That’s how many days I have until I arrive at Mt. Sinai for bottom surgery. That’s how many days I have until I trade in my factory standard external equipment for something internal.
You would assume that I am excited and happy. All the other stories you see and hear about trans people getting surgery are all about how excited they are. About how ready they are. About the gender euphoria that they experience.
I feel almost none of that.
Almost. The only positive thing I feel is that I know this is the right thing to
do. But the rest? Maybe the euphoria will come later, but right now all I feel
is anxious, lonely, and overwhelmed.
That is what this blog is about. It’s primarily for me and those who love me,
but it is also for the other trans folks who are staring down one of the biggest events of your lives, the decision that you know in the deepest part of your spirit, and you still feel the overwhelming terror and panic.
Over the next few posts, I’ll write about my surgery journey so far, the
recovery process, costs and fundraising, and—because of my tendencies as a chronic over-planner—a few planning templates I’ve put together that might be useful to others who are going down the path to vaginoplasty.
For friends, I hope this is a place that helps us keep in touch in a way that
deeper and more meaningful than the ephemerality of social media. It is also—I hope—a place where y’all can find ways to help me and where I can ask for help without being overwhelmed by the effort it takes to get organized enough to figure out what sort of help I need.
For myself, my dearest love, you and I have not always understood ourself. The journey to now has been circuitous and rocky, and we have often betrayed ourself in search for love and care and survival. The journey forward is scary and feels lonely, but this is the rightest thing and I am so proud of you. There is a beautiful new world that was beyond the dreams of our younger self. I will take care of you.
Cordelia, I love you. This is for you.