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Of Hormones And Age

Perhaps it’s a generation’s unease with technology, and social media in particular, but the Internet is not exactly boiling over with the voices of older transgender folk. Since my nieces consider anyone over 30 to be “really, really old”, I’ll just say that I’m over 30. Way over 30. By many, many miles!

For years, I avoided stamping the universe with my public presence on the Internet. But now I am on Twitter, Instagram, and…I am embarrassed to say…Facebook. I would like to believe I use these services creatively and with a certain degree of panache. And for the most part, I do. But I’m equally guilty of posting my share of cat photos, too.

When I first began researching the possibility of transitioning at my age (with one heart-attack already embedded in my medical chart), Google yielded…well, not so much. Except for blood clots. Lots and lots of info about blood clots.

But I didn’t need (or want) anymore stories on the statistical probabilities of age+hormones+risk. Due to the stent already in lodged in my one of my cardiovascular arteries, I was well aware of all the associated health risks.

I just desperately needed to hear the personal accounts of people transitioning at my age. I needed to read stories from actual souls, and not just from research papers (although the straight dope should never be ignored–my first piece of advice to my trans sisters and brothers). I needed the calm voice of someone who had been there and done that.

But most transgender people (most people, period) on Twitter and Facebook are under 30. The ones I follow who happen to be over 30? They consider themselves old-timers and veterans. Curse them!

And yet, I’ve learned a great deal from these young people in this great, new age of possibilities. Their stories have not only inspired me, but they’ve educated me in so many areas of transitioning. Especially how to deal with the day-to-day struggles of living in a society that is largely uncomfortable with non-conformity. But still, it is nice to have someone your age to talk to….

One of my hopes for this blog is to reach older people who are considering transitioning. I’d like to be a helpful voice in the wilderness, if I can.

For now, at the very beginning, the best I can do is to translate my personal experience into something more meaningful than mere bio.

One caveat. I have lived a most chaotic and yet insular life, psychologically-speaking. I am not your ordinary trans person. But, then again, neither are you.


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A Voice

It’s odd.  I’ve always considered myself a writer, but I’ve always found it hard to write in my own voice.  As myself.  Poetry, Fiction, commentary–these genres were infinitely easier than writing a mere letter to someone.  That seemed too personal.  The task made me uneasy and anxious.  As much as a simple thank-you note could involve dozens of drafts and hair-pulling fits of exasperation.

But since beginning my transition, I’ve found a voice.  I don’t think it’s a new voice.  Rather, it’s a voice long buried by fear and anxiety.  Fear of saying the wrong thing.  Fear of being misunderstood.  And fear of emotion.

It’s my real voice.  A voice yearning to express itself after years of silence.

It’s still unsure of itself, sometimes.  Halting here and there.  But it flows from my imagination without the restraints of timid self-censorship.

My voice is not afraid anymore.  





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Over half a year ago, late at night and wide awake, I watched a speech by Lana Wachowski, who spoke movingly of her journey coming out as transgender.  I mark that moment as my own coming out, even though it would be weeks before I shared my story with family and friends.  The speech consoled me at a time when I needed consolation.   It was not a dramatic revelation sent  from the heavens or, for that matter, Hollywood.  But it was exactly what I needed, and it arrived exactly when I needed it–a friendly nudge redirecting me on my true bearings.

Ever since the age of two, I’ve felt apart.  Ever since my teens, I’ve felt that a last-second fetal glitch kicked me out of the XX line.  Through my entire life, I’ve struggled with psychological problems galore.  My dysphoria has ebbed and flowed, sometimes hiding deviously beneath the currents of other anxieties and fears.

But in late summer of 2012, the pressure became too much.  My life became consumed by one thought: I cannot live one more second as a man.  That one thought modified every life event, every conversation, every trivial daily-ritual.  And I tried to bottle it up inside, just the way I had done my entire life.  Only this time, I couldn’t do it….

Now there’s another pressure building.  A good one, though.  I want to get things down.  Stuff about transitioning, stuff about music, stuff about other people.  Stuff.

So, here I am, writing (and living).  Spilling.  Consider this first post just a brief introduction.  I don’t know what manner of posts will follow, but I hope to make the journey an interesting one.  No speeches, though–I could never match Lana’s.

My name is Miranda.