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Questions

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“You’re very young,” she said, her frail hands on my shoulders as she scrutinised me.

“Twenty-six,” I said. “With a young face.”

She laughed.

“You’ve heard that before!” After a pause, “But still, very young.”

“Am I?” I asked.

“Most people are a lot older than you when they start. What made you want to convert?”

“I don’t know,” I said, honest for almost the first time. “It’s just been a question for over half my life.”

I was around ten years old, with a stomach bug so bad it had made my gums bleed. A doctor gave me a book called, I think, I Am David, about a small boy who is helped to escape from a concentration camp. He has lived there for as long as he can recall.

The book itself was twee, and I hated it, but I was told I should read it. David is not Jewish, but prays to “the god of green pastures” that he has overheard other prisoners pray to.

The fact David got a choice stuck with me. His faith, unlike mine, was actually his.

I was a precocious child, a prodigy, so I was told. So I felt my place in the world was to find answers, and before I could find answers, I needed to ask questions.

So naturally I started with the biggest question I could think of- the Universe.

I was a lonely child. Not just an only one- a lonely one. When I asked for amusement, I was told that “only boring people get bored”.

I could lie. I could say that I was not alone, that I was with the Omnipresent. But I was alone, and I was lonely, and I was bored. My parents didn’t really like games.

I had a lot of theories. Death, I decided, would be just your final moment, stretched out into eternity. So your final judgement would be your own mind in that moment. Another time I would decide that the Omnipresent was not a spirit, but actually was the material of the Universe- all that is, was and will be.
If I am young now, what was I then?

Philosophy, when it meant reading other people’s theories, was dry. I liked Nietzsche, but only for the exclamation marks.

Despite being a grot who hated church and reverence and pitied those poor wretches who got forced into choir and altar service, I found that religion was something of a specialist subject of mine.

I was angry and a teenager and determined to find myself in the story of everything.

Maybe I could have gone looking for myself outside of scripture. But that never made sense to me. If this is a gift from the divine, why should it belong to someone else but not to me? Am I not also made in the divine image?

I was still not a great reader, but I was stubborn.

Even that isn’t the answer. Teenage angst and emptiness could only take me so far, the same for childhood loneliness. As an adult, the narrative of exile and return, the long days in the wilderness, those spoke to me. The rainbow- a symbol of the promise made to Noah, and repeated to me on my toughest days.

A question was asked a thousand times, and the answer came together like painting-by-numbers. Not all at once, but bit by bit, and the more I looked it, the more I thought I could make sense of it.

I am converting to Judaism. It will take around eighteen months. I think people told me that thinking it would shock me, but I’m trans- eighteen months is nothing.

So I am now undergoing two transitions side by side. I know it will be stressful- but I don’t feel I had any other choice.

_______

This blog post was deleted several times and rewritten from scratch, occasionally with very cold fingers.

Please reblog or buy me a coffee as I am in great need of support right now.

Get Over It

This blog is about blood, cause it’s part of a normal life for a lot of people and deserves to be talked about. Don’t like, don’t read.

Menstruation is fucking tough. Full stop. And being gender non-conforming in any way just makes it worse.

It’s really hard to talk about without just being straight-up brutal. Because, unfortunately, the experience is often just straight-up brutal. Blood. Pain. Emotions that feel like they are not your own. Bad skin. Skin that makes “bad skin” seem good.

The stink. Stupid jokes from stupid boys in high school. Getting caught without a pad, making do with a wodge of harsh tissue paper.
The raucous cacophony of a pad being unwrapped in a public bathroom.

Despite the fact that around half the population go through this for a week a month for four decades of their lives, I am still gripped by a profound sense of shame when I talk about menstruation- even in these delicate terms.

That is the baseline. Now imagine that shame multiplied by the fact that every leaflet, every online guide you will ever read uses terms like “woman” and “female”, words you have never felt any affinity for. You realise that you are an aberration, with no right to exist.

Let’s face it, menstruation brings with it a state of emotional fragility. It just does. Last time I had a period, someone showed me a picture of a puppy and I cried because I couldn’t pet it.

On top of everything else, a menstruating person has an even tougher choice than usual in the bathroom department. You might have seen the hashtag We Just Need To Pee, but the hashtag I Need A Menstrual Hygiene Bin But I Have Facial Hair never really caught on.

If you’re menstruating, you can’t just hold it. I have an eight hour work day and need to change menstrual products every 4 to 6. Leave it longer than 8 and tampon users are at risk of (potentially fatal) toxic shock syndrome.

Yes, they could use pads. But men’s underwear doesn’t allow the use of pads, which means slipping a pair of women’s underneath.

There is a third way. It’s eco-friendly and quiet and clean and safe and cheap. And painful and awkward and triggering. It’s a menstrual cup. The benefits of menstrual cups do, for me, outweigh the downsides as without a bin at work, I can’t dispose of anything that can’t be flushed- and in case you didn’t know, pads and tampons cannot be flushed.

However. We need to destroy the shame around bleeding, for everyone’s sake. It’s a common experience for so many people, and yet I have seen actual disgust on cashiers’ faces for me daring to buy two boxes of tampons and not even having the decency to double bag them.

It hurts kids, too. Precocious puberty is a real issue, and telling 8 year olds that they’re “becoming a woman” is, uh, super fucked up. You’re telling an 8 year old that their childhood is over. Think Cersei and Sansa.

Give them facts. Don’t hide it under pretty words so we can pretend bleeding, occasionally unbearably painfully, is beautiful- just so you can pretend it’s a feminine thing, rather than just a biological function that serves a practical purpose.

Some people bleed. Get the fuck over it.

Get Over It

This blog is about blood, cause it’s part of a normal life for a lot of people and deserves to be talked about. Don’t like, don’t read.

Menstruation is fucking tough. Full stop. And being gender non-conforming in any way just makes it worse.

It’s really hard to talk about without just being straight-up brutal. Because, unfortunately, the experience is often just straight-up brutal. Blood. Pain. Emotions that feel like they are not your own. Bad skin. Skin that makes “bad skin” seem good.

The stink. Stupid jokes from stupid boys in high school. Getting caught without a pad, making do with a wodge of harsh tissue paper.
The raucous cacophony of a pad being unwrapped in a public bathroom.

Despite the fact that around half the population go through this for a week a month for four decades of their lives, I am still gripped by a profound sense of shame when I talk about menstruation- even in these delicate terms.

That is the baseline. Now imagine that shame multiplied by the fact that every leaflet, every online guide you will ever read uses terms like “woman” and “female”, words you have never felt any affinity for. You realise that you are an aberration, with no right to exist.

Let’s face it, menstruation brings with it a state of emotional fragility. It just does. Last time I had a period, someone showed me a picture of a puppy and I cried because I couldn’t pet it.

On top of everything else, a menstruating person has an even tougher choice than usual in the bathroom department. You might have seen the hashtag We Just Need To Pee, but the hashtag I Need A Menstrual Hygiene Bin But I Have Facial Hair never really caught on.

If you’re menstruating, you can’t just hold it. I have an eight hour work day and need to change menstrual products every 4 to 6. Leave it longer than 8 and tampon users are at risk of (potentially fatal) toxic shock syndrome.

Yes, they could use pads. But men’s underwear doesn’t allow the use of pads, which means slipping a pair of women’s underneath.

There is a third way. It’s eco-friendly and quiet and clean and safe and cheap. And painful and awkward and triggering. It’s a menstrual cup. The benefits of menstrual cups do, for me, outweigh the downsides as without a bin at work, I can’t dispose of anything that can’t be flushed- and in case you didn’t know, pads and tampons cannot be flushed.

However. We need to destroy the shame around bleeding, for everyone’s sake. It’s a common experience for so many people, and yet I have seen actual disgust on cashiers’ faces for me daring to buy two boxes of tampons and not even having the decency to double bag them.

It hurts kids, too. Precocious puberty is a real issue, and telling 8 year olds that they’re “becoming a woman” is, uh, super fucked up. You’re telling an 8 year old that their childhood is over. Think Cersei and Sansa.

Give them facts. Don’t hide it under pretty words so we can pretend bleeding, occasionally unbearably painfully, is beautiful- just so you can pretend it’s a feminine thing, rather than just a biological function that serves a practical purpose.

Some people bleed. Get the fuck over it.