Estradiol 2 Mg: A Mixtape

“Dark Fantasy” 

It starts on my left wrist with a familiar mosquito bite itch, that itch that never goes away no matter how hard you scratch. My bare fingernails dig into the bump and scrape it off like a scab. Oh, it’s that dream. I place the flesh bump on my bed and scratch again. Skin starts to peel off in long, narrow sheets like you get from using a wood planer. Uncountable scars are removed and tossed into the pile. First, the forearm, then my ham of bicep. Layer after layer is removed and piled up until I can see tendons.  

They’re taut like a cello string, but slightly thicker. It feels like a more malleable piece of hemp with tendrils twisted around each other to make one continuous string from elbow to wrist. Wriggling my finger underneath one, I pull it away from my arm before plucking it back. There’s no resonating note. Just a wet plop. I pinch the end at my wrist, and it cleanly snaps away. A quick tug and it detaches from my elbow. My fingers start pulling more and more away of this red, string cheese from my arm until just crimson bone remains. The skin on my left hand pulls away like putty, no tendons there. I can see the large scar tissue on my thumb from when I cut it on a band saw, but I still can’t feel the tip of it. My fingernails return to work. Calloused fingertips crumble, webbing dissolves, and protruding knuckles are eroded with a slight breath. My fingernails are built into the thick bones like stubby claws. With one arm completed, I start on the rest of my body.  

Hours go by stripping away years of scars, bruises, and muscles. The pile of my former body grows larger than a pillow. A record player. My cello. It finally stops and starts to melt together.  The only thing that remains is shoulder length hair and my aching eyes. Thick, bloody bones are held together by their own sense of gravity. My fists are watermelons. My feet are the same size as my forearms. The big toe is a shot glass. It’s all too big. Too brutish. They start to shrivel. I’m compressing like a can. My fingers no longer look thicker than sausages. A fist is a miniature apple. My feet are half the size. My bones have sanded themselves down to twigs.  

My former body is turned into a thick, wood filler paste. I submerge my hands in the cool sludge. Prickling pain pings from my bones. Whipping them out, unfamiliar but correct hands come out. Thin on the verge of fragility. There are no triceratops’s horn knuckles. I can feel the tip of my left thumb again. I gather more paste and spread it along my arms. They’re small, lacking the toned muscles from years of theatre work and abuse. Smothering my chest, I form breasts and curves I never could have. Dousing myself in baptismal putty, I find my body fixed. My hulking, square form is gone along with scars and phantom pains. I walk over to my mirror, which I have to angle down for the first time since fourth grade. But it’s the same me as before. Nothing has changed.  

I wake up. A nightstand of pill bottles and a quietly playing iPod greet me. The pale screen glows with a quick tap from a bloated sausage. 2:30. My chest hurts. The buds always hurt but refuse to grow fast enough. Everything else seems happy to grow. Never shrink. My body is too big. I take another amitriptyline and roll over as a refrain wonders if “We can get much higher.” 

“Humility” 

It was a Virginia heat, the humid kind that makes the air feel like you’re wading through an old, glob filled nail polish. It wasn’t a swim meet unless there wasn’t at one heat stroke. The parking lot absorbed the stale air’s heat, and what must have been at least fifty bleach white tents covering the tarmac trapped the hundreds of bodies’ heat together. Any fresh air was long since sucked in by seven-year-olds preparing to scream at their friends, parents, and anyone who walked within ten feet of them. The asphalt scalded everyone’s feet, but all the swimmers refused to wear flip-flops in some absurd superiority competition. It seemed to be less of a swim meet and more of an endurance contest, even more so for us high schoolers.  

James’ phone died first. His shoulder length hair looked like it had soaked in the grease from McDonald’s fryers, and it shimmered like an aurora borealis miraculously localized entirely in his hair. He tried to toss a series of pebbles into a sleeping William’s can of Coke.  

“We could play BS,” I suggested, before I was smacked with a newspaper by an adult walking by. James landed a pebble in with a satisfying plip sound. He shrugged before going back to his mission. I scrolled around the BBC before a shriek rang from the next tent over. A fellow swimmer’s phone screen had started to melt. James passed me his and William’s phone as I traded another Coke from our ice pack for the three phones. Our headphones were hidden underneath a towel for safekeeping. The first melt happened earlier than past years. Our line of defense from the kids was lost.  

Their parents had disappeared shortly after the meet began to gossip, leaving their kids with ten or fifteen dollars for food. The lawless land of the asphalt fell to shouts of John cheating at Go Fish or Stacy stealing Sally’s spot on the towel. I got one act into Henry V before I realized we had been surrounded by a pack of ten-year-old girls. They all looked identical, tan skin, a little over three feet tall, and brown hair going down a third of that.  

“What are you doing?” their leader asked. She had blue eyes.  

“Why?” I stared Blue Eyes down.  

“We want to play.” 

“Find somewhere else.” Immediately they all started to scream. William flinched, his first movement in three hours. “Fine, fine, stop screaming. Play however you want.” How do you not negotiate with terrorists? James kindly threw me to the pack as he dashed off to grab lunch, pulling a noncognizant William with him. Their leader was handed a bottle of nail polish. The other three girls bounced up and down like the lane buoys in the swimming pool.  

“Don’t move.” Blue Eyes gingerly placed pink glitter on my toes and carefully smeared red nail polish onto my fingernails. My companions returned as my left pointer finger was being finished. I was told not to touch anything for 30 minutes to let them dry, an order I dutifully followed much to James’ disgust. I just started at the sparkling polish and smiled. 

“Stay Inside” 

Gender dysphoria is weird. It’s been such an ingrained part of my life that I can’t remember a time that I haven’t felt it like an uncomfortable flesh sack around my body. I remember the limited time where I wasn’t severely depressed, but that comes in waves with the manic episodes. Dysphoria is inescapable. That’s because it is always my body. My dream is wonderful until the nightmare starts when I wake up back to my disgusting body with enough body hair to be called a gorilla. Late night shaving fits have been a staple of my life since high school even before I was out, under the justification of having my hair catching fire while welding. The self-loathing inherent in existing with the wrong body was ever so slightly lessened with smooth skin. Dressing and acting every day in the most hypermasculine methods to avoid standing out in any form probably didn’t help much.  

Gender dysphoria is weird. I can’t think of any other mental health issue that has been used to identify a whole group of people (although my best friend and I occasionally referred to ourselves as depressies in high school. That never really caught on). Once you come out as trans, your identity up until that point gets washed away to be replaced with the “trans label”. Did you have a dark sense of humor? No, you have that trans humor. How about talking about games or movies with people in-between classes? Nope, you would really only talk about how there’s bad trans representation in media. The worst has to be the never-ending barrage of “supportive” adults requesting that you “tell your story”. Just not the normal parts. Only the trans sections. And only the ones that are the moments of clarity and wholesomeness. Really just the coming out moment and how you knew unless those moments involved conflict with your parents.  

Gender dysphoria is weird. It’s a strange combination of personal and societal woes. While most of it is a constant aching in my chest, hating what hangs between my legs, and an insatiable jealousy of everyone else’s comfort in their bodies, the other part is admiring what they’re wearing. The dresses, the skirts, the crop-tops, all things that feel so much more right to wear compared to khaki pants, collared shirts, and baggy jeans. But the never-ending anxiety of outing yourself to everyone that can see you makes it something I can never do when I will be alone for more than five minutes. I make the mistake everyday of reading about queer news, and each and every day I’m greeted with an increasing pressure to pass or get called a groomer and a pedophile. Some people seem to be fine with the theory of someone being trans, but once any sort of action is taken towards transitioning, the situation changes. Well, some people seem fine with the theory. It certainly seems that is becoming less and less with new laws and movements rushing forward every day. It makes me wish I wasn’t trans. I find myself neurotically locking and waiting by my apartment door as I wait for someone to come so I don’t have to be outside alone.  

“Criminal” 

Jason hadn’t gone to any other classes after Forum class that day. A hideous amalgamation of toxic masculinity under the guise of an open conversation, I wouldn’t say anyone ever really enjoyed the class. The scattershot approach to what might be considered awkward subjects for middle schoolers was handled with as much tact as tetherball. The section on sex had included a live birth video, a short diagram of female anatomy, which Mr. Jamison had told us to think about as tubes in the shape of an elephant and concluded with the question of why girls were sluts for sleeping with lots of guys. The answer was simply that guys were studs because it took an effort to get a girl to sleep with them, whereas girls can get sex whenever they want.  

I arrived just as the bell rung. My baggy, red hoodie sagged with miscellaneous pencils, acorn tops, and rocks. Grass drifted off my khaki pants as I collapsed in my seat. Mr. Jamison slowly checked off attendance. Nathan and John were deep in conversation behind me.  

“You think he’s actually retarded? He’s got that weird scrunched up face too.” 

“Probably. You hear the way he stuttered when Stephen asked if he wanted to join the game? I-I-I ju-jus-just don’t wa-. Couldn’t even finish the fucking sentence.”  

Mr. Jamison eyed the pair as they talked but did nothing to stop them. He gave the order to circle up, orchestrating the painful screeches of fifteen desks. He sat down with a stern face.  

“Alright guys. This is going to be a hard class period. We’re talking about homosexuality.” Snickers and murmurs went around the class. I clicked my pen. “Look, we’re just going to have a very frank discussion and get your thoughts. So just a show of hands, who hates, dislikes, or is afraid of gay people?” All but three hands raised. “Alright, let’s get some thoughts about it? James, you have something to say?” The pale head underneath a mop of brown nodded and adjusted a cross around his neck.  

“Well, they’re abominations in God’s eyes. They go against His word and nature.” The Jackson to my right murmured causing a Jackson to my left to laugh.   
“Fucking faggots.”  

Mr. Jamison nodded and looked around for more volunteers. Left Jackson practically leaped out of his seat. 

“They’re a bunch of rapists. Like they wanna rape any good-looking guy, especially kids.” Nods went about the class as more and more people gave their reasons for hating gay men. The teacher waited until there were no more volunteers before asking, “Does anyone want to say why they aren’t afraid of homosexuals?”  

“They’re just people.” Angry eyes turned to a normally popular student in the class. “Aren’t we supposed to respect anyone even if they’re different? Even if they’re weird. Like we don’t treat black people different.”  

“We should,” Nathan whispered to John. Mr. Jamison nodded again, proud of his classes accepting nature.  
“How about lesbians? Are they any different? James?” 

“Well, they’re hot.” 

“Never Better” 

If you taste it, you waste it. Any food in your mouth will need to be mercilessly forced down your throat with a flood of water that would sink Noah’s ark. Two teal pills get nestled under my tongue next to the salivary glands. No flavor, good. If it’s eleven now, the pills should be mostly dissolved by twelve, but remnants that feel like wet sand won’t be gone until the first sip of water. An hour without words or drinks. The saliva tide is coming in. I press my tongue down until I can feel the slowly crumbling shape of the pills. A small portion of tainted saliva seeps up, tracing just along the edges of my taste buds. It’s sweet. Estradiol is Jesus, changing saliva to sugar water. The core ingredients of a girl do in fact include some variance of “sugar and spice and everything nice”. By now a little bit of everything nice has sunk through my gums and started to swim around the bloodstream, sprinkling little delights to my endocrine system, reshaping my body, forming breasts like rose buds.  

They always ache, but where there’s buds, there’s thorns. Stay still too long and blood clots will clump together, first in my thighs, then my lungs. At least that’s what the endocrinologist said.  Stand up, walk around, sit, repeat. Why am I so lightheaded? Did I drink before taking pills? Spironolactone dehydrates you. Or is it something worse?  My mother says a transwoman went blind recently after increasing her dose. Have those spots always been there? No, just some sunlight. How long have I been sitting? Are my ankles hurting? They kind of ache. Does that mean it’s a clot? I’m supposed to be able to feel the clots forming, but what if there’s one already in my lung? Then of course there’s my liver. No real way to know when that’s giving out, especially with the way I’m starting to drink. The dementia too. Almost forgot about that one. Oh, the pills are gone. The wet sand is still there though. As I pour myself some water, I wonder if I’ll die as that transwoman that showed why not to transition, the one that was killed when they found out what was “down there”, or of old age if I don’t kill myself first.  

“Time in a Tree”  

Estradiol does a lot. Well, to be fair, it wouldn’t do as much without a testosterone blocker (turns out I don’t actually have that much to block). Surface level changes include being more susceptible to sunburn, decreased acne, softer skin, and breast development. All great changes, except for the whole sunburn part. Everything has gone exactly as my medical notes said they would. Most changes go unnoticed, and it takes two years to have everything finish development. None of my family members that don’t know I’m transitioning have said anything, and there’s not much to notice yet. Internally, it starts to slowly change the way the body distributes fat, stops male pattern baldness (thank God), decreases sex drive, kills your sperm, thins out body hair, and messes with your head. Even before you dive into the hormones, there’s internal and external expectations on your transition.  

Something that my mother couldn’t seem to accept was the fact that I can’t have kids. It was something I decided a long time before going on hormones, and it’s become the sticking point of my transition. Putting aside the fact that our Earth is utterly too small for an increasing population, my family’s history with mental health isn’t something I want to pass on. The fact that your sex drive and sperm viability take a huge dive actually made me happy. But countless arguments erupted over how I was shutting off a key part of life. How could I ruin things for myself in the future? Of course, there was never room in the conversation to talk about a key step to making kids that I wanted to avoid in my current state.  

Raging testosterone of puberty makes it hard to ignore sexuality. Estrogen promised to dampen, if not mute those feelings. This is a second godsend of Estradiol. Anything that would make it easier to ignore the most disgusting part of my body. Sex is a constant reminder of what I’m not. Even the definitive escape, the surgery, the one everyone is so overjoyed to ask about, is something that I’m not even sure I want. Countless people who go through with the surgery suffer immense pain due to the process, which is so much more complicated and invasive then just “cutting off your dick”.  Not to mention that the surgery is crude and ridiculously expensive (approximately a hundred thousand dollars that most insurances don’t cover). Sure, it works for most people, but its hard to ignore the outliers that are vocal about how hard an experience it was.  I’m at the proverbial crossroads where I’m constantly asked what my transition plan is. Hormones is never a good enough answer. Everyone needs to know what’s the plan in the pants. But at some point, you have to start somewhere, and for me that was Estradiol and Puperty 2.0. 

Puberty 2.0, like Puberty 1.0, really fucking sucks. The problem with 2.0 is the expectation that it’ll be 1.0 again. It is an indoor, single seat, launch coaster with a start of eighty miles per hour compared to a classic, outdoor coaster with a four-hundred-foot drop into loop de loops. Both are rollercoasters and can be immensely terrifying, so it might be hard to say which is worse. But 2.0 is worse. Look, 1.0 had a nice build where you get to look out over the amusement park of life, maybe talk with your friend about their fears or excitements, snap a picture before the drop. 2.0 is sitting down in a dark room with no one to talk to and a good amount of time to think about the fact that you volunteered to get on this ride that you don’t know where it really goes. A few ideas start to come to your mind—and launch. Puberty 2.0 hits its peak speed in four months, at least for me. While 1.0 was a rage inducing fist fight, 2.0 is like being turned into a house of cards. I’m crying at music, shows, and books on a weekly basis, when in my 20 years prior to estrogen, I had only cried from one show. And I had been sick for three weeks. And unable to sleep for the two of those weeks. But crying still feels better than punching a wall and exploding like a shaken can of Coke.  

“Runaway” 

If my blue Honda Fit had muscle memory, then it could have driven itself to Barnes and Nobles. The “local” bookstore had been a safe haven for my family since I started to read. My father, when he wasn’t working himself to the point of hospitalization, made a visit to the store every other week to find a new WWII book or another Robert E. Lee biography. His life goal is to have his own personal library, and each book he has is stamped and signed by him. Barnes and Nobles also was a great place to hang out with my girlfriend, as we spent hours reading books we never meant to buy or making fun of the ridiculous, overpriced knick-knacks that were constantly on sale.  

I pulled up into our regular spot. My palms were sweaty. In two years, I’d never been this nervous. “Hey, I’m going on hormones.” She looked over with more shock than when I came out originally. 

“You won’t be able to have kids.”  

“I know.” 

“It’s a huge change. You can’t go back from it.” 

“I know what it does, I’m not going into it blind.” 

“I’m not bi.” She spat.  

“I’m sorry?”  

“It was a stupid phase, it doesn’t matter. I can’t believe I’m going to have to come out to my family as straight.” 

“What about us? What about me?” 

“I don’t know. Let’s just go inside.” 

“Drug Ballad” 

Maddie entered the basement in black turtleneck, black skinny jeans, and teal nails.  

“No more collared shirts and khakis?” Jason took a sip of eggnog.  

“Never again. Out of the closet with a new wardrobe.” She picked a Gamecube controller of the shelf and started unwrapping the cord as she had every year before. “Also, gaydar is just real I guess?” The murmur of fifty or some adults conversing as they drank hundreds of dollars of alcohol was drowned out as Smash Brothers booted up. My family’s yearly Christmas party was in part a chance for them to catch up with their friends and part a chance for my dad to woo his clients from work. As soon as our friend group figured out that we could play games in the basement with food and desserts available for an extended evening, we cemented our first tradition.  

“Trans-radar with you and me in kindergarten, then queerdar with Jason in fourth grade. How’d your parents take it?” I asked.  

“Good. Just have to correct name and pronouns every so often.”  

“That’s a never-ending process there.”  

“See, this is where I have the high ground. My parents can’t really mess up when I fuck guys.” Jason finished his first cup of eggnog and shifted to his vodka tonic. “Now, if my family was really Christian, I would have to deal with the relatives telling me I’m going to hell.”  

“Oh, but you’re missing out on getting drunk and forgetting that men will chase after your new breasts.” Jason raised his eyebrows in curiosity as he continued his drink but didn’t care nearly enough to ask for the full story.  

“I have another month of hard drinking before I go on hormones. Then I’ll have to switch to weed or acid if I really want to be self destructive.” Maddie started remapping her controls.  

“See, I feel like I missed my drinking and weed window in high school. Literally everyone except maybe two people in theatre went hard.” 

“All the queers minus two breeders?” Jason set down half-finished drink. 

“Basically. A bunch woke up like an hour out of Richmond after getting high on cough syrup after prom.” As the match started, we all fell silent. Frantic clicking and mashing of buttons and analog sticks filled the air until Jason got eliminated, another tradition. He looked over the CDs scattered around the shelf.  

“Who’s Namoli Brennet.” He was already on his phone googling her.  

“A trans musician that came to UMW.” I dropped my controller as Maddie beat me. The tradition was fulfilled. Maddie was already selecting her next character. 

“Any good?”  

“Not what I exactly like, but I figured I should support her.” 

“So you got guilted into it. How many times have you listened to her?” 

“Once. Twice including her concert. Trans support trans I guess.” 

“Except for that cunt Caitlyn Jenner.” Jason and I both stared at Maddie. “It’s cool, I can say it now.” 

“Never stopped you before.” I said. She shrugged. “Oh, y’all hear about fucking Juice Wrld?” Jason started pointing at me, throwing back another drink with his other hand.  

“It really sucks since he made good music.” Maddie cracked her fingers as the next match started.  

“You said that about XXXTentacion.” 

“And I stand by that statement.”  

“Stupidest death ever though. He swallowed so many goddamn Percocets cause he was worried about getting arrested.” Jason spoke through a partially full mouth. “What did he think would happen when he took thirty pills?” 

“Eighteen is lethal.” Maddie said.  

  “Six Vicodin would also do it.” Jason stated.  

“Six amitriptyline is the limit.” I mumbled. We fell silent again. The murmur of adults drifted down from the upper floors. Finally, Maddie started the next round.  

“Ghost Town” 

My blue Honda stalled out for the third time in a row. Even after four years of driving, I still can’t get out of first consistently. Jason started laughing at my vitriolic spew of curses fumbling out of mouth. “Monster” abruptly cut on as I restarted the car, and Kanye reminded us that he needed to see our “fucking hands at the concert.” A red pickup truck laid on the horn behind us as the light turned red. Jason picked a chip out of the Moe’s bag.  

“Wish you had an automatic yet?” 

“Fuck no. That’s so goddamn boring.”  

“I don’t know this seems pretty boring.” He munched on the chip muttering along with the lyrics, “Pussy in a sarcophagus.”  

“How’s John’s mead that he’s been making in your closet coming along?” 

“My idiot brother joined the crew team, who informed him that drinking ruins his gains.” 

“That’s how many months wasted?”  

“Close to a year. Apparently, the people on the team smokes weed instead.” 

“I tell you about that girl in my theatre class?”  

“Nah.”  

“She smoked every day for a class she couldn’t understand sober, so she’d go get high at ten to get through the class.”  

“Fucking theatre kids.” 

“We’re all gay and depressed, what do you expect?”  

“Drink and fuck until antidepressants make that unfeasible. Have you learned nothing about the gay scene?”  

“That’s sustainable.” He shrugged and cranked the volume for Nikki’s verse. 

“Pull up in the monster, automobile gangsta with a bad bitch that came from Sri Lanka. Yeah I'm in that Tonka, color of Willy Wonka. You could be the king but watch the queen conquer. Okay, first things first, I'll eat your brains.” He grabbed another chip in a vain attempt to hide that he hadn’t quite mastered the whole verse yet.   

“You were doing so well until you just didn’t know anything.” 

“The first part is the most iconic, and that’s all I need. Marrying Kim was the worst creative decision Kanye ever made.” 

“You drunk called that to me. Ye was pretty good.” 

“He hates being bipolar. It’s awesome.” He skipped two tracks to get to “Runaway” and let the opening piano keys resonate in my small car before turning it down. “Can I ask a personal question?” 

“Always.” 

“When you got out of the hospital, did everything get better?” 

“No. I thought it would, like that it was a one stop fix all thing.” 

“God, it wasn’t that.” 

“No, but I kinda got to a realization, you know. Of like, if I have to be here, I gotta be me. If I’m not, then I’m just gonna end up another queer kid that took her life. And I’m lucky enough to be able to live like that. But fuck did I wish that would just make everything better. It comes in waves, you know? God knows hormones don’t help. There’s that euphoria of when you’re out, but that never lasts forever. Who knows, maybe I’m bipolar.” 

“That’s what I thought.” 

“That I’m bipolar?”  

“Well, yeah, but also like my meds got changed while I was in there, and the doctors seemed happy, like that would fix everything. I didn’t know if that was shared.” Pusha T’s verse finally started. 

“Yep. For us lucky ones that got out. One guy was hopping backing and forth between hospitals until a long-term place was open. And he had just kinda accepted it. That he would never be on the outside again.” 

“That’s fucked.” 

“Yeah.” It wasn’t until the final distorted section that he spoke again.  

“You know, middle school was the worse-” 

“Oh, but what about forum class?” 

“You’re right, hiding in a bathroom for a day was a great experience, but other than that it sucked. But before then, life was good.” 

“Good, simple and boring.” 

“It’s never gonna be that simple again.” 

“Nope, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be good. We’ve got Moe’s, music, drinks and the chance to be our real selves.”  

He nodded and took another chip.  

Tracklist 

1. “Dark Fantasy” from My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy by Kanye West 

2. “Humility (feat. George Benson)” from The Now Now by Gorillaz 

3. “Stay Inside” from You’re a Man Now, Boy by Raleigh Ritchie 

4. “Criminal” from The Marshall Mathers LP by Eminem 

5. “Never Better” from You’re a Man Now, Boy by Raleigh Ritchie 

6. “Time in a Tree” Andy by Raleigh Ritchie 

7. “Runaway” from My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy by Kanye West 

8. “Drug Ballad” from The Marshall Mathers LP by Eminem 

9. “Ghost Town” from Ye by Kanye West