It's Time to YEET These TEETS!
Donation protected
*record scratch*
*freeze frame*
Yup, that’s me. You’re probably wondering how I ended up in this situation.
My name is Hollis—of course, if you’re reading this, you probably already know that. You’re also probably familiar with my struggle to identify as a nonbinary transgender person, though you might not be familiar with the details. Well, congratulations! You’ve leveled up far enough to get an expositional cutscene of my tragic backstory.
Let’s dive on in!
Even when I was a kid, I struggled with my identity. I was considered a tomboy, and I always enjoyed playing outside. I was more comfortable with friends that were boys than I was with girls, and in middle school, I preferred wearing boy’s clothes over girl’s clothes. I liked stories about girls who pretended to be boys—Disney’s "Mulan," Tamora Pierce’s "Song of the Lioness," "Ouran High School Host Club," Jacky Faber of the "Bloody Jack" series—all of these interested me. From a young age, I always believed in this ideal of living in the liminal space between male and female.
It wasn’t until I was in college that I came across other people who believed in the notion of changing gender, and my social circle, both in person and online, expanded to include people who were trans. Ever since I was eighteen, I found myself identifying as trans. Wearing binders and crossdressing, primarily in cosplay (where women portraying male characters was more readily accepted), helped me to express this part of my identity while still staying “safe.”
However, during this time I often found myself hiding my identity; even among other transgender people, there was still this ideal in place that I had to be one thing or the other. I had transgender partners who told me that my identity was simply me “trying to turn transgender identity into a fad” and it would be a “phase” I grew out of. How ironic, right? I was told a number of damaging lies during this time that would stop me from pursuing my identity, but the most damaging lie was this:
“Even if you get top surgery, if you aren’t on hormones, your breasts will just grow back.”
I was devastated by this! My breasts were, and still are, at the root of my gender dysphoria. I had always wanted them to be smaller, even when I was going through puberty. Bra shopping was a source of anxiety for me, and even in intimate settings, my breasts made me uncomfortable. The idea that getting rid of them would only result in them growing back was anathema to me. I couldn’t dream of a world where I would want to go through surgery just for that to happen. So, for many years, I suffered in silence.
It wasn’t until 2017 that I revisited my identity, after years of keeping it under wraps. That was the year I found out that what I had been told about top surgery was wrong, and that my breasts would not grow back if I had surgery done. In an instant, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders. But that was only the start of this long journey that my family and friends would come to support me through.
I told my parents I was considering whether I was transgender when I was 18, and I was met wirh a very negative reaction. Their reaction when I was 24 was relatively the same. My mom suggested that I continue going to therapy and wait a year, then we’d revisit the topic. That was December of 2017. I realized soon after my birthday in April of 2018 that this was a stalling tactic.
My mother wanted me to wait until December of 2018 to start considering surgery because she knows how the medical system works; if I waited that long, there was no way I’d be able to get surgery before my 26th birthday at the end of April 2019—when I would fall off her insurance plan, quadrupling the cost of surgery. At the time, when she had suggested I wait a year, she had even told me she would assist me in paying for my surgery. That turned out to be another tactic to try and get me to wait.
My mom has tried to block my surgery in multiple ways. She’s tried threatening me with homelessness, physical violence, and even attempted tampering with my insurance without my knowledge. Nothing has dissuaded me from what I’ve been striving for. In January of 2019, after months of waiting, I finally had my consultation with my top surgeon. I told him the stakes—that the surgery needed to be done by my birthday, and that I needed this to help drastically improve my life. He told me that my goal was entirely possible.
For months, I’ve agonized over insurance approval, scheduling, and so many other things. Those of you who know me have seen my statuses where I've agonized about it. The only obstacle in my way now is my insurance deductible: my insurance will cover the bulk of my surgical costs, but I have to pay the final $2000 out of pocket—before my surgery on April 4th.
My savings have been depleted heavily over the past few months due to not having a steady job, a side effect of having a surgery that will take me off my feet for a week. I’ve gotten through these months by doing editing work, taking odd jobs, and by spending as little as possible. Even after all this, I can’t afford this surgery on my own.
I’ve made jokes over the past few months about my breasts, how I’m going to hold them before my surgery and say “these do not spark joy,” how I’m going to mail them to TERFs in jam jars or mount them on the walls, and so on. But all of that joking is a front for the sheer desperation I feel in regard to this surgery. I cannot stress enough how damaging my dysphoria is to my well-being. It affects my relationships, and the relationship I have with myself.
I haven’t been able to look at myself in the mirror for ten years. If I don't get this surgery, I don't think I'm going to make it through another ten.
If you love me—if you consider yourself my friend, my family, or any variation thereof—I’m begging for your help. I wish I wasn’t reduced to where I am now, and that all my hard work selling bones and writing this past year paid off, or that I could have found a job that would have helped me. But the sad truth is that I’m here, and this is what I can do. So please—even if it’s $20, $10, or $5, every bit of it helps, and I’m counting on you guys.
Plus Ultra! Let’s YEET these TEETS!
*freeze frame*
Yup, that’s me. You’re probably wondering how I ended up in this situation.
My name is Hollis—of course, if you’re reading this, you probably already know that. You’re also probably familiar with my struggle to identify as a nonbinary transgender person, though you might not be familiar with the details. Well, congratulations! You’ve leveled up far enough to get an expositional cutscene of my tragic backstory.
Let’s dive on in!
Even when I was a kid, I struggled with my identity. I was considered a tomboy, and I always enjoyed playing outside. I was more comfortable with friends that were boys than I was with girls, and in middle school, I preferred wearing boy’s clothes over girl’s clothes. I liked stories about girls who pretended to be boys—Disney’s "Mulan," Tamora Pierce’s "Song of the Lioness," "Ouran High School Host Club," Jacky Faber of the "Bloody Jack" series—all of these interested me. From a young age, I always believed in this ideal of living in the liminal space between male and female.
It wasn’t until I was in college that I came across other people who believed in the notion of changing gender, and my social circle, both in person and online, expanded to include people who were trans. Ever since I was eighteen, I found myself identifying as trans. Wearing binders and crossdressing, primarily in cosplay (where women portraying male characters was more readily accepted), helped me to express this part of my identity while still staying “safe.”
However, during this time I often found myself hiding my identity; even among other transgender people, there was still this ideal in place that I had to be one thing or the other. I had transgender partners who told me that my identity was simply me “trying to turn transgender identity into a fad” and it would be a “phase” I grew out of. How ironic, right? I was told a number of damaging lies during this time that would stop me from pursuing my identity, but the most damaging lie was this:
“Even if you get top surgery, if you aren’t on hormones, your breasts will just grow back.”
I was devastated by this! My breasts were, and still are, at the root of my gender dysphoria. I had always wanted them to be smaller, even when I was going through puberty. Bra shopping was a source of anxiety for me, and even in intimate settings, my breasts made me uncomfortable. The idea that getting rid of them would only result in them growing back was anathema to me. I couldn’t dream of a world where I would want to go through surgery just for that to happen. So, for many years, I suffered in silence.
It wasn’t until 2017 that I revisited my identity, after years of keeping it under wraps. That was the year I found out that what I had been told about top surgery was wrong, and that my breasts would not grow back if I had surgery done. In an instant, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders. But that was only the start of this long journey that my family and friends would come to support me through.
I told my parents I was considering whether I was transgender when I was 18, and I was met wirh a very negative reaction. Their reaction when I was 24 was relatively the same. My mom suggested that I continue going to therapy and wait a year, then we’d revisit the topic. That was December of 2017. I realized soon after my birthday in April of 2018 that this was a stalling tactic.
My mother wanted me to wait until December of 2018 to start considering surgery because she knows how the medical system works; if I waited that long, there was no way I’d be able to get surgery before my 26th birthday at the end of April 2019—when I would fall off her insurance plan, quadrupling the cost of surgery. At the time, when she had suggested I wait a year, she had even told me she would assist me in paying for my surgery. That turned out to be another tactic to try and get me to wait.
My mom has tried to block my surgery in multiple ways. She’s tried threatening me with homelessness, physical violence, and even attempted tampering with my insurance without my knowledge. Nothing has dissuaded me from what I’ve been striving for. In January of 2019, after months of waiting, I finally had my consultation with my top surgeon. I told him the stakes—that the surgery needed to be done by my birthday, and that I needed this to help drastically improve my life. He told me that my goal was entirely possible.
For months, I’ve agonized over insurance approval, scheduling, and so many other things. Those of you who know me have seen my statuses where I've agonized about it. The only obstacle in my way now is my insurance deductible: my insurance will cover the bulk of my surgical costs, but I have to pay the final $2000 out of pocket—before my surgery on April 4th.
My savings have been depleted heavily over the past few months due to not having a steady job, a side effect of having a surgery that will take me off my feet for a week. I’ve gotten through these months by doing editing work, taking odd jobs, and by spending as little as possible. Even after all this, I can’t afford this surgery on my own.
I’ve made jokes over the past few months about my breasts, how I’m going to hold them before my surgery and say “these do not spark joy,” how I’m going to mail them to TERFs in jam jars or mount them on the walls, and so on. But all of that joking is a front for the sheer desperation I feel in regard to this surgery. I cannot stress enough how damaging my dysphoria is to my well-being. It affects my relationships, and the relationship I have with myself.
I haven’t been able to look at myself in the mirror for ten years. If I don't get this surgery, I don't think I'm going to make it through another ten.
If you love me—if you consider yourself my friend, my family, or any variation thereof—I’m begging for your help. I wish I wasn’t reduced to where I am now, and that all my hard work selling bones and writing this past year paid off, or that I could have found a job that would have helped me. But the sad truth is that I’m here, and this is what I can do. So please—even if it’s $20, $10, or $5, every bit of it helps, and I’m counting on you guys.
Plus Ultra! Let’s YEET these TEETS!
Organizer
Hollis M
Organizer
Morton Grove, IL