Calling Myself a Trans Woman? Hard. Calling Myself a Lesbian? Harder.
We can knot ourselves in the quest for permission
It feels like ages since I started hormone replacement therapy (HRT). In reality, I’m now just approaching nine months. For some, this is no time at all. For others, reaching where I am seems like a fantasy.
Already, it feels like I’ve been functioning on estrogen my entire life.
I’ll never be able to forget the life I spent trudging along on testosterone, much as I sometimes wish to wipe large chunks of it clean from my memory. Rather, it feels like the way I am now is natural. Unequivocally, this is the way things should have been from the beginning.
The thing with HRT is, much as you build it up before it’s in your grubby little fingers, it eventually just becomes a thing you happen to do, like any medical regimen — though depending on where you live, the possibility of losing it may loom always overhead.
And if someone comes knocking on your door to take it? Best believe we won’t go down quietly.
You’re aware of how life-changing it is, but after a few weeks of popping pills, applying gel, dealing with patches, or poking yourself with needles, it becomes habit.
