Fuck that narrative. I wish I felt this were true, but it isn’t. This is my transition post, it might get a little ugly. Not as ugly as the millions of cis people that want my head on a platter, but quite ugly. Everyone’s transition is different, and I’ll never ridicule someone for having this mentality of their own transition, but for me personally, this couldn’t be further from the truth. My transition is rooted in hard fought struggle, anguish, and at a few points, suicidal tendencies and strong urges to jump out of moving vehicles or off highway overpasses to have my head exploded like a fruit gusher for the world to see. So, they can experience a fraction of the pain I’ve felt struggling to obtain my identity and gain respect for who I am. So, they can try to understand the frustration and begging for mercy that we must do on a daily basis just to get respected like “normal” individuals and tend to our bodily and societal needs.

dys·pho·ri·a
"a state of unease or generalized dissatisfaction with life."

My story does have some parallels to the stereotypical narrative though. As a child, I was corralled by my father into “manly” activities like hunting, “action figures”, motorsports, fixing cars, full contact sports like hockey and Greco roman wrestling, and was shunned for having interest in “girly” activities like playing with Barbie dolls, taking gymnastics classes, and having interest in stereotypically feminine clothing and presentation. My mother had no say in the matter according to her, and he was stern about his beliefs. He didn’t want me to grow up to be some fairy faggot, after all, who would want that for their son? It’s a disgrace to the family and there’s no possibility of his lineage to continue if I didn’t have children, it was important that I learned how to cat call women before the age of 11, that I knew what beer tasted like before I even knew what alcohol was. This was never a problem for me, this was my Dad after all, he must know a lot about the world, he’s lived so much longer than me, owns a home, and does a fantastic job at his profession as an auto mechanic, and has a clearly vested interest in his passions like hunting and fishing. Until I hit about the age of 13, and had to start changing in front of other boys in locker rooms for Gym and Weight training classes.

This is where dysphoria immediately smacked me in the face, like I owed it money. I was extremely uncomfortable getting undressed in front of other boys. I felt judged, I wasn’t developing as quickly as they were, and preconceived notions of masculinity made me dread even walking into the room. I hadn’t started puberty at the same time as them, I was a year younger than some even after being held back a year. My biggest struggle with all of this? It wasn’t my penis size, it was my nipples and my legs. I was so nervous and upset that I wasn’t developing like them, even though I knew more about puberty and body development than most at my age and knew it would come with time. I was confused. So, I never got changed for those classes, not once. I failed every PE and Gym class from that day forward, and still have a massive issue with going to the gym and fitness in general.


Around the age of 15 I started playing with wearing “women’s” clothing, there was a girl that I used to party with, that would lend me her clothes when we were drunk, and that was when I started pondering things. Everyone thought it was just this big joke, and to me at the time it felt like it too, but something was churning inside me, because there’s no reason that joke apparel should make me feel so comfortable and right. This increased over the next few years and I started talking to another transgender woman on the internet at 17, we shared a passion for the same competitive video games and BDSM, and quickly became friends. We would call one another on Skype often and play games together and talk about kink. Combine this with a growing addiction to hentai (Japanese animated pornography) that featured girls with penises, and you had a storm inside my head, and I needed answers.


One night, our discussion turned into why she transitioned, what it’s like, all these questions I had started accumulating over the past year of knowing her. She told me a few things, that she cannot deduce whether I’m Trans or not, and that she cannot be held responsible for what happens to my relationships in my life should I choose to do this. She continued by giving me lots of statistics about how often we’re beaten, raped and murdered, discriminated in workplaces, and many other negative aspects that came with being the authentic you that we’d like to be comfortable living as. I couldn’t help myself, I asked for more information and she told me “I’ll give you all these resources, but I want to make perfectly clear that I cannot tell you to do this or not.” I told her to basically shut up and give me the info. I learned all about hormone replacement therapy and voice modification, the myth behind “passing” as a cis woman and how it’s steeped in misogyny and modern American beauty standards.


I knew that I was interested, and that I wanted to do something about it, but I couldn't. I lived in a hick-town that Malcolm X nicknamed "White City" and I would likely be beaten and harassed for what I was wanting to do to be happy. This much was evident because I already got things like "faggot!" screamed at me just for walking on the sidewalk as a boy. So I submitted to my environment for my own safety. This isn't an uncommon thing for at risk populations to do, blend in so you don't get fucked up, and you can be miserable and continue to live without physical harm and punishment for things you can't control or foresee, and that they can't empathize with or understand. I tried to blend in, I tried my damn best, and like most thing in life you cannot control, I failed trying.