Number 162

 Erectile Dysfunction

We've spent a lot of the last few years with me writing about my journey through Gender Dysphoria Land. My recent visit to the village of Hospital for gender confirmation surgery would certainly imply that there's no going back - that I'm finally on my way to Congruency Country. To be frank, from my perspective, I've already arrived to a heroine's welcome. The former anxiety produced by viewing my naked body has been replaced by contented affirmation. My soul sores at finally seeing what should have been there from the start. Which begs the question; What the f*ck is going on with this entry's title?

I have many times shared the story of how I, with great fear and reluctance, finally admitted to another person that I had a fetish for women's clothing. "So (what)." my therapist responded (the 'what' was implied in her tone). I have identified this as a transformational moment in my life, as it allowed me to begin exploring long suppressed thoughts and feelings. That was five and 1/2 years ago, and I still regard that as a pivotal moment in my life. However, I have also come to realize that this was probably not the moment where my life as a trans woman began.

(Actually, I think my journey as a trans woman began when I was still in my mother's womb. One day, some enzyme should have flipped a switch that told some newly formed gene to do 'this' rather than 'that,' but the enzyme got distracted and the switch never got flipped and a few months later, at the time of delivery, a baby girl was assigned male at birth.)(#notjoking)

In any event, in my old life, I had a long history of ED. It's kind of a "No, duh." moment in retrospect, but in itself, it tells the story of my long journey to self-discovery. So, here goes. I was masquerading as a 20 year old male when I cashed in my V-card. It's really a very cute, romantic story that I am not going to tell you anything about. Except for the fact that my 'performance' was lousy. I could barely keep an erection long enough to consummate the act. I was a horny 20 year old in good physical shape. I should have been able to drive nails with that sucker. Instead I'm left with images of an inch worm haphazardly crossing a finish line long after all the other contestants have gone home.

From there, I got better (performance wise), but there was always a nagging voice in the back of my head warning me not to "dick around" (pun definitely intended), and finish the job. Not terribly romantic thoughts to be having when making love with your inamorata. And since I don't wish to painfully embarrass myself by providing even more examples of my doomed 'romantic' exploits, let us conclude this portion of the essay by stating that not only did the nagging little voice never go away; as I grew older it seemed to gain power. Another way of saying this is: "Thinking about an erection is the surest way to kill it."

And so began the embarrassed, stammering conversations with my doctors about how I might fix this problem. It didn't help in the least that, at the same time all this is going on, I was also trying to discover which anti-depressant medication would work best for me. Why was this a problem? Because every effing anti-depressant lists erectile dysfunction as a side-effect. What a brilliantly diabolical, medical catch-22. However, one thing working in my favor was that this was the age of Viagra, et al. Every third commercial starred some silver haired fox eyeing his female partner with that certain look in his eye. My favorite was the one that ended with his 'n hers claw footed tubs parked on some mountain ridge while the couple watched the sunset, holding hands over the tubs' edges, and sipping chardonnay. In any event, I tried 'em all, and none of them worked.

I went in for blood tests, and saw urologists to get to try and solve the issue. The first, "aha!" moment occurred when we discovered that my testosterone levels were borderline low. I started wearing T-patches that I had to keep away from my wife and daughters. They didn't help much and left a circular pattern on my ass when I swapped them out every third day. Just what was the fucking problem?

It was at about this time that I decided I probably should get back into therapy (for a few different reasons, but getting to the bottom of the ED issue was definitely in the mix). But this time, I wasn't going to pull my punches. I had been in therapy a few times before, but I had never been completely honest with myself (or the therapist). I had painful and shameful thoughts that I had never dared explore, let alone spoken aloud to another person...

So I did that. And you all know the story from that point forward . Looking back, so many things make sense now that seemed so bewildering back then. I was a female trying to love another person with the wrong parts. Of course things didn't work as well as they should. Same thing when it came to the "magic dick" pills. Of course they didn't work - they were intended for body parts that I shouldn't have had. And I'm absolutely tickled by the fact that, every three days, instead of T-patches, I  now put on estrogen patches. For the record, the estrogen patches have been much more effective;)

In the past, I have written about different things during my old life that should have tipped me off to my identity as a trans woman. I suppose this post is about one more 'clue' that managed to elude me in my old life. Who cares? It doesn't matter anymore. I finally got to my happy place a few days ago. And every struggle I endured over the years has only served to sweeten my arrival. I am content. I am satisfied. I am happy.