I have an appointment in seven hours with an endochrinologist. It’s time to get on the juice. I’m anxious as hell.

This is the threshold. Anything I’ve done until now has been superficial, from plucking my brows to zapping my face, trading in my clothing from the men’s department for essentially the equivalent from the women’s department, and allowing myself to interact with people in a more “feminine” (conversational, expressive, animated) way… all of these things can be stopped, reversed, or let go.

I’m about to play with my body chemistry. For me, that’s the point of no return. That’s not to say I can’t stop hormones if needed. Rather, the changes that will occur can’t be undone. They can be hidden, but not undone. I’m committed to my course.

I’m thinking of Baldwin: “To act is to be committed, and to be committed is to be in danger.” It doesn’t feel like danger, but I am worried. How will I turn out?

There was a moment as I laid in Miriam’s arms this morning, a flashback to an essay in “Balancing on the Mechitza” about the way part of the morning prayer (Men: “Blessed are you, Lord, who did not make me a woman.” Women: “Blessed are you, Lord, who made me according to your will.”) should be adjusted to reflect the transition between genders: “Blessed are you, Lord, who has changed me according to your will.”

“…according to your will.”

It’s not in my hands, the way I’ll turn out. Faith, trust, and ultimately acceptance of what good comes from this is what I need to draw towards now and return to over the coming years. I need to look in the mirror and find the changes and celebrate how much better they are than where I’ve been, not mourn how much better they should be. I can’t know the end result of playing with my body chemistry until I get there.

More to come shortly… in the meantime, here’s Joy Ladin saying some amazing things.

I began rereading Whipping Girl today and was struck by an idea as I reflected on the idea of identity. One of the things I’ve been trying to work through over the past few years is the idea of owning my feminine identity, making it genuine and an expression of who I actually am instead of a composite of ideals I’d like to be. I sometimes wince when Miriam calls me by the feminine name we decided upon- Madeline- because Madeline isn’t me; she’s a character.

So it hit me that I could probably get along just fine using my real name, Dylan. It’s not a common name for a woman, though it’s been recently popular (though I fear it’s mostly among the sort of people who name their daughters Madison, Dakota, or Ashlynn) and was used for girls before I was born (Dylan Lauren, daughter of designer Ralph, was born in ‘74).

Big light bulb. Moment of clarity. I don’t need to be a character with a different name. I’m already who I am. I am Dylan.

Helpfully, my middle name works as a woman’s name too. So what does this mean, if I decide to run with the idea of keeping with my given name?

–No confusion among friends and family, no getting used to a new name or “slipping” and calling me by my old name.
–No sense of detachment from my past and my “old self” that comes with a name change.
–No legal wrangling to change my name on documents, no break in my employment history where Dylan suddenly becomes Madeline.
–A name that sounds “comfortably queer” to me– Madeline felt a little more femme than I am, while Dylan says short hair but groomed brows,  just the right balance of the elements in me.

“I feel like a color-blind person trying to understand the concept of colored images.”

My dad. Gotta appreciate the effort.

He and I have been emailing and mailing letters over the past couple of months as he begins to try and understand what I’m going through. I’ve always appreciated my father’s clear desire to understand and sympathize. When I first broke the news about being trans back in the late 90s, he listened patiently as I nervously explained what I was feeling and never once flinched or stumbled. He missed the point (“Oh, so you’re gay!”  ”Er, not… really… at least, not in the way you’re thinking.”) but it was obvious that he wasn’t going anywhere and was willing to work at understanding.

It’s hard for me to think of gender in anything but postmodern, third-wave feminist terms, so I’m trying to build a bridge between the two understandings: mine and my dad’s. He has repeatedly mentioned that for him gender is an innate thing, no different than biological sex. To vary in presentation from that gender is either silly playing around or sexually charged homosexual expression. That someone would go beyond some makeup and a dress to do something so permanent is a cognitive roadblock for him.

He also worries that I’ll make a transition and then regret it. I appreciate the message behind this: he’s being protective as a parents. However, I’m 32. I’ve known the clinical term for my situation for over a decade. I’ve been expressing myself through appearance for at least seven years more than that. And, most importantly, I’ve felt identifiably Not Right since my earliest memories at the age of 3 or so. To wit: I’ve had plenty of time to come to terms with what I am. I need to help illustrate all of this to him so that even if he can’t understand it he can accept it.

I have high hopes for where I’ll be able to get to with my dad. His responses are often guarded in their language– he worries about offending me, and I think he worries about just letting go with his feelings– but the intent is clear: he isn’t going anywhere and he’s willing to work at understanding.

Thanks dad; I love you.

It’s been a little over a week since NYE and I’ve had a lot of time to think about what the rollercoaster of emotion I’ve felt since then means.

I finally cleaned up my closet and dresser today. Both had been left with pieces of the outfits I changed in and out of on NYE strewn about. It was just too raw for me to deal with before I had a chance to process, and if I had addressed the piles before today I would have entered a purge mode and thrown it all in sacks without mercy or consideration to be given away.  With a calmer mindset I was able to divide it according to usefulness: some of it went to Miriam, some went into storage, some stayed in my closet. A lot of it is going to the thrift store. So there.

Here’s a thing about my closet: Miriam was shocked by how much clothing I had accumulated recently, and she pointed out that my body will change through this process in ways I can’t know for sure, so it’s a bit early to buy an entire wardrobe. I don’t have a large closet to begin with so it seems a bit silly to give so much of it to things I don’t regularly wear. This all makes sense, right? Intellectually, anyway. This is the lesson I’m trying to learn and share: don’t buy that $2,000 guitar before you start taking lessons. Or: don’t buy the entire Adobe creative suite before you play around with design a bit. Or: the time to buy a wardrobe specifically for yoga workouts is after several months of dedicated attendance at classes you enjoy.

Don’t focus on the ideal. Focus on the now, the real.

Save your time, your money, as much of your resources as you can so you have a reserve to draw from in your journey. There are so many resources out there for transfolk now and it’s easy to fall into the trap of thinking you have it all figured out, but it’s an itinerary that needs to adapt with you. Tastes change, bodies change, and situations change. While I want to know I have something to work with when those moments come, I also need the flexibility of uncertainty. I need to not know exactly where I’m going because if I say, “This is where I plan to end up,” then I’ve created an ideal I might not reach and that could break my heart and my spirit. The tailored fit is good in the present but the general cut is more forgiving in the longer term.

“The harsh truth

of the camera’s eye
Telling you everything you never wanted to know
Showing you everything you didn’t want shown.”
-Morrissey

Miriam and I hate NYE, or at least the going-out, drink-all-you-can festivities. That said, it’s a good excuse to get dressed up, so that’s what we did: dressed up and stayed in. It was an evening of two girls dressed to the nines chilling on a couch and watching season three of Angel.

I hadn’t dressed en femme around Miriam very much lately, and as a rule don’t except for those times something new has arrived from eBay (I have a bit of a problem, more on that later) and I’m checking the fit. For NYE I had picked out a dark green top and grey skirt that looked great, but the neckline obscured the necklace I had bought especially for the evening. Thus, I changed my outfit for the first of many times that evening, switching to a little black dress with a deeper neckline.

Miriam, as always, gave me compliments both affectionate and explicit, and I was feeling pretty good about it all when we set up the camera and tried to take a photo of the two of us. I thought it was a really sweet moment, and it wasn’t a stiff portrait but rather an affectionate scene with my chin turned inward toward her cheek and her arm around my waist. Flash, click. Let’s have a look.

I’ve taken enough photos of myself while dressed that I know what will look good and what won’t. Tight shots, chin cocked, doing my slightly smirking smile seems to work the best, and this shot of the two of us seemed to have the latter two going for it. The wide shot of me standing with Miriam, though, brought the condemning words to my lips before I could even process what I was feeling.

“Oh god, I look so mannish.”

A wave of anxiety struck me and I tried to leave the room, but Miriam (bless her) pulled me back to the couch and made me talk about it. I was struggling with what Jay Smooth calls “The Little Hater,” except that my Hater was the size of King Kong at the moment and spitting a constant stream of doubt.

Oh god look at my shoulders look at my hairline I look ridiculous what was I thinking I should give up.

I did what I usually do in these situations: shut it down, push it inside, force a smile. It’s not a healthy habit.

Miriam headed to the attic and set up the next episode of Angel while I flipped through my closet looking for something else to wear, something I remembered looking good on me, no questions about it. I threw on another dress, put a cardigan on over that, and made my way upstairs. The new look brought a puzzled look and then compliments from my wife.

Another episode, a break to fill wine glasses, and another change in outfits. A longer dress, and now the cardigan was mostly buttoned. Another puzzled look.

I made it about halfway through the new episode before I had to pause it and confess how sad I was feeling. When it became clear that I was emotionally collapsing after stuffing the earlier anxious reaction inside, Miriam made the call: let’s head to bed and snuggle and talk about it.

It was a strange feeling for me as I got to my closet. I was practically tearing the outfit off and couldn’t get into a boring pair of pyjamas quickly enough. We crawled under the covers and I rambled, sobbed, and released. Miriam listened and comforted.

I spoke of being exposed, of wanting to hide. I made connections about fantasies I had and how the related to idealized notions. To wit: my fascination with hijab and modest dress comes partially from a desire to hide myself. My love for the style of businesswomen of the 1980s has to do with the sense of armor and protection the bold suits and heavy makeup could provide. I don’t feel safe, and I need some sort of shell or covering to keep me hidden and protected. Despite comments by Miriam, friends, and moments of appreciation by myself after the webcam has snapped, I don’t believe I’ll ever look passable. Or more importantly, I don’t believe I’ll ever look Good Enough.

So there’s a New Year’s resolution, in the form of a question to answer: What is Good Enough, and how do I trust that there is a point where I’ll feel like I’ve reached it?