As a young adult, everything seemed monumentally difficult, and I desperately yearned to escape the body I hated, and flee a tortured mind. I still have obsessive-compulsive disorder, though after a decade of medications and frankly being worn out by far larger life events; it doesn’t feel like it did back in my twenties. Back then, it informed and ruled every decision I made with devastating consequences.
I’m almost 37 now, though I don’t look it. I still get carded for energy drinks, but at least they see me as a guy. Women who medicalised, have a much harder time blending back in than men like me. All it took was a haircut, a change of clothes and to stop the voice exercises and stop pretending.
I feel ridiculous, not so much ashamed, more annoyed at myself. I was absolutely fine the way I was, and didn’t need to change anything, and if I stuck it out a little longer, who knows where I’d be today? Perhaps I’d have crumbled, perhaps I’d risen. I’d be whole at least, that’s for sure.
I’ve worked immensely hard to get to where I am now, but I feel like I’m barely halfway. I do what I can to keep stable. It’s not my best, but it’ll do for now. I guess you can call it a ceasefire of sorts. That old voice in my head, berating every thought and action indiscriminately makes an appearance occasionally, and it’s not as if I’m ignoring it, I’m just used to it, like becoming acquainted with the ambiance of road works.
Every part of my life shows incrementally small improvements, but it’s still not enough. I know I can do more, especially around the house. For now, I just want to focus on maintaining and correcting my long disrupted routine. I even have an alarm set on weekends to keep the rhythm. I eat healthy, or healthier I should say, cutting back on sugary drinks especially, but I know I can do far better.
I remember to eat at a realistic time and to empty the washing machine. I can’t justify placing it on spin for the twelfth time. I give myself a pep talk; ‘it’ll only take five minutes, and that’s it, it’s done.’ So I hang up the wet clothes but forget about them for the next three days.
I do my best not to accumulate too much mail. It used to be that I just couldn’t open letters. Bills, charges for not paying the bills, and reminders all in nearly identical envelopes; that familiar corporate-type font you sigh at the sight of. Whether it’s my bank account or my body, there’s only so much I can pay back before not learning the lesson.
I’m not as anxious anymore. Especially outside, though I have my moments. My heart races out of control at the sight of a large crowd, but I can eat and walk at the same time now. Before I couldn’t bear the sight of anyone watching me eat, I felt disgusting, whereas now I just feel hungry.
I go out, I reunite with old friends and family. I attend social events I’d never have gone to before and surprise friends who gave up asking, if they want to go on a hike or find a nice pub lunch someplace. I smile and say funny things sometimes, even laugh at myself, if that’s allowed.
I’m forever trying to be someone I used to be. Never whole, always on the way there, but never reaching the destination.
I still dream, if you can call them that. They’re not quite nightmares, but somewhere in-between, like a cruel joke I play on myself as I’m sleeping. In it, I’m out in public and suddenly I have no clothes, and others are laughing at my exposed body which jarringly, has both male and female genitals. As I awaken, my heart flutters. This reality isn’t any less maddening than the dream I’ve emerged from. A dreamless sleep is a gift in my book.
I don’t want to kiss and tell but believe me, I’m trying everything to recover the sex life that was stolen. Some mornings, my thigh peels off a leg that doesn’t belong to me, and I’m greeted with the warmth of my other half. I can’t believe he’s real, I worried he might have been a dream too. I correct my posture on the bed and embrace him proudly. “I love you” he tiredly grumbles, sending a smile through my cheekbones. I tell him I love him too. I don’t feel half-empty when he’s around.
I get offers from friends; “If you went back to being Abby, we would understand.” But I don’t want to be someone else anymore, I wish they would understand. I’ve lost faith in the religion of gender. I wasn’t always Abby, I was always Ritchie. I just wanted to escape, and for good reason. But now those feelings have abandoned me, I’ve been left behind with a neutered body. What does it matter if someone like me takes estrogen or testosterone now? Nothing is going to grow back, and frankly, I’m sick of both. I’d rather be done with it.
And you know what? It’s not my job to give caveats to activists or to be the expert in this manner. It’s like getting a victim of a car crash to do the crash investigation. It's nonsense and it’s not my job.
Two years of being public about this has taken its toll. My body is tired, but my mind is still on fire. I have many things I want to say and do before I’m quite done yet, because who knows what the future holds? I’m worried those who medicalised in their teens and twenties, in the coming decades, will transition into the Alzheimer’s generation, and no one will be left to advocate for us.
And the harm. I’ve heard hundreds of these stories. Healthy body parts being amputated, turned inside out like a fucked up game of flesh origami, all in the name of progress. It’s no surprise they are rife with complications and misery.
We want to warn others and give them a chance we didn’t have. Whether they’re listening or not, they need to hear it. They must understand that the risks are far greater than what’s been told. The complications change your life in a way you cannot imagine. Limited to no pleasure, urinary issues, bleeding, even years after the fact. It’s intense, and it’s for life. And for what? A fake version of the real thing? It’s an idea in our head, that was cruelly allowed to be made into reality. None of us can hide from the truth. Having surgery is not going to make your life better, it’s going to make it worse.
And no one knows what to do. What can they do? After dozens of appointments, my urologists have concluded there's no further action to take. They casually confess in letters that ‘because of your history I don’t think this procedure will help.’ Fair enough, but I still can’t pee properly, and I do laugh at the ‘we just want to pee slogan’. Fuck that, I just want to pee!
No matter how much joy I find in my life, or how much better I treat my mind and body, I’ll still be paying off a debt that will never be settled.
I may never quite be whole, but I’ll keep trying. And I may never get to where I need to be, but I’ll keep going.
This is recovery.
Thank you for reading!
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You've come so far Ritchie.
You know all the pat answers, advice that folk reel out so I won't.
But I just want to say, 'you're doing OK.'
That's something.
You're alive and your life and story and honesty and courage gives value and encouragement to alot of folk, even if you can't see them. Folk whose lives are still so raw they need that slither of hope, or else there's nothing left to live for.
You're doing alright, son.
God bless you.
You are so honest and so wise. I one day hope to tell my son (currently in the midst of this all but thankfully not medicalised yet) all about you and your story. I did try but he doesn’t believe me right now. One day he may.
Keep up the good work Ritchie! We need more people to be heard on behalf of those parents who can’t speak out just yet. One day I hope to be on the other side of this with my son and I will be as vocal as possible on behalf of those who can’t speak.