🦋 Psyche 🦋

Dysphoric disability.

Happy birthday to me.

It’s been 5 years. Let’s party.

I blow out imaginary candles on a metaphoric cake and make a wish. I wish for peace…peace of mind. My mind is in pieces. Have a slice. Have some imaginary ice cream with it too if you like.

I wanted to give a piece of my mind to the woman who asked me tonight, if I am transgender or a real woman. I gave her the answer I needed to, to get through the moment. The answer I wanted to give, the real answer to that either/or question is, “Yes”. Those two things are not mutually exclusive, after all. She told me that she was only asking because “these days you can’t always tell”. I didn’t tell her that it’s not just “these days”. I told her that it was not relevant. She asked me about my eyebrows. Are they drawn on or that ink thing? I guessed she meant microblading. I said, “Both”. She said she guessed it doesn’t matter because a real woman she knows, took off all her eyebrows just so she could draw them on. Some men like to do things with their eyebrows too, so again, she supposed, that didn’t make much difference. She told me that she just knows that sometimes, as people age, like she has, that features change. These days, she said, she gets whiskers that she has to get rid of. She sometimes feels like she looks more like a man. She claimed twice, that a man she was dating is transgender. I still saw no relevance, but I saw that she was going to persist with the conversation regardless of how inappropriate it was. She “corrected” herself, by saying, “Well one of them is. The other is a real man…well, they both are…real men. One of them just likes to wear women’s clothing.” The answer I gave to her “original” question, was that I am a real woman. I didn’t lie. I did however, in that moment, feel some regret for answering her that way. It felt as though I was not owning my identity, desipte wearing my trans pride flag pin next to my name. Moments later, after she was gone, I no longer regretted the answer I’d given. My anxiety had been triggered enough as it was. My name tag and pin, had been under my lapel. I pulled them out to be seen. 🏳️‍⚧️

Fission and fusion. In a moment of ADHD epiphany, I thought about how fusion reactions, could be analogous to anxiety. Fission is like ADHD. Splitting an atom may seem more obvious as a metaphor for the fractured thoughts of ADHD, than my other comparison. Fusion, is a self-feeding reaction. In this way, it is much like anxiety. I feel every moment of every time I’ve ever said anything wrong, compounded each time I want to say anything. This feeling makes me second guess, trying as many ways to say what’s on my mind as possible, so that it doesn’t come out the wrong way. If you’ve never read or heard me say it, I write here, as a sort of therapy. I can see my words, edit them, take as much time as I need. Hopefully the therapeutic effect benefits more than just myself. I could just take the time to compose my thoughts and then never publish them.

Saying anything out loud triggers my anxiety. Moving my body triggers anxiety. It’s a trap. Designed for my mind, so that I’m stuck with nothing but my thoughts. Thoughts that feed the anxiety. It takes over. Takes up too much, space around me, oxygen inside me, time…that I really want to be spending with my girlfriend, our cats, family, friends, fantasies of far away places, the list goes on and on, especially when you have ADHD. It’s not exactly a real list. Executive dysfunction cripples basic aides like lists. Hyper focus helps feed a need for fun however. I can spend five minutes figuring out what words form frivolous alliteration, but fail at spending one minute, reminding myself to make a dentist appointment. I don’t enjoy spending time with my anxiety. It’s not good company. Anxiety’s hands are not warm, like my girlfriend’s. It doesn’t make me laugh, like she does.

I’m still learning how to exist. It gets easier as I continue to do so. Dysphoric triggers like being asked about my realness, are hurdles I don’t want to learn how to overcome, hurdles that shouldn’t be presented to begin with. My features are changing as I age. Yes. I have whiskers that I feel the need to get rid of. Yes. Some days I feel like I look more like a man, than a woman. I don’t know how to take up space. Often, when I’m alone in bed, I sleep at the edge, like I’m trying to make room. When I write or talk, I can’t help thinking about if I’m saying too much, to be comfortable, so that I don’t come across as suffocating.

I took my pills today. Some days that’s the hardest thing I do. Reaching for the medication that makes me able to feel… everything else that’s waiting outside the door that anxiety has been screaming to keep closed. I will close this entry out by giving myself credit for other things I’ve done today. By finishing this blog entry, I realized that the person who insulted me, seemed very anxious. I know what anxiety feels like, so I forgive her. I watered my plant and opened the blinds to give it sunlight. I talked to my girlfriend. I bought gifts. I fed and played with my cat. I tried to pay my speeding ticket (but can’t until 5 business days after it was issued), but I’m on time to get ready for work without rushing today. I’m doing well.

Give yourself some credit today. Take up all the space you deserve.

I am four years old today. My legal name and gender marker court date that is. I’ve often been told I look younger than I am. Maybe that’s true for the 51 years on my birth certificate, but I’m pretty sure I look ancient compared to most other four year olds.

My sister, a teacher and lifelong lover of learning, once told me that I’d make a good teacher. She said that I was good with kids and good at explaining things. She also once told me that I wouldn’t be bad looking as woman. My sister has a PhD, so she’s pretty smart. Now I have been told that I’m pretty and that I’m smart, but it took me 47 years to figure out that I am a woman, so I guess all things are relative.

I once was told by a salesman, that I’d be good at sales. I didn’t agree, but that didn’t stop me from trying to sell cars at one point in my life. I was right. That doesn’t mean I’m smart though. Stupid people can be right sometimes too. It’s also true that salesmen aren’t always trying to sell you something. The most valuable thing I ever got from any salesman, was that conversation about me being good at it. He said I had a way of getting others excited about the things I’d talk about. I told him that was because I was excited about those things. I couldn’t fake that enthusiasm in order to sell someone something.

I once dated a man. Like I said, sometimes I’m not that smart. This guy would get turned on by seeing me happy about simple things. It didn’t make a lot of sense to me at the time, but it didn’t need to at the time. That guy, and guys in general, turned out to generally turn me off, especially once I got to know them. The thing that makes sense to me now, other than the fact that I’m a lesbian, is that these three examples all have one thing in common…

Truth.

If I’m being honest with myself, I’m being honest with you too. The fact is, I’m just not good at faking it. Maybe it’s an offshoot of my ADHD. Maybe I don’t have the focus necessary to be full of shit. My energy is genuinity. I might not have a master’s in linguistics, but I’ve got pretty good grip on contagion. Catch my thermodynamic drift? If I can teach you or sell you anything, let it be this:

You are more than you will ever give yourself credit for. Take that for what it is. You may have caused more pain than you are aware of. You very likely are more beautiful, smarter, funnier, and more of an inspiration to someone else than you might ever be told by anyone else. So I’m telling you now, whatever it is that turns you on, if it lights you up, others are sure to be dancing in your glow.

You are made of stardust. Shine.

Thank you, dear reader. 🦋

With joy and pride, and pain, and shame. That’s how I call myself.

I just read a well written letter, that should never have needed anyone to write it. It brought me to tears. I cried a little more trying to reply to it with the respect it deserved. After I sent my reply, a flood of tears ran down my face. The memories triggered by the letter I’d read, reminded me of the fact that I once learned how to say “eso es grosero y no relevante” after being asked repeatedly, on more than one occasion, by patients I was trying to help, who could only speak Spanish, if I was a woman or a man. I don’t speak enough Spanish to have understood what they were asking me right away. I speak enough to do my job, to help them feel better. It’s not my job to allow anyone to make me feel worse, in any language, in any way.

It is not my job, to educate anyone about the transgender experience. What I share, here on this blog, on social media, in speeches to the public, or private, in presentations both professional and personal, is voluntary.

I owe you nothing.

I owe myself a great debt. I am repaying that debt every day, hour, minute and second of my life, by living it, authentically. I am indebted this way, because I lived on borrowed time for 47 years.

Writing that last sentence made me laugh a little. Who did I borrow from? A cisgender, hetero normative, white man. Why? Why on earth would I borrow a plane I don’t know how to fly? The answer is simple. Some part of me, the part I didn’t yet know existed, knew I could fly. That caterpillar, hidden away in its chrysalis, had not yet grown and spread its own wings…so I learned how to use the airplane I was given at birth. Eventually, I did well enough, that I even had myself convinced that I was meant to do it. I was a pilot, no matter how alien or impersonal my aircraft felt. I was, in a sense, flying with innocence, without intents on owning or owing for, a life I was told was my own.

I call myself Avril Mariposa Spencer now. Everyone else is legally required to do so as well. My birth certificate bears that name. Even my birthmark, once a stain on my left hand, has undergone a metamorphosis.

I say my name with joy and pride, and pain and shame because: I love it, I picked it myself, I didn’t think it through well enough to realize what a pain it would be to repeat the pronunciation and spelling of it all the time, and only with shame because I can’t escape the guilt of returning a gift that didn’t fit.

I’ve felt pain and shame in other ways. When the people at my job ridiculed me by referring to me (when one said to the other as they passed me in the corridor), “I don’t know what that was. I think it was a he-she”. When the drunk asshole walking down the beach with his girlfriend (who thankfully had better manners than him), laughed and pointed at me and called out, “You’re a dude!”, I felt pain. When I realize the pain I have caused others who knew themselves long before I knew myself I feel shame. Whenever I catch myself being too hard on myself for not knowing myself better, sooner, I feel shame…then I feel joy for knowing who I am now. I feel proud for every time I find out that living my life out loud has helped one more person to be themselves.

This is starting to feel like a feel good piece and if I’m going that direction with it, I’ll go ahead and call this my Easter egg. There’s so much symbolism to unpack with that, we’ll have a basketful by the time we’re finished. Eggs, in case you didn’t know, (like I didn’t back at the beginning of my transition) are how many trans people refer to “pre-aware” or pre-transition trans folks (y’olks in southerner dialect?🤔), because they haven’t “hatched” yet to live their true life. I’m sure we’re all aware that Easter eggs are generally more colorful than regular eggs and are part of the celebration of rebirth, resurrection and renewal. Trans people who are living authentically and without external societal shaming, tend to be brighter, happier versions of themselves. Starting a new life isn’t easy. There is comfort in the familiar, and many familiar things are lost along the way. Mourning those seems natural and even leads to terms like “dead name” but trust me, there is so much more to celebrate, than there is to mourn. You will grow your own wings and no longer be trying to fly a plane you never asked for.🦋

I’ll close this out with another metaphor. Daylight Savings Time just had us all “Spring” forward, which is apropos to the Easter analogy I was just making, but it’s been a long time since I’ve published anything, so I’ll “Fall” back and fill you in on how I finished off the old year and rang in the new one.

I got a new tattoo. I lost my virginity. It was nothing special (the sex, my tattoo is amazing). My very first time was 35 years ago. Sex, not tattoos. Things were very different then. My first tattoo came 2 years later. There have been a number of other firsts since then. This was my first time having sex with my new vagina. I hoped it would be with the last person I’d ever have sex with. I no longer have that hope. I’m not saying I regret it. On the contrary. I’m happy to report that I am in a loving relationship with the last person I want to ever be with and the sex is exactly what I hoped for. She’s who I was with before my surgery. If you haven’t read that story, consider this a spoiler alert: we got back together.

This tattoo was something I’d wanted for a long time. I wasn’t sure just what form it would take, but it would definitely be something to do with butterflies. My tattoo is based on a painting I commissioned almost 4 years ago. It was to commemorate my legal name and gender marker change. The tattoo isn’t identical, but I wanted the butterflies more noticable on my body. My girlfriend talked me out of getting a tattoo there before my surgery. It was good advice because the swelling and reconfiguration of everything down there could’ve distorted the tattoo. I did the math, and my pelvis deserved no less. Between 2 times of building fat through 2 years of extra food expense, 2 surgeries to suck out that fat from my abdomen and transfer it to my butt, over 20 hours of painful electrolysis on the pubic area, reduced income during 6 months of recovery after the surgeries, and vaginoplasty itself, I’ve easily got a $40,000 pelvis.

I was once so convinced that nothing good would ever last, that I got a tattoo of 5 words from a Tool song called “Flood”. My tattoo says, “SOON THE WATER WILL COME” and in the song, the next words are, “…and claim what is mine. I must leave it behind, and climb to a new place now.”
At the time it was a solemn reminder to myself to not get too attached. The reminder didn’t work. I still felt a desperation to find solid ground to hold onto.
Flash forward 30 years and I now tell people who ask about that tattoo, that it’s a reminder that I will adapt and survive. Kind of like the semicolon symbolizes to many that their story could’ve ended, but instead continued.
I’m not saying that my story has no tears in its pages now. I am saying though, that the tattoos I stain my skin with now are brighter reminders. Butterflies. Lots and lots of butterflies. 🦋
Whoever you are, that may read this and have those feelings of dread, I hope you never lose this picture. It’s a good picture to hold onto. I hope you do lose some of your fears though. Much like mis mariposas and me, I hope you are forever transformed and brighten the lives of others by your presence. 💞

Finally, I must say that it was wrong of me earlier to tell you that I owe you nothing. I once again owe you my gratitude, for taking the time to read my rambling thoughts.

Sing it girl

I just woke up from a dream..I don’t usually remember them and when I do, I don’t usually immediately write what I remember.

I remember a few things about this one but what struck me was something I said to someone. I was back in the little town I lived in as a child. I’m going there soon in real life, so that part is no surprise.

In the dream, I’d gone back to visit, unaware that a repair of some sort I can’t recall now, could be helped along if I went to get some tools I’d left stored at another place. When I went to get the tools, I certainly didn’t expect what I saw.

There was a large gathering of people I knew and others I didn’t. Some were old friends, most were relatives and most were not relatives that would be together at a gathering like this. It appeared to be a shrimp boil of epic proportions. That alone was unreal enough. Maine has lobster boils, not shrimp. Anyway, among all the unexpected hellos, someone commented about me having moved away. My reply was what struck me. I told them, “I didn’t go away because of you, or anything here. I had to go away, to find something that wasn’t here.”

A second later, my first girlfriend showed up. I spotted her from afar and she didn’t see me. When I went over to say hello, she got very upset with me. She yelled at me for never bothering to pay her any mind when I’d been back home other times. I told her that she was right. I was sorry. I told her that I didn’t even plan on coming here this time. I most certainly didn’t expect to find this whole gathering of people when I did. I told her that if it was of any consolation, that out of all these people I didn’t plan on seeing, that when I saw her, she was the only one I went out of my way to make sure I went to say hello to.

She paused in her upset yelling at me, which it wasn’t until after I’d woke up, did I realize was my former “male” self she was yelling at. Then as I started writing this, it finally dawned on me, that she wasn’t my first girlfriend, she was the first girl I ever ignored. She was me.

That some”thing”, even though in the dream I didn’t put a name to it, was also me. “I” had to go away to find myself. I’m glad “I” went away, and I’m glad I went out of my way to finally go acknowledge that girl I’d always ignored before. She deserves that recognition. 💞

🎶 In my wildest dreams🎶

As always, thank you for reading, and welcome…to me living my dreams. 🦋

Need to find a new vagina?

How, you might ask, does one go about “getting” a vagina? Well, aside from the usual beer goggles and corny pick-up lines, you might try finding a surgeon to create one using your penile and scrotal skin.

Now if that sounds a bit extreme to you, I’d recommend you use those goggles to read this book:

For those who find it more extreme to imagine living with a penis, of any size, there are several ways to sever yourself from its hold on you. But first, you have to let go. 👌🏻

Let go of the idea that this will ever be easy. Let go of thinking it will change how others think of you. You need to know who you are and how to live with yourself, love yourself, and be the you that you want to be.

People are going to tell you all kinds of things about your new life with your new vagina. Listen to them, but pay no attention. Don’t listen to me either. Your experience will be yours and yours alone. I was told by several women that the next day after surgery, I’d wake up feeling profoundly different. I just felt tired. Three days after my surgery, I did experience a profound sense of self I’ve never felt before. For the very first time in my life I felt like I never was a man, not really.

Dilating. This becomes your life for, well, the rest of your life. At first, life becomes a series of events between dilations. You check to see if there’s time to go buy more panty liners, or food, or whatever, and get back before it’s time to dilate again. When the timer goes off, you pause Netflix, or put down your book, or whatever you distracted yourself with, and clean up. It’s important to check the color. Bright red means fresh blood. It might happen a little from time to time, but you don’t want to let that go unnoticed, unchecked. Most times, it won’t be clear, not for several weeks. You have a lot to heal from. Give it time. It gets easier. Right after surgery your new vagina is packed full of gauze. Lots of gauze. Like a frigging magician’s endless scarves being pulled out of a pocket. Once that’s no longer in there keeping your new canal from getting dammed (Yes that’s the right spelling. Think beaver, not sin. Nevermind. Thinking of beaver is a sin when we’re talking about vaginas.🤦🏼‍♀️), you need to put something else in there to do the dirty work. If you’re thinking a dildo would do, you’d better be thinking of a different size than what usually comes to mind.

The set you get may vary in number, color, etc. but the idea remains the same. Part of what you paid for, was to have a new opening created in your pelvic floor muscle. That new hole wants to heal. Dilating makes sure it doesn’t.

If you’ve ever had your ears (or any body part) pierced, that’s a tiny little bit like having a hole cut in your pelvic floor muscle. At first, you have to leave the piercing jewelry in, so the hole doesn’t close up. Eventually, you can leave it out for longer and longer without worrying about your healing hole. When you start dilating, you have to do it about 4 times a day, for about 20 minutes each time. A few weeks later, you can cut back to 3 times a day. A few weeks later, twice a day will do. A few weeks later? You guessed it…once a day. By the time a few months have passed, you can go without for a week at a time and, if you don’t fancy the dilators, just poke anything in there that feels good.

Speaking of feeling good, dilating doesn’t feel good. Stepping up a size feels less good. If you’ve ever gauged your ears, it’s not like that at all. There’s no muscle in your earlobes. Your ears just feel kinda hot until they get used to the bigger new gauge. Your vagina actively fights to fling out the offensive object occupying it’s orifice.

Ouch.

Pain comes in many forms. Hopefully for you, it won’t come from the words of a loved one. I once read something like, “The only people who have ever truly hurt me, are those I truly cared about.” I’ve known the truth of that far too often in my life. My (now ex) girlfriend accused me of lying and faking my need for help during my recovery. She told me I am full of shit and that I took advantage of her, because she saw what I was physically capable of. I guess I should advise you to seem more helpless, else you lose the help you need. I should also advise you to turn off any location services on your phone, lest you become the victim of erroneous GPS tagging. Thanks Snapchat. Your map fucked me harder than anyone I’ve ever dated. Fuck that, just don’t date the type of people who will treat you that way. I’m not a liar but I am exhausted. I’m pausing between every 2 or 3 words as I type this. Why don’t I just go to sleep? That’s not as easy as it seems. I’m always resting these days. That’s what recovery is at first. Well, at first I had help. I had less to recover from. Now, I’m also recovering from all the little things I felt guilty for needing help with. Now, I’m doing all the things, on my own. If you’re considering this surgery, I wish you better luck, but even more than that, I wish you the ability to do it on your own should the need arise.

I’m typing this paragraph during dilation #2 of 4 for the day. My lunchtime “fun”. It’s not fun, but it is getting easier. Friday will be 3 weeks since surgery. I’ll drop my schedule down to 3 times a day then. If you’re paying attention, to your body, not my blog, you’ll notice changes. Scars begin to fade, dead skin tissue that looks like wet toilet tissue, will start to slough off. The doctor might trim it off. I’m not a doctor, but I do have some training and basic surgical tools, so I trimmed some off too today. Don’t try that yourself unless you too, have medical training and instruments.

It’s now 5 weeks and 2 UTI’s later (that stands for urinary tract infection) since the last paragraph. I feel about as good now as I did during week 2. I had narcotics then, so I’m sure that helped. UTI’s are no joke. I had fevers up to 104. I went to the ER that time, and I’m starting to recover from it now. I did have 2 weeks in between the end of the first UTI and start of the second one. During that time I got to feeling ok enough to venture out for brief “adventures” like shopping for vintage clothing instead of shopping for pads and lube. By the way, I’m down to twice a day dilations and moved up to the blue one. I gave away the green one. I just couldn’t see it in my future. There’s no more bleeding now. There’s no more slough. My scars are fading and my swelling is going down. This is all “normal” progress for where I’m at, 8 weeks since surgery.

My vagina is (not) 8 Miles Wide. Thanks Storm Large, for ruining Thanksgiving. Oh wait, that was Marie Callendar’s, or Sharon Weiss or anybody’s fault other than my own. No. I’m just being silly. But seriously, if you missed the whole thing where Sharon Weiss wrote to blame Marie Callendar’s for ruining her Thanksgiving, because Sharon burned her pie, it was a whole week’s worth of photos poking fun. Don’t be dumb like Sharon and blame someone other than yourself. I don’t blame anyone but myself for my vaginal stenosis. I stopped dilating. I can still fit a finger and frankly (Francinely?🤔), I’m fine with that. You do what’s right for you.

I’ve had several surgeries, from fixing my septum to stave off recurrent sinusitis, to fusing 2 vertebrae in my neck, to kidney stone extraction, wisdom teeth extraction, breast and butt augmentation, and more. This one has been the hardest to recover from. It’s been worth every bit of suffering too. I can’t say I wouldn’t change a thing. Many things were changed, including the surgeon, the technique, the price, my relationship status, and more. My life has just begun though and more changes are sure to come. I embrace them.

Speaking of embraces, hugs to you too, dear reader. 🦋

… previously on Transformation Thursday, well…the previous blog post anyway, because as of the date of beginning this writing, 8/5 is still 7 days away. That’s when I was scheduled for surgery. Was. Past tense for a future date. Sigh.

Flash forward one day. No, wait. Stop. Go back 3 to Monday. All the pieces of my plan came crashing down on Monday. I’m sorry for all the “numerology” if you’re not a math person, but I’m trying to be clever about telling this, because telling it the normal way, the way it all played out in real life, requires too many tears. Tears that blur my vision…and believe me, I have a vision.

I just told someone that this is the kind of thing that, if you’re not serious enough about it to have a backup plan, you probably shouldn’t be doing it.

8/6 is my backup plan.

I can’t honestly tell you that I had it planned for that date. I got lucky on that. My backup plan surgeon had a cancellation for that date. I was in a position to jump on it. I’m lucky for that as well. Don’t get me wrong. I worked my ass off (not really… I paid too much for my ass to work it off) saving the money to pay for my backup plan. I worked to get a job that pays well enough to allow me to save. I have, however, enjoyed many privileges that other people like me have not.

I could blame the insurance company. They denied the claim after all. I’m more privileged than many people to even have insurance, even if it doesn’t cover this surgery. It would’ve, but my employer has a specific exclusion built into their contract with the insurance company. I could blame my employer. I’m privileged to have a job that pays well enough to have this backup plan though. I could blame the trans woman who essentially recruited me to work there by telling me that my employer does cover the surgery. I believed she has a vested interest in knowing after all. I honestly think the only benefit to spending anymore time talking about it though, is for others to learn what to watch out for. What you need to watch out for, to avoid the heartbreak, the panic, the scrambling, is that “confirmation of coverage” is not the same as what really counts…getting a PRE-AUTHORIZATION. All of my plans were based on the confirmation of coverage my original surgeon’s office got from my insurance company.

The surgeon who will be operating on me in a week, doesn’t use the same advanced technique or technology as my first choice surgeon. My backup doesn’t have the same level of artistry that the surgeon I’d originally planned to go to in San Francisco has. My backup surgeon has his own benefits though. I’ve met him. I’ve been satisfied enough with the results of my previous surgeries by him to keep going back for more. He’s local, which means I can have the comfort of my home, my cat, my girlfriend my vehicle and more. Most of all, I can do it now without waiting another year or more.

Some people will tell you that for them, waiting is exactly what they need to do. For me, I’m hearing the titular line to that song from Tom Petty in my head right now. 🎶 The waiting is the hardest part🎶 My timeline is mine alone. Yours might be faster or slower. Only you can know. I feel no obligation to justify my needs, but I do feel a concern for those who think my needs in some way are representative of their own or of others. For me, knowing I can do this, makes it impossible to choose not to. I’m not religious, nor am I an alcoholic, but the words of the serenity prayer come to mind right now.

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.”

This is something I CAN change. Up until now, I’ve been hiding the stress of not being able to change it. If you’re a fan of the TV show Seinfeld, you might recall the one where Frank keeps yelling, “SERENITY NOW!” To paraphrase Disturbed, 🎶 Let me enlighten you. This is the way I [have been] pray[ing for serenity]🎶

I am privileged to have the strength, the courage, the wisdom, and the means…to change. It’s time to emerge from this chrysalis. 🦋

As always, thank you for taking time to read my pages. Stay tuned/click subscribe for all the updates about my surgery, my life and whatever other crazy thoughts cross my mind. I find it therapeutic to write them and I am so happy when I hear that y’all find my words inspiring, entertaining, informative and more. 🥰

It’s halfway through the month of June. June is halfway through the year. I’m 50 years old and 50 days from today I’ll be born again…by Jun …in August. Again.

That’s right. I had to look up which zodiac sign August 5th is born under and I was a little disappointed, because I feel like I’ll be more like a virgin. I’m not lyin, but hear me roar.

People used to joke that because my sisters were named April May and June, that I should’ve been Augustus. Well, even the Roman emperor wasn’t born until September so I guess I can be a late bloomer too.

What in the heavens am I going on about with all this birthday business you ask? Well I’ll tell you. I’m redefining V-day. That’s right folks. No longer content with the famous February 14th version, the tunnel of love will now run right…between my thighs. Oh myyy.

More than a mere milestone, less than a half-marathon, 8/5 is the day my “man-meat” goes missing. Hallelujah. Just 2 months shy of 4 years since my conception, I’ll be able to once again say, “It’s a girl!”

Tomorrow is my confirmation consultation with my surgeon. I’m so excited, I can’t think straight. Luckily, I’m bi, so I never think straight. Happy Pride month y’all! I’m happy as a clam. Maybe not as happy as this clam, but I couldn’t resist this gif that keeps on giving. 😹 Thank U Liz!

I’m scheduled for robotic peritoneal flap vaginoplasty in San Francisco. Dr. Jun and the fine folks at the Crane Center will be helping me transform myself in my most significant way since this journey began. There’s way more than most people will want to know, but for those who want to know more, tap this pussy 🙀 to take you to a scholarly article about it. If you still thirst for more, Google it.

The road ahead for me is the path less traveled by, but that will make all the difference.🥰