So I had my shot yesterday. I always put it off, but I’m getting better. Sort of.

It got me thinking about the process of taking testosterone and how that tends to play out for me emotionally speaking, as the years progress.

Sometime this year, I can’t remember exactly – June or so I believe, I will have injected testosterone into my body for 10 years. A decade. That’s a pretty intense thing to reflect upon, let alone live.

During the first few years, maybe the first 4 or 5, I did my own shots in my thigh. I was taught how to do it initially by my GP, and did the same thing, alternating sides every fortnight when my shot was due. As time went on, I began to resent the medicalisation of my life, the fact that I needed artificial testosterone as I was unable to produce my own. After five years of Testosterone shots in my thighs, I had scar tissue built up around the injection sites. I let my shots fall later and later, to the point where my Wife (fiancée at the time) asked if I would prefer she do it. I knew having regular shots was integral to my mental wellbeing and physical health, but I was my own barrier. I was thankful for her help.

I am now on a kind of testosterone called Reandron. This is a large dose of testosterone of the slow release variety, meaning I now get shots once every ten weeks. This has severely reduced my resentment toward the shots themselves, and although it’s large volume-wise (4ml as compared to 1ml injection) the benefits outweigh the slight tenderness of an injection site for a few hours. If it wasn’t for Reandron, I’d be late with my shots consistently, and that’s something I don’t want – it fucks with my hormones and my head.