My car burns oil. It doesn't burn it badly or too quickly. It doesn't smoke. It just burns oil. As it burns oil, the mechanical lifters will tick at longer intervals after it's started and before they've received their portion of lubricant. Shifting gears becomes more and more difficult. If it gets too low, the lifters never stop ticking. By that point, shifting is a real chore. The exhaust note becomes unhealthy and raspy. This degradation in performance occurs so slowly that you scarcely notice it's happening. The best course of action is to purchase a gallon of Shell Rotella T diesel oil for the better part of $11, and add it to the crankcase until the dipstick indicates slightly over full. There should be plenty left over. Keep it in the trunk for next time. If you find this to be too much trouble, weigh it against the problems of a British roadster, and you'll quit complaining.
Interestingly enough, this is the best allegory I could think of for progesterone. I started HRT nearly eleven months ago, and I had no idea I was running ragged until I topped up my oil, so to speak. Micronized progesterone is actually suspended in peanut oil, so apparently I'm on a roll with the metaphor here. The fact that I'm not allergic to peanuts is one to be grateful for, because one pill twice a day has made a profound difference in my life in the span of a single week.
I took my first pill in the evening of Friday the 25th. By Sunday, I was experiencing an unequivocally improved state of being. When describing how I felt, the words "healthy" and "wholesome" sprang to mind instantly. You know that euphoric feeling you get at first waking after a great night's sleep? The pleasant physical sensation that glows throughout your body? I have that every single time I wake up, regardless of if I slept a couple of hours or all night. The run of the mill transphobia I encounter on a nearly daily basis doesn't bother me at all. Any deeply meaningful dysphoria has ceased and my dormant libido seems to have had a whole pot of double brewed coffee. Major depressive episodes feel distant and unnecessary, but only time will tell on that front.
Surely, there's something unpleasant coming out of this. It can't be holistically wonderful. Is anything?
I've *almost* had a couple of pimples for the first time in ages, but they faded before they really did anything. I didn't realize how much I loved my perfect skin until I saw a little red welt on my forehead. Extra incentive to continue taking the best care of my skin I know how, I guess. It'll take more than a couple of prematurely self-resolving pustules to scare me off this stuff.
Beginning this medication correlated with a very difficult week with my girlfriend. I can't rule out the notion that perhaps I was being a bitch without realizing it, as I've observed that in other women all my life, but I was having such an easy time dealing with everyone else I know, it's difficult to believe. I felt she was being the unreasonable one. It's most likely a group effort, and blaming each other is like a snake eating it's own tail. It can't end well.
That's the only negative I can potentially attribute to this stuff, other than the fact that it costs money. It's not too terribly expensive, though. I expect I'll have no problem keeping myself supplied for the rest of my life.
I'm met with the issue of cycling, though. The progesterone cycle in genetic women generates the dreaded menses. Well, I have utter and complete control over my destiny with regard to this. That's good and bad. It'd be great if my endocrine system were on autopilot, as cisgendered people universally take for granted, but it's not. I have the ability, but not the wisdom to handle this as effectively as possible. Everything I can find online regarding progesterone cycling is conflictual, as is the consensus on whether or not it poses benefits for transwomen in the first place. I decided to try it for myself, and although my response to it may be abnormally strong, to say it does nothing for us is absurd in my opinion. For now, I intend to stay with it for three solid weeks before cycling off just to see what happens. I can always go right back on it in a pinch if I turn into a total bitch.
Oh, but I saved the best for last. I spent a hundred bucks on undersized double-walled racer backs with built in shelf bras sometime last year. They were quite effective for rapid and simple binding in the morning as I got ready for work, but over the last several months, they had been reaching obsolescence. This wasn't really a problem, as it was cold and layers were the norm, but spring time indicated a grand unveiling. I didn't believe it was so severe as to become problematic, but people were beginning to notice.
Before my first week on micronized progesterone had drawn to a close, people at work were staring at my chest more often than they weren't, and my crew leader seemed to have forgotten how to find my face when he spoke to me. I expect it'll be more of the same next week, and it can only get better. I'm ecstatic. It's not that I enjoy the attentions of filthy rednecks. Quite the contrary, but at this rate, I won't even have to announce the fact that I'm trans. My body is doing it for me.
What a brilliant combination of factors. I feel good about myself, my body has suddenly started rapidly developing again, there's no doubt this is going to out me at work, and I'm unconcerned with their reactions due to this new found well being.
Life is good.
(Simply put, all this wasn't there a week ago.)
