It’s been post-less here for a while now. This has been due to something akin to writer’s block. Except I’m not much of a writer. And the block’s had little to do with writing; I suppose a life block would be more accurate.
Not much has been happening. I’ve spent most of my time getting irritated with the lack of response from Gender Care re: appointments and things, trying to find things to occupy myself instead of panicking about life and the future and, you know, grownup things, and I’ve ended up doing far more reading than writing. Reading’s brilliant. I highly recommend it. Although, thinking about it, if I needed to recommend it, it probably wouldn’t get read in the first place… and with that, I’ll move on.
Finally, I have some things to post about. I’ve received my Deed Poll in the post at last, although I’ve yet to find someone to sign it (nor have I finalised my new signature, which I’d forgotten about until just now). I’ve also got an appointment date to see endocrinologist Dr Leighton Seal and hopefully get a prescription for testosterone.
It took two emails and three weeks to receive any response, which, with me being… well, me, was less than comforting. When I did receive a response, I was informed that the next appointment at Charing Cross Hospital (ie. the nearest and most logical place for me to go) was on August 6th, and if I wanted anything earlier, I would have no choice but to phone, press 3 and press 3 again and then negotiate with some Human Beings, preferably without hyperventilating (or worse)… and possibly maybe hopefully get an appointment that way, at a hospital Far Far Away. (OK, not that far, but it’s still less than practical.)
Obviously, that wasn’t an option for me, but it was for my long-suffering mother, and she chose to put herself out (I’m still surprised that anyone bothers with me sometimes, even my parents). She should be an Olympic Flaming-Hoop-Jumper by now.
She went through the process, with an eight-year-old phone running out of credit, battery and general life, hiding in the stationery cupboard at work – because it turns out that’s where I got my paranoia – just to get me an appointment for next Saturday. So now I’m panicking, not because I don’t have an appointment, but because I do… and because there’s little information anywhere to help calm my nerves. At least there’s some excitement mixed up in there somewhere, which is better than nothing; things are moving forward now. They are.
I don’t know where I’m going, what to do when I get there, how long it’ll take, what I need, or what to expect in any context. But then again, I never know these things, because I never do anything from which to gain experience. Still.
So now I’m off to do some Obsessive Research, Aspie-Style.
Oh, and before I go, I just thought I’d share this. While absentmindedly looking through yesterday’s stats page, I noticed that there were more search engine referrers than there usually are. Looking at the search terms, there were the usual logical progressions from A (there) to B (here in Crazy World); you know, “social”-related, “dysphoria”-related… and then there was “big tits”. Not here, I’m afraid. Sorry to disappoint.