Fox's Medical Transition

£10,030 of £10,000 goal

Raised by 154 people in 36 months
I want to be the kind of old-school knight you find in all the stories. I try to be; to uphold codes of honour and valour and faith, to protect those who need it any way I can, to eschew unfairness and fight for the welfare of all. I try to be a visible beacon for decency. To be the kind of role model – particularly with regards to queer/ trans identities- that I needed as a kid.

I’m not too terrible with a sword, but as an author, I mostly try to do those things with my words. My second YA novel is an LGBTQ story about love and music and belonging, and figuring out how to use your voice. And I’m currently working on two titles with transgender protagonists. I talk openly about my experiences as a queer, genderfluid transmasculine guy, wherever and whenever I get the chance. I try to boost other voices struggling to be heard. I teach young people, providing safe, creative spaces for them to express their whole selves. My inbox is always open and my couch is always there for those who need it.

If you need me, I will fight for you. Always.

But right now, I’m staring down an enemy I can’t escape, because that enemy is me. My own body.

I’ve never, ever been comfortable in my own skin. I’d shy away from social situations because I didn’t fit; even around my friends I’d have constant imposter syndrome feels – they couldn’t possibly like me, I didn’t belong, this wasn’t me. Sports were a nightmare. Beaches gave me anxiety attacks. Photographs and mirrors made me physically recoil. Pretty much anything which drew my attention to my body was uncomfortable.

Some of that melted away with the discovery of the words genderfluid and transmasculine. More, with finding a community of people just like me. More still with every step of social transitioning – finding a name and clothes and a place in life that fit. It’s like shrugging off mismatched, ill-fitting armour and replacing it with something made for me. It’s not heavy. It doesn’t pinch. I can breathe.

But some of it’s still there. I didn’t see how deeply uncomfortable I’d been until I tried on my first binder, and I looked nervously into a mirror, and I saw myself. The real me. The me – as clichéd as it sounds – of all my dreams and stories.

Within 10 minutes I’d taken and shared my first selfies in decades, burst into tears, and sent a small, terrified message to my best friend. ‘What if…what if I want surgery?’

I’ve been binding every day from that moment. Honestly, it sucks. It restricts your ribcage, affecting how deeply you can breathe and how freely you can move. It’s hot and sticky even in British summer weather. And it doesn’t compress as much as I’d like. There are risks of injury and screwing up your back and chest. But those moments of confidence, of feeling real are worth it.

Not binding makes me feel physically sick. I don’t want to look at myself or feel my weight and shape as I move, or see how people’s reactions to me subtly change. Often, though, the dysphoria is strong. Binding isn’t enough, even if it were safe. And it turns out I do want surgery. Need surgery. I’m tired of feeling gross and wrong and uncomfortable. I’m tired of fighting this battle, and I want my energy for bigger things.

I’m on a waiting list with the NHS, but still an estimated 19 months away from even a first appointment at the Gender Identity Clinic, with spaced-out assessments and more waiting after that. There’s also the chance that as a nonbinary transperson I’d be refused the treatment path I need, and I’d be back to square one after 2+ years of waiting. And I honestly don’t think I can survive that long.

By going private, I could be done with the assessments and surgery in as little as 9months, and I could pick who I see, minimising the risk of being rejected for treatment as a nonbinary guy.

There’s another part to most codes of chivalry: a knight should despise pecuniary reward. And I feel like – as a guy in a relatively comfortable, privileged position – I should be able to uphold that. But I can’t do this alone. I need your help.

The costs of private appointments at a gender clinic (necessary for a referral to a surgeon) top surgery (double mastectomy), and travel/accommodation costs for surgery are estimated at around £10,000.

I’m saving everything I can, but authors don’t tend to make a lot of money, and other on-going health issues makes working more than I already do impossible.

It’s a lot to ask, I know, and I don’t have much to offer in return except undying gratitude and the promise of my sword should you need one in your corner. Anything at all that you can give – pennies, spreading the word – helps. You being here helps. I’m really glad I’m not alone. Thank you for reading.


*If donations exceed the cost of treatment, I’ll donate the remainder to Mermaids, an organisation which supports transgender youth
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You guys. I saw my surgeon this week, for an initial consultation – an appointment where he discusses surgery options (in my case, there’s no decision-making, I’m a clear double-incision candidate) procedure, risks, and results. And I’m just…absolutely blown away by the care and compassion and ease of everything with private care.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared and uncomfortable as during the run-up to showing my chest to the surgeon (even though it’s a part of the process and literally his job and there’s likely no connect in his head between body parts and gender) but the entire Nuffield team, from receptionists upwards are so good at putting people at ease.

And with none of the hoop-jumping and wait times of NHS care, I walked out of the hospital with a date for surgery (and pre-op and post-op appointments). Just like that. And it’s soon: February 1st.

I may still be in shock. Happy, relieved, overwhelmingly emotional shock.

What does this mean? Well. It means I’m one step away from being able to walk around every day without being so self-conscious it hurts. One step away from singing properly, with un-constricted lungs and decent breath control. One step away from being that obnoxiously-shirtless guy in summer, happily swimming in rivers and lazing in the sun (okay, shade. I’m also part-vampire. But sun sounds more impressive).

You guys.

It also means I have until mid January to find the rest of the money to make this thing happen. I hate asking when you’ve done so much already, but I still need your help. I’m so close, and utterly terrified that if it doesn’t happen, I’m back on the NHS waiting list and jumping through hoops like some kind of show-creature.
I know it's a lot to ask, but I'm still a long way off funding surgery and avoiding that fate. Anything you can do to help - whether it's donating or spreading the word - would be massively appreciated, and you'd have my sword and song forevermore.

Thank you. <3
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AAAAAHHHH. I heard back from GenderCare yesterday, and I have a first assessment appointment with Doctor Lorimer booked. On Thursday. As in, this week, two days from now. (Cancellations are a wonderful thing.)
19 months -> 2 days. This thing is actually happening.
**cue internal swearing-out-of-relief-and-amazement**
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I slept last night. And it’s a far bigger deal than it sounds. Because I’ve not been sleeping. I’ve not really been functioning. I’ve been anxious and scared and angry all the time. Interacting with people sends me reeling, wondering how they see me, second guessing my value in any situation, convinced that everyone’s just putting up with me.
I’ve been exhausted, but not sleeping; unable to switch my brain off, and terrified of the resulting nightmares if I do.
I don’t feel safe in my own skin, and the more I realise that, the harder it is to ignore. Social transitioning’s helped. Tiny physical changes at the gym have helped. I get glimpses of what it’s like to feel comfortable and confident, and it’s wonderful, but the more I find that, the harder the other moments are. It’s why transitioning is important, and why waiting-list limbo has become impossible for me.
It’s been bleak, lately. I couldn’t see a way out, and I’ve been thisclose to giving up on everything.
Not all of this is transition related; there’s a lot of overwhelming stuff right now – but it’s a massive, inescapable part of it. But last night, for the first time in months, I went to bed with more peace than crippling fear. And I slept.
You did that. I'm a long way off of surgery, but I’m suddenly in a position to take that first step – to jump the 19+ month queue for a first appointment at a Gender Identity Clinic. Suddenly I’m not in this endless swirly black hole of waiting. And that’s because of you.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. <3333
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Read a Previous Update
Ti Czakó
36 months ago

I dont know how you do it but this is amazing you raised over 2k in 3day i try my gofundme more then half year and only got 5 euro xD

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£10,030 of £10,000 goal

Raised by 154 people in 36 months
Created June 29, 2016
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£30
Anonymous
30 months ago
£2,561
Anonymous
30 months ago
LB
£2,500
Leigh Bardugo
30 months ago
CT
£30
Caroline Thompson
30 months ago
£55
Elizabeth Psyck
30 months ago

♥ I wish you all the best in your surgery and your recovery.

£100
Anonymous
30 months ago
£15
Anonymous
30 months ago
AR
£20
A.B. Rutledge
30 months ago

Happy holidays!

£22
Anonymous
30 months ago
£10
Darren Owens
30 months ago
Ti Czakó
36 months ago

I dont know how you do it but this is amazing you raised over 2k in 3day i try my gofundme more then half year and only got 5 euro xD

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