It’s strange to think that maybe no one, including myself, is taking any of this “being trans” business seriously. I know that isn’t a fact – I’m so fortunate to have the support that I have – but when I have these unpredictable fits of fear and regret, it really does a number on my self-image and foundation that I’m still fortifying. My foundation that cries out, “Can you keep living this way?”
A friend of mine who I’ve seriously told already about transitioning still asked me Saturday night, “Why do you have long hair?” “Because I’m wearing a wig,” I replied flatly. Already annoyed by Skype putting me on camera when I didn’t ask it to, her question, how ever innocent, cut down my confidence so easily to the point where I apologized for having to show my face. Retreating to my shell affected me for the rest of the evening when I had already earlier experienced the still reluctant nature of my mum’s undercutting reaction to buying me girl clothes for Christmas.
Another friend that I recently came out to randomly texted me using the name I would be legally changing it to. Their number wasn’t in my phone and I thought maybe it was a guy from a year ago who had bailed on meeting me after a convention. The text itself wasn’t the issue after they told me their name. It was the reality that my small circle of friends are actually starting to acknowledge me as a female using pronouns and my new name. This normally would make me happy, but I suddenly found myself absolutely terrified.
It is really happening.
This is really what I’m doing.
All those millions of doubting questions I thought I had already answered flooded my mind in full force. I was miserable for the rest of Sunday evening. I was hurting myself all over again…
At work on Monday, I continued to hurt, reliving these conflicted feelings of not really belonging or fitting in with any social group. Those horrible questions ricocheted around in the background of my mental processing, and, after a significant amount of pressure, one of a few key questions that help me remember why I am who I am resurfaced in the midst of the chaos:
If you could be reborn as male or female, which would you choose?
Hands down without a single doubt. No question.
“God doesn’t make mistakes. You are who you are and there’s no getting around that,” according to my father.
I have been fed this my entire life, while living out a perfectly natural fantasy online. That was all I had because I didn’t believe or know there could possibly be anything else. I accepted it and continued to simply deny myself. Though I managed to overcome, I was, and still am, unhappy and torn.
So here I am. Trying to remind myself why this is even worth it. It’s ultimately to be happy with my identity and body for the first time in my life for no one else but me. I repeatedly experience this inner conflict until I reach that same place that screams “I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ANYMORE”.
…And that’s when, after running and hiding, I can start moving forward again little by little.
There’s no doubt that this has happened to me before, but most people, lost in the moment, can’t recall when or how they dealt with whatever life-shaking issue. I think that’s why people like me have these blog thingies in the hopes that they can somehow be reminded. Self-reflection & expression are typically the only purposes most blogs have, as a wide majority of them never amass a following. So it’s better to follow through with whatever purpose the blog has been bestowed rather than actively trying to become a source of inspiration or reference in order to draw people in.
That’s the only way I can keep bothering to share my life in this space. Even if no one believed that my struggle was authentic and honest when alive, my only intent is for this blog to serve as a record that I truly wanted to be happy whenever I’m dead. And maybe by pure happenstance – even as I experience mild epiphanies of why people like me contemplate suicide – my silly titled memoir will help someone else find their answer to continue living.