being trans is weird

tw body image, food and eating, diets, abuse, misogyny, transphobia, homophobia — you know, the standard Trans Navelgazing things :’)

so: in a week, i’m gonna get my tits cut off.

one of the weirdest things about being trans, for me in particular, is discovering that — i’m actually pretty vain? i want to be attractive! i want people to think i’m hot!

i think i’m more attractive now than i ever have been, but also it’s requiring me to really embrace, well — being ugly? like — just going with the societal definitions of beauty, here, which may or may not ring true for any individual’s taste, but in the interests of being able to talk about this at all — there’s a lot of stuff that is hot for men that is absolutely not for women, including body hair, facial hair, body shape, voice, etc. despite not being particularly attached to my voice and actively wanting more body hair, as someone who has always stepped outside their own body to look at myself with a stranger’s eyes to decide if i’m hot or not, it’s distinctly weird to be in this point of like — yeah you look good, but you sure as hell don’t look good for a woman

compounding that — growing up, my mom would tell me nobody would ever love me because i’m ugly and lopsided and fat. girls want to be skinny! you have to be skinny to be pretty! in what was, in retrospect, both a response to abuse and also a response to dysphoria, i got into the habit of eating until i was physically uncomfortable or in pain to spite her, long past the point of having a good time, solely because fuck you, girls want to be pretty? well i want to be ugly. which — probably, in retrospect, wasn’t the safest or healthiest way of dealing, but — the long and short of it is, i thought i was okay with being heavier than i “should” “be”. i never really thought too much about my weight one way or another.

now — i’ve also gained weight on T and my face is puffy, both of which are pretty common, and, reader: they are absolutely fucking with me. my shape hasn’t even changed that much, my clothes all fit, etc, but that number of the scale has gone up and i am having an emotion about it, and i really didn’t think i would?

and now, here it is: the (or at least, a) rubicon: i’m literally getting my breasts chopped off. like — everything else so far has either been reversible or not a big deal, but the point where i pay a near stranger nearly eight thousand dollars to flatten my chest out — boy, you’re never gonna be a pretty girl again, are you, ry? and — i don’t want to be a pretty girl, but it’s still a loss, of a sort

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