Last of today’s short posts…maybe a longer one after.
Today i also met up with another woman of trans history. She politely inquired how i was getting on and we exchanged pleasantries. Mostly, i said, things were slowly, slowly returning to normal, apart from a little soreness when i sat down too fast.
We shifted to chatting about the grs itself. I mentioned how irritating it had been, in the end, to have the world and its wife asking over and over whether i was “sure”…and how i ended up almost quetioning my decision because it felt like such a SMALL decision.
I know: for those who have never contemplated this, it maybe feels like a ginormous step. Maybe the mutilation, even, that critics claim it is. But…but…that’s so not how it felt.
By the time i started the final approach to grs, i was ready and, to be honest, just fed up with what felt like a surplus bit: an organ that no longer belonged. The decision, such as it was, was no decision at all. A minor adjuctment to bring my body into line with what felt right and natural.
Which, today’s encounter revealed, was how SHE had felt too. There is no grand epiphany in or instantly after grs. For me, there’s something like a sigh: a breathing easier; a greater happiness in myself. But that’s it.
I’d spent my time adjusting before…and i am continuing to adjust after.
Oddly, this is much the same as at least one other trasn woman i know describes it. The grs thing is just so inconsequential. Sure: its a big and major piece of surgery. But psychologically?
No. Which maybe is one of the tell-tale signs.
Chatting to a cis male acquaintance at the weekend, i could sense him mentally crossing his legs. He so didn’t get it. For him such an op is unimaginable – or if it is imagined, it is as approximately the worst possible thing that could happen to a bloke.