V-Day + 6
By: Ginger Mcmurray
Tags: Gender Identity, Transgender, Family, LGBTQ, Plastic Surgery

Hitting my limits

Note: not a picture of my vagina

The last few days I’ve been staying with friends. Or more appropriately “chosen family.”

Just a few short months ago I joined a gaming group. As in Dungeons & Dragons, D&D, nerd porn. 😃 If you’ve read any of my childhood autobiographies you know that D&D was always a shield for me. An escapist hobby that let me be around others without being myself. This group was different. Except for one cis person, we’re all trans. The cis guy’s dad is trans. We all shared a bond from the start.

Finally I found a group I could be myself with. While this isn’t my current character, I wouldn’t feel out of place playing her. And we’d have laughs about it. Probably about her being my spirit animal. Definitely not about me being a fag for doing it.

I don’t understand it, really. My chosen family has always been wonderful since coming out. I’ve met people who I love and who love me. This group somehow elevated itself to that level within minutes of sitting around a table. We shared stories, some made up for the game and some pulled up from our mottled yet familiar shared pasts.

But I digress. The point of this post is supposed to be where I am with my post-op progress. Hence the title.

A few interesting things have happened over the last couple of days.

Nightmares…

At the hotel with the private nurse I was almost always completely unconscious. I’m sure I must have had some dreams, but I don’t remember them. That’s pretty typical for me.

Two nights ago I was hurting quite a lot. I took a valium and a hydrocodone to dull the pain and force the sleep. BAD IDEA!

It started out fairly familiar: I’d just bought a house that turned out to have tons of secret passages and hidden rooms. I have something similar often. This one went freaky fast.

Deep in the basement was a carnival. There was an exit to a burlesque show. A kid-friendly bunch of rides was there for my grand babies.

There was also an axe-wielding clown who chased me through the sewers. I’m not afraid of clowns, and I’m sure there was some sort of symbolism there, but I’ve got no clue what it was.

Limit #1: don’t mix those two drugs ever again.

While on those meds I managed to be awake long enough to text my chosen family. It’s a wee bit hilarious, so I present it here for your viewing pleasure.

Limit #2: If you have to mix them, PUT THE PHONE DOWN!!!

… and Dreamscapes

Last night was the complete opposite. The setup is boring, but the payoff was incredible. Feel free to skip the next paragraph. 😄

I traveled cross country by motorcycle with my sister (something we’ve never done). Along the way I lost my backpack (something I’ve definitely done). I went into my old high school to find it (no idea why it would be there). It was in one of my old classrooms, and class started just as soon as I was about to grab it and leave. I recognized the teacher as one I’d had a crush on. Somehow I was all suave and masculine and got her attention (something completely foreign to me).

She turned on a smoke machine and laser light show so we had privacy in the back of the room and we made love. I was fully feminine at that point. Somehow we ended up swimming in mid air.

It’s not like I’ve never had sex dreams before.

In this one I orgasmed so hard it woke me up. That’s something which has never happened. I hadn’t even touched myself. Hell, I’m not about to touch myself to do more than apply antibiotic ointment!

I honestly and truly have no explanation for it. I’m telling myself it’s good news.

Pain

Today, spurred on by anger at my ex and the excitement of my night, I decided to be productive. I tried folding clothes. I walked all around the apartment doing who knows what. I rearranged the bed several times. I cleaned up. I picked up the dog, cuddled the dog, put her in her “throne,” (a raised and cushioned table), picked her up again, cuddled her more.

Basically, I did way too much.

Ouch. Ouch. Fucking ouch. So much ouch I was in tears.

I’m only recently learning to ask for help. I’m still not comfortable showing that much weakness. Except for a few rare occasions, tears are something that only come out in therapy. And even then, it happens maybe twice a year. Growing up, tears meant bullies and beatings.

My crotch is still screaming at me. My chest is still sore. My chosen family reached out and helped. Without being asked. Sometimes against my wishes because they could see I needed it but wouldn’t ask.

Limit #3: Remembering that I’m human, I need people, and anger isn’t enough to set aside my physical limitations, no matter how much mental focus it might give.

I’m drinking the last of my nightly Miralax and then I’m going to pass smooth out. Wonder what I’ll dream of…