Life in lockdown - Day 10

For the greater San Francisco Bay Area, this is Day 4 of the Shelter in Place order.  For my partner and I, this is Day 10, as we got a bit of a head start from my own medical needs.  I’ve been quietly recovering from a surgery a week before the lockdown started.

Our days are spent quietly, playing around on social media, catching up on publications and articles, turning on the news to catch up on the outside world each evening.  I have books to catch up on, and I enjoy doing a bit of writing as well.

I’ve been digging out my old amateur radio equipment and getting it on the air, although due to my location, homeowners association restrictions, and the construction of this building, I have had very little luck with this hobby activity.  I do have some 50 year old equipment I have been restoring, and I have a couple of work tables set up in the guest bedroom that I use for tinkering about with this older equipment.  I don’t expect to have any house guests in the near future, so I can take over this space more for myself.

The view from the condo looks out over part of the huge Highway 680 and 24 interchange.  Roads that crept along in the morning and evening commute are almost empty, and “rush hour” looks like 3AM on a Sunday morning used to look.  I see a lot of trucks and utility vehicles going by, most intent on providing what I assume are necessary services, and a good number of private vehicles from the few commuters left on the road.

The downtown area looks like a ghost town.  The parking garages in the urban core are all shuttered, and street parking has been declared to be unmetered through the lockdown.  Many businesses are closed, and I honestly am not sure if some will re-open.  We’ve heard that unemployment claims are way up.

There’s a Kaiser Permanente hospital near here, as well as a CVS pharmacy and a Target store.  We’ve heard that these are all candidates for drive-up COVID-19 testing, assuming one meets all the pre-approval criteria, but have not yet seen signs of the expected tents in the parking lot for such a test setup.  Kaiser has already set up 19 drive-up testing sites in the region for its members.

Trying to maintain community contacts is a challenge.  Rainbow Community Center (RCC) and Mt. Diablo Unitarian Universalist Church (MDUUC), both groups that I am involved with, have been experimenting with teleconferencing software to handle team meetings and regular group gatherings.  MDUUC has been streaming its Sunday service for quite a while, and last weekend did its first “virtual only” Sunday service, with no audience and minimal staff, all practicing their safe social distancing skills, to provide a service that hundreds watched online.

Both my partner and I are quite active on the public side of Facebook, various private groups, and message boards, all of which feed virtual communities.  This can help a little, but I find that I am a social animal, and need some sort of human interaction.  Not being able to scratch that ‘social itch’ is frustrating, and has me feeling a bit irritable.

I’ve done some committee and board meetings for local organizations via the Zoom teleconference system, which has worked out very well.  I particularly like being able to see other actual human beings, and their facial responses to things I say.  It feels much more connected somehow than voice, and far better than textual exchanges such as message boards. Well, as long as folks turn on their cameras, anyway!  There are always the shy ones!

I have some books I am reading, and I really should get cracking on doing my tax returns, but I am so easily distracted, especially by my kitchen.  The past couple days I have made a Russian rye bread, a sourdough banana cinnamon raisin bread, and blueberry cobbler.  They all turned out very well.  I’ve been cooking full dinners, from corned beef and cabbage to a nice thick crust pizza, along with salads and sides.

I usually also do a hot breakfast, anything from simple steel-cut oats and berries, crumpets and coffee, to bacon and eggs with a hash or potatoes.  Some of that cinnamon raisin bread wound up as French toast yesterday.  The pantry is well stocked, and I have no problems improvising with what I have on hand.

Life in this odd enforced isolation is good so far, and my partner and I are getting along well and preserving each other’s sanity.  I have to confess that I do dread reaching the point where I have to brave the insanity of our grocery store again, a place that is dangerous for our health as senior citizens now, and apparently overrun by panicked shoppers.  Just why do you need two dozen onions and all of the beef jerky, anyway?

Facial Surgery, Round 2

In mid-2017, I met with my surgeon at Kaiser, Dr. Andrew Kleinberger, as arranged by the Multi-Specialty Transitions Clinic.  We worked out what I needed for my facial appearance in the way of surgical changes.  A CT scan of my head was arranged to gather data the doctor would need in guiding his work.  

The doctor broke down the needed work, totaling some 14 hours of surgery, to be done in two parts.  The first stage, involving bone and cartilage work from forehead to jaw was about 8 hours worth, and the second portion, adjusting soft tissues to match the new bone structure and making some changes to alter the throat cartilage was estimated at about 6 hours of surgery time.  The two surgeries would be at least a year apart to allow adequate recovery and healing of the bone before shifting the soft tissue.

The first surgery was done in late August of 2018, and is documented here.

https://michellepaquette.blogspot.com/2018/08/my-recent-surgery.html

The second stage surgery was performed on March 9, 2020.

We arrived at Kaiser Oakland at 6 AM for checkin and preop stuff.  I was quickly tagged and after a few minutes was back in the pre-op area to be weighed, measured, plumbed and wired for surgery.  I was in the usual little hospital bed, the Gown of Embarassment donned and ready in just a few minutes.  They had that lovely warm air blanked already running and hot, which felt very good indeed.

Because of the time I would be on the OR table, special pads were placed on my rear and shins, something new to me.  The usual EKG wires were placed, and an IV run into my left hand.  Blood pressure was through the roof initially, so I spent a little time in breath meditation to bring this under control.

Laurie was brought back to help me relax a bit, and we chatted about nothing in particular, she trying mostly to reassure me all would be well.

Dr Kathy Brandstetter came by about 7:30, along with a newer doctor on the team, to place guide marks for surgery on my neck and face.  Both had excellent bedside manners, quite reassuring.   They explained that Dr. Kleinberger was a little late and I would see him in surgery.

My anesthesiologist came by, and we discussed what would be done, the broad sequence of events, IV + oxygen + gas, intubation once I was well sedated, and that the tube would be removed post-op, likely before I would be able to remember.  We discussed nausea control and whether or not the anti-nausea patch would be a good idea.  Oh, I got the patch, unlike the first round, and it worked very well!

At 8 AM I was rolled away, saying good bye to Laurie until I was done.  I had the easy job and would be asleep.  Laurie got to sit in the waiting area watching the status board for color changes next to my tracking number.

I was rolled into OR6, still wide awake.  “Good morning, Dr. Kleinberger!”  Three surgeons (one in training), anesthesiologist, scrub nurse, assisting nurses, all circulating around me!  I was shifted onto the surgery table, positioned, armrests attached and my arms lightly fastened down.   My head was on a foam doughnut and chux pad, giving me a great view of the upside-down anesthesiologist and some huge adjustable surgery lights.

The recorder started, all present checked in.  “Michelle, do you you understand what we are about to do?”  “Yes, sir.  Rhytidectomy and chondrolaryngioplasty.”  Basically, a lower facelift and trach shave, as we had discussed a few years ago.  The other stations gave their reports.

“We are ready to begin.”  The anesthesiologist placed the mask and started the oxygen feed.  The doctor mentioned that he would not intubate until after the chondrolaryngioplasty.  (They need to use probes to verify that the incision on the cartilage would not impact the attachment point of the vocal folds.)  Position would be shifted 180 degrees after the chondrolaryngioplasty.  

The smell of the gas suddenly changed.  The room gently spun and faded from view.

I woke in the recovery area about 4 PM.  I felt more than a little spacey, and was thoroughly bandaged up.

I was told that the surgery had gone well, and I would be shifted upstairs for an overnight stay shortly.  I gathered that a Foley catheter had been placed for the hours of surgery, and had been removed about half an hour before.   Laurie was able to join me in post-op, although I don’t remember too much.

At some point we were rolled upstairs to the 11th floor.  I was placed in my room, met the staff, told I would be on a liquid diet, and was asked to watch a couple of videos on fall safety and the hospital stay.

After a few hours they had me out of the bed, and with the aid of a walker made a lap of the floor.  I managed to demonstrate bladder function to their satisfaction, so I was not catheterized (Yay!), and drank my juice and water.

Laurie would be sleeping in my room with me,k a great comfort.  I drifted off after being given two Tylenol for pain control.  I woke just about midnight as the night nurse came in to start an antibiotic IV going.  Pain was ramping up, and I was given 5 mg oxycodone.  This got me to sleep more easily, although the BP checks at 2AM and 5AM woke me again.  

About 7:30 two other doctors on the ‘head and neck’ surgery team came by on their rounds and changed the dressings, showing me how to tend to this.   The dietician came by for my breakfast order... cream of rice or cream of wheat... Decisions, decisions...

The discharge orders were in by 8:30 and a Percocet prescription was ordered for me.  Laurie went down to pick this up.  By 10:30 I was getting dressed, and Laurie went to get the car while I waited for the nurse to take out the IV line and the escort to roll me out of the building in the usual transport chair.

It all went smoothly, and I was home by 11:30.  Oh, breakfast never showed, but Laurie and I had some steel cut oats once home.

The first two days I used a Percocet every 6 hours just to ensure I was comfortable.  The third morning  I switched to one 325 mg Tylenol and stayed with that a few days, just taking a Percocet at bedtime.  

I’ve adjusted my bed to raise the head a foot and have been using a few pillows to support myself.  The elevated position lowers pressure at the surgery site and promotes drainage.  Everything is healing nicely, and the stitches come out Monday, a week after surgery.

I’m back to eating solid food, and the soreness in the jawline and throat congestion from probes and intubation is almost gone.

I’m just waiting for a little bruising and swelling to fade away.

I think I’ll be happy with the result.

Femme and Queer - A bit of a personal manifesto

I stubbornly refuse to meet the expectations of others.

“Ah! Sorry… totally forgot to re-arrange my aesthetic markers today so you wouldn’t be confused about my personal desires and identity. Maybe you should just go on ahead and rearrange your faulty assumptions and leave me the hell alone.”

 - Tiffany Lee

I’m a woman.  I am queer.  I am attracted to other women.  I am a demisexual who needs that fundamental human connection before anything else, and I am a transgender person.

I am femme.  That many be the biggest offense of all.  I don't meet expectations.

I am not femme in that tired femme/butch dynamic that was so rigidly enforced.  I am not femme to please men.  I am not femme to become invisible.  I refer to the more current use of femme, which includes trans women, bi and pansexual women, non-binary folks, and many others who intentionally play with femininity and feminine presentation.

I am femme because it pleases me, feels right, and fits my identity and sense of aesthetics.  I consider it a bonus that my femme presentation annoys the patriarchy, the social structure that insists I can only be safe if I wear shapeless garb that covers and conceals, that protects the most privileged from their apparent lack of self control.  The idea of wearing baggy painter’s pants and flannel shirts just so someone else can be comfortable and smugly think that they know who I am, which box to file me in, is something I reject.

Trained hundreds of
nuclear power plant
operators and crossed
the North Pole
in a submarine.

My feminine presentation is a part of who I am.  I enjoy wearing skirts, simply cut draped tops and colorful wraps.  I love the feel of a nicely structured dress, and feeling a cooling breeze on my legs on a hot day.  I love the swish and snug warmth of a woolen maxi in midwinter.  I enjoy a little makeup to help define my best features, and occasionally a bit more for a fun evening out.  I am unapologetic about my choosing and enjoying these sensory experiences.

My feminine presentation does not totally define me. I have skills and talents I have developed that this patriarchal culture does not consider feminine, and that’s a little box I am delighted to kick my high heels through.

Are my femme practices merely reinforcing heteronormative gender stereotypes?  Well, what this culture demands is that I wear Dockers and polo shirts, dredging up tired old tropes of birth sex and karyotype.  I insist on being a woman, and my gender identity informs my gender presentation.  

So, am I then a stereotypical heteronormative woman?  Perhaps at first glance, first thought, but approach me, talk with me for a minute, and I will happily, thoughtlessly stand those stereotypes on their head.  Femme, yes.  But meeting the cultural standards for being girly or feminine?  Not so much.  That fine womanly subordination or weakness so encouraged by this culture seems to be missing in action!  

Madeleine Blum of the band “Unstraight” puts it: “The queer world is about breaking away from stereotypical gender roles. Anyone who is girly/feminine is not necessarily femme. Femme is an identity; feminine and girly are descriptors.”

I do hope that my femme practices make the patriarchal heteronormative gender police nervous.   Yes, gender police.  The folks who try to enforce cultural norms, telling me that I’m being myself incorrectly, making the laughable assumption that they know who my authentic self is better than I.  

"We live in a culture that celebrates masculinity and demonizes and shames femininity’s and those habits don't go away in the queer community."

 - Anna Bongiovanni

Holds nineteen patents and has
rebuilt a Triumph engine and
manual transmission.

Being queer and femme fails to meet cultural expectations, with the interesting result that folks tend to interpret my appearance as meaning that I am straight.  It doesn’t matter if these are straight, queer, or even queer femmes doing the interpretation. My appearance gets plugged straight into a cultural stereotype, and assumptions built on that stereotype are applied to me.

The cultural expectation is that a woman attracted to women will automatically reject gender roles, including appearance, as a part of rejecting the heterosexual role the culture assigns.   The cultural expectation is that women attracted to women will adopt a butch presentation, and men attracted to men will adopt a more feminine presentation.  Yes, that’s right, the cultural expectation is that we will continue to apply the broken gender binary model even when queer.

The cultural expectation is that we will sustain that gender binary in the roles we take, with those roles tightly bound to our sexuality.

I am not going to fulfill these cultural expectations.   I am going to do as I please.  I am a femme queer woman with a transgender history, attracted to other women who can take the time to forge that emotional connection with me.

Should you be prone to committing acts of assumption, know that your cultural stereotypes do not interest me, and if you make the mistake of assuming that I fit some stereotype, know that at some point I will happily, joyfully shock you.

I ran across the Tiffany Lee and Madeleine Blum quotes while researching another topic, and the ideas they stimulated caught fire with me, resulting in this little article.

Biography

I was exposed to a powerful synthetic estrogen, Di-Ethyl Stilbesterone (DES) in utero starting around Week 10 of fetal development (after genital and body core formation, but before sexual differentiation of extremities and brain).  This was a drug thought to be effective in preventing miscarriages, of which my mother had had several before I was conceived.  The drug is now known to block the masculinizing effects of testosterone in utero.  Some data on me points to feminine bone structure in the extremities, and the female version of some sexually dimorphic areas around the hypothalamus.  

There were clues when I was very young.  I didn't just know anything at age 6. We didn't have the language or concepts. I did know that as little kids got bigger we would change. I hoped that I would change, and be a girl. All I knew was that I had a little bump of tissue that girls didn't have, and maybe it would shrink away or fall off as I grew. 

It was odd, but I knew that I was a boy, a child in a male body.  Once I figured out that this body would be this way for life, the thought of being this way bothered me a bit.  I didn’t think that my wanting to have been a girl was unusual.  I actually believed for a long time that everyone was this way, that all boys wanted be girls.  Other boys were stronger than me somehow, and able to live with being stuck in a male role.  I thought that I was unusually weak because of my difficulty in dealing with this.

I went to a parochial Catholic elementary and high school, not great for someone like me.  A few yardsticks broken across my wrist convinced me to not talk about wanting to be a girl, and some of what I heard on the playground back in 1959 told me my dream wouldn't be happening. 

I had a great deal of trouble with socialization in school, fearing male students and their reactions to me.  Many saw through my imperfect disguise, and I was called out and beaten for being a sissy, ‘girly’ and otherwise not male in my appearance and behavior.  I was targeted for abuse, and for several years, I could rely on being physically assaulted on a regular basis, every Friday after school was let out.  My bully was a favorite with the school, a boy large for his age, with a father who was a major fundraiser and contributor to the parish.  To this day I am convinced the nuns running the elementary school were encouraging him, an insane attempt to get me to man up.  

I still had the discomfort and a sense that something was wrong, and it got worse when I was about 13. 

At 14 I discovered that if I gave the bus driver an extra dime, I could ride all the way into San Francisco.  In 1967, that was quite the experience.  I wore my boots and flare pants, and in the SF bus terminal I’d change my top to something a bit more Bohemian and brush out my hair, another 14 year old hippie chick running around the city.  Then I’d head off to visit new friends over at Taylor and Turk St, or out near the Panhandle at Haight & Ashbury.

I had an extremely effeminate body, with no hair, undescended testicles, and some breast growth.  At 15 I was sexually assaulted in the Catholic high school locker room by several of the ‘jocks’.  I received detention for trying to fight off my rapists.  While in detention, the Dean of Students told me that I should just be quiet and not protest, as nobody would believe me.  He attempted to present as caring and comforting me, with a behavior I would have to describe as grooming me.  Other allegations of this and much worse came out over time, from other students, reassuring me that I wasn’t just imagining this as a Catholic counselor insisted some time later.

Later that year I was caught dressing in a police sweep through the Haight, as part of a campaign to remove all of the runaway kids who headed to San Francisco wearing flowers in their hair.  I was taken to a holding area, processed, cited for wearing the ‘wrong’ clothing, what they called “false personation,” and my parents were notified.

I was grounded (no more bus rides into SF and friendly queens), and taken to see doctors who just talked and never examined me, and who eventually offered my parents some options. The Standards of Care were a bit different back then.  The good Catholic pediatrician, psychologists, and priests thought that my perversions could be cured.  They proposed a course of electro-convulsive and Faradic aversion therapy initially, but as I recall, my mother, a Registered Nurse, objected to that.  They finally settled on a course of injections, and lots of counseling.

I was given regular "vitamin shots, so you'll grow up right", as Dad said.  Yes, Vitamin T, testosterone. I received extensive counseling, including from a Catholic priest for a few years. They had me convinced that this was a perversion, entirely my fault, and that I needed to change.  Early on, when I resisted, I was threatened with electro-convulsive therapy and a lobotomy to make me more cooperative.  I broke down and cooperated, burying myself deep, constructing an impenetrable wall with a facade that met the demands of those treating me.  This is what I was told would be right, acceptable, and would meet the needs others had of me.  I was eventually pronounced to be cured.

I went to college, and fumbled about, knowing that something was out of whack with me, but hopeful that I would find a fix.  I decided to enlist in the military when my funds ran low. They could pay for my education, and would teach me to man up properly.

Until recently, a trans person enlisting was considered to be a homosexual by the military and many others, and was supposed to check THAT box on the paperwork.  For decades, that of course meant that with the box checked we couldn’t enlist.  The recruiter helpfully told us to check NO on all the little boxes on part of the paperwork or we would not be allowed to enlist, so of course, that’s what I did.

I didn’t think I was a homosexual.  Heck, I liked girls.  Being one on the inside didn’t change the accessories my body had, so I never thought of myself as being homosexual.

But, yes, I was trans, a worried girl afraid that others would see past my man suit and realize who I was.  I thought of myself as ‘cured’ if only I could keep this side of me suppressed, and avoid these sinful thoughts of being myself.  I tried to ‘man up.’   I fell in love and got married.

I worked very hard, as many trans military members do, and like many other trans folks, was an overachiever.  I was in the Navy Nuclear Power Program, and I impressed the staff sufficiently that I was asked to stay on for two years as an instructor after I completed the Nuclear Power Schools.  Following that tour, I was assigned to a submarine, the USS Parche, the most decorated boat in the fleet, and crewed by more overachievers.  And yes, as I found out years later, that included several other trans folks.  I racked up more awards, including the Navy Achievement Medal, presidential and command citations.  I finished the requirements for a Bachelor of Science degree in Physics.  Besides my primary Engineering duties, I took on duties in the fire control racking party, damage control party, and was assistant ship’s photographer, recording mission data and assembling media for reports to COMSUBPAC.  I was the Engineering Dept 3M Coordinator, overseeing all maintenance and care for the nuclear power plant, engines and support systems.

Trans folks tend to be driven overachievers.  (Just ask anyone who knows me…)  We work hard to try and be accepted, far harder than those born with their assigned sex and gender identity in line, because we really do have something we need to prove.

I wanted to be a good husband and parent, and knew that a Navy career wouldn’t work well for that, so I decided to try civilian life after six years.

I moved to jobs in the tech industry after my Navy tour.  I didn't ramp down from the testosterone and treatments until I was in my late 20s.  The dressing restarted, and even then I didn't consciously realize what was up until I met a trans woman in my early 30s, who was interviewing for a job on my team.  She was having a rough time passing after our all-day interview process, but I tried to respect her as a person looking for a position with us.  I found my self thinking that she was doing something pretty darn hard, and I thought “I wish I could do that.”  Wait, what?  Where did that come from?

I think my subconscious had just outed me to myself.

That's pretty much when I knew, and finally had a label for myself, “Transgender.”  The transition process was obviously not that great back then, and I was married with small children, so I essentially gave up hope, tried to bury the need, and went about my life of passing as male.  I dressed in secret from time to time, going through the usual purge cycles, regret, withdrawal from dressing, and so on.  I still thought of this as being a weakness, a personal failing that I needed to overcome somehow.

The drive and my suppression slowly corroded away my mental state over decades.  My emotional repression and constant submerged anger and self-hatred caused harm to those around me, which I very much regret.  I finally broke down early in 2016 with severe depression and anxiety.

I came out to my spouse, upsetting her, and started therapy immediately.  I was quickly referred to a gender therapist, and after a few months of delaying while I tried to figure out if what was going on with me was ‘real’, I accepted my transgender nature and started Hormone Replacement Therapy (HRT). 

As part of starting HRT, an endocrinologist ran a very detailed panel of tests, and spotted a number of anomalies, including an unusual prolactin level.   This had me pretty nervous for a while.

Normal for a person Assigned Male At Birth (AMAB) is 0-18 ng/ml; my levels:

Before HRT: 30 ng/mL and 34 ng/mL

2 days into estrogen: 40 ng/mL

4+ weeks on estrogen: 38 ng/mL

A high resolution MRI was ordered in July 2016 (followed up in May 2017)

I have a tiny adenoma, on the pituitary, also known as a microprolactinoma.  It is associated with a high prolactin level tha made my endocrinologist cautious about starting HRT, specifically estradiol, which could stimulate the adenoma. 

Ah, but the standard prolactin test isn't clever enough to tell the difference between monomeric prolactin, the stuff that helps us start nursing, and the giant macroprolactin molecules often produced by a prolactinoma that are inert.  A chromatographic test that separates them (Macroprolactin, Serum; Test ID MCRPL) shows monomeric prolactin at 9 (normal range 3.4-14).  So my little monster is just a boring microprolactinoma and won't be causing me any problems with growth or lactation.

If the microprolactinoma does grow, there is another medication I can take for a while that has very good results in shrinking these growths.

With this resolved, I was able to start Hormone Replacement Therapy (HRT).   Several weeks into HRT I started experiencing these calm periods, at first for several hours, and then for days.  It was amazing.  The irritation that I had felt, sort of like the buzzing of a beehive, not an audible hallucination or anything, just a constant background agitation, had been present and intensifying for decades.  When it vanished at first I didn’t recognize the change, beyond feeling really good, really calm, and able to drop into my daily meditation in seconds instead of 10-20 minutes of trying to calm and center myself.

I think this corresponded to the big drop in Testosterone levels.  As my Estradiol levels rose I had an improvement in mood and energy, also appreciated, but the fading of this odd ‘alarm’ state from the back of my mind is the most significant, critical mental change I got from HRT.

This was the change that told be I was on the right path, that I could survive after all.

I had a number of painful discussions with my spouse.  This was not something that she was prepared to live with.  My having hidden this away for decades was hurtful to her, a breakdown of trust.  My need to transition would put her in a very difficult position, a drastic change in our lives that she was not prepared to make.

After more painful discussions and a mediated divorce, my spouse and I went our separate ways.  I didn’t handle that well, and I regret how things turned out.  I do know that my spouse is comfortable and has friends to help her, and am very grateful for that.  

I found a nice little condo unit to rent in a walkable community, moved in, and immediately went full time as my authentic self after being on Hormone Replacement Therapy (HRT) about 5 months.   

I set about rebuilding my life and taking care of all those details like name and gender marker changes.  I found a welcoming and accepting church, an Unitarian Universalist congregation.  I found a social support group that meets several times a month and joined them.  I made friends, and built a social life.  I found that I wasn’t actually an introvert, but an extrovert once un-closeted. 

A year after going full time, almost to the day, I had my Gender Confirmation Surgery (GCS), from Drs. Thomas and Selim with Kaiser NorCal. Almost a year later, in August 2018, I had Facial Feminization Surgery (FFS) from Drs. Kleinberger and Shih.

There have been some additional procedures, secondary things to finish up a few details that were physically uncomfortable.  I was bothered by a few things that, frankly, most people would never notice.  My self-critical nature wouldn’t let go, though, so a little more was done.  As of 2020, I consider my medical and social transition to be complete.

At this stage, some interesting choices present themselves.  I still see my therapist periodically, not for any dysfunction, but simply because talking through the various odds and ends of my life helps me process things better, and lets me discern what drives my desires and actions a bit more clearly.  Now that I have completed this transition, the therapist has been raising the possibility of going off to live effectively stealth, simply enjoying life as an older woman.  I have to admit that this has a great appeal to me.  As I am currently living, almost everyone I interact with daily with any depth, or who has known me for a while, knows that I am a transgender person.   The thought of living without that adjective constantly pinned on my identity has me curious.

My life is much better now.  I am finally living as my authentic self, free of the depression, anxiety, and gender dysphoria that has been with me most of my adult life.  I have been free of that black cloud finally, and this has been the happiest period of my adult life.