After 25 Years
Posted: Sat Jun 11, 2011 11:26 am
I have been aware of EA for many years, have been busy with life events, and find what I have learned after 25 years without significant testosterone may be of some help to others. Thus, I requested membership yesterday and became a member early this morning.
I intend to do nothing that would bring harm to anyone here, however, I am autistic and may not always get words to work as I intend them to work. If I post a thread topic or comment and mess up with words, I would be grateful to be informed of my blunder, the better to learn more about getting words to work decently.
From rather early infancy, my inner sense of self and society's seemingly avowed definitions of boyhood/manhood have been irreconcilable.
The first day of kindergarten, when I first entered the kindergarten room, the teacher pointed to toys at the far end of the room and suggested that I go where the toys were and play with them. I saw undesirable toys to the left side and desirable toys to the right side, at the far end of the room, and went to play with the desirable toys.
The teacher hurried over where I was, and said, in effect, to me, of the desirable toys, "No, those toys are for the girls."
That was in 1944, and I already understood that boys were supposed to learn to hate themselves so they could learn to hate other people and thereby become good soldiers in human warfare.
For first and second grade, we lived in another city. First grade was okay, second grade was a personally shattering experience. I did not meet my second-grade teacher's expectations of what a proper boy should be.
My best guess now is that I so seriously failed to meet my teacher's "standards," that I was deemed incorrigible and intolerably defiant, and I was regularly sent to the principal's office to be paddled as punishment for defiance.
I was, alas, not defiant. I was autistic and significantly trans-gendered, and experienced shattering abuse because I could not learn to not be autistic and could not learn to hate myself in accord with my teacher's and principal's evident demands.
For third grade, we had moved half way across the country, to a city where children were never paddled in public school. Came one Sunday in December of 1952, and my family (parents, older brother, and myself) was listening to the Jack Benny radio program. Early in the program was a joke, though not much of a joke for me.
The joke was of taking a trip to Europe; going to London, where a man was a man; to Paris, where a woman was a woman; and to Copenhagen, where a man was a woman. Christine Jorgensen.
As I was on the verge of "going to the bathroom" before that joke over the radio, I excused myself, did what was physiologically indicated, and went to my bedroom, lay down on my bed and cried, and cried, and cried. As much as I cried with sadness, I also cried with joy.
It was a profound sadness to recognize the tragedy within the laughter of the Jack Benny program audience.
It was a profound joy to know and understand that I was not alone in this world of socially-mandated gender-diversity cruelty.
About the same time as that Jack Benny program joke, testosterone began to intrude into my life. Its arrival was subjectively like a disconcerting, not immediately lethal, yet significantly poisonous invasive pathogen.
Much as I had adapted to the distress of being paddled past personally shattering in second grade, I adapted as best I could to testosterone. As with being shattered from being paddled, my adaptation to testosterone was rather tenuous at best.
When I was 18, during my first semester in college, my dad very nearly died from prostate disease (which I understood included prostate cancer) and I became far more aware of the possibility that testosterone and I might need to part company for me to live a decently long life.
I happen to have earned B.S. and Ph.D. degrees from "a major research university" in a field which is based on biological science. I happen to have worked in a major medical center for more than two decades. Aspects of cancer risk and cancer prevention were core aspects of my undergraduate and graduate school education.
When he was 66, my dad died from cancer. I set out to understand my choices regarding effective cancer prevention. Other close relatives died from cancer, no close relative had ever been successfully treated for cancer; I understood that my only plausible chance to live very long was through cancer-prevention, and I had rather convincing evidence from my available family history that testosterone was evidently a significant carcinogen and/or cancer promoter within my close family.
Being as transgendered as I was (and am), parting company with testosterone was only desirable for me in terms of my personal life. In the early 1980s, I began to search for a way to properly separate my life and testosterone. I talked with a urologist, who summarily dismissed my cancer concerns. I consulted a psychiatrist whose specialty was sexual issues and clearly recognized that my desire to remove testosterone from my life as much as possible was about cancer and not gender.
I could not get any physician to understand my cancer-risk concern. I found that I might need to develop cancer before anyone would believe my concern was a valid focus of medical attention. I went back to the urologist, with a much stronger biological argument, only to be told that the urologist would not "do anything, but some doctor in a third-rate hospital might."
At that time, in early 1985, I searched the medical literature and found that there were a few physicians who might, for a suitable fee, do what I thought was proper to reduce my cancer risk, only none were close by. I was married (and still am) with a young daughter who I deemed it would be harmful to needlessly abandon through dying from preventable cancer.
Of course, I found that people get pushed past desperation and, when so pushed, will do unsafe self-surgery or whatever else is possible, and I rejected doing anything that I thought would put my life at risk.
So, I began calling vasectomy clinics, until I found a doctor whose dad had died in consequence of prostate cancer. Courtesy of the Sears Roebuck farm catalog, I had obtained an Elastrator and bands, not to use myself, but to make clear to a physician that I was really serious about reducing testosterone because of my sense of cancer risk. Because no valid medical reason was deemed to exist, the vasectomy doctor agreed to do the bilateral orchiectomy if paid in cash and if I agreed to never identify him.
In early June of 1986, I the bilateral orchiectomy was done. Within two weeks, my brother was diagnosed with the sort of terminal cancer I had set out to prevent. I had admonished him to be screened for prostate and colon cancer, based on my dad's cancer problems; his doctors, at the same hospital/family practice setting as the urologist who suggested my looking into a "third rate hospital" were so indifferent to cancer risk that they refused to consider my concerns even after my brother's terminal diagnosis.
I sought a second opinion, found a gastroenterologist who was willing to do a colonoscopy on me, learned that I have the same genetic condition as my dad and brother had, and that my concern about cancer risk was terribly accurate. Within two months of my brother's terminal cancer diagnosis, I underwent a total colectomy with ileo-rectal anastomosis to prevent colon cancer.
If no colon, then no colon cancer... If no testicles, then no testicular cancer... If very low testosterone and no prostate cancer, then very low future prostate cancer risk...
The colon cancer genetic condition is now identified as familial adenomatous polyposis (FAP). A recent literature check shows the average cancer onset age for FAP being 39 and the average age of cancer death, without effective preventive surgery, to be 42. I have made it past my 72nd birthday without developing cancer.
My bilateral orchiectomy was done in a properly safe setting, with proper anesthetic, proper antibiotics and infection control, but under conditions such that I cannot ethically specify who did what or where it was done. Having an purchased an Elastrator and bands to show to a vasectomy doctor was really convincing.
I still have the Elastrator tool and some bands; for some small things, the bands make really good gluing clamps.
For a few weeks after the orchiectomy and before the colectomy, my life was going very well, the effects of testosterone which I had found unpleasant since early puberty gently went away and life seemed much improved, except that my brother was dying.
While the orchiectomy (which I guess might best be described as a "radical vasectomy" -- it was done much in the manner of a vasectomy, except instead of ligating and transecting the vas deferens, the entire cord was ligated and transected. I ended up with rather conventional vasectomy scars and became a flatbagger, and the orchiectomy and recovery from it were uneventful.
"Radical vasectomy" is evidence of my having a sense of humor. Without decent humor, how does anyone survive?
Then came the colectomy, general anesthetic, morphine for post-surgical pain (I needed no pain medication of any sort following the bilateral orichectomy or "radical vasectomy")
So, what happened to me following the bilateral orchiectomy and before the colectomy? No hot flashes, no infection, no discomfort worth noticing, no loss of orgasm or erection, and life became much better.
General anesthesia and morphine for post-surgical pain did simply awful things to my mental functioning. Before long, I had voluntarily entered a psychiatric hospital, because I knew that people with malfunctioning brains sometimes did terrible things, and I was resolved to not do any such.
I informed the folks in the psychiatric hospital that I was autistic, transgendered, had been abused to the extent of having developed a severe form of multiple personalities (two of which are named Jane and Kane, hence my user name here) and was informed that my truthful statements about myself were psychotic delusions.
From mid-1986 to mid-1989, I went on a trip through the methods of biopsychiatry, with a collection of psychotropic medications which controlled the clinical signs the psychiatrists mistakenly thought were my mental illness, and which medications eventually put me into a profound dementia which was superficially much like very advanced Alzheimer's Disease; I was, to use the psychiatric jargon, "Oriented times zero." I often could not recognize my name, could not distinguish day from night, and was clueless as to where I was.
In the summer of 1989, I came under the care of a neuropsychiatrist at a world-famous university, who decided to take me off all the psychotropic medications as rapidly as was safe. Over about three months, my tested IQ skyrocketed from less than 10 to 70, and I was deemed able to live at home.
I sought rehabilitation services, which were denied because I was deemed too brain-damaged to benefit from them. So, I made up my own mental rehab program, which worked well enough that, after a year of my rehab effort, I got an IQ test score high enough for Mensa membership.
I have become a very strong advocate on behalf of self-advocacy.
In the summer of 1990, I again needed major surgery to prevent cancer from FAP General anesthesia and morphine for post-surgical pain for the second time. The same sort of messed-up brain function as happened in 1986. Back to the same psychiatric hospital as in 1986.
However, 1990 was very different than 1986. I knew what psychotropic medications did, what they did that I experienced as helpful and what I experienced as harmful.
In 1990, I told the psychiatrist what medication would work and got it prescribed PRN (pro re nata, or according to need as determined by me) so as to not be found treatment-defiant, and it took only three days, not three years, to work through what the second time with general anesthetic, major surgery, and morphine had done to me.
During the extensive psychoanalytic therapy which followed the colectomy, and which lasted until 1992, one of my therapists pointed out that, if my concern was really mainly cancer, it would be thoughtful on my part to allow that many men have serious manhood issues and it would be kind on my part, when going to, for example, a YMCA swimming pool, to have testicular prostheses put in. That was accomplished in 1991.
Testicular implants do not make testosterone, and, for as long as they did not bother me, I did not bother them.
I mid-April of this year, "Lefty" began to act up, became attached, I am guessing, to some aspect of the remaining cremasteric muscle, and would snatch itself high up in the inguinal canal, where it became a source of notable discomfort and, after a few days, apparently helped initiate a groin infection, which was successfully treated after some four emergency room and urologist visits.
The discomfort kept increasing, and the local urologist indicated a willingness to consider removing the prostheses beginning in August of this year. Waiting that long, given the April infection, concerned me more than the discomfort because there can be complications from FAP (such as desmoid tumors), so I gathered up my local medical records and made an appointment with a urologist in a major university medical center, went there in late April, the urologist agreed that removing the prostheses promptly was desirable, and I effectively as though underwent my second "bilateral orchiectomy" (or "radical bilateral prosthectomy"?) this past Monday (June 6, 2011) afternoon.
The university urologist team decided to re-use the vasectomy scars for the bilateral prosthectomy, much as the surgeon who did the 1990 duodenal polypectomy used the 1986 colectomy scar route. By Monday evening, June 6, the prosthesis-induced discomfort was almost entirely gone, and was completely gone by Tuesday afternoon.
Were someone to attempt to convince me that my life would be better with testosterone, I will argue to the contrary relentlessly, though without rancor or violence.
Were someone to attempt to convince me that it is better for me to have prostheses than not, I will argue to the contrary at least as relentlessly.
I lived with testosterone for nearly 35 years, from early puberty until age 47. I have been with low testosterone levels (pre-puberty and post-orchiectomy) for about as long. It is my observation that my brain works far better with very low testosterone levels than with the levels typical of men of my age during the time I had functional testicles. Yet my wife and I have an adult child, and our child is worth far more to me than all the distress of the undesirable effects of testosterone I experienced for nearly half of my life. Therefore, I am glad that I waited until after I was sure that I would not be doing my part in making another baby before getting castrated, and I am glad that I did not wait so long as to have already died from cancer (like my late brother).
It seems to me that less than $25 will get a Nasco Elastrator and a hundred bands, and I wonder whether having one on hand might be a useful way to help persuade an otherwise unduly reluctant doctor to do an orchiectomy for people who cannot reasonably get to the few doctors who are willing to do orchiectomies without unduly difficult evidence of proper personal need for lowered testosterone...
Around 1995, or somewhat before, testicular prostheses became unavailable in the U.S. and it was not until 2002 that the saline-filled Mentor one became available. For seven or more years, TC2 people could not get prostheses installed in the U.S. It took about 20 years for the prostheses I got in 1991 to become problematic and for it to be medically indicated that they be removed. Testicular prostheses are not considered permanent; mine surely weren't.
I did not get prostheses for my benefit or for the benefit of my wife or our physical relationship. Like, I am guessing, almost all women, testicles as such are not much of a concern for her in terms of our marriage. They are not much of a concern to me either, except that I am alive and not dead from cancer, and not having working testicles and associated testosterone, my family history tells me, is probably a major factor in my not being dead from cancer at my age, as my dad and brother were before age 72.
A friend with whom I can talk in depth and detail remarked, of testicular prostheses, "vanity, vanity, vanity." To which I said that my getting them in 1991 was not about my vanity, but about the vanity of men who find their self-hood or manhood fragile and always being lost.
With working testicles or without, with testicular prostheses or without, with a colon or without, I am always a complete person, one for whom nothing is ever "missing."
Yet, were I now dead from the sort of cancer my many surgeries (including polypectomies done by sigmoidoscopy and side-view esopho-gastro-duodenoscopy), I surely would be "missing" my whole life as a living person.
I find life is best lived and not suffered-through. For me, testosterone was not a cause of suffering, but was a cause of a life of subjectively much poorer quality than without it.
Would I have done self-surgery as many people have found necessary? I never got to find out; as with the prosthesis removal earlier this week, I have enough biology formal education and knowledge to have been persuasive. That is quite apparently not true for most folks. How sad.
So, I am introducing myself here, with the purpose of sharing what I have learned in decent and respectful ways. The problems people encounter with gender identity are real and decent care and respect are, to me, of paramount significance.
Every time someone has attempted to define me in terms of themselves, I have found myself being abused. I find that personal integrity and a valid sense of selfhood are essential to a life that is truly decent; those who block or attempt to block people who, like me, cannot fit into social stereotypes of alleged normalcy from living personally meaningful and satisfying lives, I invariably experience as treating me, and others, in often severely damaging ways.
I am not anonymous, though I will here use the moniker "JaneKane" as though I were anonymous to fit in with those who, for personal and occupational safety, find that they need to be anonymous.
There are many items I have put on the Internet using my "real name" and professional identity. I would not discourage anyone from looking for them and reading them. At the same time, I will not link what I post here directly with what I put out elsewhere using my "real name" because I seek not to be an exemplar of openness as though I am being a critic of people's need for the safety of anonymity.
I plan to write and publish the essence of my life with the goal of doing my part to help human society become kinder, more respectful and decent, and more affirming of the diversity of human life than it now is.
It is my personal and professional view that gender identity conflict can be among the most severely distressing and incapacitating conditions people can encounter. I have personally known people whose suicide attempts, as efforts to escape the agony of severe gender issues inadvertently failed to be fatal.
Far better to affirm life, to affirm the need to be free of the distress of gender-dysphoric hormones than to suffer in agony so strong as to make death seem a wiser choice than life.
In a way, I have been "out" all my life. During the first three days of kindergarten, most of the other children figured out that I did not fit the conventional mold of "boy." I was picked on and bullied, though not enough to effectively alert my teacher. Kindergarten included a recess period on the school playground. Using "JaneKane" as a symbol of my actual name, about a third of my classmates formed a circle around me, chanting (to the tune of "A Tisket, A Tasket") something akin to, "Cry baby, cry baby, JaneKane is a sissy."
On the third day of kindergarten, walking home beside my mother, we came to a busy street on which public busses ran. One bus pulled up from our left, stopped short of the intersection, let off and picked up passengers, and, still having a green traffic light, pulled in front of us.
As the bus started up, I realized that I could pull loose from my mother's grasp and dive under the back wheels of that bus, and the kindergarten children who were treating me badly would never be able to do that again. Before I could even twitch, I realized that my diving under the back wheels of the bus would hurt my family "a thousand times" more than the other children could ever hurt me.
Then there was the patient, during my psychiatric inpatient episode, who showed up in the day room, with bandaged wrists and nearly asleep. Some of the other patients in the day room began to talk about that "boy." and "his" being rather young for the unit we were on. When the person was reasonably awake, I introduced myself as asked if talking would be okay. The person said, "Yes." I said, "Some of the other patients here think you are a boy." The person said, "I am." I replied, "I think I may know something about that." "He" was F to M, pre-op. My "gendar" may have been working well.
So was my suicidar. Bandaged wrists. Gender dispair, it was not "his" first attempt to be free of a life which did not belong to him.
Is not despair the alternative to integrity? Erik H. Erikson, in his epigenetic chart of "psychosocial developmental crises" regarded the end of life as being of the resolution of integrity versus despair. For myself, I choose to work for integrity, for wholeness, for authenticity of self. Testosterone drove my life toward despair, being rather free of it drives my life toward integrity. Give me a choice, and I will take integrity over despair every time.
I suppose it would be fair to say that I divorced testosterone from my life because of irreconcilable differences. I wonder whether there was any other practical alternative except divorcing my life from me. My best guess is, "No."
I hold to the view that it is an inherent right of every person to determine for self what one's self-nature is, and to be free from coercive, tyrannical definitions of self by others, and especially free from identity coercion from people who are functionally ignorant of their own inner self-identity.
I do know of what it is to be treated by others as though one is not a valid person. I know of it, and I understand it, and it grieves me. I abhor disrespect of any person's genuine, self-determined validity.
(This being my first posting effort here, I am learning how posting a new thread works for the first time; I expect this to work -- whether it does or not I will learn by submitting it...)
I intend to do nothing that would bring harm to anyone here, however, I am autistic and may not always get words to work as I intend them to work. If I post a thread topic or comment and mess up with words, I would be grateful to be informed of my blunder, the better to learn more about getting words to work decently.
From rather early infancy, my inner sense of self and society's seemingly avowed definitions of boyhood/manhood have been irreconcilable.
The first day of kindergarten, when I first entered the kindergarten room, the teacher pointed to toys at the far end of the room and suggested that I go where the toys were and play with them. I saw undesirable toys to the left side and desirable toys to the right side, at the far end of the room, and went to play with the desirable toys.
The teacher hurried over where I was, and said, in effect, to me, of the desirable toys, "No, those toys are for the girls."
That was in 1944, and I already understood that boys were supposed to learn to hate themselves so they could learn to hate other people and thereby become good soldiers in human warfare.
For first and second grade, we lived in another city. First grade was okay, second grade was a personally shattering experience. I did not meet my second-grade teacher's expectations of what a proper boy should be.
My best guess now is that I so seriously failed to meet my teacher's "standards," that I was deemed incorrigible and intolerably defiant, and I was regularly sent to the principal's office to be paddled as punishment for defiance.
I was, alas, not defiant. I was autistic and significantly trans-gendered, and experienced shattering abuse because I could not learn to not be autistic and could not learn to hate myself in accord with my teacher's and principal's evident demands.
For third grade, we had moved half way across the country, to a city where children were never paddled in public school. Came one Sunday in December of 1952, and my family (parents, older brother, and myself) was listening to the Jack Benny radio program. Early in the program was a joke, though not much of a joke for me.
The joke was of taking a trip to Europe; going to London, where a man was a man; to Paris, where a woman was a woman; and to Copenhagen, where a man was a woman. Christine Jorgensen.
As I was on the verge of "going to the bathroom" before that joke over the radio, I excused myself, did what was physiologically indicated, and went to my bedroom, lay down on my bed and cried, and cried, and cried. As much as I cried with sadness, I also cried with joy.
It was a profound sadness to recognize the tragedy within the laughter of the Jack Benny program audience.
It was a profound joy to know and understand that I was not alone in this world of socially-mandated gender-diversity cruelty.
About the same time as that Jack Benny program joke, testosterone began to intrude into my life. Its arrival was subjectively like a disconcerting, not immediately lethal, yet significantly poisonous invasive pathogen.
Much as I had adapted to the distress of being paddled past personally shattering in second grade, I adapted as best I could to testosterone. As with being shattered from being paddled, my adaptation to testosterone was rather tenuous at best.
When I was 18, during my first semester in college, my dad very nearly died from prostate disease (which I understood included prostate cancer) and I became far more aware of the possibility that testosterone and I might need to part company for me to live a decently long life.
I happen to have earned B.S. and Ph.D. degrees from "a major research university" in a field which is based on biological science. I happen to have worked in a major medical center for more than two decades. Aspects of cancer risk and cancer prevention were core aspects of my undergraduate and graduate school education.
When he was 66, my dad died from cancer. I set out to understand my choices regarding effective cancer prevention. Other close relatives died from cancer, no close relative had ever been successfully treated for cancer; I understood that my only plausible chance to live very long was through cancer-prevention, and I had rather convincing evidence from my available family history that testosterone was evidently a significant carcinogen and/or cancer promoter within my close family.
Being as transgendered as I was (and am), parting company with testosterone was only desirable for me in terms of my personal life. In the early 1980s, I began to search for a way to properly separate my life and testosterone. I talked with a urologist, who summarily dismissed my cancer concerns. I consulted a psychiatrist whose specialty was sexual issues and clearly recognized that my desire to remove testosterone from my life as much as possible was about cancer and not gender.
I could not get any physician to understand my cancer-risk concern. I found that I might need to develop cancer before anyone would believe my concern was a valid focus of medical attention. I went back to the urologist, with a much stronger biological argument, only to be told that the urologist would not "do anything, but some doctor in a third-rate hospital might."
At that time, in early 1985, I searched the medical literature and found that there were a few physicians who might, for a suitable fee, do what I thought was proper to reduce my cancer risk, only none were close by. I was married (and still am) with a young daughter who I deemed it would be harmful to needlessly abandon through dying from preventable cancer.
Of course, I found that people get pushed past desperation and, when so pushed, will do unsafe self-surgery or whatever else is possible, and I rejected doing anything that I thought would put my life at risk.
So, I began calling vasectomy clinics, until I found a doctor whose dad had died in consequence of prostate cancer. Courtesy of the Sears Roebuck farm catalog, I had obtained an Elastrator and bands, not to use myself, but to make clear to a physician that I was really serious about reducing testosterone because of my sense of cancer risk. Because no valid medical reason was deemed to exist, the vasectomy doctor agreed to do the bilateral orchiectomy if paid in cash and if I agreed to never identify him.
In early June of 1986, I the bilateral orchiectomy was done. Within two weeks, my brother was diagnosed with the sort of terminal cancer I had set out to prevent. I had admonished him to be screened for prostate and colon cancer, based on my dad's cancer problems; his doctors, at the same hospital/family practice setting as the urologist who suggested my looking into a "third rate hospital" were so indifferent to cancer risk that they refused to consider my concerns even after my brother's terminal diagnosis.
I sought a second opinion, found a gastroenterologist who was willing to do a colonoscopy on me, learned that I have the same genetic condition as my dad and brother had, and that my concern about cancer risk was terribly accurate. Within two months of my brother's terminal cancer diagnosis, I underwent a total colectomy with ileo-rectal anastomosis to prevent colon cancer.
If no colon, then no colon cancer... If no testicles, then no testicular cancer... If very low testosterone and no prostate cancer, then very low future prostate cancer risk...
The colon cancer genetic condition is now identified as familial adenomatous polyposis (FAP). A recent literature check shows the average cancer onset age for FAP being 39 and the average age of cancer death, without effective preventive surgery, to be 42. I have made it past my 72nd birthday without developing cancer.
My bilateral orchiectomy was done in a properly safe setting, with proper anesthetic, proper antibiotics and infection control, but under conditions such that I cannot ethically specify who did what or where it was done. Having an purchased an Elastrator and bands to show to a vasectomy doctor was really convincing.
I still have the Elastrator tool and some bands; for some small things, the bands make really good gluing clamps.
For a few weeks after the orchiectomy and before the colectomy, my life was going very well, the effects of testosterone which I had found unpleasant since early puberty gently went away and life seemed much improved, except that my brother was dying.
While the orchiectomy (which I guess might best be described as a "radical vasectomy" -- it was done much in the manner of a vasectomy, except instead of ligating and transecting the vas deferens, the entire cord was ligated and transected. I ended up with rather conventional vasectomy scars and became a flatbagger, and the orchiectomy and recovery from it were uneventful.
"Radical vasectomy" is evidence of my having a sense of humor. Without decent humor, how does anyone survive?
Then came the colectomy, general anesthetic, morphine for post-surgical pain (I needed no pain medication of any sort following the bilateral orichectomy or "radical vasectomy")
So, what happened to me following the bilateral orchiectomy and before the colectomy? No hot flashes, no infection, no discomfort worth noticing, no loss of orgasm or erection, and life became much better.
General anesthesia and morphine for post-surgical pain did simply awful things to my mental functioning. Before long, I had voluntarily entered a psychiatric hospital, because I knew that people with malfunctioning brains sometimes did terrible things, and I was resolved to not do any such.
I informed the folks in the psychiatric hospital that I was autistic, transgendered, had been abused to the extent of having developed a severe form of multiple personalities (two of which are named Jane and Kane, hence my user name here) and was informed that my truthful statements about myself were psychotic delusions.
From mid-1986 to mid-1989, I went on a trip through the methods of biopsychiatry, with a collection of psychotropic medications which controlled the clinical signs the psychiatrists mistakenly thought were my mental illness, and which medications eventually put me into a profound dementia which was superficially much like very advanced Alzheimer's Disease; I was, to use the psychiatric jargon, "Oriented times zero." I often could not recognize my name, could not distinguish day from night, and was clueless as to where I was.
In the summer of 1989, I came under the care of a neuropsychiatrist at a world-famous university, who decided to take me off all the psychotropic medications as rapidly as was safe. Over about three months, my tested IQ skyrocketed from less than 10 to 70, and I was deemed able to live at home.
I sought rehabilitation services, which were denied because I was deemed too brain-damaged to benefit from them. So, I made up my own mental rehab program, which worked well enough that, after a year of my rehab effort, I got an IQ test score high enough for Mensa membership.
I have become a very strong advocate on behalf of self-advocacy.
In the summer of 1990, I again needed major surgery to prevent cancer from FAP General anesthesia and morphine for post-surgical pain for the second time. The same sort of messed-up brain function as happened in 1986. Back to the same psychiatric hospital as in 1986.
However, 1990 was very different than 1986. I knew what psychotropic medications did, what they did that I experienced as helpful and what I experienced as harmful.
In 1990, I told the psychiatrist what medication would work and got it prescribed PRN (pro re nata, or according to need as determined by me) so as to not be found treatment-defiant, and it took only three days, not three years, to work through what the second time with general anesthetic, major surgery, and morphine had done to me.
During the extensive psychoanalytic therapy which followed the colectomy, and which lasted until 1992, one of my therapists pointed out that, if my concern was really mainly cancer, it would be thoughtful on my part to allow that many men have serious manhood issues and it would be kind on my part, when going to, for example, a YMCA swimming pool, to have testicular prostheses put in. That was accomplished in 1991.
Testicular implants do not make testosterone, and, for as long as they did not bother me, I did not bother them.
I mid-April of this year, "Lefty" began to act up, became attached, I am guessing, to some aspect of the remaining cremasteric muscle, and would snatch itself high up in the inguinal canal, where it became a source of notable discomfort and, after a few days, apparently helped initiate a groin infection, which was successfully treated after some four emergency room and urologist visits.
The discomfort kept increasing, and the local urologist indicated a willingness to consider removing the prostheses beginning in August of this year. Waiting that long, given the April infection, concerned me more than the discomfort because there can be complications from FAP (such as desmoid tumors), so I gathered up my local medical records and made an appointment with a urologist in a major university medical center, went there in late April, the urologist agreed that removing the prostheses promptly was desirable, and I effectively as though underwent my second "bilateral orchiectomy" (or "radical bilateral prosthectomy"?) this past Monday (June 6, 2011) afternoon.
The university urologist team decided to re-use the vasectomy scars for the bilateral prosthectomy, much as the surgeon who did the 1990 duodenal polypectomy used the 1986 colectomy scar route. By Monday evening, June 6, the prosthesis-induced discomfort was almost entirely gone, and was completely gone by Tuesday afternoon.
Were someone to attempt to convince me that my life would be better with testosterone, I will argue to the contrary relentlessly, though without rancor or violence.
Were someone to attempt to convince me that it is better for me to have prostheses than not, I will argue to the contrary at least as relentlessly.
I lived with testosterone for nearly 35 years, from early puberty until age 47. I have been with low testosterone levels (pre-puberty and post-orchiectomy) for about as long. It is my observation that my brain works far better with very low testosterone levels than with the levels typical of men of my age during the time I had functional testicles. Yet my wife and I have an adult child, and our child is worth far more to me than all the distress of the undesirable effects of testosterone I experienced for nearly half of my life. Therefore, I am glad that I waited until after I was sure that I would not be doing my part in making another baby before getting castrated, and I am glad that I did not wait so long as to have already died from cancer (like my late brother).
It seems to me that less than $25 will get a Nasco Elastrator and a hundred bands, and I wonder whether having one on hand might be a useful way to help persuade an otherwise unduly reluctant doctor to do an orchiectomy for people who cannot reasonably get to the few doctors who are willing to do orchiectomies without unduly difficult evidence of proper personal need for lowered testosterone...
Around 1995, or somewhat before, testicular prostheses became unavailable in the U.S. and it was not until 2002 that the saline-filled Mentor one became available. For seven or more years, TC2 people could not get prostheses installed in the U.S. It took about 20 years for the prostheses I got in 1991 to become problematic and for it to be medically indicated that they be removed. Testicular prostheses are not considered permanent; mine surely weren't.
I did not get prostheses for my benefit or for the benefit of my wife or our physical relationship. Like, I am guessing, almost all women, testicles as such are not much of a concern for her in terms of our marriage. They are not much of a concern to me either, except that I am alive and not dead from cancer, and not having working testicles and associated testosterone, my family history tells me, is probably a major factor in my not being dead from cancer at my age, as my dad and brother were before age 72.
A friend with whom I can talk in depth and detail remarked, of testicular prostheses, "vanity, vanity, vanity." To which I said that my getting them in 1991 was not about my vanity, but about the vanity of men who find their self-hood or manhood fragile and always being lost.
With working testicles or without, with testicular prostheses or without, with a colon or without, I am always a complete person, one for whom nothing is ever "missing."
Yet, were I now dead from the sort of cancer my many surgeries (including polypectomies done by sigmoidoscopy and side-view esopho-gastro-duodenoscopy), I surely would be "missing" my whole life as a living person.
I find life is best lived and not suffered-through. For me, testosterone was not a cause of suffering, but was a cause of a life of subjectively much poorer quality than without it.
Would I have done self-surgery as many people have found necessary? I never got to find out; as with the prosthesis removal earlier this week, I have enough biology formal education and knowledge to have been persuasive. That is quite apparently not true for most folks. How sad.
So, I am introducing myself here, with the purpose of sharing what I have learned in decent and respectful ways. The problems people encounter with gender identity are real and decent care and respect are, to me, of paramount significance.
Every time someone has attempted to define me in terms of themselves, I have found myself being abused. I find that personal integrity and a valid sense of selfhood are essential to a life that is truly decent; those who block or attempt to block people who, like me, cannot fit into social stereotypes of alleged normalcy from living personally meaningful and satisfying lives, I invariably experience as treating me, and others, in often severely damaging ways.
I am not anonymous, though I will here use the moniker "JaneKane" as though I were anonymous to fit in with those who, for personal and occupational safety, find that they need to be anonymous.
There are many items I have put on the Internet using my "real name" and professional identity. I would not discourage anyone from looking for them and reading them. At the same time, I will not link what I post here directly with what I put out elsewhere using my "real name" because I seek not to be an exemplar of openness as though I am being a critic of people's need for the safety of anonymity.
I plan to write and publish the essence of my life with the goal of doing my part to help human society become kinder, more respectful and decent, and more affirming of the diversity of human life than it now is.
It is my personal and professional view that gender identity conflict can be among the most severely distressing and incapacitating conditions people can encounter. I have personally known people whose suicide attempts, as efforts to escape the agony of severe gender issues inadvertently failed to be fatal.
Far better to affirm life, to affirm the need to be free of the distress of gender-dysphoric hormones than to suffer in agony so strong as to make death seem a wiser choice than life.
In a way, I have been "out" all my life. During the first three days of kindergarten, most of the other children figured out that I did not fit the conventional mold of "boy." I was picked on and bullied, though not enough to effectively alert my teacher. Kindergarten included a recess period on the school playground. Using "JaneKane" as a symbol of my actual name, about a third of my classmates formed a circle around me, chanting (to the tune of "A Tisket, A Tasket") something akin to, "Cry baby, cry baby, JaneKane is a sissy."
On the third day of kindergarten, walking home beside my mother, we came to a busy street on which public busses ran. One bus pulled up from our left, stopped short of the intersection, let off and picked up passengers, and, still having a green traffic light, pulled in front of us.
As the bus started up, I realized that I could pull loose from my mother's grasp and dive under the back wheels of that bus, and the kindergarten children who were treating me badly would never be able to do that again. Before I could even twitch, I realized that my diving under the back wheels of the bus would hurt my family "a thousand times" more than the other children could ever hurt me.
Then there was the patient, during my psychiatric inpatient episode, who showed up in the day room, with bandaged wrists and nearly asleep. Some of the other patients in the day room began to talk about that "boy." and "his" being rather young for the unit we were on. When the person was reasonably awake, I introduced myself as asked if talking would be okay. The person said, "Yes." I said, "Some of the other patients here think you are a boy." The person said, "I am." I replied, "I think I may know something about that." "He" was F to M, pre-op. My "gendar" may have been working well.
So was my suicidar. Bandaged wrists. Gender dispair, it was not "his" first attempt to be free of a life which did not belong to him.
Is not despair the alternative to integrity? Erik H. Erikson, in his epigenetic chart of "psychosocial developmental crises" regarded the end of life as being of the resolution of integrity versus despair. For myself, I choose to work for integrity, for wholeness, for authenticity of self. Testosterone drove my life toward despair, being rather free of it drives my life toward integrity. Give me a choice, and I will take integrity over despair every time.
I suppose it would be fair to say that I divorced testosterone from my life because of irreconcilable differences. I wonder whether there was any other practical alternative except divorcing my life from me. My best guess is, "No."
I hold to the view that it is an inherent right of every person to determine for self what one's self-nature is, and to be free from coercive, tyrannical definitions of self by others, and especially free from identity coercion from people who are functionally ignorant of their own inner self-identity.
I do know of what it is to be treated by others as though one is not a valid person. I know of it, and I understand it, and it grieves me. I abhor disrespect of any person's genuine, self-determined validity.
(This being my first posting effort here, I am learning how posting a new thread works for the first time; I expect this to work -- whether it does or not I will learn by submitting it...)