On Being Born in the Wrong Body

As a transgender man, my relationship with my body is more than a bit complicated. I remember the discomfort I began to feel as my body changed during my first adolescence--how it gathered enough strength over those first few years to force me to retreat so far into my own internal universe that I had no relationship with my body and very little interest in the bodies of those around me. I didn't know physical love or what that even meant, most likely because I could never physically love myself. These feelings persisted through the first half of my undergraduate career, where my utter asexuality and complete lack of connection to my own gender identity made me an awkward loner at best. When I finally did begin to transition, at first socially then physically but a few months later, I started to notice things about myself. I began to take pride in my appearance. And as my body grew to fit me more and more, not only did the rest of the world finally start to see my personality, I began to see more of the world. I finally started to feel like I was living. Of course, these days, the simple pleasures of one's early days in transition have faded, and the relationship has grown ever more complicated as I struggle to maintain my own version of masculinity into true adulthood, without succumbing to heteronormative (or even homonormative) pressures. Still, even as I approach my sixth year on testosterone, there are days when I am uncomfortable in my own skin.

We've all heard this narrative before. It's a narrative that gets recycled and regurgitated by each new generation of trans-identified individuals who wish to gain access to hormone therapy. Though we have acknowledged for some time now that this idea of "being born in the wrong body" is an oversimplification of the phenomenon of gender dysphoria, we still revert to the idea in an attempt to expedite physical transformation. I'd like to take a deeper look at how such phrasing is damaging to legitimate gender equality.

Firstly, this "wrong-body narrative" very plainly makes the assumption that there is a right body for a trans person--or any person-- to have. This assumption not only fosters the idea that shame is the appropriate response, but it heavily relies on the idea that sex is inextricably linked to gender and overemphasizes the importance of the physical and medical aspects of transition. If my female body is wrong because of the person I am, what makes that so? Who has the right to determine what is wrong for a female body? If it is wrong for a female body to possess a masculine soul? What if another person's version of femininity included taking testosterone injections and the preference for adhering to feminine pronouns? Our wrong-body narrative is firmly rooted in a heteronormative two-sex/two-gender framework. This framework creates a fear of diverting from the model during counseling and being denied access to hormones and/or surgery, which obscures identities, reinforces stereotypes, and creates an environment where trans people are at the mercy of predominantly cisgender people and their views of what it means to be trans, instead of allowing the trans person's views to dominate the discussion.

By continuing to rely on this model, we force many into questioning whether they are "trans enough" to fit into a community that is purportedly about rejecting dominant views on what it means to be a particular gender. In addition, therapists whose sole experience is with this narrative will have difficulty helping clients who cannot or do not wish to medically transition. Instead, we need to assure people that their identities are valid regardless of access or to desire to physically transform. We need to create a culture of positivity around trans identities, not just trans bodies that match up with heteronormative ideals. This will foster a sense of self-worth that isn't tied to the outcome of medical intervention.

We can highlight dysphoria as a major issue without resorting to this drastic oversimplification, for doing so can also lead the trans person in question to believe that medical transition is the solution to all of their problems. It may take more words, but it is far better to give a true explanation of the complexity of gender dysphoria, which presents itself in varying degrees in a number of (but not in all) trans people.

Dysphoria can simply be defined as a "profound state of unease or dissatisfaction" with accompanying psychological symptoms such as depression, anxiety, etc. While being trans itself is not a mental disorder, this overwhelming state of dissatisfaction with one's physical and social presence is why many seek treatment. In the beginning, my dysphoria controlled my life, and I too prepared myself with the typical answers required in order to gain access to medical care as quickly as possible. And perhaps I even believed the answers I carefully reproduced for a time. But I can tell you that my opinion of myself and my acceptance of others dramatically improved when I stumbled upon one very critical idea: There is no right or wrong way to have a body.

Claiming that there is something psychologically wrong with someone who desires to exert control over their own body is attempting to police their body--to exert heteronormative control over them. While I do believe everyone should be counseled regarding the possible outcomes and effects of medical transition, I don't believe that everyone needs extensive therapy. Therapy is the attempt to treat or cure; counseling is the attempt to educate and guide. Those two shouldn't be confused either.

My transgender body is just as right now as it was before. It is and was right because it is and has always been mine. It is and has always been me. And there is nothing wrong with me. It is the right body because it has seen me through this process of physical transformation, has carried me through this life and all of its experiences both pleasant and painful, and it is the only one I will ever have. I am not a mistake, and I am not broken. I have built such an amazing life out of this body, and I refuse to believe that acceptance or love must be given in spite of it rather than because of it. No other person, no television commercial, no religious doctrine will tell me that either this body or this mind of mine is wrong.

So maybe I need to do some rephrasing. There is no wrong way to have a body. But there is a right way. And for all of you questioning where your journey will take you and what to do next, know that the right way is believing that your body was made for you, no matter what anyone else may tell you, and no matter how different it may look years from now. You have always been in the right body. Medical transition is simply one way of showing the world that you believe it.

Milestone

I left the house by myself for the first time today. 

And I helped an old lady having car trouble on the way home. 

The little things really are the big things. 

One Month in Morgantown

This morning has been overwhelmingly educational for me, not because I am remarkably different in any way, but because he was different--when it mattered.

Truthfully, I haven't been doing all that well in this new town. I still have yet to leave the house by myself. I'm not sure I can even work the front door properly. I've been floating chaotically through these weeks, dealing with my own insecurities on top of his increasingly debilitating headaches. Meltdowns hadn't been a problem for a long time, but Halloween was the start of a very bad cycle, it seems. I could go into all of the reasons why I am struggling and how they snowball to the extent that it leaves me in a constant state of pure terror, but that wasn't my point. Everybody gets that about me. But this morning, there was no screaming. He didn't tell me there was no reason for me to be feeling the way I am. He just talked to me, calmly, no matter how argumentative or whiny I became. And it may have taken a little bit, but he did his best not to make the situation worse. It's not that he ever intentionally tried to, but it always seemed to happen. I'm still recovering from that meltdown, which resulted in an alteration of our plans for the day. That is, I'm not venturing out for a six-hour journey by myself today. But maybe Monday. (I doubt Sunday bus service will make any trip on my own feasible.) But I'm okay with that.

The different response to my problem makes me realize just how hard both of us have been working to do and be better. When he tries this hard, I want to try even harder. And with how stressful the rest of life has been, we haven't had much time to just appreciate each other and give each other the attention we deserve when there ISN'T a crisis occurring. Right now, I'm starting to realize things I may have forgotten over the years. I remember that love is hard. Well, real love. Love is easy when everything is going well--when you have all the money you need and maybe a little more, when you're both healthy and fully functional, when you have a comfortable schedule or routine, when you aren't being pulled in a hundred directions, and when you have a clear plan for your future. I remember that, when things go wrong, real love is about more than hugs and kisses and flowers on the table. I remember that, sometimes, real love is about dealing with frustration, anger, disappointment, and more in the context of the relationship. It's about wading through the painful parts together so that the good parts can stay good. None of this is anything revolutionary. But when you live every day of your life with someone, you want it to be that picture-perfect relationship. You want the highlight reel to be every moment of every day, and when it's not, you panic. You panic because you realize that you don't have great models for healthy relationships in your life, and you certainly aren't going to get them from mainstream media, so you often question whether you would even know if things are alright. You panic because your past tells you that any bad thing that happens means that he's thinking of leaving you and just hasn't found a way to tell you yet. You panic because you wonder what you could have done instead of thinking about how to do better. You get the idea.

But today, in the aftermath of a truly painful experience, I can say that things are working. Things are genuinely GOOD. I think my fears will stay with me for a long time. I still have flashbacks. But things are changing. And maybe a month of chaos is enough already. I don't exactly know how to implement the kind of routine I want to have in place, but I know that that would eliminate a lot of other problems. And help me deal with the ones that it can't.

My foot is asleep, and I'm in a bathtub. This is awkward.

Old Feelings

RetailI still don't have a computer, so I suppose typing on my phone while my fiancé tries to sleep off yet another debilitating migraine--a more-than-daily occurrence for the last several months that has dramatically disrupted our lives--will suffice. 

We've been in our new home for two weeks. It doesn't feel like it's been that long, but being sick for a few days and then randomly facing a bout of depression that causes you to sleep for another two might be to blame. Anyway, I'm learning more and more that dichotomous emotions can exist in one person at the exact same time. On the one hand, I feel a multitude of positive emotions related to this move. We are in our new home at last, after all that we have been through both together and separately over the last few months. We are making the place our own. It's the first place that's really felt like home since Dawson. I forgot how long ago that really was. But the feeling of comfort seems to come and go, and it has nothing to do with the actual house at all.

I may be in a new place, but I have to face the same problems I did before. And I don't often feel like i have any new tools with which to face them. I still feel so stuck. Useless. I feel like I will never be anything more. Like I'll never get the chance to be or do what I really want. And I'm afraid that, as more time passes, those fears become more legitimate. I thought that coming here would bring me more opportunities, which is what I always think when I move to a completely new place, or even relatively new. Things seemed promising at first. But nothing but rejection, again. 

So where do I stand exactly? My bank account is almost 800 dollars overdrawn, I haven't worked in my field since college, the jobs I have had have mostly been retail jobs where I've worked part-time for barely above minimum wage, my Sallie Mae loans are still in default, and with all of this, it seems pretty unlikely that I could ever go back to school or get a better job to even attempt to work on going back to school. People tell me to just keep trying, but obviously that hasn't been working. I still want to know at what point it makes more sense to just give up. It's hard not to be depressed, especially when you add to that that I have almost no friends of my own down here and that it's still almost impossible for me to get around at all, let alone on my own time. Sometimes it would be nice to just be able to get to the store or to the gym without each one having to be an all day adventure. 

I stil feel very much lost. I feel like I have no direction, and I have no idea what to do to fix anything or to feel better. 

I feel like my lack of control in its various forms is what really makes me feel so horrible. And, being me, I obsess about it. I can't tell you how many hours of the day at least one of those things is on my mind. Usually, one thought just leads to another...in the span of about twenty seconds. Put on repeat for the rest of the day. 

Today hasn't been as bad as the last few days, but I'm still struggling because of feeling stuck. But I suppose I feel good for now and somewhat hopeful, and I consider that a blessing. 

I worry that I'm just that type of person that can't be helped. I mean, I know the things that tend to make me feel better, but I don't always have the ability to do them when I want or need to, which only worsens the situation. I don't know how to be okay with not being in control of anything. I feel like things will continue to deteriorate if I don't figure this out soon.

But there I go again, always obsessing over the negative and forgetting about the positive altogether. I'm unbelievably happy that we have this beautiful new place with our puppies. We have nice furniture and a decent backyard. We have enough room for everything and then some. We are able to fall asleep next to one another every night. I promised before that I would never take this for granted again. And I am not. But there is a difference between what you have with another person and what you have with yourself. And both are important to me. Without one, I'm not a complete person. 

I recognize all that is going on. But there doesn't seem to be anything I can do to control the way I feel. I can only control my behavior and to some extent my thoughts. But the gut feelings that give rise to those thoughts are pretty potent, and they aren't easily extinguished. They don't even need words to do the damage that they do. 

There's always more to be said, even if it is the same thing over and over again. But someone important needs me right now, and that will always take precedence over my own self-loathing, if that's even an appropriate term to use anymore. I actually like myself. But apparently not many others see what I am worth, unless I'm completely wrong about that too. Here's to hoping I'll figure something out soon. 

Econo Lodge

I have so many events and feelings I need to process in writing, but I won't have a place to do that for a little while. Life is weird. That's about as far as I've gotten with everything. I need a space where I can sit and write and even just have time to think. Spending the last five weeks bouncing from couch to hotel to couch to random person's bed has been exhausting, mentally and physically. When I can finally sit in my own living room again, I will be much more at peace with the world. But I think bouncing around has helped me to avoid feeling depressed about my life, at least as far as my career is concerned. I guess I'm not giving up yet, but I don't know. Part of me feels that I need to learn to accept that this might be the best there is for me. Maybe I just need to let go. I don't want to go into a new town with all these negative thoughts. I've managed to beat everything else, but this is the one thing that keeps dragging me back down. I wish I weren't typing this on my phone in a hotel room. I'm not getting out anything I need to say. Soon. 

Still

glass and notebooks and blood and phone calls
text messages and secret plans
broken bodies and hearts and trust and homes
fear
excitement
hope
loneliness
anxiety
love
cuddles
puzzle pieces and night clubs and couches
friends and ex-friends and everyone else
tears and music and diamond rings
hotels
voices
teddy bears and crayons and sex
466 miles, sometimes
cold pillows and puppy kisses
empty water bottles and Family Guy and journal entries
sweat and protein
wild and wonderful
buses
headaches
naps
money and time
anticipation
still fear
but still
hope.
still love.
still time.

Sheets

It's the blueness of the sheets that hits me every night when I struggle to let go of the fears that keep me tied to the conscious world. That blueness seems so far away now, like those memories of visiting the ocean--letting it speak to me one last time--before driving back into the wilderness. I'd give anything to be wrapped in that coolness again, smelling all the smells that signal life is somewhere nearby. Instead I face the redness each time I walk into the room and it's like a stop sign flashing in my mind. But stop signs don't last forever. Eventually, you take your foot off the brake. You accelerate. You leave the redness behind.

I sit here idling, dreaming of the day I can see and feel and smell blueness again, once and for all and forever.