I was chatting with an old friend, and we got onto the topic of our past. You know, throwing baseballs at hornets' nests, running from said hornets, wondering why we were always covered in hornet strings, the works. He chuckled and then said "Yeah, back when you were a guy."
Whoa. Hold the phone. Back when what?
A lot of transgender individuals go through this, and they feel a strange rubber-bandy stress build up on the spot. It's not something you want to hear, but why? It's because, as you know deep inside, you were never a guy or girl in the past. You were simply born into misfortune and hiding your true self out of confusion, fear, embarrassment, etc. It's not a good thing to be brought up, and it's annoying to me that such a simple comment can bring back the pain of the past. Not in full force, but it's a nice ol' tablespoon of hurt.
So let this stand as a PSA to those who are not transgender. Do NOT say that.
P.S. I still love my friend very much.
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Sunday, November 17, 2013
"How do you know you're transgender?" -- A Brief History of My Life with Gender Dysphoria
Once you've come out as transgender, it's likely that you'll run into someone, or more than one someone, who will ask you this question. You take a deep breath, collect your thoughts, and... you just breathe out. At least, that's what I did. Since that day, the day my father asked me this very question, I've put some more thought into this, and I started by trying to figure out how I explained it to myself. Obviously I am convinced I am transgender, so how on earth did I come to that conclusion? Perhaps the process can be used in an outward fashion.
So I asked myself, "Where did it start?" Where does it start, huh? I'm sure you all have 'The Memory', that one memory where you were younger and had that hint, that ever so slight tinge, your first run in with dysphoria, a force that you were unacquainted with at the time. I remembered quite vividly my first memory. I was in first grade, and anyone would tell you that I was oddly aloof. I wasn't antisocial, but I never spoke of myself, and I seemed to always be thinking about something else, and this was because... I was! I was thinking about how I felt, what I decided at the time, was "dirty." Why was I dirty? I knew I had taken a bath the night before, but it felt like there was this aura of filth about me. I refused to be hugged by my friends, because no one wants to be hugged when they feel dirty. It's embarrassing; you feel out of place.
It was only a few weeks after this that I did something very unlike many other transgender individuals; I pinpointed the problem, but I cannot quite say how. I made my very first google search at school, on the nice multi-colored Macintosh computers that had come in that year. I looked down at the keyboard and searched for each letter, eventually looking at the screen at the product of my effort. There in the search box was "Why do I want to be a girl?" I look back now and scream at my past self, for although I had typed it, I feared the results would be scary, and embarrassing. I closed the window.
So what does this experience tell me? Forgetting the fact that I had somehow stumbled upon the root of the issue, it's that feeling of dirtiness that stands out and can be understood by anyone. I used this in my explanation to my father, and although he could not empathize, he did sympathize.
Fast forward a year. I'm now in 2nd grade. I'm in my father's Sunday School class, my classes are more enjoyable to me, and I am enjoying different types of music. Yet with that change, my mind was still the same. It was this school year that my mind took me down a path that haunted me into middle school. I was in my bed one night, thinking about my body and why it made me feel upset when I looked at it and felt it, like it... wasn't mine. Wasn't mine... I panicked, hopped out of bed, turned the lights on, took my clothes off, and looked all over my body. I looked everywhere I could for the telltale sign of stitches, scars, evidence that I was indeed a product of an awful experimental surgery that my parents went along with, or perhaps, maybe they wanted it? Maybe they did it.
It was that day that I began to cry myself to sleep every night as these thoughts returned, and when I started to distrust my parents, and fear them.
I took this story and presented it to my father, who felt quite depressed about the idea. He had gone years and years without knowing that I feared him or thought he had a part in mutilation of my body. He still wishes today that he could have helped me earlier.
This story is not typical however. Most transgender individuals go through life with a strange sunken feeling, a deep-set depression that they just recognize as... there. It often takes until late in life for them to realize that they are indeed transgender, and that it's the cause for their depression, for their dysphoria.
I'm now in 8th grade. My mind is sharper, I'm quite talkative and speak of myself now, and I feel like things are shaping up. Yet as it is with dysphoria, it finds ways to get into the cracks, like ivy coming up from cement. I felt empty inside, and if you had asked me, I'd have told you I had no friends, not one. My guidance counselor looked me in the eyes and said, "You have plenty of friends. I see you talking and playing with plenty other children here at school." At the time I couldn't explain to her why it was I still felt they were not my friends. I liked them. I liked having them around and hearing them talk and sharing moments with them, but for whatever reason, there was a wall between me and them.
A wall. Yes, there was a wall indeed, and it was one I had made myself. It was what I would call my personality, or rather, the toothpick robot that had the word personality glued to it. I said things I didn't like to hear, I made movements that felt strange, I talked to people I didn't like, and why? It was for social survival. I would mimic what I saw other boys doing to fit in, to stop being called names. This wall was strong, and to this day I struggle with it. In times of stress, my mind will revert into these tactics, and sometimes I'll say things that make me cry.
I explained this part of my life to my father as well, and he understood, knowing how I was at that age, and how I always smiled when talking to someone, but it seemed forced and unnatural.
High school at last. I'm in band, I enjoy English and Art, and puberty has reached it's apex. Puberty is a gruesome thing for anyone who is transgender. It's like watching your body transform into a monster, into a diseased hunk of flesh that you're told is normal, and that you look fine. You know you don't look fine. If I thought I looked fine, then why did seeing myself in the mirror bring tears?
Through the typical commotion of life, there was a moment of clarity, an epiphany, a light in the dark. I was home alone. My family was out eating, yet I would always opt out, unable to handle the crowds and being seen. There was no soap in the hall shower, so I reluctantly went into my parents' room to borrow a bar from theirs. Who would know, right? I never did get around to borrowing any soap, for as I entered, my eyes became transfixed on what was on my mother's dresser: a bra. My wall, my 'personality' urged me to turn away and think about what others would expect of me. If anyone saw me, they'd be grossed out, so why go any closer? For the first time, I told the wall to shove it, and I walked over, grabbed the bra, and put it on with one clean motion. (Just kidding. As if I could get the strap bit down on the first try...) It felt extra to me physically, my skin not conditioned to the feeling of the polyester on my chest. But, there was this warmth, this strange relief. I felt like in this moment all my stress melted away, and for the first time, I smiled a smile that felt real, that felt fulfilled, that felt like... me.
"It wasn't about the bra though," I calmly spoke to my father.
"Then what was it about?" He inquisitively uttered.
I smiled and said, "It was about what the bra did. It felt right. I didn't feel dirty anymore; I felt like a human being, and I wondered, who wears bras? Women wear bras, and that's what I am, a woman."
So I asked myself, "Where did it start?" Where does it start, huh? I'm sure you all have 'The Memory', that one memory where you were younger and had that hint, that ever so slight tinge, your first run in with dysphoria, a force that you were unacquainted with at the time. I remembered quite vividly my first memory. I was in first grade, and anyone would tell you that I was oddly aloof. I wasn't antisocial, but I never spoke of myself, and I seemed to always be thinking about something else, and this was because... I was! I was thinking about how I felt, what I decided at the time, was "dirty." Why was I dirty? I knew I had taken a bath the night before, but it felt like there was this aura of filth about me. I refused to be hugged by my friends, because no one wants to be hugged when they feel dirty. It's embarrassing; you feel out of place.
It was only a few weeks after this that I did something very unlike many other transgender individuals; I pinpointed the problem, but I cannot quite say how. I made my very first google search at school, on the nice multi-colored Macintosh computers that had come in that year. I looked down at the keyboard and searched for each letter, eventually looking at the screen at the product of my effort. There in the search box was "Why do I want to be a girl?" I look back now and scream at my past self, for although I had typed it, I feared the results would be scary, and embarrassing. I closed the window.
So what does this experience tell me? Forgetting the fact that I had somehow stumbled upon the root of the issue, it's that feeling of dirtiness that stands out and can be understood by anyone. I used this in my explanation to my father, and although he could not empathize, he did sympathize.
Fast forward a year. I'm now in 2nd grade. I'm in my father's Sunday School class, my classes are more enjoyable to me, and I am enjoying different types of music. Yet with that change, my mind was still the same. It was this school year that my mind took me down a path that haunted me into middle school. I was in my bed one night, thinking about my body and why it made me feel upset when I looked at it and felt it, like it... wasn't mine. Wasn't mine... I panicked, hopped out of bed, turned the lights on, took my clothes off, and looked all over my body. I looked everywhere I could for the telltale sign of stitches, scars, evidence that I was indeed a product of an awful experimental surgery that my parents went along with, or perhaps, maybe they wanted it? Maybe they did it.
It was that day that I began to cry myself to sleep every night as these thoughts returned, and when I started to distrust my parents, and fear them.
I took this story and presented it to my father, who felt quite depressed about the idea. He had gone years and years without knowing that I feared him or thought he had a part in mutilation of my body. He still wishes today that he could have helped me earlier.
This story is not typical however. Most transgender individuals go through life with a strange sunken feeling, a deep-set depression that they just recognize as... there. It often takes until late in life for them to realize that they are indeed transgender, and that it's the cause for their depression, for their dysphoria.
I'm now in 8th grade. My mind is sharper, I'm quite talkative and speak of myself now, and I feel like things are shaping up. Yet as it is with dysphoria, it finds ways to get into the cracks, like ivy coming up from cement. I felt empty inside, and if you had asked me, I'd have told you I had no friends, not one. My guidance counselor looked me in the eyes and said, "You have plenty of friends. I see you talking and playing with plenty other children here at school." At the time I couldn't explain to her why it was I still felt they were not my friends. I liked them. I liked having them around and hearing them talk and sharing moments with them, but for whatever reason, there was a wall between me and them.
A wall. Yes, there was a wall indeed, and it was one I had made myself. It was what I would call my personality, or rather, the toothpick robot that had the word personality glued to it. I said things I didn't like to hear, I made movements that felt strange, I talked to people I didn't like, and why? It was for social survival. I would mimic what I saw other boys doing to fit in, to stop being called names. This wall was strong, and to this day I struggle with it. In times of stress, my mind will revert into these tactics, and sometimes I'll say things that make me cry.
I explained this part of my life to my father as well, and he understood, knowing how I was at that age, and how I always smiled when talking to someone, but it seemed forced and unnatural.
High school at last. I'm in band, I enjoy English and Art, and puberty has reached it's apex. Puberty is a gruesome thing for anyone who is transgender. It's like watching your body transform into a monster, into a diseased hunk of flesh that you're told is normal, and that you look fine. You know you don't look fine. If I thought I looked fine, then why did seeing myself in the mirror bring tears?
Through the typical commotion of life, there was a moment of clarity, an epiphany, a light in the dark. I was home alone. My family was out eating, yet I would always opt out, unable to handle the crowds and being seen. There was no soap in the hall shower, so I reluctantly went into my parents' room to borrow a bar from theirs. Who would know, right? I never did get around to borrowing any soap, for as I entered, my eyes became transfixed on what was on my mother's dresser: a bra. My wall, my 'personality' urged me to turn away and think about what others would expect of me. If anyone saw me, they'd be grossed out, so why go any closer? For the first time, I told the wall to shove it, and I walked over, grabbed the bra, and put it on with one clean motion. (Just kidding. As if I could get the strap bit down on the first try...) It felt extra to me physically, my skin not conditioned to the feeling of the polyester on my chest. But, there was this warmth, this strange relief. I felt like in this moment all my stress melted away, and for the first time, I smiled a smile that felt real, that felt fulfilled, that felt like... me.
"It wasn't about the bra though," I calmly spoke to my father.
"Then what was it about?" He inquisitively uttered.
I smiled and said, "It was about what the bra did. It felt right. I didn't feel dirty anymore; I felt like a human being, and I wondered, who wears bras? Women wear bras, and that's what I am, a woman."
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