I spent a lot of time being fear-ridden during that pre-transition-gender exploration-purgatory that most folks seem to go through. No, I wasn't frozen in place over the fear of losing my relationship, being abandoned by my family, being fired from my job, or how I was going to manage sex and dating. Those were in the background and some of them more carefully buried than others. The biggest mountain that I had to climb in this regard was my abject terror of needles.
At first it was just academic. I made the decision to deal with my gender issues, a friend found a support group, I found a therapist, then I was off and running. Okay, sprinting is more like it. The goal was to get the letter as quickly as possible. I resented therapy, but that's another story. It was something that I had to do to get what I so desperately wanted -- that ever elusive letter that said "rush past Go and get a free moustache" [Please tell me that you young-uns know what a Monopoly game is and understand this reference. If you don't, that was shortly after the earth cooled and when we used to have to walk five miles in the snow to get our $15.00 bottle of T]. Where was I -- oh yeah -- needles.
I wasn't simply afraid of needles. I was terrified. When I say terror, I mean terror. You know, the kind that makes your blood curdle, your sweat run cold, every last bit of color drain from your face, and even the strongest deodorant stop working (no matter what miracle stench they claim to quell in their commercials). For me it, wasn't about the pain because there isn't much, if any of that. In the hundreds of shots that I've had over the past 9.5 years, maybe two or three really hurt and that was because I tightened my butt so hard that the needle just bounced off. What terrified me was the approach. That there would be a sharp pointy thing out there that would be coming closer and closer to me. In other words, the anxiety of being approached with a needle.
It wasn't until I picked up my first prescription that it became perfectly clear that I my case of needlephobia wasn't just bad, it had epic proportions and that I'd have to confront them once every two weeks, forever. I knew that going forward meant that there would be irreversible changes which would create inordinate difficulties if my fears ever got the best of me. As with most things in life, I had another choice -- not to do hormones. That simply was not an option. If it had been I would have saved the money that I had spent on therapy, the doctor, and the prescription. I knew that not long after starting the shots, there would be no going back for me. I was incredibly lucky in the sense that I had a friend who started hormones about a month before I did, who I trusted, and who was competent in the shot- department. I don't know what I would have done without him. With this in mind, and after a wee bit more soul-searching, I decided to proceed.
I distinctly remember that first shot. I was sweating buckets, my hands were shaking, my heart was pounding so loudly in my ears that I had trouble hearing, and my voice was shaking. This all happened just walking into his house. We made small talk, while the air quality grew worse (remember by deoderant had stopped working). I wanted to slap the smile in his eyes right off his face, but I wanted the shot more. After what seemed like an eternity, we finally got around to that. We went into his bedroom. "Don't worry," he says, "it's only a little prick." , I remember dropping trousers, laying on the bed face down because I knew that I was going to pass out if I stood up for the shot, squeezing my eyes so tight that they watered, and waiting for the alleged "little prick" while my mind conjured images of a needle the size of the Empire State Building. Yes, this was one of the times that I had my butt cheeks clenched so hard that I felt pain. There was no way that the first shot was would be pain-free. I had set it up that way. I did a number of things that made the experience be worse than it needed to be -- painstakingly so.
What I also recall vividly was the excitement after it was all over. What was going to happen next? I started watching my body closely for signs. I'm certain that I'm guilty of the same things that guys are doing today, that imaginary chest hair that wasn't there yesterday or some new growth on the upper lip which certainly does not happen within twenty-four hours of taking your first shot. It time, yes. Instantaneously, highly doubtful.
Getting the next few shots over the course of the following three months were not any better. I still had a horrible level of anxiety and trepidation on "shot day", but as my body and voice began to change, the negativity surrounding needles was tempered ever so slightly by the positive changes that I could see and feel. I stopped menstruating within thirty days of the first shot. During the first year I noticed a substantial change in my body chemistry. I began to sweat more, and when I did, I got stinky faster. My "clitoris" enlarged by thickening and lengthening. My voice began to take on an almost gravelly quality as it changed and cracked before becoming what it is today. My facial and body hair started to thicken and darken. Muscularity increased. Body fat began to redistribute to my upper belly as opposed to the lower belly. My hands and feet got a little larger. My face changed a little. It wasn't all good though. While I had increased energy, I also had water retention and acne. There were times that I felt a constant ache or sensation that made me feel like I had to stretch all the time, except that stretching didn't relieve the sensation. I got a scratchy throat which developed into a cold of sorts that managed to hang on for what now seems like months.
While I was thrilled that my shoulders had broaden, I wasn't happy that I'd have to spend money to replace the wardrobe that I rapidly grew out of. Yet, every two weeks I continued to lay down on my belly, baring my naked ass, trying to concentrate on taking deep and even slow breaths, while at the same time muttering profanities low enough that my friend wouldn't overhear me, because it was taking so &#*$#$&#^$&^#& long to get IT [the shot] over with.
At his suggestion, little by little I started a process of desensitization. It started by getting out the bottle of T, the alcohol prep pads, and the needle that would be used for my shot several hours ahead of the dreaded event. I then had to wait several hours after getting the stuff ready and before the shot because I'd get so stressed out. As the months went on I was able to get decrease the period of time between one and the other.
Once I felt comfortable getting the shot right after I set the stuff out, my shot buddy (now my lover) explained the steps of drawing the T into the syringe, then walked me through it. Now I knew why it took so long. The oil is thick and difficult to draw through the needle. One step forward, two steps back. Once I was able to draw prepare the syringe, I had to wait awhile before getting my shot. Back then I called it the "shot delivery device" as even the word "needle" made my blood pressure skyrocket.
In time, I began to look forward to "shot days". I managed to progress to the point where I could draw it and he could give me the shot. I even managed to be able to stand up and get the shots. Over the years I had watched him give himself and others their shots. I'd even heard him explain how to figure out where the sciatic nerve is, so that you can avoid it when giving yourself a shot, and how to make sure that you hadn't hit a blood vessel before depressing the plunger on the syringe and actually injecting the T.
Then it happened . . . . he began to travel extensively on business. We didn't live together and it was hard to tell whether he'd be around on "shot day" or not. There were a few occasions when our schedules simply didn't coincide or one or the other of us would be out of town. Since I still couldn't do my own shots [either emotionally or physically] I had to get other people to do it on a few occasions. Some were good at it and some weren't so good at it.
By that time, 5 to 6 years after starting T, I'd had enough and wanted to be self-sufficient and self-reliant regarding my own shots. So, one shot day while he was in his office [located down the hall at my place], I decided to take matters into my own hands. Instead of saying something to him that would require me to follow-through, I decided to do everything on my own. That way I could chicken out and not lose face. [Listen to me very carefully --> only trained professionals should attempt this. Do NOT try this at home. What I did was incredibly stupid given my needlephobia]. I prepared the syringe, took a deep breath, wiped my ass off with a prep-pad, took a few more deep breaths, watched my face turn as white as a sheet, took even more deep breaths, and stabbed myself in the butt. Well, stab is too harsh a word as the needle only went into my butt about 1/16th or 1/32d of an inch. That was when my body, in it's great wisdom, informed my stubborn mind that it was time to lay down NOW, because my brain clearly wasn't getting enough oxygen. In a pathetic and increasingly urgent voice I called my lover's name. While it seemed almost like a whisper to me, it was loud enough to for him to come racing into my bedroom with a look of concern on his face. Then he realized the nature of my little dilemma and asked "Michael, what the hell do you think that you are doing?" I was practically in tears at this point while that smug little S.O.B was suppressing a chuckle. "Trying to give myself a shot" I explained as calmly as possible a 4-year-old's voice. "Here let me do it," he replied.
"Thank GOD!!!! ," I thought to myself as I repeated following mantra out loud at break-neck pace "don't take it out, don't-take it-out, don't-take-it-out, don'ttakeitout" . "I won't. I won't," he replied. He finished the shot. Helped me lay down because by now I was well on my way to passing out. Then held me as we both broke into hysterical laughter and tears. I promised never to do what I had done again, until we both were in agreement that I was ready to do it alone.
Over the next year, I alternated. Sometimes I gave myself my own shots with him present, and sometimes he gave them to me. I continued that slow process of desensitization. It's been at least 2 years that I have been able to give myself my own shots. Yes, I still rely on him every once in awhile. Some shot days are better than others. Some don't hurt at all and some really are just a little prick. I've not been able to develop that wrist stroke to make it fast. I still work with the method where you rotate the needle slightly while increasing pressure to break the surface tension of the skin. It happens to be the method which gives me the absolute least anxiety.
These days there are other options such as the patch which is fine if you aren't as furry as I happen to be or your don't have an allergic reaction to the adhesive on the pads. I have one friend who is on oral T, but I can't remember to take my vitamins so how am I supposed to remember to take T. I hear that there is a needle free delivery system in the development or testing phase which might help those guys who get as freaked out as I used to get.
I readily admit that I still have my bad days. You know, those times when I get light headed while the needle is in or when I have anxiety, but those days are far fewer and further between. As it happens, today is shot day. Wonder how it will go after writing this article?
Copyright © 2000 By Michael M. Hernandez All Rights Reserved Permission to print in Forge granted July 28, 2000