I have two gym memberships.
That might sound a bit OTT, but I work 40 miles away from home, and my company has corporate membership at a gym down the road from our offices. This is great for lunchtime workouts (which I do five days a week) but it'd be inconvenient to travel 40 miles on a weekend to work out... so I also pay for individual membership at a gym near home.
So I tend to do cardio at work's gym at lunchtime Monday to Friday, as well as an hour of cardio on Saturdays at the gym near home. I also weight train three nights a week at the gym near home in an effort to improve my physique. That's a total of nine gym sessions a week, with Sundays being my only day off.
Sound crazy?
Perhaps it is. But the thing is, I have spent my entire life (since the onset of puberty) hating my body and the way it looks. I'm very self-conscious about my hips (which my mother very cruelly referred to as 'child-bearing hips') and breasts - both of which I've learned to... ignore isn't the right word, more like disregard... by simply not looking at myself. I avoid looking in the mirror wherever possible and I tend not to look when I wash myself in the shower or bath.
So anyway... gyms, like most public places, tend to provide changing facilities & toilets for either 'ladies' or 'gents'. Which means that if you're female-bodied, you are forced by social convention (and in many places, by law) to use the 'Ladies' facilites alongside all the women.
This can be a nightmare if you don't identify as female.
There are a couple of problems with this. Firstly, the Ladies' changeroom is full of women, and women are very chatty, often having loud, pointless, asinine conversations mainly about who they're with, what they're wearing, where they're going etc. Can you imagine being a (straight) man listening to that kind of conversation all the time? You'd be bored shitless.
Another problem with women's changing rooms is that women tend to walk around naked or topless, which I find revolting. (OK, I know men do it too in the men's changing room, but that's different - I don't find that disgusting).
So last night after my weight training session, I went back to the changing room only to see a woman standing butt-naked in the shower area, which kind of smacked me in the face as soon as I came round the corner. I couldn't help but exclaim in disgust and I rushed through to the other side of the room for some privacy. Then just a few minutes later, a pair of idiotic, giggly teenage girls came in to do their hair, makeup & whatever by the mirrors in the centre of the room, and their loud bullshit was the final straw.
I left the changing room in tears. I feel so bloody uncomfortable there; I don't belong with the women and I hate being lumped in with them.
So when I got to Reception on my way out, I blurted out to the Receptionist (with whom I'm quite friendly) that I wanted to know again (i've asked someone else before) whether they can provide me with a gender-neutral changing area. With tears in my eyes I explained that I shouldn't be in the women's changing rooms because I don't belong there, but that I can't yet use the men's room. So is there anything they can do?
She was surprised but sympathetic, and said she'd speak to the manager.
I'm not holding my breath. But at least I'm trying to find a way to be more comfortable. I'm sick of feeling upset every time I have to use the women's changing areas, and every time I have to see naked females (ugh!)... if this carries on much longer I don't know what I'll do!
Tuesday 19 June 2012
Wednesday 13 June 2012
Back to work... androgynously
So Hubby & I have just had a week off together. Nothing special, mind you... we'd just surreptitiously booked off the extra 3 days around the Diamond Jubilee weekend so that we could make it a full week. We spent the week on various projects. Top on my list of things to do was to clean out our bedroom, because there's been a huge growth of mould in our room over winter, what with our room getting damp due to the two of us breathing in there overnight. I broke the back of the job in a big way and still have plenty more to do, but that's a job for another day.
I've been attending our local gym every day for the past week. I did my scheduled cardio sessions (which is often difficult due to the lack of airconditioning in the gym) and for three days (M, W, F) I followed this up with some upper & lower body weights. Hubby doesn't know this, but the reason why I'm doing this is because I prefer the way my body looks when I'm more muscular. Not only that, but a little protip here: orgasms feel much more intense if your thigh muscles are well developed! Ahem... that may well be TMI.
We spent today trawling around the local gyms in the area because I've been getting disenchanted with our local one. It's a bit shabby and it takes them ages to repair anything that breaks down. But none of the other gyms are as large as the one I use, and I'd dread having to wait to use the equipment I need. So it looks like I'm staying put.
In amongst reviewing these gyms, I have been investigating the possibility of using the 'accessible' changing areas. It has been becoming more & more apparent that I'm desperately unhappy about being forced to use the female changing rooms. I hate it for several reasons: 1) I don't identify as 'female' or 'woman', so it seems inappropriate to use those rooms. 2) I greatly dislike looking at the female form, especially naked, and there is an unfortunate tendency in this country for people to get butt naked in the common area of the changing rooms, so many's the time I have walked into the room to be greeted by the sight of boobs or beavers, which I find totally repulsive. 3) women are SO FUCKING BORING and EQUALLY FUCKING LOUD in their conversations. Why can't they have a quiet conversation, or at the very least talk about something interesting? I HATE being in the same room as these women and their banal little chats about who said what, what they were wearing, and where they met up. I don't belong amongst them... and I never have.
Sadly, the provision for 'accessible' changing rooms does not take transgendered people into account. Even worse, it doesn't even take the needs of the disabled into account. Stacked lockers, one near the ceiling? Check. Total lack of hairdrying facilities? Check. Staff who use the lockers in the disabled changing room as their own personal lockers? Bloody check. So I've been disappointed in my efforts to locate gender-neutral changing facilities.
I've decided that when I return to my workplace gym tomorrow, I will ask to use the little-used downstairs changing rooms so that I can try to avoid sharing with women. I'll try to speak to the manager (who I believe to be a lesbian; maybe she'll be sympathetic?) to organise this. Oh well. A week off work, and now I have to go back in the morning. And I'll be going back dressed androgynously.
I'm not looking forward to it at all.
I've been attending our local gym every day for the past week. I did my scheduled cardio sessions (which is often difficult due to the lack of airconditioning in the gym) and for three days (M, W, F) I followed this up with some upper & lower body weights. Hubby doesn't know this, but the reason why I'm doing this is because I prefer the way my body looks when I'm more muscular. Not only that, but a little protip here: orgasms feel much more intense if your thigh muscles are well developed! Ahem... that may well be TMI.
We spent today trawling around the local gyms in the area because I've been getting disenchanted with our local one. It's a bit shabby and it takes them ages to repair anything that breaks down. But none of the other gyms are as large as the one I use, and I'd dread having to wait to use the equipment I need. So it looks like I'm staying put.
In amongst reviewing these gyms, I have been investigating the possibility of using the 'accessible' changing areas. It has been becoming more & more apparent that I'm desperately unhappy about being forced to use the female changing rooms. I hate it for several reasons: 1) I don't identify as 'female' or 'woman', so it seems inappropriate to use those rooms. 2) I greatly dislike looking at the female form, especially naked, and there is an unfortunate tendency in this country for people to get butt naked in the common area of the changing rooms, so many's the time I have walked into the room to be greeted by the sight of boobs or beavers, which I find totally repulsive. 3) women are SO FUCKING BORING and EQUALLY FUCKING LOUD in their conversations. Why can't they have a quiet conversation, or at the very least talk about something interesting? I HATE being in the same room as these women and their banal little chats about who said what, what they were wearing, and where they met up. I don't belong amongst them... and I never have.
Sadly, the provision for 'accessible' changing rooms does not take transgendered people into account. Even worse, it doesn't even take the needs of the disabled into account. Stacked lockers, one near the ceiling? Check. Total lack of hairdrying facilities? Check. Staff who use the lockers in the disabled changing room as their own personal lockers? Bloody check. So I've been disappointed in my efforts to locate gender-neutral changing facilities.
I've decided that when I return to my workplace gym tomorrow, I will ask to use the little-used downstairs changing rooms so that I can try to avoid sharing with women. I'll try to speak to the manager (who I believe to be a lesbian; maybe she'll be sympathetic?) to organise this. Oh well. A week off work, and now I have to go back in the morning. And I'll be going back dressed androgynously.
I'm not looking forward to it at all.
Tuesday 12 June 2012
Puberty hits with a vengeance
The first signs of puberty happened really early for me.
I remember sitting in the bathtub one night when I was about 6 or 7 years old, when I noticed a very strange curly hair where there had never been any hair before. You know where I mean; I don't need to spell it out for you. I called my mother into the bathroom and asked her to take a look at this strange invader, and she just smiled knowingly and said "There'll be plenty more where that came from!". She was right, of course, but I had no idea that this weird hair meant that I'd started puberty... or what it would wind up doing to me.
As I said in my previous post, my breasts started growing around the age of 7, and that was a devastating blow to my self-image. Over the next few years, my body started changing in other ways too. My hips started to spread… so much so, that by the time I was 11 my mother referred to them as "child-bearing hips", and she meant that in a very cruel way. The Dairy Section continued to get larger, to the point that my breasts seemed obscenely large on my small frame. And when I was 12, I started having periods. Ugh!
Of all these changes, I'd like to focus on my breasts here. Oi! Cut it out, you pervert!
Anyway, between the ages of 9 and 11, my breasts grew from beestings to B-cups. That might not sound impressive, but I was about 1.3m tall at the time (less than 5 feet in old money) and so they appeared to be disproportionately large on my small frame. I hated them from the moment they first appeared, and I only grudgingly accept their presence now, mainly because they helped me attract Hubby and they did a great job of feeding my babies.
I remember very clearly what it felt like to have enormous breasts on my chest at that tender age, particularly since I was so angry at them from the start. Our school uniform was mandatory dresses for girls, which I hated, so I used to change into my customary t-shirt and shorts combo with takkies (trainers/sneakers) as soon as I got home from school. (In fact, I still do this today; I change into comfy trousers and a t-shirt or sweatshirt when I get home from work).
So if I wanted to go out to visit friends or go to the local shop after school, I had to walk the local streets in my t-shirt & shorts. But I had these enormous breasts under the t-shirt, and I was very uncomfortable with their presence… so I would pull down hard on the hem at the front of my t-shirt in an attempt to squish my breasts as flat as possible.
Unfortunately, there was no way of hiding those enormous jugs, and I'm pretty sure that squishing them with my t-shirt just drew more attention to them… and to me. I recall seeing drivers going past me in the street, particularly men, who would stare at me and at my chest. Bastards… if only they knew how uncomfortable I was with myself, and how much worse their stares were making me feel.
Due to the unwelcome stares of those men, I figured out that squishing my breasts flat with a t-shirt would just attract attention. So for the next few years I tried a different approach: wearing large, baggy t-shirts that would hide not only the worst of my breasts, but my narrow waist and 'child-bearing' hips too.
Provided I wore generic trousers or shorts with a big t-shirt, I could look fairly androgynous. And I could feel slightly more comfortable with myself. At least, I could when I was dressed. Nothing, however, helps me feel more comfortable about myself when I'm naked.
I remember sitting in the bathtub one night when I was about 6 or 7 years old, when I noticed a very strange curly hair where there had never been any hair before. You know where I mean; I don't need to spell it out for you. I called my mother into the bathroom and asked her to take a look at this strange invader, and she just smiled knowingly and said "There'll be plenty more where that came from!". She was right, of course, but I had no idea that this weird hair meant that I'd started puberty... or what it would wind up doing to me.
As I said in my previous post, my breasts started growing around the age of 7, and that was a devastating blow to my self-image. Over the next few years, my body started changing in other ways too. My hips started to spread… so much so, that by the time I was 11 my mother referred to them as "child-bearing hips", and she meant that in a very cruel way. The Dairy Section continued to get larger, to the point that my breasts seemed obscenely large on my small frame. And when I was 12, I started having periods. Ugh!
Of all these changes, I'd like to focus on my breasts here. Oi! Cut it out, you pervert!
Anyway, between the ages of 9 and 11, my breasts grew from beestings to B-cups. That might not sound impressive, but I was about 1.3m tall at the time (less than 5 feet in old money) and so they appeared to be disproportionately large on my small frame. I hated them from the moment they first appeared, and I only grudgingly accept their presence now, mainly because they helped me attract Hubby and they did a great job of feeding my babies.
I remember very clearly what it felt like to have enormous breasts on my chest at that tender age, particularly since I was so angry at them from the start. Our school uniform was mandatory dresses for girls, which I hated, so I used to change into my customary t-shirt and shorts combo with takkies (trainers/sneakers) as soon as I got home from school. (In fact, I still do this today; I change into comfy trousers and a t-shirt or sweatshirt when I get home from work).
So if I wanted to go out to visit friends or go to the local shop after school, I had to walk the local streets in my t-shirt & shorts. But I had these enormous breasts under the t-shirt, and I was very uncomfortable with their presence… so I would pull down hard on the hem at the front of my t-shirt in an attempt to squish my breasts as flat as possible.
Unfortunately, there was no way of hiding those enormous jugs, and I'm pretty sure that squishing them with my t-shirt just drew more attention to them… and to me. I recall seeing drivers going past me in the street, particularly men, who would stare at me and at my chest. Bastards… if only they knew how uncomfortable I was with myself, and how much worse their stares were making me feel.
Due to the unwelcome stares of those men, I figured out that squishing my breasts flat with a t-shirt would just attract attention. So for the next few years I tried a different approach: wearing large, baggy t-shirts that would hide not only the worst of my breasts, but my narrow waist and 'child-bearing' hips too.
Provided I wore generic trousers or shorts with a big t-shirt, I could look fairly androgynous. And I could feel slightly more comfortable with myself. At least, I could when I was dressed. Nothing, however, helps me feel more comfortable about myself when I'm naked.
When I first noticed that something wasn't quite right
When I was a kid (whenever I refer to my childhood, I always refer to myself as a 'kid', never as a 'girl' because that doesn't seem like 'me'), I lived in sunny South Africa… a country of 8-month-long sunny seasons in which every other family has a swimming pool in their back garden. My best friend, who lived just two houses away from me, had a pool and my brother & I would often go round her place during those long summer afternoons for a bit of a swim. Also, my parents would take us out most weekends for a braai (barbeque) in some lovely picturesque spot where swimming would usually form part of the day's activities.
Throughout my childhood, I was what might be considered a 'tomboy'. But the difference is: most 'tomboys' grow out of being a tomboy and grow into being a woman, but I never did. I've never been comfortable with being in a female body. Can you still be a 'tomboy' when you're 40? Or is it time to accept that this isn't just a phase you're going through, but it's who you really are?
As a kid, I loved going out swimming… in fact, I loved everything about the great outdoors. My elder brother and I used to go 'adventuring' in the African bushveld that surrounded our home, making 'forts' out of remains of old buildings; imagining that dinosaurs had left footprints in the volcanic rock formations in our local veld; climbing trees; fishing for tadpoles; making water features in our garden; finding and playing with bugs in our rockery; playing rugby (if we didn't have a ball, we'd use an old 2-litre Coke bottle with a bit of water in it to give it some spin); arm-wrestling; riding our bicycles; play-fighting in slow motion whilst pretending to be the 'Six Million Dollar Man'; and if the weather was bad we'd stay indoors and play with his Scalextric set, or play Top Trumps with fighter jets & Formula 1 cars. Or if I wanted a bit of space, I'd simply sit and paint in my room.
So at this point, are you wondering whether I participated in all of these activities because I had an overbearing older brother who would strongarm his long-suffering little sister into them?
If that's what you think, you couldn't be more wrong.
I love my brother and have always looked up to him, but he has no backbone and he couldn't strongarm me into anything if he tried. If I'd ever fancied playing 'girly' games, I could easily have just gone round to my friend's house and played with her. But I didn't want to do anything 'girly'; I wanted to do all the 'boyish' things I did with my brother. I loved our rough-and-tumble play and I feel very fortunate that my brother was welcoming and accepting of my enjoyment of his games. Especially considering the fact that we were kids in the 1970s, a very sexist decade in which 'boys' and 'girls' were expected to follow strictly demarcated gender roles.
The truth is that my brother and I played together, co-operatively, with neither one of us dominating our play sessions. Now that I come to think about it, it was quite an ace early childhood really, especially compared to the way many kids are wrapped in cotton wool today.
Anyway, back to swimming. When I was about 5 years old I had two swimming costumes: a one-piece costume that my mother had bought for me, and a two-piece bikini that my friend's mother made for me on her sewing machine, to match the one she'd made for her daughter. Oh, but with one subtle difference: my friend's bikini was in her favourite colour of pink, and mine was in my favourite colour… blue. I loved blue clothes as a child - I was mad about the colour and everything I wore had to be blue. My favourite dress was dark blue with a picture of a 1920s car on the front. Apart from the fact it was a dress, it was perfect!
I loved that bikini. Can you guess why?
I loved it because as soon as my parents were distracted with their grown-up conversations around the braai, I could discard the bikini top and run around with just the bottoms on. Just like any other boy. It was great! I loved running around topless in the African sunshine; it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Indeed, I would often spend my summer afternoons, barefoot and wearing just a pair of boyish shorts, playing topless in the garden. And although my parents would make the odd comment to me that it's not very 'ladylike' to run around topless, I ignored them and carried on regardless for as long as I was able. I understood from their words that I was expected to behave in a 'ladylike' fashion; I just didn't identify with being ladylike. It didn't seem relevant or applicable to me.
So I had a lovely, carefree, topless early childhood… until that horrible day, when I was about 7 years old, when my parents noticed that my breasts had started to grow. Just the tiniest beestings, mind you, but the dairy section had definitely started to bud.
On that day, my mother told me that I would have to wear a top from now on, and would never be allowed to run around topless again. I was devastated. It was so unfair!
Why was I being forced to be different from my brother, when I feel the same as him?
Why wasn't I allowed to be myself any more?
Why did I suddenly have to start pretending to be a girl, when I knew deep-down that I wasn't one?
I was forced to fit into a different mould. I felt like a square peg being hammered into a round hole.
So I started wearing a bikini top or a t-shirt at all times, in spite of my (then) pathetically small beestings… and for the first time in my life, I started feeling desperately uncomfortable with my body. Young children are fairly androgynous, and as long as they're raised by fairly open-minded parents their sense of identity can flow organically so that they can demonstrate who they truly are. But puberty doesn't care who you want to be. It changes your body the way it wants to change it, regardless of what you might prefer. My body was doing things I did not want it to do. It was becoming girly, even though I was not.
Damn you, hormones!
Throughout my childhood, I was what might be considered a 'tomboy'. But the difference is: most 'tomboys' grow out of being a tomboy and grow into being a woman, but I never did. I've never been comfortable with being in a female body. Can you still be a 'tomboy' when you're 40? Or is it time to accept that this isn't just a phase you're going through, but it's who you really are?
As a kid, I loved going out swimming… in fact, I loved everything about the great outdoors. My elder brother and I used to go 'adventuring' in the African bushveld that surrounded our home, making 'forts' out of remains of old buildings; imagining that dinosaurs had left footprints in the volcanic rock formations in our local veld; climbing trees; fishing for tadpoles; making water features in our garden; finding and playing with bugs in our rockery; playing rugby (if we didn't have a ball, we'd use an old 2-litre Coke bottle with a bit of water in it to give it some spin); arm-wrestling; riding our bicycles; play-fighting in slow motion whilst pretending to be the 'Six Million Dollar Man'; and if the weather was bad we'd stay indoors and play with his Scalextric set, or play Top Trumps with fighter jets & Formula 1 cars. Or if I wanted a bit of space, I'd simply sit and paint in my room.
So at this point, are you wondering whether I participated in all of these activities because I had an overbearing older brother who would strongarm his long-suffering little sister into them?
If that's what you think, you couldn't be more wrong.
I love my brother and have always looked up to him, but he has no backbone and he couldn't strongarm me into anything if he tried. If I'd ever fancied playing 'girly' games, I could easily have just gone round to my friend's house and played with her. But I didn't want to do anything 'girly'; I wanted to do all the 'boyish' things I did with my brother. I loved our rough-and-tumble play and I feel very fortunate that my brother was welcoming and accepting of my enjoyment of his games. Especially considering the fact that we were kids in the 1970s, a very sexist decade in which 'boys' and 'girls' were expected to follow strictly demarcated gender roles.
The truth is that my brother and I played together, co-operatively, with neither one of us dominating our play sessions. Now that I come to think about it, it was quite an ace early childhood really, especially compared to the way many kids are wrapped in cotton wool today.
Anyway, back to swimming. When I was about 5 years old I had two swimming costumes: a one-piece costume that my mother had bought for me, and a two-piece bikini that my friend's mother made for me on her sewing machine, to match the one she'd made for her daughter. Oh, but with one subtle difference: my friend's bikini was in her favourite colour of pink, and mine was in my favourite colour… blue. I loved blue clothes as a child - I was mad about the colour and everything I wore had to be blue. My favourite dress was dark blue with a picture of a 1920s car on the front. Apart from the fact it was a dress, it was perfect!
I loved that bikini. Can you guess why?
I loved it because as soon as my parents were distracted with their grown-up conversations around the braai, I could discard the bikini top and run around with just the bottoms on. Just like any other boy. It was great! I loved running around topless in the African sunshine; it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Indeed, I would often spend my summer afternoons, barefoot and wearing just a pair of boyish shorts, playing topless in the garden. And although my parents would make the odd comment to me that it's not very 'ladylike' to run around topless, I ignored them and carried on regardless for as long as I was able. I understood from their words that I was expected to behave in a 'ladylike' fashion; I just didn't identify with being ladylike. It didn't seem relevant or applicable to me.
So I had a lovely, carefree, topless early childhood… until that horrible day, when I was about 7 years old, when my parents noticed that my breasts had started to grow. Just the tiniest beestings, mind you, but the dairy section had definitely started to bud.
On that day, my mother told me that I would have to wear a top from now on, and would never be allowed to run around topless again. I was devastated. It was so unfair!
Why was I being forced to be different from my brother, when I feel the same as him?
Why wasn't I allowed to be myself any more?
Why did I suddenly have to start pretending to be a girl, when I knew deep-down that I wasn't one?
I was forced to fit into a different mould. I felt like a square peg being hammered into a round hole.
So I started wearing a bikini top or a t-shirt at all times, in spite of my (then) pathetically small beestings… and for the first time in my life, I started feeling desperately uncomfortable with my body. Young children are fairly androgynous, and as long as they're raised by fairly open-minded parents their sense of identity can flow organically so that they can demonstrate who they truly are. But puberty doesn't care who you want to be. It changes your body the way it wants to change it, regardless of what you might prefer. My body was doing things I did not want it to do. It was becoming girly, even though I was not.
Damn you, hormones!
Gym bunny
So in light of Hubby's apparent support for my changing my clothing & image to be more androgynous, I spoke to him about another aspect of why I'm so unhappy about myself: the shape of my body.
I used to weigh about 50kgs (I'm 1.55m tall) before I met him, but I put on weight during & between (and admittedly, after) my pregnancies and as such I'm currently about 15-20kgs overweight. I've been attending gym for the past couple of years, but I've had to do it in spits & spurts due to various (medical) reasons.
I'm such a nutcase that I actually have TWO gym memberships. I'm fortunate to have free corporate membership of a local gym near to where I work, but I work around 40 miles away from home so it isn't practical to use that gym on the weekends. So I also pay for membership of an independent chain of gyms near where I live so that I can exercise on the weekends too.
About a year ago I was fully in the swing of going to the gym 9 times per week: 6 sessions of cardio (Monday to Saturday) along with 3 sessions of weights (Mon, Weds, Fri). It was going great: I was losing weight, feeling fitter & healthier, and my body was becoming more muscular: just how I like it!
But as I have mentioned previously, Hubby likes soft curves: he's a boobs & bum man. So whilst he says he's supportive of my gym attendance, he is an opinionated old sod and he has been known to make critical comments about muscular women, such as female bodybuilders, when they are in the Press. So he says he's supportive, but I see things differently when I hear his bitchy comments.
So when my back, arms & legs started to get quite muscular last year, Hubby started making the occasional sniping comment. Nothing direct or personal - he's far too clever for that - but he made it known that he prefers me being soft & curvy to being muscular. Do you know what, Hubby? I understand that that is what you prefer, and that that is how you want me to look. But you are not me. And I cannot live my life (and live in this body) according to how somebody else wants me to be. No matter how much I love you.
Now that I've come to the decision that I need to address my gender dysphoria, I need to start weight training again to attain some of the shape I desire. (Last year, I absolutely loved the fact that my upper back was becoming hard, firm & muscular. I love feeling muscles under my skin and I want to feel firm all over). But I remember how Hubby reacted last time.
So I spoke to him about it in advance. I explained that since I want to appear more androgynous, I need to go back to the gym and I need to do some weight training. He said he was perfectly fine with that and would support me… but the proof of the pudding is in the eating, so let's see whether he starts getting snarky again when my musculature starts to show.
I'm already making good progress: I love the fact that I press more weight on the leg machines than most men at the gym, and that I have the knowledge and experience to ensure I use good form in my workouts - far better form, in fact, than many of the men in our gym.
Ha ha, guys, if only you knew, this slip of a 'girl' is one of you. ;-)
I used to weigh about 50kgs (I'm 1.55m tall) before I met him, but I put on weight during & between (and admittedly, after) my pregnancies and as such I'm currently about 15-20kgs overweight. I've been attending gym for the past couple of years, but I've had to do it in spits & spurts due to various (medical) reasons.
I'm such a nutcase that I actually have TWO gym memberships. I'm fortunate to have free corporate membership of a local gym near to where I work, but I work around 40 miles away from home so it isn't practical to use that gym on the weekends. So I also pay for membership of an independent chain of gyms near where I live so that I can exercise on the weekends too.
About a year ago I was fully in the swing of going to the gym 9 times per week: 6 sessions of cardio (Monday to Saturday) along with 3 sessions of weights (Mon, Weds, Fri). It was going great: I was losing weight, feeling fitter & healthier, and my body was becoming more muscular: just how I like it!
But as I have mentioned previously, Hubby likes soft curves: he's a boobs & bum man. So whilst he says he's supportive of my gym attendance, he is an opinionated old sod and he has been known to make critical comments about muscular women, such as female bodybuilders, when they are in the Press. So he says he's supportive, but I see things differently when I hear his bitchy comments.
So when my back, arms & legs started to get quite muscular last year, Hubby started making the occasional sniping comment. Nothing direct or personal - he's far too clever for that - but he made it known that he prefers me being soft & curvy to being muscular. Do you know what, Hubby? I understand that that is what you prefer, and that that is how you want me to look. But you are not me. And I cannot live my life (and live in this body) according to how somebody else wants me to be. No matter how much I love you.
Now that I've come to the decision that I need to address my gender dysphoria, I need to start weight training again to attain some of the shape I desire. (Last year, I absolutely loved the fact that my upper back was becoming hard, firm & muscular. I love feeling muscles under my skin and I want to feel firm all over). But I remember how Hubby reacted last time.
So I spoke to him about it in advance. I explained that since I want to appear more androgynous, I need to go back to the gym and I need to do some weight training. He said he was perfectly fine with that and would support me… but the proof of the pudding is in the eating, so let's see whether he starts getting snarky again when my musculature starts to show.
I'm already making good progress: I love the fact that I press more weight on the leg machines than most men at the gym, and that I have the knowledge and experience to ensure I use good form in my workouts - far better form, in fact, than many of the men in our gym.
Ha ha, guys, if only you knew, this slip of a 'girl' is one of you. ;-)
Heart-to-heart
I had a bit of a heart-to-heart with hubby.
I was in tears when I got home from work after a very frustrating day in which I'd acknowledged that my gender dysphoria is not only very real, but is rearing its ugly head again in a big way. Hubby could tell I was upset about something, but I can't really discuss any of this with him yet. I know it's likely to be a deal-breaker for him, because he's very straight and whilst not overtly homophobic, he does seem to flinch whenever certain subjects come up.
So instead, I just blurted out that I'm sick and tired of hating my body; I'm sick of never, ever looking in the mirror or looking at myself in the bath; and I'm sick of feeling uncomfortable in my own skin. I didn't say exactly WHY I'm so uncomfortable with doing these things; perhaps he can just jump to the conclusion that it's because I'm currently overweight?
But the following morning I said that I wanted to go shopping over the weekend to buy some more androgynous clothes. Perhaps he might think that I want to do so to hide the bits of my body that look overweight; maybe he thinks I just like androgynous clothes, which is a reasonable assumption because I have dressed androgynously for years and have only worn 'female' clothing for work; perhaps he remembers what I told him a year or so ago about having wanted a sex change when I was younger. Who knows. But the bottom line is this: he's being quite sympathetic. He just wants me to be happy.
So on Saturday morning, we met up in the city (after he'd separately organised various outings for our daughters) and we walked around a bunch of clothes shops together. I was glad he turned up, because I'd spent the previous two hours wandering around clothes and shoe shops and was getting pretty tired & despondent.
We popped in to a well-known cheap clothing shop (Primark) and after a quick mooch around the ladies' section, we headed down to the men's section. I felt right in my element: the t-shirts here were funny, geeky, slightly in-your-face… in other words, they were ME! I was in 7th heaven!
I picked up armfuls of t-shirts (and Hubby picked one out for himself too) and headed gleefully for the tills. The beauty of having Hubby there was that anybody that might give a damn would presume the clothes were for him, so I didn't get any strange looks or anything. I felt so much better after buying some clothes I can identify with. Unfortunately I can't wear men's trousers (those bloody child-bearing hips again) but plenty of shops sell fairly androgynous trousers, such as jeans, in the women's section.
After that, we went to the ladies' shoes section (the men's shoes start in a size 6, and I'm a size 4/5) where I found some cheap Converse and Vans look-alike shoes, which I happily snapped up. Later on that day, Hubby and I went to a local shoe shop near our home where we went through the boys' shoes (which are masculine in design but available in small sizes - perfect!) where I explained to him that I want shoes that 'look androgynous, but don't make me look like a lesbian'. He even suggested a couple of pairs, and I would up buying a pair of black, white & red teenage-style shoes which I have been wearing almost exclusively ever since.
It's wonderful that he's supportive. I was feeling pretty good about myself on Saturday, because not only was I happier with the way I looked, but Hubby didn't seem to mind.
Or so I thought.
I've since come to the conclusion that he's being tolerant, but not necessarily supportive. A couple of days ago, we were on our way to our local supermarket when a woman walking in front of us turned round and shouted "Dave!", obviously at her son who was behind us. Once we were out of earshot I jokingly said to Hubby "Huh, does she think I look like a 'Dave'?" to which he too-quickly interjected "Now that you come to mention it…". He said it light-heartedly, but I know him very well and I took it as a sign that he's not 100% happy with what I'm doing, but is tolerating it for now; hoping it's just a phase I'm going through.
Shit, I wish I could talk to him about this. But I need to tread so very carefully, because I'm convinced it would be a deal-breaker if I were to transition.
I was in tears when I got home from work after a very frustrating day in which I'd acknowledged that my gender dysphoria is not only very real, but is rearing its ugly head again in a big way. Hubby could tell I was upset about something, but I can't really discuss any of this with him yet. I know it's likely to be a deal-breaker for him, because he's very straight and whilst not overtly homophobic, he does seem to flinch whenever certain subjects come up.
So instead, I just blurted out that I'm sick and tired of hating my body; I'm sick of never, ever looking in the mirror or looking at myself in the bath; and I'm sick of feeling uncomfortable in my own skin. I didn't say exactly WHY I'm so uncomfortable with doing these things; perhaps he can just jump to the conclusion that it's because I'm currently overweight?
But the following morning I said that I wanted to go shopping over the weekend to buy some more androgynous clothes. Perhaps he might think that I want to do so to hide the bits of my body that look overweight; maybe he thinks I just like androgynous clothes, which is a reasonable assumption because I have dressed androgynously for years and have only worn 'female' clothing for work; perhaps he remembers what I told him a year or so ago about having wanted a sex change when I was younger. Who knows. But the bottom line is this: he's being quite sympathetic. He just wants me to be happy.
So on Saturday morning, we met up in the city (after he'd separately organised various outings for our daughters) and we walked around a bunch of clothes shops together. I was glad he turned up, because I'd spent the previous two hours wandering around clothes and shoe shops and was getting pretty tired & despondent.
We popped in to a well-known cheap clothing shop (Primark) and after a quick mooch around the ladies' section, we headed down to the men's section. I felt right in my element: the t-shirts here were funny, geeky, slightly in-your-face… in other words, they were ME! I was in 7th heaven!
I picked up armfuls of t-shirts (and Hubby picked one out for himself too) and headed gleefully for the tills. The beauty of having Hubby there was that anybody that might give a damn would presume the clothes were for him, so I didn't get any strange looks or anything. I felt so much better after buying some clothes I can identify with. Unfortunately I can't wear men's trousers (those bloody child-bearing hips again) but plenty of shops sell fairly androgynous trousers, such as jeans, in the women's section.
After that, we went to the ladies' shoes section (the men's shoes start in a size 6, and I'm a size 4/5) where I found some cheap Converse and Vans look-alike shoes, which I happily snapped up. Later on that day, Hubby and I went to a local shoe shop near our home where we went through the boys' shoes (which are masculine in design but available in small sizes - perfect!) where I explained to him that I want shoes that 'look androgynous, but don't make me look like a lesbian'. He even suggested a couple of pairs, and I would up buying a pair of black, white & red teenage-style shoes which I have been wearing almost exclusively ever since.
It's wonderful that he's supportive. I was feeling pretty good about myself on Saturday, because not only was I happier with the way I looked, but Hubby didn't seem to mind.
Or so I thought.
I've since come to the conclusion that he's being tolerant, but not necessarily supportive. A couple of days ago, we were on our way to our local supermarket when a woman walking in front of us turned round and shouted "Dave!", obviously at her son who was behind us. Once we were out of earshot I jokingly said to Hubby "Huh, does she think I look like a 'Dave'?" to which he too-quickly interjected "Now that you come to mention it…". He said it light-heartedly, but I know him very well and I took it as a sign that he's not 100% happy with what I'm doing, but is tolerating it for now; hoping it's just a phase I'm going through.
Shit, I wish I could talk to him about this. But I need to tread so very carefully, because I'm convinced it would be a deal-breaker if I were to transition.
Flying under the gaydar
So I spent several hours online last night researching FTM transitions, stories from transguys who have gone further than I have, and looking at clothes, shoes, binders and other tips for leading a less female life. There was some very interesting stuff, including elevator shoes & shoe inserts that would make me the height of a shorter male; and there were some very encouraging photos of the results that can be achieved from hormones and certain surgeries. All good stuff.
Whilst I've fantasised about being male all my life, and I always think of myself in terms of being a guy, I'm not yet certain that I want to go the whole hog with a physical transformation. I've had a couple of kids and would like more, but funnily enough, being pregnant, giving birth and breastfeeding my daughters didn't make me feel more 'female'. I just felt like a person who was doing these things as a way of having children and providing for my family; not as things to define me as a 'woman'. In fact, I felt very uncomfortable being in ante-natal classes with women, and I hated the maternity wards in the hospital. I felt so out of place!
If things hadn't worked out with Hubby, I would definitely have transitioned, most likely before turning 30. As a matter of fact, I've wanted to transition since I learned in my teens that it is possible, but what held me back was the fact that I am short, which was a major problem in South Africa (where I lived at the time). In South Africa, short men are treated like shit; even worse than women… and women are treated very shabbily. It's a very macho culture, all about the male ego, and I had some short male friends who suffered terribly because taller men would bully them due to their height. (I remember doing a management course at age 19 in which we were asked to list '5 characteristics of a good leader'. Most of the men in the class came back with 'he must be tall' - which shows that they only take you seriously if you're male and tall). Being short was the only thing that held me back at that stage.
And then I moved to the UK and happened to meet Hubby. It was fortuitous that he came along when he did, because it enabled me to do various things I might never have been able to do otherwise, such as have children. And the inspirational words from one of the FTM message boards I visited yesterday made me think that perhaps I can find a halfway house; a more androgynous outer appearance that is more comfortable for me, whilst still retaining Hubby & all we have. That is, if he can accept a more androgynous me. He's always loved seeing me in dresses; he's a boobs-and-bum kinda guy. But I realised today that wearing dresses or other female clothing actually feels like being in drag; and wearing overtly men's clothing & hairstyles with my current body shape makes me look like a lesbian, and I don't identify with that either. Whoo boy!
So at lunchtime today I spent some time in clothing shops, going through the men's sections. Some of the clothes were good, and some of the shoes too, but many of the shirts would look odd over my hips as they currently stand (my mother once very cruelly referred to me as having 'child-bearing hips', and she didn't mean it in a nice way). So I've thought that, for now, I should just buy geeky t-shirts and generic shoes such as Converses or Vans, to go for a more androgynous look, and then take it from there.
I also did a more sensitive 'brain gender' test mentioned in my previous post (the SAGE test, which asked questions about gender and sexuality combined) and that was the one that identified me as a homosexual male, with definite male thought patterns. The result of that test was so conclusive, so convincing, that I picked up the phone to make an appointment with my GP - the one who actually bothers to refer me for counselling etc. - to speak to her about my gender dysphoria so I can start getting professional help with this.
I know Internet tests aren't conclusive and should always be taken with a heap of salt, but the truth is that I have always identified as male and I am sexually attracted to men, and nothing turns me on more in my fantasies than picturing myself as part of a gay sex encounter. So the results of that test resonated with me as feeling 'right'.
I don't think there'll be an easy solution. I'm not looking for a magic wand. I have a great deal to lose, but also a great deal to gain. Most of all, I just want to be fucking comfortable in my own skin for the first time since I was little. Is that too much to ask?
Whilst I've fantasised about being male all my life, and I always think of myself in terms of being a guy, I'm not yet certain that I want to go the whole hog with a physical transformation. I've had a couple of kids and would like more, but funnily enough, being pregnant, giving birth and breastfeeding my daughters didn't make me feel more 'female'. I just felt like a person who was doing these things as a way of having children and providing for my family; not as things to define me as a 'woman'. In fact, I felt very uncomfortable being in ante-natal classes with women, and I hated the maternity wards in the hospital. I felt so out of place!
If things hadn't worked out with Hubby, I would definitely have transitioned, most likely before turning 30. As a matter of fact, I've wanted to transition since I learned in my teens that it is possible, but what held me back was the fact that I am short, which was a major problem in South Africa (where I lived at the time). In South Africa, short men are treated like shit; even worse than women… and women are treated very shabbily. It's a very macho culture, all about the male ego, and I had some short male friends who suffered terribly because taller men would bully them due to their height. (I remember doing a management course at age 19 in which we were asked to list '5 characteristics of a good leader'. Most of the men in the class came back with 'he must be tall' - which shows that they only take you seriously if you're male and tall). Being short was the only thing that held me back at that stage.
And then I moved to the UK and happened to meet Hubby. It was fortuitous that he came along when he did, because it enabled me to do various things I might never have been able to do otherwise, such as have children. And the inspirational words from one of the FTM message boards I visited yesterday made me think that perhaps I can find a halfway house; a more androgynous outer appearance that is more comfortable for me, whilst still retaining Hubby & all we have. That is, if he can accept a more androgynous me. He's always loved seeing me in dresses; he's a boobs-and-bum kinda guy. But I realised today that wearing dresses or other female clothing actually feels like being in drag; and wearing overtly men's clothing & hairstyles with my current body shape makes me look like a lesbian, and I don't identify with that either. Whoo boy!
So at lunchtime today I spent some time in clothing shops, going through the men's sections. Some of the clothes were good, and some of the shoes too, but many of the shirts would look odd over my hips as they currently stand (my mother once very cruelly referred to me as having 'child-bearing hips', and she didn't mean it in a nice way). So I've thought that, for now, I should just buy geeky t-shirts and generic shoes such as Converses or Vans, to go for a more androgynous look, and then take it from there.
I also did a more sensitive 'brain gender' test mentioned in my previous post (the SAGE test, which asked questions about gender and sexuality combined) and that was the one that identified me as a homosexual male, with definite male thought patterns. The result of that test was so conclusive, so convincing, that I picked up the phone to make an appointment with my GP - the one who actually bothers to refer me for counselling etc. - to speak to her about my gender dysphoria so I can start getting professional help with this.
I know Internet tests aren't conclusive and should always be taken with a heap of salt, but the truth is that I have always identified as male and I am sexually attracted to men, and nothing turns me on more in my fantasies than picturing myself as part of a gay sex encounter. So the results of that test resonated with me as feeling 'right'.
I don't think there'll be an easy solution. I'm not looking for a magic wand. I have a great deal to lose, but also a great deal to gain. Most of all, I just want to be fucking comfortable in my own skin for the first time since I was little. Is that too much to ask?
Saturday 2 June 2012
A day of realisations
Today is... a day in which I've realised a few things about myself.
Some things in our lives seem to be easier to cope with if they're just swept under the carpet. Or left in the closet. Ahem. I learned from my mother that sometimes it seems easier to just stick your head in the sand and pretend the issue you're having difficulty with simply isn't there. But the problem with going into Ostrich Mode is that the issue persists and it WILL rear its ugly head the next time a trigger is encountered. My entire life, I have been stamping down on the way I feel, and the way I see myself, because I learned pretty damn quick that 'girls' aren't supposed to like playing with toy cars & trainsets. Or helping their dads fix their car. Or running around topless in the African sun, revelling in the freedom of being a child. No, those little pleasures are reserved solely for boys, according to my folks. The problem is: I couldn't see what was so bloody different between my older brother and myself. Actually, that's not true: unlike my brother, I was very keen to work on my dad's car with him (but he pushed me away to go play with dolls or something); my favourite colour was blue (but my folks would buy me blue dresses and think that was OK); and my brother is useless at DIY and other practical tasks (I'm really good at them, and I taught him a few things too).
But back to that carpet/closet/hole in the ground. So yesterday, I had a bit of an existential crisis. I made the 'mistake' of opening the closet door and seeing the all-too-familiar elephant sitting in its corner. You see, I had the misfortune of clicking on an article in the Daily Mail about an FTM transgender teenager, who had a miserable childhood being treated like a girl, but whose supportive parents enabled him to go on hormones and start transitioning. He's much happier with his new public face and is looking forward to a life in a skin he is comfortable with.
And I thought: "You Lucky Fucking Bastard".
Reading his story, and watching his (very emotional, set to Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol) YouTube video showing stills of him as a sad little girl, and then showing him becoming a happier teenage boy, made me blub like a 3-year-old. It brought back all those horrible, shoved-down, hidden, repressed thoughts I've had to stomp on for MY ENTIRE FUCKING LIFE about how I'm NOT in the right skin, I DON'T feel comfortable with female clothing, I NEVER look at my self in the mirror or in the bathtub, I only have sex in the dark because I don't want to look at tits etc. and I HATE being addressed by female pronouns (they always jar terribly; it's like someone calling me 'tall' or 'black', two other things that I am quite obviously NOT and that I personally don't identify with).
So I spent quite a bit of time yesterday thinking about my childhood memories, remembering what it was like to be me growing up. I thought about when I first noticed that there was a huge discrepancy between what people told me I have to be and what I actually am inside; if this feeling has ever ended (it hasn't); and what it felt like every time I noticed that I was unhappy with my apparent gender. I came to the conclusion that I've had Gender Identity issues for as long as I can remember, and they've not gotten better. So now here I am, aged forty, married and the mother of two daughters, thinking that it's high time I did something about this.
So I did a couple of shitty Internet-based 'What gender is your brain?' type tests, which I know are not very scientific but at least they give you an indication. The most charitable one put me down as 'androgynous' with a few female characteristics but an overall male thinking pattern; the more accurate one, as it asked some questions about sexual attraction too, put me down as 'homosexual male'. Which I actually agree with, incidentally.
I happen to have Asperger Syndrome, and I visit some fora for advice/help with that. So I went around the usual psychology forum that I use for Aspie issues, and whaddaya know, they also have a Gender Identity Disorder forum. (And some threads in the Aspie forum about Aspies with GID and the link between the two conditions; I wonder whether it's more common in female Aspies due to our male thinking patterns?). I lurked in a couple of threads - and found some very inspirational stuff from a 63-year-old in the same position as me who has learned to accept her skin & whose husband understands & loves her for who she is. Can I achieve the same? Because hell, I love my husband but he's as straight as an arrow. He won't want to be with someone who's transgendered, I'm sure of it. And why should he? He's a straight man who married a (very tomboyish) woman. Since I dropped a few hints last night about wanting to dress in more masculine clothing & hating the look of my body for my whole life, he's been rather distant - as he always is when this comes up. Sigh.
So. Shit. The elephant is back in the room, as it tends to be at least once a year when I let it out into the daylight, and it's shat all over the bedroom floor. So what am I to do? Stuff it back in the closet again, stick my fingers in my ears and pretend it isn't there, until the next time the door is wrenched open? Or start formally investigating why I've felt this way all my life and see where it takes me?
I've decided on the latter. Life's too short. (And so am I).
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