Kake

The other day, as so often, I found myself not knowing what I thought until I'd written it down. But this time I wrote it down into a group chat. And, while normally I'd delete those thoughts as not the place for this chat, this time I didn't for some reason.

Part of what I said:

My local pre-/non-top surgery cohort is dwindling so much lately. I'm so happy for everyone but feeling even more keenly how poorly my clothes fit me sometimes...

Today I went to the local plus-size clothes swap which, after being a highlight for us for it turns out at least two years (photo storage on my phone has gone bonkers lately so it tried to tell me something from EMF 2024 was among my "most recent" photos, and in there I'm wearing a shirt that I got from one of if not the first of these clothes swaps we went to), felt very different today.

I was mostly going to return Xena's blanket and toy that had been left here on the first Day of Chaos. I was very grateful that this event we were both going to was happening today anyway prevented me from having to make a special trip yesterday. But I also had a pair of trousers to take for V, who'd bought them and been disappointed that they didn't fit right. I figured I'd have a pile of stuff myself but, looking through my bedroom, there was hardly anything. This hadn't been the case in the two years of our irregular attendance at this semi-regular clothes swap, which happens every few months.

I found it surprisingly emotional -- I'd spent almost all of my adult life with a pile of clothes somewhere that were unusable for some reason: maybe they just needed mending that I couldn't either do or afford, maybe I didn't really like them because my mom bought them for the person she thinks I am instead, maybe they didn't fit any more, maybe I just didn't want them but struggled to get rid of them, especially when I stopped being a size 12 and started needing "plus" sizes at all (thanks venlafaxine!)... All of these are reasons that made me feel bad, so having to keep looking at or stashing away these unsuitable items of clothing felt kinda like a punishment. This extended beyond clothing, to say the least, but clothes were always a central part of this misery during my married life. Which was all of my adult life really, until the last few years.

Not all of my stuff made it from the house I had to buy, but my clothes were still such a source of misery that I was so grateful when V offered to help me put them in my new bedroom here. I chose the bedroom I did largely because of its built-in wardrobes along one side of the wall and the drawers all along another. All this space, just for me. For my stuff. It was overwhelming, and I needed help. Partly to decide what's best to put where, but mostly to listen to me as I took each item out of a suitcase or Ikea bag, smoothed out some of the wrinkles, and had all of my feelings about how it had gotten to me. They knew and were happy to provide that support. It was a lifesaver.

In the five and a half years since, so much has changed for me: in gender presentation, in access to new clothes, and in access to mending and alterations that help me refine what I want, what's worth keeping around.

I've moved in with someone who can mend and make alterations to my clothes -- when I first started wanting button-up shirts for the summertime in my job, the ones I could get that fit me otherwise were too tight around my wide hips, which led to the double-whammy of internalized anti-fatness and gender dysphoria; V suggested increasing the little tiny side slit at the bottom of each side which would make the bottom of the shirt less tight across my hips -- and also made it lie flatter as seen from either the front or the back -- and that was a lifesaver. They've cut the sleeves off a bunch of my t-shirts as testosterone has made me into a sweatmonster who's much more comfortable, especially in the gym, if my armpits are not covered.

V has also lent me their amazing online shopping skills so when I need new clothes, I can just ask them for help and they've found me the most perfect stuff, whether that be my navy and forest-green suit or the most ordinary tank tops to wear to the gym like I have on now. And I've been able to afford new clothes as I need them, including when I realize that things that felt like a burden didn't have to be endured any longer.

I've settled into a gender presentation that has taken away almost all of the stress I used to feel about clothes -- I felt it now, just touching things at the clothes swap today. I know a few trans women who delight in the fabrics, patterns, colors, and other options that are available to them in women's clothes that were not before. And I know cishet guys who bemoan the paltry few options, especially for colors, on offer for them and they make a point of seeking out more interesting options. Almost all of this feels like a burden that I could not wait to lay down. Growing up, I'd get told off for how I sit or moved because it'd wrinkle my dress, while I was suffering in polyester; meanwhile my brother would be considered equally smartly dressed in the khakis and knitwear that he could wear every day.

A little more than a year ago, I said on social media:

I went on a work trip today in a polo shirt and chinos, I really have started to dress like my dad.

But it's funny: this wasn't my dad's work clothes (that was sweaty t-shirts and dirty jeans), this is his weekend/leisure clothes. This was my dad's "having a nice time" clothes: not work and not chores. More like "grilling some hamburgers" or "going to Bakers Square and then the mall."

No wonder I associate this kind of clothes with good things.

It's true! I still think of that when I "dress up" at all for in-person work (working from home I am the most disgraceful slob, usually for the comfort of not having to wear a binder). And I do still associate those clothes with good things.

All of this has meant that I'm currently not really lacking for anything, clothes-wise. And I don't actually want much either -- even having taken a little bag of stuff to the clothes swap today, there wasn't anything I was excited by there. (What came closest was the kind of textured, often horizontally-striped for some reason, polo shirts with pockets that my grandpa wore every day of the year for as long as I knew him. It was delightful to see what were clearly a few from the same person, but it was a person a bit bigger than me and V and I have developed a policy of not taking anything too big for us as people bigger than us will generally struggle so much more to access clothes. And for all that I was happy to see them, I'm not actually in need of such shirts.)

I did come home with one thing -- a bright red linen cropped button-up shirt, with white buttons and stitching -- but even that felt kinda marginal.

I put it on and thought this would be a much better shirt after top surgery. I'm still struggling to internalize that as a thing that can happen to me; I'm trying to take on what D always says when this comes up, which is to assume that the outcome you want is possible and take the steps needed to get there... I'm not explaining this very well, it sounds good when he says it. Clearly shows my failure at having internalized this so far, heh. But I was despairing when that first attempt at an appointment didn't happen because of time zones, and now even though I've had that appointment and filled out the paperwork and heard nothing back, not even an automated e-mail. We're working under the assumption that there's something that's holding up the next step, which we're also trying to sort out, which D researched and I chose and paid for (ugh, my first private healthcare here) but again I was told I'd hear within two weeks and it's actually two weeks today and again I've heard nothing. It's hard to feel -- not intellectually understand but really feel -- like any progress at all has been made. But still. When I was collecting things for the clothes swap, there was one pajama top I was about to chuck in to the giveaway pile, because I don't feel comfortable in it, but then I thought to myself that I probably would love it after top surgery. So for now it stays in my room. So I guess some part of my brain is starting to feel more like this is a thing that's going to happen.

It's not specifically a queer clothes swap, but of course I ran into a bunch of people I know from queer club (and even one from transgym!). One of whom I found something that seemed so Him that I wanted to make sure he'd seen it. They said thank you, they had seen it, and "if it was just one size different, and if I had a flat chest!" He was very matter-of-fact about this which I appreciated -- it's what I strive to cultivate myself -- and I tried to respond with the same energy.

But it's rough sometimes, to think about all this stuff in a room full of clothes and strangers.