Bloody Queer. Period.

I used a menstrual cup for the first time this week.

The perks seemed to outweigh anything bad happening. They use less waste, and contribute less garbage to the earth, and at $40 for a cup that lasts up to 10 years, I couldn’t not do it.

I bought one, read the instructions, and waited two weeks. Tuesday morning it came so I popped that baby in and hoped for the best.

The best was not what I got.

I knew as soon as it was in, I had put it in too far up, and trying to turn it 360 degrees like it said was not happening. The average vagina is only 3-4 inches long so I must’ve just pushed it up as far as it could go. That cup was suctioned to my walls like me on cake at a birthday party. After crying on the toilet while simultaneously messaging my best friend for advice, and Googling for help, I decided to just leave it be for the next 12 hours and hope that gravity would do its thing and lower this bastard down for me.

By 9 pm, I had watched a couple handfuls of videos about menstrual cups, and read every article with stories, hints and tricks, and horrors that I could find. Ultimately I had freaked myself into a hot panic.

It did not want to come out. Spent the whole day just bleeding away and this cup was not budging. I took a hot shower and tried to relax to the advice that the heat would help, but I only ended up squatting in the tub for fifteen minutes and having shaky hands for an hour after.

There was nothing I could do. I would have to sleep on it, and check in the morning.

Well… morning came and it was still stuck.

I cried.

I stuck my finger way up there and clawed at silicone, like one BuzzFeed article author so gracefully and accurately put it, “like a panicked raccoon,” trying to reach the top so I could pop the seal.

I cried some more.

After that didn’t work, I beared down on the floor and tried again. I thought I was getting somewhere, but all I was doing was bleeding puddles on the floor and dying my hand red.

Oh and bawling.

I was messaging with my datemate Robin, and a friend to see if I could get a ride downtown to Vancouver’s queer health centre. Both of them pulled through, but Robin lives closer, and was also a nurse so I went with her.

Robin pulled up in her awesome mom van with the kids in the back ready for school. I had ceased crying at this point. For the next 45 minutes, I forgot about the horror inside me as we focused on getting kids out of car seats, holding tiny hands across the street, and waiting with other parents at preschool for their time to go in. All of this completely unfamiliar to me. It was pretty cool to see her in this part of her life though.

Robin occupied my head with her own stories until we got downtown to the clinic. I kissed her goodbye and thanked her immensely before jumping out of the van on Bute and Davie.

Three people were ahead of me, and then I got in to see a doctor.

“I have a menstrual cup stuck inside me,” I tried to laugh it off without crying again when I sat in the doctor’s office. I’d been there for standard STI testing, but this was a new one for me, and for this very lucky doctor who hadn’t seen this particular scenario yet. The day was filled with firsts.

They got me in the stirrups and started poking around a bit with some cold lube. I really didn’t think it needed to be more slippery down there. They tried all they could just using their fingers, but to no avail. A purple pair of what I like to think of as medical tongs came next, but the ends were too wide to fit in with a finger. So they called the other doctor in and she got in on the excitement too.

She brought in the speculum in the hopes that they’d have a better chance at seeing this clear coloured object that my vagina was so loving. Like a pap smear, it was awkward with pressure as she cranked it. Finally they were both able to see what was going on – turns out the cup had gotten stuck behind my pelvic bone and there was no way I would’ve been able to get it out on my own.

She pulled the cup out part way with the purple medical tongs, and thought she’d be able to pull the rest out without the speculum so she started taking the speculum out, and before any of us has any idea what’s happening next, the fucking menstrual cup shoots right out of me. Blood and all.

And that is the closest I will ever come to giving birth.

The doctors laughed over their shock, and I looked over the edge to see more puddles of my blood on the floor.

After cleaning myself up and switching back to tampons for the rest of the cycle, the first doctor put my menstrual cup in a biohazard bag for me to clean and boil. And of course I had to get a couple photos cause this is never happening again…

I feel like this hilarious situation has given me enough experience to try this again in January. I’d really like the cup to actually be workable for my life.

The weird thing is that almost two years ago to the day, I nearly died when a plate I was washing exploded in my hands and cut me just above the wrist. I lost 200 cc’s of blood on the floor and was awarded 6 stitches. So I can’t wait to find out how much blood will be lost on the last week of November, 2018.

And now we can laugh about it.

I hope my experience serves as something valuable for someone else, and you don’t get stuck in this mess, but if you do, read the BuzzFeed article that made me laugh and cry.

https://www.buzzfeed.com/erinchack/things-that-happen-when-you-realize-your-mentrual-cup-is?utm_term=.dfmpddzQx#.vvN5ll1pA

Take a Breather

 

This year I danced into the world of polyamorous relationships, knowing full well what I was getting myself into. The funny part to me is that that isn’t why it fell apart. I had no qualms with the person I was dating having a partner already – in fact we got along quite well I thought.

The problem came with communication and feeling like they weren’t hearing me and my needs. Not seeing the warning signs with them only wanting to call one of their partners, “partner” – good luck with future…well you’ll think of a word, or rather they will, cause you never did.

So I still hold some resentment which I will work out in time. But that person is out of my life. A decision that still wrenches my heart at times.

I turned 26, which I’m happy about – I’m glad Benjamin Button was the only of his kind. I only want to keep getting older.

But my cat died back home and I wasn’t there to hold him one more time. I didn’t feel the weight of that until a few days later and bawled over the loss of my near 17 year old kitten.

But then I started fostering my platonic life partner’s cat with my roommate, and besides the vomit, and the threat of getting kicked out of our not pet-friendly apartment, it’s been fun having someone who wants to see you when you get home, if only because they want food.

I made a new queer friend who has been a crucial part of my social life these days. Their friendship has meant so much to me and has brought me one good thing from Tinder.

I decided though, that being heart-hurt over one person wasn’t enough. I am never done being masochistic. So I fell for this new amazing human. Whose life was already too demanding and full and probably shouldn’t have tried to tack this rambling, romantic queer idiot onto her life.

Once I get past the not being with her part of this, I will remember the moments we shared and smile as I cherish a rooftop date night, long talks about films we watched, and those first nervous kisses.

I just want to dream about her, if it didn’t well tears up into my eyes to do so.

So I’m done with dating adding more hardship and pain to the rest of my life. This year being off Testosterone has just been blown into a sea of salty tears and I’m done with it.

This ship is docking. The fish can wait.

I’m going to focus on writing for a while. See if maybe I actually can make it into a career. Build a relationship with the characters in my head and the words that pour out through finger tips and ink. I’ve got two queer projects I’m working on, but I could be working harder.

Cupid and Tinder are gone.

This isn’t a “learn to be with myself before I can be with someone else” ordeal. This is a be with my writing deal. Focusing on something that is going to get me somewhere in life.

The experiences in dating certainly don’t hurt the writing process. I write what I know and I know what it feels like to get your heart clobbered.

But it’s time to give my clobbered heart a breather.

I’m in This

I wish I could articulate better the feelings I have for you.

This is far from easy. Us together. How do two people find each other in the vast sea and decide to stick it out? When did you know this wasn’t going to just be a second date and then try again with someone else?

Less than ten. It was less than ten coffee dates until I met you. I guess the others just didn’t hold up. I didn’t know what I was looking for. I still don’t. Not really. Not anything more than a human to kill time with. We don’t have to grow old together.

But I like burying my head into the crook of your neck when you share horror movies with me. Holding your body into mine keeps me asleep, knowing you’re safe and sound. I’m giving you that look because you’re here with me and I can’t help but be weird with you. Reading your poems gives me a tunnel into your soul. I’ll keep telling you how much I love your reading voice, and how much I love that we share a bond through writing. I want to know you like the great glass elevator.

I’m still afraid, because everything before you has broken. I’m afraid of this not lasting. Afraid of thinking too far. Afraid of being the only one.

But I’m in love with you now.

And I won’t tell you how many times I have typed I love you into our Facebook Messenger chat and then deleted it.

We’re both broken humans. Skeletons slipping around in tissue bodies. Easily bruised and always running in the dark. Depression seeps into everything. I always need bandages and pills for these lacerations.

But I’d rather be broken with you. You don’t fix me. But you make life a little more bearable. I can’t heal your wounds. But I can be the safe place you need when you’re lost.

I love you means I will keep growing with this relationship. Feeling the stings and the fireworks. My heart is in this, whatever happens.

Invalidation

 

This happened a while ago. But this happens a lot. People who don’t know, don’t know how else to act. When it happens within the community, it needs to be addressed.

My non-binary identity doesn’t make me less trans. A tree cannot be more or less a tree. Without its branches, without its leaves, as a stump, when it dies. It will always be a tree.

Transgender is a cross between gender. Maybe I don’t feel either, anything at all, like nothing. I will always be transgender.

This has been a process. I’m not finished. Still in the second act. It’s a long act. I’ve been busy growing inside. Conversing with the demons. Making compromises, breaking promises, and laws.

Just because I’ve grown to love my vagina. Just because I’ve let myself feel my own nerves without needing to disconnect my body from my mind. Just because I love my clit and oh fuck, the people who want it too, oh fuck, oh fuck, I’ve never let myself feel this. Doesn’t mean I’m any less trans.

Non-binary. It is what I make it. It is mine. You’re allowed to listen, not to make assumptions. I don’t care if you’re trans too. You are not my identity. I am not yours. If I speak with you, it means I trust you. But if you use your mouth to crush my identity into nothing like I haven’t struggled all this life to find some sort of home inside myself, I will take back my voice and use it to shame you. That was a privilege to know me.

My growth is a fluid motion, but I am not genderfluid. My mind will tell me what it wants when it finds it. When it converses with my body. Maybe we will break more promises, and laws. But they’re mine to break.

Don’t Do It

 

Don’t apologize for your body this time. When it comes to being close with people now, don’t apologize. Don’t apologize for your shape and size. Your marks and imperfections. Your scars.

You’ve worked hard to be where you are now. The gains you’ve made and the weight you’ve lost is a win. It isn’t the world, but it’s still significant.

I have always put myself down first so that others don’t stand a chance. I know everything wrong with myself inside and out. I tell them because I need them to know that I know my body isn’t perfect. Because I couldn’t possibly think my body is perfect at this weight.

But not any more. Not with this person. Not with the next.

This person thinks you’re funny, and interesting, and gorgeous. Their one deal breaker in this new found relationship is not gonna be with how you look naked. If it was, they would have already figured it out and left.

This poly thing. I’m scared. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m just trying to stay guarded so I don’t get hurt again. But it feels nice. And good. And safe. This human is lovely, and deep, and surprising. Funny, and beautiful in every way you look at them. So I’m still here because I want to know more.

They want to know more.

Be kind to yourself. Too many times, you’re not. Leave this one thing alone.

CALL ME THEY: COMING OUT AS GENDERQUEER

Three years ago I came out as transgender female to male. It was right at the time and it brought along a whole new basket of experiences. It was good for me and I don’t regret the decision.

But ours lives in different respects and aspects, are evolutions. We’re never the same person in December as we were in January.

My gender evolved. I no longer identify as male. But I still don’t identify as female. I think I was trying so hard for years to get away from being perceived as female that I thought my only option was the other end of the spectrum.

No longer feeling female to male doesn’t negate the feelings I had at one point in my life. It’s a progress, and this is where I am at this point in my life.

I’m happy and I’m enjoying my life feeling free of the binaries.

I am a moderately masculine, queer individual. And I go by they/them/their.

 

*Side note – I chose that photo because I feel I look happiest in it.

Six Months on Testosterone

Yeah, I can’t believe it either.

Felt like I waited twenty-four years for the stuff and now time is just flying by.

Needles are easy now — injecting. Getting blood taken is still a hazy challenge. Which only reminds me that I need to go for my 6 month test.

I can’t say I’ve seen much of a change in overall appearance yet. My face I feel still looks the same. I haven’t hardened out into masculine features yet. But I have grown an awkward amount of facial hair on my chin which I immediately shave so as not to look even more like a teenage boy at twenty-five. No hair on the sides of my face yet and probably won’t see any until my one year approaches.

My voice is a ridiculous situation right now. Watching Wet Hot American Summer: First Day of Camp the other day with my roommate, she commented on how she loves it when I get excited cause my voice goes high and squeaky. It hasn’t deepened too much yet, but there’s a definite change and something is happening. I asked a YouTube famous transguy about voice change and he said his dropped around the eight month mark, so not too much longer with this. Hopefully.

It’ll be nice to be able to sing again. I’m not even kidding about that. With this voice transition, it’s almost impossible to sing. My voice doesn’t allow high notes at the moment like I used to be able to catch. I’d say of all the changes, that one would be the worst — if I couldn’t sing like I used to be able to.

Going into transition, and about three months after, I was still shaving my legs, but after the facial hair showed up, I just quit altogether and have only shaved once during that time — which was a pain to do and took like half an hour. I regretted it as soon as I did because I felt like I was being someone else. So it’s just not even worth it any more. I like the leg hair — especially on my thighs. I don’t know why. There’s a bit on my stomach coming in too. The treasure trail that my ex from Edmonton would’ve hated. I just laugh about it with him now.

I was told by my doctor on several occasions about an increased sex drive which I laughed about — but no, it’s a thing.

It’s a thing.

I think I’m just overall happier with myself. I still need to hit the gym more than I do to really define new muscles, but I’m a lazy writer so I’ll get around to it when I do. After grad when I’m not so stressed out. Maybe.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my future lately and what that will entail. I’ve come to the difficult, yet calming conclusion that I will most likely not be having any biological children. For starters, it’s ridiculously expensive to freeze eggs — and with what funds, asks this Canadian screenwriter. And I’m primarily attracted to women and transmen at the moment and don’t see myself getting involved with a cis gender guy again so adding in a sperm donor is just more dollar signs. Also, medically, doctors aren’t 100 percent sure if testosterone risks fertility in transmen. That’s something that was not as hard hitting to me as it might be to other guys cause I’ve been told since I was 17 that I might not be able to have kids due to an under active thyroid condition. So I suppose in a way I’ve always thought that this next paragraph would be a page in my life.

So more importantly, why would I bring a child into the world when there are already so many children out there who need a home and loving parents. I could be one of those loving parents. I don’t think that I want to inflict my history of depression and rash-prone skin on a child just so I can see what my DNA would conjure up. I’m afraid that a child not biologically mine wouldn’t grow to love me as their dad because I’m transgender, but who’s to say that a biological one would?

Also, writing a novel about an adopted gay boy when I was 21 was probably some subconscious way of telling myself what I want in the future. That book was therapy in so many ways.

If I’m making a life plan, I’d like to have a kid — a baby or a toddler — by the time I’m 35. Which gives me 10 years to work on my career and establish myself in the world to support a little human. I would’ve thought years ago that marriage would’ve been included in that 10 year plan, but surprisingly, it’s not. I think I’m going to do this with or without a partner.

So that’s enough rambling.

Just Three Weeks

 

Twenty days until I start T on February 10 and I can’t contain myself. It feels like a dream.

I’ve been settled on my decision for about a year now and I’ve been out for two.

I’ve been ready to look the way I feel for almost twenty-one.

I texted everyone close to me and told them excitedly about my doctors appointment and the prescription as soon as I was out of her office and on the bus.

My blood test came back clean and she made me an appointment for my first injection and then a follow up in April.

It doesn’t feel real. But at the same time, it feels like, my whole life, I have just been waiting for this one moment to happen.

It’s a process. A slow moving process, but it’s started and I’m happy.

My roommates are excited to see me change just as much as I am and I can’t wait to start feeling the effects of the hormones and watch my body change week to week to month.

Moving Day Part 1

The stress over the last week of the holidays faded away on Sunday after we signed a new lease to a basement suite.

We caught buses around the city for most of the day in the pouring rain that froze our bones and looked at two places. They both had what we were looking for: utilities included, 3 bedrooms … we’re not that picky. And the first one was nice, but then we got to the last one. All utilities, kitchen ware, linens all included. Even furnished, which we weren’t expecting.

After we all freaked out over how gorgeous the place is, we signed the lease and celebrated with fancy pants martinis and Caesars.

There was a second place that we went all the way down to the south side for, and then left as soon as we saw it. All three of us had a bad feeling about it and the crows on the lawn of the park a few blocks down was taken as a bad omen.

Alicen packed Monday night and then I packed last night and today Beth packed and we moved all our crap from the old house to the new place with the help of 5 friends.

Five writers. Two makeup artists. And one game designer. Four XL pizzas. And a 24 case of beer.

As is North American custom.

Give or take 4 hours.

We had another college experience tonight that I’ve only ever seen in movies and on TV and it was interesting to pull myself away from the moment and watch it all happen. Because I put myself in a situation. I made the move to Vancouver and then I made a new move with two new friends to start something together all on our own.

Part 2 of packing will resume on Saturday after the Villain’s Prom on Friday night where I will be subjected to having my face painted like The Joker. And dance? I don’t know if we’ll dance.

I’m so relieved to have a new place. I was hoping for something to happen with one of the places that we were going to see, but really, what were the chances that it would work out so perfectly?

Now all we need to do is move the rest of our stuff and finally sleep soundly just the three of us.

Sunday I’m meeting a guy who we’ll call Toronto. We’ve been talking online for a couple months and now we finally get to meet in person. I might be more excited just to meet his cat. I’m trying to go into this with no expectations. If we hit it off, then that’s wonderful, and if we don’t, then at least we tried. But he’s adorable as hell with this mischievous grin and I can’t wait to finally get coffee and walk around the harbor with him.

I Regret Nothing!

Everyone’s posting New Years resolutions and partying right now.

I just spent the last 13 hours with my ex watching movies and talking civilly about our current relationships, or in my case, lack there of.

My morning consisted of finding out that my nightmare of a landlord has decided not to let me renew my contract for the next 6 months and is therefore kicking me out at the end of February.

It’s been a hell of a time living in that house with all the rules our landlord has laid before us while trying to delegate what we do with our stuff and where we put it in our place. Frankly, I’m glad I’m not welcome to stay after January. My two roommates and I have been looking for a new place to live anyways where we’re not treated like children.

But I don’t regret moving in. I met two of the best roommates a guy could ask for and I have a fortune of stories I will write about someday.

I am the protagonist in my living TV series and I’m having a slight crisis right now. I’m trying to hold my temper against my landlord and speak maturely about the situation.

I moved away from home this year and I’ve never felt less at home here in Edmonton and now over there in Vancouver. My home here is strange and will never be the same. And my home over there is only available for 31 more days. Either way, I walk on eggshells with the authorities.

But I don’t regret it. Because it’s molding my character. I’m constantly growing into a new person whether I like it or not. I’ve been given responsibility and choices and risks and I wouldn’t take any of it back or change a single decision.

And my ex and me. We should’ve ended the relationship before I moved away, but we were scared and alone and we didn’t want to let go. Story of my life.

And so it caused me a lot of pain and loss and hatred against myself and him when it ended a month later and he was so quick to find somebody new while I was longing for someone to cuddle with at night.

But I know that I don’t regret anything that’s happened between us because it’s these relationships you make and break when you’re young that steady you for the future. We aren’t meant to be together and that has to be alright with me.

I won’t be making a New Years resolution because I lack self control.

But I’ll resolve to make my relationship with my ex work because I still truly care about him and love him. I’ll listen to him talk about his relationships while I go through mine and learn to take him as the human he is. I’ll try not to be jealous over territory that was once mine.

And I’ll learn to let him go while molding old feelings for him into something new.

I’m just not sure what that something new might be just yet.