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Melanie's Transition Diary - Part 5

Melanie Anne Phillips — Wed, 25 Feb 2009 00:05:00 GMT

Transsexual Hormones and Fat

Melanie Anne Phillips — Wed, 11 Feb 2009 19:20:00 GMT

Fat stores estrogen. It also creates estrogen. That's why fat men take on such a feminine look and why fat women have a higher incidence of breast cancer.

In the twenty years I've been on hormones, I've had occassion to be on a diet more than once. I've discovered a few things that might be of interest.

When I diet, the fat dissolves and releases extra estrogen into my system. As we all know, estrogen has both physical and mental/emotional effects. Though I keep my hormone doses steady, the extra estrogen causes such physical effects as tender breasts and water retention, and such mental/emotional effects as become a little less focused and an increased sense of general well being. This is also accompanied by a more feminine sense of self in an emotional context.

In fact, if I want to stay in a more logical state of mind, I have to lower my hormone regimine to compensate for the extra levels from the fat. Or, I can just keep the levels steady and ride the high.

If you are on high enough doses of estrogen as a regular regimine, you may not notice any difference when losing weight. But for me, at age 56, I try to keep my dosages at the minimum level necessary to keep the positive physical effects going and maintain a healthy mental balance. So, I use the "estrogen boost" as a reward for a good day's dieting. If I get hungry enough between meals, fat dissolves, I feel great, and it encourages me to keep losing weight.

Moving Forward

Melanie Anne Phillips — Sun, 08 Feb 2009 03:32:00 GMT

I started the world's first transgender support web site in 1994, and kept it (on and off) ever since. But when I started this blog several months ago, it was part of an attempt to put the whole transition experience behind me. Two years previously I had undergone Feminizing Facial Surgery. Yep, that's right - eighteen years after transition I had facial surgery to pass as a woman.

Why? I'll speak on this more in future entries, but in a nutshell, the more you age, the more your cartiledge and bones also age. They masculinize, even if you are continually on hormones, just as they would if you were a natal woman. Add to that the loss of facial fat, and skin that becomes less elastic with age, and you start to get "read" all over again after having successfully lived in your chosen role for years.

It got so bad I was actually getting laughed at by counter clerks in liquor stores. Why just twenty years earlier, I had actually been hoisted across the counter at a 7-11 by the clerk and kissed passionately. I didn't even know this guy! My what a difference two decades of aging can make!

So I had facial surgery. And I discovered that there is much more to that game than just "passing". In fact, the minor differences of the facial bone structures of men and women strike a primal brain pattern recognition. It gives each of us an energy signature. When you have facial surgery, you change that energy signature in ways FAR more profound than sex reassignment surgery.

People, both men and women, treat you differently at some subliminal level of which you weren't even aware before facial surgery. But afterwards, after the healing, man you sure can feel the difference!

In addition, you sense that same energy signature difference in yourself as well, when you look in the mirror. All of a sudden you realize you had always "read" yourself as having male facial energy, even if you passed really well and were very pretty in your youth. And that energy feedback caused you to alter your behavior subconsciously so that how you acted and even the thoughts you allowed yourself to ponder stayed in line with that male (not I did not say "mascuiine" but "male") energy.

Takes about two years to come to terms with all that - discover and dismantle all the unknown limitations and habits you've built up since Kindergarten, and then get on with building a new set appropriate to the "you" that has finally emerged behind your new face.

Okay. so I did all that. And quite naturally, I figured, hey, I'm FINALLY DONE with this crap! After twenty years of confusion, elation, outward successes, and inner doubts I'm FINALLY THROUGH WITH THIS CRAP!

Think again. In my delusions of completion I set about capping the whole thing off with a grand project - a reading of my 1200 page transition diary from today's perspective. I thought, what a wonderful to say goodbye to the whole thing - to offer one last parting service to the community - to put those words I had written beginning in 1989 into the context when all was said and done - youthful enthusiasm bracketed by the wisdom born of experience.

So I did that for a few entries (you'll find the first ones below this entry in the blog here). And then I did nothing for a while. It just seemed so silly. But I wasn't sure why....

I'm not sure I yet know why it seemed silly. Perhaps I'll do a few more from time to time. (If I do one page of the diary per week, I'll be finished in 24 years!)

Instead of doing another one right now, I just had this urge to start blogging about whatever. Well, not just whatever whatever but the whatever that touched on transgender issues in some way. You see, the one thing I do know is that you never stop thinking about transgender issues. You are born with the desire to change sex, go into transition, change sex, integrate into society, build a new life, honor what you should from the old, and exapnd your heart and mind to all kinds of new interests and activities. And yet, every single day of your life you still keep thinking about the transgender experience - even when there's nothing left to learn about it, nothing left to do about it.

You know, I don't think any single blog entry can capture an accurate picture of what it is like twenty years after transition. But hopefully, the more I add to this blog the more clear the picture will become. One thing I do know is that I can already tell that these words about the whole shebang are quite different in tone from all that I previously wrote in my diary. In that book, my focus was on myself - what it was like to go through the whole thing. But now, I find myself looking outward toward the world in which I live.

I don't really know what I'll be writing about, but I'm sure it won't be quite like anything else I've ever written.and just perhaps not like anything you've ever read.

Melanie's Transition Diary - Part 4

Melanie Anne Phillips — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 18:19:00 GMT

20th Anniversary Edition

by Melanie Anne

With Commentary in Streaming Video

Commentary on the Previous Diary Entry

Melanie's Transition Diary - Part 3

Melanie Anne Phillips — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 18:07:00 GMT

20th Anniversary Edition

by Melanie Anne

With Commentary in Streaming Video

Chapter 2

Prick of the Needle

August 1, 1989

I was incredibly nervous as I prepared to venture out as Melanie for the first time in nearly a year. I had made arrangements with my dad to watch the kids for the day, and had taken my old clothes, make-up and wig out of plastic bag storage in the garage. Earlier in the morning, I had used my old supply of "Nair" to get rid of the hair on my legs and arms.

It took a long time to get everything just right, but eventually, I was satisfied that even if I looked awful, it was enough to convince the doctor that I was serious. In truth, I needed to make the breakthrough into the mainstream of actual medical care so strongly, that I would have walked a gauntlet or red-necks in three-inch heels to latch onto a program that would lead where I wanted to go.

I checked my appearance one final time. Hair - ratty, make-up - cakey, skirt - laughably short, high-heeled shoes - preposterous. In summary, I was ready. I sneaked out of the house, slunk into my car, and boldly set off to find my destiny. Driving through the city and down the freeway was exhilarating. I knew that I was a woman to all who saw me, and I anxiously hoped with every fiber of my being that the doctor would see fit to make that dream a reality.

The medical center itself was a modern ten-story facility, not the sleazy back-room affair I had anticipated. I parked across the street and (after some hunting) found the front entrance. I went looking for room 1009, but there were only two levels in this part of the building. I had no idea where to find the office, nor the certainty that I could (with my nervousness) pull off a conversation to get directions.

Just when I was feeling most distressed, a ten-year-old boy showed up out of nowhere, took one look at me and asked if I needed some help. I told him, in a breaking voice, the number of the office I wanted. He said it was in the other building, and asked if I knew how to get there. I replied in bad falsetto that I didn't. He said, "Do you want me to show you?" I gagged out, "Sure..." He said, "Come on..." and bolted down the hall.

I don't know if he was the son of someone who worked there, or perhaps a patient himself. But he darted down the corridors and around corners like he had designed the place. The only question he ever asked was, "Are you going for plastic surgery?" Thanks a lot, kid! Anyway, after two minutes of mind-boggling twists and turns (him run-walking and me trotting gracelessly down the slippery floors in high heels) we arrived at the elevators. "Tenth floor", he said, smiled, and left as mysteriously as he had arrived. "Thank you!", I croaked as he disappeared around a bend.

Fortunately, the elevator was empty, and I was unmolested, embarrassed or ashamed on the way up. The doors opened revealing the tenth floor: the location of my destiny. I stepped into the hall and checked the office listings until I found the prescribed number. Gripping the knob with a sweaty but determined hand, I gave it a turn and stepped inside.

The room was small, but well decorated (by waiting room standards). There was one short, round lady sitting in the corner and the reception desk straight ahead. I walked up, asked for Ann, as I had been instructed to do, and was told to sit down and wait.

No sooner had I lowered myself, as lady-like as possible into a chair, but the plumpish, weathered woman began to speak. In broken English, she told me the story of her life; her days in San Francisco, her stint as a land-lady and run-in with the Housing Authority, the death of her husband and how she coped. All the while, she rarely required a reply (thank God!) content to have a live body as audience that had not been initiated into her life previously.

I nodded with sympathy and understanding, peppered with an occasional "uh huh...", and she seemed not only satisfied, but almost euphoric. Once, the nurse caught my eye and smiled knowingly, in empathy with my ordeal.

Finally, my name was called, and I stood to the window to fill out information and answer questions. Then, out of nowhere, the nurse asked if I wanted to buy the pills today. I was shocked! Suddenly here was another human being, a qualified, legitimate medical professional just GIVING them to me! "Yes!", I stammered, fumbling the required twenty-two dollars out of my purse.

Bill paid, the door opened and I was beckoned inside so meet my future. I flushed from head to toe as I crossed that threshold into the unknown.

I was ushered down the hall to an examining room, where the nurse sat me down, handed me a bottle of 100 2.5 mg estrogen pills, "Take one a day, and don't miss any!", and took my blood pressure. I just kept staring at that bottle, unable to take my eyes from it, transfixed to the reality and weight of the decision I was about to make.

The doctor came in, asked some routine questions and told me to "bend over the table." for a prostrate exam. I hardly noticed the pain.

Finally, Ann came back with two syringes, one for vitamins and one, the fateful one, with a mix of estrogen and progesterone in sesame oil for slow release. She asked me to stand and raise my skirt. I complied, my heart racing as I contemplated the path I was beginning, the reality of a lifetime of dreams.

I stared out of the tenth floor window, across the city, bustling with thousands of ant-like people, going about their daily routines, unaware of the change of life that was about to occur 100 feet above them. I stared out toward the ocean, across the universe, across the years, as my entire life collapsed into an abstract desire whose fulfillment would begin with the sharp prick of the needle that hovered behind me.

And then, I felt the tiny pain as the steel shaft slid into the tissue of my derriere, then slowly deposit its cargo of womanhood, rushing into my system, realigning the workings of my entire anatomy, so that its new responses would ultimately transform me into a true and undeniable woman. That brief moment lasted an eternity for me as I savored the upwelling of emotion, knowing that I had the courage to take that first step. And, now that I had, there would be no going back. I was on the road to womanhood, and I would not stop until I reached my destination.

I fixed my clothes, left the office, and felt incredibly feminine as I sashayed down the hall, riding the most pleasurable high I have ever experienced. Down the elevator and back to the car. Onto the freeway and across town. Into the driveway and the house. It all blurred together with the knowledge that the hormones were working already. Carrying their undeniable commands to all parts of my body. Telling my most basic systems, "This is a woman, do your job!"

I didn't come down all day, and I fell asleep with a smile on my face.

(The preceding entry was written the morning after, August 2, 1989)

A Reading of this Diary Entry

Melanie's Transition Diary - Part 2

Melanie Anne Phillips — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 18:00:00 GMT

20th Anniversary Edition

by Melanie Anne

With Commentary in Streaming Video

SETTING:

As my first entry starts somewhat into my story, a brief background is essential to an understanding of the text.

As of August 1st, 1989, when this journal began, I was living entirely as Dave - father, husband, small business owner, and free-lance writer/director/editor in the film business. I had been married for thirteen years to Mary, with a ten-year-old son, and a six-year-old daughter. My family life was good, my career growing, my future bright, but still something was missing.

I had first felt "different" in kindergarten, where all the other little boys seemed to know instinctively how to act, but I had to struggle to learn the male role by rote: it did not come naturally. I never considered the possibility I had the instincts of a female; I simply thought I had none at all.

By age seven, I was regularly sneaking off to dress in the girls' clothes my mother brought in as part of her short-lived ironing business. This was well before puberty and was not an erotic experience, but rather a feeling of completeness and contentment.

Throughout my teenage years, the need to dress as a female came and went in waves, sometimes intense, sometimes absent for years at a time.

I was non-agressive in school, both in sports and dating, and excelled at neither. My only erotic interests were not in what I could do to or with a woman, but what it would be like to be one.

I married as a virgin in 1976, and the longings to be female vanished more than they were there. But, gradually, as I progressed through adult life, the waves became stronger and more frequent. Only twice in my life (both times in my early teen years) had I ventured out as a female, both with such tension from fear of discovery, that I did not attempt this again until three years before this journal began.

Suddenly, the need to move in society as a woman became overwhelming, and within two months, I had made nearly a dozen outings, tentative at first, then growing more bold as I gained confidence in my ability to "pass" without being "read".

Throughout this period, I was constantly "purging" myself of this "awful" desire. Full of guilt I would throw away all my pills, wigs, clothes, and any other accumulations, only to be driven to rebuild my accouterments scant days later.

Finally, I came to the decision that this secret side, if not dealt with openly, would lead to self-destruction and the loss of not only my self-respect, but the love of those I loved. So, at the end of July 1989, I mustered the courage to call a gender "hotline" and get a referral to a doctor who provided hormone therapy to transsexuals. This Diary begins with my preparations for that appointment.

A Reading of this Entry with Commentary

Melanie's Transition Diary - Part 1

Melanie Anne Phillips — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 17:44:00 GMT

20th Anniversary Edition

by Melanie Anne

With Commentary in Streaming Video

FOREWORD

As I write these words, I am still a man. But that will soon change. The hormone therapy I began two months ago is already altering both mind and body. Soon, the person known as Dave will cease to exist and the new person of Melanie shall be born.

So it is with a strange mixture of sadness and elation, suffering and joy, that I pen these words. For in order for Melanie to live, Dave must die. No, I am not a "split" personality. But just as there are many aspects of Melanie that cannot be expressed in the role of Dave, there are many facets of Dave that can no longer be explored as Melanie.

So, my life as a man has reached an impasses. My development as a male is to be cut off, both figuratively and literally. And yet, I gladly lay my life down for her. For I have come to know Melanie intimately as a beautiful person: warm compassionate, creative, insightful. I love her. Indeed, if I were able to meet Melanie face to face, I would surely remain Dave and devote all my days to pleasing her and basking in the glow of her joyous outlook. But such can never be, and Dave must die for Melanie to live.

I do not know what the future holds; no one ever does. But I do know that the course I have charted is truly the only one open to me. Any other path leads to certain disaster, as great, gaping chunks of my personality would whither, fester, and die.

So, I close with a wish for the new woman about to be born: May your outer beauty match the inner beauty I have come to know and love. May hour days be long and fruitful. May you find happiness where I have found pain, and contentment from my frustration.

And may you have no regrets.

David
in California
October 3, 1989

A Reading of the Foreword with Commentary

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Melanie's Transition Diary - Prelude

Melanie Anne Phillips — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 17:26:00 GMT

20th Anniversary Edition

by Melanie Anne

With Commentary in Streaming Video

Part One: Transition

Volume One: Raised By Wolves

Book One: A Spy In Their Midst

Chapter 1

Point of Departure

PRELUDE

The pages beneath, chronicle my journey from a life as an apparently normal husband and father to that of an apparently normal woman. In the hope of capturing the immediacy of this emotional trip into the unknown, I shunned the retrospective approach, opting instead for a daily Diary.

Each entry was made on the day the events actually happened, expect as noted. And each is filled with the raw and unpolished thoughts and feelings that held me at that moment. Of course, this leads to a somewhat meandering story, as well as contradictions in my point-of-view and personal emotional outbursts that I'm sure will make me squirm once this is published. But anything less would be less than truthful. And if this document is to serve any purpose as either a tool for tolerance and understanding or as an inspiration to those contemplating any major life-change, then it must be completely honest.

Below, a Video Introduction to the diary, 20 Years later....

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