What can i say? Everything is still growing. Fast. The dark if fine moustache hairs already span the entire length of my upper lip. There are belly hairs, chest hairs, new crotch hairs, arm hairs, and tip of my nose hairs. Seriously, WTF? It seems like so many trans guys talk about how long it took for their hairs to come in. I expected it to be leisurely. I expected I’d have time to, you know, transition. Get used to it. Is it stupid that I am not overjoyed with all the hair? Most of the transmen I know look forward to their facial hair more than almost any other change that T brings. I, however, am incredibly anxious about it. I’m not ready to be a damn wookie yet. And tip of the nose hair? Seriously? Who gets that? Who. The fuck. Gets.That?
It really has been causing some anxiety the last few days. All this gorram, mother f-ing hair. I just want muscles and a nice deep voice and a lovely, normal, trans guy dick. Maybe a nice, easy, mellow bit of stubble. Chops. A reasonable trail. A touchably fuzzy bum. But I feel like I am destined for Chewie-dom.
The anxiety has been manifesting as the lovely “what the fuck am I doing?!” mental spin-outs. I talked with a friend, A, about it and they said they had plenty of those moments too. That you just gotta breathe, and remember that you can stop at any time if you really gotta, but also to stay focused on the positive. Mostly to breathe though.
Nature is basically my therapy these days, so I decided to go out yesterday to look for morels. Headed out towards the coast and got a mile up the steep logging road before the truck died. Just died, while driving.
Shit.
I backed it off the road and popped the hood. Nothing looked clearly FUBAR that I could see. I checked the oil for lack of anything better to do and there was none. I mean, like, NONE none.
Shit.
The dog and I made our way back down the hill towards the highway. I had my thumb out for all of 5 minutes when an uncharacteristically decent state patrol officer pulled over to see what was up. I told him I needed oil for my rig, just a scosh up the hill, and with no cell service I thought I’d make a go of hitching to town. Boone, my dog, and I piled into the back of his cruiser and he drove us right to the auto parts store. I kept wanting to make a joke about how it had been a while since I was in the back of a cop car but thought better of it. I also noticed how high in pitch my voice became. It wasn’t intentional, but my fear of cops is as deep as my fear of cougars and some part of my brain auto-corrected for the duration of the trip. I bought my oil, walked back to the highway, and waited. And waited. And waited.
Eventually this older, sea foam green pickup stopped. The fella inside was very kind, very talkative, and clearly knew a lot about engines. We discussed whether my rig had automatically shut off from a low oil pressure sensor or of the engine had seized. Did it tick before stopping, or did it knock? I wanted to be certain it would be fine once filled, but the doubt still loomed. If it had in fact seized from the heat of running unlubricated, the metal would already have warped and I would be fucked. SOL. Up shit’s creek.
We get there and he insists on staying till I get going. It took nearly the full 5 quarts to fill that son of a gun. I hopped in the driver’s seat, crossed my fingers, cringed, and turned the key. Click. No. No no nononono. Try again. Rrrrr… click. Rr…click.
Shit.
As a last ditch effort, he decided to jump the admittedly aged battery. I was just swearing and chain smoking at this point, scheming in my head to figure out how in the hell I could afford to either replace the engine or afford a new rig altogether. My first thought was that it would definitely set me back on saving for top surgery.
So whenever I’ve jumped a battery before, I usually give it a minute. As soon as they were hooked up, though, the guy told me to try it. “It’ll either go or it won’t.” Fair enough.
I hopped in, crossed fingers, cringed, turned the key, and…
Rrr….rrRRRrr… VROOOOOOM! My BABY! THANK GOD! Ahahaha!
I immediately jumped out, beaming, and asked this dude if he was a hugger. I hugged him no less than three times. The graze of his stubble on my cheek made me immediately think back to shaving my own wisps this morning. “Aw, it’s no problem. Glad I could help. What’s your name by the way? I’m Sully.”
Sully offered to follow me through the pass to make sure the truck didn’t crap out. The whole drive home felt surreal, undeserved. I was so grateful. I am still. All of the sudden I thought about his name. Sully. Sullivan. Holy shit, THAT is the elusive middle same I’ve been looking for. Eli Sullivan Hunter Seda. I may not have found what I went out there for, but I can’t help feeling like there was something else in the cards all along.
I came home and read lots of blogs and articles about transitioning and the doubt/anxiety that sometimes goes with that. I want to thank every single fucking trans person ever who writes online. Y’all have put some really hard to talk about shit out there, worn your blessed hearts on your sleeves, and it has been a godsend for me.
As I was starting to calm down, I saw some page about pumping. I’ve gotten an earful from C about how I need to get a pump, like, yesterday, so I decided to see what it said. On one page, in the comments, folks started talking about homemade pumps, or things that work the same. ‘Wait, that’s genious! Imma go grab that big old syringe floating around the medicine cabinet right fuckin now and try this!’
Holy hell. Now I’m getting why a person would invest so much in a pump. It feels aaaaaaaahmazing and it legitimately does get it bigger/harder. Time to start saving up.
I also just started my full dose this week. .5, what what!
That’s just about all for this week. I want to thank all the other trans writers out there again. And if anyone knows an older dude named Sully in Portland, please tell him he has my undying gratitude.