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Madison Scott-Clary
2019-12-22 23:57:38 -08:00
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content/gender/surgery/02.html
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---
date: 2019-12-21
weight: 2
fit: true
---
<div class="verse">It is surprisingly hard to think something real
@ -15,7 +16,7 @@ that mean the most to us? What prevents
them from taking the unimportant? The small?
Is the import just to big? Can we not fit all
of the thing in our heads? Are we too weak?
Is the life-changing too fast to explore, to seek
Is the life-changing too vast to explore, to seek
out every corner?
<blockquote>Have you considered that your constant seeking
may be the problem? That your anxieties leaking
@ -39,7 +40,46 @@ of my bottomless shallowness.
more than any cough or cold, more than your chorea,
it provided you with a problem. Something fixable.
It gave you a tangible solution to something integral
that plagued you.</blockquote></div>
that plagued you.</blockquote>
That I had something I could concrete at which to point
that would be fixed by this act, I could thus annoint
it as somehow more worthy, something worth doing.
If I could go through some process of ungluing,
excise this thing from myself I might become whole
in some way never before imagined.
&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp; Ah, but the toll.
There must always some arbitrary price to pay ---
Self-actualization must never be free --- and hey,
Everything in society must come with a reason.
To come up with letters, proof, for that season
of change must serve some sort of divine end.
To wait eighteen long months, to refuse to bend
to others' whims...
<blockquote>You got your letters, you got your date, you did it.
You did your labor, you did your time. They let you fidget
and twist in the wind. Hell, they did it to you twice.
Your letters only good for one year, you had to ask nice
for a second set.</blockquote>
Yes.
&emsp;&emsp; To preempt your 'why', I followed my own advice:
If I feel the same when I'm depressed as I do when I feel nice,
It's a thing worth doing. Eighteen months is time enough
to let at least two depressive cycles call my own bluff.
When they did not, when I panicked at having to reapply
and still pulled through in time, well, no need to justify
my actions any further. That's when it all became real.
That's when I was in. That's when I could tell just by feel
that I was ready for this change. I wasn't <em>ready</em> ready,
but I was ready enough to come off as rock steady
when I called the surgeon's office. I was visibly confident,
even at the pre-operative appointments, totally cognizant
that I didn't deserve this.
<blockquote>Whether or not you deserve this is not up for debate.
Not because you do or don't so much as because the hand fate
dealt you. You had the job, you had the insurance, the means.
You made the call. You took the step. You passed the screens.
<strong>You</strong> did this.</blockquote>
</div>
<!-- I don't think it hit home that surgery was real until six weeks beforehand. Not that I thought it was not going to happen --- though there was some of that, of course --- but that it was something truly surreal. Some unknown and unknowable procedure would happen, and then I would be on the other side. It was almost eldritch: I would close my eyes to miss the madness and awake changed.