The Longest Deepest Breath

I had cut the grass the day before all to perfect height and it had recovered from the harsh summer that had left it that sandy white colour of death to a fresh green that would give most golf greens a challenge in saturation with a luscious feel under on the soles of the feet. The sun had come out bright and strong enough to feel the burn and enough to look for that half used bottle of factor twenty that I thought might have been on the shelf until next year. Summer had returned and it was still here despite the over due calendar turn for September. Even the air was warm and gone was that artic cutting edge from the north last week.

I laid out the blankets on the grass. I could actually walk bare foot on the spring fresh grass that would have spiked me on every step just a few weeks ago in it’s hay stiffness. A couple of cushions scattered, a hot cup of tea and a book. I stopped reading for a moment. It seems mad that just a week ago my life was in a totally different direction. Work consisted of excitement but intermittent and barely paid. The gender clinic was just a few weeks away of another appointment, the third of which I would have nothing to offer with progression and a cancellation on it’s way to them. My running achievements were ever upward but more importantly my direction had felt lost. I just didn’t seem to be able to put together some cohesive positive forward movement that felt like I had a future and one that I was looking forward to. It’d been lost.

Now I’m contemplating starting a full-time office job with a stable future and old ground that I have tread so many times over the last two decades; I am just a little conflicted. I had applied for the job out of desperation. Partly to fulfil my obligation to the job centre but also to myself and my family – financially and, I suppose, emotionally; worry. The thing is even though I have been working the shifts are few and far between, underpaid and very antisocial hours and I find my bank balance slowly topping up over the weeks only for a huge chunk sliced away at the end of the month on rent. Slowly my money was disappearing and I didn’t want to be draining on other people.

It had been the start of a new week and that morning I had an interview. Back in my old new media industry with the only thing on my mind was that it would pay the bills at least. I pulled the shirt off the hangar and slid on a pair of trousers I’d probably not worn in two years or more. I sorted through the ties and looked at what would suit the shirt and whether it was soft enough to soften out as much trace of masculinity as I could. I felt my face drain of happiness as I saw some masculinity return.

If it wasn’t for my hair straighteners that created a beautiful straight and shiny ponytail from my long hair and the cute pair of chelsea boots I was wearing I think I would have held onto that disappointing feeling of regression for the rest of the day. Those cold air days of the last week had also meant I wore a warm smart coat and although it may have, to a little extent, added to the tie and shirt morning,I did at least feel smart walking through the city on my way to the interview. People look at you differently when you’re dressed smart and while it’s not a favourite past time of mine, give me some cropped running capris and a yoga top anytime, it made me feel a little worthy – of something.

I imagined for a moment how smart would translate to feminine clothing for work or an interview. Somethings just aren’t as different as I would imagine. Trousers that are just more curved or shaped nicely rather than hang from waist with minor pleats to make them seem interesting in a masculine way. Shirt becomes a woman’s shirt or blouse which is a little more fitted. I just had to put that thought aside for today though. Go to the interview, for which I studied solidly to get back up to speed, and think about the fact that within an hour or two I’ll be on my way home and whether or not they offer me the job the control of my fate, ultimately, is in my hands.

It seemed strange after the interview. I felt like they wouldn’t hire me because I felt they were probably reading my lack-lustre by the tonne and I wasn’t sure if they were really into it themselves. I was just glad to be on my way home and ditch the interview attire.

It was one of those decision moments that had hit me that day. If I’m offered this job what do I do? Do I continue with my current job barely supporting me but find a way through while trying to find that illusive something elsethat I’d rather be doing and really chase it, or do I take this job and at least have money to buy new jeans when I need them, feed myself properly and have petrol for the car to go to places I can’t afford to go to right now? At first it seemed obvious that I should take a better paying job and think about that something elsemove while I’m there. Then I thought about it again. I’d been here before – this situation. I’d taken a safe office job in the past and ended up in the same place again, feeling dulled by the lack of instant excitement.

Several days passed and an answer came. An e-mail pinged on my mobile phone while I was out at an evening event with my best friends. “We’d like to offer you the job. Please get in touch if you would like us to send you a formal offer.”

Those thoughts of which direction I should take came rushing back. I knew I had around twelve hours to respond before it became impolite and I had to make a solid decision.

I remembered how I felt when I walked into that office for the interview. I could feel the policies and procedures of the terms of employment contract oozing out of the walls and the veneered perfunctory desks. It was no good. The drink had been flowing that evening and I couldn’t make a rational decision, intoxicated, about my future that could be anything from six months to six years of my life. If I’m intoxicated enough to be doing a pros and cons list when I got home that evening then making a sound decision that moment would be a bad idea. I would literally sleep on it.

In the morning my head had cleared. There was a rational inspired mind-set that had returned over breakfast and tea. ‘All I needed to do was accept the job. Wait for the offer to come in. If it’s not right I’m not tied to it.’ I thought to myself.

As much as I hate changing my mind and letting people down, not doing this in the past had not served me. I had to play this for me as much as I could. Over the coming hours I felt good about the decision. I wasn’t just doing this for me I was doing it for people around me who worry given how close I have been sailing to the financial wind.

It felt hard to think I would have to give up the other job where no two shifts would ever feel the same. The famous people I had seen and some of the crazy stories I had heard. I was also giving up having to cover my feet in plasters to protect from all the blisters of walking in those work-boots and the days of getting home at six in the morning too wired to sleep. It suddenly didn’t seem so bad and may be this new job, much like the old one, would get me by.

❤ –

What if I ended up staying. How would I feel about the gender thingat this office job. Could I go through a change of gender there and how would I feel about it? I think I’ve always asked myself that question whichever job I’ve started. I usually start by thinking, ‘Yeah, no problem, I reckon I could do it.’ and then, as the months pass by and I get to know people and they know me, some kind of identity protection kicks in and I feel nervous about the idea.

The difference these days though is that I now remind myself that whenever, if I do§, it won’t matter where or who sees the change, because it has to happen somewhere. May be that’s part of the plan I should have, rather than decide when is best to transition based on how confident I feel at that place, decide where I want to be when it happens and find that place when the time comes and do it there. That’s probably not a great way to decide on a new career but may be the whole thing will come together that way.

I laid my head back on the cushions and spread out on the blankets. The sun still shining hot but felt like it was in it’s last throws of the day now that early evening was closing in. I drew a long breath. It felt like the longest deepest breath I’d had for months. I could almost feel the oxygen racing down my veins in drenched blood and my stomach relaxing as if it had been tense since last year.

As the light started to fade I decided to light the chiminea. That foraged wood that I had been hanging on to so long burnt clean with flames that danced captivatingly. The breeze howled inside the chiminea intermittently as it drew over the fire and upwards feeding the flames. May be I hadn’t left things standing too long after all.

Until next time,

Hannah x

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Shelter For Woodlice

The wood sat in a pile on the decking like it had for the last year since I had foraged it. Thin twigs for kindling, some thin branches to get things going and a few big logs for the duration. In the darkness they sat there getting dampened by the fine pouring relentless rain unused when all I could think of was the popping and crackling of the warm reds and yellows of the flames in the chimenea that would have been nice for a Saturday night.

Instead I had kept the wood there in a nice pile saving it for the right night but of course all I had done is left it there for a year providing a shelter for woodlice and missing every opportunity to actually sit in front of the fire because ‘just in case I used it all up.’ Fuel, like opportunity in life, is there to be used and like a film run end to end. Had I left myself on the decking for the last year?

I thought about it for a moment. Did it really compare to allowing some wood to rot on the decking and missing out on the warmth. Should I have done some more about the gender thinglast year. Given it much more priority. There again there was something warming about leaving the wood on the decking. I had, at least, provided a temporary roof for the woodlice between the hot days and the wet. I may have not gone as far as I’d have liked but in retrospect I’m out running with a group of people partly the way I want and not giving a damn and to some extent around my family too. Some things really can’t be rushed. The last thing I want to do is over cook this gendercake and end up with little ingredients left to try again.

May be some wood is meant to be left; not to rot but to mature. The time being right for one person is different for the next. Burning fast and bright isn’t for everyone and may be that’s what will happen in the end anyway but things tend to play out as they should.

I find myself in August writing another appointment cancellation letter to the GIC in London. I kind of started looking for signs that I shouldn’t be moving another appointment, which will be my third, I mean even the ink in the printer started running out when I tried to print it. I thought may be that was a sign, no ink, no letter, no cancellation. I looked for reasons to not cancel it, may be I should get up there, find the money some how and at least make some progress but that triggered some thoughts above the financial.

I realised that I wasn’t ready to go back. What sort of progress would I make with another appointment in my current situation. There was little point really. Appointments really aren’t the be-all-end-all. Certainly not at the GIC anyway. I would exclude counselling and therapy from that but the GIC are to some extent gate keepers, as much as I hate to say that, because they can and do help people but I think that help is limited. When I last went one question thrown at me was, “So what do you want from us?” I guess it’s a valid question, with what seems an glaringly obvious answer, but it’s just a question to see where on the check list of things they can do for meI am and then tell me what I need to do next to get there. The thing is – I know what’s on that check list, I know where I am and there isn’t much point in trying to check any more boxes until I do some more box checking of my own at home.

So it’s a case of refilling the ink cartridge and letting someone else take my spot who is ready to check another box. In the mean time I still have much that will distract me from doing anything towards any more box checking like finding a better paying job without dreading the thought of being underwhelmed by being in a boring office doing dry dull things in a professional manor.

It’s that old catch twenty two of being too worried about money to do much else at the moment and once thats no longer a worry being too busy and tired after work to do something towards a different career. Either that or may be I just don’t try hard enough.

I guess I’m at a big junction in my life much like when I turned thirty, which seems a life time ago, but rather than just moving up a notch in a career I now find myself at a junction between later youth and early maturity with options open to me but finding it hard to pin down what I want to do or those things that I know I’d like to do but not having the confidence to think I could be good at it. I may be talking about my career or occupation but may be it applies to my gender too.

So. If you happen to get a call from the GIC in London offering to bring your next appointment forward to September – raise a glass or an ice cream to your friend Hannah and her thoughts that make her take her time over these things.

Until next time.

Hannah x

Emotional Twenty-Two

There it is again. Just ignore it and keep typing, “During my time at the digital agency..” Again. Go away. Rising up my face and sinuses with what feels like the side of my nose, inside my face, trying to clench onto the pressure to stop it happening. Damn it, how on earth would I manage if I had female hormones if I’m like this now. It was no good. Whatever I did I was going to well-up and for no particular reason. It was just a place my body was in either from lack of sleep or strange work patterns or may be just because.

I was sat at the dining table, the doors to the living room open which made the house feel bigger than it was but it was the silence that had made me feel like a small person in a large room alone. I had switched off the TV so I could concentrate on this job application form online and I hadn’t realised that the silence had echo’d my emotional state back to me amplified ten fold. It’s happened in the past plenty of times but I seemed yet to find a way to cope with it. Sure, I knew the one thing I shouldn’t do at times like this was go through old possessions that I want to throw away because nostalgia and the hoarding fairy would quite clearly win – outright, but that was about it.

The thing is I was filling out an online form for a job application. ‘Add Employer’ it said, and I had to fill out every single employment I’ve had over the last twenty years. It seemed to be taking forever to repeat everything from my CV into their perfect-fit boxes but as I got further down my CV in the descending order of years, remembering managers names and their positions, trying to remember addresses of the offices which they had probably departed some fifteen years ago, it started to come over me. The welling-up. It’s not particularly those places I worked that I was longing for, in fact only one, may be two I can think of I would, rose-tintedly, feel I missed, but just the times around them.

The one place I worked at fell dramatically in the dot com crash in 2002. I went out to lunch one day and came back to several people missed due to redundancy. It was cold, horrific and axe-lead. I was one of the lucky ones being freelance I was served a good warning well over a month with another renewal promised. The poor girl opposite was invited to the hotel next door for a meeting, “oh, bring your bag with you.” I never saw her again. When my time ended there were staff enthusiastically moving to another part of the office in one of those, “let’s move the desks around to refresh and rejuvenate everyone.” Sometime later the whole place was shut. It was the place that seemed to have so much promise. The place I worked with the most well known names. The place I saw police walk in the office and arrest a member of staff for stealing books. The place I saw the Twin Towers fall thatmorning while everyone watched in silence around the office cafe television.

I guess with that particular place what I felt was a missing end. When I’ve left somewhere in the past it’s been down to a new and better opportunity or because I can’t stand the politics anymore. But with that place it ended because no one could stop it. Rose-tinted indeed though. Things had become quiet in what had been a very vibrant and post-modern work-place of the noughties. I liked most people there and the politics rarely ever affected me because I wasn’t a permanent employee despite being there for two years.

The place still reminds me of having admirations of the Web Producer. I just remember how confident she appeared and important she looked. Talking to clients and then bringing that to us. It seemed an exciting role and place to be, especially as a woman, but that wouldn’t have been an aspiration I could have worked on at the time being extremely secretive about the gender thing, in a relationship that I didn’t want to loose and, well, I was a contractor, disposable, no career path – worse still lacking the confidence to do anything about it. Now I feel so much older and past that youthful optimism, an expression I recently read in a job description.

I couldn’t take it anymore. That silence was cutting into me like a knife for every emotion rush in my face. I switched on the Hifi, turned up all the knobs and found some music dangerously from the time period. It was like the loudness of the music overruled the emotion. The neighbours were out and shaking the walls just wouldn’t matter. I thought picking music from the period would either shout the emotional state away or it would make it ten times worse but get it out quicker. It did neither other than mask it; but it was something.

I think this is a little more than nostalgia for times past though. I think there is more to it. I think the emotion reflects where I am now rather than where I was. Here I am applying for an office based job, somewhere which will be fraught with structure, business ethics and dryness, though good pay and holidays, but also leaving a job where I see exciting venues and working for famous people but for very little money and zero security. When I mix that with my current gender situation I think, “What am I doing?” Doing it all over again going back to something that’s dull but respectable and ignoring what I should be doing with the gender thing. Surely by now I should be applying in my female name?

Then I also feel like I’ve been ignoring my female side. When was the last time I remember putting on a skirt, yet when not actually paying any attention to it, surely that’s the normality of living a female life? That’s the reality of it. I go running I wear my female running shorts and whatever else goes with it, it doesn’t have to be unbelievably obvious. I mean, that’s what it feels like, it feels normal and so that’s what’s making me feel like I’ve not been giving enough time to it. A catch twenty-two of feeling guilty about not giving enough of my feminine side but wanting things to be normal and genuinely natural.

When I think about it I realise that the subtle place I’m in of femininity isreality. It’s normal, but more importantly genuine and innate and may be all this emotion I’m feeling today is just a normal natural cycle that is part of that which sometimes we like to think of as a natural feminine trait. May be what I need to do is get my head into a state of what I want next. Where do I want to be not just in employment but also how I live that female side of life and how far I go. Do I stall here for a while or move on a little more. The thing is I know this is a passing emotional moment. It’ll be gone in a few hours. Tomorrow I might be on for a positive and enthusiastic high with all my goals and wishes as clear as spring water.

What I know I should do is pin up the past on the cork board of things I did in my twentiesand be happy about them. If they fall off again, pick them up, take a look, smile and pin them back up. Forcibly put a metaphorical full-stop on them so that the end of them is very clear. Move on to new things that will over-shadow the things of the past with happiness and contentment.

I went into the garden for a moment. My bare feet feeling the roughness of the concrete slabs and tufts of grass, where the cement had broken away, had grown between them over the last few days of rain. The sun was shining again, hot on my face and amongst the green weed leaves, yellowed grass and a few yellow flowers, a single white bloom of seeds of a dandelion. I know I don’t want to be readywhen it was too late. I didn’t want to have gone to seed when the other flowers were already out.

Until next time,

Hannah x

Split Second

Waves gushing against the manufactured coastal protective rocks and a breeze as constant as the passage of time blew away days of pollen from my eyes. Even though the sun was still shining bright and hard with heat the sea air had blown away as much of my soggy head as it could. It was medicinal and even though this was just a walk to the cafe to get some ‘work’ done on the laptop, I really felt like staying and sitting on this rock all day just watching the white sea foam wash the rocks and the cormorantsdive into the sea and pull out lunch in a twentieth of the time it would take one of the fishermen on the harbour wall.

I’d brought my own salad lunch of mixed leaves in a box with Spanish omelette quarter on top, ham and a drizzle of olive oil. I found a spot, sat and eat my lunch with the drama of the sea in front. It felt good that I could do this and I imagined how I would do this sort of thing if I lived along the Mediterranean, lunch watching the sea and running in the morning along the coast. If I would do that if I was there then why don’t I do that here?

We’ve been truly and sort ofseasonally lucky with our heat wave early summer in the UK these last few weeks and I’ve been easily duped into feeling I can enjoy this sort of moment whenever I want. The problem, I am expecting, is that in a week or so we’ll have a few rainy days and the temperature will drop and things will feel just a little cooler and greyer. I’m not saying there aren’t times where I can sit in the back doorway of the house or in a cafe and watch and listen to the rain – but those times I want to do that are fewer than the days of blue skies and warmth. Blue is the natural anti-depressant, grey is the influencer and fuel of deeper thoughts.

The other part of the illusion is that my current ad-hoc work schedule leaves me with a lot of time during day-light hours where I can don’t have the rush to get ready for a daily commute let alone time to fit in a morning run along the sea thats half an hour away. In fact without some serious motivation I’m unlikely to be able to go wake, run locally, shower, commute, work. The temporary job, as defined by me, is just that; it’s a means to an end and the end will come soon as I mustmove on to survive financially. If and when the regular nine to five thirty returns then time in the morning to take in sea air before a days work will vanish; unless I relocate to the expensive sea-side locations and become financially and spatially less well-off.

Once I had finished my salad lunch and a few extra minutes of taking in just how amazing the sea was at reviving me I continued onwards to the cafe. With a free voucher for a latte I was soon on a financially frugal office consisting of a round metal table, a cigarette ash tray with an ash dune sprinkled with stubbed cigarette ends that I deployed with grace to a vacant table. Coffee cup down with a metallic clang and a near full laptop battery I worked on my own project happily and willingly. Whether the sea moment had given me fresh motivational head or that I was just more free of pollen near the water I don’t know – but it worked.

Battling these little things that bother me, like finding ways to take time out and destress before the stress starts, seems to be working. Free of my injury at the start of the year I am still running and that Saturday running event is something I feel I live for, both the elation and the friendly chat from others who are also experiencing the same endorphin rush whether they are at the back of the run or one of the insane people who practically sprintthe whole five kilometres.

I grabbed a photo someone had taken of me during the run. It had been so hot, even at that time of the morning, and my skin was glossy wet so much so that you could probably measure it in millimetres. I posted it to Instagram where I share like-minded thoughts with other runners from all around the world. Within a minute I had a few random ‘likes’ from other runners and then from a women’s 5K running training group out in Hong Kong. I smiled to myself for a moment. It was a ‘like’ from a group hoping to entice another runner along but they had mistaken my photo, which I suppose is kind of androgynous.

The thing was I thought the misgendered but correct genderedscenario didn’t amuse or validate me anymore but I suppose the truth of it is, it still does. What’s more validating than the narcissistic posting of my photos on social media and getting misgendered but correct gendered; it hadn’t been the first time. I suppose it’s all down to as I progress with the gender thingthat the validation need dissipates as we feel more genuine internally and more accepted by others. It’s just there will be times where I still need a little validation from time to time; who doesn’t, gender identity or not.

At the end of the run someone approached me with a bright smile, “Hiya, how are you doing, how did you do?” A friend of a friend that I had met once several weeks before. As we chatted in the shade to avoid any further heat and sweat still dripping from our arms I couldn’t help notice that every few words he would flicker a glance at my legs. It was as if he was fighting between looking and not looking. My legs without hair with my now summer running shorts. I guess with those who don’t know about the gender thingand are who are only aware of my birth gender there is an idle curiosity to what is going on – even if just for a split second.

Until next time.

Hannah x

By The Book

The vibrant sun drenched reds contrasted against the ice white plate with cured Serrano ham and different chorizos. The smell of the meats and green basil rich pesto drizzled on top rose from the plate and took me to Italy in a second. Hot Spanish omelette contrasted the freshness of the cool salad leaves and the sun-dried tomatoes gave depth and richness. It was just a meal but it said a lot about my aspirations.

The day was hot and even the occasional choppy breeze, that would quickly fade to stillness, made no change to the feel of the temperature – it was still hot and continental. It felt like part of the life that I aspired to had been brought to me, here, in the UK; all I would need is a gentle lapping ocean flung against the bottom of the garden and I’d be complete.

The thing is, about my aspirations, is that my tastes are simple but the ingredients are expensive. To relocate to a Mediterranean villa where mornings are yoga stretches on the patio and pre-lunch times are a quick swim in the pool before returning to a laptop under the sunbrella or at a local cafe to write for income; already the spend has far exceeded one point five million Euro and I’ve not even mentioned the family cost.

It’s the conflict of my aspirations with my emotions. The thought of being so far away from my family that it overrides the actual reality that I couldreallybe home on a plane in little over an hour and if I were that well-off to buy some premium property then I’d probably be visiting homeas often as I do now. These dream ideas of living along the azure are of course short of a lottery win and further away from reality than they are as far away from here; given I have little money right now. The thing is I see some people, when they reach whatever age that it is that is important to them, decide that these dream life styles to settle on are so far away and unreachable that they give up and settle on what they have with the monotony of everyday British culture. Work, TV, Pension (if you’re lucky) – death? I never want to do things by the bookand sometimes I just want to be left-field whether it’s the things I buy and the material objects I own or the things I do. Giving-up just isn’t me.

Some sea salt crunched between my teeth as I eat the salad leaves. Flavours from the red stalks enriched by the salt; I really had brought a little of my dream to my own home for a moment. The thing is, the more I think about it, as balanced as I can, I have the dream correct it’s the work balance and work itself that is keeping me from moving to where I want to be and more importantly me and my own body that’s holding me back. That’s not gender but lack-lustre. There will be days when I want to write solidly or start some project that might make a difference to my future but tiredness will just get the better of me or I’m run-down and just can’t function mentally to get anything solid for my future. Fatigue is my Achilles.

Saturday evening and I find myself in the garden again and even though the sun has departed westward the sky is still a bright blue with only the faintest hint of the dusk about to fall, the heat still present and close. The air is fragrant where someone has watered their lawn and the smell of fallen pollen has risen. A clank of cutlery on plates a few houses away break the dull noise of near-by roads along with magpie squawking that reminds me of the wild parrots in the trees of my last holiday.

Were these hints at what to do or hints of what I have means I can have them here? “The grass is always greener.” “A change of pasture makes fat calves.” Proverbs, useless answers for everything and a proverb for every opposing proverb. The fact is what we do is as good as what we make of it and if we don’t at least try we won’t know for sure whether it’s right – and if it’s not right then we do something else or change back and do what we were doing. Live where we were living, do the things we do and eat and drink what we know. Not everything is a one-way street. There, I’ve done it, made a proverb. “Not everything is a one way street.” Tut. I’ve defeated my own nonsense with more nonsense.

I’ve had a break from my career. It was more of a test the water break. I took a year out in the past and enjoyed every minute and it rejuvenated me for a while. It helped me see what I did and didn’t like about working in new-media, how I fancied a change and that, to some extent, my career had run it’s course.

On this break it was about trying out other things. Looking for what was out there and seeing what I wanted to do. The job I’m currently doing, all that setting up stuff for those international stars, was a temporary job that was carefully selected as it might stir up some ideas about working in another industry. It certainly did that and although it was never going to be a long term thing, and I enjoyed it for the most, it was also underpaid with an undercurrent culture, in certain parts at least, of racism, sexism, homophobia and drugs. So while I’m certainly looking to move on it also told me one important thing, I cando something else and there areother things I can do that are interesting and motivating. Christ, anything that can get me working through the early hours of the morning on an eleven hour shift must have intrigue.

I’m a realist. Some finances are just so high to reach for some dreams but I know some dreams do come true. Plenty have for me, some small, some life changing, and very few came my way without making them happen, taking a chance, grabbing onto them and not letting go and they usually fore-fill more than the dream but just in a different way. May be I should just make more things happen. May be there are certain plans in my life that need trying.

Until next time.

Hannah x

Too Settled

It was just a film where the protagonist walked out onto the balcony of his luxury old building apartment in the morning with a vista and vibrance of the city. So busy and full of promise you could taste the coffee in the air. It’s been ten or fifteen years since I lived in an apartment and suddenly it had hit me that I might just be settled – too settled. I’ve thought recently how I couldn’t imagine going back to the city and an apartment with it’s space seemingly reduced by clothes drying on a stand, noises from above below and the sides and it’s restrictions of strictly no pianos. This film though had made me question, at least for a short moment, had I settled too much.

Of course when I look at that scene it’s the excitement of a living city I miss rather than the abode. The difference is instead of being able to walk out onto a balcony in the evening and soak up the noise of the city and people almost always around, in the house I can lay on the decking with the darkness of the countryside and watch the stars in full panoramic view. The city where sparrow hawks and buzzards are replaced by seagulls and discarded hamburgers. It seems to be yet another fork in my life where I question, just for a moment, whether I continue in one direction or switch to another, even if it’s something I’ve done before. Both are inspiring – just in different ways and are always what you make of it. Should it just be one or the other though?

I took a temporary job a few weeks ago on a whim of interest and in the hope to at least take the sting out of dwindling finances and an increasing credit card balance. Comfort decorating and packing up for international stars. I saw another world where one minute I’m arranging a dressing room for a double-platinum awarded celebrity the next I’m walking along a quiet city street back to the car wondering if that really just happened.

I had a telephone interview for a new-media job. In my financial desperation I had applied left right and centre to get back to the industry, which I had left behind last year, which would make me comfortably well-off again without the need to worry about enough money for the rent and whether I should downgrade my tinned tomatoes any further but just as he started talking acronyms and personal development I suddenly felt uneasy. I thought for a moment, ‘how on earth would I handle this.’ While he spoke a thought flashed in my head of being sat at a desk, immobile, staring at a computer screen with the murmurer of other people in an office and the clock ticking down the seven or eight hour stretch with the hour hand holding back the minute hand and the second-hand bouncing on the spot like the battery was in it’s last throws of death. It was a far distant quiet monotony away from hanging velvet drapes and moving a chesterfield leather sofa so an A-list rock star can feel comfortable for a couple of days soaked in incense drenched air. This was a real fork in the road. One big bright letter Y shouting clearly in a thick American accent, “This way or that? Wadaya want!”
“Don’t take too long though, the offer closes in two days.” my insecurity would warn.

One would pay well with security and regularity. The other paid badly and the long hours and late, chopping and changing between day and all night which would leave me drained but in the knowledge I had worked for every single penny. Why did it have to be a perfect two prong fork in the road though? Why could it not have many fingers stretching out to different opportunities and in the mean time I would do what I could to tame the bank and all it’s direct debits. Whatever my decision I don’t have to let the whole gender thing dictate what that might be.

Walking home through the city streets in the early hours of the morning after work lit by modern sharp white street lamps with young drunks in doorways clad in sequins and nylon barely able to stand with a stolen wine glass in hand. Conversations outside a bar over a thick wooden table in the night air with the lead in conversation casually holding a cigarette in one hand and adorned with a ironic beard. I realised I was missing those going-out days. Sure I socialise with people who matter to me from time to time when I can but there was something missing from my life, I don’t know if it’s mingling with people from work – after work, or those days of the people I would socialise with who also struggled with the gender thing, ‘friends of circumstance’ as I would like to think of them eventually, and even though most of them would appear to not be suffering at all and on a night out would appear confident and fun, I could tell from what they would say off-line from the night out that things were still difficult whether it be internal conflict or relationship conflict all just because of gender.

There again when I see that care-free socialising around the city I do wonder if it’s just that I’ve matured and things have moved on for me. My twenties long since gone with my thirties not too far behind. I don’t think I have any regrets from those days of socialising regularly out on the town but, may be, neither do I need to return there. May be I just see people free to socialise as who they are and that may be I still don’t quite have all that freedom yet. Then again the changes in recent years have been so subtle that may be I haven’t realised I am more me that I care to think.

I think whatever I do next I will at least have things to write about and stories to tell in the future. I need to be true to myself and hopefully have the energy and enthusiasm to sustain it. Sometimes, when I’m thinking about a decision like this, in the same way some people say “When you’re eighty years old and look back, what would you have hoped to have done with your life?” I quite like to think, with a more in the presenttense, “if I had enough money that I didn’t have to worka regular boring job, what would I do with my time.”

Until next time.

Hannah x

Twenty Past Nine

Twenty past nine I walked the length of the patio in the garden. It wasn’t summer warm yet, it was even enough to raise goose bumps on bare arms, but the sound was just that bit heavier. The sun had left the air somehow denser and the noise of Saturday evening was just that bit different. I took a sip of some mild smooth wine from an oversized glass. I noticed a twitch of curtains from one of the neighbours a few houses down, they paused with a look and then quickly shut the curtains when they realised they were spotted as if they had innocently continued to close them. What was so interesting? A person wandering around their garden with a glass of wine? Curiosity?

A solar lamp plinked on as dusk set in. It had been a day of everything and nothing. I thought about how I felt before the running this morning and after it. Before, it can be whatever confidence I have minus self doubts but after it was like some kind of enlightenment. I know I’ve experienced it before but it still amazes me even now how the rush of oxygen around my blood flow and probably endorphins seemingly make my feminine side seem indestructibly confident.

After the run I sat there sipping from my chain cafe latte cup and taking a bite from a pastry treat that, in my belief, makes me run at least a minute faster. In my running tights and hair tied up in a high ponytail thinking how normal things are, still, without a thought. Only now am I thinking about it in retrospect. Those endorphins in little over twenty minutes seem to do what a year of therapy might do much like learning a language in the country of origin can do in the space of two weeks compared to six months of a head in a teach yourself book and a CD repeating out ‘useful’ phrases.

That southerly star seemly plinked-on low in the sky as dusk turned to a dull of no return. Back again bang on time. I almost felt like raising my glass to the star in a kind of hello nod; “you again.” While I had sat at that cafe I noticed a woman, sat not so far away, take a sneaky glance at my hairless legs below my cropped running trousers. In times past I might have urgently hid my legs around a chair somehow or had got up and moved before they could focus but now it was just something I’d noticed and thought ‘Well I know what she’s looking at.’ and not even flutter my heart rate. The only thing fluttering heart rates was the coffee.

Despite everything and how far the journey has gone and confidence has been absorbed there are still doubts about the gender thing. There will probably always be doubts, no matter how small, because after all we don’t know what the root cause is, if in-fact there is one, of gender dysphoria; another phrase slowly becoming a hint of uncomfortable and unpopular. Gender Affirmation seems to be the new black and why not when the second half of it is positive all by itself. When we don’t know what the cause is then all we have to go on is our own innate core feeling. Driven by the heart rather than science or the head; of course there will be doubts.

I pulled the pattern ribbon hair tie let it slide the length of my ponytail and allowed my hair to fall for the first time since the morning. I realised what that meant. My hair relaxed and loose was like how I felt when I come to terms with the gender thing, just like those moments when rather than hiding away I let those people look. That was it. It wasn’t that I was now complete and that everything was now sorted, far from it, but I was in a place where I let myself, on most occasions, relax about it. That’s not even to say it doesn’t cause stress at time but it’s not like it was. It is what it is and these things will take as long as they take and for each and every person going through this will have their own time to figure things out.

I guess the journey is one without an itinerary. Who knows where it will end and may be that place will be one that differs to what I think it would be. I have these little plans to introduce little parts of me to important people in my life as a way of increasing awareness of this other part of me but at the same time I’m reminded of that scene in the first Bridget Jones movie. Shazza, you know, the journalist who likes to say fuck a lot, when she says “I mean there’s been all these bloody hints, but has he ever stuck his fucking tongue down your fucking throat?” Of course she’s talking about something completely different but the essence is the same. All these hints of three quarter length running tights, but has he actually said what it’s all about?

For some people going through the whole gender thing they want this done over night. They want to tell the world and they want it done now. For others they want to drip feed it little by little because it’s more comfortable. I fall towards the latter in a well thought out and methodical way. Either is fine and, because it’s what suits me, may be I should enjoy that part of the journey and not worry about taking my time.

The darkness fell completely across the patio and the wine glass dregged empty. Twenty past eleven.

Until next time

Hannah x

Throwing Silver Stars of Confidence

It darted about seemingly random in the ever increasing dusk and just as my eyes could focus, like a shooting star, it was over before I could think about it. The bat flew like it was on the edge of being able to remain airborne fluttering it’s wings in a way that was between moth and bird. I sat their quietly in the garden. A small drop of wine in an oversized wine glass sat on the ice white table cloth. With rising moisture from the fields in the distance and the dusk falling heavily the warm dusty grey-orange along the horizon of hills changed to greys like an incoming fog but of darkness with dotted sheep and lamb clearing their ground returning home.

The tea light candle with a flame that had been barely noticeable was now bright across the linen feeding steadily from the wax and fluttering when the gentlest of breeze would wander across the table. Peace and quiet, stillness and calm. It kind of summed up how I had felt this week and the weekend. I had attended the running event again but with a family member. It didn’t cross my mind whether I should or shouldn’t use my female running clothes that I had grown accustomed to wearing. It was just natural and innate and I’d be wearing them with someone who mattered and who hadn’t seen them before. I checked with myself, ‘should I be worried? Should I be making some self-informed decision?’

Comfort had overwhelmed any question, in fact I didn’t even carry out that self check. The thought went along the lines of ‘put those three quarter lengths on and go and enjoy your run as normal.’ In fact when it came to getting out of the car for that split second moment when there was no going back, and it didn’t even feel like a no-going-back moment, the only thing it came to was a brief glance at my legs – and that was that. No conversation, no foul sour looks, nothing. Just an enjoyable day and while it seems like such a small insignificant moment it was a big telltale non-reversable pin in the life and journey board.

It was beyond questioning and introspection and, while there was still such a huge journey ahead, if I continue with this ticket, I felt something I’d not really felt quite so vibrant before and that was a confidence with how I decide to present myself for myself. Happiness in the form of comfort. Less about other people and what they would think. A pace of change that seems to be just at the right speed to feel right about it even if, like many, I want it all tomorrow.

It is also not just about no longer being able to imagine going back to a fully male life of shirts and hairy legs it’s also not going back to those early days of odd special nights out to be me only to return early hours of a Saturday night and Sunday morning only to put that part of me away again, not just clothes in the cupboard but pushed to that hidden locked away part in my head.

I cherish some of those early days of being able to get out and about, as I think I would, with friends who were in a similar dual life role of secrets and street light nights. Pounding hearts moving between bars or from the car to the door of and even more public pub. It was an exciting and self discovery time but as much as the actual moment felt right at the time it was far from real. An extension-closet as one of my friends had once said and that I have mentioned before. Those times are now solidified in my history and I genuinely feel I have moved on from that time; as relevant and needed as they were. Real life and real times, real people who really matter. Occupation of my time in the way I want to be.

It crossed my mind today while I was on another run and now my running clothes were normal to me that would this be as good as it gets? Would this be where it settles rather than the journey continuing; after all they do say that happiness is in the journey and not always the goal. Did it really matter if I did settle at this point and there were no further inroads to make? It would certainly have a lot of positives, no distressing getting used to Hannah for more friends and family or painful operation if it went that far.

I think the answer is that the time my conflict ends will be when my inner mental self image aligns with my outer shine. When all the simple things I wish I could do that have some connection to my outward gender have been fore-filled and that I can do regularly and not just do those things but do them without questioning and not even be self aware about it. It’s about self consciousness or self confidence in fact. What more could I really want other than being and being it confidently without fear. That fear has diminished so much in recent times so much that sometimes I feel like someone is watching over me waving a little shiny wand throwing silver stars of confidence at me just when I need them but not so much I become spoilt and lazy with it.

I woke early automatically on the bank holiday expecting the thumping on the stair of the noisy early rising kid next door but it was silent. I pulled the curtains and opened the window to gauge the six am temperature. A gentle honk of a lone goose call echo’d in the morning air as it flew over the houses with it’s neck out far in front guaranteed to arrive long before the rest of it’s body.

Running was a big part of my mental health right now and the crazy idea of running early through the forest just felt right. I pulled on my most comfortable running tights and wriggled into a loose white crisp t-shirt and headed for the trees and medicinal morning pine air. The carpark was empty and I was too soon at the peak overlooking the country side through the cutting where the forestry had been hard at work turning trees into logs. It felt like a moment of change, partly through the outward hints to family but also just that oneness that had been so together recently. I placed the mobile phone on the floor taking time to patiently balance it against my water bottle and set the camera to record that moment of a natural high in nature.

Until next time.

Hannah x

Reverse Masculinity

I stepped out onto the decking and felt the lines in the wood through the bottom of my ankle socks. Sharp pin holes of light cut into the newly blackened clear sky and the air cool but still thick from the first real hot day of the year. The sound of a racing motorbike echoed through the countryside from the dual carriage way and a hint of alcohol drifted from the top of my glass of spirit.

It may be late-ish on a Saturday night out in the sticks-ish, but the air felt full of life. The thump of a taxi door. People shouting “byeeee” and the hum of a car bouncing off the houses as it pulled away. The grey sound of the carriageway so detailed that it felt like I could almost hear the individual tread of tyre on tar. I looked around the surrounding houses. A warm orange glow through the closed curtains and open windows of a darkened bedroom to release the captured heat of the sun that had built through the day. The rest was just street lights, shadows and the night. A particular star to the south near the horizon beamed so bright and hung as if it were nailed to the sky giving solidity and security knowing that while many things might change the chances are that it would be there right on time the next night, every night.

It’s funny but the night air, especially when after a long warm day, can kind of make me contemplate what may happen in the future. What had sparked it off was a photo I saw that a runner had posted to Instagram, just simply a ‘mens’ deodorant. It’s not unusual for women to use mens products and even clothes; christ even some female clothes are styled as Men’s fit, though still essentially shaped for women – the Boyfriend Shirt, with it’s big lapel pockets and over length or jeans in a straighter cut.

What would this mean for me. Would I, if leading a fully fledged female life, want to reverse hints of my gender? Would I want to buy a bottle of spicy ‘Men’s’ shower gel or wear an oversized shirt in a female wearing male clothing ironically kind of way? How comfortable would that actually be spending all those years getting over the anxiety of being able to wear anything like clothing and eau de perfume only to then, on occasion, switch back to certain hints of masculinity to then be anxious that other people might think that I was no longer authentic.

I think the answer is more simple than I would at first feel. The one thing that happens when becoming more confident about expressing femininity is accepting ones self to such a degree that confidence means not caring what other people think; and the chances are that most people either didn’t care to think about it or really don’t mind. Loading up with all that confidence and being at one with yourself just means that anything I would be doing that would seem to reverse a little of my gender I know I would be doing it for myself and meant little more than just liking whatever it is. Besides all that, I don’t really like narrow cut jeans but sometimes an oversized check shirt is just nice to slum it in.

Sorting out the whole gender thing is really more than just changing gender. It’s about being comfortable with all the decisions I make and the things I do and not worrying about what other people want out of me. I may have a way to go still but it’s so clear as that night sky that what is built up in that transition is a comfort about myself that is not reversible. Sure we may have small set backs and dents, but the steps forward are usually in credit to those backwards.

It’s not just confidence in showing femininity in presentation but in expressing myself in so many other ways. When I had those sessions with the psychologist a few years ago I said how I played piano but how I didn’t feel I could call myself a musician – I really couldn’t even write it down. A profile on some social media, I might if I felt brave enough say, “play a little piano.” By the time those sessions had finished I was able to play in front of other people without feeling self conscious about it, I really could write down “Musician” and not feel I was faking it. This goes across my whole life from work to socialising. May be it’s just part of getting older and maturing and it just so happened to coincide with the gentle process of a transition but for me the barriers were so strong and vivid I knew there was an actual change in myself that I was aware of.

So there is more to changing gender than just gender and it’s not about changing who I am, it’s about bringing out those parts of me that are suppressed. We all have the masculine and feminine and we are all balanced with that in different amounts to each other. It doesn’t matter what part of the masculine that is reintroduced, if at all, what matters is happiness, comfort and oneness.

I took another look into the night sky now devoid of any hint of twilight and only polluted by the distant city glow. That star still hung there and reminded me how far I had come and how solid my changes were. How irreversible those changes are because they’re things I want. That star was just a little higher than it was earlier. Moving firmly and poetically upward. Hopefully, like the star, I will return tomorrow evening feeling exactly the same but may be just a little higher and brighter.

Until next time.

Hannah x

Il Tempo Non Esiste

I rubbed my finger slowly along the top of the TV. The dust collected under the tip of my finger and I brushed it off and let it fall randomly to the table. The dust was there and only I could clear it. Each day that I looked at it and thought, ‘That needs doing’, and just guilted myself on how much greyer it looked as another fine layer was added. I grabbed a duster and wiped the top, the back, side to side across the screen like a professional window cleaner removing that layer of water much like, in turn, a barber with a cut throat razor. It was thoroughly cleaned and I felt better for it but I wasn’t clean inside and whatever it was that was paralysing me from doing anything was still hanging on.

Time to do everything but too scared to do anything. Learn Italian or relearn French? No, I’ll do neither and sit around worrying about my future. Write and record the rest of those songs so I can at least try and do something with them. No, the pianos not in tune enough. Get on with telling some more people about the gender thing. No, I have money and a job to sort out. On the face of it I probably have my priorities correct; spending time looking for work to support myself rather than these things of interest and putting a pin in the whole gender thing for now because it will just add more stress to an already complex stressful time. The thing is I feel I need something that is progress to make me feel worthwhile and as if I have purpose.

I was watching a short film and the Italian actor said, “Il tempo non esiste.” It was just at that moment when that unravelled for me. It was what I am searching for in life. It’s not so much about slowing down or ducking out of the fast lane. It was exactly that, Time does not exist. A life where pace is at the same pace as me. Not struggling to catch a breath or barely breathing while a problem is solved. A life where time doesn’t matter because life is good and nearly each moment is enjoyable as the next. It brings pictures to my mind of freshly ripe tomatoes, peppers and pasta dusted with flour. Ripe lemons and bunches of olives hanging from trees in the morning sun. Bright houses and blue skies to light them. People who always say hello and have a moment for you.

The problem in my western culture is that the majority seem to like to accept the nine to five, which in reality is now eight to six basic and you’ll go when we say you can go. That majority trudge to work each day, process everything we have to process for society to function in it’s machine-like fashion, and go home to do what little we can before the rinse–repeat for the weekend. It’s safe but who is working who, society for us or we for the machine society. It works, that’s the problem, but when will the machine run so fast that it falls apart. Life should be challenging but it shouldn’t be destructive.

–– ––

I flung the curtains open. It was blue skies and puffy white clouds. Breezy and still a chill but it was a sign of some better weather. I quickly got showered and changed. Three quarter length capris and a loose t-shirt. I sat in the car and turned the key, nothing. “Damn.” I pulled the bike from the back of the garage where is sat propped against all the cardboard boxes as if the front wheel was using the rest of the bike as a unicycle. I set off on the mile or two ride to my destination.

Each foot scrapped on the gravel in that kind of crunch way that it does on the drives of those rich enough to gravel them but here the wind brushed over my face making my cheeks red and the my senses heightened to the noise of a trickle of a small brook with a waterfall and the smell of the pine trees either side of the path that rose upwards presenting it’s own challenge to me. I had been here before either walking or riding but the spur of the moment and the elation of imagining what it was going to be like to run through the pine forest early(ish) on a sunny day and then the reality being just like the thought, it was incredible. It was an Il Tempo Non Esiste moment. Time really didn’t mean anything at that moment. I wasn’t thinking about jobs and no money. I wasn’t thinking about my future or worrying about my past. There was just the present. The way we should really live.

Running, for me, is what keeps me going at the moment. It’s not just the endorphins making me feel better or helping me to think through my problems at times, it’s the place I can be myself. A place I can wear things for running and be happy about it and totally comfortable and to some extent feel like who I will be if I ever complete my journey; at least complete to where the new journey begins. It’s around other people as well and now it’s second nature how I feel at that moment and in the moments leading up to it, then I really am in the right place, “Il tempo non esiste.”

When I returned to the carpark and walked to my locked bike an older gentleman walking around his van looked at me perturbed. “Is that your bike?” He asked concerned.
“Yes it is.” I said wondering why he was so interested.
“You want to be careful. They’ll have that.”
“I was a bit worried leaving it here but it’s old and not worth much.”
“Doesn’t matter to them.”
“Thanks. May be I won’t leave it here again.”
“They’ll have it because it’s there. You get some right wankers around here.”

Tempo restituito.

Until next time.

Hannah x