An Act of Desperation: One Trans-Woman’s Fight For Peace Of Mind

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Jadis Argiope with scalpel in hand

“Every mile is a mile fought long and hard for.”

[Note: This article has been edited on the date of 22nd November, 2011 — but please, bear with me all the same?]

I wrote this article as an account of the events that transpired over the last few days. It hasn’t really been edited, so if you see any typo’s or mis-spellings, please bear with me?

I wanted to share this with you as I shared it with so many others as it was happening. All these events took place in front of witnesses. Many of them who, prior to watching live via webcam, had no knowledgeable contact with a transsexual such as I, let alone one so desperate.

This is a story about my personal successes and failures in my war to achieve peace with my body. I’ve come to call it: “Operation: Tranny Freedom.”

My wish is that this article will inspire hope in all who read it, regardless of whether they are gay, or straight, bisexual or transgendered. This is ultimately a story of bull-headed determination, commitment, and human achievement. I am Woman, after all.

And now, before I present this to you, I would just like to say:

DON’T EVER DO THIS!

PLEASE, DO NOT EVER DO THIS?

FOR GOD’S SAKE, AND YOUR OWN, IF YOU WANT TO LIVE, PLEASE NEVER EVER PUT YOURSELF AT THE RISK, PAIN, AND TORTURE THAT I HAVE PUT MYSELF THROUGH?

IF THERE IS ANY WAY YOU CAN GET BY WITHOUT HAVING TO RESORT TO SELF-HARM FOR THE SAKE OF PRESERVING YOUR SANITY….
IF THERE ARE ANY DOCTORS WHO CAN DO THIS FOR YOU AND WORK WITH YOU ON THE PAYMENTS….
IF THERE IS ANY WAY OTHER OPTION AT ALL….
PLEASE, TAKE IT?

That said, here is….
Operation: Tranny Freedom
This last Friday I attempted to execute Plan B/Part II of Operation: Tranny Freedom. So what is (or, rather, was) Operation: Tranny Freedom, do you say?

Operation: Tranny Freedom was the plan to end this war with my body, once and for all. Up until Friday, I had been living with incredibly high amounts of testosterone being produced from my left nad. I say left because, the right one I personally removed yesteryear, in August. At any rate, given multiple blood analyses, it had become apparent that the left nad was doing the work of two — and then some! — picking up the slack where the right one was K.I.A..

Anyhow, it was three months ago that I finally decided to do something about it. I was going to end by finally cutting the left one out — or, so I’d planned. And until then, I would focus all of my time and energy preparing for the event; asking friends, fans, and allies to assist me with acquiring all of the necessary supplies equipment for this project. This was to be no menial task.

Fortunately for me, they all came through. And grateful I am for this, because none of this was really cheap, although the alternative would have been exponentially more expensive, and time consuming. That is to say, it would have taken a lot of money to pay multiple therapists to agree that I am, in fact, truly transgendered — even though I had seen many therapists in the past who would validate that conclusion — not to mention how much time it would take for them to even agree to write such necessary documents to approve such a surgery as an orchiectomy. And then on top of that, there is the eventual surgeon who would demand all of the money upfront while, in all likeliness, scheduling me at least six months out. That’s a very long time to wait. Especially for a woman in my position.

Incidentally, most surgeons will not perform this sort of procedure — even with the proper documentation —as their personal feelings tend to get in the way. Oh, and did I mention, those who do perform also take advantage of the fact that they can dominate the market, by charging no less than $2,000 and up to $9,000. Although, I have heard, in some rare cases,  there are surgeons who asked for even more. However, the average remains at about five-grand.

So now, if I may, let’s go back a bit before I go into Operation: Tranny Freedom, part II. Obviously that must have meant there was a part one. There was — and that one was planned. Part II was more or less spontaneous. Part I took place in a hotel. And so let me go into the basic details of how all that went.

So there I was. Or, should I say, there we were — my partner, Fleur, and I. She’s been by my side this entire time, and surely she would be the only one to keep me company during the surgery. She also served as my assistant throughout both attempts.

So picture this: A bright, clean hotel room. No dust, no dirt, no stains on the covers, sheets or mattress. This was a four-star hotel, after all. The lamp shades were removed, while additional ones were brought in to provide additional light, so as to get a perfect view of the site while I performed the operation.

Before I began, I showered and shaved the area, then applied surgical soap to clean and santise the area. I laid trash bags all across the bed and covered them with special clothes that would help absorb the blood and prevent any runoff onto the floor or along the bedsides not covered by plastic. And the only article of original bedding material that remained on the bed were a couple of pillows which I placed behind my back to keep me supported as I performed the procedure.

Now then, the tricky part. What was I to do? How was I to go about it?

Do I slice here, or here?

It was all so intimidating, what with all of the veins and capillaries visible through the translucent scrotum held above the brightness of a flexible lamp. Finally I picked just the right spot. Or so I thought. Hesitantly, I began striking downward, in perfectly straight lines. Some of them laid atop one another, which allowed me to expose a greater depth, while some of them remained directly parallel, as my eyes were not quite working properly that day. Oh, well — I had to push onward. So onward I went, slicing deeper and deeper, cutting through layer after layer of skin. It was then that I realised, this incision simply wouldn’t be long enough. So let’s extend the incision further downward; closer to my groin. So I sliced away, once again, carefully, slowly, trying to make the same progress, open up the same layers as I made further up the incision. And eventually, I was satisfied. The strokes would then be longer, going from top to bottom, revealing one layer after another.

And then I saw it.

  Gold!

Or, rather, faded pink-whitish, fatty, adipose tissue. I merely needed to slice through this layer and I would be halfway there! Only, the adipose tissue was riddled with vascular tissue and was a virtual minefield of veins and arterial tributaries or whatever they’re called. Keep in mind, I’m no doctor, and never claimed to be.

So where to go from here?

Well, I could slice here, but perhaps the vein here snakes underneath.

How about here?

A pity I could not use the lamp to light the way beneath at this point in the progress.

So how about….here?

Nope, I struck oil — or, rather, blood.

Hmm….What to do, what to do?

Let’s try cauterising it. Tsss!

Aahh! Nope, there are nerves around there and it’s just way to sensitive. And umm….still bleeding. Perhaps I could press on. How about….here? Nope, another vein. Hmm….

And so, at this point, all I could do was get the gauze and blot. And still the blood kept coming. In fact, it came out in pulses. And that, my friend, is a very peculiar sight to see; watching blood flow out of your body, at the beat of your own pulse. Creepy, and startling.

  So is it a vein or an artery that I hit?

I couldn’t tell, because both produce pulses. I couldn’t even tell if the blood was darker or brighter. It all looked the same as the blood that sprang up from underneath as I stroked along the incision.

So what to do now?

Gauze wasn’t doing the job, and by now the cold was wearing off and the blood just seemed to flow out much more freely!

So what should I do? Okay. Blot it with gauze and….seal it with superglue. That should do the trick!

And it did.

Success! — only, now what am I supposed to do?

I didn’t want to give up, but continuing only led to more bleeding.

It’s like, every time I call out a potential site, I keep sinking my own battleships!

I had to give it up and just superglue the whole wound. It was superficial enough that sutures wouldn’t be needed, and I could just let it heal and carry on at a later time, albeit at a completely separate location. Upon retrospect, I have come to agree that it was probably a careless move on my part. The potential for that to backfire was so high, but what choice did I have, really?

And so that all brings me to last weekend. Just over two weeks later, I finally healed up nice and fine and the fever about me to get this thing the-hell out of my body was really starting to make my blood boil. I had….

Two days off…. so how about Friday?

Friday it was, and just around midnight, I would try slashing at it again, but this time, at a different location. I even used a brighter lamp and to be absolutely sure just where I to cut! The tissue was thinner here too, so much less work to be done!

So I washed up, shaved the area, cleaned it with surgical scrub; all the good, fun prep that I’d done the last time. Only, this time would be in my own apartment. I sprayed the region down with some Dermoplast, applied a layer of Tridocaine numbing cream to the sight — which I marked rather precisely with a fine-tipped pen — and wrapped the whole thing in elastic wrap and laid it in a bowl full of ice. That would surely do the trick! So I waited, I actualy began doing all the prep at around ten, iced it just before eleven, and uncovered it and began working on the site before midnight.

This time, however, I didn’t have quite the same confidence as before. The room was not clean like the hotel was, and it certainly wasn’t sterile. Hell, since the apartment manager moved in the new fridge, we even had something of a roach infestation we’d been trying to control.

So suffice it to say, these were not ideal working conditions, and I was getting antsy. And thus, my head not being entirely in the game, each stroke I took, as I drew the razor-sharp scalpel across my skin, felt ten times more sensitive than before — even after just icing it! But I kept on, only my lines were not lying on top of one another, but parallel; some even slightly diagonal, as my hand trembled above dissected skin. I needed a rest. I needed to reclaim my composure.

How about a nice Mike’s Hard Lemonade? That should do the trick!

I downed one of those in just a matter of minutes.

Nope! Still no composure.

Where had my courage gone to?

  How about a Tylenol, or an Ibuprofen?

I took one of each. The Tylenol, however, was a P.M., and I was getting drowsy.

How about a nice lie down? Just for a bit.

I talked to myself a lot at the time. It’s a coping mechanism for getting through particularly stressful situations. At any rate, I would try again in a few hours.

Fleur, can you set an alarm for two hours from now?

“Sure!” she replied. And she did.

Riiink! Riiiink! Riiiink! Riiiink!

God, but that alarm is so damned annoying! Fleur, could you set it for five? I think I can do it at five.

I ended up waking up at around six. But not before having at least ten dreams on the very subject, each one of them of the operation being a full success. Each one of them waking me up, leading me to feel around down there just to see if it wasn’t true.

Damned vivid dreams! Of course they would lie to me! Okay. I’m finally up. How about some M & M’s? It’s sugar and that will wake me up!

So by ten O’clock with all of the inspiration from my dreams holding me up, I vowed that, even though it was Saturday, and I had work at nine in the evening, I would surely be done before work and just stitch up and go about my day as if it hadn’t happened.

Well….that’s not exactly how it happened, though. You see, I started at ten — A.M., that is. That meant that if I were to have it done in six hours (six hours being how long it took me last time, with the right teste) I would surely have to be done by four.

  So let’s set that as our goal.

So I got ready, did all the sterilisation rituals I did before, and this time, I prayed to God to give me the strength to bear through the pain. I didn’t even use ice, as that would only serve to harden the skin. I know. Ice has excellent numbing properties, which must not ever be underestimated, but warmer skin just tends to stretch out better and thinner. So that was how I was going to go about it.

Lord give me the strength!

And….I struck.

Okay, I can do this.

Another strike! And another! Truly God must have been with me, or I wouldn’t have had the courage to bear through this kind of pain. And before I knew it, I was not only at that superficial layer of fatty adipose tissue, I was through it and able to push the wad of testicle-spermatic cord-vas deferns-fatty-tissue-covered bundle through. Out of the hole, and at my mercy. Yeah, baby!

But something was different this time. It was covered with much more vascular tissue than the right one was.

Was this the primary? It had been doing the job of two. Perhaps this is the one I had ought to have removed the year before?

I started picking away at the layers with the scalpel — tugging here, cutting there — but it was so dense, and I didn’t know if was going too deep, or if I was going to nick any part of its blood supply, like last time. So I played with it; approaching it very carefully, and at different angles.

No — here! No, maybe….here?

I just wasn’t sure of anymore of where or how to begin stripping away this bundled mass. Though I did seem to make some progress above the testicle. In fact, I could see right through to it, but was I now slicing into the testicle itself, or was this still fatty tissue? I couldn’t tell. And frankly, the thought of actually mutilating the nad like that made me cringe. So I had to try somewhere else.

So….if this is the spermatic cord, then this must be the vas, right? But it’s covered with yellow seed-like growths. What the hell is that? Eugh! Okay….what to do, what to do?

For hours I just had that bundle out there, in my hand, trying to decide my next move. Only now I was starting to enter into real pain. The testicle, now more or less exposed, was starting to get inflamed, and that meant that the nerve that ran through it was coursing through my back, and I sat hunched over in pain.

Fleur….can you….can you go to the store for me and get me something for the pain. And maybe some more saline and gauze and Ibuprofen?

So off she went, and there I sat, doubled over in agony. The pain getting worse by the minute. Submerging it in ice helped though, and so, while she was still gone I had enough strength to make it over to the computer, tweet photo’s of my progress, and even log on to stickam.com to share with the world my struggle. I just wanted the world to know. This is not my pain and burden alone, but the pain and burden that far too many a T-Girl has been willing to put themselves through in a single act of desperation. This was not just my story. This was my cause.

So as the hours passed, time was quickly beginning to run out. I started making phone calls. First, to work, to let them know that I was ‘sick’. And then, shortly thereafter, I began calling everyone in the the area whom I thought might be able to offer me any help. I needed pain killers, and fast. I was sure I had located the vas, and all I would need to do is clamp it in a couple of places and sever it from the testicle. Although I wasn’t so sure about the scalpel, so I pulled out my trusty Leatherman, with it’s thicker, heavier, and possibly even sharper blade. A blade that I knew had no qualms about cutting into human flesh. I should know. I’d found out the hard way once before when I knicked my fingers with it  just peeling wild fruit.  If only I had the courage to use it purposely this time?

Dammit?! Why won’t they answer? Or, why won’t anyone loan me just a few pills? I know that when I check into the hospital they will surely prescribe me more, so it really would be loaning them out, right?

Nothing. I felt lost now. My courage fading, I called my sister in the hopes that she could help me to re-manifest all of the energy I came into all of this with. Meanwhile, stickam was still running, Fleur got back with the supplies, and I was simultaneously chatting and tweeting with the world, even showing them the exposed testicle hoping that someone might have some advice of where to go next.

Of course, the only advice I got from anyone was, “be careful” and “go to a fucking hospital already!”

  Sigh…. Well, that was a waste of my time.

But I chatted a little longer and then decided that I was too tired to continue and wrapped up the bundle in elastic wrap and fell asleep.

I woke up the next morning, the elastic wrap now filled with dark, coagulated blood, and I had to pee. I stumbled groggily into the bath room, held the elastic scrotum in my hand and peed. Blood pouring down my hand as I sat there.

Yuck! Okay, let’s take this damed thing off now.

It was around six in morning now, and I was starting to feel sick. Was it the blood loss, or had I just become more and more sensitive to the gore I’d managed to achieve? I eventually convinced myself that was hunger, and decided to do something about it. Some Orange Fanta and M & M’s would do the trick!

 Now….where were we? Let’s check my tweets?

Apparently in my slumber twitter was tweeting up a storm through the call of a one @stayathomebabe. She had apparently been following my tweets and logged onto to stickam when she saw that I was live on there. And after seeing my cry for help on camera, she decided to share my struggle with the world. I needed that. It was comforting. It was sympathetic to both me and my cause, and so uplifting.

But what would I do now?

The bundle of testicle-spermatic cord-vas deferense-fatty-tissue was still a major issue. So I uncovered it and decided to try to re-analyse the situation; I would gather my bearings, and try again.

Time was still running out. The testicle was now out for about twenty-hours and I needed to take some sort of action.

Back out? Hell no! And lose all of this progress? Life isn’t a video game. You can’t just save it at a moment in time and come back to revisit it and try something else.

Yet everyone was urging me to go to the hospital, and I needed to do something. But I was afraid. I was petrified.

An class-A, God-damned coward! After all the work I’d done, after all the pain I’d put myself through….

And I couldn’t find the courage to do what needed to be done, which was just cut the God-damned cord! So finally, defeated, I decided that I would go to the hospital after I’d iced it a little. Well, I wasn’t going to go  down that easy. I also saturated with salt, in the hopes that the the mix of ice and salt would equal frostbite, or something to that effect.

And hopefully, by the time the physicians could ever tend to it would be spoiled, and they’d have to remove it!

I wasn’t about to leave them something they could salvage, after all.

By about ten-thirty-ish the cab arrived and took me down to Banner-Desert Hospital. I paid the driver — even tipped him a little extra, and walked bow-legged, off on my merry little way through the tunnel to the Adult’s E.R. It was there that I checked myself in and waited.

Oh….the wating game.

It took hours just to see a doc. Even then, not one of them was a Urologist. In the meanwhile, they would hook me up with I.V.’s and take few vials of my blood. Every now and then a nurse would hear about the surgery and decided to find an excuse to take a look.

Yay! I’m a spectacle! But hey, it could be worth it if I have my chance to educate them on the desperation of a transwoman in my current state.

The world simply had to know, and I never shied away the opportunity to educate them.

Finally the doc’s came in and explained that there wasn’t a Urologist on duty, and I would have to be transferred to Banner-Gateway in the next hour or so.

Okay, that works. So no change then. Still waiting.

Bored, I decided to take a couple more photo’s with my Droid phone and tweet them to share my progress.

Man, was it inflamed؟ So much thicker and denser than before.

But all the posted pics would do was inspire more fear among my followers and newly gained admirers and supporters. Twitters @stayathomebabe really helped me out as far as sharing my story. She even wrote a blog about her entire eye-witness account of the night before! And, in case you are interested, the URL of that very account will be copied and pasted at the very end of this blog.

Later the doctor directed the nurses to cover the testicle with a saline-doused gauze wrap, just to keep it more or less preserved and from preventing any further inflammation. Naturally, I would remove the gauze immediately afterwards and only put it back on right when the nurses would come in to change the dressing. This would go on all the way up until surgery.

Meanwhile, it was at around seven in the evening that they finally transferred me to the Banner-Gateway hospital. And it was there that I would get different stories about how long it would take before the doctor would see me in surgery.

So seven-thirty.

Fine, no big deal.

No, nine.

Whatever.

Nine-thirty.

Are you serious?

Nine-forty-five?

Is that a question?

Apparently the doc was taking a little bit longer with his current patient, and that would mean that I would end up staying the night; the surgery now set for around one in the afternoon.

That’s okay, I guess. Only I haven’t been able to eat or drink since six, I think?

My tummy was rumbling, and my patience was waning.

Ah, well. At least this means that for sure the testicle will have spoiled and the surgeon won’t find any need to keep it. I hope!?

Meanwhile, even more nurses, and even E.M.T.’s were so curious and eager to see my work that they just had to ask me, “may I?”

Go right ahead!

I lifted up the sheets, and there, lying bare on the sheets, was the bundle. Amazingly, it didn’t shock, so much as impress them.

Now that’s an ego boost! Only, I didn’t get into any of this out of ego, I got into this out of desperation. I had to remember my mission, my purpose. I had to collect my bearing. Back to business then.

I explained, how, where, and why I did all of this. I even made sure to mention that I was attempting this live on stickam, while tweeting, and talking to people on the phone, just to show how important this public service announcement of mine really was: T-Girls simply can’t get the help they need without sacrifising a great amount of their quality of life and, potentially — and often is the case — their health! Sure, there is prosititution, and that brings in the cash, and can surely expedite the whole surgical process, but that’s not something I’m entirely comfortable with.

Although, I will make it clear, here and now, I am in no way against this kind of thing. It’s their bodies, and their choice. And it really shouldn’t be anyone’s businesss who we choose to sleep with, if even for money. After all, a trans-life, male-to-female, or female-to-male is already written out in stone as a life lived hard. No one will give us an inch. And every mile is a mile fought long and hard for.

At any rate, I found myself a teacher of the tran-cause and of trans ways during my stay there. And by the time I made it to surgery, everyone — and I mean everyone — was on my side, encouraging me to share my story with the doctor that he might not try to salvage the testicle, but remove it once and for all. The former meaning I would end up there again and again, until the job was done; and the latter meaning true and total peace. It’s all I really wanted. Peace. Not having to worry about my body creating ungodly amounts of testosterone for any transwoman on hormone therapy! Not having that underlying fear that if one day, I should not be able to afford my hormones that I should begin reverting back into that hideous state of masculinity that I had fought long and hard to overcome!

Finally, I was down there. It was supposed to be at one and, indeed, they did pick me up and transport me down to the second floor to wait for my surgeon. In the meanwhile, they wheeled me down the hallway for quick sonogram, as per hospital policy, I supposed. By then, of course, the inflammation had gotten so bad that barely touching it with the sonic probe was enough to drive spears of agony coursing through my nerves. The irony of part of this was, policy also dictated that they check both sides get a balanced view of things. However, one was most obviously absent. The other, present, but outside of the body, and grossly inflamed. Finally, when they’d got enough photo’s and video, they wheeled me back down the hall to wait for my surgeout.

The doc didn’t show until five after three. Even then, he didn’t start until about three-thirty, which meant that my testicular bundle had laid outside of my body for forty-nine-point-five hours. That’s just over two days! That’s got to be a record. And when I saw that man, I did beg and plead with him. I told him how long it had been out, that….

Surely it must’ve spoiled by now! And, even if not, if there were one reason, even the smallest that you could find to remove this testicle, then please, show me mercy and remove it?

Tears streaming down my face at this point now.

For surely, I will try this again and again, and again until it is gone!

And frankly, I just wanted this pain, this war with my body, Operation: Tranny Freedom to be over with!

Now I was being rolled out to the O.R.. The anaesthesiologist slipped a knock-out agent into my I.V. and I quickly found myself fast asleep. When I awoke I was in recovery. Beeps and a buzzing all around me.

Is it finished? Is it over with? Do I still have the testicle, or did he take it out?

I turned around and asked the nurse. She confirmed that he’d removed it, but I couldn’t believe it. Then the doc came in and I asked him the same thing. And he also confirmed that it was gone, yet explained that, even regardless of my plea, “it was just the right thing to do.”

A man of few words. I kissed his hand, my eyes now tearing again, and thanked him! I still couldn’t believe it though. How could this be true?

They wheeled me up to my room at around six that evening, where I consulted with Fleur, my partner, who been there all along, and she also confirmed that the doctor had, in fact, removed it, once and for all. Obviously I didn’t want to trust anyone, as all of this just seemed too good to be true. But it wasn’t. And she went on to explain a few details that he passed on to her of the operation. Given evidence of infection (from both the songograms, and exploration of the tissues during surgery), it was reason enough to extract it and send it down to pathology.

Now whether any of this was true, or not, I cannot say. No one really knows enough about the procedure. Even the notes that the doc left about the surgery were only two lines long, according to nurse.

 Strange؟ Did he really do it because he found a reason, or was his heart really so sincere and merciful that he decided to grant me the outcome of my plea?

It didn’t really matter, I supposed. Though still, I couldn’t believe it. The note sayed it “was a successful orchie”, so surely he wouldn’t have lied about it on record. But I had to ask every single nurse and doctor I’d encountered that following morning. No one had much info on the subject, yet each had exactly the same story to share, so surely this must have been true. I was really, finally, completely free!

They’re gone! Finally….no more hideous, disgusting testicles! No more intense levels of testosterone coursing through my veins, competing with the very same receptors that would respond to my estrogen therapy. And most importantly of all, no more war! Finally, I can be at peace with myself!

The thought of this brought warmth to my heart.

By eleven that morning, they wrote up my ‘scripts, discharge papers, pulled out the I.V. and I was finally released. Free to heal on my own! Free as a bird! Incidentally, in contrast, the last time I’d removed the right testicle, it didn’t end so well. That actually landed me a temporary stay at the local mental-behavioural hospital for a five day evaluation. Followed, of course, with a bill of good mental health — because I’m not crazy! — and off on my merry little way. But this time, not even the hassle of that! No delays, and I could go right back to work within the next five days, and no one would be the wiser.

How could it have ended to beautifully? I really can’t say. I honestly think that my Father in Heaven really does smile down upon me sometimes. And that he does have the power to move hearts and stir souls when it counts. Now I don’t know the nature of this surgeon who granted me my wish, but I suspect that perhaps God gave me this particular one for a reason.

So now I am home. Safe and sound, and healing. It feels great to be back, and surely I will have a lot to share with my friends and family in the days to come. It really was quite an ordeal, but even in those long, dreadful hours of agony, it was surely all worth it. Because now I can rest and be at peace with myself. Now I can go on with my life, and worry less about my transition, and more about what I am going to do with my life. Will I try to apply to be a policewoman, or will I look into getting grants to go to medical school to be a nurse? So many decisions to make.

But now I have the time to think about them. Now my destiny is my top priority. Sure, Gender-Reassignment-Surgery is bound to be in my future. But I realise that I won’t be able to afford that for maybe even ten years from now. And honestly, I am okay with that. After all, a vulva does not, a woman, make. And for that matter, neither does a penis validate anyones masculinity. For it is what’s on the inside that counts.

And that’s what we are all doing, us transsexuals, with our transitions: working to make the inside reflect outwards. Proving to the world a truth that we have always known! That we are who and what we say we are, even when the world strikes us down and denies us that status.

I end this article with peace in my mind and heart. I have a cause, and a purpose. And I will share my story with whomever will hear it! I am moving forward. Hoping that I still have a job when I get back. And if I don’t, I know that I will still bounce back. Because nothing can strike me down now. For I am Woman. I am empowered. I am free of that masculine poison that afflicted me so. And now, I am ready face life without fear anymore.

I am, truly, and most sincerely yours,

Now and forever,

Jadis Illiana Argiope

Articles written about me and my surgery

Via @stayathomebabe – http://stayathomebabe.com/2010/11/castration-via-self-surgery/

Via @Pallister55 – http://zombieloveletters.blogspot.com/2010/11/argiopes-web.html

Via Diana – http://saladbingo.wordpress.com/2010/12/11/the-burning-monk/

Via me, on etransgender.com – http://etransgender.com/viewtopic.php?f=1&t=2366

Via me, also on etransgender.com – http://etransgender.com/viewtopic.php?f=1&t=2158

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  1. TS Vandenberg, I know this post is a little old, and I don’t know if you are going to read this reply, but I have to say your story was really inspiring to me because I am a 24-year-old transgender myself currently on transition and in the closet and I feel I am also desperate. I feel my time is passing too fast so sometimes I think of doing the same crazy thing you did. Let you know that I am an expert in irresponsible dangerous decisions, having once made a suicide attempt (although unrelated to my transexuality, which I hadn’t discovered at the time) and although it was a traumatic experience I never regretted it in any later moment of my life. So I would like to ask you if you suggest that a desperate transgender person, unfortunately still in the closet and with no one to support should follow your steps or if in this condition it would be too reckless for this to work.

    • Done. And thank you. I actually did leave such a disclaimer when I wrote of the details for part-one of the surgery at eTransgender.com, and I suppose it just slipped my mind as I was writing it here. So now that that all is sorted out, I hope you can feel a little at ease that few will find themselves sufficiently inspired as to attempt to copy my work.

      Sincerely,

      Jadis aka TSVandenberg

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