So in lieu of testosterone therapy, or workout therapy, or even some goddamn talk-to-someone therapy, I have resorted to the age-old remedy; booze. But not just any booze! Belvediere. Cuz that's where its at.
And even I sit here I can smell my own crotch stank. And I know that everybody's individual, but I'm still pretty sure that all lady crotch stanks are distinctly distinguishable from manly crotch stanks. Who would think that THAT could be a trigger? Who thinks about it? No one, except the people who are going through it. And thats the thing. No one can understand how pervasive this is, how consuming, how everything is a trigger. Even crotch stank.
My mother isn't speaking to me anymore. My father completely misunderstands me. I have to tell this story. Just two days ago I was at my dad's place, trying to get things sorted out so I can move back in, after the guy who raped me has been living there for four years on full ride father-without-a-son sympathy scholarship. And we're looking at this old, crappy ass table that's got drawers under the tabletop. I already knew what was in there. I knew what he was going to find. I waited patiently. Yep. There they were. Pictures of me from when I was 3. I didn't remember the halloween pictures, though. Pictures of me dressed up like a fairy princess. I remembered that my hair was ridiculously long, I didn't remember that it used to be curly. Like, fluffy curls. I was a tall white preschool girl with long curly blondish hair. In a fucking fairy princess dress.
And my dad starts cooing and says that I'll want these someday. I say, as assertively as possible without giving myself away, that I will not. And then he says, look how cute your daughters will be. That might have been the most hurtful thing of all. This assumption that I was going to be a baby factory, that I would end up with multiple girl-children that I could dress up like princesses like my parents had done to me. I'll let him keep the pictures. I'll let him send some copies to my mom. And I'll take some copies for me. I'll put them in an envelope labelled "To Be Burned on the Day of Retribution". Because I can't move on from that, from my past, from what people will always assume was a part of my past, until I present them with something different. Really different. And not this vacillating androgynous in-between expecting people to respect my individuality. Individuality does not exist in a vacuum. I do not exist in a vacuum. I want to help people. And unfortunately, that's going to require working with people. And if I want people to call me "sir", I'm going to have to look and sound and move like a "sir." And when I'm finally ready to make that commitment, I will burn those pictures. Fueled by about a fifth of gin.
But the thing that my dad didn't notice, the thing that dawned on me as he flipped through more and more of these pictures (it looks like I was dressed up as a princess for two consecutive Halloweens; I got chubbier than taller), I realized that in every single one of them, I was not smiling. It was this sort of sad, questioning resignation, the look that says "I don't want to be here, like this, but I don't want to say anything either."
The thing that has pissed me off for years is that he knew. I remember this conversation, I was probably 10 or 11, and I was wondering why men would want to be women, and he scoffed and said "when you were little you wanted to be a boy!" My first thought was "Oh shit he knows, my secret is out." Then I thought, "wait, wanted? He thinks it's over." Then, "wait, he knew?! And he didn't do anything about it?" I don't know what happened that these declarations of self that occurred before I even had memory of them were silenced, but I knew it wasn't because they became any less true. I can't help but blame him; he knew, and he did nothing. Not just nothing; he silenced me. I can think of no other force that could have put me so thoroughly in the closet by the time I was entering "Louis" in the name-screen of Pokemon: Blue Version on my gameboy color. Except for maybe my mom. I never found out whether she knew about my preferences as a toddler, but it seems unlikely that my father was listening more closely to what I had to say. And I find it doubly unlikely that he would be so adamant about putting me in terrible outfits. My mother does remember the day when I refused to wear dresses from then on out. But my mother has always encouraged me to be in the closet in other ways. Her entire argument against tattoos is that they limit job mobility, and if you're an olympic athlete with a tattoo visible because you're wearing a fucking speedo to compete on behalf of your country, it's disrespectful to your country. Give me a fucking break. Unless ink under the skin is causing drag, all these athletes owe us is their best effort, and we owe them our respect for their effort, and for representing one of the most OPEN and DIVERSE (theoretically) countries in the world. My mother wouldn't give me money for tuition, or even food. But she would take me on extravagant shopping sprees so that I could "make a good first impression." This is how this woman's mind works. So it's no surprise that she would tell a four year old girl with an "I'm a boy" complex to keep "her" mouth shut about it. So I did. And I'm only now just regaining my voice. And it is so painful. And it still isn't loud enough for anyone to hear, like listening to a kitten's first attempts at chirping. It's a bad example, because that is fucking adorable. This, this is just pathetic.
I don't know what I'm waiting for. I'm constantly waiting for something, always another excuse, a reason that will surely go away in the foreseeable future that will clear the way for my self-declaration. I'm almost twenty-two. How much more time do I need to let pass? My mother has a said a handful of wise things in her time, and one that seems relevant now is, "if there were a perfect time to have a baby, there wouldn't be any." I am being reborn in the eyes of my peers, and the world at large. There will never be a perfect time. There will never be a time that I have enough courage to close my eyes, push through the fodder and shout "I am self" to a crowd of people who are just trying to go about their own lives and don't have time for my shit, unless I summon that courage, until I make today the day. Nobody's going to tell me, there (probably) won't be a sign from God. The decision will be mine, without guidance or signal of any kind. It will inevitably be "the wrong time", but what other time could there possibly be? I'm going to pick the least of the possible "worst moments" to present myself to the world and that will be the best I can do.
The more I read the more I know, but still I have not stumbled across a published "Guide to Coming Out as Trans." I guess that's not entirely true. Many trans people have published their coming-out stories, but always with the disclaimer that this is specific to their context. And ain't that just the truth. Even when there is a published guide, like what classes to take and when for a college major, everyone has their own reasons to deviate; some elective that they just couldn't wait until next year to take so they put off a major class, taking a major class early to prepare for some program or test, or wondering if they're even going to stick to that major. The human experience is messy; no matter how much hand-holding goes on, very few people go through it perfectly "according to plan."
It seems like such a distant dream, to be married, to have someone stick by you through the transition. Someone who falls in love with you in one body and stays in love with you while your body undergoes drastic change and is willing to commit to the person you will be. Perhaps that's the human ideal, loving you for who you are on the inside regardless of who you are on the inside, at least, it seems to be the ideal in the LGBT/progressive community. This is where we want society to be. But can humanity obtain it? Apparently it has, for at least two MTFs. But I'm not MTF. I'm FTM. And that's very different. The two people who have stuck by their lovers through transition have been women; I've only ever been with men. I've only ever fallen in love with a few women. Women who were all straight. Who, to no fault of their own, pushed me to complete transition so that I could be worthy of their love. Three women. Three beautiful, complicated, wonderful, straight women. And I hope I will never forget them, or their names, or how they were beautiful on the inside. But in many ways it was their femininity that made them beautiful, and I would be the last person to deny them their gender identity. Granted, I only understand the attraction to being a woman in an academic perspective; it is not something I can identify with personally, because I never personally felt that way. I remember being at the high school prom; I was wearing a dress that really showed off how much my boobs had grown in. A teacher commented on how much I'd grown up. I expressed that I felt that I didn't belong there, at a high school prom, not in that beautiful dress, not with those ridiculous orbs of fat hanging off my chest.
The more I think about it, the more I think of myself as non-gendered. I think of what God could have made, without any estrogen or testosterone. A slender, short, soft-voiced creature that would know no anger or jealousy and live for 120 years. And perhaps I think of myself this way. But constrained by the English language and American culture, the closest I can get is Male. I don't want breasts, but neither do I want testicles. I'd like to pee standing up, mostly as a convenience. I would like to know what it feels like to be inside a woman. Inside a person. To be entrusted with that kind of vulnerability and treat it with care and gentleness.
And because I've partaken of ethanol therapy, my aquaporins have been deployed and I desperately need to pee in a way that requires entirely too much toilet paper. I mean really, God. This is the stupidest design. And bleeding once a month? I understand the anti-bacterial aspect, but how was this practical before the advent of tampons?
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