First, before I get to today’s blog post, a quick shoutout to Muted Mouthful for the Sunshine Blogger Award nomination! I’ll be posting about it later this week, but the general idea of the award is that it’s given out to boost community and morale among bloggers. So that’s exciting! I’ll come out with my list of nominees later on.

I wasn’t sure what to write about today; I skipped Friday’s post so I knew I definitely couldn’t skip this one. So I figured: why not blog about why I skipped Friday’s post?

Yes, the idea is low hanging fruit. No, I don’t care.

For the last little while I’ve been feeling off. Not necessarily depressed, definitely not manic, but…off. I’m scared a lot for no reason. Until recently I was having weird moments where I couldn’t catch my breath and got tunnel vision and did this weird half crying half choking thing. It was not a good look. That’s stopped (knock on wood) but I’m still up half the night freaking out about stuff that I have no reason to freak out about. And I don’t know why.

One of the things I’m worried about but shouldn’t be worried about is my mole. If you’ve seen some of my selfies you may have noticed a good sized mole on my neck. I’ve had it since I was a kid, and never really saw a need to get rid of it (mostly because removal was considered cosmetic and therefore not covered by OHIP). However, now that I’ve started testosterone, shaving is becoming…difficult. Navigating around the mole is hard. So I went to my family doctor to see what he could do. I told him why I wanted to remove it, and he took a picture of it with his iPad. He told me he’d send it to a dermatologist, and refer me to his clinic. Then he brought up the C word:

“Do I think it’s cancer? No.”

Woah. Woah woah woah. I wasn’t thinking of cancer. Like, at all. It’s just a pain in the ass to shave around. That is it. Why is he bringing up cancer? Yes, he says he doesn’t think it’s cancer BUT STILL. WHY.

So I saw the dermatologist. He asked if the mole has changed. I admitted it has – it’s gotten darker, and it bleeds and scabs over sometimes if it rubs against something for too long. He looked at it and said, huh, you’re right, there are parts that are darker than others. So I got a biopsy.

0/10 would not recommend, especially with the nurse I dealt with; when I asked her how much the anesthesia needle would hurt she smiled and said, “Aw, afraid of needles?” I laughed and joked, “No, I inject myself with testosterone every other week, I’m fine with needles. It’s the neck part that worries me.” Her demeanour changed. She didn’t answer as she stabbed my neck. It hurt quite a bit. I’m not saying she was transphobic, but the testosterone joke definitely put her off – and she would have known I was trans since I haven’t changed my gender marker (my prescription refers to me as “Mrs. James Henley”). Or maybe she just thought I was a fat body builder. Who knows.

After the biopsy the dermatologist scheduled a followup appointment for April 20. “I think the risk for cancer is low, but I did the biopsy just in case.”

Again, I did not bring up cancer. Why do these doctors keep bringing up cancer?

I know, logically, it’s not cancer. I have been joking about it with my family because we all know it’s not cancer. I’ve actually made a bet with my stepdad where he has to buy me McDonald’s if I end up having it because we both know it’s not cancer.

However. I did not mention to the dermatologist (because I didn’t think to, not because I was hiding it) that a couple of years ago (I think), I found a new mole on my stomach. It’s small, but very dark. When I spotted it however long ago, I did a double take, like, oh! You’re new! How did you get there? I can’t help but feel like that’s bad. And so, despite knowing I do not have cancer, this is one of the things I freak out about alone at night.

Of course, my family has made me feel self-conscious. The biopsy site has to be covered with a bandage until the stitch is removed. Because things always go my way, a standard bandaid is just a bit too small. So I’ve been using a size up – which is pretty big and pretty noticeable. They’ve called me Frankenstein (which, coincidentally, is one of my irrational pet peeves: people who call the monster “Frankenstein”…Frankenstein is the scientist dammit!). My stepdad constantly tells me to use a smaller bandaid even though I’ve told him many times they are a bit too small. He also thought I was stupid for putting my homemade saline solution in the fridge – which the doctor told me to do. “You’ll be fine,” he scoffed, shaking his head at how stupid I must be to listen to my doctor. My mom and stepdad have both told me many times that “(I) DON’T HAVE CANCER, GOD.” I do not feel comfortable talking about my worries with them. I feel bad about myself because of them. But what else is new? All I can do is make awkward jokes and change the subject.

Now, there are other things I’m nervous about – mostly related to my dwindling bank account and maxed out credit card and my inability to sit down and make a resume without immediately feeling like an idiot who won’t get the position anyways – but I figured the mole was the most straightforward to write about. I know, logically, I do not have cancer. I know, logically, that I’m a moderately smart and sometimes capable human who can land a job if he tries. And yet, here I am – up until 4am writing and talking to myself to try to convince myself it’s okay, it’s gonna be okay, just calm down, deep breaths, nice music, there we go, that’s a little better, let’s go to bed. Nope now I’m freaked out again, let’s start over, it’s gonna be okay, just calm down…

I know there are things I should be doing to help. No screen time before bed is the big one. Cutting out my beloved naps is another one. But part of me screams “why bother?” Part of me has genuinely given up. I feel awful about myself a lot of the time. Inadequate. Probably just lazy. Always overreacting. I need to move out of this house to start healing – I get those weird panicky breathing moments when I remember childhood memories – but I need to stop feeling like this to get a job to start saving to move out. Again, I know what I have to do – logically I know I need to break this down into smaller tasks, do one thing at a time, etc. – I just have a hard time believing it’ll work. Or that I’m even capable of it.

I’ll figure it out I’m sure. I probably sound like every other 20-something living with their parents. This was a vent post mostly. Sorry it’s not strictly trans related, unless you count the nurse I dealt with and the prescription I got (which was, admittedly, a huge punch in the gut because I’ve never had a title included in a prescription before so I was caught off guard and felt like shit the rest of the day). Things will improve, I won’t stay up all night scared of nothing, and it won’t be cancer.

Probably.