Passing is such an interesting dilemma.
Post-FFS, I pass inconsistently, mostly as a product of my height and build (6,1”; footballer); my surgeon did miracles on my face.
I don’t actually care very much about when I don’t pass (though, I neurotically keep score). Depending on the context, it stings, but also I’ve had 2.5 years of it. (I literally don’t care at all if I don’t pass in the eyes of men—I’m not subject to their approval).
But when I provisionally pass I get extremely anxious.
That’s when the house lights come down and all of a sudden I’m standing in a spotlight.
And nothing hurts more than when I’m talking with someone, and while we’re talking, they realize that I’m trans. The light goes out in their eyes, but the conversation continues, and it’s like you’re talking to an afterimage of the person with whom the conversation began—the words are coming, but the warmth and humanity channels have just been cut off.
This gives me a lot of social anxiety. The sort of anxiety they write prescriptions for. (And for which I have been written prescriptions).
And that’s kind of the wonderful thing about FFS: even if it isn’t enough to make you pass all scrutinies, it can still bring you to a place where willing people can defy their own disbelief, and see you as they want to see you.
If these people are your friends, they will see you as you want to be seen; if they aren’t, well, … best you both know, so you can preserve your energy for those who are. 🎭
Last night, I enjoyed the company of three other women over cocktails after a film screening. One of them was friend; the other two were newly-introduced to me.
I spent the first half hour stressing about whether or not I was passing. But at some point, through circumstance and conversation, I realized they were at ease with my presence. Whether or not I was passing was moot; I relaxed and had a lovely time.