Content warning: graphic descriptions of vaginoplasty recovery, surgery, biological processes, emotional distress, and sex.
There is a wide variance in post-surgical experiences depending on things like the surgeon, surgical technique, general health of the patient, complications, etc. The above are my experiences only, and should not be considered typical or expected for vaginoplasty.
It’s remarkable how swift miracles become mundane and realized dreams become humdrum. It’s been two years since I let a doctor take a scalpel to the meat shape I was born with and sculpt it into the meat shape I wish I’d been born with, and it was just yesterday and decades ago.
When I came up on the eighteen-month mark and switched to weekly dilation, I thought, “I should post about this.” But at the end of 2019 I needed a break from gender stuff and switched this blog and my Twitter feed to private, so I let that milestone slip by because it was 2020 and until the inauguration, I was occupied with plans to flee the country.
Luckily I didn’t have to do that, so: two years of having a vagina!
It’s a pain the ass.
At least once a week I’ve got to stuff rigid plastic into it and stretch it so it doesn’t start to contract. Yes, yes, it’s physical therapy and all, but holy fuck it’s boring and the physical sensation ranges from “meh” to “ow!” I still have a tender spot inside that when the dilator slides by it, it feels like a knuckle into a bruise.
Then there are the spots internally and externally that aren’t quite numb and aren’t quite fully sensate. Some days I don’t even notice anything going on down there and then other days there is discomfort and on other days there are twinges of light pain.
My vagina has its own bacterial colony thing going on that I’m coming to learn is happier when I dilate more often than once a week. The “only wipe backwards” thing is no joke and I’m not laughing when my colon occasionally decides that posthaste elimination is more important than creating solid waste. This often leads to a week of playing the, “Is it necrotic tissue or a bacterial mat?” smell game. Don’t get me started on discharge moments, which come out of nowhere and make me think and feel I’m about to soil my panties and are over before I’ve had time to think about what came out of where.
Speaking of body openings in close proximity to each other, urinating is a pain in the ass. There is a magic combination of fluid exit pressure and the urethral angle connected to the angle of my legs and how much weight I’m currently wearing to get a nice, steady stream. It’s not often enough, which means I’m wiping down my inner thighs and butt cheeks more than I’d like.
Speaking of weight, I had picked up close to ten pounds post-GCS, which I had attributed to being less physically active in the months while I was recovering. I picked up another ten during 2020 and while I know a ton of that has been pandemic stress-eating, exercising is just harder now. Some of this is a function of age, but there was an x-factor keeping me back that made it mentally and physically harder to exercise. I think it’s the orchiectomy that happened during GCS and the resulting lowering of my testosterone levels.
Testosterone also helps with things like libido, which I now regard like one treasures a beloved photo of a bygone era. I still have a libido, but it’s distant, remote. I harbor a secret fear it won’t come back even if I find someone I’m attracted to who’s dtf.
Speaking of fucking, I’ve been pandemic celibate, but prior I did let a few people party on my pussy with phallus-shaped bits directly or indirectly attached to them. I lost my virginity to an over-eager woman who was working her way out of a heterosexual marriage towards dating women and it was as dumb all the way around as you might expect. Due to the aforementioned internal sore spot, it was underwhelming and it forged a solidarity in me with women everywhere laying on their backs wondering when it’s going to be over.
What little experimenting I did get in before the world shut down led me to confront my bisexuality and more research is warranted. But it’s a pandemic and men are trash, so that will have to wait.
Things that won’t wait are employment and while I am working now, I’m looking for a new job again. That doesn’t have anything to do with my vagina except for the fact it’s just harder for people who are assumed to have vaginas to find work and when they do it’s for less money than for people who are assumed to have penises. That part sucks.
At this point you might be asking, “Heather, is there anything good about your pussy? All you’ve done is bitch about it.” Why yes, I’m glad you asked!
I can wear leggings every day, anywhere, and not have to tuck. If I become unconscious and require medical care, I don’t worry as much I’ll be refused treatment. And I don’t have mental anguish about the physical dysmorphia of my body any more. Did I mention leggings?
It’s a short list. Maybe it’ll get longer at some point. Who knows?
But removing that mental anguish, wow, that was huge for me. I have days when my pussy is a pain in the ass and I think to myself, “Heather, GCS might have been a poor decision on your part.”
So I start playing the tape of time back and I start by asking myself, “Could I have lived without surgery?” Yes, I could have. But not being able to wear some clothes and tucking every day was increasingly becoming a drag, and the whole “being refused medical attention in an emergency thing” weighed on my mind. Then there was the mental anguish bit.
It waxed and waned over time. Post-transition, it bothered me much less than it did before, but it was still there. What was cut away from me during surgery wasn’t so much flesh as it was a festering psychic wound. In the end, it transformed that mental pain in my brain into a physical pain in my body. Do I wish I had no physical pain? Of course. Of course.
So I’m going to bitch about how much of a pain in the ass my pussy is.