u/thlayliroo97

The first time I played Disco it was in March, years ago. I was at the tail end of getting a degree in English lit (what do you do with it? Nothing…) I was depressed and I was suicidal and I was smoking too much weed, I was out of love with my partner, and I was swirling downward. I barely made it five minutes into the game before something in me broke. The dialogue at the bathroom mirror— you cannot see your face, there is only the outline of a man.
You see, I’m a trans man. I didn’t want to accept that, at the time. Sure, that’s not what the dialogue is about, but it hit too close to home— all those times I’d stood looking at my own shape fogged over in the mirror and found a stranger looking back at me.

Played it all the way through. Sat on the carpet in my too small living room, and cried when I saw the phasmid. And then, like so many of my favourite things on this earth, I put it away for when I knew I’d need it again.

Which brings me to now. Two weeks ago I had top surgery; I knew I’d be bedridden, I knew I’d be stuck killing time for a while, and I knew it had been close to three years since the last time I’d played DE. I hadn’t stopped thinking about it, of course, how can you ever stop thinking about the piece of art that made you realize you wanted to be a man? Seems strange, maybe, to think that this was the thing that did it— except playing through the game this time I realized how badly I needed it. I’ve been so sick, the past year, I’m 100% skint broke, and so I slipped back into Harry’s disco shoes and remembered what I’d somehow forgotten; that the world is cold and lonely and beautiful and full of lights and wonder; there is a place for me, among all the other men of Martinaise, among all the other men of the world. I laughed at the student communists, I saw myself in them. I passed the check to paint the wall for the very first time. I brought Annette in from the cold. I saved everyone I could at the tribunal. I danced with Kim in the Church. I saw the end of the world and I still loved anyways. I cried when I saw the phasmid, again.

It’s insane to me, maddening in a way, to think that this game has had such an impossibly profound impact on my life and yet somehow that sensation that I carry with me afterwards, that genuine Harry-ness, the awe and openness, the weirdness and curiosity and love for life— I forget that part. It goes out like the tide. Until I need it again. So I play again.

I suppose I’m not writing this for anyone except me, I guess. And maybe for you, too. What a strange and wonderful thing that we have connecting us together, to be moved by something. To be made strangers to ourselves, to get to meet ourselves for the first time, all over again.

Just a little idea of what people may be able to expect of the actual experience!

DAY ONE - PRE OP
Arrived at the hospital 2 hours before my surgery (as per instructed) and spent about half an hour in the waiting room before I was brought back to get changed into the gown/robe and had a nurse take my vitals. Then she gave me some celebrex so that we wouldn’t be “chasing pain” after the surgery. Then I was sent back out into the waiting room with my boyfriend and parents for another hour or so. Then they called me back and I went into the surgical prep area. A nurse came and took my vitals (again) and then I saw my surgeon. She was very lovely, she had me take my top down and she marked up my chest for the incisions, and prodded for elasticity. Side note: she’s also the second surgical professional in my life who has told me that I have a “long torso.” No clue what I’m meant to do with this information lol. I then was visited by the anesthesiologist, who was very friendly, and who set me up with the IV. I was also greeted by the other members of the surgical team, both female residents, who just wanted to introduce themselves before we were in the OR.

When I was eventually taken to the OR, they had me lie down with my arms spread out on the table and take my arms out of the sleeves of my surgical gown. The anesthesiologist told me he was going to give me something that would make me drowsy, and then the nurse gave me oxygen. I took a few big deep breaths, got lightheaded and dizzy, and then the anesthesiologist said “sweet dreams” and I was out cold.

The only thing I remember was having dreams about mariokart.

DAY ONE - POST OP
Groggy coming off anesthesia, took an Oxy at the hospital to get ahead of the pain and then had an hour and a half drive home that was pretty fine until we hit a rough patch of road, when I started to feel hot and woozy and nauseous. A cold pack on the top of my head and sitting in front of fans blowing cold air eventually helped me recover, and then my boyfriend and my mom guided me upstairs to bed. I got up to take a little walk (my nurse recommended every two hours or so getting up to stretch my legs) and felt extremely woozy and faint again, ice pack/fan combo once again came to the rescue. Wasn’t feeling very hungry so I ate some plain toast and some sliced apple a little later in the evening. Eventually took all my pain meds in the evening (at the scheduled time) and blacked the fuck out around 10:00PM. All around pain pretty mild, but the fatigue and nausea coming off the anesthesia was likely the worst part. Side note: my boyfriend got up at 1am, 4am, 6am, and 8am to poke his head in and check on me (without waking me up) 🥹

DAY TWO - POST OP
Felt much better in the morning. Full course of pain meds and some more toast. HUGE purple bruise on my left side but my mobility in my arms was shockingly good. My mom and my boyfriend both remark that my colour is much better than it was the day before. Not in a lot of pain, mostly feeling stiff and bruised, the most discomfort comes from standing up and going to the bathroom, hunched over like Quasimodo. Placed an ice pack wrapped in a towel on top of my chest when I felt a little more achey. Had my first real meal of substance in the afternoon when my boyfriend made me a turkey and salami sandwich packed with cabbage (to try and maybe help me have a BM). Much easier time getting around than the day before, but a lot of fatigue overall. Spent the day lying in bed watching movies and playing Mariokart, and had another full meal (despite not being super hungry) of an egg bake my mum made for dinner. Drank LOADS of water all day. Tons. Can’t recommend it enough. Started feeling a little warm (but not feverish) so I slept on top of my sheets.

My pain has been really really mild and I’m honestly feeling pretty good, but I also have chronic pain to begin with so I’m thinking I just have a higher threshold for tolerance, and receiving actual pain medication for the first time is making a huge difference for me.

I was a friendless kid. I talked to myself on the walk home from school. Bullied. Intensely aware that people thought I was weird— not just other kids, but adults, too. And I really believed that there was something irrevocable inside of me that made me, if not impossible, then difficult, to love. Same way a tree will grow through a wire fence, I grew up around that feeling inside of me. I thought that the loneliness was just something I would have to learn to live with.

In my early twenties, I realized with a horrible ice cold shock that I was trans. The realization fucking crushed me. I thought to myself, “great, another thing that is going to make me even more unloveable.” Because that was what I had been told. That was what I had been shown. That’s what everyone around me said it would do. But I couldn’t go back on the realization. I was having my very own Plato’s Caves moment.

Fast forward through the breakup of a 5 year relationship, 3 years on HRT and the waitlist for top surgery— and on Monday I had a party. My boyfriend hung up balloons and made me dinner. My friends came over with snacks and booze, they brought me a silly party hat and care packages stuffed with the things I love (sour cream and onion chips, crosswords, art, glittery nail polish, video games), they gave me comedic condolence cards for my titties, they hugged me and cheered when I burned my bras and they told me not to be a stranger while I was recovering, to let them know if I needed anything. And I just had this huge realization that the entire reason that all of this was happening was because I transitioned.

This hidden thing inside of me that I was sure nobody loved— this collection of weird, loving, generous queer people had seen it and they loved me anyways, not in spite of, but because of it. Transitioning brought me closer to literally everyone in my life. It saved me. It taught me that who I am is not something inherently unlovable or alien. And in a few days I’ll go under the knife and when I wake up there will be dozens of messages from people who care about me, celebrating this big step forward in my life.

I’m alive. My life is not perfect but it is made possible by people who love me. I honestly don’t know how I got here but in my heart, where that friendless little kid still lives, I celebrate every single day for her. You can do it too.

Happy Pride.

I’m scheduled for the Big Chop (DI, nipple grafts) on the 8th of June and I’ve been haunting the sub since I got my date booked a few months back. Previously I didn’t allow myself to do all that much daydreaming and scrolling when it came to top surgery, as a way of not fixating on my dysphoria (and I do think it helped a lot).

However, I have given some thought to the idea of my scars post top surgery. I’m not stealth— I pass, but I’m a very flamboyant gay man, and I just don’t feel all that invested in the idea of passing as a binary cis man. So, that being said— the past few months has been the first time I’ve seen folks talking about scar care. I can completely understand why it’s important to some people to not have visible scars, but I’m curious if there are more folks out there like me who either A) don’t give a shit about having visible scars or not or B) would be happy with more pronounced scarring.

I even have plans post recovery to eventually get tattoos that look like stitches, à la Frankenstein’s creature, as both a reference to Susan Stryker’s essay about the relationship between transness and Frankenstein, and also as an homage to my own English degree.

Just curious about other people’s thoughts.

EDIT: I do want to clarify that I know scar care is important for recovery beyond the aesthetics— I’m just inquiring about the portion of people for whom minimizing the look of their scars feels like a priority. Again— no judgment for folks who are looking to minimize scarring for this reason. I just wanted to hear from some folks who didn’t/don’t care about the aesthetics.