There are times when I’ll come across old pictures of me, pre-transition, and I’ll have the strangest rush of emotions. On the one hand, I’m definitely not ashamed of how I looked, and indeed I completely recognize that it was me.  But on the other, it’s like - I have no idea who that person is.  And when I see it placed in front of me I honestly am completely puzzled at the fact that at one point I inhabited that physiology.

But there she is.

I’ll be flipping through Facebook, for instance, and I’ll accidentally scroll up something from years ago.  And there’s this shock that I can’t quite describe, because above all else I look at her and the pain of how dead I felt inside scratches at the back of my mind.  I remember the confusion.  I remember the desolation.  I remember the hopeless ache for something that seemed so constantly and mysteriously out of reach permeating every conscious thought every goddamn day.

And what terrifies me the most is that I look at that girl and I can see it in her eyes.

And it cuts right through me.  Because I see her pleading at me, screaming to the world for someone to let her thrive.  And above it all, constant and sharp is her complete and utter absolution of the lie the world has built around her that she can never really truly be herself.

It gets to the point where I want to take them down forever because the amount of suffering I can see in that girl, in those images, and then put online and displayed up for the world to see is almost perverse.

But then I can look in a mirror and say, yeah, it’s okay.

Because I made it.

I survived.

And I thrive.

Early on when I was coming to terms with my gender and was beginning to show the barest expressions of non-conformity to the enforced gender role of male, I found that I placed a great deal of stress on “lessening to blow” of my expressions to others, by downplaying the importance and validity of my identity if confronted with questions about who I am.

At the time, I found this to be an intelligent thing to do - because I still carried around with me the societal cissexist, tranpshobic, and patriarchal ideas that had been so acutely ingrained into my “correctly normal” social interactions.

I went through this stage being very apologetic in the sense, because I still ascribed to the idea that my budding identity - being rooted in one of the most misunderstood and least accepted minorities - was something that I should be, of course, understandably willing to accept and deal with being received by others in hostility and erasure.

If confronted with questions such as “What pronouns do you prefer?” I would shyly and meekly respond with “I have no preference.”  or “Call me as you see me.” which, of course, was not what I truly wanted at all.

I ached to be seen as female, however because of this idea that I was so bizarre and exotic to cisgender and heteronormative culture, I stifled my desire to speak out and actually stand up for my needs, figuring that it wasn’t “fair” of me to expect most people to have to “deal” with my perceived oddities.

It seemed to me that, at the time, I was almost doing a necessary service as a member of the transgender community to help these poor cis folk I would meet and discuss trans issues with not be so terrified by my obvious “alternative” nature.  Because of the great deal of misconception there is out there about trans folk, I decided that a conservative nature would be the best approach to keeping friends and my social connections intact.

A sort of, “I know we’re weird to you, and I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t until after a long period of self discovery and emotional freedom that I was able to look back on this early time and realize just how fucked up this attitude was.

This meek, apologist attitude wasn’t smart, honorable or positively representative, it was blatantly perpetuating the common transphobic idea that we are a community that is better off undiscussed and swept under the rug.   As in, being visible and standing by the validity of our gender, expressions, and identities is somehow being too obnoxious and “going too far” and is therefore counteractive to us being accepted in equality.

We can be tolerated, but being respected is just asking too much.

We all seek validation and acceptance.  This is a basic human social need.  But the amazing thing about this is that when our true natures are called into question, and we can no longer lie and deny everything about the truths of who we truly are - and if those truths run in direct opposition to what is considered to be socially digestible, then we suddenly become uncharacteristically amiable to the idea of internalizing the phobias that are thrown at us, and, ironically - the ideas that are exactly the opposite of the truths we are trying to convey and express in the first place.

Breaking out of this idea, this attitude came to me gradually over time and with a greater sense of self respect, and looking back I felt embarrassed to be doing so.  But if there is any lesson I have learned from this, it’s that seldom do we realize the levels of self-censoring and invalidating self-abuse we will gladly stoop to, simply to appease the sensibilities of others based on already busted social “norms”.

I am proud to state the truths of who I am, but more importantly - I am proud to defend them if they are called into question, because keeping them hidden from polite society, staying invisible, and apologizing for them when they’re exposed isn’t going to help my struggle for validity, it’s going to push it farther into the darkness.

And that’s a place I’ve been in far too often.

During the early months of transition, I noticed that as I slowly worked up the courage to show my true self to the world, my personality that I had hidden for so long began bleeding though.

As I began subconsciously testing the waters and the subtleties of my behaviors changed, in kind, to be more in line with what I had always ached to express, I noticed that I had begun acting much more aggressive, forward and crass.

Not to say that I was being bitchy and snapping at people, but I found I was much more self-assured and a lot less “delicate” in my social interactions.  I began saying what I meant, and sticking to the words I stated.  I would argue my points much more if it was something I felt deeply about and would defend myself far more forwardly if I was confronted.  These were all things that I would have never, ever done in my shy pre-transition state, and actually being comfortable with how I was seen was allowing me to express them.

However as I took some time for personal reflection I discovered something about this change that started to disturb me:  I was, for all intents and purposes acting stereotypically much more “masculine”.  More than I ever had.

Obviously the implications of this were pretty startling.  Did this mean that I’m really not a chick after all?   Logic would dictate that if my true personality was finally shining through all my clearing mental fog, that I should be acting more feminine.  That I should be more comfortable conforming to the stereotypes and actions associated with the social norms of what is considered “acceptably” female.

And yet I could simply not deny that I was far more comfortable with acting the way I was, it felt liberating and right for the first time in my life.  I felt like I could finally speak my mind and stand by my words.

But according to what social norms would dictate, I should not be acting this way.

Should.

That word again.

I remembered back to all the times I was the recipient of should.  I remembered that sour taste that it leaves in your mouth when you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it’s not right for you.

And I remembered the weight of what it did to me for twenty five years.

And I call bullshit.  Because, honestly when I look at myself in a naked, nonjudgmental and completely honest way - the truth of the matter is simply and frankly that this personality is just the kind of girl I AM.  I am undoubtedly feminine as fuck, it’s just that the type of chick I am is aggressive, dykey and crass.

I don’t exactly conform to stereotypes, and you know what?  That’s okay.

But it gets to be intimidating, because as we dig deeper into ourselves, we get caught up in all this shit of what gender “means” and what constitutes it, and it makes us unfairly doubt our legitimacy… When the simplicity of the truth of the matter is more than often right there in front of us.

I’m a chick, through and through, I’m just not the kind you bring home to grandma.

…Unless she also cusses like a sailor.

It’s exhausting.

Its just..  It’s like, you put yourself out there into the world - FINALLY - after all these years of being terrified to show it.

And it’s a terrifying thing to get to that point, and it’s a terrifying thing to DO it, and you know some people wont be able to handle it but it doesnt lessen the blow.

Because all you want is for people just to say, “Its okay, this doesnt change anything - I still care about you”.

That’s all, that’s it.

But they have to throw it upside down and turn it inside out.

And its like, just…  Of all the ways people can reject me, of all the ways you can mock me, you don’t think I’ve already done so to myself to get to this point?  You seriously don’t think that I haven’t been through this already, from my own attempts to reject who I am?

It’s ludicrous.

Just - “It’s okay.” That’s all you need to say.  It’s all I ever want.

Because it is.  Because I’M okay.

Finally.

And that’s why I’m showing it.

I had a job this summer.  This was the first job I held post-transition, living full time female and so I was very nervous, not only for being seen as female but for my personal safety as well.

When I worked there, I wasn’t allowed to paint my nails, color my hair or wear my piercings.  And at first, I was so happy to be employed again I went along with that just fine and complied with what they wanted of me.

After a few months I ended up leaving that job due to being outed as trans against my consent and constant misgendering.  And at the time, I was angry and scared enough to focus entirely on that as the reasons I was so miserable working there.

Cut to just a few days ago, and I’m sitting on a metal folding chair in the tiny alcove office of a little store shoved in the corner of the mall, being interviewed for a retail position.  I’m going through the classic interview questions that I’ve gone through a dozen times before, chipper and happily responding to the list of queries this dude is disaffectedly reading off a corporate page, designed carefully but painfully obvious to screen if I’m going to steal from the register or slash people’s tires if they don’t share their lunch with me.

As I sat there, absent minded and picking at the thin sheets of white paint peeling off the creaky pane that made up the chair’s back, trying to figure out by touch what the embossed manufacturer’s name molded on the reverse was (HAMMOND, I believe it said) I suddenly had a jolt run through me as the guy sputtered out this phrase:

“I don’t know if the management will be okay with your hair.”

“Oh!  I’m sorry!”  Is all I could think to retort back with.  He stared at me.

Obviously he was looking to me to fix this one.

It was in that moment that I realized that I really, really didn’t want to have to change again.  Every instinct in me that was stuck in “good interviewee” mode wanted to chirp out “Yes!  I’ll happily change it to whatever you want!” because my crazy dyke hair is so terrifying and awful to the masses and of course, for the glory of minimum wage why wouldn’t I be more than satisfied to comply?

But I hesitated because something tugged at me in the back of my mind, something that left my mouth sour.

He tossed into the silence,  ”And your piercings, and your nails.”

And without thinking I knew exactly what I needed to say. I blurted; “This is a deal breaker, my expressions are deeply important to me.”

He regarded me sidelong and marked down some scribbles on his clipboard.  We stood, shook hands and went through the motions,  ”We’ll review your file and call you back by the end of the week” blah blah and so on.

Guilt. I walked out overcome with guilt.  Why had I done that?  I most definitely bombed the interview and a good chance at finding a job again, and for what?  For these silly things that I cling to?  For these goofy little things I do to decorate myself that are, for all intents and purposes entirely superficial?

It wasn’t until much later, through personal reflection that I realized why I had done that, and in that moment - been so proud to do so.

I thought back to my last job, before I was outed.  How I would look at my reflection every day and I’d miss these little details and things I had stopped doing much more than I should, much more than I thought I would, and how confused I was that I was having such a strong reaction.

It now became clear to me that having free reign on my expressions was desperately important to be because I had been denied them for so long.  I realized, looking at myself that I had waited twenty five years to finally be allowed to do these things.   And seeing them gone only highlighted how miserable I felt in the past, and the anger and frustration I felt at being denied them.

These little things, while superficial and childish in and of themselves carried with them so much more weight with me, and so much more importance directly because they were part of an image that I could finally show the world after a life of suppression. And I was by no means ready to give them up for anyone else, after years of doing exactly that.

Maybe it’s irresponsible of me to be so picky, maybe it isn’t smart - especially in how difficult it is to find work nowadays, for me to hold myself so proudly to these standards.  But I cannot deny that the core reason behind the importance of my expressions - and the freedom thereof are intimately tied to my greater happiness, because after all these years; I finally get to do them.   And after so long denying so much to myself, I think I’ve proven that I fucking deserve them.

I will not compromise, and I’m not sorry.

Lately I have been looking back on the turbulent portions of my life, before I came out as trans and trying to think of the actions and psychological steps I took to get from the place I was at, to where I am now.  I have always been a very visual person and I found that the way I made decisions and discoveries is also inherently based around that.

I realized that I have always seen my psyche as a sort of political council that exists inside my head.  An empty, impossibly vast expanse of swirling, churning nothingness forms the walls of the council chamber, representing the chaos that lay beyond my personality and logical thought.  My ability to make informed, rational decisions about my life are created and judged by the Council Members themselves, as they sit at a circular table facing each other, all given fair voice.  These Council Members are all personifications of different extremes of my personality, and have the appropriate opinions, ideas, and choices to match.

As far back as I can remember, I would stand before the Council every day.  My neutral, “everyday” self serving as the envoy and messenger for the Council’s word.  Because the Council only existed in my head, I had to be it’s voice as I was the only one able to step outside and truly interact with the outside world.

We work together, the Council and I. All the extremes of who I am and what forms me as a complex creature are here, reacting and interjecting opinion on every single thing that happens during the day.   Some days, one voice would ring louder without the others having time or ability to react, and I would make choices and decisions based on one alone.   Sometimes this works in our favor, but more often without the Council’s full and complete cooperation, choices will be made that end up hurting us in the end.

As I would stand before the Council, many voices would speak at once.  All passionate and honest in their speech, as they only could be by nature.  As we worked through things, it was up to me to make Final Call on what we had decided.   Sometimes, many of us would disagree and I would go with the minority vote.  Other times, we were unanimous and I would still act against what was decided.

As this went on, I learned.  I became aware of what was, statistically “good” and “bad” for us.  The Council would go on, honest and pure in their extremes but it was up to me to learn and be adaptive, make informed and rational choices from what they would say, and not entirely only because of what they said.

When I was young and still innocent, forming the truths and unknowns of the outside world, there was a feeling of peace in the Council.  We would still fight and bicker on many subjects, but the Council Chamber was a safe place where decisions could be made freely and honestly.

That was, until The Box.

None of us know when The Box manifested itself.   I know it was when I was still young, before puberty but a bit more towards then. Perhaps, as I have assumed sometimes, my gradual loss of innocence willed it to exist.   The Box began small, like an insect, almost unnoticeable - directly in the center of the Council Chamber.

We were all forced to see it.  No one could deny it’s existence even at it’s most minuscule formations.  We would go on, making choices and interjecting opinion but all the time growing increasingly wary of The Box.

The Box was ominous.  We tried not to look at it, tried to avert our eyes as we talked over it, pretending it wasn’t there.  It’s simple perfect cube shape, it’s sharp, inky black surface that light dissipated into was painful and mysterious, too impossible to address.

None of us knew what was inside, but we all knew what it meant.  Somewhere, deep down we knew what The Box would mean for us.  The Box contained something that would change all of us, that would define who we were, truly and wholly once and for all.

That thought, that idea - was just too much for us, because it went against everything that the world outside had taught us about who we were.  That I had taught the Council who we were.

We tried to ignore it.  We tried to hide it.  But as time went on, The Box only grew larger.  We became secretly but unanimously aware of it’s oppressive presence, because to all of us, and especially to me - it whispered it’s singsong voice deep into the very most primal part of our minds.  It’s tendrils digging liquid in the places none of us could deny, implanting the seed of it’s unquenchable desire that became the one thing we could never, ever do:

Open The Box.

We fought more.  We began to disagree almost all the time.  Logical was invalidated because Impulsive would never stop taking us places Responsible didn’t want us to.  Depressive gorged on the discord we had created while Hopeful languished, forgotten and mute.  The Council was falling apart and I was left lost as to what was good or bad for me anymore.   And through it all, like a radio tuned to a dead station came the rhythmic heartbeat voice that invaded our every thought:

Open The Box.

It grew.  It’s inky blackness invasive and maddening.  We knew we never could address it, so we sat day after day in our bleak confusion talking over and around the bulky thing. The Box was forbidden.  We knew beyond a shadow of doubt that what was inside wasn’t for us because the world had taught us we were a different person, we were Good Little Boys.  We behaved.  We conformed.  And we were supposed to be happy with that, it’s what we were supposed to do.   Who we were supposed to be.

So why were we breaking?  The walls of chaos closed in around us, swirling faster, menacing.  While all the while the box whispered like it always had, clear and undeniable in the backs of our minds:

Open The Box.

We had become silent.  Eventually, nothing mattered to any of us.  We all distrusted our own voices and so we never spoke.  We sat, angry.  Staring each other down as the world drifted on around us until The Box grew bigger than we could handle, bigger than we could fathom.

As we sat, circular, we suddenly and at once realized that The Box had encompassed our entire field of view.   We couldn’t see each other anymore.  The only thing that mattered was that all-terrifying black prison of our own design we had built in front of us. Now impossible to ignore and bigger than anything we had ever faced. It screamed.

Open The Box.

There was nothing else.  Nothing left to do.  And as we plunged our hands into the walls of that cold, hard shell we screamed right along in harmony with it.

Open The Box.

When the dust settled, when The Box was dissolved and we could see each other again after so, so long we realized just how foolish we had been.   We realized that we had built this idea, this Box to contain everything we truly were - because we had taught each other that it was the “right” thing to do.

We realized how long we had been fooling each other.  How powerful our denial had become and how proud we had been to tote that facade around and show it to the world as the face of who we were.

We were wrong. We were childish.  Taking everything that we truly are, everything we know to be true about us and stuffing it into The Box wasn’t smart, it wasn’t honorable, it was the single most painful thing we could have ever done to ourselves.  And we had done it so long we didn’t even feel it anymore.

After The Box was broken, and we began once again making choices about ourselves, for ourselves, and for who we truly are we realized the greatest lesson and mystery of finding inner peace had been staring us in the face all along.  Too terrifying to address and yet too great to ignore.  And with it gone, we truly and honestly for the first time can say without a doubt - unanimously that we are happy.

Because now, we simply are.


I simply am.