/Estel· Juvanteny i Fradera. Neutral and masculine pronouns. Twenty-seven years old. Non-Binary Trans person on hormone therapy. Working class and from a small town. Artist, Educator, and Activist. Without economic independence./

For more information: esteljuvanteny@gmail.com / @3.lll.lll

 

When can we say that we can't take it anymore?

I have been taught to conform, and I have learned to survive, like everyone else. To say, "it is what it is," until I "decided" that I couldn't take it anymore. I "decided," quotes, because I didn't have many other options. I woke up every day to a self who preferred not to exist anymore, but out of conformity and not to disappoint anyone, struggled to survived until the end of the day, everyday. To conform is not to decide; to conform is to submit to others deciding for you.

 

At sixteen, I had already clear that, at the very least, my breasts did not belong to me. They grew without my permission, and everyone thought it was normal except me. Suddenly, I was finding myself burdened with two breasts, that seemed disproportionately large, for a lifetime. They seemed that way because I was constantly reminded about it every day at school. Often the only thing other people saw, was my tits. It seemed like those breasts had decided the rest of my life. Not my pussy, at that time, it was the tits.

 

In class, everyone had a nickname, chosen by those who had less desire to be in school but had to remain there, and the clever ones who took advantage of this rebaptizement to spice up the boredom of the outdated curriculum. My nickname was "postisses" in English: “fakes” (ugh, it feels like a "deadname").

My breasts attracted attention, whether hidden under a shirt and layers of clothing or exposed like fruits in a cleavage, to the point that there were speculations that they were fake breasts. Without my consent, people took the liberty of staring at them unabashedly, touching them, and demanding them. Disgusting, when I think about it, I would tear them off myself... That's when they detached from me, I believe, and it wasn't my will, it just happened.

 

Those large, round breasts tore inside me and detached, staying where they were but empty of me. I, as Estel·, end myself from the age of sixteen at the base of my chest, and this is something that has been challenging to explain. I have tried everything to reapropiate them; once I took drugs, and for a moment, I felt those breasts filled of me, but it lasted next to nothing, and I can't live on drugs because I have things to do, and when I'm druged I loose all control. People said: "but how can you not want to live in this body, it's beautiful" and "these breasts, I wish mine were as big as yours, appreciate what you have." I won't say it didn't hurt, that pain that wasn't visible and, therefore, wasn't recognized. Besides the pain of the moment, this has tortured me medieval-style, like a reverb that “noise feedbacks” with other pains, for years and years and years. 

Now, eleven months into testosterone hormonal therapy, my breasts are empty of fat. Only the mammary gland remains, often deflated like sad balloons over my belly. Now, I feel even more how detached they are from me.

 

The kids were not wrong; my breasts are fake because what I have are pectorals.

 

The thing is, the urgency to align this part of my body with myself is increasing, so I can have a dignified life. I feel miserable, and that's why I "decide" that I can't take it anymore. I seek help to finance this operation because I can't bear the cost alone, and at the health center, they give me an eight-year wait.

 

I know that the physical pain of surgery will be there in various forms for months, damn, but it won't be anywhere near the pain I have endured and faced every day. No doctor can explain this to you; I am the only one who can tell it. Now I anticipate it as an informed person, and I hope that, in some time, I can explain it to you as a person who has undergone the operation <3.

 

If you want me to explain how I am experiencing it right now:

 

Getting dressed is a challenge every day; it takes hours, and I don't have that much clothing, believe me. I try on the same shirts and pants twenty times. I'm late everywhere for this reason, and many times, I don't leave the house unless it's necessary or I have to go to work, just to avoid this moment of over-analysis of what will be percieved as "feminine" and what as "masculine." It's a storm of thoughts that leaves me without energy and without will to live.

I have a compression binder to flatten the chest, and sometimes that helps me leave the house, but it destroys my back and doesn't let me breathe. I can't wear it for more than six hours; I can't wear it for sports or bathing, and I have so much chest and such a small back that the binder doesn't flatten anything; it just gathers what hangs into a "mega-uni-boob" that still makes me feel more ridiculous and exposed.

 

When I pass by shop windows or mirrors, I can't help but check that everything is as flat as possible, but it's never enough. I change my posture and end up hunched like a cane. I know all the "poses”, and in selfies, it's not noticeable, but because I spend hours reserching how to “be masc enough”.

 

I can't wear the clothes that would help me have more "passing" (in case you don't know: making people read me more as male than female and potentially treating me as "he" since the neutral pronoun outside queer bubbles seems impooooooossible to learn). It gives the opposite impression and accentuates my breasts even more because it's clothing that it’s supposed to be worn by people without breasts.

 

Every day, people I encounter treat me as "she." At first, you say, well, it's okay; I care about those close to me and those I love, and as for the others, let them be. But it wears you down over time, and I, who am a demon goblin from a damp and dirty burrow, handsome prince and a bit of a twink too, but a beast, after all; I think, "how is it possible? Where do they see the 'she'? After everything I do and have done?" You can't live like this; I'm done.

 

I want to be able to wear (or take off) whatever I want without going through this day in, day out.

I'm starting to grow a mustache and beard with more-than-peach-fuzz, with roots and direction, awesome because they're orange like those on my head, and I think they look great on me, but I'm terrified of going out with a mustache and breasts every day. I want my sideburns; let someone else have the tits.

 

I will continue working to afford the mastectomy, organizing events to raise money, saving what I can, but paying rent and having meals will always come first. I can't do it alone, but I am not alone; you are there.

Whatever contribution you make, I will appreciate it wholeheartedly, and I will send you the biggest virtual cheek kiss you've ever received, whether you contribute in the form of money, sharing the campaign, or supporting the cause. Thank you <3.