Body dysphoria, like gender dysphoria, is a weird thing. There are days, weeks, months even that pass by without me noticing it. I move through the world and just am. I might have passing thoughts of, ‘I should lose weight,’ or, ‘I should exercise more,’ or, ‘I wish I fit this top better,’ but they are the concerns of any body and come and go like the weather.
And then, like stepping on a buried mine, BAM! Something triggers the dysphoria and hot shrapnel of broken feelings fly through my body and I am left feeling grotesque, misshapen, and hideous. Then I limp about the world, wounded and feeling shameful because I knew that minefield was there; why haven’t I cleared it yet? Do I secretly like tiptoeing through the minefield?
It takes me a while to remember why. There are so many reasons. Fear has been the largest.
I’m afraid of surgery. Afraid of dying on the table, afraid of complications that might leave me worse off than I am now, afraid of the irrevocably of it. On the surface it’s silly. The risks are low and if there’s anything about my transition I’ve noticed, (and myself in general,) it’s that I over think things at the expense of action. I’ll probably be on my deathbed going, ‘I’m not so sure about this…’ while everyone else rolls their eyes with mutters of, ‘Get on with it!’
So I’m getting on with it. While I have a surgical date scheduled for 2021(!), I have a surgical consultation meeting with my selected surgeon next month and part of the reason I’m doing it so soon is to demonstrate my preparedness and confirm my spot on the waiting list for a cancellation slot. If it looks like it’ll still be years out I’ll start shopping for someone who can get me in sooner because I’m sick of stepping on mines.
Please consider supporting my writing by sharing it with others with attribution and linking back or buying one of my poetry collections from the Kindle store. Thank you!