It occurs to me now, at nearly 40, that, had I grown up in a more accepting household, and possibly in a different time, I would’ve lived as a male my whole life. I always saw myself as male. As a child, I dressed as one as much as possible and absolutely hated wearing girly clothes. I hated dolls and playing house and all the girl games. Instead, I always pretended I was an action hero (male) or some (male) mad scientist or, even if my friends and I were pretending to be animals, I was always a male animal. I didn’t relate to girls or women at all and didn’t like female characters or musicians. I saw myself in Han Solo and Robert Plant, not Princess Leia or Jewel.
My three older siblings were very cruel to me for being so different. They called me “weird” and “a freak” and “gender bender” and “Royboy”, after a gross character in a movie we liked because it upset me. My mom was always stressed about fitting in and insisted on making me look girly, especially at church, scolding me when I embarrassed her for being different. Anytime I wanted clothes that were masculine looking, like a Welcome Back Kotter-looking men’s blazer that I really, really wanted from Goodwill when I was a kid, she vehemently refused, even though it was cheap. I not only didn’t feel like a girl and couldn’t relate to women at all, but I didn’t like girls or women who were feminine, and, in my resistance to being pressured to be one, I now recognize that the feelings I had reached the point of misogyny. I had very low self-esteem, in part because of this negative treatment (also in part due to feeling isolated and outcast on account of what I can now see as neurodivergence - I recall surprising myself by making eye contact with someone for the first time when I was 14!), and, as I got older, I liked boys and eventually started leaning into a feminine appearance to get more of the little attention I started to notice. This snowballed, and I turned those negative feelings inward on myself. To cope, I voraciously abused drugs and alcohol. I was also promiscuous and submitted myself to extremely abusive relationships. I grew up to be attractive, but this only seemed to exacerbate my self-loathing and did nothing to ease my insecurity or feelings of otherness.
I got pregnant in college and ended up raising the child mostly on my own. I was in survival mode for years, just trying to get an education and work and take care of us, but I managed to get a great degree and on track for a solid career. All of those years were difficult, and I never had the time or energy to think about my possibly even more difficult childhood or troubled young adulthood. I had essentially forgotten them, even while my own child was coming out as trans several years ago. It was a stressful time for both of us. I was worried about her future and regret that I was not as supportive as I should’ve been at first. We came through it stronger, though, and now she’s about to finish high school, happier and more confident than ever.
Recently, I took her on a trip to visit some colleges and bought us tickets for a special event showcasing trans artists. The work on display was beautiful and moving, but I was taken aback by how deeply special it was to me. It was extremely meaningful to me that my daughter was able to be there and that such a powerful community resource could even be available, but there was something else about it that struck me to the core that I’ve been trying to understand. I was especially fixated on the trans men on stage, some of whom were about my age. Since, I’ve been immersing myself in trans stories, trying to lay out my feelings and make sense of them. Then it finally happened. I remembered my younger self - the me before my life became supporting another life. I remembered insisting on being Kenickie in a fourth grade talent show Grease performance. I remembered that ratty blazer I cried over in Goodwill. I remembered the me in piles of family photographs showing a very unhappy little girl in a big t shirt and soccer shorts.
Now, I can’t stop thinking about who I’d be if I hadn’t been bullied and otherwise pressured to be someone I’m not. Would I have been spared all the self-loathing and self-destructive behavior? And, what do I do now? I keep getting overwhelmed with emotion, but I feel such peace.
These are rhetorical questions - I’m not directly requesting answers. However, I would love to hear from others who’ve had similar experiences. It’s been a joy to look through the posts here and see so many happy faces!