#ritchie herron

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

March 12 is Detrans Awareness Day.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

Ruined

Navigating through the rubble of recovery

By: Ritchie Herron

Published: Sep 9, 2023

Swaying side to side, I’ve finally conceded that it’s time to go to bed. In the blur of my tired eyes, a pixelated clock signals it’s about to hit 2:50 a.m. The day’s been quite a long one, I’m exhausted and have been kept awake by both my mind and body. Pains of the past I’d rather not be reminded of, but are forced through via a body that has certainly not forgotten. Pain aside, the anguish is enough to keep me awake.

No matter, perhaps tomorrow will be a better day.

Slamming ungracefully onto the double bed, as is routine, both BB and Harley come for a bedtime cuddle, making it difficult not to feel at least joyous by their presence. I’m tired enough that I’ll drift off in seconds. I hope I don’t dream tonight.

Laying on my right side, I can’t hear a thing as I’m completely deaf in that ear, not even the buzzing of multiple alarms set on my phone. Barely half awake, I’m growing increasingly aware that the back of my head is cold and damp as if I’d just jumped out of a pool. Just slightly, I lift my head to swap out the pillow for a fresher one next to me. The heaviness of the pillow is made apparent when I throw it down the side of my bed, weighted like a sponge absorbing water. The night sweats come and go, it doesn’t matter if I stop taking hormones, or take hormones.

A furry glove has been gently prodding my half-awake face for the last twenty minutes. He’s growing impatient, it’s way past breakfast time. With a soothing and loud purr, the gentle taps on my face end, as Harley ever so slightly unsheathes his claws, probing my face with tiny needles. Now I’m fully awake.

The discomfort that started at the back of my wet head, from sweating all through the night, is complimented by the sensation that my spine was crushed. I’m in agony, the back pain started about three months after surgery. Perhaps it’s related? Perhaps not, it doesn’t matter at this point.

As if automated, I begin shedding the pillowcases and duvet covers in preparation to be washed. Harley’s head is bunting my lower back, as he reminds me of my duty to feed him. After doing so, I pluck a fresh towel, throw it over the glass barrier, and turn on the shower. Feeling quite nauseous, it was only the cats that had breakfast, I simply can’t in the morning. The saliva that’s lining my mouth is signalling to me that I probably will throw up. Starring down the toilet bowl, I take deep breaths, doing what I can to prevent being sick with a dry throat. It’s like my body is reacting to being poisoned, and it’s doing what it can to expel it.

Stepping into the shower, I begin scrubbing my face. My fingertips scan over patches of facial hair, beneath the lip, nose, and some on the chin and cheek, as if I was reading a brail message encoded on my face. It’s been a few days since I’ve shaved those random areas, which got worse when I took testosterone in 2022. The sheer volume of facial hair removal sessions, electrolysis and laser, means that it won’t grow back properly, at least not for now. Turning off the shower, I wrap the towel around my body, hiding the breasts and lack of male genitalia as I walk back towards my room. Navigating disorganised drawers, I catch a glimpse of my naked body from the large cupboard mirror. It’s curvy in a way that it shouldn’t be, and not quite in proportion either, like a crushed hourglass. My eyes scan downwards, and as soon as they meet my lower torso, the examination stops. It’s too early in the morning to think about this shit.

In the kitchen, I’ve carved out a little office space, where I’ve worked solidly at home for the last three years. Lockdown was a nightmare, I know, but not for me. I get so much more done working in my own space, away from the noise and bright lights of the office. After an hour of going through my morning work routine, I’m pulled out of focus by a sharp sting, which normally happens after sitting down for an hour or so. It’s my pelvic region. It’s worse than usual, some days are better than others, but today is one of the bad ones.

Normally the warmth of the shower in the morning, is enough to relax the urethral passage, making using the toilet a little bit easier, but again, not today. I’ve been sitting on the toilet for about five minutes, and nothing is coming out, though not for the lack of trying. I begin psyching myself up, almost preparing the muscles to open, knowing that the final push will sting a bit.

A dribble begins. Okay, we’re in business. Do the pelvic exercises like the nurse told you and relax your bottom half, whilst slowly breathing outwards. The tiny stream slightly increases in velocity, allowing for a short-lived burst to emerge, before turning itself off like a tap. Inpatient at the sudden stoppage, I forcibly press the muscles trying to squeeze out the final drops, but that too isn’t enough. It still hasn’t stopped though, it’s just coming slowly. Again, as I was taught, I began rocking back and forth, side to side, attempting to empty any lingering urine. I’m confident enough to stand up, whilst holding some toilet tissue on the area, knowing more dribble will occur.

Upon returning to my desk, only thirty minutes pass before the sensation of a full bladder hits me again, and I go back and repeat the routine. By mid-day, I’ve done this several times, and no matter how careful I am, the dribble never seems to end and my underwear needs changing already.

Finally, the workday is over, but I still haven’t eaten. Instead, I’ve been drinking water and coffee all day, it’s the only thing I can keep down without bringing it back up. Far too tired to even think about cooking, I’ll go have a nap and see where it takes me. Like a magnet, I’m pulled towards my bed and collapse in tiredness. I’m probably going to ruin my sleeping pattern if I don’t set an alarm, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not going anywhere and I’ve got nowhere to be.

The three-hour nap I’ve just stormed through is brought to another sweaty end. Though it had nothing to do with night sweats this time, but the terrors that come with dreaming. Can I call it dreaming? They’re not quite nightmares, though they’re far from pleasant, I don’t think I’ve ever had a nice dream in my life, at least one I can remember anyway. The setting is always the same. A house that looks like it’s about to be condemned, water is leaking from the ceilings, and the wood slats on the windows are hanging off broken hinges, searching for cats and finding corpses.

That dream’s the very least distressing, there are about half a dozen that play on repeat. Some are graphic, some aren’t, and some have very clear symbology. But others are utterly confusing, such as the dream where I’m just screaming at myself not to go, but the screams are aching my throat as no matter how hard I press to create a sound, it’s muted, and the person I’m screaming at is myself during transition.

Around 7:00 p.m., a welcome needle mitten saves me from the chain of dreams. I’m not annoyed at him this time, I’m grateful for the reminder, that the dream was a dream, and nothing more.

More alert now, my hand searches down my body on its own accord. The long muted sex drive, dampened by years of SSRi’s, hormones and surgery flickers like a star, but it’s still there, it’s just dim. Not being able to do anything without lubricants, I begin thinking about searching out a fresh tube, but by the time I’ve got up, the moments passed, only to be swapped for a sense of dissatisfaction and frustration. Standing to leave the bed, I suddenly remember my reality. Even the disturbing dreams were better than what I’ve just awoken to.

Fuck this, I need a cig. Should have given up ages ago, but what does it matter now, really? What health, what future? What am I preserving myself for? Listen, I’m not about to roll over and die or give up, I just see the issues stacking up, getting worse as I get older, more complicated. Back inside the house, it’s now approaching 8:00 p.m. Every game I try to play, or any movie or TV show I begin to watch doesn’t last more than a few minutes, before becoming bored and frustrated. Another cigarette perhaps? Fuck it, why not? I’m not doing anything else.

Damn it. Why does everything feel so unnecessarily difficult again? I just want to pack this up and forget about it, but I can’t. I’m swaying side to side in the hopes that motion will take me forward, but I’m stuck right here, with these thoughts. What am I waking up for?

My mind’s running away from me again, I don’t feel any satisfaction from the recently inhaled smoke. Perhaps an evening walk will do it? Not far, but enough to maybe tire myself out. Let’s go. It’s dark enough that I can get away with a baggy hoody, no need to bind or anything like that. The chest growth is quite apparent, especially with clothes my size, which is why I opt for two or three sizes bigger.

There’s a great deal of beauty in the world, and I like being part of it. Walking through forests, hearing the crashes of waves on long, empty Northumbrian beaches. But I can’t go far or do as I used to. Exercise generally is out of the question, it angers my scar area into a red rage of inflammation. Wherever I go, I have to think about the limitations, that really, no one my age who was healthy, should ever be thinking about. The level of medical care required to sustain my ongoing issues is nothing short of geriatric. All the physical issues aside, they all pale in comparison to the angst, betrayal and grief I hold for myself. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t sit and wallow in misery all day every day, that’s boring and tiring. Trans-age is valid because I feel a thousand fucking years old.

Daylight hours are becoming noticeably shorter at this time of year. Just a few weeks ago, going out at precisely the same time would be met with beaming sunshine, but now it’s more or less dark. I’m not straying too far, knowing if I push it more than a couple of miles I’ll be paying for it for days.

Less than a quarter of a mile away from home, I’m walking down a familiar long path, which seemingly changes with the seasons. Now it was starting to be littered with recently discarded leaves, carpeting the path in a slippery-like surface. I’m almost holding my arms out like I’m walking a tightrope, as the grip on my trainers is making the lack of friction even more severe.

Navigating the minefield of slippery leaves, I’ve neglected my surroundings, something I normally never do. With a natural disposition of being hyper-aware, I’m normally quite observant of others, but not this evening. I’ve arrived at a point where I can’t just turn around without making it look that way. The group of young lads, probably in their late teens or early twenties are partially blocking the pathway ahead of me. One is on a BMX bike, swaying it back and forth between his legs. The cover of darkness is betrayed by a freshly changed bulb in the street light, which is emitting an almost day-like level of light around the group. Their conversation has stopped dead in the water as I approach.

The ear-over headphones I’m wearing aren’t playing any music. As soon as I realised the group was present, I feigned changing tracks, but instead paused to listen, just in case. They’re silent, they say nothing as I pass by, spotlighted by the streetlight. A small sense of relief hits me before I hear:

“Faggot.” Did I hear that right? Don’t look. Look ahead, pretend you’re listening to music. Several slow-motion paces later, my heart feels like it’s beating in my head, the pulse is strong as if the headphones are playing a heavy bass track. Are they following? I raise my eye to the corner, to not turn my head to see if the shadows of the streetlight have moved. They haven’t. Keep walking.

Now I feel like a coward, it’s almost like being back at school, with the other guys knowing I can’t do anything about their insults and put-downs. But I’m a grown man in his 30’s, who should be able to handle himself, it’s disarming, emasculating and annoying. I’ll not be walking that way for a while.

Home now, the adrenaline rush is showing signs of receding. It’s not every day that happens, but it’s happening more than I anticipated. Especially workmen in white vans, and they’re always in threes. Ever notice that? Anyway, piercings and earrings don’t help, but I’ll take the risk, I like the look. Fuck them. Suddenly, I’ve remembered what I ran away from, to begin with, how men especially treat those they see as soft easy targets. Another cigarette is lined on my lips, loaded and ready to damage my health. The fourth one in less than two hours. Fuck it, what does it matter? No wait, I’ve been down this line of thought already, just smoke the damn thing already.

A sharp pain comes out of nowhere. Scrunching my face in discomfort and breathing through the ache, I concluded that it was most certainly an injury sustained from trying not to slip and walking faster after the earlier incident. Man, it feels like something is dislodged inside, it’s not, it just feels that way. So I go to the bathroom and use the topical cream, allowing me to ‘inspect myself’. It’s like it’s itching, but probably the early signs of inflammation. The only way to get some relief is to lay flat, but I’m not tired or ready for bed yet.

The temptation to mindlessly scroll on social media hasn’t quite left me, but I’m trying. Having recently removed the apps from my phone, I’ve come to realise it was just another distraction. There’s no healing to be had listening to narratives about how mutilated you are, ruined even, or worse; some sort of cartoonish demon that is responsible for the collapse of society. I’m tired. It’s all so exhausting. And I don’t need it. I live with the reminders and will do so until the day I die.

By around 11:00 pm, I still couldn’t focus, so I began chatting to others like me, others who went through transition, some happy in it, some not. Those the most harmed by this, who are resigned to ruin and regret; I’d never dream of lying to them, to tell them it’ll get better. It won’t, this is forever. Our challenge is not temporary, it’s permanent, and that permeance was lost on us in the haze of transition.

The grief of those around me reminds me of my own. It gets worse the younger they are, those few, yet vital years spent as an adult made a hell of a difference. No wonder some of them return to their trans identity. We never dreamed we would end up here, but here we are. We have traded a promise of a life and community, for what we had before; loss and confusion. The fear of ‘going back’ is aligned to this thought, because what we’re going back to are problems we never faced to begin with.

In some ways, we were always ruined, even before we manifested that onto our bodies. So, what now? Would you like a pep talk? Do you want to reassure me that it’s difficult, but it’ll get better? Nah, you don’t want that, and I don’t want to hear you make promises you can’t keep, Let’s do something else instead. Let’s be realistic.

From the rubble of ruin, I’m doing the only thing that I can, and slowly rebuilding my life through recovery. After all, there’s still blood in my body, air in my lungs, and a fury within my heart that burns bright. I’m far from defeated, but I am tired.

The digital clock is alerting me once more, that it’s nearly 3:00 a.m. I should get to bed.

Perhaps tomorrow will be a better day.

==

Genderists, if they acknowledge this at all, will say that Ritchie only has himself to blame. You know, because "people know who they are," their "gender" is unquestionable, and they never get it wrong.

He no longer has testicles or a penis, so no longer produces normal male levels of testosterone. If he was to take exogenous testosterone, he would grow in-grown hair inside his neo-vagina, inside a hole that he has to keep forcing open, because his body keeps trying to close it over. But without testosterone, his body remains in a weird quasi-feminine yet sexless state.

This is the gory reality hidden behind the happy brand name of "gender affirming care."

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

Andrew Doyle: For those who don't know your experience, it'd be quite good if you could just briefly explain to us what happened to yourself.

Ritchie Herron: Sure. I transitioned as an adult at the age of 26 and at the gender clinic. I think my first appointment was January 2015 after a 15 month wait and the first question I got asked by the psychiatrist was, do I want surgery. To which I responded, no, I think I wanted some therapy.

So, funnily enough, they gave me therapy at the gender clinic. Now, I say therapy - it's gender affirmation therapy. So, any doubt I had was managed, and I was introduced to concepts like internalized transphobia, cis-sexism, and any sort of doubt that I had I had to bring to the table.

But once I had that initial diagnosis of transsexualism, I was essentially told that everything is all related to trans. There's no possible that it's related to anything else. I brought up the concept of my obsessive thoughts, I've diagnosed with OCD since before I entered the clinicm the possibility of autism, and I was told at the very beginning that, no, you can be trans and have OCD.

But when I actually had the surgery in 2018, after rejecting it several times, I told them immediately I regretted it and I was told it was because of the OCD.

So, it felt like I was in this impossible scenario with the gender clinic that I was the one who was doing the questioning, quite rightly, because as Bob said, it is patient-led and so it should remain like that, but if I'm presenting a doubt then then I think that should be heard probably.

And also, we need to really talk about the pathway to surgery. So, you don't get any information at the gender clinic about surgery. They don't give you any videos, they don't give you any sort of interactions with others who have got it. For instance, i heard about another clinic that, in their pre surgery group, they introduced people who had had surgery, and the referral list for surgery dropped dramatically, when people realised what it's like living like this, and it is very, very difficult. You only hear the positives.

Doyle: Could you maybe tell us some of your experiences of having surgery, and I know that you've said that you regret the surgery that you've had. Could you maybe tell us a bit about that?

Herron: Sure, so I had what's called a penile inversion with scrotal graft, which sounds a lot more horrific than bottom surgery, or GRS or SRS, because everything gets fluffed up with this language, which is a big part of the problem.

But essentially, what that means is my testicles were removed and my penis was inverted, muscles were torn away, and I've now got a cavity in my crotch that is called a neo-vagina. I knew it was irreversible at the time, but I was -- I had a lot of red flags, shall we say, which is one of the reasons why I'm bringing them to task.

And I think when you sit outside and you're thinking, well, why did you do it in the end, which is a justified question, but when you've got somebody who's very vulnerable, as Bob was saying, where you've got this idea that this will, sort of, make things better, and quite frankly, I was a little bit delusional as well with what it was going to do, because I wasn't given the information to make that real informed choice. I was just told that if you don't get it now, you might not be able to get it in a few years anyway, because the wide rumours about the services closing, wide rumours about surgeons retiring, and we keep getting told that they were the best surgeon ever.

==

Ritchie was in his 20s. There's a lot of talk about protecting kids, but adults need to be protected from this model too.

It's a standard trope of genderists to turn around and say to detransitioners like Ritchie, well, he has only himself to blame, he knew what he was getting himself in to, and bleat "informed consent" as a magical shield of protection. None of them can actually tell you what "informed consent" actually means, or how what these people experienced actually qualifies as "informed consent" -- mostly because they won't listen to them in the first place.

However, every apologetic they offer is always accidentally an argument against these practices.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

Andrew Doyle: A couple of examples. There's this document from The WPATH Files, a clinician is saying, "if an individual patient feels they made a mistake, be careful with not letting that change the way others receive care."

Here you've got another doctor saying, "patients need to own and take active responsibility for medical decisions, especially those that have potentially permanent effects."

Ritchie, what do you think about that?

Ritchie Herron: Well, to that I would say, Fuck WPATH.

==

Genderists swing back and forth between acting like this is all "necessary," "lifesaving" and "healthcare," and it being the patient's choice, little more than elective cosmetic surgery.

"Well, you should have thought of that before we cut off your gangrenous foot," isn't going to fly. But they want to get away with, "you should have thought of that before we cut off your perfectly healthy testicles." This fits in perfectly with the fact that activists don't talk about clinical diagnosis, they talk about believing the patient about who they are and what they want, and helping with their "embodiment goals," even if those goals are self-mutilation on larger scale.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

Detrans Awareness Day 2023: Just Chatting Series

A series of recorded conversations with the detrans community

By: TulipR/Ritchie Herron

Published: Mar 11, 2023

About the Event: Just Chatting

Detrans Awareness Day (March 12) will forever hold a special place in my heart. It sowed the seeds, of the long painful process of emerging from the fever dream of transition. Hearing other stories like mine was monumental in being able to recover, as well as return to my own sense of self.

To honour the day, and organisations like Genspect, I interviewed members of the detrans community, to hear their thoughts in a series of informal chats. With nearly 11 hours of recorded conversation, there is surely something for everyone.

Just chatting is a series of recorded conversations with detransitioners across the detrans community. Many interviews have been held in the media and small podcast with detransioners, but never in this format.

For the first time, we get to hear a new take on detransition, from members of the detrans community, including our very own Head Moderator of /r/Detrans, Alex.

The videos will be released from 11:00 GMT Sunday 12 March on YouTube.

Just Chatting schedule :

11:00 GMT / 6:00 AM EST - Just Chatting with Ember 13:00 GMT / 8:00 AM EST - Just Chatting with Alex 14:30 GMT / 9:30 AM EST - Just Chatting with Jade 15:30 GMT / 10:30 AM EST - Just Chatting with Chris 18:00 GMT / 1:00 PM EST - Breaking for Genspect Webinar 21:00 GMT / 4:00 PM EST - Just Chatting with Redking 22:30 GMT / 5:30 PM EST - Just Chatting with Asher 00:00 GMT / 7:00 PM EST - Just Chatting with Captain Mystery

Just Chatting With…

Ember

Ember is a 30 year old detransitioned woman, with a talent for the piano. Like others, this was the first time I met and talked to Ember, and it was an absolute pleasure to do so, she like many others offered a balanced, logical and fair view on the political nature of how detransioners are used in the media.

Alex

It is an absolute privilege to be the one who gets to interview Alex. She is the head moderator of /r/detrans, and has single handily created an international community of detransitioners and desistors. Alex medicalised as a young teenager, and medically detransitioned at around age sixteen.

Her recovery was not without challenge, yet despite difficulties, has persevered to deliver a fundamentally important service to many, often at great personal expense.

Jade

Jade is another talented individual, though they wouldn't say it themselves. Growing up as a tomboy was difficult for Jade, who found herself restricted by gender roles. Just before taking testosterone at 31, Jade underwent a double mastectomy, and at 33 years old stopped taking testosterone.

Primarily, her reasons for detransition were underpinned by the drastic impacts testosterone has on the female body. Now, at 34, Jade is now navigating through difficult health conditions and the challenge of being seen as a young man, rather than 34 year old woman.

Chris

Chris is a 27 year old detransitioned man from the US. At 18 years old Chris medical transitioned and like many, found his route way into transition through 4chan and internet communities.

His pipeline is one many young men today can relate too, and now off hormones and reintegrating, Chris has kindly shared his story in great detail.

Redking

RedKing is another gentle soul, who in this revealing discussion, puts into picture; a life of alienation and internet obsessions.

At 19 years old, RedKing has now detransitioned and is enjoying life away from devices. In this chat, he bravely sheds light on a rarely discussed, yet highly common pipeline; femboys and pornography.

Asher

Asher is an 18 year old man who is already on his third year of college. Highly intelligent, talented, yet sensitive, Asher found fitting in a world as a bisexual teenager quite difficult.

At fourteen he was ready and willing to take hormone treatment, but a set of events, including parental intervention steered him off the course.

Capt. Mystery

Captain Mystery (not his real name!) is a 21 year old detransitioner from the US. He's currently studying for a degree in computing, and talks about a life of being on the side lines, due to his physical and neurological conditions, which have been with him tonight.

Captain took hormones for 3 months, after walking into a Planned Parenthood clinic. In a combined series of event, captain who also runs a Reddit board critical of 'breadtubers', Captain found himself empathising with the experience of detransitioners.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

Thread by @TullipR on Thread Reader App

@TullipR: Today is a day I can't really ignore, because whether I want to mark it or not, my body reminds me regardless. Six years ago, conf

By: Ritchie Herron

Published: May 23, 2024

Today is a day I can't really ignore, because whether I want to mark it or not, my body reminds me regardless.

Six years ago, conflicted, but optimistic, i thought I was doing the right thing getting 'Sex Reassignment surgery'.

A Long Story 🧵

I transitioned as an adult, I was 26. Me and my fully developed big brain thought this would be a good idea.

I had severe OCD and a myriad of mental health problems. I mean even then I be head tiltin'...This was me at age 25, pure giga chad

Soon as i found out transition was an option, I went in full force, like a bat out of hell!

I had become obsessed with the idea that my body was being poisoned by testosterone, that every masculine trait needed to be annihilated, for i was a true and honest woman after all. 

As a child, I was soft, loving, quite literal and I loved to sing, dance and dress up, but i also loved my diggers!

Me at age 10 before I went to sing karaoke with my friends family. You cant see it but my friends shoulder is on the right, he was a year younger too! I was tiny!

When I came out to my family, in isolation they all asked the same question when I told them I had something to tell them: "You're gay, aren't you?"

"No! I'm a real transsexual!" I said. Convinced I was the truest of the true. Genuinely born in the wrong body and all that noise. 

It was 2013 and I had found a supportive online community that helped me get on the right path to transition.

Facing a 15 month wait for the gender clinic. I found out I could start the blocker (And stop the 'poison'!) if i had two private diagnosis of transsexualism. 

So off I fucked to Scotland for a private diagnosis, as i waited to be enrolled for the gender clinic.

I was on a low income so I did the only thing i could, and got a payday loan. "Fuck debt, its this or death!" I reasoned.

Two days later I got the full diagnosis for £500. 

It took until April 2014 for the Gender Clinic to agree to give me the Goserelin Zoladex implant (testosterone blocker).

When I got it, I was so happy the poison was about to stop. At first, I looked a right state. I did the opposite of blend in. 

By January 2015, I was finally enrolled into the gender clinic and after a while, the blockers were showing some effect. Though, I wasn't committing to it at all.

I found myself desisting from the idea of estrogen/transition all together and just thought I'd live as just some androgynous looking guy.

It all changed when i went to the gender clinic. The very first question I got asked by the psychiatrist was: "have you given any thought to gender reassignment surgery?"

I said honestly, I wasn't sure, I dont think i ever had that type of dysphoria, besides i really want to see the therapist. 

They agreed to refer me to a gender therapist in March 2015. In total I would end up have 97 gender therapy sessions with them.

Gender therapy is not like normal therapy. It helped defeat my doubt, and also helped me defeat others who were doubtful. 

In July 2015, the Psychiatrist asked if i had given any further thought to the surgery.

I said I wasn't sure, and i'd like to find out more. Thats when i realised NONE of them had any technical knowledge about the surgery, what it does, etc. It suprised me. 

I got refered back to the place in Scotland, since I already went there for the pre-diagnosis.

I took my mother, she wasnt convinced.

The therapist told her, infront of her grown ass 28 year old son, if she didnt affirm, he'd kms. 

She told me the surgery would make myself feel better, and that regret was extremely low (I was worried about regretted it) and bleeding.

I have a huge fear of bleeding, I'm a wuss! yes... 

Once the surgery referal came through in late 2015, i panicked! Too quick i said!

"It'll be there for when your ready." The psychatrist said.

But all I really wanted was therapy. 

I said no several more times, I forgot exactly how many times they asked, but it was constant.

By 2016 early 2017, life was still chaos, but blending in felt easier, I wasn't getting noticed really and most people gendered me as a woman.

I was happy enough as I was, but back at the gender clinic in 2017 I was delivered an ultimatum. Accept surgery referral or get discharged.

That would also mean an end to the therapy, and it was keeping me stable.

I bit the bullet and said no once more. 

My gender therapist, also somewhat co-dependant on me as a client for now 60 odd sessions, didnt want to let me go either. He reasoned that i did have dysphoria and surgery was probably the best option.

So i called the psychiatrist back and asked to be refered back for surgery. 

I've went over it in my head 1000's of times.

Why did I go along with it? Why didn't just stop it?

It just felt like a ride i couldnt get off, and it got faster and faster.

Everyone was routing for me. 

Day of surgery, may 23rd 2018.

After staying an extra 3 hours in theatre, i finally woke up around this time. 4:00pm ish.

I was still bleeding and had lost nearly 2000ml from the surgery and drains.

A friend helped snap this.

I apologise for the haram photo, but this is what the area looked like a few weeks after.

I had Lichen Scoloris, which was ignored and is now inside the hole and around the entrance. I had a constricted urethra and both my scar lines on both sides split open, which would get infected.

I won't share anymore, but i have a lot of photos that are far more grim.

It's what happened I really can't show you.

The depression, the pain, the insane pain oh my god. Not being able to pee, to feel anything.

Feeling betrayed 

SO I GO BACK TO MY GENDER THERAPIST THREE MONTHS LATER....and i say "Hey, I think i made a mistake, i think i regret this."

"No you dont." He said.

I went back every other week and told him, i regret it. He said no. 

One year of this back and forth. I was refered to a psychiatric team, that said i didnt have regret, I had Unstable Personality Disorder and severe Obsessive compulsive Disorder.

And then I was discharged in January 2020.

It was the worst time in my life, those years. I was very angry at myself, and everyone I talked to reassured me that I didnt have regret and if i did, it was my fault anyway.

But I resisted...And in 2022 I spoke out after desisting 

I'm 37 as of Saturday... and I'm facing life ahead of me as a castrated male. It's not easy territory, but if i want one thing to come out of this, it's to give others a chance, a warning about surgery.

But i wont stop anyone. Just don't try and stop me.

If you would like to support my work, please consider liking/retweeting. I do it for free but will happily accept tips for sausage rolls.

Also consider checking out my substack where i write a lot of shit and youtube where i talk even more shit t.co/tQSunLfhVk tullipr.substack.com

I really needed to get that off my chest so thanks for reading. It's appreciated