Dating Myself and Other Unexpected Things

Jesse Galea

Content warning: gender dysphoria

I’m pretty sure my pharmacist thinks I’m my own boyfriend. I should be offended that he doesn’t recognise me after nearly two years of coming here, but I’m not. It’s funny. And not something I expected.

            Before I started HRT, I was overloaded with pamphlets and booklets and printouts, all talking about the risks and side effects of the medicine that saved my life. The pamphlets weren’t great. There’s a reason so many articles and blog posts and YouTube videos are titled Five Things I Didn’t Expect When I Started Testosterone.

            The pamphlets told me about fertility and pregnancy until I couldn’t read the word eggs without cringing. They said, you might lose your periods, your hair, your clear skin. The videos were better, but they tended to echo the same negativity. I don’t want facial hair, bottom growth, acne.

            Despite reading the pamphlets and watching the videos, I was still surprised. I started T when I was 24, so I didn’t bother hoping that I’d grow taller. Short king for life, I guess. But I got an Adam’s apple. I had one pre-T, but it was only noticeable to me. I’d run my fingertips up and down my throat, tracing the tiny bump, not realising why I was fixated on it until years later.

            That’s number one on my Five Things I Didn’t Expect list.

            I fell in love with my side profile. About time, really. My past self avoided cameras like he was allergic to them.

I used to think about hormones like before and after, as if the day I started T would be the day I transformed into a happier version of myself. But I’m still me, living within a gradually evolving body, along for the ride. The adventure.

In the early days, most of my effort went into looking like I wasn’t putting in any effort at all. I’d change outfits half-a-dozen times, wondering if this T-shirt made me look more masculine, if those shoes were too feminine. I’d dissect my body, piece by piece, until it hurt to look at.

Now, I just wear clothes.

I changed my name a few months ago. Sometimes, it feels like I’m doing all of this out of order, but Ash always reminds me there isn’t one correct way to do this. They’re my best friend, a year younger than me, but they came out as a teenager. I’ve long stopped being jealous of them for that. They’ve been by my side since my first attempt at puberty, and they’re staying by my side for round two.

When I realised my name was making me feel sick, Ash was there.

‘You can still call me my old name,’ I said. ‘It’ll be weird to hear you call me anything else.’

            ‘No, it’s okay,’ they said, shaking their head before I finished talking. ‘I’ll call you Sebastian.’

            I didn’t think I was lying, but I relaxed at their words anyway.

            The adjustment period was strange. I already knew I had to learn to pick my name out of the background noise and answer to it without thinking, but I didn’t anticipate how weird it’d feel at first. Hearing my new name in Ash’s voice was unnerving. But the strangeness faded after a week or two.

That’s number two on my list. The further I moved away from the person I used to be, the more unsettlingly wrong my old name felt. I want to change it legally, but I’m too indecisive and haven’t picked out a middle name yet. I’m not sure if I want one. It took long enough for me to land on Sebastian as a first name, and now I have to do that again, with the added requirement of making sure it sounds okay wedged between Sebastian and Wright?

It’s a headache I don’t care to have.

While the name stuff isn’t a priority, it always comes up during moments like this. Once I change my name legally, I can stop dreading the trips to pick up my T, hoping they stick to the standard surname-only approach.

‘Hey,’ I say at the pharmacy counter. ‘I’m picking up a script for Wright.’

‘Wright,’ the pharmacist repeats, nodding. ‘Won’t be too long.’

I wait in one of the hard plastic chairs off to the side of the counter, flicking through the same three apps on my phone. It’s taking longer than usual today, and my stomach growls.

Hello again, number three. I expected an appetite increase on T, but I didn’t realise how much it’d change. I thought I’d just get slightly hungrier.

Like always, Ash was there when I learnt I was wrong.

We were going to a local drag show, supporting one of their friends at her first paid gig. I got to Ash’s place early. It was our usual routine; I sat around and talked shit while they got ready. They were supposed to be driving us in, but we had to leave in five minutes, and they were still doing their make-up. They weren’t even wearing shoes.

‘Don’t we have to go soon?’ I asked, not managing to keep the frustration out of my voice.

‘Relax,’ they said, not looking away from their make-up mirror, ‘we’ll get there.’

‘But we aren’t going to get there on time,’ I stressed.

Their response was an unconcerned shrug. They were too calm for someone who was getting dangerously close to being late to their friend’s show. My skin prickled all over, hot and uncomfortable.

And angry.

The stereotype of trans guys is that we’re angry, that we can’t control our emotions, that our tempers take over when we’re on hormones. Like animals. I was terrified of that being true. Anger is unpredictable, and unpredictability is dangerous.

‘Seriously,’ I said, voice hard. ‘Can’t you hurry up?’

They turned to face me, head tilted. Their scrutiny made my skin itch. More angry heat washed over me, and haziness started creeping in the edges of my vision. My stomach roiled and I tugged at the hem of my binder, trying to let more air into my lungs. I was suffocating. Or drowning.

Ash kept staring, saying nothing.

‘What?’ I said.

‘Have you eaten today?’ they asked.

I blinked, thrown off course. Huh. The anger retreated, quietly bubbling in my chest instead of surging through me.

‘No. I didn’t have time,’ I said. ‘I slept in, then I was too busy getting ready.’

‘Raid the fridge,’ they said, turning back to their make-up mirror. ‘You’ll feel better.’

An hour later, at the show, I told them they were right. They were annoyingly smug about it, but if the roles were reversed, I would’ve been too. It made sense. The empty churning in my stomach, the hazy spots in front of my eyes, the irrational anger.

‘Welcome to being hungry like a teenage boy,’ Ash said.

I kept on top of it after that. I figured out the unreasonably small window between noticing I was hungry and being so hungry I was nauseous and irritable. Looks like I’m cutting it close today.

I glance up from my phone to see the pharmacist walking back towards me. He’s carrying a small, white basket holding my testosterone, and he’s frowning at me. Not exactly the reaction I want. I stand up and meet him at the counter.

‘This is her last repeat,’ he says, handing me the basket, ‘so she’s going to have to get a new script for next time, okay?’

The pharmacist knows my deadname. He’s seen me and my prescription every few weeks for nearly two years. He’s heard my voice deepen, seen my face change shape, probably even smelt how much more I sweat now.

And he’s decided it makes more sense that I’m picking up testosterone for a woman in my life than my deadname belonging to me. Cis logic never fails to surprise me.

That’s number four. So far, I think it’s my favourite, but I haven’t found number five yet. Or six. Or seven. Who’s to say the list won’t keep growing? 17 Things I Didn’t Expect When I Started Testosterone might not have the same ring to it, but I’m not going to deny myself experiences to fit the standard Five Things model. That’s not how life works.

As long as I’m alive, I’m capable of being surprised. And now, I want to be.

‘No worries,’ I say, suppressing the laugh that wants to escape. ‘I’ll let her know.’