Testosterone Blockers, Punching Holes in Walls and the Coiled Spring in Your Chest.

Struggling to be a better bloke? I’ve a solution, but you’re not gonna like it.

It’s been a long time coming but finally it looks like we’re having the media discourse about when men put their fists through walls. I’m reminded of all the conversations I’ve had with men about what it’s like to transition. And no, I’ll forgo my usual baiting tactic of suggesting that all men secretly wish they were a woman… No, instead what I’ll do is tell you about how often I find men curious about transition because it seems like they don’t want to be men.

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I was sitting in a bar on Brunswick Street. One of those gay bars with more straight clientele than queer. The sort where lesbians need to fight off packs of bros asking “Why don’t you think I’m a good bloke? I haven’t done anything to ya, ya scrag!”

Maybe that’s why the place is now long gone, having since been a dumpling bar, a cocktail lounge, finally deciding on a derelict shop front as it’s current form.

I’d bumped into some old theatre colleges who I’d not seen since long before my transition. Not since I was still under the delusion that the thing missing from my soul was lifting weights and growing a beard so large that it needed to be oiled daily. I love those moments of confusion where people don’t recognise me, thinking this is just some burly blonde woman who’s mistaken them for someone else. After the initial penny drop, they were delighted that I’d found myself. Delighted that I was on this journey as any fellow trench-hardened arts worker would be. Turns out compassion can galvanize when you’re buried under unreasonable timelines, garbage paychecks and the disdain of mainstream Australian culture.

And one of them asked “what’s it like?”

Huddled close, I could see something in those soft eyes under his curly, shaggy mop. Football strong, not vanity-beach-strong, shoulders practically curling around both me and the entire table. Like he was trying to create a cone of silence so he could learn some secret truth of the universe. I’d seen this before. I knew what he was really asking. He wanted to know how it FEELS to not be a man anymore.

And so, I told him.

“You know that feeling of tension in your chest?” Those soft eyes told me he did. “It’s like the spring in an antique watch you wind, how it curls into itself? Tighter and tighter and tighter. You can feel when you wind the watch too far. You can feel when there’s too much tension, when it is about to snap?”

The subtle shift of his body, the tiny glance away.

“Just like that coiled spring that lives in your chest. All day, every day it feels like it’s getting turned. The little things, the big things. Tighter and tighter and tighter til it gets to the point where you feel like the ratchet teeth will fail and the coiled pressure will unfurl out of you in one blistering moment of violence and rage and frustration.”

Those soft eyes. I’d never seen anything in them but calm. Now? Here was fear, fear of the truth about what it feels like being a man. He didn’t need to answer me. I could see it in the slump of his body, the downward gaze to his thick fingers picking at the beer bottle label. “You know it. It’s the moment where you want to slap your hand on the desk, slam the door when you walk out of the room, the moment when you feel like punching a hole in the wall.”

The smallest of nods.

“I don’t feel that anymore, the spring never tightens all the way up. That’s what this feels like.” I could see that fear in his eyes had become envy and that he’d give anything to never know that feeling of the coil in his chest ever again. He’d give anything to never be seen as a source of danger, of violence, or fear from his loved ones.

And so, I told him the cost.

“You could feel this way too, you know? It’s the blockers. The anti-androgens that set up camp in all the receptors that my testosterone ordinarily would occupy. I still have the physiology I was born with; I still have the chemical and hormonal mix in my bloodstream of a cisgendered man… just with a whole lot of additional estrogen and a chemical to stop my body absorbing the testosterone. So now… things still upset me, sure. Things still frustrate the hell out of me, but they don’t wind up that spring anymore. Even in my moments of distress and pain and hurt, it’s been years since I felt that coil.”

Neither of us was ever the sort to lash out, but we knew what wanting to felt like.

This isn’t to suggest that men who can’t exercise control are absolved, that the chemical cocktail in their blood is their “get out of jail free” card for the application of violence. I would say “it goes without saying” but you know what the internet is like. So, I’m saying it… that all people have a responsibility to not allow themselves to lash out in violent ways regardless of if it’s pure emotional overwhelm or the insidious tactic of scaring and controlling others.

You have a personal responsibility to (amongst other things) not punch holes in walls.

What I AM saying that it isn’t hard to be a decent man who doesn’t lash out. But, if you are the particular brand of man, the sort who claims to be building a model of being a “better bloke”, relying on other bloke’s advice to do so and you STILL can’t stop yourself from swinging a right hook at the drywall then I’ve a great solution for you. A bit of advice from someone who used to “be a bloke”.

Take testosterone blockers.

You want to not be seen as violent and dangerous? There’s a pill for that. If the foundation of your manhood isn’t the application of, or ability to apply power, then it shouldn’t be a problem, right? Cause there are other positives too. It’ll help with your receding hairline. It’ll protect you from prostate cancer. There may be some intermittent erectile dysfunction, sure, but we all know you’ve been fucking around with those vascular dilators for years anyway, haven’t ya. Go on, haven’t ya! You can admit it to your Aunty Seán that you pop the occasional “blue pill”. She won’t judge you for what you do with your body.

Except for when you continue to fail in moderating how you use it.

Then I WILL judge you.

My old work friend finished his beer and pushed his hair out of his eyes. He told me he was happy for me, truly happy that I was living this life. I kissed his stubbly cheek before he vanished back into the crowd. It’s clear that good men exist. Not enough of them, but they are there. I’m not willing to give up on all of them. That isn’t to say you won’t be called out, but I firmly believe it’s possible for men to grow and change.

Because I changed.

I can see the good qualities in the vanishingly few kind-hearted, gentle men who still exist in the world. Men who have zero tolerance for other men’s insistence “Aw it’s only a joke, don’t get so hysterical”. I know that, for a man, the idea of taking a pill every day seems SOOOOOOO hard. No one’s gonna force you but there’s another option if that’s too tough. You wanna cut off the part of you that drives unreasonable emotional outbursts?

You could just get rid of the testosterone producing part of your body?

To be clear… castration is an option. One that I’d advocate for? No… but if you truly are serious about being a “better bloke” and find that you continually can’t surmount the incredibly low bar of not putting your fist through a wall, maybe it’s time to get creative? I’m sure if you apply your big-boy-brain and “superior logic” to the situation you’ll agree that there’s a certain elegant finality in my suggestion? I mean, men do love those sorts of unnuanced, blanket approaches.

Not a fan of that option? Okay blokes, maybe you can redouble your efforts.

Because remember, things that “lose control for a second” are considered defective in our world. If a car can just suddenly lose control for a second, we don’t say “it’s okay, it will do better next time”. We fix it. And if we can’t fix it we remove it from ever being capable of of “losing control for a second” again.

So maybe you, if you are the sort of man who thinks it is okay to put a fist through a wall can try doing the bare minimum, like so many other men manage to, without being such a piss-baby about it.

–S

This post was inspired by the tireless work of Mia Findlay and the “Pod Like A Girl” podcast. If you havn’t found her yet she is one of the most gracious and magnificent voices in the landscape of advocacy for women in Australia. You should look her up. »LINK