Friday 29 June 2007
On Wednesday it was six weeks since I had the operation. The time has come for a little assessment.
Pain: 1/10
My period of post-operative suffering is over. In the end it lasted about a fortnight. Then for two or three weeks there were gnawing pains and serious discomfort when I stood up for too long, admittedly a diffuse pain but definitely present if I really overdid it. But still, it happened only once or twice (I quickly learn how to take it easy when the alternative implies suffering). Lastly there was the awful time while my hair was growing back. I so much wanted to scratch myself for about a week.
But now, the war of the physical pain is over. Strangely I have almost forgotten what it was like.
Hallelujah.
Healing: 8/10
My clitoris is still quite pink.
On the other hand, all the area around has returned to a normal colour. The swelling has gone down in all that area and is no longer sensitive.
Talking of sensitivity, contrary to what I thought, I still don’t feel my “interior” clitoris. It no longer hurts, I can feel it “outside” when I cross my legs, but that’s all for now. I’m being patient, being patient.
I’m continuing with the personal hygiene using dilute iodine. The most often was 4 times a day but more and more often I’ve been forgetting the afternoon session so reducing myself to 3 washes.
Normally this treatment would be modified next week. I have an appointment with Dr Foldès and he said to me that he would prescribe a cream to perfect the healing. I hope there won’t be any more of these intimate ablutions to do because I’ve had enough of them.
The stiches haven’t yet dissolved. They are going to become embedded in my flesh if this continues, I’m sure of it.
The other great annoyance that I’m experiencing, is that I still can’t distinguish my labia minora. It may be it’s because I’m hopeless at female anatomy (but I have done my research) or perhaps there is a problem and they are still too swollen. As a result the skin is stretched, they merge with the labia majora and so I can’t see them. Anyway, that’s the theory I worked out this morning. Verdict next week.
Gait: 9/10
I’ve regained my gait. I’ll even go so far as to say it’s more feminine, seeing that wearing skirts makes me wiggle my bottom. In reality I like it more and more, walking around in a skirt or dress. I am becoming more and more used to the sight of my legs (their prettiness depends on your point of view. From my direction they are just OK, my legs after all). I’ll almost go so far as to say I like my silhouette in a skirt…
Still, if I’ve regained my cruising speed, I still can’t really run. I daren’t go all out and I content myself with trotting carefully. Even in the pouring rain. That’s to say that it’s at that point I’m afraid of hurting myself. One day I’m going to have to launch myself, but for the moment I’m scared stiff.
Morale: 7/10
I have highs and lows. Neither euphoria nor deep depression but my problems with my parents have left their mark. I haven’t spoken to them for 3 weeks and I don’t at all feel I want to. It’s as though I’m indifferent. I need to put some distance between us. But I don’t know for how long or what will happen in the end. From the point of view of my therapy too, I’ve put my parents to one side. I need time to assimilate what happened on the last occasions. At the moment I’m working on the myths which I have built to maintain my self-esteem. I’m at a stage where I no longer need these props and I need to get rid of them. It’s ridiculously hard I’m finding. Because I’m afraid of what will happen when I have to move on without these crutches. It’s like when you remove the little wheels from the back of a child’s cycle…
In retrospect, I realise the invaluable help given by the opportunity to put my feelings into words. With my therapist of course. And also here on this blog. I really believe I would have poisoned myself by not expressing things I have undergone in the past and still now…
Sex: 3/10
I worry more and more about taking up, very soon I hope, my sexual life again. We miss it, my man and I.
But I’m really afraid that the jumbling of bodies will hurt me. Already rubbing against my clitoris makes me freeze in terror. Seeing the effect my poor jeans had on me , I dare not imagine what the skin and movements of my love could cause by way of pain. In fact, for now, I associate all contact with my clitoris with the idea of intense pain.
At the worst, I’m less afraid of penetration because there are positions which allow there not to be any rubbing against my clitoris. But I fear even that a lot.
I believe, besides, I need a green light from Dr Foldès before starting off. I want to be sure that I run no medical risk. I don’t want any complications or I don’t know what else unpleasant which I would be able to avoid by not romping about wildly.
Physical shape: 6/10
I don’t know if it’s linked but I’m exhausted. Frankly worn out. It’s simple, I’m dragging myself about. It’s as if, after a sustained tension, I have relaxed and I’m visibly affected. I’m sleepy all the time and I fall asleep as soon as I lie down. Can’t wait for the holidays ….
Sport 0/10
I am the first to be astonished but I miss my sessions (sporadic I admit) at the swimming pool, or out jogging.
Nevertheless I’m waiting to see Dr Foldès before taking up my activities again. I don’t want to return to the pool and catch something awful which requires me to undergo treatment for yet more weeks.
Smoking: 6/10
I cracked.
Several times.
It’s useless, I know, I know.
I think that before the operation, I was so frightened the smoking could harm my reconstruction (it could hinder the healing) that I watched my step.
Now that I’ve had the operation and I’m not dead on the table, I no longer have the Sword of Damocles hanging over my head.
So on special occasions I’ve smoked one or two cigarettes, stupidly, in the joy of the moment.
Then, I bought a packet all of which I smoked.
It’s not good at all, I know, I know.
I am very contrite. I assure you I would beat myself except that I have this little problem of pain intolerance. I am ashamed. And even more so since the disappointed look thrown to me by my man when he caught me in the act.
I’ve been on patches again for several days, I don’t want to fall into this addiction again.
Especially as I wonder if it doesn’t explain the fact that I am still not completely healed after the expected six weeks.
[Original in French]
Next post
Friday, 30 June 2006
Monday, 26 June 2006
My friends: skirts
Monday 25 June 2007
Yesterday evening I realised something amazing.
In 40 days I haven’t worn trousers. Well, if you don’t count large pyjama bottoms in which I spent one or two Sundays, I’ve worn NO trousers in 40 days. I’ve worn nothing but skirts for over a month. Every day! Isn’t that totally ridiculous? That hasn’t happened in such a long time that I can’t remember my previous record. That's to say, what has happened to me is revolutionary.
What’s more, I feel normal.
So obviously for the unconditional follower of trouser-wearing that I am, things can’t be reversed without pain.
At the beginning of my convalescence it was easy, I was nothing but pain and suffering. The extreme sensitivity of my genital zone left me distrustful of all my close fitting clothes in my wardrobe, and trousers even more so. I could see that my comfort and well-being was possible only in a skirt. I was already in pain and I wasn’t going to add to it by trussing myself up in trousers.
That lasted all the time I was off work. I was at home, my bare legs gave me the impression of being by the sea in the summertime.
When I went back to work I wanted to wear trousers again as usual, as the pain and even the pulling were no more than vague memories, and the itching which remained with me didn’t bother me.
Only, I pictured the ravages which the friction from the crotch of my trousers could cause on my clitoris while healing, and I trembled.
So I rejected all my clothing values and decided to follow a skirt cure.
Standing in front of my wardrobe I discovered several things. First I didn’t have many skirts, barely ten. And of these ten or so, very few were suitable for my professional working environment. I’ve bought skirts only to have around during the summer. I don’t even have a suit, that is to say of the sort I need.
I’ll pass by on the humiliating report on the remaining number of skirts which no longer fit me. Seeing that I rarely wear them and only in the summer, I obviously didn’t know that they were shrinking (my theory is that a skirt unworn is an unhappy skirt. And everyone knows that an unhappy skirt shrinks.).
I had to call on some smart dresses which I have to enhance the pile of wearable skirts, and in order not to wear the same thing every three days.
Then I realised the point at which it was hard to lose my automatic reflexes. How many times did I calmly open my cupboard on the left and take out a pair of trousers while humming, before realising it wasn’t going to be possible? How many times did I lose the thread of my thoughts in front of my cupboard on the right, troubled by seeing no trousers there?
Honestly, I battled to undo what I hadn’t realised was an addiction until I found myself confronted with the necessity of shunning my adored trousers. It wasn’t easy.
What’s more, I had to review my depilation strategy because I could no longer hide my legs.
I benefited by chance from my operation taking place during the spring and not the winter. That way I could skip tights, stockings and the like (especially as I’m permanently depilated). I don’t know why, or rather if, I do know why, my tights practically never survive an unfortunate encounter with my nails. If I manicured a bit more often, my nails would be less jagged and my tights would have peace.
Good, so it’s summer, so no tights. Even though in a strong wind or rain, I’m cold, even very cold. It doesn’t matter too much you see, I live in Paris. That implies that the time I’m in the open air is more than limited (long live public transport). So I clench my teeth, my pullover, my legs and speed up my steps. And the cold is bearable.
What’s more, there are the looks from the flatterers. I had never realised how much success you could have in a skirt. Even with shadows under your eyes, spots (hoorah for spring) and not even a low neckline. It’s rather pleasant I have to say.
My love being greatly in favour of my decision to wear skirts, I envisage buying a load of them during the sales.
My goodness, I don’t recognise myself.
It’s ridiculous the effect it has had on me. Because it’s mellowing wearing a skirt. At least it’s had a strangely calming effect on me. I wasn’t masculine to start off with, far from it even, but the speed with which I’ve got used to myself in skirts, I’m going to transform myself into a femme fatale without the time to say "oof". If that happens I’m going to have a passion for high heeled shoes any time soon.
My God!
In the end though, what comes out of all that is that it isn’t so difficult to wear skirts. Nevertheless, since nature returns at a gallop, even if you send it out to graze, I tried on my largest jeans yesterday evening. Just a question of finding out my clothing options.
It started really well. I managed to do up the buttons and take a few steps without any problem.
It was only when I sat down that I knew that I wasn’t ready to put on my favourite jeans again. They still aren’t at all acceptable to my convalescent zone. Which hastened to protest with a painful discomfort. After that, even standing, the charm was broken. I wanted to pull down on the crotch of my jeans and even keep it like that permanently, between two fingers. Unfortunately that isn’t at all classy and what’s more it keeps one hand occupied full time.
I therefore, wisely, returned to my skirts.
I’m going to be patient a little longer, hoping that I don’t get bronchitis, laryngitis or who knows what, walking around like that, with bare legs even though it isn’t even 20 degrees … [68 degrees F]
[Original in French]
Next post
Yesterday evening I realised something amazing.
In 40 days I haven’t worn trousers. Well, if you don’t count large pyjama bottoms in which I spent one or two Sundays, I’ve worn NO trousers in 40 days. I’ve worn nothing but skirts for over a month. Every day! Isn’t that totally ridiculous? That hasn’t happened in such a long time that I can’t remember my previous record. That's to say, what has happened to me is revolutionary.
What’s more, I feel normal.
So obviously for the unconditional follower of trouser-wearing that I am, things can’t be reversed without pain.
At the beginning of my convalescence it was easy, I was nothing but pain and suffering. The extreme sensitivity of my genital zone left me distrustful of all my close fitting clothes in my wardrobe, and trousers even more so. I could see that my comfort and well-being was possible only in a skirt. I was already in pain and I wasn’t going to add to it by trussing myself up in trousers.
That lasted all the time I was off work. I was at home, my bare legs gave me the impression of being by the sea in the summertime.
When I went back to work I wanted to wear trousers again as usual, as the pain and even the pulling were no more than vague memories, and the itching which remained with me didn’t bother me.
Only, I pictured the ravages which the friction from the crotch of my trousers could cause on my clitoris while healing, and I trembled.
So I rejected all my clothing values and decided to follow a skirt cure.
Standing in front of my wardrobe I discovered several things. First I didn’t have many skirts, barely ten. And of these ten or so, very few were suitable for my professional working environment. I’ve bought skirts only to have around during the summer. I don’t even have a suit, that is to say of the sort I need.
I’ll pass by on the humiliating report on the remaining number of skirts which no longer fit me. Seeing that I rarely wear them and only in the summer, I obviously didn’t know that they were shrinking (my theory is that a skirt unworn is an unhappy skirt. And everyone knows that an unhappy skirt shrinks.).
I had to call on some smart dresses which I have to enhance the pile of wearable skirts, and in order not to wear the same thing every three days.
Then I realised the point at which it was hard to lose my automatic reflexes. How many times did I calmly open my cupboard on the left and take out a pair of trousers while humming, before realising it wasn’t going to be possible? How many times did I lose the thread of my thoughts in front of my cupboard on the right, troubled by seeing no trousers there?
Honestly, I battled to undo what I hadn’t realised was an addiction until I found myself confronted with the necessity of shunning my adored trousers. It wasn’t easy.
What’s more, I had to review my depilation strategy because I could no longer hide my legs.
I benefited by chance from my operation taking place during the spring and not the winter. That way I could skip tights, stockings and the like (especially as I’m permanently depilated). I don’t know why, or rather if, I do know why, my tights practically never survive an unfortunate encounter with my nails. If I manicured a bit more often, my nails would be less jagged and my tights would have peace.
Good, so it’s summer, so no tights. Even though in a strong wind or rain, I’m cold, even very cold. It doesn’t matter too much you see, I live in Paris. That implies that the time I’m in the open air is more than limited (long live public transport). So I clench my teeth, my pullover, my legs and speed up my steps. And the cold is bearable.
What’s more, there are the looks from the flatterers. I had never realised how much success you could have in a skirt. Even with shadows under your eyes, spots (hoorah for spring) and not even a low neckline. It’s rather pleasant I have to say.
My love being greatly in favour of my decision to wear skirts, I envisage buying a load of them during the sales.
My goodness, I don’t recognise myself.
It’s ridiculous the effect it has had on me. Because it’s mellowing wearing a skirt. At least it’s had a strangely calming effect on me. I wasn’t masculine to start off with, far from it even, but the speed with which I’ve got used to myself in skirts, I’m going to transform myself into a femme fatale without the time to say "oof". If that happens I’m going to have a passion for high heeled shoes any time soon.
My God!
In the end though, what comes out of all that is that it isn’t so difficult to wear skirts. Nevertheless, since nature returns at a gallop, even if you send it out to graze, I tried on my largest jeans yesterday evening. Just a question of finding out my clothing options.
It started really well. I managed to do up the buttons and take a few steps without any problem.
It was only when I sat down that I knew that I wasn’t ready to put on my favourite jeans again. They still aren’t at all acceptable to my convalescent zone. Which hastened to protest with a painful discomfort. After that, even standing, the charm was broken. I wanted to pull down on the crotch of my jeans and even keep it like that permanently, between two fingers. Unfortunately that isn’t at all classy and what’s more it keeps one hand occupied full time.
I therefore, wisely, returned to my skirts.
I’m going to be patient a little longer, hoping that I don’t get bronchitis, laryngitis or who knows what, walking around like that, with bare legs even though it isn’t even 20 degrees … [68 degrees F]
[Original in French]
Next post
Wednesday, 21 June 2006
Storm
Thursday 21 June 2007
Right, I’m fed up with this.
I’m fed up that the healing is taking so long. The stitches still haven’t gone. Pfff … I think that this damned convalescence will never end. Happily I can move about now, hmm? Because I have the feeling that I will have to do this personal hygiene until the end of my life. I’ve had enough of my clitoris still being pink and so big. What’s more, I don’t even know what it’s supposed to look like. Anyway, this morning I could swear that it had reduced in size. Well, not before time! That’s five weeks since I had the operation. Pfff….
And I’m not even talking about my labia minora. Fortunately I don’t know that they have been repaired too, do I? Because I still can’t see them. Don’t you rush yourselves girls, OK? Show yourselves when you are ready, why not? I’m withering here waiting for you but don’t you worry about me, all right? Take your time!
I must be patient and I’m the one who set this in motion, my man told me this morning. I agree totally.
But today I’ve had enough.
I’d like to restart my sexual life, I miss romping around more and more. I’d like to go back to the pool and swim with flippers. I’d like to be able to run for the bus or go upstairs four at a time.
But of course, I must wait. Longer and longer. Pfff…
The healing is taking its time already, but as if that weren’t enough, my mental reconstruction is tuning out to be more complicated than I thought. In my very naïve daydreams I imagined that my parents would ask me directly to forgive them, crying their eyes out and swearing that they had been wanting to since the day of my circumcision. I had imagined that they would tell me the truth about what happened that day. And that I would have managed to forgive them for having done so much harm.
I had a second scenario where my parents, shocked that I had undertaken the reconstruction, would have told me off severely. I would have defended myself by telling them at which point they had messed up as parents and that it was better for me to be in charge. Afterwards, we would have fallen out and never spoken again all our lives, which wouldn’t matter to me because I would get over it on my own.
Of course, it’s not at all like that as it has happened. Neither reconciliation in tears nor a complete break in uproar. No, instead, they kept their mouths shut. Or rather, my father kept his mouth shut. My mother, she may even have lied to me. And I ask myself which is worse, lying or not talking to me.
I have to say that I have done something quite dangerous. On a whim I wrote to my sister to ask her a question. I had to know if my mother did or did not participate in the decision to have us circumcised. I needed to know if she had lied to me on the telephone when she said she wouldn’t have done it for anything.
Yesterday morning in bed, I had the bright idea to ask the only other person likely to know: my sister. Who was six years old at the time and who might remember. In the email I sent her when I got up, I said sorry in advance for bringing up painful memories and then I asked her if she remembered something which would let me shed light on my mother’s possible participation.
She called me straight away (big surprise this phone call, in fact I thought she wouldn’t reply) to say that she remembered nothing convincing but that once, when she was a teenager, my father and she had spoken about it. And he had said that he had got into such an appalling rage because when my mother had suggested he would be Ok about us being circumcised, he had formally forbidden it and that she had done it nevertheless. My father had said to my sister that he had run to the dispensary near our village to ask for anti-tetanus vaccines for us both…
Damn, that struck to my heart to learn that my father spoke to my sister about it though he was silent with me. Frankly I get an enormous bowling ball sized lump forming in my throat when I think about it. Why doesn’t he talk to me about it? Why do I have the right only to silence?
And as for my mother, I can’t even speak about her. You would have to say she lied to me. Yes you would say that when she re ad my letter, my nice mother rushed straight to the phone to tell me a pure lie. That’s not great, is it? I am just finding out the extent of my anger towards her, and I can tell you it’s monumental.
She lied to me!!
In the end, if I can believe what my sister said that my father said because he doesn’t speak to me personally.
There are days like that when I can’t take any more. Days when I want to stop all the trouble. Today is a day like that, an ash-grey day.
I really am terribly fed up.
[Original in French]
Next post
Right, I’m fed up with this.
I’m fed up that the healing is taking so long. The stitches still haven’t gone. Pfff … I think that this damned convalescence will never end. Happily I can move about now, hmm? Because I have the feeling that I will have to do this personal hygiene until the end of my life. I’ve had enough of my clitoris still being pink and so big. What’s more, I don’t even know what it’s supposed to look like. Anyway, this morning I could swear that it had reduced in size. Well, not before time! That’s five weeks since I had the operation. Pfff….
And I’m not even talking about my labia minora. Fortunately I don’t know that they have been repaired too, do I? Because I still can’t see them. Don’t you rush yourselves girls, OK? Show yourselves when you are ready, why not? I’m withering here waiting for you but don’t you worry about me, all right? Take your time!
I must be patient and I’m the one who set this in motion, my man told me this morning. I agree totally.
But today I’ve had enough.
I’d like to restart my sexual life, I miss romping around more and more. I’d like to go back to the pool and swim with flippers. I’d like to be able to run for the bus or go upstairs four at a time.
But of course, I must wait. Longer and longer. Pfff…
The healing is taking its time already, but as if that weren’t enough, my mental reconstruction is tuning out to be more complicated than I thought. In my very naïve daydreams I imagined that my parents would ask me directly to forgive them, crying their eyes out and swearing that they had been wanting to since the day of my circumcision. I had imagined that they would tell me the truth about what happened that day. And that I would have managed to forgive them for having done so much harm.
I had a second scenario where my parents, shocked that I had undertaken the reconstruction, would have told me off severely. I would have defended myself by telling them at which point they had messed up as parents and that it was better for me to be in charge. Afterwards, we would have fallen out and never spoken again all our lives, which wouldn’t matter to me because I would get over it on my own.
Of course, it’s not at all like that as it has happened. Neither reconciliation in tears nor a complete break in uproar. No, instead, they kept their mouths shut. Or rather, my father kept his mouth shut. My mother, she may even have lied to me. And I ask myself which is worse, lying or not talking to me.
I have to say that I have done something quite dangerous. On a whim I wrote to my sister to ask her a question. I had to know if my mother did or did not participate in the decision to have us circumcised. I needed to know if she had lied to me on the telephone when she said she wouldn’t have done it for anything.
Yesterday morning in bed, I had the bright idea to ask the only other person likely to know: my sister. Who was six years old at the time and who might remember. In the email I sent her when I got up, I said sorry in advance for bringing up painful memories and then I asked her if she remembered something which would let me shed light on my mother’s possible participation.
She called me straight away (big surprise this phone call, in fact I thought she wouldn’t reply) to say that she remembered nothing convincing but that once, when she was a teenager, my father and she had spoken about it. And he had said that he had got into such an appalling rage because when my mother had suggested he would be Ok about us being circumcised, he had formally forbidden it and that she had done it nevertheless. My father had said to my sister that he had run to the dispensary near our village to ask for anti-tetanus vaccines for us both…
Damn, that struck to my heart to learn that my father spoke to my sister about it though he was silent with me. Frankly I get an enormous bowling ball sized lump forming in my throat when I think about it. Why doesn’t he talk to me about it? Why do I have the right only to silence?
And as for my mother, I can’t even speak about her. You would have to say she lied to me. Yes you would say that when she re ad my letter, my nice mother rushed straight to the phone to tell me a pure lie. That’s not great, is it? I am just finding out the extent of my anger towards her, and I can tell you it’s monumental.
She lied to me!!
In the end, if I can believe what my sister said that my father said because he doesn’t speak to me personally.
There are days like that when I can’t take any more. Days when I want to stop all the trouble. Today is a day like that, an ash-grey day.
I really am terribly fed up.
[Original in French]
Next post
Sunday, 18 June 2006
Roving at last!
Monday 18 June 2007
My best friend often has very good ideas.
Recently he had one which has set me free from my bathroom.
As I told you, I have to attend to my personal hygiene 3 to 4 times a day. And rinse thoroughly each time.
In time I ended up getting used to it. From being “bloody annoying” the ritual has become “a bit of a nuisance”.
Even since I went back to work, I haven’t strayed from Dr Foldès’ instructions and I am continuing to take four semi-showers a day.
In fact I could content myself with three sessions a day (one in the morning, one when returning home from work and one in the evening when going to bed). After all, he told me “3 to 4 times a day” at my last consultation. But quite obviously the “good pupil” side of my nature, forces me to have 4. In "3 to 4 times a day", I hear only 4 times but still, if it’s only three, that’s nevertheless fine.
As a result, when I went back to work, I was returning home every mid-day to take care of myself.
Which was getting me into a bit of a jam. It was impossible to do what I had to during a lunch hour and the return journey was taking me an hour and a half (including lunch).
The other day, I had lunch with my best friend and it appeared to him that the constraint came in reality from the fact that I have to rinse thoroughly. You can’t rinse your intimate areas thoroughly in the toilets (unless they are equipped with these new luxury thrones from Japan with optional heated seats and a fountain for rinsing, as I have seen in the past, but those aren’t the sort of toilets at my workplace).
So my best friend suggested that I should carry a wash bottle (you know, those laboratory bottles with a sort of bent spout which chemists use?).
With that I would have the ability to rinse thoroughly and with complete discretion in any toilets.
That evening in the supermarket, the idea became more refined: as it was a question of needing a sort of portable fountain, I could also use a bottle of water with a “sports special” cap (the ones you take off with your teeth while running, and which allow you to squirt the water out in a jet by pressing the sides).
I tried several. Some bottles were too hard (as a result when you press them you don’t get a fountain, you had to tilt the bottle to get a substitute jet, well short of my expectations). Others were too supple, I could press harder and produce a magnificent jet while holding the bottle upright (head up) but their capacity was too small for my taste (25 cl).
As far as I am concerned, the ideal would be to have a litre of water available.
While waiting to try out my friend’s wash bottle, I chose a bottle containing 50 cl and I diluted the iodine well, which means there is less to rinse.
As a result, I walk around now with my little pink bag containing a bottle of iodine, a beaker (for mixing the iodine and water,) some sterile swabs, my bottle with the “sports” cap, some soft paper handkerchiefs and one or two soft sanitary towels.
I am finally free to do what I want during my lunch hours.
The treatments, which I have to continue until 4 July at least, are far less of a constraint now that I can do them anywhere.
That is bliss!
[Original in French]
Next post
My best friend often has very good ideas.
Recently he had one which has set me free from my bathroom.
As I told you, I have to attend to my personal hygiene 3 to 4 times a day. And rinse thoroughly each time.
In time I ended up getting used to it. From being “bloody annoying” the ritual has become “a bit of a nuisance”.
Even since I went back to work, I haven’t strayed from Dr Foldès’ instructions and I am continuing to take four semi-showers a day.
In fact I could content myself with three sessions a day (one in the morning, one when returning home from work and one in the evening when going to bed). After all, he told me “3 to 4 times a day” at my last consultation. But quite obviously the “good pupil” side of my nature, forces me to have 4. In "3 to 4 times a day", I hear only 4 times but still, if it’s only three, that’s nevertheless fine.
As a result, when I went back to work, I was returning home every mid-day to take care of myself.
Which was getting me into a bit of a jam. It was impossible to do what I had to during a lunch hour and the return journey was taking me an hour and a half (including lunch).
The other day, I had lunch with my best friend and it appeared to him that the constraint came in reality from the fact that I have to rinse thoroughly. You can’t rinse your intimate areas thoroughly in the toilets (unless they are equipped with these new luxury thrones from Japan with optional heated seats and a fountain for rinsing, as I have seen in the past, but those aren’t the sort of toilets at my workplace).
So my best friend suggested that I should carry a wash bottle (you know, those laboratory bottles with a sort of bent spout which chemists use?).
With that I would have the ability to rinse thoroughly and with complete discretion in any toilets.
That evening in the supermarket, the idea became more refined: as it was a question of needing a sort of portable fountain, I could also use a bottle of water with a “sports special” cap (the ones you take off with your teeth while running, and which allow you to squirt the water out in a jet by pressing the sides).
I tried several. Some bottles were too hard (as a result when you press them you don’t get a fountain, you had to tilt the bottle to get a substitute jet, well short of my expectations). Others were too supple, I could press harder and produce a magnificent jet while holding the bottle upright (head up) but their capacity was too small for my taste (25 cl).
As far as I am concerned, the ideal would be to have a litre of water available.
While waiting to try out my friend’s wash bottle, I chose a bottle containing 50 cl and I diluted the iodine well, which means there is less to rinse.
As a result, I walk around now with my little pink bag containing a bottle of iodine, a beaker (for mixing the iodine and water,) some sterile swabs, my bottle with the “sports” cap, some soft paper handkerchiefs and one or two soft sanitary towels.
I am finally free to do what I want during my lunch hours.
The treatments, which I have to continue until 4 July at least, are far less of a constraint now that I can do them anywhere.
That is bliss!
[Original in French]
Next post
Monday, 12 June 2006
Is saying nothing giving consent?
Tuesday 12 June 2007
This weekend I went to my parents home with a mission.
I was determined to let them know of my anger towards them. It was now or never: I was seeing them again for the first time since my operation and we would have 48 hours together, just them and me.
And I failed. In the greatest possible way.
I said nothing to them about my anger.
I knew there were great chances that I neglected (my thoughts in the form of “I absolutely must talk to them” did not augur well) but I was resolved at least to broach the subject at some point.
Except that I didn’t. I couldn’t do it.
I said nothing to them about my anger.
I don’t understand. Away from them I was boiling with rage, I told myself they weren’t up to it, they hadn’t protected me and I had to tell them how angry I am for that. I had a sore throat and I didn’t sleep well when I thought about it. When I arrived at their house, my anger seemed to quieten.
The words wouldn’t come to me. I didn’t have the opportunity to speak.
I said nothing to them about my anger.
Certainly after 31 years of blind obedience it was hopeless to expect that I would be able to initiate a great explanation with an open heart at a snap of my fingers. But all the same!
I said absolutely nothing to them about my anger.
My father was very warm. He spoke to me a lot about this that and the other. As for my mother, she waited on me hand and foot all weekend. They seemed very happy to see me. They really pampered me.
But that wasn’t enough to start me off.
I said nothing to them about my anger.
Nevertheless, I noticed the strange look which my mother gave me when she thought I wasn’t looking. I noted that she carefully restricted herself to the practical aspects of my operation (“You are looking after yourself properly? You’re sure?”) I observed the embarrassment demonstrated by my father in my presence. I saw that all his words were only superficial chat as if to fill in the space. As if he feared what could be born out of silence.
I had the impression they were shying away, that I had to cling on to them and shout “Dammit, look at me! Give me some space, so that I can tell you of my anger with you”.
And that cost me, having to run after them again. It humiliated me to be obliged, once again, to open my innermost so that they could throw an expressionless look before returning to their world where everything is best and my operation is nothing more than an anecdote.
My therapist said yesterday that perhaps the “grown-up” me had no more to say to them, while the little girl in me still waited for them to say sorry. I don’t know if it’s that but when she suggested it, I understood that it was the little girl in me that I had cruelly disappointed. She was a martyr, nobody came to ask forgiveness, or consoled her this weekend, the “grown-up” me backed down. She avoided it, she didn’t underline the injustice that the “little girl” in me had suffered. She let her fall.
Damn but why are things so hard to say? Why is it then down to me to do all that? Why didn’t my parents say anything this weekend?
The denial of possible responsibility which my therapist spoke about yesterday hasn’t really been enough to console me.
I said nothing to them about my anger.
Perhaps I am one of those who turns the other cheek after my first one has been massacred. Perhaps I have been let go after all …
Nevertheless this weekend I didn’t feel any fear. With my parents I felt adult. I didn’t enter into the empty chatter with my father (I even stayed astonishingly silent). I didn’t play the adored little girl always agreeing with my mother. I even told them of my plans to buy an apartment with my man, of my decision not to marry but to have children all the same, which is an enormous thing when you think of the traditional society I have come from.
That’s a big step forward, my therapist is right. It’s the proof that I have become an adult as far as my parents are concerned, that I have self-determination.
Yes, OK.
But if I am adult and I no longer fear them, why can’t I say anything to them? Why couldn’t I take advantage of a car trip with my father taking me back to the station on Sunday, to tell him a little more on this “psychological well-being” which, in my letter, I said I was hoping for and about which he asked me?
Why did nothing happen?
I would have liked to say to my father that I hoped finally to be worthy of everything: of respect, of esteem, of love. I would like to have said that I was hoping to kill finally the little voice which whispers to me from time to time that perhaps I was circumcised because I was nothing but good. Like a punishment in advance. As if the suffering which resulted has led me to be a better person. I would have liked to tell him that all the same I believe I am basically good.
Except that not one word of these conversations escaped my lips. Not one.
I said nothing to them about my anger. Nothing at all.
The curtains come down on my make-believe courage of a soldier ….
[Original in French]
Next post
This weekend I went to my parents home with a mission.
I was determined to let them know of my anger towards them. It was now or never: I was seeing them again for the first time since my operation and we would have 48 hours together, just them and me.
And I failed. In the greatest possible way.
I said nothing to them about my anger.
I knew there were great chances that I neglected (my thoughts in the form of “I absolutely must talk to them” did not augur well) but I was resolved at least to broach the subject at some point.
Except that I didn’t. I couldn’t do it.
I said nothing to them about my anger.
I don’t understand. Away from them I was boiling with rage, I told myself they weren’t up to it, they hadn’t protected me and I had to tell them how angry I am for that. I had a sore throat and I didn’t sleep well when I thought about it. When I arrived at their house, my anger seemed to quieten.
The words wouldn’t come to me. I didn’t have the opportunity to speak.
I said nothing to them about my anger.
Certainly after 31 years of blind obedience it was hopeless to expect that I would be able to initiate a great explanation with an open heart at a snap of my fingers. But all the same!
I said absolutely nothing to them about my anger.
My father was very warm. He spoke to me a lot about this that and the other. As for my mother, she waited on me hand and foot all weekend. They seemed very happy to see me. They really pampered me.
But that wasn’t enough to start me off.
I said nothing to them about my anger.
Nevertheless, I noticed the strange look which my mother gave me when she thought I wasn’t looking. I noted that she carefully restricted herself to the practical aspects of my operation (“You are looking after yourself properly? You’re sure?”) I observed the embarrassment demonstrated by my father in my presence. I saw that all his words were only superficial chat as if to fill in the space. As if he feared what could be born out of silence.
I had the impression they were shying away, that I had to cling on to them and shout “Dammit, look at me! Give me some space, so that I can tell you of my anger with you”.
And that cost me, having to run after them again. It humiliated me to be obliged, once again, to open my innermost so that they could throw an expressionless look before returning to their world where everything is best and my operation is nothing more than an anecdote.
My therapist said yesterday that perhaps the “grown-up” me had no more to say to them, while the little girl in me still waited for them to say sorry. I don’t know if it’s that but when she suggested it, I understood that it was the little girl in me that I had cruelly disappointed. She was a martyr, nobody came to ask forgiveness, or consoled her this weekend, the “grown-up” me backed down. She avoided it, she didn’t underline the injustice that the “little girl” in me had suffered. She let her fall.
Damn but why are things so hard to say? Why is it then down to me to do all that? Why didn’t my parents say anything this weekend?
The denial of possible responsibility which my therapist spoke about yesterday hasn’t really been enough to console me.
I said nothing to them about my anger.
Perhaps I am one of those who turns the other cheek after my first one has been massacred. Perhaps I have been let go after all …
Nevertheless this weekend I didn’t feel any fear. With my parents I felt adult. I didn’t enter into the empty chatter with my father (I even stayed astonishingly silent). I didn’t play the adored little girl always agreeing with my mother. I even told them of my plans to buy an apartment with my man, of my decision not to marry but to have children all the same, which is an enormous thing when you think of the traditional society I have come from.
That’s a big step forward, my therapist is right. It’s the proof that I have become an adult as far as my parents are concerned, that I have self-determination.
Yes, OK.
But if I am adult and I no longer fear them, why can’t I say anything to them? Why couldn’t I take advantage of a car trip with my father taking me back to the station on Sunday, to tell him a little more on this “psychological well-being” which, in my letter, I said I was hoping for and about which he asked me?
Why did nothing happen?
I would have liked to say to my father that I hoped finally to be worthy of everything: of respect, of esteem, of love. I would like to have said that I was hoping to kill finally the little voice which whispers to me from time to time that perhaps I was circumcised because I was nothing but good. Like a punishment in advance. As if the suffering which resulted has led me to be a better person. I would have liked to tell him that all the same I believe I am basically good.
Except that not one word of these conversations escaped my lips. Not one.
I said nothing to them about my anger. Nothing at all.
The curtains come down on my make-believe courage of a soldier ….
[Original in French]
Next post
Tuesday, 6 June 2006
Check up
Wednesday 6 June 2007
After his lightning visit the day after the operation, Dr Foldès indicated that I had to return to see him 2 to 3 weeks later. All I had to do was to call the secretary to find out when he would be there and to turn up without an appointment.
So on Monday morning I called the Louis XIV clinic. His secretary told me that this week Dr Foldès was consulting Monday afternoon and Tuesday afternoon from 14:00.
I didn’t want to go at all. So much so that instead of choosing Monday afternoon I decided not to go until Tuesday. I arrived just on time on Tuesday afternoon and not at least half an hour early as I had been in the habit of doing.
While going to the clinic, I tried to analyse my concern. There was the fact that Dr Foldès had impressed me a lot. And yet there was also another component which I couldn’t manage to express. All I could grasp of it was that I had no wish to meet other of Dr Foldès’ patients.
When I entered the clinic, I exchanged glances with a woman sitting where I had waited when they came to find me on the day of my admission, the night before the operation.
She was black. And I couldn’t stop myself from thinking she was surely there to be operated on by Dr Foldès.
Dismissing that thought, I went up the few steps which led to the surgeons’ secretaries.
And there, bingo, I met Dr Iceberg. As usual, as expressive as a prison door, he didn’t recognise me. At about that moment a lump appeared in my throat and my morale began to waver seriously.
Dr Foldès’ secretary put my name in the margin of her book. As a result I had no idea what time I would have to wait.
I thought that I would be given priority but, once settled in the jam-packed and stifling waiting room, I noticed the surgeon talking to his secretary. I felt my body tensing and I was ridiculously relieved to hear him call an older man. In the end I preferred to wait until after everyone else who had an appointment.
Dr Foldès is basically a urologist. That occurred to me when, two or three times, he came to look for a man in the waiting room.
During this time the waiting room didn’t become any emptier, to the contrary. There wasn’t a single free chair and new arrivals crowded standing up along the cubicles of the surgeons’ secretaries.
Seeing black women appearing, I once again immediately though that they were Dr Foldès’ patients. That was confirmed by their going to his secretary.
A young woman of about 25, with her head in a turban, arrived first, followed closely by a woman of about fifty. Then a very young girl (she hardly seemed to have come of age) came into the waiting room briskly. A few minutes later another woman in her twenties arrived, accompanied by a woman who could have been her sister of her friend.
These women had no doubt been circumcised too. And they no doubt had also come to have their mutilated sex repaired.
I studied them to work out at which stage in their long journey to reconstruction they were. The last arrivals were wearing slim fitting jeans and crossed their legs. The two first were wearing loose clothes but had a lively gait. So I deduced that it was either their first consultation or it was more than six weeks since their operations and they had come for a check up.
The lump in my throat was growing, my morale was sinking. I felt vulnerable and sad. For myself, for them. Each black woman present was very likely a circumcised woman. I found that distressing.
We weren’t patients like the others in the waiting room. Unlike the others who had come to battle with an stroke of fate, we were there to repair an abomination which had been inflicted by the hand or wish of our own people, of a member of our own family.
And we took all these actions, these round trips to St Germain en Laye, these pains, this fear, anxieties, to restore our dignity plundered without our consent.
In a real mess, that outraged me so much that the lump in my throat doubled in size and my morale dropped to the abyss of depression. I wanted to cry.
At that moment I thought that I really would like my parents to say they were sorry one day.
Lost in these black thoughts, I hardly heard Dr Foldès calling me, and I didn’t have time to be afraid.
In his office Dr Foldès smiled at me, which heartened me a little. He asked when I had had the operation. He didn’t remember me and that was curiously a relief. I really wanted to be ordinary and anonymous come to be examined, not a victim of circumcision. I was no longer a circumcised woman. It was over.
On his desk he had an information leaflet about a young Malian woman born in 1988 and circumcised at the age of 5. That weighed down my already not very brave morale.
He asked me to get on to the examining table and to bend my legs. Then he did an rapid examination. “Superb! It’s perfect!” he said. That pleased me, I felt very proud. “It’s healing well, the labia minora as much as the clitoris. It’s very good”.
He added that it’s normal to have a hole at the front (but what hole exactly? I feel I’m going to have to explore again with my little mirror, I didn’t know what he was talking about at all) and that there will still be a little discharge.
He recommended continuing cleaning the whole genital area with well diluted iodine three or four times a day.
Then he explained that this visit was a check up just to establish that everything was going well. And everything was going well.
Then he said he would see me again in 3 to 5 weeks. That consultation would be very important, even essential, because he would prescribe a further treatment.
He smiled at me again and my morale got a second wind. I was even fairly happy and reassured. In the end all the pain was worth it …
I made an appointment for 4 July before leaving.
Leaving for the RER station, I was split between the joy of knowing my healing was going well and a burst of anger over the mutilation.
Damn, I WISH my parents would say they are sorry.
I need someone to say they are sorry for the pain they have given me ….
[original in French]
Next post
After his lightning visit the day after the operation, Dr Foldès indicated that I had to return to see him 2 to 3 weeks later. All I had to do was to call the secretary to find out when he would be there and to turn up without an appointment.
So on Monday morning I called the Louis XIV clinic. His secretary told me that this week Dr Foldès was consulting Monday afternoon and Tuesday afternoon from 14:00.
I didn’t want to go at all. So much so that instead of choosing Monday afternoon I decided not to go until Tuesday. I arrived just on time on Tuesday afternoon and not at least half an hour early as I had been in the habit of doing.
While going to the clinic, I tried to analyse my concern. There was the fact that Dr Foldès had impressed me a lot. And yet there was also another component which I couldn’t manage to express. All I could grasp of it was that I had no wish to meet other of Dr Foldès’ patients.
When I entered the clinic, I exchanged glances with a woman sitting where I had waited when they came to find me on the day of my admission, the night before the operation.
She was black. And I couldn’t stop myself from thinking she was surely there to be operated on by Dr Foldès.
Dismissing that thought, I went up the few steps which led to the surgeons’ secretaries.
And there, bingo, I met Dr Iceberg. As usual, as expressive as a prison door, he didn’t recognise me. At about that moment a lump appeared in my throat and my morale began to waver seriously.
Dr Foldès’ secretary put my name in the margin of her book. As a result I had no idea what time I would have to wait.
I thought that I would be given priority but, once settled in the jam-packed and stifling waiting room, I noticed the surgeon talking to his secretary. I felt my body tensing and I was ridiculously relieved to hear him call an older man. In the end I preferred to wait until after everyone else who had an appointment.
Dr Foldès is basically a urologist. That occurred to me when, two or three times, he came to look for a man in the waiting room.
During this time the waiting room didn’t become any emptier, to the contrary. There wasn’t a single free chair and new arrivals crowded standing up along the cubicles of the surgeons’ secretaries.
Seeing black women appearing, I once again immediately though that they were Dr Foldès’ patients. That was confirmed by their going to his secretary.
A young woman of about 25, with her head in a turban, arrived first, followed closely by a woman of about fifty. Then a very young girl (she hardly seemed to have come of age) came into the waiting room briskly. A few minutes later another woman in her twenties arrived, accompanied by a woman who could have been her sister of her friend.
These women had no doubt been circumcised too. And they no doubt had also come to have their mutilated sex repaired.
I studied them to work out at which stage in their long journey to reconstruction they were. The last arrivals were wearing slim fitting jeans and crossed their legs. The two first were wearing loose clothes but had a lively gait. So I deduced that it was either their first consultation or it was more than six weeks since their operations and they had come for a check up.
The lump in my throat was growing, my morale was sinking. I felt vulnerable and sad. For myself, for them. Each black woman present was very likely a circumcised woman. I found that distressing.
We weren’t patients like the others in the waiting room. Unlike the others who had come to battle with an stroke of fate, we were there to repair an abomination which had been inflicted by the hand or wish of our own people, of a member of our own family.
And we took all these actions, these round trips to St Germain en Laye, these pains, this fear, anxieties, to restore our dignity plundered without our consent.
In a real mess, that outraged me so much that the lump in my throat doubled in size and my morale dropped to the abyss of depression. I wanted to cry.
At that moment I thought that I really would like my parents to say they were sorry one day.
Lost in these black thoughts, I hardly heard Dr Foldès calling me, and I didn’t have time to be afraid.
In his office Dr Foldès smiled at me, which heartened me a little. He asked when I had had the operation. He didn’t remember me and that was curiously a relief. I really wanted to be ordinary and anonymous come to be examined, not a victim of circumcision. I was no longer a circumcised woman. It was over.
On his desk he had an information leaflet about a young Malian woman born in 1988 and circumcised at the age of 5. That weighed down my already not very brave morale.
He asked me to get on to the examining table and to bend my legs. Then he did an rapid examination. “Superb! It’s perfect!” he said. That pleased me, I felt very proud. “It’s healing well, the labia minora as much as the clitoris. It’s very good”.
He added that it’s normal to have a hole at the front (but what hole exactly? I feel I’m going to have to explore again with my little mirror, I didn’t know what he was talking about at all) and that there will still be a little discharge.
He recommended continuing cleaning the whole genital area with well diluted iodine three or four times a day.
Then he explained that this visit was a check up just to establish that everything was going well. And everything was going well.
Then he said he would see me again in 3 to 5 weeks. That consultation would be very important, even essential, because he would prescribe a further treatment.
He smiled at me again and my morale got a second wind. I was even fairly happy and reassured. In the end all the pain was worth it …
I made an appointment for 4 July before leaving.
Leaving for the RER station, I was split between the joy of knowing my healing was going well and a burst of anger over the mutilation.
Damn, I WISH my parents would say they are sorry.
I need someone to say they are sorry for the pain they have given me ….
[original in French]
Next post
Sunday, 4 June 2006
Suitability
Monday 4 June 2007
It’s strange, I hadn’t really thought, before the operation, about the fact that my sex would have a new appearance. At a certain moment I had even lost the point that my clitoris would resume its place between my labia. I had never thought about it.
And today, presented with my new-found clitoris, I admit I am troubled.
Since the operation I have been cleaning it delicately with compresses soaked in dilute iodine, I have been observing it discretely during this intimate toilet, and I have been noticing its reactions when I spray it with water, I’ve been watching the progress of its appearance, I’ve been watching out for signs when I am walking, sitting or lying down. But it intimidates me.
The operation for reconstruction of the clitoris isn’t a transplant, I know that, but in my mind it seems very like it.
When I brought up my operation in therapy, I often said “I am going to have a clitoris”. And my therapist corrected me: “No, not A clitoris, My clitoris”. In the same way, when I said “I don’t have a clitoris” she said to me that the sentence would be true if I had been born without a clitoris. So, I have one. It has been cut, but I have one.
But see, that’s 27 years I was brought up during which time I can’t remember having a clitoris at all. It really is like someone having given me a transplant of a new organ.
At the moment, quite honestly, I can’t really feel it. By that I mean to say that I only very rarely and fleetingly feel that the layout of my genital area has changed.
I find it very noticeable on the other hand, when I walk and I feel my clitoris, I have a sort of reflex which makes me spread my legs a little and so walk very slightly like a duck, which is the ultimate chic.
The other day, for the first time, I dared to explore the contours of my clitoris directly, with my fingers without a compress. I touched it timidly and lightly, being very careful not to trouble it too much (I was afraid of feeling a painful pang or I don’t know what else unpleasant, the area between my labia majora still being quite sensitive).
What this exploration has taught me is that at the moment my clitoris is held “out of the water” by stitches on two sides (in front and behind the labia majora, not just in front as I thought before). That reassured me because I found it somewhat large.
The question which I intend to ask Dr Foldès this week is: “and what about my labia minora?”. Because it’s a bit of a mess and with all these stitches, I can’t distinguish my labia minora (nevertheless I’m dedicating a long time to investigate these places).
I’ve refound my clitoris, but I still need to make its acquaintance , something which isn’t obvious in view of how it impresses me. Well, all the same, I notice a new intimacy between us, in its own way. And I think that’s great.
[Original in French]
Next post
It’s strange, I hadn’t really thought, before the operation, about the fact that my sex would have a new appearance. At a certain moment I had even lost the point that my clitoris would resume its place between my labia. I had never thought about it.
And today, presented with my new-found clitoris, I admit I am troubled.
Since the operation I have been cleaning it delicately with compresses soaked in dilute iodine, I have been observing it discretely during this intimate toilet, and I have been noticing its reactions when I spray it with water, I’ve been watching the progress of its appearance, I’ve been watching out for signs when I am walking, sitting or lying down. But it intimidates me.
The operation for reconstruction of the clitoris isn’t a transplant, I know that, but in my mind it seems very like it.
When I brought up my operation in therapy, I often said “I am going to have a clitoris”. And my therapist corrected me: “No, not A clitoris, My clitoris”. In the same way, when I said “I don’t have a clitoris” she said to me that the sentence would be true if I had been born without a clitoris. So, I have one. It has been cut, but I have one.
But see, that’s 27 years I was brought up during which time I can’t remember having a clitoris at all. It really is like someone having given me a transplant of a new organ.
At the moment, quite honestly, I can’t really feel it. By that I mean to say that I only very rarely and fleetingly feel that the layout of my genital area has changed.
I find it very noticeable on the other hand, when I walk and I feel my clitoris, I have a sort of reflex which makes me spread my legs a little and so walk very slightly like a duck, which is the ultimate chic.
The other day, for the first time, I dared to explore the contours of my clitoris directly, with my fingers without a compress. I touched it timidly and lightly, being very careful not to trouble it too much (I was afraid of feeling a painful pang or I don’t know what else unpleasant, the area between my labia majora still being quite sensitive).
What this exploration has taught me is that at the moment my clitoris is held “out of the water” by stitches on two sides (in front and behind the labia majora, not just in front as I thought before). That reassured me because I found it somewhat large.
The question which I intend to ask Dr Foldès this week is: “and what about my labia minora?”. Because it’s a bit of a mess and with all these stitches, I can’t distinguish my labia minora (nevertheless I’m dedicating a long time to investigate these places).
I’ve refound my clitoris, but I still need to make its acquaintance , something which isn’t obvious in view of how it impresses me. Well, all the same, I notice a new intimacy between us, in its own way. And I think that’s great.
[Original in French]
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