I remember finishing work last night feeling a sense of satisfaction. I’d made some good progress on my latest project and had received positive feedback on my proposed changes.
I see that puberty blockers are in the news again, and the health minister wants to extend the ban on them. I feel nothing, noting just the continued kicking from government has changed colour now. I note with some irony that I had a triptorelin injection that morning, one of the so-called puberty blockers that a ban has just been promised for.
I wonder what my Labour peers in the council, especially those who claim to be allies, think behind closed doors about the situation. I note with some irony that I have a photograph of Wes Streeting on the wall of my flat, as a small figure in a montage I made after graduating university of when the student newspaper I ran the website for won the NUS “Best Student Website” award. I wish I’d come out at university. That montage probably needs updating and might not survive the upcoming house move.
My ward colleague wants to write to our MP about the situation. I find it hard to get motivated so don’t pass much comment. I write thank you cards to those who contributed to my recent General Election campaign, and wonder how many of them backed me just because I was trans, and not because I’m a good campaigner, something I value more. There’s no way to know.
I finish the evening attacking my body hair with an epilator. I forgot to charge it so the low battery light comes on half way through and I finish quick.
My girlfriend and I paint our nails whilst watching The Boys, amused by the pisstake of right-wing culture, but it never feeling too distant from reality. We discuss an earlier conversation in our WhatsApp chat about the differences between shellac and the different brands of BIAB, when a friend commented she found it confusing. I’m so glad I found friends that help me navigate this new world and I can help. Discovering things in my 30s I wish I’d done younger, we’ve had to make our own spaces.
I wake up this morning and get ready to go to Parkrun. I know my local community and am confident there will not be any issues. The recent anti-Parkrun protests over their refusal to exclude trans people sit in my mind. I bump into a friend at the start then set a new record for me since transition, the first time below 37 minutes since starting hormones. I remember consistently getting sub-30s when I first started running 5ks.
A group chat I’m in asks what they can do about the puberty blocker ban. Someone defends Streeting’s call. I’m again having to make a call in my head about whether or not this is someone who’s been fed the anti-trans misinformation campaign and needs accurate information to form a new judgement, or if this is someone who holds deeply transphobic views that is pretending to be reasonable. She links to a thread from JK Rowling, I point out that the Cass Review did not recommend a puberty blocker ban and there’s no scientific basis for Starmer’s actions. I don’t think my point that healthcare needs to centre on the patient is controversial and hope I’ve convinced her. I wonder if I need to do more to communicate and brief out what the reality of life as a trans person is to battle the misinformation.
I come home, shower and do my hair. I like how feminine I look in the mirror with my hair blowing with the hairdryer. I smile.
I go to a local cafe to host my councillor advice surgery. I hope I remember I’ve charged the SOS button provided to me by the council after some safety fears earlier this year. It seems to have enough charge in it anyway. I hope I don’t have any problems. Some women turn up and talk to me about anti-social behaviour concerns. They consistently use the correct pronouns and I am quietly thankful. I am concious that my voice is my biggest tell.
My colleague has tweeted out his letter to our MP. It seems to have got traction. One of the first replies to it says “There’s no such thing as a trans child”. I am reminded to laying in bed in year 6 at school wishing that when I woke up I’d have woken up as a girl. I did not know what being trans was, but I was trans even if I didn’t know it. I looked online and found little but surgery discussions and sexual fetishisation. This was not how I felt. I felt ashamed of how I felt and ignored it for another 20 years. I wish I could have gone back and redone it.
My friend arrives. We’re planning on going out into Manchester’s gay village for Sparkle Weekend, a specific trans-focussed celebration weekend. I look forward to it, but the niggle at the back of my mind reminds me of the time she had her drink spiked, by “chasers” – men who sexualise and fetishise us. I hope we avoid them tonight and have fun.
I am trans, and this blog post does not even cover 24 hours.
It is constant and it is numbing the push and pull of society.
I just want to have fun with my friends and enjoy being who I now am.