Every twenty days or so I need to help my body along with a little testosterone. The needle is a good 4 cm long and also not the thinnest kind. Rather a McDonalds straw as opposed to a thin reed if you know what I mean. It needs to be that big because the large amount of hormonal fluid to be injected into my muscles is gelatinous and quite immovable. Supposedly, the more relaxed my muscles are at the moment of injection, the less it’ll hurt.

So every three weeks I sit there, syringe in hand, moving my leg this way and that, willing my thigh muscles to relax. I can’t help but wonder “What if I hit bone?” or “What if I accidentally inject the fluid into a vein instead of muscle tissue?”

In the end, pushing all dramatic scenarios out of my mind, I put on music, talk to my wife, to the cats, or to myself, and think of relaxed hours in a turquoise-blue sea. Still, just looking at the gigantic contraption continues to make my muscles tense in anticipation.

But it has to be done, so relaxed or not, I jam the needle in as deep as it’ll go, and accept the pain.
It’s part of what needs to happen so I can live my life as who I really am. It’s definitely worth it.