Post by Ayla on Mar 8, 2016 12:09:28 GMT 8
I’ve been fundraising for my surgery for nearly a year now and in that process, I’ve discovered that there are a lot of assumptions people make about me.
I’d like to address and debunk those.
1. I want surgery because I think my body is ugly.
Wrong. Getting surgery has nothing to do with my body’s aesthetics. This is the number one thing cis people do not get about trans related healthcare needs. And it doesn’t surprise me. With so much focus on how trans people “pass” and how they look, cis people don’t really seem to focus very much on internal feelings. So the misconception is often that trans people want surgery to make themselves look better. But it’s just not about that. If I had a skin tag blocking my eye that wasn’t allowing me to see, getting it removed wouldn’t be about it being beautiful or ugly. This is no different.
2. My problem is not really that “serious”.
Because people believe this is cosmetic and don’t understand gender dysphoria, they believe this isn’t “serious”. It’s hard to describe what gender dysphoria is like to someone who’s never experienced it. It’s like something is inherently wrong that needs to be fixed. It’s like waking on the wrong side of the bed every morning or like having a pebble in your shoe that will never leave it. It’s like a permanent stitch in your hip or a constant itch on your nose. It’s like needing to sneeze and not being able to.
Suffice to say, it’s serious. If it wasn’t, why would I bother asking strangers for money. Which brings me to my next point.
3. It’s fun and easy to ask strangers for money.
Advertising something so personal in such a public way is not fun. But how else am I meant to get the funds I need? My friends only have so much. For those of us that weren’t born middle class or rich or who don’t have families due to coming from backgrounds of abuse, other avenues are closed to us.
Telling people my story for money, especially given my “bootstraps” Southern background, feels honestly terrible. It feels like I’m selling my tragedy, that I’m being forced to perform one of the most painful aspects of my existence for the sake of an audience. It’s depressing, not enjoyable. And it’s a last ditch option.
4. My situation is worse than any other medical problem.
A lot of people would compare my need with someone who has cancer and assume that by asking for money, I’m saying that gender dysphoria is worse than cancer. This isn’t about a competition. And by asking for help, I am not by default comparing myself to people with cancer. If you ask for help or even complain about homework, does that mean you’re saying that your life is worse than someone who has no access or ability to go to school?
Before I decided to launch my fundraiser, I debated it all in my head. I know a lot of trans people who need medical help so they can avoid being attacked or get a job. Clearly, that’s not a problem I face. I always thought I didn’t deserve help because nothing is “that bad” for me. And then I finally realised that I don’t deserve to continue to cope with gender dysphoria and I would never know if I could get help if I didn’t ask.
And to point it plainly, I had no other route available to me.
5. I think the NHS is bad.
I am frustrated with the GIC and the NHS because I’ve been trying to find some way of funding my surgery in some way and I’ve been constantly blocked. But this doesn’t mean I don’t like the NHS or that I necessarily think it’s bad. As a disabled person, I’m grateful for the NHS in other aspects of my care and life. That’s one of the reasons why I am so frustrated with my GIC treatment — because I know the NHS does and can do better.
6. I am looking for compliments.
Aside from being told I’m a scrounger who’s cosmetic operation should never be funded by the NHS, I also get a flurry of individuals who believe that asking for surgery money means that I need to be told I’m beautiful just the way I am.
Or, they take it even further and tell me how much they’d like to have sex with me or how attractive I am “as a woman”. Asking for surgery help is not a secret code for “I think I’m ugly, compliment me”. I find myself wondering if these people stop by food banks to tell people they look beautiful the size they are.
I don’t think I’m ugly. I don’t care if you find me attractive or not. And the story I tell friends about how I met my partner does not include, “I wrote about how horrible my chest made me feel and he told me he loved my sexy curves”.
7. I have not really explored any other options.
When figuring out the cost of my surgery or trying to get my surgery, my very first instinct was not, “Let me open a fundraiser and spend a year trying to get people to donate to it!” So many people suggest other options, mock the feasibility of asking strangers for money as if I hadn’t really thought of anything else. I have actually.
I can’t get it funded by the NHS. I have tried in two different boroughs in multiple ways. I have no relationship with my parents. Even if I did, they are poor. I already have second jobs. I don’t make enough money to pay for it myself. One person suggested I do a paper route. Most paper routes require a car, which I don’t have and hours I can’t work with my already full time job. It’s not the 50s anymore. I cannot get a credit card in this country, let alone a loan. Even going to another country to get my surgery, because of my disorder, is fraught with potential problems.
To sum it up
When most people appeal to the internet masses for money, it’s usually not because they think that’s the first choice they have. It’s because all other options have been impossible for them.
Also, consider the fact that those of us who come out to tell everyone we need surgery money have to come out publicly as transgender. That’s not an easy thing. My first surgery fundraiser I only shared among friends and people I was out to, and it only amassed about £200.
Whereas now, due to trying my best to reach as many people as possible and try to get as many donations as possible, my name is in a lot of different publications, which could definitely impact my ability to get a job, depending on how open minded the people I work for are.
So, the next time you see someone labouring under these sad assumptions, correct them.
medium.com/@thelolaphoenix/seven-wrong-assumptions-about-surgery-and-transgender-people-90e49a0299af#.lkwt0cnff
I’d like to address and debunk those.
1. I want surgery because I think my body is ugly.
Wrong. Getting surgery has nothing to do with my body’s aesthetics. This is the number one thing cis people do not get about trans related healthcare needs. And it doesn’t surprise me. With so much focus on how trans people “pass” and how they look, cis people don’t really seem to focus very much on internal feelings. So the misconception is often that trans people want surgery to make themselves look better. But it’s just not about that. If I had a skin tag blocking my eye that wasn’t allowing me to see, getting it removed wouldn’t be about it being beautiful or ugly. This is no different.
2. My problem is not really that “serious”.
Because people believe this is cosmetic and don’t understand gender dysphoria, they believe this isn’t “serious”. It’s hard to describe what gender dysphoria is like to someone who’s never experienced it. It’s like something is inherently wrong that needs to be fixed. It’s like waking on the wrong side of the bed every morning or like having a pebble in your shoe that will never leave it. It’s like a permanent stitch in your hip or a constant itch on your nose. It’s like needing to sneeze and not being able to.
Suffice to say, it’s serious. If it wasn’t, why would I bother asking strangers for money. Which brings me to my next point.
3. It’s fun and easy to ask strangers for money.
Advertising something so personal in such a public way is not fun. But how else am I meant to get the funds I need? My friends only have so much. For those of us that weren’t born middle class or rich or who don’t have families due to coming from backgrounds of abuse, other avenues are closed to us.
Telling people my story for money, especially given my “bootstraps” Southern background, feels honestly terrible. It feels like I’m selling my tragedy, that I’m being forced to perform one of the most painful aspects of my existence for the sake of an audience. It’s depressing, not enjoyable. And it’s a last ditch option.
4. My situation is worse than any other medical problem.
A lot of people would compare my need with someone who has cancer and assume that by asking for money, I’m saying that gender dysphoria is worse than cancer. This isn’t about a competition. And by asking for help, I am not by default comparing myself to people with cancer. If you ask for help or even complain about homework, does that mean you’re saying that your life is worse than someone who has no access or ability to go to school?
Before I decided to launch my fundraiser, I debated it all in my head. I know a lot of trans people who need medical help so they can avoid being attacked or get a job. Clearly, that’s not a problem I face. I always thought I didn’t deserve help because nothing is “that bad” for me. And then I finally realised that I don’t deserve to continue to cope with gender dysphoria and I would never know if I could get help if I didn’t ask.
And to point it plainly, I had no other route available to me.
5. I think the NHS is bad.
I am frustrated with the GIC and the NHS because I’ve been trying to find some way of funding my surgery in some way and I’ve been constantly blocked. But this doesn’t mean I don’t like the NHS or that I necessarily think it’s bad. As a disabled person, I’m grateful for the NHS in other aspects of my care and life. That’s one of the reasons why I am so frustrated with my GIC treatment — because I know the NHS does and can do better.
6. I am looking for compliments.
Aside from being told I’m a scrounger who’s cosmetic operation should never be funded by the NHS, I also get a flurry of individuals who believe that asking for surgery money means that I need to be told I’m beautiful just the way I am.
Or, they take it even further and tell me how much they’d like to have sex with me or how attractive I am “as a woman”. Asking for surgery help is not a secret code for “I think I’m ugly, compliment me”. I find myself wondering if these people stop by food banks to tell people they look beautiful the size they are.
I don’t think I’m ugly. I don’t care if you find me attractive or not. And the story I tell friends about how I met my partner does not include, “I wrote about how horrible my chest made me feel and he told me he loved my sexy curves”.
7. I have not really explored any other options.
When figuring out the cost of my surgery or trying to get my surgery, my very first instinct was not, “Let me open a fundraiser and spend a year trying to get people to donate to it!” So many people suggest other options, mock the feasibility of asking strangers for money as if I hadn’t really thought of anything else. I have actually.
I can’t get it funded by the NHS. I have tried in two different boroughs in multiple ways. I have no relationship with my parents. Even if I did, they are poor. I already have second jobs. I don’t make enough money to pay for it myself. One person suggested I do a paper route. Most paper routes require a car, which I don’t have and hours I can’t work with my already full time job. It’s not the 50s anymore. I cannot get a credit card in this country, let alone a loan. Even going to another country to get my surgery, because of my disorder, is fraught with potential problems.
To sum it up
When most people appeal to the internet masses for money, it’s usually not because they think that’s the first choice they have. It’s because all other options have been impossible for them.
Also, consider the fact that those of us who come out to tell everyone we need surgery money have to come out publicly as transgender. That’s not an easy thing. My first surgery fundraiser I only shared among friends and people I was out to, and it only amassed about £200.
Whereas now, due to trying my best to reach as many people as possible and try to get as many donations as possible, my name is in a lot of different publications, which could definitely impact my ability to get a job, depending on how open minded the people I work for are.
So, the next time you see someone labouring under these sad assumptions, correct them.
medium.com/@thelolaphoenix/seven-wrong-assumptions-about-surgery-and-transgender-people-90e49a0299af#.lkwt0cnff