I still cannot get over just how wonderful oestrogen is. OK: i’m biased.
The last few weeks, though, it does seem as though, with no more testosterone to hit on the head, the oestrogen going into my system is finally asserting itself in a way it never had a chance to before.
Back to tearfulness at times: espesh over anything remotely sad or poignant on the box. Otherwise, though, it seems to be pretty much all upside.
Amongst women, i have noticed, the state of one’s hair seems almost to have taken on the significance of wet nosiness in dogs. “Your hair’s looking great”, and other such comments, seems to be code for a more general approval of how someone is looking.
And it is: still a bit thin where, pre-transition, it had started to recede. But otherwise thicker, more manageable, generally heartening.
Then there’s the rest of me. So many comments to the effect that i’m ooking well, happy, “bouncy”, that i have to believe that i am looking, er, well, happy and bouncy. The latter, i’m afraid, i followed with an involuntary glance downward.
“No: not like that!” Although various have confirmed that suddenly i seem to have become a much bigger girl altogether. What a differnce three months make.
Up to…during…and in the convalescence period right after grs, i was miserable: not just because being forced off oestrogen made me feel generally miserable…but because everything sagged and shrank.
In hospital, even unergoing the procedures i was there for, i felt revoltingly male. Flat-chested. Less connected to the rest of the world. It took about three weeks before the hormone properly re-asserted itself.
Since when, its gone from strength to strength. About three weeks ago, i was re-fitted for bras by a lovely lady at John Lewis. Her verdict then: 38B. And i said at the time that was good…but not quite right for my frame…
Fats forward to the weekend and…i am up a whole cup size. 🙂 Overflowing the B…and officially 38C. Yay!
Had an amusing quarter of an hour scouring the racks in John Lewis’ lingerie department, aided and abetted by the boy, who loves anything numerical, and also enjoys being helpful. It took a little trial and error for him to get the point.
28B? Would that do? Er, no…
He hunted round some more, before emerging triumphantly with a 38G: how about this. I smiled: incipient male optimism – and serious backache…and not quite me.
No: oestrogen is total joy and long may it continue.