All the planning and fundraising I did in February and March was done under the pretense that KC would be a healthy escape from my mother’s, a place with more opportunity, where I had more community, where the city offered better trans resources, where my place of residence afforded me many potential places of employment within walking distance. That was all before my arrest the weekend before I was supposed to rent the moving van, which I couldn’t rent due to my arrest, and which should have been a sign to call off the move. Friends I spoke with encouraged me to go through with the move anyway, but I should have listened to the part of me that was curled up in a ball screaming hoarse at the void every night, should have known myself better, should have listened to my instinct to withdraw and focus on caring for myself rather than my urge to take on all these new burdens as I had planned to, to buckle down and muscle up and and power through and all that.
The problem was, that monolith followed me to KC. And dealing with it on top of everything else I brought took the three month buffer of not paying rent my landlady had offered me so I could have an easier time finding work and getting settled in this new city, and turned them into 3 months of dealing with escalating trauma and escalating legal consequences and escalating legal fees I couldn’t afford and didn’t know how to pay and the escalating health consequences of carrying that in a foreign city while you’re supposed to be taking on the other burdens of building a life.
This trip became one of encountering my limits and understanding what is and is not possible to power through. I had hoped it would be a trip of putting down roots and finding sources of money to get out from under my maxed credit cards (which are now in collections) and my private student loan (currently in default) and my health problems (which my new fundraiser is finally helping me address, thank you so much).
TLDR: girl can’t get a break.
Glad this issue is getting some attention, from the press and from the scientific community.
I have friends who have gone through monstrous withdrawal experiences from these drugs. I have friends whose lives the drugs have dramatically improved.
Antidepressants have: done nothing to improve my life; improved my life; exacted significant tolls upon my life in exchange for improving it; wrecked my body without improving my life; asked me to weigh their benefits against their costs; led me to stop and restart and change dosage and change meds and abandon them and thank the gods for them over the last decade and a half; been prescribed in informed-sounding ways; been prescribed with serious discussion of withdrawal; been prescribed as if a lighthearted jaunt through a casino; been prescribed as if methodically combing a troubleshooting guide; led me to avoid them for the better part of a decade; made me functional enough to complete graduate school despite not feeling enough like myself to enjoy as much of the experience as I thought I would; made me functional enough to complete my first and last year of full-time college teaching though I didn’t enjoy that experience much either.
There is nothing redeeming or good about depression. I’m glad science has given us antidepressants–sometimes they help. Sometimes they save lives. Sometimes they repair people. Sometimes they make the unbearable more bearable and life more livable.
I have serious problems with how antidepressants are prescribed so often right now that it seems as if our culture would rather medicate away how guts-crushingly shitty everything is than to do the work of fixing the large-scale social problems that make so many people depressed, hopeless, suicidal, and unable to imagine surviving another day.
This is not everyone’s story. There are many depressions, many flavors, many sources, many treatments.
I’m glad we are, culturally, starting to look at the back end of depression and antidepressants, to try and make this thing–treatment, product, drug, addiction, boon, burden, mess–that already asks so much of people one day ask less.
K so quick history: my breasts have grown QUITE A BIT since I started taking progesterone in October, and they’ve grown even more since I started consistently taking it as a suppository in December. None of my old bras fit anymore, which made my breasts constantly sore (ball-havers, imagine squeezing your balls into too-tighty-whiteys for months, like, 2-4 sizes too small), so I threw down on some new bras, from Torrid. I was wearing exclusively Maidenform 38B bras for the last three years, except for random sports bras I found at Ross or on sale at Target.
These Torrid bras are the comfiest things I’ve ever wrapped around my girls.
I’m definitely a 42 band size. Everything I ordered was a 42. I measured myself before I ordered and I was closer to 42 than 41 but still in between, so I gambled a little and got lucky. 42 feels right. Snug but not tight. In place but not pinching. I ordered mostly D cups with a few Cs and Bs thrown in there in case I had measured wrong.
Turns out I measured wrong. I followed a few guides, measured around the fullest part of the bust, still got the wrong cup size. Guess my boobs are just reaching for the stars.
After an afternoon of trying on seven bras, I’m returning five. I’m keeping the 42Bs, one demi, one sports, and returning all the rest. Just too much room in the cups in those.
Once things get returned and I get reimbursed, I’m def ordering more. Like, this is a memory foam demi, but I want to try some more basic T-shirt bras in more common colors (this one is a lush dark purple, sale ftw) and styles (give me some lace I want to feel sexy sometimes) (also is probs a good idea to have more than one sports bra, espesh if I’m planning to starts sportsing more). I’ll have more money when my freelancing gig pays up in a few weeks, but can’t order anything now, so I have time to strategize.
Good news: This 42B demi is just THE comfiest thing. There is really no feeling like…tfw metal wires aren’t digging into the sides of your breasts. The underwire (cozily cushioned) points up into my armpit rather than to my shoulders, so I’m convinced 42 is the band I need. Victory!
SMALL DILEMMA THO: There’s still a little room in the cups. Like, when I sit down and lean back, the upper lip (?) of the cup rises off my breast maybe a centimeter, more on the right breast. Again, super comfy, but that’s the roomiest I’ve ever worn a comfy bra.
Fellow boob-havers, does this mean the bra is too big? Should I maybe order a few more bras down a band size and up a cup size to see if they’re too snug before deciding i am def a 42B at the moment? Like, 40Cs and 40Bs? I’d look for 40As but I don’t have the money for custom bras rn.
Also, my girls are still growing, so I don’t want to invest too much in bras–I need just enough underwear to be functional until my girls are finished coming into their own–so maybe I should just stick with 42Bs for a minute and wait to grow into em more?
Anyways, if y’all were in my situation (female puberty), what would you consider? Thanks for any tips!
Charts! Bullets! I thought I knew all this stuff but I learned some new stuff. Estrogen changes the shape of my pelvis (a little)? One more reason to love it ❤
The equivalent of anti-gay reparative therapy–read: discrimination–getting shut down. WIN.