Written by: | Lu Bradshaw| They/Them | Age: 20 | IG: @lu_nchbox

CW: gender dysphoria, self-harm

"It's not that I don't want you to. It's that I wish you didn't have to."

That's what my older sister said when I told her I was getting top surgery. We were on a Murray's bus back to Wollongong from visiting our parents, sitting next to each other on those seats that look like the floor of a bowling alley. I had my thick denim jacket tucked tightly over my chest and was looking out the window when she told me she knew something was wrong. I took a deep breath and I told her. We hugged. I cried.

In truth, I was scared she'd try to change my mind. That's what I was afraid of every time I told someone I was getting top surgery, especially my family. It's the reason I didn't tell them at the start, why I didn't invite them to research and ruminate with me - I couldn't bear the idea that if they did try to change my mind at the start of the process, they'd probably succeed.

The first time I spoke about my interest in top surgery with anyone was with my GP in my small country hometown. I had come out as non-binary maybe 4 months prior. She told me that I would need to wait 2 years to prove I was sure before anyone would operate on me. It was only a niggle at the back of my brain then. Two years seemed like a while, but I wasn't too worried. I had bigger fish to fry - namely the HSC, the girl who didn't like me back and the depressive episode lurking a few months in my future.

Fast forward 12 months and top surgery was no longer a fleeting thought that would diligently recede to the back of my brain at will. I was in my first semester of my university course, studying theatre performance and suddenly, my dysphoria was around every corner. Binding my chest only offered me temporary relief. I wore my binder at uni for 8 hours a day, the absolute maximum amount of time you're supposed to bind, which meant I was too crippled by dysphoria to do anything else. But binding at uni was hardly a solution. I couldn't breathe in my singing and voice classes. I couldn't run around in movement. I remember one tutor asking us to walk around the room and let go of any distractions - "We're in performance mode now," she said, "leave your troubles at the door."

And what if our troubles are attached to us? What then?

I started looking sideways at sharp objects. I started laying awake because I was too overwhelmed by the feeling of wrongness to go to sleep. Hours spent with my therapist trying to work out the answer only gave me two pieces of the puzzle - she said I couldn't expect top surgery to fix everything that was wrong, and she said she couldn't tell me whether or not I should do it. I felt like I was back at square one.

The worst thing about the few months before I really decided I needed surgery were the questions. They were incessant, not always in my own voice, and never helpful. Am I trans enough to get top surgery? Do I hate my chest enough to get top surgery? Am in enough pain to need top surgery? I didn't know.

The answer wasn't clear cut. I was and am trans. I did hate my chest, and I was definitely in pain. Everything about it hurt. Binding hurt. Dysphoria hurt. Trying to resist the mounting self-harm urges hurt. Thinking hurt. I would roll around in the questions, visiting and revisiting like poking a bruise, with the very real hope that it might actually get me somewhere.

Eventually, when I was tired and frustrated enough, I changed tact. I stopped asking questions, and started assessing the facts. I thought, maybe your own body isn't supposed to necessitate giving your scissors to a friend to hold onto. Maybe existing isn't supposed to hurt quite this much.

And then I started watching YouTube.

I think I've watched every top surgery video on YouTube at this point. In the break after the first semester, when all I had was dysphoria and free time, it was all I did. Wake up. Watch YouTube. Maybe eat something. Go back to bed.

Top surgery reveals were my favourite - there was one compilation of them, set to 'The Village' by Wrabel, that made me cry every time. The people in those videos looked so happy, happier I think than I had ever felt. Is that what it feels like? For your body to look right when you look in the mirror? I wasn't sure. There were also top surgery packing tips, top surgery recovery guides, top surgery scar care tutorials, I watched all of them. They were comforting, but they still didn't answer my one burning question.

It was one video of a non-binary person that did it. They said, when it comes down to it, I want a flat chest. I just do. I want a flat chest over what I have right now.

Something finally made sense. A consultation wasn't a decision by any means - it was an opportunity, a start. It was $300 to a surgeon and a trip to Melbourne and maybe a little bit of a waste of time if I was wrong, but when it came down to it, I wanted a flat chest over what I had. I think even filled with as much doubt as I was, I knew I wasn't wrong.

So I made the call.