Finding my womanhood as I bleed

I understand that becoming a woman is not the same as being a woman from birth.  To remove controversy from that statement, this is my lived experience.  Woman by choice.  The dysphoria that got me here is no different in its affect than for someone who asserts we are the same. And I have joined the community of women, but honour my differences, and honour theirs.

The bleed that I refer to in the heading is one of the symbolic parallels I draw from my experience to a natal woman’s experience.  I am not bleeding much, which is a blessing of my low blood pressure, itself a courtesy of genetics and 4 years of preparing my body through daily exercise for this moment.  But the blood is there.  Every time I go to the bathroom, I have to change my pad.  It will last like this for a month or two, it might increase, it might decrease, it hardly matters.  What matters is that it is a little reminder. For some of us, it lasts considerably longer, and may come back during intercourse, particularly if it is too rough, too soon.

The surgery I experienced has left me with a vulva that is howling in pain, with swollen labia, seemingly bruised and disfigured, but mostly just tender and sore, wishing for rest and respite.  This is my version of giving birth, which has a similar affect.  Another parallel. But I love my vulva, and regard her healing journey with growing joy with every passing day.

I bear scars on my belly.  They are a bit higher than the single incision from a c-section, and they are five, but they too will fade with time, eventually leaving only the ghost of what happened as marks on my skin.

And the birth metaphor feels apt as well for who I am.  As a woman, I am a baby.  So much to learn.  And also, brand new.  My life of experience is rich and not forgotten, but none of it has anything to do with being a woman.  That, I get to learn from scratch.  It feels right that I gave birth to me…and that is perhaps the curious gift of being trans, that the burying of one is not an ending as it might be, but just a continuation.

I feel this spiritual thread which connects through my present to my pre-pubescent self, to the little boy I once was.  He is very quiet now, as if he has gone to sleep, feeling safe for the first time.  I carry him inside of me now, with reverence for his dreams and fantasies, born in his children’s mind, and carried in silence for all these years.  This version of me, this woman that I am becoming, have become, is the person he dreamt of, the person who can deliver this, be this, and care. I am the mother he needed, still needs, and this is having a profound effect on how I am with everyone. To be born into motherhood is a strange feeling.

The lure of gentleness in my dealings with others is greater and greater with every passing moment, but I also felt something new for the first time.  Female rage.  It is something that I have wondered about, and have hoped for, as I need it to protect those and what I love.  I could feel it stirring and swirling within me for the first time, a powerful, primordial force, and one which I look forward to getting to know. I need it. I have vowed to not be a female doormat, to leave this part of me behind. This is the missing ingredient.

Gentle is beautiful, because it allows us to come closer to one another in quite touching and meaningful ways.  I think about these things as I dilate.  A process which takes me roughly an hour each time I do it.  This is one of the key reasons why it is impossible to contemplate work post-op for three months.  And its importance is real: don’t dilate and you will lose your new vagina.  I have no desire to lose this.  Not even a bit of it.

I hope this isn’t too graphic, but my labia are not fully sensate yet, they are still in shock, a bit numb.  They look almost completely healthy, but there were parts yesterday that scared me a bit.  I did self-reiki on them, and also touched them lovingly as I dilated, and today, though still pained and swollen, they had taken on a healthy pink colour which suggests that they will make it just fine.

As I lie here, heels together, but legs open as wide and flat as they will go, I gently push the dilator inside me, breathing deeply as it goes.  When I think it is all the way in, I breathe deeply again, and push it in further, until it really is at maximum depth.  Once I get here, I set a timer for 30 minutes, listen to beautiful music, and let my mind wander.

When I am done, I clean up, and yes, there is blood, more, I refresh myself with a spritz of hydrogen peroxide and water solution, pat myself dry, put on a pair of clean underwear and a fresh pad, and almost always just fall asleep.  It is a kind of peaceful sleep.

And as I do it, I find myself thinking things that had never occurred to me before.  Things like how much more connected to my body I feel.  How much more connected to the earth.  How much more spiritual and animal I feel.

Dilation is a life-long commitment.  The frequency will diminish, but I am sure it will remain a source of connection to my feminine self for now and evermore. It is a very powerful reminder of the change which has taken place. Only equalled by the quiet joy I feel as I look down when pulling my panties and no longer seeing the bulge of my past, but this beautiful and innocent curve inwards, between my legs.

My TERF bestie begrudgingly acknowledged the parallels between my surgery and maternity, but I don’t need her validation.  In other words, she can think what she likes.  It’s none of my business.  What is my business is that every time I change, every time I dilate, every time I pee, or go to the bathroom, I am reminded of the bleed.  And the bleed is what seems to want to connect me most personally to this joyful and mysterious part of existence that is stepping into my feminine self.

Am I a woman?  I have no idea.  I just am.  I don’t need to look anymore, for what I am is me.  She.  Me.  Her.  Me.