All Races, Ethnic Groups, Religions, Gay or Straight, CIS or Trans: If you can rock with us, you are one of us.
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In the kitchen, I’ve carved out a little office space, where I’ve worked solidly at home for the last three years. Lockdown was a nightmare, I know, but not for me. I get so much more done working in my own space, away from the noise and bright lights of the office. After an hour of going through my morning work routine, I’m pulled out of focus by a sharp sting, which normally happens after sitting down for an hour or so. It’s my pelvic region. It’s worse than usual, some days are better than others, but today is one of the bad ones.
Normally the warmth of the shower in the morning, is enough to relax the urethral passage, making using the toilet a little bit easier, but again, not today. I’ve been sitting on the toilet for about five minutes, and nothing is coming out, though not for the lack of trying. I begin psyching myself up, almost preparing the muscles to open, knowing that the final push will sting a bit.
A dribble begins. Okay, we’re in business. Do the pelvic exercises like the nurse told you and relax your bottom half, whilst slowly breathing outwards. The tiny stream slightly increases in velocity, allowing for a short-lived burst to emerge, before turning itself off like a tap. Inpatient at the sudden stoppage, I forcibly press the muscles trying to squeeze out the final drops, but that too isn’t enough. It still hasn’t stopped though, it’s just coming slowly. Again, as I was taught, I began rocking back and forth, side to side, attempting to empty any lingering urine. I’m confident enough to stand up, whilst holding some toilet tissue on the area, knowing more dribble will occur.
Upon returning to my desk, only thirty minutes pass before the sensation of a full bladder hits me again, and I go back and repeat the routine. By mid-day, I’ve done this several times, and no matter how careful I am, the dribble never seems to end and my underwear needs changing already.
...
Around 7:00 p.m., a welcome needle mitten saves me from the chain of dreams. I’m not annoyed at him this time, I’m grateful for the reminder, that the dream was a dream, and nothing more.
More alert now, my hand searches down my body on its own accord. The long muted sex drive, dampened by years of SSRi’s, hormones and surgery flickers like a star, but it’s still there, it’s just dim. Not being able to do anything without lubricants, I begin thinking about searching out a fresh tube, but by the time I’ve got up, the moments passed, only to be swapped for a sense of dissatisfaction and frustration. Standing to leave the bed, I suddenly remember my reality. Even the disturbing dreams were better than what I’ve just awoken to.
...
There’s a great deal of beauty in the world, and I like being part of it. Walking through forests, hearing the crashes of waves on long, empty Northumbrian beaches. But I can’t go far or do as I used to. Exercise generally is out of the question, it angers my scar area into a red rage of inflammation. Wherever I go, I have to think about the limitations, that really, no one my age who was healthy, should ever be thinking about. The level of medical care required to sustain my ongoing issues is nothing short of geriatric. All the physical issues aside, they all pale in comparison to the angst, betrayal and grief I hold for myself. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t sit and wallow in misery all day every day, that’s boring and tiring. Trans-age is valid because I feel a thousand fucking years old.
...
A sharp pain comes out of nowhere. Scrunching my face in discomfort and breathing through the ache, I concluded that it was most certainly an injury sustained from trying not to slip and walking faster after the earlier incident. Man, it feels like something is dislodged inside, it’s not, it just feels that way. So I go to the bathroom and use the topical cream, allowing me to ‘inspect myself’. It’s like it’s itching, but probably the early signs of inflammation. The only way to get some relief is to lay flat, but I’m not tired or ready for bed yet.
...
In some ways, we were always ruined, even before we manifested that onto our bodies. So, what now? Would you like a pep talk? Do you want to reassure me that it’s difficult, but it’ll get better? Nah, you don’t want that, and I don’t want to hear you make promises you can’t keep, Let’s do something else instead. Let’s be realistic.
This dance went on for a while, but by 2018 the music had stopped and I was laid out for my sexual lobotomy known more kindly as SRS. Soon as I came around for surgery, I realised how much I fucked up and though I feigned happiness to everyone, deep down I was crushed. What had I done to myself?
But because I had GRS, I was able to see my gender therapist for another 2 years after surgery. I had expressed regret constantly, and this was blamed on obsessive thinking towards OCD.
Aside from keeping myself hygienic, I dilate about 4 times a year for 20 mins each and it never closes and most of the time never bother outside managing the trickle of urine from my constricted urethra after going to the toilet, the occasional shooting pain and the despair of my own stupidity.
My pelvis is behaving as if it’s been impaled, constantly trying to heal, constantly confused with what to do with the nerves. My urethra goes through cycles of constriction, meaning every 2 years I need surgery to open it again.
Dismiss me if you like, and put it down to ‘poor surgical outcomes’, but it’s not - I got lucky if you can believe it, I can climax, but there is nothing but numbness in the outer groin, I have tried prodding with clean knives and needles to see if I feel anything, but it’s just not there, there are isolated patches of nerve connectivity too where i can, but its mostly numb. This is not rare.
Most of my friends who had SRS have no sensation. Nothing.
I found that any negativity around this wasn’t discussed in the Church of Trans… “it’ll get better” but it never does. People are selling things they have no business selling, making promises they can’t keep.
It's the day before surgery, there's something ticking in your mind trying to break through a formidable defence of cognitive dissonance.
You neatly lay your character on the bed, ready for the surgery you’re convinced will make you better and save your life.
You wake up in a hospital bed. Your character was just that all along, it was you. This is the big reveal, the curtain call – the gravity of what you've just done hits you so hard.
It's not what you thought it would be and its full of hidden terms and conditions; incontinence, discharge, areas of no sensation, some sensation, pain, UTIs, infections, low energy, varicose veins…
You become demoralised and realise this wasn't worth it all.
You can climax, that's great, but actually you’ve started to realise your dysphoria down below wasn't even that bad to begin with, and in fact the idea of being with another male is quite a nice idea in your head.
Then you realise actually you wrote your character all wrong to begin with, and no one really helped with that.
You're gay, and you're traumatised from a life of severe homophobia.
You realise there is no undoing any of this.
In the kitchen, I’ve carved out a little office space, where I’ve worked solidly at home for the last three years. Lockdown was a nightmare, I know, but not for me. I get so much more done working in my own space, away from the noise and bright lights of the office. After an hour of going through my morning work routine, I’m pulled out of focus by a sharp sting, which normally happens after sitting down for an hour or so. It’s my pelvic region. It’s worse than usual, some days are better than others, but today is one of the bad ones.
Normally the warmth of the shower in the morning, is enough to relax the urethral passage, making using the toilet a little bit easier, but again, not today. I’ve been sitting on the toilet for about five minutes, and nothing is coming out, though not for the lack of trying. I begin psyching myself up, almost preparing the muscles to open, knowing that the final push will sting a bit.
A dribble begins. Okay, we’re in business. Do the pelvic exercises like the nurse told you and relax your bottom half, whilst slowly breathing outwards. The tiny stream slightly increases in velocity, allowing for a short-lived burst to emerge, before turning itself off like a tap. Inpatient at the sudden stoppage, I forcibly press the muscles trying to squeeze out the final drops, but that too isn’t enough. It still hasn’t stopped though, it’s just coming slowly. Again, as I was taught, I began rocking back and forth, side to side, attempting to empty any lingering urine. I’m confident enough to stand up, whilst holding some toilet tissue on the area, knowing more dribble will occur.
Upon returning to my desk, only thirty minutes pass before the sensation of a full bladder hits me again, and I go back and repeat the routine. By mid-day, I’ve done this several times, and no matter how careful I am, the dribble never seems to end and my underwear needs changing already.
...
Around 7:00 p.m., a welcome needle mitten saves me from the chain of dreams. I’m not annoyed at him this time, I’m grateful for the reminder, that the dream was a dream, and nothing more.
More alert now, my hand searches down my body on its own accord. The long muted sex drive, dampened by years of SSRi’s, hormones and surgery flickers like a star, but it’s still there, it’s just dim. Not being able to do anything without lubricants, I begin thinking about searching out a fresh tube, but by the time I’ve got up, the moments passed, only to be swapped for a sense of dissatisfaction and frustration. Standing to leave the bed, I suddenly remember my reality. Even the disturbing dreams were better than what I’ve just awoken to.
...
There’s a great deal of beauty in the world, and I like being part of it. Walking through forests, hearing the crashes of waves on long, empty Northumbrian beaches. But I can’t go far or do as I used to. Exercise generally is out of the question, it angers my scar area into a red rage of inflammation. Wherever I go, I have to think about the limitations, that really, no one my age who was healthy, should ever be thinking about. The level of medical care required to sustain my ongoing issues is nothing short of geriatric. All the physical issues aside, they all pale in comparison to the angst, betrayal and grief I hold for myself. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t sit and wallow in misery all day every day, that’s boring and tiring. Trans-age is valid because I feel a thousand fucking years old.
...
A sharp pain comes out of nowhere. Scrunching my face in discomfort and breathing through the ache, I concluded that it was most certainly an injury sustained from trying not to slip and walking faster after the earlier incident. Man, it feels like something is dislodged inside, it’s not, it just feels that way. So I go to the bathroom and use the topical cream, allowing me to ‘inspect myself’. It’s like it’s itching, but probably the early signs of inflammation. The only way to get some relief is to lay flat, but I’m not tired or ready for bed yet.
...
In some ways, we were always ruined, even before we manifested that onto our bodies. So, what now? Would you like a pep talk? Do you want to reassure me that it’s difficult, but it’ll get better? Nah, you don’t want that, and I don’t want to hear you make promises you can’t keep, Let’s do something else instead. Let’s be realistic.
This dance went on for a while, but by 2018 the music had stopped and I was laid out for my sexual lobotomy known more kindly as SRS. Soon as I came around for surgery, I realised how much I fucked up and though I feigned happiness to everyone, deep down I was crushed. What had I done to myself?
But because I had GRS, I was able to see my gender therapist for another 2 years after surgery. I had expressed regret constantly, and this was blamed on obsessive thinking towards OCD.
Aside from keeping myself hygienic, I dilate about 4 times a year for 20 mins each and it never closes and most of the time never bother outside managing the trickle of urine from my constricted urethra after going to the toilet, the occasional shooting pain and the despair of my own stupidity.
My pelvis is behaving as if it’s been impaled, constantly trying to heal, constantly confused with what to do with the nerves. My urethra goes through cycles of constriction, meaning every 2 years I need surgery to open it again.
Dismiss me if you like, and put it down to ‘poor surgical outcomes’, but it’s not - I got lucky if you can believe it, I can climax, but there is nothing but numbness in the outer groin, I have tried prodding with clean knives and needles to see if I feel anything, but it’s just not there, there are isolated patches of nerve connectivity too where i can, but its mostly numb. This is not rare.
Most of my friends who had SRS have no sensation. Nothing.
I found that any negativity around this wasn’t discussed in the Church of Trans… “it’ll get better” but it never does. People are selling things they have no business selling, making promises they can’t keep.
It's the day before surgery, there's something ticking in your mind trying to break through a formidable defence of cognitive dissonance.
You neatly lay your character on the bed, ready for the surgery you’re convinced will make you better and save your life.
You wake up in a hospital bed. Your character was just that all along, it was you. This is the big reveal, the curtain call – the gravity of what you've just done hits you so hard.
It's not what you thought it would be and its full of hidden terms and conditions; incontinence, discharge, areas of no sensation, some sensation, pain, UTIs, infections, low energy, varicose veins…
You become demoralised and realise this wasn't worth it all.
You can climax, that's great, but actually you’ve started to realise your dysphoria down below wasn't even that bad to begin with, and in fact the idea of being with another male is quite a nice idea in your head.
Then you realise actually you wrote your character all wrong to begin with, and no one really helped with that.
You're gay, and you're traumatised from a life of severe homophobia.
You realise there is no undoing any of this.
I’ve read and well seen videos on YouTube and comment section. I also went to a certain website that gathered information from various other websites and it’s just very sad. I don’t want people to be hurt and I don’t want something that was supposed to be a solution causing more problems than it is. I know it’s gonna sound like a crackpot idea, but I was hoping for some type of prosthetic. there are some companies that prosthetic limbs that the patient can feel something.
I was looking for that that is a horrible story story. I’ve read about a few years ago on a certain website. when I have time to organize my computer, I have similar stories like that one. i’ll eventually one day post it.
In the kitchen, I’ve carved out a little office space, where I’ve worked solidly at home for the last three years. Lockdown was a nightmare, I know, but not for me. I get so much more done working in my own space, away from the noise and bright lights of the office. After an hour of going through my morning work routine, I’m pulled out of focus by a sharp sting, which normally happens after sitting down for an hour or so. It’s my pelvic region. It’s worse than usual, some days are better than others, but today is one of the bad ones.
Normally the warmth of the shower in the morning, is enough to relax the urethral passage, making using the toilet a little bit easier, but again, not today. I’ve been sitting on the toilet for about five minutes, and nothing is coming out, though not for the lack of trying. I begin psyching myself up, almost preparing the muscles to open, knowing that the final push will sting a bit.
A dribble begins. Okay, we’re in business. Do the pelvic exercises like the nurse told you and relax your bottom half, whilst slowly breathing outwards. The tiny stream slightly increases in velocity, allowing for a short-lived burst to emerge, before turning itself off like a tap. Inpatient at the sudden stoppage, I forcibly press the muscles trying to squeeze out the final drops, but that too isn’t enough. It still hasn’t stopped though, it’s just coming slowly. Again, as I was taught, I began rocking back and forth, side to side, attempting to empty any lingering urine. I’m confident enough to stand up, whilst holding some toilet tissue on the area, knowing more dribble will occur.
Upon returning to my desk, only thirty minutes pass before the sensation of a full bladder hits me again, and I go back and repeat the routine. By mid-day, I’ve done this several times, and no matter how careful I am, the dribble never seems to end and my underwear needs changing already.
...
Around 7:00 p.m., a welcome needle mitten saves me from the chain of dreams. I’m not annoyed at him this time, I’m grateful for the reminder, that the dream was a dream, and nothing more.
More alert now, my hand searches down my body on its own accord. The long muted sex drive, dampened by years of SSRi’s, hormones and surgery flickers like a star, but it’s still there, it’s just dim. Not being able to do anything without lubricants, I begin thinking about searching out a fresh tube, but by the time I’ve got up, the moments passed, only to be swapped for a sense of dissatisfaction and frustration. Standing to leave the bed, I suddenly remember my reality. Even the disturbing dreams were better than what I’ve just awoken to.
...
There’s a great deal of beauty in the world, and I like being part of it. Walking through forests, hearing the crashes of waves on long, empty Northumbrian beaches. But I can’t go far or do as I used to. Exercise generally is out of the question, it angers my scar area into a red rage of inflammation. Wherever I go, I have to think about the limitations, that really, no one my age who was healthy, should ever be thinking about. The level of medical care required to sustain my ongoing issues is nothing short of geriatric. All the physical issues aside, they all pale in comparison to the angst, betrayal and grief I hold for myself. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t sit and wallow in misery all day every day, that’s boring and tiring. Trans-age is valid because I feel a thousand fucking years old.
...
A sharp pain comes out of nowhere. Scrunching my face in discomfort and breathing through the ache, I concluded that it was most certainly an injury sustained from trying not to slip and walking faster after the earlier incident. Man, it feels like something is dislodged inside, it’s not, it just feels that way. So I go to the bathroom and use the topical cream, allowing me to ‘inspect myself’. It’s like it’s itching, but probably the early signs of inflammation. The only way to get some relief is to lay flat, but I’m not tired or ready for bed yet.
...
In some ways, we were always ruined, even before we manifested that onto our bodies. So, what now? Would you like a pep talk? Do you want to reassure me that it’s difficult, but it’ll get better? Nah, you don’t want that, and I don’t want to hear you make promises you can’t keep, Let’s do something else instead. Let’s be realistic.
This dance went on for a while, but by 2018 the music had stopped and I was laid out for my sexual lobotomy known more kindly as SRS. Soon as I came around for surgery, I realised how much I fucked up and though I feigned happiness to everyone, deep down I was crushed. What had I done to myself?
But because I had GRS, I was able to see my gender therapist for another 2 years after surgery. I had expressed regret constantly, and this was blamed on obsessive thinking towards OCD.
Aside from keeping myself hygienic, I dilate about 4 times a year for 20 mins each and it never closes and most of the time never bother outside managing the trickle of urine from my constricted urethra after going to the toilet, the occasional shooting pain and the despair of my own stupidity.
My pelvis is behaving as if it’s been impaled, constantly trying to heal, constantly confused with what to do with the nerves. My urethra goes through cycles of constriction, meaning every 2 years I need surgery to open it again.
Dismiss me if you like, and put it down to ‘poor surgical outcomes’, but it’s not - I got lucky if you can believe it, I can climax, but there is nothing but numbness in the outer groin, I have tried prodding with clean knives and needles to see if I feel anything, but it’s just not there, there are isolated patches of nerve connectivity too where i can, but its mostly numb. This is not rare.
Most of my friends who had SRS have no sensation. Nothing.
I found that any negativity around this wasn’t discussed in the Church of Trans… “it’ll get better” but it never does. People are selling things they have no business selling, making promises they can’t keep.
It's the day before surgery, there's something ticking in your mind trying to break through a formidable defence of cognitive dissonance.
You neatly lay your character on the bed, ready for the surgery you’re convinced will make you better and save your life.
You wake up in a hospital bed. Your character was just that all along, it was you. This is the big reveal, the curtain call – the gravity of what you've just done hits you so hard.
It's not what you thought it would be and its full of hidden terms and conditions; incontinence, discharge, areas of no sensation, some sensation, pain, UTIs, infections, low energy, varicose veins…
You become demoralised and realise this wasn't worth it all.
You can climax, that's great, but actually you’ve started to realise your dysphoria down below wasn't even that bad to begin with, and in fact the idea of being with another male is quite a nice idea in your head.
Then you realise actually you wrote your character all wrong to begin with, and no one really helped with that.
You're gay, and you're traumatised from a life of severe homophobia.
You realise there is no undoing any of this.
Go on a diet, you fat bitch
