Slow birth in 2014

On Easter 2014 I learned I got AHRC funding for my PhD and decided that what I really needed to do with my newfound financial autonomy would be gender transition. Obviously I barely had to mention the word 'dysphoria' to my GP before he prescribed my hormones pronto and fast tracked me for surgery, and so here I am now. 

Looking back at pictures from the Sue Perkins years no longer fills me with horror. I'm clearly sad and desperate but there's the slightest flare of optimism behind my eyes that wasn't there before. 

We holidayed in Portugal and I noticed hospitality staff were gendering me female. I was still trying to be invisible, going by my given name, dressing in gender neutral shades of grey and so this microaffirmation gave me some glimmer of hope that I that I might be able to live in the world being seen by others the way I had just started to allow myself. 

In 2014 I was still also pretending to be an artist. We did workshops at the Tate and the V&A, ticking boxes on Arts Council appraisals, hoodwinking the public that they were learning some new creative skills and collaborating in the production of valuable public art as opposed to boosting the lead artist's risible career and providing me a less demeaning alternative to signing on. 

Needless to say, the second my first AHRC paycheck dropped I made big plans - field trips to archives in Viareggio and Bologna, conference papers in Amsterdam, the privilege of sitting in and invigilating exciting courses. Of course none of these plans were compatible either with my domestic responsibilities nor my withered sense of self esteem. 

I went to my first trans peer support meeting in a portacabin in a carpark in Ashford. Not to disrespect The Ladies present, but I found the experience mortifying, from the motorbike and 1980s porno enthusiast's portfolio of makeover pics (would I like to be a client, discretion is assured) to the array of bad wigs and stubble, the neon tubes overhead were unforgiving.

Driving home anticipating the retribution with which I would be rewarded I felt guilty for being so judgemental. I slept as ever on a blow up bed in the box room where I was still tethered by habit and servitude and dreamt of flight

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