29/01/17: Another three months of life without testosterone
This weekend's diary post isn't easy; it's still January, I'm continuing to cough from my bubonic-plague-cough of a few weeks ago, and my sciatica is back, making me get up from library chairs like I have toiletary issues. I'm now wondering if I should delete that last crude sentence, it's hardly testament to the progress I'm making, from man into woman. But perhaps because of that, it serves its own useful purpose.
I had a new, testosterone-blocking injection a few days ago, it's good for three months. Accompanied by the daily intake of female hormones, it makes for subtle changes in your mood and your appearance. But the changes have been a bit too subtle to detect, considering I've been on this combination of blockers and hormones since June 2016. I still don't feel like I look any different. I've felt low sometimes, though I'm assuming it's because I have reasons to feel low, not just because of a chemical imbalance brought on by pills.
I don't think it's depression, exactly. The really serious kind seems to knock people out, but I've continued to study, to be passionate about things, to visit cinemas and write devotedly about my experiences. Perhaps I've exaggerated my state of mind these past months. I over-think things, though, I imagine worst-case scenarios about the people I know, in relation to me. Arguments and conflict that in some cases lead to my being left all alone. Over and over, walk after walk, evening meal after evening meal, these thoughts. I try to distract myself by thinking about certain sports, to an unhealthy degree. I've become reliant recently on blocking out bad thoughts by watching Youtube clips of American football from the early 1980s, and imagining what the San Francisco 49ers would have been like if they'd only drafted Roy Green at wide receiver in the fourth round of the 1979. He was drafted by the Cardinals instead and I've allowed it to bother me, in a way that stops other things from bothering me even worse. Or William Andrews (Atlanta Falcons, third round, 1979), and Ottis Anderson (Cardinals again, first round, 1979). I imagine the 49ers' backfield in the early 1980s, how great it could have been with Andrews and Anderson in it. And Green at wide receiver. I mean, it was a pretty good team anyway, they got two Super Bowls in the early eighties, but it could have been better.
This confession of intense pointless thoughts hints at another interest of mine – what do people think about when they're alone? Do you role-play yourself into sporting fantasies as a personnel-coach with the 49ers? Do you imagine yourself as a musician to your favourite music? Do you think fuck all? We have hyper-developed brains; a computer goes into sleep mode, but unless we actually sleep, we keep on thinking. And thinking. Or is this the curse of the single forty-something? If I wasn't trans, I'd be married right now, a father right now. I'd be worrying about them. Is this what's meant by how loneliness is unhealthy?
Where do the hormones come into it? Are they responsible partially for my highs and lows, and the prompting of coping mechanisms about American football in the 1980s? Are they responsible for anything, or are hormones so incidental in effect that it's something else. Is it me using 'trans' as a blaming mechanism for my lack of effort with my own social welfare? Because all these thoughts might just be the loneliness of a single, forty-something person, juggling anxieties about money and opportunity and the future, as well as acceptance and rejection from those close to them. Perhaps I just need to try harder to develop a more socially active life. Whatever it is, I've felt healthier, mentally, than now, even if the 49ers team I've re-imagined of the early eighties is a thing of beauty.