“You only cared when it stopped looking the way you liked.”
Ingrid looked at Tamsin. “I can’t get through. You deal with this. You tell him he’s killing himself. I can’t fucking watch him self-destruct again.”
“Ren,” Tam said worriedly.
“Don’t. Do not gang up.” I crushed the foil packets in my fist. “Everyone else has turned against me. I can’t lose you both, too.”
“It’s okay,” Tam said, kneeling. “We’re on your side. Aren’t we, Ingrid?”
“Of course.”
“It’s okay, love.” Gently she pried my fist open, emptied it. “Let’s take a step back from this. We all need some time to think.”
Tamsin thought it too dangerous for me to stay in the apartment now that we’d antagonized Crito again. I thought it too dangerous for Inge to stay here alone—Come with us, I said, but she refused.
Clothes stuffed into a duffel bag. Laptop, phone, my dwindling supply of T. The bare bones of my life.
Tamsin pulled the suit bag from the closet. “You’ll need this, too.”
“Leave it.”
She draped it over her arm. “Don’t be petulant.”
“I can’t trust Armin, or anything that comes from him. Not clothes, not a job.”
“You’re turning down the interview?”
“My priorities have shifted a little fucking bit lately, Tam.”
She got in my face, fearless. “If someone is trying to ruin your life, why help them? Why throw your future away?”
“What fucking future is that?” Lower your volume, hothead. “It’s over. They’ve ruined my name. They’ve ruined my reputation. I can’t work with teenagers, with kids—they wouldn’t hire me in a million years.”
“Armin can talk to them. He can—”
“What, use his privilege to get me in the door? That’ll look great. Headline: Rich asshole gets rapist bro a job at LGBT clinic.”
“We’ll clear your name. We’ll suss out who’s behind this.”
“It doesn’t fucking matter, Tam. The damage is done. That stigma is permanent.”
Her jaw set. “I’m bringing the bloody suit.”
Ingrid hovered in the hall, listening. That always-smooth face was troubled. Before we left, she drew me aside.
“You’re not totally out of options. You can still have a future.”
Wearily I stretched my neck. This weight on my shoulders never let up. “What’s my option, Inge?”
“If they ruined your reputation, let it go.” Her gaze was charged, electric. Relentless Ingrid, who never capitulated. Never backed down. “Start over.”
“And how do I do that?”
“Girls can’t be predators. So stop being him.”
—8—
ONE YEAR AGO
VLOG #300: DETRANSITION
REN: Today we’re going to talk about the Big D.
No, not that D, children. Get your minds out of the gutter.
Before I started testosterone, I googled the shit out of two search terms: “Transition regret” and “detransition.”
I wanted to know my options. If this didn’t work out, if the changes didn’t make me happier, I needed an escape route. Last thing I wanted was to be trapped in a body even less bearable than the one given to me at birth.
When you contemplate something this drastic and life altering, you want to know the worst-case scenarios. You want to prepare yourself for disappointment, even regret.
I knew this wouldn’t all go perfectly. I wouldn’t become a male model—my face would always be my face, just a little squarer, leaner. I wouldn’t grow any taller. I wouldn’t wake up with a seven-inch dick.
But I definitely didn’t want to wake up one day and think, “This was a huge mistake.”
Transition is a set of trade-offs. You turn in an unmodified, unbearable body for one that will feel more comfortable, more yours. You give up cis privilege—the privilege of moving safely through a world designed around you—for transphobia, discrimination, violence, hate. You lose friends and family, people you love, but you gain a community who loves you unconditionally. Well, some of them. Some of the time.
Each person has to weigh these things themselves. Figure out if it’s worth it. If there will be any regrets.
And I wasn’t entirely sure I wouldn’t regret it.
[Jump cut.]
Most of the physical changes T causes are permanent: hair growth, hair loss, the voice, the dick—those never change back. Muscle mass and fat patterns do. You won’t stay ripped. Your booty will return.
And the brain changes, the mental and emotional shifts: all of those will change back, too.
In the end, I discovered it was those changes I needed most.
I told myself I could live with the permanent effects, if I had to stop T. I could deal with being a gender chimera the rest of my life. Anything was better than this inertia, this certain doom.
I had to at least try.
If you google the terms I did, you’ll find a lot of scary shit. TERFs telling stories about women who temporarily thought they were men, who “ruined” their bodies with testosterone. Pics of receding hairlines and botched mastectomies.