term “debugging" was popularized (although the idea of computer "bugs" had been around before). Here’s her daily log from that day, with the offending moth taped to the page:
Beyond that, she was a charming scientific communicator, and she possessed a marvelous ability to make people, and mind you this was in a time when almost no one owned their own computer, truly appreciate both the importance and the complexity of computing technology.
She famously carried around a bundle of nanoseconds in her purse for illustrative purposes. Here she is charming the socks off of David Letterman, and giving him a nanosecond of his very own (don’t miss the picosecond joke, either) :
Stonewall was colored folks, poor folks, transsexuals, femmes, butches… a little bit of everybody. But the narrative that gets sold to people is that it was all these ‘A-Gay’ white normative people. That’s not who riots. Sorry.
I can't figure out why I am not satisfied living as a male and why I want to be female. I am already as fem as I want to be so I am not holding back anything there. I feel I already am female inside but I don't know why I can't be content with that. What part of outward female expression makes the whole thing complete? Why can't I be happy just knowing who I am? It really bugs me that all the self awareness I attempt would never make me as happy as I imagine living out a day with a skirt on woul
It is normal for people to need to express their gender outwardly. If a cis woman were depressed because she felt obligated to present male rather than present female as she wished to, we would probably tell her, “just go ahead and do it! what are you waiting for?”
Outward expression adds a comfortable congruency in your life: you don’t have to be one thing, hidden, on the inside, while pretending to be something else on the outside. It means you don’t have to carry around that secret anymore, and I’d say it’s healthy to stop considering one’s true gender as a secret to be hidden. Sometimes just knowing the truth means little if you can’t act on it.
Another way in which this helps is knowing that other people will begin to see you as you see yourself, rather than something else. It can be disorienting and painful to have everyone treat you as male when you know that you’re just not. Conversely, it can be affirming to be simply accepted in everyday life as the woman you know you are.
I totally get what you’re saying about being happy just to wear a skirt. I managed to address a pretty great deal of my dysphoria by presenting more and more feminine over a period of years - even before I knew it was dysphoria, even before I knew I was trans, even when I wasn’t planning on transitioning. That’s how powerful and helpful this can be. Once I realized how good it felt, there was no way I could go back to presenting male without it being obvious how much it hurt.
purple necklace — €1 store (yeah, I’m cheap like that)
Sorry about having so few posts this week, I’ve just been sort of a bit crazy with my schedule. Also, I think I’ve been really frustrated with the gatekeeping that I’m trying to navigate right now. While I’m really happy with the progress my hair is making, my dysphoria about the rest of my body is getting worse by the day, and I really just want to get on hormones f-ing NOW!
In other news, my friend had her birthday/hanukkah party on Tuesday, and she warned me there were going to be lots of conservative judgmental people there, so I actually changed into black jeans and my stompy boots before heading over, but I didn’t take a picture.
I also somehow managed to not take pictures on Wednesday or today (I don’t even remember what I wore Wednesday, today I wore pink tights, a black long skirt, black over-the-knee socks with purple hearts, a purple shirt, a black hoodie, a black soft-shell jacket, and my stompy boots again).
Last night I went to the lesbian bar across the street from my house with a friend and her lesbian friend visiting from Greece. I actually met the owner for the first time, which was nice (she was incredibly friendly) and it turns out the Thursday bartender is actually a neighbor (we’ve seen each other on the street before). Also, there may have been some drunken karaoke, and I may have consumed an illicit substance in aerosolized form.