22 - Love.

I’m finally falling in love with my new body. It has been hit and miss for a while there. What with bags of blood dangling from my sides, reminding me with every sudden movement that I had done something major to my insides. The compression vest that bound me up like a German sausage, rubbing me and squeezing me as the days got hotter, and my chest grew tighter. My body and I were like nervous virgin lovers climbing into bed together. Overly cautious and unfamiliar, we fumbled around awkwardly.

Then there were the battle scars. Fleshy and raw, like a samurai had lost their nerve and decided not to give the final fatal blow to my torso. I was carved up. My nipples were like salami slices precariously attached to the pasty uncooked pizza dough which was my body. Hard to say whether they might just slip right off when I stood up. No, it wasn't exactly love at first site. ‘This will take some getting used to...’ I reminded myself as I moved about the house gingerly.

I didn't love that the surgery hadn’t really changed how people perceived me. I was still getting misgendered by strangers. Called a lady or mam when I ordered my food. You may have had life changing surgery for yourself, but the reality is no one else notices.

No one has looked twice when i’ve used women’s toilets when there wasn’t a non-gendered option. A relief mostly, but a small part of me would like some nosy conservative hell bent on preserving the sanctity of gendered toilets to redirect me. Perhaps the notion that gender is a construct has caught on, and everyone is now cool with the idea of people using the bathroom they feel most comfortable in?!? Huzzah!

I don't love that every reach, every extension, every twist is a risk of stretching my scars. The ongoing fear that one false move and I might be left with an ugly deformed body for the rest of my life. Constantly wondering whether medical or natural scar treatments are more effective. I play with a random concoction of Bio Oil, Vitamin E, Rose hip oil and silicon gel every morning. If I suddenly become invisible from the nipple down, you’ll know I found the winning combination.

But one can't indulge these thoughts for too long. I know how fortunate I am to have the surgery. It’s more than many will get a chance to experience, so I remind myself to enjoy the ride and all its ups and downs.

What I do love is that I can now comfortably walk around my own home in my underwear. At first it was just the three steps from the bathroom to my room. A quick scurry being sure to avoid any eye contact. Then I built up the courage to wander to the back of the dining room to iron my shirt. I had to train myself to keep my arms down when my housemates walked in. Body shame is heavily embedded when you are female identified at birth. If your chest ain’t flat, you gotta cover that!

But tonight for the first time, at about half past ten, I fell in love with my body. During recovery I’d been excitedly buying shirts online, thinking I could show off my new bod in some new threads. Much to my disappointment everything I bought just didn’t fit right. I didn’t know how to work with my new shape. Masculine upper body and a shapely waist, I was in no man’s land. That morning I pulled out an old button-up shirt in a scramble to find something to wear with vague memories of disliking how it fitted, but perusing as I was getting desperate. Much to my surprise the shirt fitted like a dream and I spent the day sneaking peeks at my chest and grinning to myself.

I still hadn’t finished self-indulging when I got home. I stood in front of the mirror and unbuttoned my shirt, exposing my torso. Rolling my shoulders back and clenching my fists, I brought my arms together under my belly button like a body-builder modelling for a tournament profile shot. It was ridiculous, but i fucking loved it.

This was the me I imagined other people saw when they looked at me. This was the me I pictured in my head. I was here, in the flesh. Scabs, scars and all.